Hungry gods

“I don’t think that person knows how sandwiches work,” you said condescendingly.

You have fits, I recognized that. My relationship with you has never been easy — filled with sex and shouting and hair pulling, my wrists still bruised from your cuff and bondage.

I secretly liked it, you know that. You dominate me and I am possessed by this desire to have myself physically abused and gorged in the bedroom. This is something I cannot openly admit to the conventional society.

This is something you willingly took.

You made me recite the names of far away stars as you unbutton my blouse and cupped my breasts. Pavo, I panted. The fire in your breath made my grip tighten around your arm. Betelgeuse, the hand of the giant. Rigel. Deneb. Altair. Bellatrix. Orion the hunter.


And I kept on reciting and reciting and did not stop and all you could say, in a condescending manner, is how you don’t think that person knows how sandwiches work.

But you do.
Oh yes you do.
Ohgod you do.
You do you do you do.

Burn me tonight. Bite my shoulder blade until it bleeds. Let the gods condemn us. Show them, hungrily, how sandwiches work.


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