There's a permanent burn low in her belly, an ache between her legs. It's everywhere, always--Anita can't escape her own want: the lust for sex, for blood, for dominance. She feels too empty, too full, and she's getting fucked either way (body, mind, heart).
Anita is tired of passion, grows weary of lust--but it's building, always building, and she's wet, and her skin aches to be touched, mouth waters for skin sweat come blood, oh fuck please now--and Anita could gladly go the rest of her life without sex. Not, she thinks wearily, that she has much choice in the matter.
She has more lovers than she'd ever dreamt of (wanted). They want her, need her, love her--they are hers, all of them, and Anita can't and won't let them go, but: she wishes she'd had a choice in any of it. She wishes that there were friends she hadn't fucked, followers she hadn't taken, and most of all, that her body was still her own.
If wishes were werehorses. . . (she'd probably fuck them, too; and Anita laughs, because it's not funny, and it's true, and this can't be her life).
Sex is good, better than good, but Anita wants to be able to say no, and mean it. She wants to decide who she's with, and when, where, why. She's a fighter, and Anita isn't used to losing, but she can't figure out how to stop being puppet to a lust that isn't wholly her own.
And it's a wave breaking over her: breath sharp and fast, nipples tight, thighs rubbing together--she can't think anymore, she's losing her mind all over again (she should care more than she does; will hate herself for not caring after she's been fucked, her mouth full of blood and semen and fur).
She's going around in circles, endless want, and--
Anita is tired of passion.
Written for livejournal's 100_women community.
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