The Impostor
by Eggblue

I hunger for him.

He remains still, stretched out on display for me, like a sumptuous feast fit for a king.   And I want him.  I want to claw at his skin until he bleeds for me, fuck him so completely that he can’t even speak, all for me.

But he’s not mine.  He’s yours.  He’s the young lover of my father’s murderer, your great compassionate forgiver.

I wonder if you ever think these same things, if every waking moment is spent in harmonious obsession of this body. Do you think of branding him with your teeth?   With bites on his throat, the small of his back, the curve of his jaw... showing him where he belongs, in a supplicant’s bow, at your mercy?

Or are you gentle?  Would you remove his blindfold, unlock those restraints, and take him face to face, calling out his name like you were the one begging for mercy?

“Elim?  Where are you?”

He calls your name, but I am the one who answers.