Two of you.
Kneeling, waiting. Anxious. Afraid.
One is to be used, the other discarded. Left empty.
I take you, the male specimen. Lean, sinewy, slightly furred along your runner’s legs and arms.
You fail. Your mind rebels as your body hopes, struggles, begs to accommodate.
Your sphincter pushes against me, the strongest indication of how you are not worthy.
With a push, I move you, tears running silently into your mouth. The salt tastes sweeter than your defeat.
With the slightest flare of her nostril to indicate her contempt, she consumes the spot where you were. Her knees fit into the warmth yours left behind.
Made for this, eager for this, needing this.
I easily take her, the only sound is the smack of my hands settling onto her hips.
She is rounded, soft, silky. Shaven, as I directed.
We slip down , so deep, into the rhythm that is natural to us by birth, and is alien to you. You are the subject, not the object by the rising of the sun and throughout the day. The verb, not the adjective.
Both of our eyes are upon you, cloaking you in derision and shame.
The steady gaze penetrates you, slowly turns your remorse into loud gulping sobs.
Faster than I entered her, you register the sharp crack of my hand against your cheek. With a slight shake of my head, I tell you to stifle your cries.
Chastened, you freeze;the shock binding to your disappointment, like how butter creams with sugar.
Then. There. How. Why.
I show you what a woman can do.
You cannot go the distance and it fills your heart and mind with gall. Coasts your tongue, ashes crumbling in your mouth, the acrid grit stinging.
What use are you to me?
