I write about writing
and when I read what I wrote
I know I am right about writing
when it goes for the throat

You shouldn't.

You really shouldn't.

But you are.

You're thinking of how delicious it would feel.  How utterly sweet the agony of surrender, the process of devolution into panting and slick skin.

But the fucking isn't sweet. It's coarse, crude, and dirty. Half-dressed bodies, muffled screams, and hard surfaces. Fingers scrabbling for purchase, an attempt to find balance where there is none. The serene obscenity of animal hunger.

It is you, doing what you shouldn't.

Last week I stayed home a day, sick, and spent most of it in my study.

At one point, there was a strong wind and I looked out my window to see leaves falling steadily for twenty minutes straight.

It looked like it was raining gold.

Now the trees are almost bare, just a few stubborn orange leaves and one tree filled in bright yellow.

Winter is here, and I am not yet ready for it.

This past summer has been filled with some interesting challenges. In moments I have allowed my darker half full reign and then had to deal with the subsequent consequences; it is an axiom that we learn the true value of what we have only when it is at risk. It is an idea better left untested, for the hurt it carries, but in its cost is a fundamental understanding on where one stands.

Curled along my back, the warmth of her body left an imprint where it touched my skin; her hip rested against my ass, one leg draped over my own, and her breasts nestled against my back. Eyes closed, she existed only in the curves of her heated skin.

Her hand drew lazy calligraphy along my chest and it took every ounce of willpower I had to remain still. This once, I would be touched, instead of touching.

She took her time, her fingers winding their way lower. She pressed close, thighs half-straddling my leg. She could feel the tension in the lines of my body as I fought to be still, her fingers waking nerve endings, the intimate press of her skin making me hard and hungry. It was a slow hunger, but with each touch, it was becoming too strong to ignore.

She slid on top of me, hair falling across her face, obscuring the details, but I could feel her, straddling my waist, her heat pressed against the top of my pelvis.

Lowering herself, the soft curve of her breasts brushed my face. My lips parted, tasting skin, tongue finding the passing hardness of a nipple, unexpectedly capturing it.

She didn't want me to move; she took my hands and drew them over my head, bringing her even closer; I could feel her hair against my face, breath tickling my skin. Her body threatened to overwhelm mine, her hips rolling forward to press against mine – I knew she could feel it, feel the length of me, nestled against the apex of her thighs.

And now when she moved, rocking forward, it was to feel me slide along the moist folds of her sex.

With a groan, my fingers closed and I arched upward – and still she moved at her own pace, head tilted back as she rode me slowly, not letting me inside, just teasing herself.

And me.

Describe this hunger.

Use sharp words, words filled with edges. Words with heat, words that sear when laid out against your thoughts.

Words that are not nearly enough.

This hunger demands more; this hunger is not attraction. It is not desire. It is not physical lust.

It feeds on them. It uses them to find purchase inside you. It is stronger then physical need or mental addiction. It goes beyond craving. It moves unceasingly under your skin, feral and raw. It overrides all other social imperatives. The cold mask it wears hides the pulsating need underneath.

This hunger doesn't react – it is. It is your hand finding her neck as you push her roughly to the ground. It is the sound of the front door closing and clothes shoved aside for a hard fuck against the wall.

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D'jaevle, Aphrodisiac