I am lying naked on my bed in the middle of a hot, Wednesday afternoon. I tried, for a long time, to update my resume, typing the wrong words, then erasing them, I had the best intentions, I always do. The citrus trees outside my open window were the first distraction. They’re in full bloom, giving off a strong, sweet, flowery scent that beckons pleasurable thoughts. I can’t resist that smell. It flows in fast and fierce, irresistible and insistent. But then maddeningly, just when it has my full attention, it ebbs away on the whispering trees. One fleeting , sensuous image pops into my head and there’s a blossom of heat in my stomach. Such a delicious feeling. Hazy, lazy, languid, hot prickling want.
No one would have reason to suspect what happens inside my head, I look perfectly normal on the outside. It must be abnormal because the world would descend into chaos if these types of thoughts were in everyone’s heads as much as they are in mine. To be honest, I can’t even call it a struggle that I have stopped doing what should be, according to the world at large, in favor of what needs to be, in my dark little soul. Perhaps it’s a mental problem, but I couldn’t for the life of me think about anything else.
He knows I can’t control it. He likes to prove that again and again. Just as he’d expect, when I made one feeble attempt to shake it off, to go for a walk, I blew it before I even got on my shoes. I made the mistake of bending over to reach my sneakers instead of sitting down to put them on. And bending over in that way, the same way you would when being nailed from behind, well. Naturally, in this position I felt his presence behind me, pulling me onto his thick cock, veined like a bass relief sculpture. It would have required a superhuman willpower to put that out of my mind without fulfillment, and I had none at all. He knows that about me.
In the darkness of my room I took off all of my clothes. It’s not necessary, of course, but I love the deviant way it reduces the world to breath and the ripple of muscles. And eyes. His eyes are expressive, it’s the only way we have to communicate in public. He’s always controlling me with his eyes, making me aware of every important detail, like the way the smooth sheets feel like a kind of skin when he’s taking me on them. There was a short period when he only suspected I was like this. Until that one day that the truth came out into the open, as he turned one way and I turned the other, my gaze stopped by his cologne. A tiny split second and you wonder how it took so long.
The darkness veiled the ceiling fan and dull white paint job in patches of shadow. Flat on my back as if he had put me there, feet flat, toes curling under the bunched up piles of bedding and thighs wide open. He hovers in between them, only moving a finger at first, just the faintest feather on the dimples of my knees while the force of his amused expression is fully felt. “Such a weak mind, you can’t even wait until you finish your resume, what kind of work are you trying to get?”
The words make me whimper, it is embarrassing but I can’t help it. If I had a choice I’d make him wait longer. I would tease him, torture him with indifference. But he starts getting serious with his hands and no matter how hard I try not to, the mewls and moans and gasps always find their way out. I love to watch him enter me, I love it so much.
Maybe it’s not him I want so intensely but just sex, maybe I’m just addicted to sex. It’s just — I don’t know how to turn it off. I don’t want to. Is that wrong? One day, some cold, odorless winter, I’m sure it will be enough.