It's the insanity I live through—the insanity he puts me through—every day, every night, and every waking moment in my life. We never speak, not in public. The silence between us is a palpable thing—an iron curtain not even the US can scale. Maybe I get a glance, or a sideways look, even a glare. He teases me, verbally and physically, but never addresses me directly. I say something to my friend, while his rude comments filter through that friend, round the corner, and right into my head, like a spoken boomerang. I never respond, except for the cotton in my stomach and liquid fire in my limbs. These quiet reactions combine until I'm a mine field, ready to explode at the slightest touch in the wrong place—and it's all for him. He twists my mind, and he knows it. I am his, forever and always a willing slave, or a toy, or whatever he so desires. Never do I ask for it, only wait, until desire builds behind his eyes, and it's all both of us can to do to keep from erupting in the classroom. There is never a spoken question. It's the atmosphere, the way his eyes grasp mine, his look squeezing my heart with its intensity, until my lungs are screaming for mercy, and I understand. It's only a look, because no words are necessary, with his eyes boring deep into mine, past my lenses and straight into my soul. And as if he knows my innermost thoughts, the lust pooling between my legs, he smiles the bittersweet smile of a winner, without my having said a word. I am a child's diary, with the key always in the lock for him to open at will, and he does so constantly. He knows the exact things to do—the way to drum his fingers on the desk, to tap his feet, to tilt his head—in the exact way that makes it impossible to ignore. My blood freezes, and I try to look away. Not this time, I plead with myself. This time I will be a good girl, and I will go home, and not lie to my parents, and I will cleanse myself of this sin, and I will maintain the last shreds of morality and of dignity he has left me with. Then the drumming increases, louder and faster, or at least in my mind it is so, although he patiently keeps his steady tempo. In the corner of my eye, as I speak to my friend, I can see his gaze on me, intense and lustful, and I know what he wants. So I stop talking abruptly and turn to the front, but it doesn't help, because his gaze is implanted into the womb of my imagination, and it grows and develops, until I am practically writhing in the mental torture of my own creation, and I snap. Screw morality, my essence screams to the world, and I spin around the meet his eyes. His own steady expression anchors my anxious, lustful, and unstable one. He nods and raises his eyebrows in a silent request. No, it's never a request. It's a silent command, one that he never forces on me with anything but his eyes. Those eyes are impossible to deny, dark like the stormy pacific, and more powerful. I nod in reply, and he smiles. My heart melts away, and I realize I have sold my soul to an entity more influential than Satan himself. He is the God of my world, and his decision is final, even though he drapes the orders in colorful glances and kisses and sweetly phrased questions, and I regret nothing but my own hesitation in complying. The deal set, I right myself in my seat and attempt to pay attention to the useless chatter or material the professor is teaching, but I know it's impossible from the start. He has made his claim on me—mind, body, and soul—and no one will sway me from devoting the entirety of my being to him, focus and all. And no one noticed the subtle change in me, or the dramatic conflict raging within my body.
His insanity is an art, and I never regret bending my will to his. In public, our friendship is frigid, nonexistent, but behind closed doors we are fire, threatening to burn the world down. We go to his house, always his, and lock the door in the empty house and immediately I am on him, or he is on me, but always he is in control. My mouth on his, tasting the mints he ate only moments ago, the mints I watched him eat as we climbed that infernally long staircase. He is never caught off guard by my initiation of the explosive passion. When my tongue snakes over his lips, his tongue shoots out to join mine, and we struggle against each other for a while, but I never manage to fight his off. Suddenly I am on the bed, without knowing quite how I got there, and he rips my flimsy blouse away. When we are done, I will scold him for ruining my favorite shirt, but for now I gasp at the sudden rush of cold air over my collarbone and along the dip of my stomach, until the discarded clothing is quickly replaced by him, my human blanket. Our lips join again, his large hand cupping my face, stroking the soft pink curls of my hair. I can feel his chest hot and hard against mine, and I briefly wonder when he took off his own shirt as he tore away mine, until he breaks the kiss to bury his face in my neck. As if this action was a cue to the second act of a play, our hands wander each others bodies, exploring every plain and crevice like we've never experienced them before. His teeth graze my skin and I cry out in ecstasy, my fingernails curving into his back. Satisfied with my response, he pulls away from me. I whimper at the loss of his warmth, until he tugs at the cloth prison encasing my breasts. My breath races my heart as I sit up with the intention of unhooking my bra before he breaks that as well, but then the hooks snap and he falls back on the mattress with his vanquished enemy in hand as my breasts bounce free. I laugh at his childish actions and pounce on him. His skin is hot to the touch, bringing my own heated temperature to a wild frenzy. I lick and kiss every bit of available skin—tracing his collarbone, over his ribs, dipping into his belly button—until I reach another barrier to our pleasure at his waist. I growl and rip viciously at his bottoms, and there is a whirlwind of struggle, as he either fought to help me remove his remaining clothes or to prevent me from doing so, although the former is most likely. I succeed in the end, and his jeans and boxers join the rest of our clothes strewn about his room. My tongue continues its curving path south, teasing him along his inner thighs, seeking closer and closer to its eventual goal, but never quite allowing him the satisfaction. He messes with my mind too much every day for me to allow him instant gratification. The incessant teasing continues until he snarls at me. I take his engorged member in my hand, stroking its length gently. Its heat burns hotter than the both of us combined. Tentatively, I make slow licks along the shaft, placing the crown just past my lips, and my tongue continues its teasing within the safety of my mouth. He quickly loses his patience, placing his hand on the back of my head and pushing roughly so I am forced to engulf half his manhood within the second. I suck hard, continuing to please him with my tongue, my happiness and desire painfully mixed. His hips rock against my face, and I can tell he is close, so I pull back quickly. A moan of frustration escapes his lips, but he chokes it off quickly, but I feel pleased that I caused him to lose his composure, regardless of the speed he regained it with. A moment later, I was on my back again, my bottoms vanished over the edge of the bed. He traced over my breasts, sucking on one, his mouth hot and wet against my skin, until I thought I would melt into his body. It felt like the sun had plummeted from the very sky to join us in his room. He switched breasts, playing with the abandoned one with one hand while his other hand traced down my curves, feeling my hips, drawing circled on my naval, until he finally slid his fingers over my wet slit. I nearly screamed out and he hummed, adding to the pleasure racking through my body. He didn't ask if I was ready; he didn't need to. My body told him everything he needed to know, with or without his touch. He was a master of my body language, fulfilling my every desire without my having so much as uttered a single hint of what I wanted. He positioned himself at the edge of my womanhood and shoved in. I gasped at his suddenness, but then relaxed into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, kissing him, exploring his body with my hands, wrapping my legs around his waist, as our breathing accelerated with our racing hearts, until our rhythms matched perfectly and we were one. His mind and heart poured into mine, and mine into his, in a jumble of pure, wordless lust and passion. We came together, hard. I clamped tightly around him as he shots spurts of his hot seed deep into me, and then we collapsed on the bed, still entangled in each others arms and his now-flaccid member still sheathed within me. And I was content.
This insanity was once an innocent love, but now an obsession. Whenever I was not with him, I squirmed and wished desperately that he would find me within whatever godforsaken cavern I had crawled in. Every morning when I had school, I anticipated seeing him, and was severely disappointed when he was absent. I made the horrible habit of flipping through my memories f him, playing the hottest parts over and over until I exhausted them like an old worn film, and I could no longer remember how his touch felt, or how he looked at me, although I was constantly reminded once, or even twice, a week. On the weekends, or long breaks, I found it impossible to get up in the morning, or even sleep. My mind revolved around him incessantly, slipping away from reality in even my waking moments. Even on school days, when I knew I would see him, it was nearly impossible for me to even rise from bed. I preferred to dream away my life instead of seeing the real thing, and even my grades suffered as a result. There was no longer an incentive for me to continue doing my school work. There was him and only him. He was my world, my life. The sole reason I woke up in the morning was him. Every chance I got, I began to daydream about him, inventing fantasies and remembering my favorite moments, sewing the two interchangeably, until I found it impossible to remember which events happened and which I created out of my own fabrication.
So I slipped away, allowing myself to be swallowed whole by this insanity that he stirred within me, and drifting away from life into a living death, dependant on his constant presence to keep me breathing. My life is his, and will remain his even after we part, and I'm no longer blessed with his sinful presence, and my heart and soul die along with his thoughtless abandonment. He is the world to me, while I am only an insignificant plaything to him.