SHOUT AND SQUEAL

They’re mine, all three of them, I paid for them, I own them, my sweet concubines, all young and sad, pretty, perfect, hyperreal sensation, full lips, pale skin, jet black hair, little outfits, tiny feet, legs spread, socks to their calves, short skirt, nothing under, I saved up, paid for all of it, the sweater top, smell like lemon cleaner, eyes to nowhere, and their voices, small and needy, the way they beg, they beg me to take them, take them bad, and they just get louder, louder, and they have to have it — they have to, that’s programmed in — now, please, please, and if they don’t get it, if they have to wait more than a day they squeal and shout, like in heat, so loud, they don’t stop, the neighbors hear, they call to complain, but not like it’s any louder than their dogs, or their stupid music, but honestly, I like when they complain, I like when they call the law, it excites me, and the three, my sweet concubines, they beg for it, beg, plead, so loud, they need it now, bad, so bad, just like they were designed to, just like I paid for, virginal, never changing, and I never give it to them, not once, I lock each of them up, separate closet for each one, they shout and squeal and plead and bang, louder, louder, shrieking, begging me to unlock the door, begging me to fuck them, but I won’t, that’s what I like, that’s what makes it for me, only now they’re taking them away, too many complaints, the law says I’m messed up, but they don’t know.