⦠keep you insane â¦
On my back in my bunk. A waiting game. Poisoned stalactites hang heavy with a toxic runoff steeped in decades of disappointment. Years of nervous, bored sweat cling to the ceiling and walls. Threatening to drown me. Drip by drip. In the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the ears. Browning like nicotine stains forming a Rorschach test in every corner. Sticky to the touch, foul to behold its ceaseless descent. I pull my T-shirt over my head. At least the smell is my own. Smells like sorrow. Like spoiled meat. Like a beaten man, tricked by his own gullibility. Tricked into believing ⦠tricked into someone elseâs beliefs â¦
I close my eyes and meditate. Fooling myself, with all of my will, into summoning Her smell. I breathe slowly, deeply, inhaling my own aroma, a bittersweet stench whose undercurrents with much torque of the imagination are magically transformed into Hers. Into what I remember of Her. I will never forget Her. The scent that emanates from the small of Her back. The smell of butter. Clove. Coffee. Cayenne. A spicy, pungent fragrance whose mysterious depths sting with intrigue. Rebellion. Deception. A perfume so steeped in magic that a mere mortalâs most strident resolve disintegrates once intoxicated by the ether of its undertones. A perfumed poison whose fragrance scrambles the synapses. Turns men into obedient little puppies whose only wish is to please the Bitch Goddess. The witch whose wanton desires manifest themselves in a catalog of criminal behaviors whose essence in turn fuels Her need for domination. And itâs Her smell that casts dominion.
I pull my T-shirt tight, forming a snug noose around my neck. A tourniquet which I twist just enough to cut off my breath. To thicken the pulse, causing dizziness. A dream state of asphyxia is where I find Her. Lurking in the corner of my impending death. A bewitching pariah summoned only when everything else has been blotted out, chased away, erased, when nothing else remains but Her. And the mind is free to roam the inner recess of my imagination. The imagination She stained with Her scent. The images saturated with Her effervescence. The fantasies and recollections with which I shall remain forever trapped â¦
A downtown alley in the back of a theater once glorious, now in ruins ⦠a sleazy European soft-porn skin flick milks what little life is left in the six or seven scummy patrons who scrounged up the two dollars and fifty cent admission fee. The cheesy soundtrack of â70s synth is offset by overdubs whose grunts and groans simulate real passion. It bleeds through the brick. Iâm leaning against the wall slippery with greasy rain. Her right hand is cocked around my throat. Her left unbuckles my jeans. She pulls me out, half hard, shiny with heat. I can smell myself. She begins squeezing. Tugging. Jerking. Whispering, Iâll suck you until you cry like a little girl ⦠I pull Her into me, my lips touch Her neck. The pungent musk, my eventual downfall ⦠She shoves my hands away, slaps my mouth, insists I do not move. Stay still. Donât speak. Donât breathe . I hold my breath.
She slides down my body into a squat, legs spread wide, exposing her pink. Tells me to not even dream of peeking. Iâm not allowed to look. Insists I turn my head left, no right, to keep an eye on the entrance to the alley. To keep a look out, make sure no porn patrons decide they need a piss, no cops come nosing around, no teenagers or gangbangers. No dogs or dopers.
She puts me in her mouth. Her soft fat lips encircle the purple tip. Nip on it. Bite it. A little too hard. Enough to make me wince. Nestling teeth inside the foreskin. She coos on it making sarcastic sucking sounds, loud enough to startle. Then swallows. The whole of my cock. Lips flush to pubis. I fear She will somehow disgorge the meat from my body. Suck it off. Spit it out. Step on it. She holds my cock undulating in her
On my back in my bunk. A waiting game. Poisoned stalactites hang heavy with a toxic runoff steeped in decades of disappointment. Years of nervous, bored sweat cling to the ceiling and walls. Threatening to drown me. Drip by drip. In the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the ears. Browning like nicotine stains forming a Rorschach test in every corner. Sticky to the touch, foul to behold its ceaseless descent. I pull my T-shirt over my head. At least the smell is my own. Smells like sorrow. Like spoiled meat. Like a beaten man, tricked by his own gullibility. Tricked into believing ⦠tricked into someone elseâs beliefs â¦
I close my eyes and meditate. Fooling myself, with all of my will, into summoning Her smell. I breathe slowly, deeply, inhaling my own aroma, a bittersweet stench whose undercurrents with much torque of the imagination are magically transformed into Hers. Into what I remember of Her. I will never forget Her. The scent that emanates from the small of Her back. The smell of butter. Clove. Coffee. Cayenne. A spicy, pungent fragrance whose mysterious depths sting with intrigue. Rebellion. Deception. A perfume so steeped in magic that a mere mortalâs most strident resolve disintegrates once intoxicated by the ether of its undertones. A perfumed poison whose fragrance scrambles the synapses. Turns men into obedient little puppies whose only wish is to please the Bitch Goddess. The witch whose wanton desires manifest themselves in a catalog of criminal behaviors whose essence in turn fuels Her need for domination. And itâs Her smell that casts dominion.
I pull my T-shirt tight, forming a snug noose around my neck. A tourniquet which I twist just enough to cut off my breath. To thicken the pulse, causing dizziness. A dream state of asphyxia is where I find Her. Lurking in the corner of my impending death. A bewitching pariah summoned only when everything else has been blotted out, chased away, erased, when nothing else remains but Her. And the mind is free to roam the inner recess of my imagination. The imagination She stained with Her scent. The images saturated with Her effervescence. The fantasies and recollections with which I shall remain forever trapped â¦
A downtown alley in the back of a theater once glorious, now in ruins ⦠a sleazy European soft-porn skin flick milks what little life is left in the six or seven scummy patrons who scrounged up the two dollars and fifty cent admission fee. The cheesy soundtrack of â70s synth is offset by overdubs whose grunts and groans simulate real passion. It bleeds through the brick. Iâm leaning against the wall slippery with greasy rain. Her right hand is cocked around my throat. Her left unbuckles my jeans. She pulls me out, half hard, shiny with heat. I can smell myself. She begins squeezing. Tugging. Jerking. Whispering, Iâll suck you until you cry like a little girl ⦠I pull Her into me, my lips touch Her neck. The pungent musk, my eventual downfall ⦠She shoves my hands away, slaps my mouth, insists I do not move. Stay still. Donât speak. Donât breathe . I hold my breath.
She slides down my body into a squat, legs spread wide, exposing her pink. Tells me to not even dream of peeking. Iâm not allowed to look. Insists I turn my head left, no right, to keep an eye on the entrance to the alley. To keep a look out, make sure no porn patrons decide they need a piss, no cops come nosing around, no teenagers or gangbangers. No dogs or dopers.
She puts me in her mouth. Her soft fat lips encircle the purple tip. Nip on it. Bite it. A little too hard. Enough to make me wince. Nestling teeth inside the foreskin. She coos on it making sarcastic sucking sounds, loud enough to startle. Then swallows. The whole of my cock. Lips flush to pubis. I fear She will somehow disgorge the meat from my body. Suck it off. Spit it out. Step on it. She holds my cock undulating in her
Similar Books
