She was my Whore

She was ever mine. She was ever mine. Mine to abuse; mine to please, as she was always complaisant. I liked that. I wanted a harlot, my harlot, she was much more than that, and I liked her even more.
She wanted to be my slut; I wanted her to be more. She always wore those clothes, which made her look like cheap, one who begged to be used. Have you used her ever? I don’t think you have, I don’t want you to use her as well — because she’s mine now, she’s mine to do whatever I want. And she’ll probably want that, like that, who knows?
She makes me self ejaculate when she’s stripping down. And her brown eyes, her so drowsy and drool, drool for my lessons, I guess? Lessons in intense coupling, making her beg for my phalus. I do her always, sometimes making her beg, sometimes making her moan, sometimes making her scream, sometimes making her grasp. Does she enjoy?
I take her, move her to my frontal, and I clasp her teats with my arm, and then I pour my sputum in. She cries— in delight or in pain, I wonder. I never ask; I never care to. All I want is to seduce her, make her ashamed, and debase her. My fingers run down, deep below her, until they search and find her organ, her hairs moisted, and become ever more aroused. I dig deep inside her, with my fingers, deep, deep, deep, ever deeper. . .
She grasps. . .
She pleads with her eyes, she pleads with her face, she tries to plead with her mouth, but I never let her. I kiss her used mouth, mouth that was serving my phallus, a while longer.
“Please,” her voice breaks, “please, I want to feel inside you.”
I rub my male organ in her part, instead of putting inside her. As I squeeze her bosom. She moans.
“Please,” her voice cries.
I finally am inside her, thrusting, grinding, as I enter my finger through her mouth, while my lips search for her neck, throat, spine, shoulder.
Hard, harder. Until insanity grips us both, and we lose the world under us.
And then my semen is inside her. I try to take it out, but she protests. “Leave it, inside.”
 “Then I wouldn’t see your tongue skills.”
Her face melts in a broken smile. “You can produce more for that.”
Then I feel her wet tongue around, beneath me. She cleans it up.
I kiss her in forehead. “You’re beautiful.”
“Don’t call me beautiful,” she says, “call me a whore, your whore.”