Her Tits Can Heal Even Depression

The pink top is a lie. It says innocent but I am not. He knows this when he walks in. The bed is too small and I am already wet before he touches me. His tattoos are a map I want to trace but there is no time. He is on me and I am gone. The fabric rips somewhere. My pigtails are handles he uses to pull me back onto him. I laugh because it hurts and I like it. The room spins. I am face down in cotton. Flip and my legs are somewhere near the ceiling. I lose myself in the motion. There is only heat and friction and the slap of skin on skin. My voice makes sounds I do not know. He moves me to the bathroom. Cold tile on my back. The mirror shows a girl I barely recognize. I watch myself get fucked and I smile. The contrast of pink and skin and ink is too much. I am close and then I am coming and he laughs and keeps going. When he finishes on my face I keep my eyes open. I want to see him see me. The warmth drips down my cheek. I am still twitching. Still here. Still hungry.