By Jeff Switt
Your third victim in three months, his limbs bound in strips of silk, eyes blindfolded, an ice pick in his chest. Cheeks streaked scarlet from your kisses. Body tainted with the aroma of your sex. Which hurt more – his pain or your treachery?
You sit naked in the corner chair, body rocking, knees drawn, staring. What are you thinking?
I shed my clothes and lie at your feet, eyes closed. I hear the creaking of the chair. Footsteps whisper across the floor. I exhale knowing I can’t end your madness. Your lips brush my cheek, press my lips. You pause.
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