Lewd Itch -

That's the itch. And once it's in you, the only cure is a little more poison.

It starts beneath the skin — not a shiver, not a sting, but a slow, wicked crawl. A pulse that doesn't belong to the heart. The lewd itch doesn't beg. It commands. It whispers soft and filthy things in a voice that sounds like your own, except lower, hungrier, less ashamed. lewd itch

The lewd itch isn't desire. Desire has manners. It asks. This thing takes. It hollows out your dignity and fills the space with static and sweat. You tell yourself you won't. Then you do. Then you do it again, grinning in the dark, already planning the next fall. That's the itch