Parts Known and Other
We weren’t fucking, we were just sitting around, all turned on and touching. Touching our little insect antenna, touching our little outer-shell-casings.
"Let me spit onto something a little more comfortable," she said, as she moved in, maybe for the kill, or maybe just for the weekend.
I was hard and she was soft, and that was about all we had in common. No names, no addresses, no shared languages. She let me have her, and when we were done, I made her clean up the mess. She’d loved it, the forced servitude. Under other circumstances it might have come off as macho, or crue. But as it was, she took my abuse, and found subtle ways to return her own.
It was an arrangement. Of personalties, desires, parts? Parts unknown, certainly.
Stepped At A Times
I lay my tongue between her toes (the big one and the one next to it, on her right foot), and feel her squirm. I don’t have a fetish for feet, I just like bodies and skin. I also like the way she almost recoils.
Perfect little toes. You can suck one, just for a moment, and she makes a sound like her clit’s caught in a toaster-oven, and maybe she kind of likes it just a bit.
A quiver travels up her leg, and nestles into her ass, where it spreads a skin-based warmth that becomes wetness when it hits her pussy.
I take her. A step, at a time.
Swallowed With A Kiss
She’s got one of those pretty faces, you really want to stick your cock in. You want to see her spread her lips, so you can press inside her, and feel her tongue take you on. You want to hear her choking you down, or gasping to say your name.
She’s one of those girls you can’t take your hands or your eyes or your handcuffs off of.
She looks at me like she might devour me, or break me in half. She looks at me like she might throw herself on me like I was a sword to embed her upon.
Yeah, I was a simple sort of suicide, if she could swallow me.
Her conversations read like pornography; you can almost hear the balls slapping against her ass as she lines up her argument. She drools a little as she delivers the more meaningful parts of her manifesto.
I’m hard; hardly paying attention to details, just listening to her breathe, listen to her giving me orders like, “treat me like a whore”. She orders me to disrespect her, to pull her across the room by her hair, to hold her down. I don’t have to be told twice; I’d do it for free, just to see the look on her face.
She’s like a toy; I use her as an excuse to feel weird and violent and sort of at home. At home with her.
"Treat me like," she starts to say, but I fill her mouth, and the words are lost.
Don’t Stop Being
You weren’t trained to love me, but I think I can work with that.
Yeah, you there, with the glowing eyes and the teeth like chipped razor blades. Tongue-wrapped in barbed-wires. Nipples like broken glass just under the skin.
She was talking to me with a tongue that was slit and leaking herself all over.
I just wanted to wrap myself in her. I wanted a reason to remember, or something to forget. I wanted to be the bone that broke in her hands. I wanted to be the nail that pierced her heart.
She stuck her tongue in my mouth, and dripped that luminous poison blood down my throat.
I swallowed her, and was gone.