It's nights like these, when the pendulous moon washes a vacant sky, that she comes to you.
Without words—
Without clothes—
She straddles you, makes you fight to satisfy her.
Hand on shoulder, hand on forehead, you twist and lever, pushing her face, her tits, her belly, into the floor she mopped this morning.
(She's such a good girl.)
You apply pressure to alleviate pressure, force to overwrite force.
She does not beg.
She does not ask.
But you deliver, firm, insistent, giving by taking, emptying by filling.
Saliva, sweat, pussy juice, tears—
The floor will need cleaning again tomorrow.