Sin

She pauses upon the threshold, for the crumbling room is vacant; its occupant has flown. Leaving behind only her elder sister's severed head, and her disgraced trunks.

Dead, violet eyes stares at her from those familiar sockets. The long robe of incandescent silk ensnares every curve of the gorgeous body. A thong flosses into the tanned depth like a cunt gag, filling the entire chamber with the strong scent of wanting musk. She resisted an urge to faint, for she has never seen big her sister thus. The round hips thrust toward her appears as if dripping, still shuddering from the onslaught of the lover's passion.

The glistened toes splays out as if a bolt of pleasure had arced through her climaxing form, leaving every cell taut and trembling, flaring and teetering on the edge between life and death forever: She wondered if her sister's legs once wrapped around his thrusting hips, and that if her soul is still enslaved to him thus like some ghostly toy. She watch as her sister's legs dance with blind lust, occasionally brushing the slippery mosaic. Until mercifully, they trail off, relieving the lust within the hips.

She wants to cry, but she doesn't, for now she has no one who would listen to her woes. She remembers how they used to pick flowers together, how they stood together like two strong, happy, perfect daughters before their dying father. How her sister volunteered to be many men's "dirty little secret." She was told that she would never have to walk down this path, she shouldn't walk the daily path toward hell fire.

Her sad eyes trails to the bluing face of her sister and wonders: did she know that the last thing ever done to her

was the things flicked on her face?