I want to hurt him.
Seeing him standing in front of me makes me want to hurt him all the more. I watched him from the window as he walked up the path, purposefully closing the gate behind him.
I saw him stop, draw breath as if he was summoning the courage to walk further, a mixture of nervous anticipation and excitement.
He wasn't aware that I was watching him, but I stood without movement in the window, watching his movements, his expressions and the look in his eyes.
He knocked twice on the door and stood back, I continued to watch him, I was in no rush to open the door to let him in, actually I was, because there was so much that I wanted to do to him, but I wanted to draw him in gently, to take my time, to allow the anticipation and his nerves to draw him into a place of shyness and vulnerability.
I wanted to witness the transition from the confident man who strode up to the gate to the man who in only a short few moments would be so far removed from that man it could almost be two different people.
I wanted that transition to be subtle. To be gentle. To be slow.
I wanted to watch the changes within him, the way his senses heighten, of how his skin jumps at even the slightest or most delicate of touches.
I wanted to witness his struggles.
The battle in his mind of his fears against his desires.
But oh I want to hurt him.
Kissing him deeply, my hands tangling into a tight fist within his hair. Pulling his head back slowly, stealing his breath. Kissing his chin. Pulling his hair. Kissing his mouth. Pulling his hair tightly.
Kissing him. Biting him. Hurting him.
I will hurt him.