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Enslaved by the Skin.

Sometimes particular women can look so good it’s almost physically painful.

You want to breathe her in, hold her there. To melt into her skin, fall into her eyes. Thirsty for that primal rhythm, that sexual dissolution that will send you both into bliss. You feel your greed, this burning need to possess her — if only for awhile — and it makes you feel ashamed. Sick to be enslaved by your skin.

Maybe I’ve been too lonely, too horny for too long. Perhaps the isolation I need is at the same time killing me.

It seems there is no answer. I need to be close, I need to be free, and the polarity of my desires leaves me spinning in endless frustration.


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