Helen kidnapped is sour slush on your tongue when you kiss her. Rose-bud-blooming (too much trouble to keep quiet) and even though her femininity is still locked underneath her little girl legs you take great strives in suckling her center. A point of gravity that haunts you. Like red. You wait for it. Hunger for it. She is after all more woman then the fascinated sluts who try to decode and study this child's beauty. She's fine silk fluttering above muscles as lose as rapid waves through your hands. You like to pluck her like fruit. Ripe seeds. You bite, and plant them.
Helen kidnapped is screaming. The throat of her anger gleaming in the mid-morning sun. While her dress is streaming across two scratched knees. You, move your land up each ankle. Each calve, each supple thigh. Part the hazy line with your fingertips and reach inside. Her silence at first shocks you. You kiss her to undo the trance. Pave a path between the warm petals that you know have never been touched. Soon you think, soon.
Helen kidnapped is flowering. Her bones cracking like a ship deep at sea. Deep in another man's grasp. You kiss this child with too much beauty. You claim this child. She calls you king, and in your kingdom of slaves you call her queen.
Helen kidnapped is plump and nude above you. She is gold all around you, while your two coarse hands cover her naked chest. Forearms tight against two swollen nipples. Teaching her to move on top of you. Teaching her to be a wife underneath her veil of silence. When she screams you think that it is from pleasure. And when she cries, you smile, thinking that it is from joy.