#1287

“You always were my favorite,” my lord whispers, breath warm against my ear. My lips quiver and curl back in both a grimace and a grin. His slender fingers tilt back my head to bare my throat, laced even now with the marks of his affection, then glide through my hair and clench—

As I grunt, a swallowed cry of pleasure and pain, Daren forces me to my knees. A distant part of me weeps for the sin of our love, the perversion of our union, but my darker, dominant side shivers, pleased at being deemed worthy of his attention. I may be a monster, but I am his monster, his servant, his slave.

When the blade slides into my skin, cold and sharp and beautifully painful, I can only shudder and moan. Even such degradation, when delivered by my master’s hands, becomes a blessing. Tears burn my eyes, heart hammering in my temples and chest, yet nothing matters as my beloved’s fingers fist in my hair and he growls softly, “You will always be my favorite, Tanim.”

 

[ I promise this is the last of the terrible high school poems turned terrible prose pieces. ]

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