A marionette’s orgasm, and her cheeks were silken. Porcelain doll skin stretched across the hollows of her bones just so. I couldn’t help but touch her, but throw my essence all over her. She was a toy, a tool, a puppet, a presence, and electrifying at that.

She shuddered as my fingers settled into the dips of her hip-bones. She shivered as I whispered nothings into her ears. I’m not certain which factory she came from, or what number batch she was birthed within. But that matters less and less and less as the hours tick by, as the clock hands get all tangled, twisting and tripping over themselves. Marking a privilege. A dream. A wisp of a hope on the wings of an angel.

I can’t let her go. No, not now. No, not like this. Her and I are glued together. WE ARE MEANT TO BREATHE TOGETHER. And we rise and fall as the shadows settle, dusk coming down around us, blanketing us, locking us in for the evening.

Her lips are the color of pomegranate wine. And her eyes blaze hazel blaze green when caught in the flicker of the candle’s flame. I like the texture of her lips, like running my finger along them, teasing her, teasing me, parting her mouth ever-so-gently, kissing her everywhere but, kissing her and breathing with her. Kissing her and wondering if she is really the puppet, or if I have acquired her strings, an accidental osmosis, a dark twist of fate.

She is subversive and submissive. She gives, but she giggles. She twists away. She undulates and sighs. She marks easily, but holding her seems to render the deep purples invisible. At least to the masses. She is not meant to be handled daily. Not by crowds. She is carved for devotion. She sings psalms as she cums, a marionette’s orgasm, a song to the heavens.

She is smooth, silken even, in her movements, and I forget who it is that directs her strings. I look up expectantly, but I see nothing. I see no one, and she is offended that my attention has wandered. She gathers a fistful of my hair in her left hand, curls cascading down her palm, tickling her wrist.

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