Your putrid breath, rancid reality,
Warms her velvetized skin,
Her oceanic eyes close tightly,
Yet your image is frozen.
You breathe down the nape
Of her neck to shoulders so bare;
You prod wet tongue and lips,
Against her soft ruby lips.
She does not want to taste you,
Bile will bear testament to that;
She imagines it's a beau,
With your type of deep pocket.
Plump sweaty fingers caress,
Smooth skin on her abdomen;
Only to move down inches,
She stifles her anguished groan.
Your money, it is magic at work,
It is only what keeps her sane;
As your trembling fingers stick
Themselves deep inside.
A tear rolls down her face,
The face stained by your kisses;
For money, for money's sake,
It transforms toads into princes.
Copyright © WinePoetess 2017