This is a side effect of your voice, a side effect of me being me.
I will not be subtle about it. I want you to break me.
Grab my arms behind my back, slam me against the wall so hard I feel the taste of blood on my tongue.
Keep my head pressed against the surface while your body presses against mine with a fury, only you can't conjure.
I want your hands on me, your nails glowing at my skin, your teeth sinking into the flesh of my neck.
I want your growth in my ear. I want you to stop pretending to be human.
I want you to be consumed by your desire to end me.
I want to be scared of you.
I want you to grab my hair by the roots and yank it towards you, until I feel like I might snap in half.
When, after a few seconds or an eternity, you finally decide to loosen your grip on me, don't give me a second to collect my thoughts.
Take me by my arm and throw me on the ground and hold my wrist above my head as you straddle me.
I want to see you smirk and hear you giggle when I realize I still thought I was standing.
You will put your thumb in my mouth till half opened in shock, only to open it wider and make room for your cock and finally you will impose yourself on me.
You will fuck my face, relentlessly, until I gag, until I choke and I have to jerk away, gasping for breath.
You will grab the side of my hair and make me take you, again and again and again, until tears shine in the corners of my eyes and spit coats my chin.
This is how to awaken that deeper part of me, that entity craving violence, who will rise and paint every corner of my mind red and claw its way out from the inside of my flesh, begging you to keep going.
This is the part of me that I want you to see.
From then on you will be able to do a number of things to me. As long as you keep touching, as long as I get to hear you, hear your voice and see what it does to you, I could only beg for you to take more from me.
You could bend me to your will, make me crawl, make me say things I didn't even know I could say. You could be as rough as you wanted, disregard everything that is not about you and use me until your completion.
But I like to imagine that you would be slow, that you'd take your time building pain and pleasure with every thrust, telling me how easy I was to break, really, and why do I even believe I deserve more than being tormented for wanting things.
I would die a little death under you.
In the mornings after I would look at each bruise you have left on my skin, I would feel the ghost of your hands on me, and that thought alone will be enough to send me into a mindless drive to please again.
Oh, I want you to break me.