Obsession isn’t something you choose. It chooses you. Wraps around your should like a vice, squeezing until there’s nothing left but the sickness of wanting. It seeps into your blood, replacing logic, making you something… else.
Something monstrous.
And f**k… I like it the more I watch her.
My little muse, my sweet trembling f*****g thing, curled up on the ground, gripping onto that hoodie like it’s her last line of defence. I watch as her fingers shake tugging the zipper up, not even bothering to hook her bra, struggling to contain the damage I’ve done. But the real damage is inside her, not just on her soft skin.
She can cover all she wants. It doesn’t change the fact I’ve already touched her. And worse, it doesn’t change the fact I liked it.
More than liked it, I f*****g loved it.
