Mark me

I stand before you.

You, whom I have always known.

I suddenly want to please you. I want you to mark my body with your pleasure –use ink, clothing, come to symbolize whatever it is that will prove me to you.

I want you to make me real. To you.

I want you to use me — grab me, hard. Press up against me. Pull me down. Force me. Always force me. I want it. I can take it. I am famished for it, and you know it.

I’ve waited half my life for this moment and I will gladly wait the rest if only I know that your instructions will come. Finally.

Why do I ache to kneel before you? After so long as equals? What is it about that position? A your briefest suggestion I would drop, at the mere tilt of your eyes I would instantly sink to my knees. But won’t you tease me first, please?

Do what you like — kiss me, touch my lips, lick my face — I don’t care, just draw it out. Know that I want what you want. know that I am dying to kneel, but first draw your marks upon my body. Leave wet tracks in your wake, fresh tattoos that only you and I can see.

You might be inclined to refuse me. To deny our imaginary body art. You might feed off of my unfulfilled desire, turning what I want back in on itself, like kneading dough, until it becomes only what you want. Until our desires merge into one

single

explosive

desire.

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