The scent from the bottle in my purse
Is too sweet.
Is manufactured.
Is false.

I want the smell of luxurious release
And the feel of sweaty flesh
Struggling against mine to reach the end,
Desperate for release

For the blissful other side
For the room spinning without moving
For the the feral whimper of the pinnacle

The feel of a soft fingertip along my skin
Is too gentle.
Is a whisper.
Is lacking.

I need the wanton, animal thrust
And the primal glow in the eyes
Of the beast in the darkness near me,
Ready for the taste of my flesh

For the surprised gasp torn from my lips
For the desperate whimper unbidden by my will
For the pleading moan half-bitten away