He felt like his soul was ready to jump out of his skin, like he needed...oh fuck it, he didn't know what he needed, actually. But he needed, he craved. Craved flesh. He wanted to mar that perfect skin, wanted to bite and nibble and brand, wanted to claim ownership of something he'd never have. Dark need clawed at him, aching to be set loose. "Smash up my sanity His hand moved faster, driven by need larger than him. He tried to think of something normal, something sane, but couldn't. Trent Reznor's anguished wail shook the walls of his house, drowning sanity, drowning control. He saw flashing eyes dark with hunger, saw that long, lithe form tied to his bed. Saw all that strength at his mercy, ready and willing -- willing, for fuck's sake -- for him to do anything and everything to it. He saw himself fucking that hard body, pounding, driving, digging fingers into slender hips. He didn't care about satisfying anything other than his need to dominate. To claim. He wanted to drive thought of every other person, of every other lover, every other every fucking thing out of the other man's system. He wanted to fill, to surround until he was drowning, choking, swallowed whole. He wanted to devour. He should switch off his goddamn CD player. "Smash up my everything Faster, faster. He slicked up his hand again, driven by demons, by a lust he couldn't control, couldn't tame. He wanted those silky lips, that soft tongue, on his body, torturing him beyond all thought. Wanted to be sucked off until he was dry and spent. Wanted to be on his knees, worshipping, until he thought he might die of the pleasure. He wanted to tug on coarse strainds of hair and watch that sweet, lush mouth filled with his cock. Wanted to watch that slow slide down an eager, willing throat. "Gave up" segued into "Physical" and still he stroked, still he craved. "I want to say all those things He wanted to degrade, to punish. To whip that perfect, arching back until it was bloody. Then he wanted to lick the wounds, to taste blood. Wanted to kiss that fluttering pulse and hear the moans, the screams of need, of completion. "All that was true is left behind His skin itched to be touched. His body ached for contact. He felt empty, hollow, wanting. He wanted calloused, rough hands clenching his own, wanted muscular legs wrapped around him in demand, wanted naked, vulnerable, completely open. "I am so dirty Driving guitar filled his ears, the feel of his hand on his cock, the smell of sex and lotion, the sight of himself, all splayed and open and arching up into every movement, filled his senses, but his brain cared for none of this. The mental images searing his consciousness would not be denied. He saw himself over that sweet body, that achingly sweet body, pleasuring it until there wasn't an inch he didn't know. Wanted to imprint the feel of skin, the taste of moans, the texture of soft, chapped lips in his mind so he could recall it at a whim. "A thousand ways to make it true He wanted his throat raw from being fucked, from being rammed until it was numb, yet still craving. Wanted to gag on thick flesh slamming past his open, willing lips. Wanted to swallow every bit of come and beg for more. Wanted to submit, wanted bedsprings to creak, the feel of rough wood tearing into his skin as he gripped the headboard and held on, taking every inch like the whore he was. Wanted to feel his flesh tear with each rough, careless thrust, wanted the pain of being invaded. He wanted to be the invader. Wanted to conquer, to rape, to drag a flawless head back to expose that elegant throat. Wanted to scrape his teeth over porcelain skin, taste the need and submission in hard, fast nibbles. Wanted his tongue running across muscle and bone. Wanted to hear the pleas to stop, to continue. Wanted to despoil virgin flesh. He was so close now, so close, if only he could think of something else for just a second, a moment...but he couldn't and his thoughts were still filled with darkness. With hot hunger, with yearning... OhGodOhGodOhGod. He was so thankful no one was around to hear his screams. He lifted his sticky hand and ran his tongue over his own juices. Tasted acrid sweat and bitterthick acidity, potent and hot. Pretended it belonged to somebody else. And it was enough. Until the next time.
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