Obsesion
I am not obsessed.
There is nothing abnormal about the way I feel toward this man, the man spent the night in my bed, who slept in my arms. I can’t wash the sheets though, I can’t erase his smell, and I am even afraid to wash again, because I know that as soon as the water and soap touch my skin he’ll he gone from me.
I am not obsessed.
I dreamt about him though, about him whispering things in my ear, surrounding me, pulling me deeper into his arms, claiming me. Soaking into every inch of skin, into every pore, driving me crazy with the things he did to me. With the things he promised to do to me. I woke up hard that morning, something that hasn’t happened since I was a teenager, and something I took care of, still in the bed. I don’t beat off in bed because I am paranoid that it will stain the sheets and comforter, and there is something disgusting about sleeping in one’s own come. Still, I could smell him on the sheets so it was the best way to relive the time we spent together, and the dream.
I came in my shorts, humping the bed like some lust addled teenager - all the while pretending that he was there with me.
I am still not obsessed.
I know he has a family, a wife, I saw the picture of them when he was in the shower. They looked so happy, but I know that’s not the case. If he was truly happy then he wouldn’t have let me fuck him that first night, he wouldn’t have come to dinner with me. I know that I can give him what he wants, I can make him truly happy. Oh, he’ll put up something of a fight, he’ll tell me that he loves his wife that he could never loose her, and his girls, but I know that’s what he has to say. As long as he has that wife, and those girls he’ll be more straight then gay, and that’s his security.
Maybe he’ll say that while I’m sucking him off, or he’s fucking me. Anything to maintain the illusion that this is some sort of fling, some itch he constantly needs scratched. It’s not an itch though, it’s a need, it’s a drive and soon he’ll come to need it, like some sort of junkie, and I’ll be here, letting him beat me, letting him fuck me and humiliate me.
Because he’s just as obsessed as I am.
(436)
There is nothing abnormal about the way I feel toward this man, the man spent the night in my bed, who slept in my arms. I can’t wash the sheets though, I can’t erase his smell, and I am even afraid to wash again, because I know that as soon as the water and soap touch my skin he’ll he gone from me.
I am not obsessed.
I dreamt about him though, about him whispering things in my ear, surrounding me, pulling me deeper into his arms, claiming me. Soaking into every inch of skin, into every pore, driving me crazy with the things he did to me. With the things he promised to do to me. I woke up hard that morning, something that hasn’t happened since I was a teenager, and something I took care of, still in the bed. I don’t beat off in bed because I am paranoid that it will stain the sheets and comforter, and there is something disgusting about sleeping in one’s own come. Still, I could smell him on the sheets so it was the best way to relive the time we spent together, and the dream.
I came in my shorts, humping the bed like some lust addled teenager - all the while pretending that he was there with me.
I am still not obsessed.
I know he has a family, a wife, I saw the picture of them when he was in the shower. They looked so happy, but I know that’s not the case. If he was truly happy then he wouldn’t have let me fuck him that first night, he wouldn’t have come to dinner with me. I know that I can give him what he wants, I can make him truly happy. Oh, he’ll put up something of a fight, he’ll tell me that he loves his wife that he could never loose her, and his girls, but I know that’s what he has to say. As long as he has that wife, and those girls he’ll be more straight then gay, and that’s his security.
Maybe he’ll say that while I’m sucking him off, or he’s fucking me. Anything to maintain the illusion that this is some sort of fling, some itch he constantly needs scratched. It’s not an itch though, it’s a need, it’s a drive and soon he’ll come to need it, like some sort of junkie, and I’ll be here, letting him beat me, letting him fuck me and humiliate me.
Because he’s just as obsessed as I am.
(436)