That’s when I started. Started hunting, I guess you’d call it. There was a bar, down in the mill district, where desperate people went to hook up. It was a shit hole, dark, reeked of tobacco and too many hot bodies too close. I used to wake up there, in a booth in the corner, feeling like I’d been used. Feeling wrung out, sore, dirty. I never remember, though. When she takes over, the cat, I don’t remember who had me. I just know I’ve been had.

The dream came back, but it had changed. The man who knelt before, now he stood and faced me. He had beautiful eyes  – brown and orange, almost. And a Vandyke that nearly hid his lips. I couldn’t tell if he meant to help or harm. He was still naked, but his cock was soft, his hands at his sides. He stood and looked at me like he knew everything about me. I wanted to put my hands in his hair, I wanted to taste him, but I was bound.

I am always bound.

Stella – (a working title)

6 thoughts on “Writing – Bound

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