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
Copyright © Rebecca Huxley | Year Posted 2018
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