He fucked me down into nothingness, liquid dribbling from a slack mouth, a puddle on the sidewalk.
He laboured me into a malleable, receptive material, amorphous like the ancient Silly Putty of my childhood. He could have easily rolled me into a ball and put me in the hard plastic egg-shaped container, slid me into his pocket, carried me to his home where he would flatten me out onto the comics in the Sunday paper.
I became nothing more than the reflection of his choices, his desires. All that was me up until that point had been vanquished by his powerful body, erased by his strong will, pushing and prodding me into a sensual metamorphosis. A subtle change of shape, a change of essence.
He loved me so deeply on the vast expanse of that bed, floating peacefully on a feathery sky of lust, that in the end, I became one with the thin sheet, a shroud waiting to take on the form of something else, to be impregnated by the form of another.
His fingertips wrote beautiful words on the long and large of my body as I eagerly received him, a mere carbon paper, my own words suddenly lost all meaning.
Between his rugged hands, I was transformed from a sculpture into a lump of red clay, intoxicated by the idea of being molded into something new, something of his choosing, in his firm grip, under his light touch.
To lose myself proved to be far easier than finding what I was looking for.