MOLDED.

Denied a kiss, you want morefrom this. Pushed against the cool and clammy brick, her breath graces theshell of your ear. Swiftly, she tugs down the zipper to your skirt, allowingher palm to rove across the heat of your cunt. Her fingers fill and stretchyou; you love the burn, even relish it. You fuck quickly, vigorously, as ifit’s never enough.

Hips meet hips. Hers coveryour narrow ones. Her trousers burn your skin, eliciting bittersweet friction. You love the fullness of her body pressing against you, thewarmth radiating from her body despite her icy persona. She falls onto you likea shadow. Your eyes drift down to her hand, her wrist, the fingers of a cellistor a killer; you’re never sure which. You shatter into a billion pieces, a pretty teapot come undone.

After you cum, you lick herfingers clean and thank her for it.

ii. The desk is your maritalbed. Here, you sacrifice all inhibitions, but the scratches etched along thecurve of your back always remember. Maybe this makes you weak, even malleable. However,the way she fucks you so good leaves you breathless every time.

Scrutinized, held underglass, she observes your frantic movements as she touches you with machine-likeprecision. Briefly, her thumb roves along the underside or your jaw, forcingyou to maintain eye contact. Your breasts and your ass bounce from the velocityof her thrusts, as if she’s made to claim you.

“Well, aren’t you theGovernor’s little whore?”

You loathe her patronizingtone. Truth be told, her demeanor goads you. Gets you inexplicably wet.

iii. This time, you assertyourself. In the boiler room, you take control of your pleasure. The handcuffsgive you back your power. Still, she occupies the uncomfortable chair as averitable throne. She’s surprised by your assertiveness, but revels in the switch.A lascivious purr ensues.

You taunt her with yourimage, your legs spread, and your fingers delving past the mess of curlstowards your soaked center. You fuck yourself for her though you hold off fromfinishing. Tonight, you want to see her unravel, just as she’s taken you apartand dressed you in her image.

“I’m going to fuck you,” youannounce, exhilarated and unabashed. It’s a privilege to admit that she allowsyou to service her.

For her, you bring yourselfto your knees. My, oh my, you’re eager for a sacred taste. You worship herthighs, the altar of her sex. Greedily, you steal a glimpse, your mouth uponher cunt, your tongue lavishing her swollen, throbbing clit with your undividedattention. 

Joan is a habit you can’tafford to quit.

iv. Under the night’s veil, youappear at her cell. Coyly, with the boldness of a naughty schoolgirl, you creepinto her cage, her eminent domain. You seek to relieve yourself of thatbuilding, mounting tension.

Rising from the ashes. avengeful shade is cast. Such a firm, tyrannical grasp could destroy you. Youbruise easily; she grips your thighs, your bum, smacks your ass just the wayyou like. Reverent fingertips trail across the expanse of your birdcage ribs. With her hand around yourthroat, you pledge your allegiance to a burning, war-torn flag. One of thesedays, she’s going to kill you.

Straddling her lap atop thisuncomfortable cot, the violence and tenacity of her thrusts leave you soaked. Youride her fingers until you’re seeing stars. Her fingers are coated in you andwith a spasm, you clench around her. You cum in the palm of her hand, stillirrevocably hers.

Despite sporting the crowns,she still owns you. You feel poisoned though you keep coming back for more. Youcannot pin all the blame on her even if you want to – need to. God, youwant to.

Although you’ve hardened,you still have your heart. Cheeks burning cherry red, you leave behind yourdignity.

v. Tested and bested, shewon’t lay this to rest. Fever dream or reality, you can’t quite make up yourmind. Here in your home, Joan has a way of haunting you. Stirringin your bed, your breath catches – hitches – as if the mere act is comparableto strangulation.

Maybe this is theannihilation she promises. Being hanged, tried, and buried alive has changedher. She settles on top of you. You experience the full weight of her presence.Your leg hooks around her waist, desperate to feel her inside you. Your handscaress her back before you seize her from behind. The tenderness could be aruse and you hate the way you’re cast full of doubt. These little touches,these definitive strokes are never enough.

Sweating and shivering, yourthighs quiver as you ride out your high. You hear her thunderous heartbeat andthere’s no denying that she relishes the way you fall apart, but youacknowledge the history between you both. In the predicament of Faustus andMephistopheles, you miss the old days, the glory days, the days neither of youcan go back to.

She has dismantled you, tornyou asunder, until you were forced to put together the pieces of yourself.

Although she doesn’t killyou, you feel your breath leave you and it’s no different from the soul leavingthe body. Not every detail is necessary, but you covet it all in yourmemory. You hold her in a warped rendition of Pietas until she pulls away,until you’re alone again, and the weight drags you down.

How many times has she cometo you in your nightmares and foolish longings? 

Maybe she was never here tobegin with, you rationalize, studying the tangled mess of sheets and the dentin the mattress beside your splayed body.