“The anatomy of violent hunger.” I whispered the words my diagnosis.
I knew the physiology of this moment—parasympathetic nerves firing, arteries dilating, blood rushing into the corpora cavernosa until my cock thickened, stretched, pulsed.
I knew my testes were tightening closer, busy factories producing millions of sperm every day—cells begging for erotic release.
Hungry to coat somebody’s eager, wet pussy.
This moment should’ve stayed clinical. But nothing about this felt like sterile notes in a textbook.
This was pathology made flesh.
In textbooks,priapismis defined as an erection that lasts too long—blood trapped in the corpora cavernosa, pressure building until it risks tissue death.
Highly embarrassing, but a clinical emergency.
But standing here, cock swollen and leaking for her, I realized mine wasn’t caused by trauma or medication. This was priapism laced with obsession. Pathology made personal.
My cock wasn’t just hard—it was trapped by her, engorged past reason, doomed to ache until she let me bury it inside her.
My shaft continued to throb, veins bulging, precum beading and spilling down like serum. Every beat of my heart drove more blood into me until I felt engorged, diseased with need.
That was the anatomy of violent hunger: glands swollen with fluid, cock rigid with pressure, the entire male reproductive system conspiring against sanity.
And yet. . .what burned in me wasn’t about reproduction at all.
It was violence and worship twisted together—an urge to bury this blood-heavy cock inside her warm pussy until my hunger was sated, until every contraction of my muscles forced truth into her body.
Stop.
I shook my head, let go of my cock, and panted.
Alright. Alright. Stop it. Now. Calm down. Leave.
But I didn’t leave.
I couldn’t go away.
Instead. . .I continued to watch them for so long that the dinner ended and the kids padded upstairs, their laughter fading into the ceiling beams. Bedroom doors clicked shut one by one, the house settling into a hush that only deepened my hunger.
The plates were cleared, the candles burning low. Teyonah moved through the kitchen alone now, humming faintly under her breath as she stacked leftovers into glass containers, her blouse gaping just enough to tease the swell of her breasts.
My body went rigid.
I should have left when the kids disappeared upstairs, but I couldn’t. I stayed, glued to the window like a lunatic, cock swelling again until the ache was unbearable. The sight of her in that crimson blouse, barefoot now, skirt hugging her hips as she bent over the counter—it was like the universe had stripped away every barrier between my lust and its target.
She had no idea I was still here, still watching, still unraveling in the shadows.
The house was too quiet.
My breathing was too loud.
And my cock was already sliding free of my slacks, heavy and swollen, precum slicking my fingers as I wrapped them around the shaft.
Fat and swollen.
I leaned forward until the glass was cold against my forehead. My breaths fogged it with every ragged exhale.
Inside, she was only a few feet away—smiling as she stacked plates, hips rolling under that skirt like she was built to torment me.
