[thisislife]

An experiment in harsher language.

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The Bitch stood spat out by the night. Ugly. Wretched.  Her skin loose on her bones. Her flesh bared against the sky. Her naked form hardly trembled in the evening cold but her teeth rattled loose in her maw and a swarm of a breath was leaking into the air. She stretched out as she walked forward, some sort of slow strut, her limpness leaning out to the sides of her. Her tits were sagging from her chest; her legs were soiled; her fingers were stained. She wobbled forward as some nightmare that even the Devil could not bear.

“No farther! Stay back!”

Her red-rimmed eyes looked like she’d been crying. Poor little thing, sobbing all alone. Her scalp was peeling, her hair thin and patchy where she’d torn it in fits. It lay scraggled and thin across her cheeks. Poor demon thing, the rose had all drained out of her; if not, it was swallowed deep, burned to a crisp in bitter acid. She took a few more steps. Her twisting gimp-legs were betraying her decay.

“I have distanced myself from you;” the Devil pleaded, “I am pulling myself from the mire, inch by inch.” The Whore stumbled closer. “I’ve got a good life now — I am good now. I don’t want to go back.” She was leaking stains of yellow piss from between her thighs, gnarled fingers reaching for the Devil, misplaced teeth dangling like amulets.

And as she neared, she split from her third eye, peeled herself down, her sides blossoming as she swung at the hinges. She gaped, the rims of herself teeming with fingers and tongues and bloodlust and tide-drips – there in the hollow of the Iron Maiden, burrowed in the folds of her femininity, lay the Devil’s beckoning mistress coated with a thick robe of red.