Confessions of a writer

As the clock
strikes two
the forbidden hour
takes control
the heat begins
to consume them
black skirt
red painted lips
lay before him
the taste of sin
fill his hungry mouth
craving more
her nails
mark his back
claiming him
her lover
he satisfies
her every desire
every opening
hour after hour
he fills her
claiming her
his mistress
the scent
of sex and pleasure
fill the room
long after
the sun rises
as the last
of the sweetness
has been tasted
the confessions
of a writer still linger