Kissing the lips she never kissed with, I watched as Meeko flowered at the tip of my tongue. Gripping the legs of the rickety, wooden chair with both hands, she clenched them until the veins popped out the side of her neck. The thought of all that blood pumping through her made me feel ravenous, and as I ate her the same way a monster ate little girls in the dead of night, she spat at me before clenching her teeth as if she were having a seizure. The dry spittle she sent my way evaporated before it had a chance of hitting me. Stopping for a second, I removed my mouth and caught my breath.

“Don’t stop” she said.

“Don’t stop?” I mirrored.

With one eye shut tight and the other opened to a slither, she looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and euphoria. Beads of sweat were trickling down her forehead. They slid along the contours of her jaw before dripping onto her bare thighs.

“You’re a bastard, but I don’t want you to stop” she sputtered. Grinning from between her legs, I wrapped my hands around her ankles and nuzzled my face against her. Mouthing more words to the ceiling, she shook her head from side to side as a gust of wind blew through the window lifting the curls of her hair so they danced upon her shoulders like puppets on a string.

“When it comes to you, Meeko, I do as I please.”

Infuriated by my response, she writhed around as if trying to break free of my touch. Deliberately sticking my tongue into her as far is it would go, she shrieked and growled and stiffened her body.

“Bastard” she stammered while wiggling the toes on both of her feet. The sight of all those wiggling toes reminded me of the children’s rhyme about piggies—the one where the last piggy cried wee! wee! wee! all the way home. I had no idea behind the meaning of the rhyme, and yet as Meeko continued wiggling her toes, I thought of her as a piggy herself—a juicy, whining piglet, squealing at the sensations that had whipped her body into a frenzy. She hated me for making her feel out of control, and yet there was nothing she wanted more than to lose control. The thought occurred that if she was a tender piglet, then what was I? The wolf at the door? A butcher?

“More” she cried.

This time I didn’t reply. Not with words, anyhow.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US