by S. E. Hart
I struck him once
and he recoiled with a smile
a sly, cold expression
some degenerative connotation
that he rather liked it
so I struck him again
and I watched the blood ooze
from his lip
as his eyes began to shift
to a state of thwarted arousal
and heightened confusion
that tinkered on the brink
of the realization of my own
inner depravity
but I wasn't satisfied
so I struck him again
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