- Erotic Poetry
- Blood Perfect
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She was perfect, or so I always thought.
Alabaster skin, just a glimpse of a bare shoulder turned and nothing other than her flesh to my lips could quench the flash fire screaming through my veins.
Long, searching tresses, so dense and glassine-black that a goddess, spying her, would petition the older gods in jealousy.
But she wasn't perfect I thought, as I pulled her tight to me again and again, her menses blood painting my pelvis in madness and dripping between our thighs.
Not perfect . . . until now
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