She takes your face in her hands and attempts to bite your flesh like a starving carnivore and all you can think of is how these marks are going to look in the morning.
Bruises from beatings that demand equal
pleasure measure are only visible by rifling through the blur of the blackout from the night before.
Your flask is drawing dry and the mileage of this moment is stretching so far into the night that dawn is hunting you down like wild game.
The length of her desire is unmatched by any natural animal and the strength in the fishhook of her grasp is more than just words.
More than just spilled blood or undergarments torn down the southern swath of wild legs, these forbidden, fleeting seconds permeated with impropriety define all things terrible and assure that sometimes terror can be perfectly beautiful.