Merciless

You weren’t romantic with them. You didn’t ease them into the embarrassing intimacy of being utterly exposed in a way that left them free to your judgment. If anything, you were predatory, merciless.

It’s easy, too easy to give in to devilish whispers and use your talent to lead them down that path again. It’s easy for you to twirl your fingers around reality and sand away the sharp moral edges around each situation. It’s so easy for you to turn them, to use them. It’s so easy for you to press all their pretty buttons lined up in a neat row, so ready for you to push at any time for them to do every bidding you have.

You brand their skin with lips and teeth and spit. They mark your neck and you proudly wear it like jewelry. They whisper sweet secrets to your skin, just there on your thighs as they part them so they can taste heaven on you. You command them to take control, to behave, to be still and to let go. You make them beg; make them say “Please…pleasepleasepleaseplease…” in a soft broken whisper. You make them grip the sheets so tightly that they can rip them. You make them feel like a cheap whore, a perfect work of art, a wanton hussy, the fucking Mona Lisa. They makes you feel indignant (but righteously so), blissfully fucked out, desired, loved, used, spent, wanted, wasted and loved.

And all you wanted was a kiss…