Burn

There's no ember and no kindling. When my lips touch his, there's no slow and steady smolder. The taste of him is spark to fuel, and I am quick to light.

There's no warning and no warm up. When my skin touches his, there's no soft and gentle tingle. The feel of him under my hands is electric. His skin carries current and my every nerve goes live.

The want for him burns so fucking hot it pulls the oxygen from the room and makes me gasp for breath. It's suffocating and I have no choice but to suck the air from his lungs in order to survive.

I inhale him. His breath scorches my throat and burns me from the inside.

Lips mangle and teeth clash and I'm not even sure we're kissing anymore. It's a struggle to crush him into me. I maul and bite and I taste blood–I'm not sure if it's his or mine.

I touch. His skin melts mine.

Limbs tangle, bodies thrash and I'm not sure it's love anymore. It's a fight for possession. I scratch and strike and there are tears—I'm not sure if they are mine or his.

I am desperate to have him. He is desperate to be taken–he wants harder, faster, more.

I don't care what he wants. I have no thoughts beyond hunger, save for impatience at the time it will take me to rip him to pieces and suck the marrow from his bones. I am starving and I have no choice but to consume him in order to survive.

Republished with permission from Dumb Domme. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo courtesy of X-Art.