“Prized Butterfly” [explicit] prose poem by Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

Explicit Content. May Offend. Purely Fiction.

Prized Butterfly by Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

I pinned her every limb to the sheets like a novelty-store-bought dead butterfly. She cries. It’s fine. She’s mine for the hour. She’ll get her pay. But I love when she cowers and can do nothing to flutter away. She writhed like a fish out of water but came like a lamb into my den without expecting a slaughter.

“She’s a mother’s daughter, you fuck!”

My head shouted, again and again, it plays and rewind. I paid it no mind and watched as she sucks on my member. Remember, I did ask nicely, and she consented politely. In fact, she was somewhat kind when I paid her! I secretly taped her and, online, I made her a star.

Who would’ve thought that this sweet girl from the bar with the short skirt and push-up bra would offer me a cheap deal to get into my car and out of her heels? Not to mention, my bed. So much filth on my sheets! Who would have the intention of booking this venue as the place where our skin meets?

My lusts were all cooking, and I bought the whole menu. All to be eaten in only one hour. She’d even be beaten, her nose bloodied like a rose that spring had allowed it to flower. Now, she’s just prose in a book that I’ve written along with plenty of women some weren’t as happy as she.

But, so be it, c’est la vie!

One time I had three! A redhead, a blonde, a brunette; all for me! They all said they’re not fond of my lack of couth; I ruined it.

Shit! What a waste!

What wars I would wage with all my will to return and have a taste!

It’s sad to say, and I do feel bad because I paid them all still without taking a dip, but I didn’t bother to tip.

I aim to please with my gun that I load with my sons but the petal in my barrel would meddle in and harrow the metal, it seems. (Notice my use of recurring themes?) They were dead-on-arrival but, for future survival, I’ll only pay more and aim as before and shoot at the game; until, at point-blank, I hit the wild boar, at least until I grow bored or can’t afford to shoot anymore.

Then, I’ll hang up my gun and won’t kill again.

– Stephen J. Dawson Jr.


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