Denial

No.

Do you know what that does to me? You can’t. No. Mismatched libido means you don't understand the way desire crawls across my skin on the daily. You don't understand that you deny me with your thoughtlessness. You don't think it cruel.

Not in the mood.

Do you know where that sends me? You can't. No. Driving me from our bed drives me to the darkest corners of the web. I watch with bated breath as my fantasies play out before me on the screen. As messages from strangers drive me crazy.

Maybe later.

Do you know how that makes me feel? You can't. No. And in that feeling I search for someone else to treat me like a toy, only it’s a toy that sees use in between bed covers instead of getting tucked under the bed.

I'm already done.

Do you know why I hate that? You can't. No. My catering to your every desire puts me in the head space to find a lovely little one. I'd deny them the way you deny me, and I'd smother their face until I've had my fill of orgasms.

Orgasm denial.

Do you think you know what that means? When you play to the edge and stop? Sexual denial, where sex is included until climax? No. I am in denial, writhing in my bed, in my skin, in my head. A beast crawling through my skin, changing me until I'm not sure what’s left.

Come to bed, now.

I scramble like a mad desperate thing, begging for any kind of scrap you'd give me. You cruel, cruel, man.

I love you.