Knockout Mouse
I sit to write. Something debauched. Something really fucking hot. It's been some time since I've written like that. All I write anymore is love. Love, love, love. And latent abandonment and fear and insecurity and humanity. Bo-ring. I admit, it is difficult for me to divorce feelings of love and sexual desire. I'm just old-fashioned, I suppose.
Let's talk about anal sex and my love of it.
This is that for which they read, you know. Gotta give them what they want.
So it starts like this:
Let's talk about inherent things. Each day, I am older than I have ever been. And needier, too. Each day, I get a churning in my belly, like a hunger, but inherently pleasant. And then I think about you. I think about the ocean. I think about music and I think about the future. About your face. About the musculature that makes your shoulders cast inimitable shadows when you are on top of me and my knees are in your chest, fighting you off, in a way that is inherently ... not a struggle. And the way your hands are, like a schoolboy's hands. Vaguely cautious followed immediately by patently rapacious. And then deeper, still. Until we are both no place but that place. I am not sure if my eyes are closed but they aren't seeing. Brain is too busy preparing to parcel out plasma oxytocin; can't remember to pay the bills and the eyes get cut off. I think about fucking to raw. Nine day parties. No need for eyes. Anatomical. Astronomical. Anal.
So you're whispering to me and your cheek pressed to my head brushes my sweaty hair into my ear and; it tickles. But I barely notice, for hanging on your every word. You want me to do it? To be a good girl? My eyes are big. I am so completely focused on your words. To do exactly as you say. To move my hips just so. Just so you slip against and in me; just so. And they oblige. Never been more in touch with my own musculature. It is a beautiful machine. At no other time can I make my body do exactly what I want it to. To make my hips move slowly, in a figure out, in a free-fall of a free range of motion. Fluidly. Deliberately. Lo, you moan low. I know it is working. That you are feeling so good. Thank you, Anatomy. I love you, Muscles. Let's go.
And then I close my eyes. And I relax. And you take a deep breath, although I'm sure you don't realize it. There is a moment, a few moments, maybe three seconds. And we are nowhere and everywhere and time warp, worm hole, sleight of hand, magic wand, abracadabra, presto chango, goodbye space, time, and space-time. And I realize at some point shortly following those few seconds, that my ass is, effectively, on your lap. I can feel the bones of your pelvis poking into me. There we go. All the way in. Then, somewhere, the shot of a starting gun rings out and we are disco lights and techno music and athletes and gods and cocaine and digital and animals. We are Carnal Incarnate. And then we're switching between because we are so dirty and, at a time like this, we have such little regard for good hygiene. And because we are hedonists. Because we are lucky and young and violent and virile.
I hear my breasts before I feel them. And after I hear them, I remember that I feel them. Eraser nipples dragging against the sheet and/or towel and the undersides of my breasts drumming my rib cage, keeping the most lovely time. And I remember that I want you to, no need you to ... pay attention to them. And then I say this or that or something to that effect and then you are (ab)using them; like reins.
And this is now the point at which I can come on command. Just say the word and I will be moving and flexing internal parts that I never knew I could control and I am sure I am making sounds now, guttural sounds, like a porn star but genuine. And so you say the word. Not that I haven't already come many, many times. But now I can do it whenever you tell me to. When you tell me that you need me to. At your service. And you can fill me with whatever bodily fluid you feel needs to be released. I really do love it all.
And I don't know, maybe you've switched back to my ass now. Who can say? I feel sheepish in saying so, but there comes a point when I am coming so hard and so frequently and my parts are so numb and starting to get swollen and hot with friction that I can hardly tell which depths you are currently plumbing. It is another state of being altogether. There is sweat in eyes and fingers in mouths and mouths on shoulders and arms twisted up together and hands grasping at sheets and pushing off of walls and nails scratching on backs and we are completely entangled. Stuck like dogs. Say hello to the event horizon!
Welcome to Pleasure Inherent. Licking your semen off my lips and my own breasts in T minus 10.
Inherently Sincere,
Old-Fashioned and Cock-Struck
Let's talk about anal sex and my love of it.
This is that for which they read, you know. Gotta give them what they want.
So it starts like this:
Let's talk about inherent things. Each day, I am older than I have ever been. And needier, too. Each day, I get a churning in my belly, like a hunger, but inherently pleasant. And then I think about you. I think about the ocean. I think about music and I think about the future. About your face. About the musculature that makes your shoulders cast inimitable shadows when you are on top of me and my knees are in your chest, fighting you off, in a way that is inherently ... not a struggle. And the way your hands are, like a schoolboy's hands. Vaguely cautious followed immediately by patently rapacious. And then deeper, still. Until we are both no place but that place. I am not sure if my eyes are closed but they aren't seeing. Brain is too busy preparing to parcel out plasma oxytocin; can't remember to pay the bills and the eyes get cut off. I think about fucking to raw. Nine day parties. No need for eyes. Anatomical. Astronomical. Anal.
So you're whispering to me and your cheek pressed to my head brushes my sweaty hair into my ear and; it tickles. But I barely notice, for hanging on your every word. You want me to do it? To be a good girl? My eyes are big. I am so completely focused on your words. To do exactly as you say. To move my hips just so. Just so you slip against and in me; just so. And they oblige. Never been more in touch with my own musculature. It is a beautiful machine. At no other time can I make my body do exactly what I want it to. To make my hips move slowly, in a figure out, in a free-fall of a free range of motion. Fluidly. Deliberately. Lo, you moan low. I know it is working. That you are feeling so good. Thank you, Anatomy. I love you, Muscles. Let's go.
And then I close my eyes. And I relax. And you take a deep breath, although I'm sure you don't realize it. There is a moment, a few moments, maybe three seconds. And we are nowhere and everywhere and time warp, worm hole, sleight of hand, magic wand, abracadabra, presto chango, goodbye space, time, and space-time. And I realize at some point shortly following those few seconds, that my ass is, effectively, on your lap. I can feel the bones of your pelvis poking into me. There we go. All the way in. Then, somewhere, the shot of a starting gun rings out and we are disco lights and techno music and athletes and gods and cocaine and digital and animals. We are Carnal Incarnate. And then we're switching between because we are so dirty and, at a time like this, we have such little regard for good hygiene. And because we are hedonists. Because we are lucky and young and violent and virile.
I hear my breasts before I feel them. And after I hear them, I remember that I feel them. Eraser nipples dragging against the sheet and/or towel and the undersides of my breasts drumming my rib cage, keeping the most lovely time. And I remember that I want you to, no need you to ... pay attention to them. And then I say this or that or something to that effect and then you are (ab)using them; like reins.
And this is now the point at which I can come on command. Just say the word and I will be moving and flexing internal parts that I never knew I could control and I am sure I am making sounds now, guttural sounds, like a porn star but genuine. And so you say the word. Not that I haven't already come many, many times. But now I can do it whenever you tell me to. When you tell me that you need me to. At your service. And you can fill me with whatever bodily fluid you feel needs to be released. I really do love it all.
And I don't know, maybe you've switched back to my ass now. Who can say? I feel sheepish in saying so, but there comes a point when I am coming so hard and so frequently and my parts are so numb and starting to get swollen and hot with friction that I can hardly tell which depths you are currently plumbing. It is another state of being altogether. There is sweat in eyes and fingers in mouths and mouths on shoulders and arms twisted up together and hands grasping at sheets and pushing off of walls and nails scratching on backs and we are completely entangled. Stuck like dogs. Say hello to the event horizon!
Welcome to Pleasure Inherent. Licking your semen off my lips and my own breasts in T minus 10.
Inherently Sincere,
Old-Fashioned and Cock-Struck
posted by martyr in moderation at 6:51 PM
