Montréal Ache

Morning Haze, Airport Rush,

 Her scent in my hand,
A duty-free sin bottled,
a promise of what I’ll smear
on her throat later.
Three and a half hours
to the city where she waits,
my cock already aching before
the plane even leaves the ground.

Five days denied,
Our bodies quaking
with unshed orgasms

The plane climbs,
and so does the ache.
You, naked in tangled sheets,
sending me your body in fragments—
soft skin flashing,
hips rolling,
a brat’s smile daring me through the glass.

You ask me to choose your thong,
as if choice makes you innocent.
then you wear it for daddy
and wet it for your daddy
your hand sliding over it,
your moans caught between work and want.
You make me hard.
You make me furious.
You make me need to own you.

I read our old filth,

the words that should have stayed buried,

while new ones arrive,

sharper, wetter, darker.

Every line a reminder

that what we’re building isn’t allowed—

and that’s what makes it unbearable.

In the airplane toilet,
I free myself, cock swollen, throbbing,
and I give her what she begged for—
a picture she’ll hide,
a picture she’ll keep,
a picture that binds her to me.
Thick, veined, dripping.
A sin in pixels.
A promise I will force into her tonight.

By noon I land.
By six, we’ll drink.
The city will glow around us,
but the fire will burn beneath the surface—
two bodies colliding in a hunger
that doesn’t belong to us,
but we’ll take it anyway.

Montréal won’t know the truth—
but we will.
The forbidden is sweeter when it’s ours,
and tonight,
the ache we’ve carried through distance,
through guilt,
through need—
will finally split open.

Montréal ache.
Our ache.

Unforgivable, 

Unstoppable, 

Inevitable.