I want you.
The rise and fall of your rib cage, breathing heavily while you slumber.
Your lips are resting, their curvature enticing me to come over and taste them.
I watch you sleep, wondering what would happen if I touched you secretly, knowing you might push me away.
Still the longing exists because the craving has not been fulfilled and my memories are merging with my reality, causing daydreams of the most erotic content.
You did want me at one time.
Your skilled hands grasping my breasts, your teeth clenching down on the apex of my nipple, bruising me, discoloring me.
When did “want” cease to exist?


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