The Aftermath of a Kiss

They say that there is a striking resemblance between an act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.

I believe that it was my subtle innocence that captivated him.  A delicate, sumptous petal just waiting to be trampled mercilessly underfoot.  He gave me heaven over and over again even if it was against the laws of common morality.  I gave in freely just as the tides to the moon.

A slave to my itching carnal wants that is what I am.  A lover’s warmth, a lover’s touch, a lover’s embrace, a lover’s passionate kiss, a lover’s instrument of impalement, and a lover’s one night.  I am guilty of needing him every night.  Moonlight after gracious moonlight.

He is carnivore incarnate.  Here is gone.  He is gone.

You know what happens in between these lines  of torment and between the sheets of regret cause I need not catalogue.

Oh, the aftermath of momentary pleasure is like the apocalypse for an endangered woman.

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