She came to him in his delirium.
Clothed in a silvery robe of moonlight and nothing more, she whispered, "Touch me."
At her soft plea, John 'Hawk' Adams lifted his feverish head from his folded arms.
Low and soothing, melodious in tone, her husky voice drew him like a siren’s song. Though his mind’s image of her was indistinct, her features undefined, he’d recognize her anywhere. Instinctively. He’d know her the same way an animal knows the scent of its mate.
Mosquito netting enclosed the beat-up cot where he slumped. The fine weave distorted his already warped view of his surroundings. Yanking the protective curtain aside, John slid his naked body to the edge of the bumpy mattress. Sweat-soaked, he contemplated his precious hoard of matches.
Only one stick remained inside the rusted tin can.
"Fuck it," he grumbled thickly aloud, his tongue clumsy with disuse. "From now on, I'll rub a couple of dry branches together if I want a fire."
He grabbed the last match, struck the tip against his fingernail. When the blue end flared, he lit the kerosene lamp and anxiously surveyed his squatter’s shack.
In the wick’s faltering glow, his hope died a fast death.
As usual, he was alone. The single shadow wavering on the patched tarpaper wall belonged to him, not her. Why hadn't the cold-hearted bitch waited for him? Why hadn’t she just once followed through on her promises?
In the beginning, he’d guarded himself against the debilitating effects of solitary confinement. Despair had crept in, anyway, siphoning off his remaining energy, feeding off his loneliness. Eventually, illness attacked his weakened immune system. He was sick and tired now...of having only the noises of the jungle for companionship, of sleeping with only the illusion of her.
An apparition wasn't enough. Only fucking her, the flesh and blood woman, would appease the want. Only getting inside her would satisfy the craving. He would give anything, his last gasping breath, to claim her as his, to mark her as his, to penetrate her body and leave his cum behind. If not for her cock-teasing, he would've given up and died long ago.
He'd never forgive her low-blow tactics, how she'd whip him into a constant state of arousal and then didn't put-out. His hard dick and aching balls prevented him from slipping away into a long and peaceful sleep.
He hurled the empty tin can across the room. The rusted metal exploded against a wooden beam upon impact, shrapnel ricocheting.
Night after night, she danced naked for him against the patched tarpaper wall. Writhing, her head thrown back in abandon, her pale throat arched, her shapely thighs open, spread open, she sobbed out his name. She cried for him to take her, but when he tried, she never once delivered.
Damn her, anyway. Her seduction kept him breathing long after he'd lost the will to live. With her big tits and soft smile and moist, beckoning pussy, she not only came to him, she came for him. Night after fucking night. Performing a sexual pantomime, she climaxed before his eyes, until he climbed the walls in his need to get at her. The creative pain his prison guards had inflicted was nothing compared to the torture of wanting her.