In the moments of her solitude, she is always searching for stories. There are so many, yet none with the fullness of climax and completion.  Like her dreams of him. Yesterday, she woke in sweat from the cold heat of the knife he held against her softness. Her nails bit into rope. The steel glided over her.
“Be careful, don’t move,” He said, searing her opened vulnerability.
“Don’t worry, I’m tracing you with the blunt end.”
His voice like the warmth of twilight washed over her breasts. A painful moan escaped her lips. He felt the warm breath of her mouth on his ears. He laughed.
“Otherwise, I would have to lick the blood off your milky skin,” He told her. A buttery tear fell onto his brown skin, and slid off his hair.

And that’s when He plunged. Into her screams of Death.


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