I want to make his moans into a graveyard.

Here lies that soft spot just below his ear that makes him shudder under my tongue.

I hate him a little bit always. I hate how my body trembles at the thought of his touch, how beholden I am to him. Am I so easily bought? Apparently.

Our eyes meet and that desperate little wanton hunger grips me. I’m an addict in need of a fix. I feel gaunt, empty, in need of filling, sensation seeking. 

He knows. He always knows. I hate him a little bit for that too. I wonder sometimes if he hates me too. I hope so. I want him to. I want him to resent how every curve and line of my body drives him to his knees. I hope he hurts like I do. How my teeth ache when I need to bite the thick muscle of his shoulder, how my thighs quiver when they aren’t yet split apart, how my neck clenches desperate to be choked. Do his hands tighten into fists in remembrance of their grip in my hair? Does his heart pound to think of the glazed look in my eyes? Does his mouth run dry at the thought of my lips red and parted with soft panting moans forced out of them?

I want to ruin him. I want him to kill me, and to wander aimlessly knowing that no one will curse his name so well. I want him to die under my hands.

We make love like war. His mouth crushes mine and his hands hold me like it hurts to touch me, fire burning under his fingers. I don’t want to feel anything anymore, and in my pursuit to be shattered he obliges me, tearing my senses away with calloused hands, rough kisses and too soft bites. It’s never enough, and I punish him for it. I tease and provoke through withheld skin, mouth and hands brushing but never reaching, a secret smile on my lips.

Who is in power here? Neither of us, beholden to each other. His cruel hands make a slave of me, and my poisonous tongue rots him to the core.

We must redeem ourselves for our sins. I will sacrifice myself on his altar. I push him down and stab myself over and over, bleeding onto the bed and the floor and the stones, giving up myself to the gods. This is why the rain falls, this is how the sun shines, this is how the grass grows. He brings me to the sweet release, the heat death of the universe. It’s both vicious and exultant, light and dark at once, night and day entwined. I return to myself, my sacrifice having cleansed me of the hungry ghost he’s infected me with, whole yet changed.

He almost always wins this game first, always rips my soul from me again and again until my flesh is swollen and throbbing, my skin glistening, my chest heaving. It’s the almost that I love.  I love to make him lose. I love when I truly know that he has been ruined because I force him over the edge, force him to give into me, force him to surrender to the wet hell I offer, drive him into pleasure ridden insanity. Tonight he has won though, and his body shudders below mine as I steal his life from him, a succubus reborn to curse him and him alone. His face flickers between emotions, love and care mixing with craving and lust until some dark part of him seizes his hands, forcing them to pin me in place.

Then he flips me over, and I’m a tool for his expiation. I marvel at the feral madness in his eyes, beautiful and desperate. I’m both the volcano he’s throwing himself into and the priestess promising eternal life after death. I’m the tongue in his ear begging for more. I’m the heat shimmering in the air. He holds onto me like a lifeline, conquering and surrendering, lost in the crucible. I stroke that sweet spot of his neck with my tongue, caressing down to suck at where his neck and collarbone meet, sweat and heat tangling until I’m burning with him, throwing myself into the void after him, moaning into the meat of his body. My nails score his back, pain spicing his pleasure, and he shatters. Made fresh and new by his self destruction.

We marvel in the light of day at our cursed addiction. For a soft, sunkissed moment, the hunger pangs have ceased, and it is enough. The high is fading but the craving has not yet begun. As one being we give thanks for the blessing of our shackles, shackles that bind us to each other with frenzied lust. We slip apart, returning to our individual selves, and in the distance deep inside of me, I hear the hungry ghosts begin to whisper. At night they will return, and make monsters of us both.