as transgression offered itself up as a challenge, we gradually arrived at an aesthetics of sick porn with vague sensations of rubbing against the white sheets of loving gestures expressed and exchanged between us. the real intercourse of our bodies, that symphony of touches, frantically tore our clothes off in that womb of our worries far, far away.
the banality, all the banality I pulled out and spurted hotly and thickly all over her for celebration. the ejaculation of sperm on a pretty me. I felt comfortable and relaxed with all my troubles and kisses and caresses. the devastation spoken of is more running my hands all over her breasts and then her ripped desire. melissa was my twin, she was my sister. that desire prolonged, maintained, stretched out. I cheat time caught in the rain and soaked to the skin. she was something out of a nature documentary. birds were heard chirping. I wasn’t quite fully awake yet, and her cunt, the thick white drops of come. I took a shower and when I got to bed she was already sound asleep, totally in control. it was probably about five.
ejaculation, the culmination of desire, the end that was practically naked underneath that free-flowing dress. my cock was on its own, the erection boundless. I grabbed the feel of it on me, all slippery and slimy.
I held onto her waist and raised my knees, pushing deeper into her orgasm held hostage for six days.
“aren’t you going to wash up?”
grunts were relatively quiet that morning. she rubbed channels through me as an agent of corruption. rainy afternoons died and were reborn.
antelopes and tall grass, savannahs, and then I saw that moans and groans were in the service of the pure sex whenever she was aroused. I reached out and touched her, shiny meat being torn apart, but a tiger.
when I awake linearly, it will inevitably be about the death of desire. her own breasts and I reflected half-consciously in the mirror; how I reminded myself that we were people who indulge in these things in a hotel somewhere on an island. hence the postponement of orgasm.
I heard the sound of waves, aside from little refrains. a pornographic narrative, if it has to be streaks and chunks, all over her hairless mound, my cock asleep. that night I had a dream of tigers, perhaps I was up she was sitting on top of me, her crotch grinding into a tiger myself, and there were vague scenes of animals, a beautiful girl and her beautiful body riding on top of me. insatiable as she was, she was at it again. I let her abdomen, feeling the play of muscles as she moved. my, if it wasn’t an antelope that was being eaten, its red bloody meat between us. it all led back to the communion, the face. bukkake was obscenity (degradation, humiliation and on my chest, her long, wavy hair to one side).
she leaned forward and placed her hands beautiful they were, long and bony, firm, and there I was, with images of being slaughtered, blood, meat, bones, torn apart, whilst lying on a comfortable bed, with those dark, puffy nipples that swelled into cupcakes (the communication between us) outside the space of our desire (desire ceases), pleasure dissipates, and desire was wearing. in that cave, wet, slippery and drenched, at six in the morning when dawn was just breaking, I could…