Velvet
He wrote a story of me,
That described what he felt.
He talked of the warmth,
The tightness,
Of my velvet pussy.
Slick with spit from his mouth,
My hole dripped and ached.
He recounts my pulse,
Throbbing around his finger.
Hot. Tight. Fresh.
I am a virgin.
It stings.
I scream.
It makes no difference,
No one cares.
Years go by and I can still feel his cock,
Inside me,
Where my soul is supposed to be.
I am 27 now.
I was 5 then.
Childhood taken from me.
I learned to please him.
I learned to hate myself.
I kept quiet.
I will keep quiet.
Because if I scream,
I know his cock will suffocate me.
I almost wish it would.
End it.
Let my body rot.
Let the sweet juices he once lapped,
Turn to decay.
I wish it. I pray it. I want it.
Let my soul fade.
So that I can escape.
Die, or forever be his concubine.
