Seriously.

Look at the title again; I'm not fucking kidding.

I'm going to fuck you, and I'm going to fuck you hard. Like a freight train hitting a mountain. Like a hammer splitting open concrete. And by the end of it, you're not even going to remember your own damn name.

I'm not one for subtlety, although that's probably because you've been teasing me for a while, now. Working your way into my dreams, even. I can't get you out of my head, when I sit down to write - nothing quite flows the way I need it to; the ideas shining in my mind can only manage a flaccid dribble out onto the page, because you're twined through my thoughts and wrapped around my words.

So you know what? Fuck it.

I'm not in the mood for pleasantries, for cutesy little dances of words.

My hands, on your hips - that's how it starts. The frustrated, pent-up lust of months, of weeks stretching on without anything quite getting out the way I want it to. The wet, sloppy, sound of my hand smearing lube onto my cock, like a piston warming to its task, and the unceremonious yank of your head back, messy fingers curled hard against your hair, forcing a gasp from your throat.

And then - look at the damn title, again - I'm going to fuck you.

No preamble, no sensual easing in. Just an emptiness inside you that you don't think about, until it's filled with a sudden, nerve-spiking shock of heat and meat and hardness. That snug, warm little hole that you pay scant attention to, mostly, stuffed full in a single, heady slide. Hard enough to rock you forward on your knees, knocking you to the bed, your shoulders dragging against the sheets. Each thrust a hammer blow, my hips slamming into your cheeks with the pent-up frustration of a man no longer possessed by you.

Thrust.

Hell, I'll ask you your own fucking name, and I can almost hear the strangled gasp of those stupid, silly words.

Thrust.

Again, until your body shakes and your legs turn to jelly, the bed rising up to meet you, and your world melting into a haze of -

of -

of -

That's right. Nothing. No more thoughts save for the animal feel of being full, of being taken, of a physical, visceral rutting whose every stroke jars the thoughts free from your mind.

Because that's what you've been doing to me. Stealing the damn thoughts and stunting my words.

So now it's your turn, Writer's Block. Feel that; that hot, hard reduction of your world to this. That nothingness, wrapped up

I'm going to fuck you until you're nothing. No name, no words, no sensation of stagnation. Just fucking.

Fuck you.