We never talked about the monster inside me. Crouched on the bed, cold white skin, dark pupils dilated like dinner plates, your bodily fluids fragrant on my tongue, feral and remote, licking my own blood off my fingers. Repulsive and enticing in equal turns. Never knowing if I would fade into the night for days or months, or pounce like a panther, holding you hostage on the edge of pain and pleasure, making you moan deep in your throat, your fingers knotted in wrinkled sheets, relishing your scream of release that I alone owned, finally settling down like a contented house cat, licking cream off both our mouths.
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