A Short Post About Fucking

Last night my mouth was on her breast. I lay cradled between her open legs, guided, driven by shadows, the deep red darkness in me. Taking as much of her breast into my mouth as I could. Sucking and fucking. A clawing, hissing, grappling hot, wet skin fucking.
My mouth leaves her pink breast as demons chase me towards the final stretch, the final fucking furlong, the last gasp. Hands slide behind her head to grab fistfuls of hair, gripped, have to get this. I can feel the inside of her, myself inside her. Reaching the core… nearly there… journey to the centre of a girl…Gliding, grinding out a sweet, steady, heady rhythm. A velvet jackhammer, building to a blinding tumult, a brutality so fragile it hurts.
We were fucking, me and this girl. No candlelight, no soft music, and no rug in front of a crackling open fire. We weren’t bathed in no shimmering moonlight as we completed out beautiful union neither. Wouldn’t have noticed if we were. Wrapped in our twin epicurean desire to consume, to taste, to gorge ourselves on hedonism’s bounty. To swallow and be swallowed whole. All peripheral vision blurred, focus simply beaded dead onto the purity and eternal goodness of filthy (but very mutual) fucking.
Can’t let myself come before her, can’t let her win, or me lose. Hurtling towards that giddy cliff… a desperate scramble to the crashing, swirling, startling blue-white brief oblivion.
La petite mort, the French call it. The little death. Show’s what they know. Death wouldn’t dare interrupt us now. N’est-ce pas?. Our bodies clatter, shaken by forces.
A screaming end. The climax. Soaring into the impossible blue.
Fin.


fucking, sex, orgasm, la petite mort, hedonism