My Lusty Fingers

Nothing feels quite as soft as your neck between my lusty fingers.

Digging into the muscle.

Crushing down on your larynx as you stare bewildered and breathless into the mud holes I have for eyes. 

You must feel so betrayed by them. 

Drowning in them like unprepossessing quicksand.

There is no comfort there, no reassurance. 

They only grow darker, into pitch-black voids as the excitement takes over.

Nothing feels quite as fragile as your cheeks beneath my lusty fingers. 

For a moment I seem tender. 

Your face like a Carolina peach. 

I could crush it, but sweet nectar wouldn't drip down to my fingertips. 

No, you would shatter like a bird, like fine china. 

I could rub all you are between my fingers, grinding you slowly into dust.

Nothing feels as enlivening as the thought of your crown colliding with the wall.

My lusty fingers wrapped through your locks, guiding the way. 

Paint chips falling to the floor, dust filling the air like confetti. 

Nothing feels as satisfying as your body crumpling to the floor.

My lusty fingers grasping at either side of my own neck. 

I watch you, a muddled sack of potatoes, feeling almost smug. 

I watch you, swiftly ceasing to exist, and nothing ever felt so triumphant.