Deflower…

White satin sheets now painted crimson red like a murder scene

Our pungent heavy aromatic scent looms hanging in the air, as if we were committing our dead endlessly; again and again

Sticky warm and wet, gooey apple pie filling or the fleshy inside of a plum, for that feeling upon me I have no regrets

Perhaps not as sweet, but as pure as rain, except for your sweaty salty savory skin, titillating my tongue like a 9 volt battery when I was young

Soft pants, moans, and groans that only grow into a loud fever pitched echo, until they finally crescendo into a celestial cacophony of combustion

Your scratches burn deep, even after our deed, the stinging of my flesh lost under your nails; pain and pleasure exchanged, my flesh and seed yours to keep, if not for the carnal ecstasy we’d both probably weep