A mockery

The soft satin petals of a rose, drawn over the skin with a chilling precision

...calculated to precisely bring out a long drawn breath of pleasure,

the arch in a back. The hot flames of passion, seen through cold eyes.

Every single move, choreographed and carried out for one purpose

...and one purpose only. To bind its victim with need and what.

 

With a mildly amused expression, a master of his game

he plays the body in front of him like a finely tuned instrument,

making it sing and sigh with pleasure, need and want.

Binding its owner with every flicker of his wrist, every thrust

...all the while being too far away to be touched.

 

He is but, a marionette maker of the human flesh.

Turning each body he touch into a mockery of the life it once held.

Each coming alive less and less (without his touch)

...turning into an empty shell that contains only a need, a want

of him. Blank faces stare out from once alive faces, waiting for his deadly caress.