Starving for savagery

I feel fishhooks clawing at my pussy.
I feel flames leaving scars on my brain.
My submission is hoarse from screaming,
begging the beast to feed upon my flesh.
The scent of sex surrounds me.
Any minute, my door will yield
and a press of adolescent boys
will burst into the room, drawn like
toms to mount a cat in heat.
I am in heat.
A hormone storm for sure, seeded by
absence and internet silence, abetted
by the fiend’s own trap. A few lines,
a small vision, no more.
A sugar cube laced with acid of words,
sending my submissive mind on
such a trip that by today
the wild volcano of my lust was
spewing spurts of poems like
a man
cursed
to cum himself to death.
A dangerous game.
One doesn’t flirt lightly
with carnivorous beasts.
I offered him my throat,
sprinkling the path to my
blood-sheeted bed
with metaphors that guarantee
to waken and incite.
Works every time.
Says so on the package.
And so I try to wait,
and will my hands to
leave to its distress my
screaming, greedy cunt.
He'll be here soon enough.
Tomorrow or the next day
I will pay for tossing poems
at the maw of such a sadist
when he flogs my tender pallor,
when he twists my wounded nipples,
when he scratches his initial
somewhere new upon my body,
when he finds new ways to torture
till I prove how much I love him
as I let him tear me open
and I keep back from him nothing.
I am the beast's.
I yearn to be torn to shreds.