Gone

Right now my body is alive and I moan loudly, constantly, my legs shuddering and almost giving way. And then I come, out of nowhere, and I grab the nearest thing, a pillow. Tightly. I fall against the bed, sweating. He comes shortly after. It feels odd, shooting up there. Hot and sticky.

This time we lay together for a while, arms entwined. It feels perfect. I want it to last. Perhaps it will, after this. Perhaps...I kiss him. He is already asleep.

That night I can't sleep. He snores softly, unaware of me. I am imagining all sorts of situations. I am unable to think outside of sex, outside of this wall of animal lust he has pushed up around me. I want him to wake up and force himself onto me, against my will, hurting me. I reach down. I am still wet, or wet again, I don't know which.

I wonder if it is his plan to have me this way, desperate and hungry. I think about all sorts of things.

The woman from the bar last week. Her long dark hair curling down her naked back, her red lips glossy and open. She glanced at me; it had little effect. Now I imagine her running those lips across my breasts, flicking her soft tongue at my nipples, snaking her way to my stomach. I wonder if he would be there too, or if I would enjoy it alone. I have never had sex with a woman, though I have drunkenly kissed many.

I look over to him. Do you know what you have done to me?

She is pushing three fingers inside me now. I am trembling with want. She leans over, kisses me deeply, and I encircle her full breasts with my hands.

Then she is gone, and it is some nameless man. He is the same as the one beside me, but his eyes and hair are lighter. Together they grapple at my body, taking turns to fuck me. They take me in impossible ways, ways I have only seen on porn films. Both of them are in me at once; I rub my clit. It is almost too much.

I push my leg over his hip; he mumbles something from his sleep. I rake nails softly down the warm flesh of his back.

'I want you,' I hiss into his ear. He murmurs again.

I roll him around onto his back. Beneath the sheets his erection is growing. I take it in my mouth and he likes this; I do not know if he is aware of what I am doing. His eyes remain shut.

I slide over and fuck him as he dreams – maybe he is dreaming of someone else. I will him to dream of me. His cock is responding to me at least, and I push onto it again and again. I look at his sleeping form and feel a stab of pleasure that I am, for once, using him. I hammer onto him, fucking him like that is all he is good for, angry at him suddenly for his total disregard. Orgasm begins stirring deep inside me and I go faster, faster – surely he must know? His eyes remain closed. I moan, softly at first. But then my inhibitions go; I dig my nails into his shoulders. I hate you, I hate you.

I come, loudly and hard, the pleasure rupturing the core of me. My nails dig harder, I am biting my bottom lip. I buck against him, four, five times.

As it washes over me, slowing down, I look at him. There is shock in his brown eyes but he is smiling, then he reaches out a finger and helps himself to my wetness. He licks it, never tearing his eyes from mine.

'I like your style,' he whispers. I am too spent to argue as he flips me over, splaying my legs and fucking me hard and fast. My pussy is trembling; my eyes fall shut. I can barely feel any of it – my orgasm has left me numb. He calls me names, dirty bitch, but he doesn't mean it. He explodes into me again. We are a messy pile of sweat and sex together; he kisses my chest daintily, exhausted.

He lays on me, breathing hard against my neck. 'You're amazing,' he manages, before I fall asleep. Finally, he has said it. But there is no I love you, not yet.

Autumn drifts into winter. I miss him whenever he leaves me, and he does, for weeks on end. I have given up hope of him falling in love; he is incapable of it, I have decided, a loveless creature. He is here only to fuck, and to hurt, and to destroy. I wonder who else he is destroying? Surely no woman can kiss him and not fall in love. He is perfect, the most perfect man in the world. I cannot imagine ever feeling this way for anybody else. He has all of me, and I like it that way.

I listen to songs written by countless different people, but somehow they are all about him. I see scraps of his face everywhere, in men and women, and that familiar aching between my legs sets in. I can't sleep at night because I begin a fantasy in my head in which he is there, and then it consumes me. I lay in bed, dreaming up possibilities. I fiddle with my phone, wondering if there is a fault or I somehow have a full inbox and he can't get in touch although he tries.

Some days I am simply appalled at myself. This is what I've become. A walking, breathing shrine to him. I keep him present in my life by thinking about him constantly; if I didn't think about him, he wouldn't be there, and I could not stand this.

I dream of the perfect ending...could there be a more perfect, divine life than the one where he arrives on my doorstep, tells me he loves me, and begs to be at my side? It might never happen, but I hold out a while longer. It is, after all, the only life I want.

In December we fuck every day for two weeks. I am so happy I feel my heart will burst. He practically lives at my house, and leaves only to run errands and let me sleep a few hours alone.

One random Friday he tells me he wants us to start fresh. He wants to be more than friends, to take it slow. He is sorry, he says. I forgive you, instantly, is my reply.

I am washing dishes at the sink when he comes behind me and runs his hands over my breasts. Today I have bought new lingerie and the old, private bits stay hidden at the back of my drawer. He will only ever see me in beautiful underwear.

He plays with my nipples through the soft, clingy fabric of my top. Desire runs through me but I continue scrubbing, so he kisses my neck delicately. I feel light-headed, and turn to face him. We kiss, hard, with his palms pushing me against the work surface. He yanks my skirt up and goes down on me. I feel exposed, and hope nobody is watching through neighbours' windows. But the longer his tongue teases my clit and probes my damp skin the less I care, and I am pushing his head into me. My legs quiver. I cannot orgasm standing up. I will surely fall over.

He carries me to the stairs and bends me over, smacking my ass hard with the heel of his hand. It smarts; I become wetter. He tells me he loves to watch my pussy when it is swollen and slick and he hammers me, gripping my ass, against the stairs. The carpet grates against my knees; I am so hot, I want this never to end, I want to be fucked hard and have this longing in my pussy until I can take it no more.

I tell him. He hoists me up again and carries me to the bedroom, dropping me down onto the bed. I am naked from the waist down but I want him to kiss all of me, so I quickly remove the rest. I languish on the soft duvet, rubbing my legs together as he undresses. He reaches into the drawer of the bedside table and takes it out. It is pink, and eight inches long. I laugh uncontrollably, kicking my heels up.

'That is supposed to be private,' I tell him, as he raises an eyebrow. He flicks it on; it is noiseless.

Achingly slowly he eases it into me and I gasp, gripping sheets between my fingers. He lays adjacent to me, sliding the toy in and out, watching me. I don't feel embarrassed around him; my face creases up, I pant heavily, my hands grip him now. He makes no sound, just stares at my face. I am too turned on to feel exposed.

'I want you to fuck me wherever you want,' I hear myself say, 'do whatever you want to me.'

He simply kisses me. I cannot concentrate and kiss him back properly; the vibrating between my legs is making my body buck and arch. He loves it, trying to hold me down. Control my orgasm. He can't, and it rips out of me. My face falls against his chest and I gasp and cry into him; he holds me, absorbing it patiently.

Then as I lay back, shaky and spaced-out again, he kneels above me and strokes his cock. Good, I think, I have no energy to be fucked. I can close my eyes while he is done. He likes the sight of me, he says, I look so completely fucked and delicious.

He shoots his load all over my breasts. It is so hot and messy. I don't care. He rubs the tip of his cock against my nipples as the final waves hit him. He says a few filthy things, and then comes to lie beside me. He doesn't clean me down. I think he likes to see me like this.

We sleep for a while and then wake at the same time, horny again. This time he fucks my ass again; he says it feels tighter, and pushes the vibrator into my pussy as he does it. I am unable to speak. I am filled up completely, waves of pleasure drowning me and my legs buckle but he holds me up.

My vision spins. I am in the middle of a massive, constant orgasm, and he knows it. He hammers my ass, knowing I will not tell him to slow down or be gentle. I am beyond it. I can only moan, over and over, lost in it.

He says he wishes I could watch; maybe we should get a big mirror. He says the sight of his solid cock fucking my tight little ass is driving him crazy, and I should see it. I can feel it, that is enough. He orgasms then and it is over for me, for now. I am satisfied yet strangely not; I would do it again and again if he were able.

I have never had so much sex in my life. We do everything imaginable for two people. I am tired but exhilarated. I don't feel like eating and I have barely noticed life passing by outside – I do not leave the house. I cannot imagine a life without this sex now, this constant pleasuring and degrading of one another. He tells me he is happy.

But it doesn't last. It never could. Tuesday morning comes and he is going out to see his brother.

'I will be back in a few hours,' he says, kissing my forehead.

But the minute his back is turned, I know that he is gone. I sit on the couch alone, flicking TV channels, staring at the screen. I put toast on but let it burn. I am not hungry yet anyway.

In the evening I open a bottle of wine, drink half, and feel no different. I go to bed alone. He has not come back, or even called me. I am numb; not even hurt yet.

I go to bed, my arms bare and cold above the duvet. The streetlights shine in again, through my thin curtains, as they always do. I think of him.

He will be back. I can wait. He will be back. I repeat this mantra as I stare into the shadows, curling my cold toes against the sheets.

I try to sleep, knowing without a doubt that one thing is still true. I do love him.