Written Sin Not Tragedy PT3 – The Beginning of the End

I pounced on him, a crimson blur of lust and hate,

Sealing poor Roger’s delicious, agonizing fate.

I pinned him in that pool of chocolate and gore,

And whispered, “My darling, I’m coming back for more.”

I sliced his ears to ribbons, a rhythmic, silver tear,

Watching his eyes widen with a cocktail of lust and fear.

I peeled back his chest, a zipper made of steel,

Squeezing his pulsing heart to make the horror real.

“Does it hurt, my sweet?” I giggled, kissing his trembling lip,

As I let a jagged shard of glass through his shoulder slip.

I carved my name in his thighs, deep grooves of raw, red meat,

While his cock grew hard as stone, making the torture sweet.

I shattered every bone in his foot with a mallet’s brutal grace,

Licking the salty marrow while he screamed in my face.

Then I hoisted him high on a rusted, piercing hook,

Giving his mutilated body one last, hungry look.

I sliced his balls to ribbons, a visceral, bloody rain,

As he shrieked in ecstasy, drowning in the pain.

I slid my dripping slit over his leaking, broken shaft,

And as he poured his life-blood out, I softly, cruelly laughed.

I fucked him with a violence that tore his insides apart,

A rhythmic, bloody pounding—my dark and visceral art.

He cummed in a fountain of gore, white and red,

A final, frantic explosion before his spirit fled.

I dipped my pen in his open chest, the ink thick and black,

Writing the final sentence, with no turning back:

“A love so deep it required the skin to be torn,

From the wreckage of a husband, a goddess is born.”

And that, my dear reader, is why this tale is a win…

It wasn’t a tragedy.

It was a Written Sin.​