The Machine
By V. Evans
The thing that crawled into her depths was no man-- it was machine, alive and strong with a soul that burned for revenge. Dying, she wept for the machine, fell open and quiet at its feet. Bloody hands flexed with unsatiated need. Revenge was not enough. Revenge could not quiet the unfeeling machine. Widening, she welcomed the machine into her embrace, fell into darkness, her warmth a fading sensation against the steel skin of the machine.
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V. Evans lives in New York with her boyfriend and two dogs.
By V. Evans
The thing that crawled into her depths was no man-- it was machine, alive and strong with a soul that burned for revenge. Dying, she wept for the machine, fell open and quiet at its feet. Bloody hands flexed with unsatiated need. Revenge was not enough. Revenge could not quiet the unfeeling machine. Widening, she welcomed the machine into her embrace, fell into darkness, her warmth a fading sensation against the steel skin of the machine.
- - -
V. Evans lives in New York with her boyfriend and two dogs.
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