Will Work for Drugs by Lydia Lunch

I do love him. How badly I want him, how needy I really am. How hungry. How incredibly moist.
    Tucking himself into me, a fleshy surround. I submit to his filthy electric force field and fold myself under him. Into him. My body seems to dissolve, shrink, condense, and unfold into a small pocket, hollow pillow, pussy willow soft, which he blankets in dusty skin. The 147 self-inflicted scars on his chest and arms are cool pink fingers which mouth my surrender. I have no resistance left, not an ounce, once they press up against me. Skin sliced to the bone. Brilliant. Because it defines so well the pain we both share, but can never, either of us, ever admit to.
    Johnny doesn’t start violent, but I know that’s how he’ll finish me off. Finish himself off. He knows I want him to hurt me. I need to be hurt. Need to be reminded how much he loves me. Loves me enough to hurt me even though he hates me for wanting it. Hates me for what I do to him, make him do to me. Hates me because he needs to hurt himself too, and now I am the most available tool.
    But first, his soft wet lips, sweeter even than a virgin’s pouting mound, surprise the back of my neck. Disappear into collar bones. Crawl up into my hair. He inhales, sucking in a fistful of auburn locks. His tenderness is made so much more desperate, delicious, cruel, by where I know he’ll take me. How he’ll take me. How far he’ll push it. How far he needs to go.
    He can’t resist much longer. If I exhale a certain amount of breath … when my rib cage rises and falls into the light and shadow of early-morning exhaust … and the air jet streams from my mouth signaling a passive languor, that’s when he’ll pounce. He stuffs his fingers in his mouth. Small sucking sounds. I still don’t move. His left hand dances down my spine. His right pulls my panties aside. They cut into my thigh. Scald the fleshy inside. With surgical skill he spreads me open, so slowly I can barely feel the pressure of skin separating, flowering. It’s only the influx of moist body heat which signals the stretching of succulent meat. He slips two fingers inside me. Inching up to the last knuckle. Taut resistance. Gentle spasm. He’s in my ass, that glorious masterpiece, the maker’s most temperamental vestibule. Pressing against me from behind, he’s getting hard, a fallen angel, blessing me with the salvation of his sex.
    He still thinks I’m asleep. Removes his fingers long enough to smell and lick. Sticks them back in. Takes them out again. Smells and licks. He’s now too hard to resist my fragrant blossom. He’s forcing himself in. Massive expansion of tender cubby. I’m stuffed to bursting, terrified. But no time to contemplate the consequences. The clock’s gone haywire. He’s suddenly impatient. Rough. He shoves one hand over my mouth. I can taste my almond musk.
    â€œThis is what you want, isn’t it … isn’t it? Tell me how much you want it, tell me how much you want my cock, tell me, baby, you know you want it … tell me,” he threatens under his breath. Thrashing against me. Pumping fingers down my throat. Glued like a puppet on a flesh stick.
    Then I see it. Out of the corner of my eye. Steel tip glint. I hear his skin rip. Deep crimson incision. Small audible shudder. Slight smile. Sweet kiss. Another laceration to his chest, under his collar bone. Flesh tone turns fatty pink then deep scarlet. Eight or nine inches of thick syrup flows down his chest in bloody rivulets. Cakes around the base of his dick. Trickles onto and tickles his balls. Hot dribble drives his delirium. Can’t stop himself now from banshee bucking. Fury fucking the drippy dry glue into the base of my spine from the outside in.
    Lubricated with his browning blood, my delicate camellia revolts and tightens, almost tearing, searing itself on his poisoned heat flow. Pummeling me senseless, there is no recourse other