My Twisted Family Obsession

God, I've been holding this in for so long, and it feels fucking electric to finally spill it out. I love my family – not in that wholesome, Hallmark card way, but in a way that makes my skin burn and my thoughts twist into something raw and forbidden. It's like this deep, throbbing need that starts in my chest and shoots straight down, leaving me breathless and craving more. Every time I think about them, it's not just hugs and holidays; it's the way their touch lingers, the intimate moments that replay in my mind like a dirty secret I can't shake. Picture this: those family gatherings where we're all crammed together, bodies brushing in ways that shouldn't feel so damn good. The scent of their skin, the warmth of their breath close to mine – it drives me wild, making my heart race and my body ache with this unfiltered desire. I've got memories that hit like a rush of heat, like the time we were laughing and wrestling around, and suddenly I was hyper-aware of every curve and muscle pressing against me. Fuck, it's intoxicating, this mix of love and lust that I can't separate. I try to push it down, but it bubbles up, leaving me soaked in sweat and fantasies that would make anyone blush. It's not just affection; it's a full-body obsession that keeps me up at night, touching myself to the thought of what could happen if we crossed that line. I'm not proud, but I'm not sorry either – it's just how it is, this dark fire burning inside me. And now, saying it out loud, it feels like a release, like I'm finally admitting the truth that's been simmering under the surface. If that's wrong, then hell, I don't want to be right.