The Solo Swansong Orgasm

“I don't like that” I told him wide-eyed and anxiously. It reminded me of a time long ago, Not necessarily of someone I used to know But of someone who had helped himself anyway. Head turned, Face disgruntled -he wasn't about to let me take away his toy. One of his 'collectibles' Bound and marked: '****' written on my skin with my own make-up. The stain on my flesh: fleeting His stain on my pride: indelible. “I'll show you what you like” He informed me with vigour and gasp Suddenly I'm his. Silenced. Not a word to utter Heart and thighs red hot and throbbing Struggling a flightless flutter Terror seized and it didn't let go. Its dirty, smelly grip. I become his wound, in pain, that yields to placate My superficial senses smell his lust But I bet he barely tastes my hate. My shaking legs spread asunder In everlasting disgrace I – the vessel To empty himself of the burden of his desire. He imparts upon me new life As I die a thousand deaths inside. Rebecca .A. Huxley