I want so much from you.
More than anything, I want to possess you. To own you. To own not just your parts, but your pleasure. I want it all for me. I’m jealous that way. (Don’t mistake my profligacy for indifference: that’s not how it works for me. I want it all from you, all for me.) I’m realistic, though. While that’s what I want, I will (un?)happily settle for what you (can) give me.
I want you to do as I say, to give me what I ask, to want me to have what I want.
I want to take from you, to give to you, to share with you.
I want to see you, to touch you, to taste you, to use you. To mark you, to hold you (down), to push you (down), to pull you. To feel your body yield to the gentlest nudge of mine, like the finely tuned sports car that you bring to mind. To slide into you, to pound into you. To fill you, to fatigue you, to wear you out, to leave you sore, spent, aching.
I want to devour you, to overwhelm you, to challenge you. To explore (with) you, to taste you, to feed you. To defile you, to worship you. To watch you, to listen to you, to learn about you, to map out further what I know, and what I can’t know, about you.
I want you.
Do you want me?