This is my life: where the wild things are

He’s like something unreal. Out of a fairy tale. He’s a little otherworldly. He’s a little wild. He’s a little femme. He’s a little like an overgrown kitten. But that body… that body is like a perfect little work of art. He is a canvas for me to use however I might like. He has a much broader back than he has any right to possess. He has a long neck that just begs to be bitten and choked. And he offers it to me. Even when it’s already sore. He looks up at me with his almond shaped eyes and bends his head in that certain way as if to say, “I know you like to bite me here, and I want you to know that it’s yours if you want it.” And when I do, he can’t get close enough to me. He wants to touch me everywhere if I let him. He quakes and shivers and gasps. When I stop to look at him, his eyes are locked shut or wide open and wild. His reactions are like a drug to me. And I’m already addicted. I want it again, though I don’t have the energy.

I love how he struggles. But he isn’t going anywhere. He fights the pain, but he doesn’t fight me. He lets me. Whatever I’ve done. He lets me. He looks at me with those wild eyes, and I know he wants it as much as I want it.


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