Fingers stroked down the sideburns thither, near the cheeks, where not a patch of skin was left behind untouched. Every night there would be a change, never obvious whether it would worsen or improve. I lay on a wood laminate surface, arms folded, perspiring along with the convulsing itch.
To tame my limbs by mere conscious was out of the question.
I scratched across the skin around my eyes; if the skin bled, it didn’t matter. Nonetheless, I enjoyed it divinely as friction sparked along. A few minutes later, as if just going through an intense orgasm, I lay straight, inflamed.
Entertaining point of view. Could make up a novel.