Thanks to Ausmac booboo patrol and Predx for giggling as I wrote it.
This isn't me, not any more. I've been rewritten into someone I no longer recognise.
You've been changing me, subtly, quietly, without my noticing each small change. Using your tongue, but not your words, you're writing a different person into my skin. Using saliva for ink, tongue for pen. You've been creating permanent tattoo to which I did not consent. Language, lingua, analingus. From the outside in, pushing a different person, personality, under my skin, so that I absorb the essence of you, the force of your cheer and joie de vivre into my body, against my will. You've used osmosis through delicate membranes. A charm, a potion, a delicate alteration of will.
I accuse you of changing me, of making me into someone new. I spit the accusation of emperio, but you sing 'That ol' black magic called witchcraft' and sweep me up into wholly enveloping hugs and tell me my suspicions are adorable. Who is this person that loves it? That gets lost in strong arms and warm smells and thinks the sound of deep laughter sweeter than the finest music? This is not the me I know, not the me I've tried to become, not the me I show to the world.
The person I am does not crawl on a strange bed, arse in the air, wiggling and sighing. The me I am does not bite into someone else's sheets, and drool! The me I know does not kick and squirm and sigh and squeal! The me I know does not thrust backwards, gurgling in bliss at a tongue up my arse! Never in my life have I ever considered I would behave like this. Never in my life would I ever have believed I could let someone see me like this.
Certainly never would I ever have conceived that I'd want you to feel good too. That I would feel good letting you use my body to make yourself feel good. When did it become important to me to make someone else happy? To listen to someone else's sighs and laughter and moans and feel like a king? When feeling you quake and heave under me, under my hands, my mouth, up my arse gave me more power than I could ever have found in a book? More knowledge than I could glean from Dumbledore, from Voldemort? A power and a knowledge beyond that ever known by any other person alive? I don't want you to feel good just so I can take more pleasure from you - feeling you quiver, hearing you moan is its own reward. It's not just so I can have more of your arms, more of your tongue, but just because I want you to be happy. With me.
No one has ever been happy with me. They are not happy around me or near me. I make everyone miserable. I work hard at it. But you I make happy. You cry with joy looking into my eyes. You laugh with joy chewing on my buttocks. How can you be so different to everyone else? It's because you make me different. Because you're rewriting me, taking the tangle of my nerves and sinews and twisting them into different patterns, turning my veins into charms that change who I am.
My hair is hanging lankly, sweat drips into my eyes. I'm covered in your sweat, too, and the ink of your mouth as it writes me. In a while I'll be a mess of our combined emissions. Yet I won't mind. And that's not me, I know it. I know I'm particular, exacting, everything in its place and everything immaculate, but later I'll lie on this rucked up bed, tangled in you and covered in warmth and drying fluids and doze for hours, or until you nudge me and wink and suggest another round. I'm too weak to stand up to such dark magic, I know already that we'll spend most of the night in this manner.
I try for some decorum, but how can I be decorous when I'm stuffed full of you like a Christmas goose full of sage and onions? You explore my insides with grunting enthusiasm, pushing me across the bed with your fervour, as I alternate between crawling away from the intensity and pushing back with mindless whimpering need.
No one else notices the difference. I was who I was for so long, I can maintain the pretence. Such a brilliant spy I used to be, I can remember how to trick and deceive them. They won't notice the person I was isn't here anymore, licked away, worn away like a well-sucked boiled sweet. They won't notice I'm someone new, someone recreated in another's image. They won't see the beard burns on my thighs, the handprints on my hips, the bite marks on my buttocks, the only evidence I could show to prove the old me has been killed. I willingly co-operated in my own murder. A changeling lies in my place. A changeling groans and comes and crawls for more. The person I was would never behave so, the person I was would have spit in the eye of anyone suggesting it.
I complain that this is an utterly preposterous position. You tell me there's no dignity in sex, that one of the purposes of sex is to abandon dignity. You say it's giggles and slurps and legs in the air. I say you mean that dignified sex is an oxymoron and you think I'm insulting you, so you laugh and slurp and I'm on my stomach with my arse in the air again. It's poisons you're sucking out, hatreds and resentments, drawing them out like old venom. Replacing the grudges that defined me with good-natured cheer.
The real clue, the incontrovertible proof of your manipulations is that I don't care. I don't mourn who I was, and I am learning to accept who I am becoming. Reshaped under your mouth, rewritten into someone you have always claimed to know. And I find I do not mourn my passing.
Authors Post-it note: I know who the 'you' in this is. If you can't guess, then who you want you to be is up to you.