The Chase

“I won’t ask nicely. I want you feral.”

This isn’t a polite fantasy. It’s the raw, unfiltered ache of a woman who’s tired of careful texts and quiet wanting. Tired of playing by rules that keep her untouched. She’s offering herself up — heart pounding, thighs wet — begging the right man to stop being civilized and finally let the monster loose. No soft romance. No safe words in advance. Just sweat, dirt, bruises, and the kind of pounding that proves you’re still alive. If you’ve ever craved the chase more than the catch, this one’s for you. Rewritten from an older post.

I Want

I want to be ruined. I’ve dreamed of it until it has become a fever that wakes me up at 3:00 a.m. over and over. There’s no relief.

Can’t you do that? Do you think you could reach into your soul and find your monster for me? Let him out so he can see I’m ready—already trembling, already wet, ready to run, hunted, and claimed.

I wonder. Can he smell me yet? Are you just ignoring me? Pretending not to notice? Or do you not care?

The want is pooled in my center aching, dripping. I leak it, hour after hour, day after day, like juice from the split of a peach. Nothing washes it away. Nothing covers it.

Do you even notice me as I send five hundred careful messages, playing rational and polite. “How are you, how did you sleep, how’s the weather, did you drink your water”?

As much as you might want me to shut the fuck up and bend over, I need you to make me. Please, make me. Show me you’re strong enough to take my arms in your big paw, fist my hair, and force me down. Show me you’re wild enough.

Show me that my own wide, gaping, unreserved hungry doesn’t scare you. Doesn’t make you run away because you’ve been taught women are breakable. Doesn’t make your cock wilt because it’s more than you’ve ever had.

I want you to bruise me. Dig your fingers in until I cry out. Leave marks—God damn it, leave marks—as you press my face down into the dirt and claim what’s already dripping wet for you.

I’ve watched you. Waited. Brushed your shoulder. Smiled. Touched the back of your hand. Laughed at every joke. Answered every text. Always welcomed every step towards me that you took. But you were busy. Work. The game on the TV. That thing you were researching. Your friend. The car. Anything but me.

And I can’t, I won’t tell you. I won’t ask. I won’t ruin it by asking.

Fuck society. I’m tired of their rules. Tired that someone else gets to say how you have to treat me, how careful you have to be, how you have to approach me. I play by their rules every day. Won’t you show me I’m worth breaking them? Just once, show me I’m worthy of all that hunger.

So pour that filthy on me instead—like whiskey from the bottle, hot and burning, amber fire sliding over ice. Pour it like your hot breath against my ear. Pour it with confidence. With focus. And watch me melt. Test me. Trust me. Eat me.

Whisper, “Run.”

Watch my eyes widen, my face flush, my lips part while my cheeks burn red. Run. Run. Run.

Run me down. Press me down. Cover me with all your heat and sweat and starving heart. Chase me through hallways like wild things, out the door, down the street like kids playing tag—except you know you’re going to win—then into the woods at the end of the block where the teenagers go to fuck.

Chase me. Wrap your arm around my waist and take me down. Cover me. I want your belly against my back, your thighs pinning mine while I kick and bite and scream. Stop caring if you hurt me. Only care that you can breed me. Sink your need into my wet, dripping, ready cunt. Grab handfuls of my soft flesh as you push deep.

I want to hear your groan of relief when you sink all the way in. That sigh of pure fucking satisfaction. It’ll scrape over me, carve into me, say everything words never could—right before you brace your knees and pound me.

Pound into me like you’re forcing your soul into mine. Pound like pain is the only thing that proves we’re still alive, that we still matter. Pound like tomorrow only counts if we bleed. Pull my hair. Arch me like a bow. Pinch my tits. Claim me. Claim me.

Claim me.

And show me I’m still alive. Still vital. Still worth the hunt.

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