Not just 'finished', not those heated, heavy moments in the immediate aftermath, but actually finished - when they're all showered, dressed, thankyou-I-had-a-great-time-thanks-for-the-invite-see-you-at-Christmas and walking to the station finished.

When it's quiet, and all the more quiet for the contrast it offers to the veritable cacophony that came before; I always forget how much noise it makes, when the initial bubbling of banter and bravado, those customary 'I'm gonna make you my X/you're gonna be my filthy little Y' theatrics, gives way to all that flesh-on-flesh percussion, those chorused grunts and squeals, the little intakes and expulsions of air and effort. When all I can hear is the shallow breath that stirs your chest, the only sign of life as you lay there, prone and puddled, eyes glazed.

They all assume it's a cuck thing. Then again, so did you, the first couple of times. Why else would I want to sit sentinel at the side of the room, watching who-knows-how-many-fucking-men have their myriad ways with you, without lifting a finger, without uttering a word? I enjoy watching, sure; I love bearing witness to their want for you, the strength and ferocity of it, and the way in which you, ever the over-achiever, rise to meet every challenge, the worthy opponent, the equal opposite, the girl who gives as good as she gets. And I love watching you, transformed in some elemental, essential way, into this avatar of pure lust, at once the bolt from the sky and the lightning rod that anchors it earthward, the slow unleashing that takes place before my eyes, all thought and manner and consequence giving way to pure instinct, action and reaction.

But, as I said, it's not about what happens when they're here. It's about now, this moment; you, laid out before me, like an offering to an ancient god. I'm not humiliated by what they do to you in front of me, by what you do to them - I'm exalted by it. Because this is how I crave you, raised up to your apogee then brought burning back to earth, wings melted around your tangled, cum-glazed limbs. Every sense overwhelmed, each synapse burned right down to the base, every inch of skin glazed in sweat or spit or spunk, or some heady cocktail of the three. You, this naked glory upon the floor, and me, totemic, standing over you, utterly alive with want, head full of the sights and sounds of the night only half-over, cock thick and twitching in one fist.

This is how I want you, this is why I invite them all to have their turn, why I tell you to shatter all the locks that hold your basest impulses closed, why we book this room and the rooms either side and the rooms above and below, because the last thing we want is some asshole from the hotel knocking on the door with a noise complaint. I want you like this; exhausted, broken, filled and fucked and used. So I can lift you in my arms, carry you to the bed, and slowly fuck the life back into you.