as the nights passed, my body asked for s**. I could feel a growing s***** tension consuming my body during the day and releasing at night while I slept. It had only been close to a week since I had s**, but weeks without finishing. I had never finished with Ramses, and something told me I wouldn’t ever, it was too quick, too nerve wracking and secretive. There was never enough time to let me reach that point. My brain would dream of watching p********** and quite often I would o***** in my sleep, feeling the rise and release quickly and then drift into a different dream. At times my legs would shake thinking of it, the repression shaking me, begging me to make something of it.
I thought of holding a head between my legs and being kissed on my inner thighs until I begged to be eaten out. I thought of being blindfolded and slapped across the face and held down so I couldn’t move. I thought of being kicked into a ditch and left there with nowhere to go and no food. I thought of bleeding out into the ocean and floating, dying with a smile on my face and having my soul ascend. While walking to school I fantasized about lying on the ground and letting the earth absorb me, painfully and slowly, until the grass grew out of my body and the leaves covered my face and the earth’s floor devoured me and I became one with the earth like one does after death. But I wouldn’t be dead, I would be still alive, barely breathing, barely human.
Whenever I thought about s** I thought about death. My fantasies would start with wet, heavy orgasms and end with a vision of my body, from above, my eyes closed and my soul at peace with my demise.
But I never wished to die.