Cunt

His words are past her ear, filtering, resonating deeper into to a place that exists on a lonely plane, a worried, anxious space. Hammering the doors of her soul, slipping beneath the cracks, invading, encroaching, entrenching in her secret recesses. She cannot breath; she locks her body against the submission to these burglars, these theives of will.


They are deep, dark scratches along her walls, "You are mine. You are owned. You are for my use, for my pleasure and it pleases me."

Her resistance is a weakened sigh. Their teeth devour her flesh, her obstinance, "You are mine. Your thoughts, your mouth, your cunt. Mine."

The words are alive, violently twisting and crashing, shaking and obliterating her separateness. She is no longer distinct, but of his essence, an extention, a tool. She is tied to him a dog, a freight, a hand, a heart. All that she is reflects and she is free.

"Cum, cunt. Now."

And she does, with euphoric relief she has never known, possessed, obsessed, used and addicted, craving and dedicated, depleted, drained, consumed and spoilt-spent, disgusting in her vitality, "I am yours, Sir. My cunt, my mouth, my thoughts. And I am happy."