Thrills And 'Chills

by Albrecht Starkarm

When introducing a new pet to an established home, it's essential to nurture a proper rapport between them to diminish jealousy and ease them into the transition. This is a great deal more rewarding when it's companion to familiars and inexhaustible nymphomania. ASPCA-Approved. A globally implored sequel to Thrilla My 'Chilla, a contender for the 2016 Nobel Prize.

If you asked anyone how lives in their vast wheeling effusion, those great multitudinous constellations of flesh and humanity, those minds and souls more countless than the stars in the sky, and, damn, don't hold me to this bit of poetry, how they ever find one another despite the insurmountable obstacles in geography, in desire, in race, in creed, in faith, in, hell, in anything, the answer'd probably be something romantic. I'm sure it would be.

Or maybe it would be dispiritingly stupid. Some gibberish about fate; about human surrender to destiny; a parable in complacent certitudes as childish as brain-numbed as morons in exalted loincloths inveighing with terror and envy and simple revulsion against the wicked misshapen harridans huddled in their strange celestial drawing rooms stitching together reality's great skein and just... With one whimsical little brush of the shears, carving off one life. And another.

The Fates, y'know.

If you asked anyone that question publicly, it'd be pretty shackling. It's the culture's weight in preconception; in expectation. It's as coercive as a public proposal; it's the idiocy in gathering a clutch of gawping dull-eyed rubes simply dragged into the project as a cudgel, as a moral and spiritual and social anvil. The onus in the expectation; for every desire for every shitty tee-vee cliché for the caricatures for the perfect orderliness to be upheld. That's really what it is.

Ah.

Of- of course.

Marry you? Well, these goobers have absolutely no meaning whatsoever to me. They'll never be seen; their eyes will never be known after this simple instant barring the usual vicissitudes in fate as whimsical as bullets spat out in their swarms and quite possibly ricocheting again and again and again into great spattering orbits.

But their judgment is meaningful. And it would be your horror, also, right? There is never a selfless design. There is never a truly selfish one; even those that're one's own self-indulgence, well, there is still its relationship with everyone else, right? Still some thought, however perfunctory. We are not alone. We cannot be alone.

But if you asked anyone privately, well, it might be a little more candid. There is an answer. Every question has an answer, even if that answer is, I don't know. Because this, also, is. But this one, this one, it has an answer that is not only a surrender to ambiguity's to ignorance's insouciant wheeling entropy.

Alcohol.

Alcohol and desperation.

It isn't forever to love the one you're with. 'cause, hell, that'd just be some pseudo-cynical bit of pathetic hard-edged affectation; a childish renunciation of possibility of reality's great twisting scope. There are always the Ralph Kramdens, right? The Homer Simpsons. The dudes whose success at the genetic roulette table might've been a liiiiiitle less than they'd hope, but whose draw at the romantic lottery, shit, that is the jackpot.

I know.

I know.

What does it mean? Well, that's sort of a venerable philosophical point, right? An obsession. What is the meaning?

What of god?

Where is our great and glorious theodicy?

Where are our constellations of self-justification?

Where is our meaning?

Ah. Ah. There's a great deal of it when you're just... There. Lying there. Sitting there. On your haunches. Staring through the glass, paws not the playful clasp on your plump furred belly but cradling the cool sleek skein the barrier like ice.

But the breath only flits with a playful little feathering coruscation over the glass before it's just a tacky rank little smear. Grease scribes its sullen constellations over its brittle face. But it's not so fragile that you could just rip through it like ice's first coalescing panes gathering over water. No, no, no. That is an invitation to the planet's hugest headache.

A fuckin' migraine.

Pardon.

Not the hugest. Second hugest. 'cause, you see, there are vaster migraines, and they're here. And there's really no fucking competition at all. Damn. Damn. And there's no escape; no no no no no. None when the terrarium's walls rear up with a sense of the insurmountable, a hugeness that beggars belief, that dwarfs you, that's...

Well, let's be candid. When you're shackled to this body, you are a rodent. Maybe not with the familiar heart-imploding neuroses that'll send your more prosaic brethren into a shit-fit or maybe hysteria enough to twist their tiny neurons into pretzels and then grind 'em through a paper shredder a biologic confetti to scatter through the known universe you could probably tuck into an atom and still have enough room for a few electrons.

Yeah, there's not really a huge amount of affection for the... The normal. Why the hell should there be? But there's less for- for this thing. This Sam. What a dork. That's the word. Heard it more than once.

I mean, sure, there's a little gratitude. Kinda. At least he brought me here to this sepulchral place of walls that even the tiniest whim can overtake. But, ah, there you are, you understand. Because there's not the will for that whim; because there's, oh, an order. I know, I know.

It's all a fucking fraud. Order? Orderliness? It's a figment; it's a consensual collective delirium. You shackle yourself to it. It's not by design; it isn't even shame. It's... It's what it must be. What is it?

Elusive bits of ontology. And what's the psychic etiology for this one? Obedience, or maybe fear? Is it her dictate? The command the brows stitched together in their fine immaculately-plucked black like caterpillars as pattern-baldness sufferers in their selective elegance and there is a finger outstretched.

So, you want new horizons? Okay. But you can't let just anyone know. Only the ones you trust.

How beautiful it'd be. Ah! Guileless, with huge naïve eyes. Oh, oh, I trust you and you and you and... And it ain't really possible to do that. Because you do know. The idiocy; the terror that ensues from the self-inflicted ignorance unrewarded unconsummated in reality's fabric. Because there's a wisdom that lurks in everyone. Every child.

Before it's battered twisted corroded defiled; before the iron in its native grace is desecrated in time pitted and corroded warped into a pliable ruin scabrous with rust that litters the floor around you like metal dandruff. It is called innocence; it is wisdom.

It's the intuition the frisson in the strange coiling electricity lacing itself like a lover's fingers up up up through your hair.

You are urged to believe it's just a twitch; a twinge. It's superstition, isn't it? The earth is blue; there is no god.

So there must be nothing else. All can be comfortably consigned to that great disbelief. It isn't scientific inquiry; it isn't with a sense of scrutiny. It's not simple genuflection to what is, even if that is is only found in the imperfect wisdoms that sluice through the ears and the eyes and coalesce in a great collective with everyone else's in the consensus named reality.

Its imprecisions are still something.

I'm talking about the institutional incredulity. The aspersions the pejoratives in this new materialistic faith as ugly and absolute as anything you've read while poised on her shoulder, fingertips brushed along the stained aged parchment or even the new crisp scholarship still sharp with laser-stitched ink's acrid scents.

The hatreds. The fanaticisms. The perfections wrought and the arbitrary boundaries made and anyone outside that can be consigned to non-humanity. Maoist non-people. We are not rational things, you understand.

Humans.

Animals.

Reason is a figment; but there's a deeper and profounder madness in this truth's renunciation. The rejection the leg-thrashing tantrums the fangs brandished with hydrophobic frenzy the hostility the junkie's awareness deep and elemental and visceral that there's been a twist a quirk in their flesh their biology somewhere. But there is a will to hammer closed the eyes batten the hatches snap off limbs amputate the wholesome tissues and invite the gangrene's invasion. It is the numbness, you understand.

Always the numbness that is coveted.

And what does any of this matter?

Goddammit, I wish I had a joint. That's why it matters. This is the reason. These constellations of shackles in throttling starlight; it is not to be the effulgence but the negative spaces, hemmed in barred from even simply being lest the light consign you to a deeper nihil than darkness.

Because the man whose stupid rodent face will not shut up. Dean, Dean, Dean, now, now, he is sublimity. A simplicity you could only call animal. Stimulus-response; it's something almost perfect. A delirium in the sleek smooth fast-twitch muscle fibers; the hands the fingers the pawing clawing hunger that wreathes the mind in its great trembling nimbus without uncomfortable inquisition.

Without ignorance's intoxicating kiss; without that numbness. It is pure candid unselfconscious sensation.

"Ah, are you listening, Dean?" Dammit, why should he be listening? Why the hell should anyone be listening, Sam, you asshole?!

A relief I'm not in your bedroom anymore. Not the computer's effulgence face; not the endless shadows and light in their infinitum, instinct stillborn and not displaced with a deeper cultivated erudition but... But patchwork bits of play-pretend wisdom.

He Knows.

He's got the Knowledge.

Want. A. Joint. But a chinchilla can't smoke a fucking joint. I mean, all right, even if I could; even if these paws could summon the dexterity the grace to grope at a lighter; even if this weight could hurl itself onto the flint once and again and again with its long black-lung smokers' cough; even if the fire could be coaxed into being and the paper huger than a damn bazooka cradled in its wheeling hot haze...

Well, it still wouldn't matter. 'cause even a magic chinchilla's, you know what? Stop laughing, all right. Just. Stop. Fucking. Laughing.

Dean, c'mon, man. Aren't you listening? I'm being serious about this; you just keep looking at the chinchilla I bought for you. Well, why not? 'cause there's always the arms flung out; there's always the sanctimony painted on that ridiculous narcissistic canvas that masquerades as a face. Yeah, yeah, there...

There is the geometry. The eyes; the lips; the crevasse of a cleft you could probably appropriate to camouflage a few corpses. The cherubic Caravaggio lips, heavy and red and pouting. Sulky. Almost cute. Almost. But it's the way that shitty pop music is almost listenable. There are the basic dimensions; there're the fundamental bits of form and guise.

The shape and topography that place it so so so close to its potential's fulfillment. And then there's the truth. There's a quirk; there's a twist. There's a Justin Bieber wickedness and suddenly it's about as sound as legitimate as a popsicle stick skyscraper.

The center cannot hold. Even the walls can't. Never mind the foundations.

There's Dean's long-suffering sigh; a gale flaring up up up through that cavernous heavy chest. Sinewy; muscular. There's even the, oh, low-rent James Dean charisma. The beauty in it. Hell, yeah. It's enough to send you heaving against the walls with a pitching pumping frenzy like a brain-damaged chihuahua. It's hunger pummeling at the breast; it's the sense that everything within is only a few throbs of the heart from ornamenting the world without and it isn't isn't isn't fair. Why not just...

Just rear up?

Feel the world distend; the elegance in the flesh slipping fictive reality's bonds in the truth exploding up a mayhem in the walls shuddering proportions melting a distending twisting insanity in the eyes gawping at you gawking crazed disbelieving maybe exploding from their sockets on huge carmine gouts.

But, naaaah.

That'd be...

Something, something, obligation.

While Down in Mexico throbs through the soul's stereo. 's something fundamental, you know, daddy-o. The Coasters; Poison Ivy, Down in Mexico. Beloved. A thrumming fixture in the heavy 'fifties rhythm; in the raw reedy voice; in the simple beat perfection the passion in his eyes. Is it an obsession?

It's an addiction. It's the junk, y'know. It's the junk, heavy and heady and delirious. I'm a junkie. That's the only word. Stare with eyes unblinking and huge and transfixed; a wet rheumy fundamentalism.

I know this.

I cannot deny this.

Sammy! I'm bored, man, okay?!

Braying.

Hooting.

It's a delicacy like a grizzly bear in jackboots. There's really no reason, right? But it's irresistible. It's a passion; it's a violence that heaves up in humongous coruscating threads through the breast. It shivers and quivers up and down up and down every. Fucking. Nerve. I am in his thrall.

It is to bow, to grovel, to genuflect.

It isn't love. Ah, ah, no. There isn't love for a being whose life's boundaries coil through ages, whose flesh will survive even a fucking twinkie. No. But it's a great deal of lust; it's a brain-melting soul-mashing intensity that reduces the soul the spirit your better judgment to a heady mush abandoned between the ears to ferment into a banana-beer slop just...

Drooling from you.

While you're drooling.

Slavering over him. The leather jacket flung around his shoulders; the long lean muscular legs thrown up with a rattle in heavy shitkicker boots on the stout hardwood table that's man's insecurity wrought in lumber.

It's the academic's neurosis; it's the reason a math professor packs a Colt. It's overcompensation. Not pleading for cold Ikea austerity; just a fucking table that could accommodate light mealtime conversation without a megaphone or semaphore. Just something simple. But there's nothing simple here in the concrete and hardwood sepulcher. This strange place this manmade cavern into which not even a bit of light percolates of its own volition.

All is a figment here; all is a fiction.

This guise, more than anything.

"What's with you, Dean? You're just- you're so irritable, man." And there's the guy who's more of a rodent than I am. The abs? Fine. A little penciled-in, maybe. The arms are lean; the body's lithe. A swimmer's physique. It's...

Average. Adequate. Not to objectify but, oh, let's be candid, kiddies.

It's to objectify.

He is an object. When you've dwelt in this flesh for three centuries, yeah, everything and everyone is an object. When you've buried three companions who've actually had the dignity of death in something like nature's passage?

Well, 'kay, one of them? That was just bad luck. An eye of newt only a little past its expiration date. Who knew, right?

And then there're those whose lives aren't quite so, oh, fortune-blessed. Whose threads the Fates or Inserendipity or, fuck, maybe even Erys have just... Just mischievously teased into collision with a witch-hunter.

An Inquisitor.

A psychopath with a rototiller.

Really, don't ask.

The stake.

No one's ever, ah, burned there. Even the rankest amateur is still shackled to tradition. It's a point of dignity. Garroting, and then the inferno's hungering gnashing frenzy that just reinforces the relief in being an exclusive vegetarian.

You cannot efface that one from your snout.

Nose.

Whatever.

"I am not bein' irritable. I'm just..." Standing. Standing. Because the cast's captivity's been slipped, flung away. Not the plaster that's a crueler anchor than concrete. The act of standing; rearing up rising a giddy exuberance a twist and wheel and... And it's the boots' heavy crunch. "Okay, okay, maybe I am, Sammy!

"Drivin' me crazy, havin' to sit around here doin' nothin', okay, man?" Nothin', huh? The arms flung out; it's all alpha male bullshit. It's all preening posturing idiocy. You'd expect dude to be batted heaved back and forth for the fingers to sinter into hooves for the bristling antlers to crunch crack together with convulsive gunshot frenzy.

The sleek muscular elegances in fur-dappled animal violence.

But the human animal has devised a dumber conflict-resolution implement.

It's called huffing.

It's called pouting.

It's fraternal-erotic preening. What? I'm not blind; it's the flesh and flesh it's masculine intimacy in sweat it's the simple elemental madness that lurks in the body the visceral places the deep appulsion in wet skin upon wet skin in the knowledge the carnal hungers that're opaque to whatever dimensions and vicissitudes culture's fabricated.

Man and man.

Woman and woman.

Man and woman.

Man and dog?

Well, maybe not that. But it's still all hungering urgent huge clutching lust. It's all meat, really; all meat and sensation. It's the sidelong glances it's the violence roiling bubbling burbling convulsive in the gut it's the strain distending the pants it's the...

The everything.

And you're just a damn rodent 'til the darkness settles on the mind 'til the incredulity can be suspended 'til everything can flare into being can stir into wakefulness.

Well, it's shit.

"Man, sometimes, I don't even know ya, Sammy, all right! We're- we're not even hunting-"

"Well, you were in a cast for the last three weeks." There's a huff.

A sulk.

The stupid eyes narrowed and, yeah, fine, fine, the Ivy League affectations. I need only dredge up two words for that one, man. George. Bush.

And why not a dubyah, too, just to hammer in the last few nails? No, no, no. It's the preening; it's the delusions of satin-tongued elegance coarser than low-grit sandpaper. It's, well, all right, it was humiliating. Seeing a man in his native habitat is terrible; seeing a man groping with a tongue-numbed ambition to suaveness with a witch, a sorceress in dark eyes, heavy tits, one of the luscious long-legged gazelles that're pretty much only gratified with either perfection or trampling a man's or a woman's heart and soul into paté and smearing it on the bread you'll still bake for them at a whisper?

Yeah.

That was...

It's the wincing awful despair that can only be companion to someone reciting the alphabet in German to impress a chick.

"It ain't that, Sammy. You've been- you've been all strange and shit lately, all right? I don't know what it is. You're all... All clingy, man. Makes me feel a little weird." A nod; those quick anxious nods like a demented speeding tortoise.

"Man, I don't know what you're talking about, Dean."

"Oh, you sure as hell do, Sammy. You sure as hell do. It's just- it's about the 'chilla, man." Wha?

"The- the what, oh, the chinchilla?" That would be Sam's heavy thick hands clapped at his belly.

Brothers in nature.

They're the fucking Odd Couple.

Dean's shitkickers and leather and tousled flannel and Sam's popped-collar hipster dress shirt and slacks. It's a little embarrassing. I know, I know, it's bias. But at least it can be admitted, right?

I have a problem.

It is a problem.

It is a hunger.

It's junk-sickness. It's to know the simple fervor for the body for the flesh the soul the everything. The simple, hell, the simpleminded hunger for the warmth clasped against you the transfiguration the transmutation not only in the body but in the spirit, also. And 's nothing at all. It's fucking hopeless. Settling back down in your cage.

"The 'chilla, dude. I'm talkin' about Ceniza-"

"I don't get it, Dean. I really don't. Cineza-"

"Ceniza, Sammy!" Bellowing deep deep deep. It's cognitive dissonance; it really is. It's the voice heavy hot convulsive ricocheting with pinball frenzy through your belly and then there's that dude's name. It's sick.

That's what it is. It's a tease a torment an unfairness. It's to know the flesh's stirring the meat in its idiot hungers that steep through the blood that percolate through every corpuscle every tiny morsel. It's the universe's cruelest junk-sickness.

It's the moment when...

Don't judge me.

It was not always like this, you know. Not forever the chinchilla's guise. It's not really the archetypal familiar's tale. But, well, piss off enough sorcerers, sorceresses, and there'll always be the hazard in ritual sorcery.

Whatever.

But there's a wisdom of the vein no longer retreating with a tortured twanging unease from the needle but rearing up hungering in its groping symphony monsters in their multitudes thousands and thousands thousands and begging for something.

The cells know; they have been converted as surely as any religion.

More than that.

It's... It's the vampire's dark insidious art; it is to sip the blood and then initiate a victim into this strange embrace with their own complicity, in their savor, tasting feasting upon yours. And the communion is consecrated.

The junk is the vampire; it is addiction's truest essence. When it's no longer just the joy bang but authentic addiction. When the metabolic disorder that is addiction becomes the... The mischievous quirk in the soft machinery's gears and cogs. Teeth not even thrown out of alignment but into another.

It is not the machinery forced into reverse; its speed is revised. Senses and sensations and simple sensibility are twisted on their axis. And then there is the craving. It does not begin delicately and furtively. You will know when the junk-sickness has arrived, because the world is without meaning.

It isn't a fantastical cinematic conceit; it's not that everything lapses in its definition into a wan meaningless nothing. It's that everything suddenly rears up from the numb normality in junk's wreathing paradisaical oblivion and it's explosive.

Every sense flares into a humongous irresistible plea for your attention.

Every graze becomes anguish.

The flesh is given to the abyss.

The body throbs and thrashes.

Nightmares caper with a cavorting liquid-metal frenzy scrawling and protean through the spirit; it's a mercurial thing, you understand, flaring into being and retreating with such immediacy such wall-crashing urgency that there's barely even the ambition to believing it was there.

And then they're rejuvenated.

And there is... Is the resurrection in that flesh, also. It isn't to be hard; it's to be petrified, every nerve drawn taut slipped into a windlass and tugged and twisted and wrenched and cranked and there's a delusion of normality that's simply broken like Krupp artillery through fine French stained glass.

To be kissed is convulsion.

And then, well, there are the chucks. Naturally, daddy-o, there're always the chucks. A fervor for more more more but this this this?

This is everything at once.

An esurience for the sensations. The belly throbs; it is to know the impossibility in sating your hunger with the palm's slow languorous brush over your stomach.

There're tantrums; fraternal tantrums. The Lettermen's or... Right, right, the Men of Letters. Yeah. Their artifacts have become debris to be swept up like cows in a great wheeling tornado. It's passion. It's madness.

Why?

"Hey, hey, hey, hey! Both of you!" And daddy's arrived; or something, anyway. It's that dude that even disheveled couldn't quite capture in its great and accommodating ambit. The cheeks smeared in stubble wrought from coffee grounds like a kid's play-pretend hobo Halloween costume. The squat fat little rat; palms jabbed into his overcoats pockets; his eyes narrowed.

And there's just patience. Standing there.

A breath drawn deep; the hair's more tousled than usual, isn't it?

Head thrown back; lips purse; perfect dentition settling around the lower lip.

"Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys." Ire coalesces. Right.

The demon. What's his name? Carn...

Crowby?

Crowley. That's it.

Not Aleister. Oh, now that dude was the planet's finest Uncle Fester impersonator. And, well, a bald scalp slathered with cottage cheese is a fantastic canvas for strawberry syrup Picassos.

More artful than the originals.

I was very pleased with Guernica in honey.

It's not violence; not really. It isn't, oh, knives flitting flickering slashing through the cool half-darkness, flung thrown twanging with a sharp tremor into the wall, blade half-plunged into hardwood. Don't hold me to this.

"Boys!" A bellow that not only fills the room but strains its rafters, rips at its walls. "Siddown!"

"Whoa." Sam.

"Damn." Dean.

And now, now, we are seated.

Plush ass planted comfortably on the gnarled ground snapped pounded hammered misshapen wooden morsels strewn through the terrarium.

"What's up your butt, Crowley?" Dean, well... I'll forgo comment.

"Yeah. And why are you even here?" And Sam, Sam, even in his own home, it's with a sense of whiny petulance. Truculence. The nostrils' moronic throb that evidently aspires to emotion.

"Because I'm here bringing gifts, ye wee sots." It's a snap, a snarl. There's definitely a novel quality in this.

So, ah, this's the Demon Crowley?

Short.

Squat.

Fat.

But charismatic.

King of Hell.

Very convenient to have a relationship with royalty.

Sam and Dean still separated from fraternal rancor and psychosis by about, oh, five seconds and the table's breadth. A laptop's cold eye betrays nothing but Busty Asian Beauties, slipped from Dean's lap in a bit of infidelity that still can't be harbored in grudging outrage in the breast.

They are, after all, busty and Asian.

And beautiful, also.

"A gift? Dude, I'm always up for gifts, all right, Crowley. Beer? Pie?" Dean's, well, he's simple. I know he is. I love it. How can you not cherish this?

"Dean, Dean..." Graveling and heavy and thick. Crowley's jaws are more eloquent than anything, snapping together, furrowing the jowls and tumbling apart, the lips stouter than the stubble in their pout. "Not that kind of gift.

"More the professional kind."

"Ah. Crap. Well-"

"What kind of professional gift, Crowley? We're still not on the best terms. And you still didn't tell me how you got here-"

"Kind of the point, Sammy, m'boy." Hands still nestled comfortably in his trench coat's thick cradling fabric. "But, ah, I'll give you all a hint. It's about a witch-"

"Ah, of course. A witch. That's how you got in. You had a witch, what, project? Astrally? Who?" Sam's jabbering, well, it's that.

Dean's silence at least embraces the wisdom about being quiet and only thought a fool.

"Not what I meant. It's about, oh, never mind. But I thought I'd bring you idiots a gift."

"Hey, Crowley, that's not really gracious, man. I'm all up for gifts. Not bein' called a moron." Not bristling. Dean's just... Reclined.

In repose.

"Well, you two are morons. You haven't even been working the last few weeks; I don't call you screwing around whatever sister-marrying state this is to be working, Sam. We're still on a blessed fucking time limit and you had to go and get your leg broken, Dean!" Voice rearing up; an instant-onset wrath, rocketing from irate to psychotic.

Laudable emotive athleticism.

"Now, listen. I've brought you this. C'mere; c'mere." It's...

Damn.

It was inevitable, wasn't it?

It's the scent.

It's the presence.

Creasing the nostrils. It's a scent that isn't; a celestial perfume that coils up ripples stitches itself through the universe's fabric.

A twist wrenched through reality.

It shouldn't be here; it is.

A heresy.

It's fangs bared and it's...

"Oh, it's a puppy, man!" Dean's...

It isn't...

It's rage.

Tooth-gnashing.

Dean, you bastard.

Infidelity.

I want a divorce. Y'hear me? I'm getting Tammy Wynette to stamp those letters on your ass.

"It isn't a puppy, you tit. It's a full-grown Dachshund." Dragged out of Crowley's pocket. Giant fucking pocket. But its spatial dimensions aren't the priority. It's the thrashing tail; it's the long sinuous grace; it's the slenderness the lolling tongue the sharp melodious yelp from the jaws the snout the...

The fur, shimmering and immaculate.

Damn you, Mistress.

"Ah, a Dachshund? Crowley, you..." Sam, well, this's a rarefied bit of accord with him.

"Man, you shouldn't have! This's sweet! A dog, Sammy! We've got a real dog now, man. I mean, y'know, he's a little on the small side, but I hear these things're fierce." Dean...

Standing.

Unfurling with that enchanting grace from the seat and it's a sense that evil levitates on the horizon, that fucking stupid chestnut-furred usurper. That bitch with an ass wriggling like a stripper on her pole.

That hussy on four legs.

"It's a she, genius." Crowley's voice a deep guttural snarl.

"Man, Dean's right. You shouldn't have." With all seriousness. Thank you, Sam. Your banal pragmatism is... Is right now. Finally. "I'm serious, you shouldn't have. What the hell are we going to do with a dog?

"And we're hunters; we're not a pet shop-"

"It's a hunting dog, moose. That's what Dachshunds do; they hunt. Hunt badgers. Do you know how fucking ferocious a badger is? They'll eat your goddamned kidneys and ask for seconds so they can make a pie out of 'em.

"I met a man once who needed a contract with me just for a face. 'cause a honey badger clawed it off." Crowley's kielbasa fingers steepling in a huge wriggling swarm over Sam's face. "Got it?"

"Well, we don't hunt badgers, Crowley-"

"Speak for yourself. I'd hunt a badger if it meant we got to keep this little girl. You're so cute; yes, you are. Yes, you are." Dean, you bastard. "Gimme the dog, Crowley." Dean's hands treachery in flesh, outstretched, imploring for just a brush on her fur.

"I was hoping you'd ask for that. The little thing pissed in my coat on the way here." Crowley's saturnine muttering still fills the ears with supernatural hugeness.

"Well, as much as that ingratiates this guy to me, Crowley, you're gonna hafta take the dog back, all right? Give it back, Dean-" Yes, yes, yes. There is... A defection; my loyalties have migrated to the rat-faced brother.

"No way, Sammy-"

"Who's gonna take care of the dog when we're gone, Dean-"

"The dog can take care of itself. Just give the little dear some food and she'll get what she wants from the porcelain throne. You idiots do clean your toilets, right, Moose? Squirrel?"

"Sure, Crowley. Whatever." It's anguish. It's despair.

It's that sausage bitch clasped now against Dean's chest; it's the tail waggling thrashing the tongue...

Dean, no!

Offering his cheek for the huge lolling tongue. Rasping at the five o'clock shadow at whatever time in the afternoon.

It isn't fair isn't fair isn't fair isn't fair-

"Hey, Dean, c'mon, man. You have your chinchilla-"

"I'm not gonna give up Ceniza. I didn't say that. I just meant, y'know, maybe it'd be nice companionship-"

"If you put them together, the dog'll kill that chinchilla. Or it'll freak out so much it has a heart attack, Dean. C'mon. Give him back to Crowley, man." My fate is...

Yes.

Yes.

This is my future.

Soothing this wayward idiot when his hunger his childish turgid desires have eased him into some doe-eyed Dachshund's embrace.

"Nah. It'll be cool. I'll make sure nothing happens, Sammy. I love that little chinchilla; I just know I'm gonna love this dog, too."

No!

It's...

Well, it's the essence of a hawk's shadow announcing its plunge.

The universe becomes a warp.

Narrows into shadow's cradling funnel.

Down.

Down.

Down.

I'm dying.

Crumpling back on my shoulders; the awareness that paws are already upraised. A tremor and a shiver and it. Isn't. Fucking. Fair.

Darkness.

"Well, hello there, little one." It's a voice; you stir to a voice. Largely 'cause the eyes have been tattooed only with a sorrow so vast that it defies anything like geometry. What is it?

Why is it?

Does it even matter?

The addiction's dregs have been displaced with something deeper and more urgent and crueler than any junk pangs. It's a heaving convulsive throb racing up and down down and up every nerve; it's a cat's talons laced through your flesh and it's being teased apart like a carpet knife assiduously rupturing every fucking fiber in a fine Persian rug.

It's an awareness of movement; light and shadow. It's a cool dank thing jabbed against the terrarium's glass.

It's...

Oh, it's a snout.

GoodfuckinggodandeverythingunholyandholyandsacredandsacrilegiousinthisfuckinguniverseohIputapoxonallyourhouses.

It's a snout.

Thick and black and smeared over the barrier that's suddenly salvation 'til...

Ah, why bother?

"Here to gloat?" Settling back on haunches there're little more than protean fur now. It's a sense of resignation; it's bone slackening like overwatered gelatin.

Why fight it?

"Oh, look at you. You're just so cute. When Mistress said she'd given one of her familiars away, I could barely believe it! And such an adorable one." The figure's perspective's strange deformation; a fish-eye vantage with the faintly prismatic glass swept with darkness leavened only with a few syrupy threads slithering serpentine from the half-opened door.

The hall's cold concrete announces itself in its mindless maunder and reflection and deflection.

"So, ah, you really are one of Mistress'? Why are you here, anyway-"

"Catherine. That's my name." Why not be sociable? Or a play-pretend likeness of it, anyway.

"Ceniza."

"I heard. So cute." There's not... Well, not any menace, anyway. The figure's stretched along the few inches that become a chasm rupturing my little bed stand's communion with him. So so so near and so fucking far. The snout slips open; the fangs shimmer with a dewy brutality immaculate alabaster wickedness in the thick gloom. "I like that name."

"Catherine's nice-"

"Isn't it? I like spelling it with a cee. What do you think? Cee or kay-"

"Why not a get the hell out of my life-"

"Oh, oh, don't be like that." Can a Dachshund mince? Flounce? 'cause that's what she's doing. With a twist and a sway and that sinuous slenderness is just settling now with a little rush of air from the pillow on...

On it.

"Mmm. Smell all that nice heat on this pillow. I can smell your scent, little mousy-"

"I'm a chinchilla."

"Mouse. Chinchilla. They're all just rodents, right? I'm not being mean, you know. I'm just... Well, she sent me here because she owes a lil' debt to Crowley. That's all. You don't mind, right? I'm kind of... Y'know, a watchdog."

"So to speak."

"So to speak. And it's not malevolent. Why, Crowley loves those boys." The voice is a flinty elegance; it's a three-pack-a-day-marinated-in-Jim-Beam roadhouse seductress in plunging necklines and long long legs.

"I'm sure-"

"Well, you're one to talk. You let him in-"

"I knew I got away too easy. So, that's what it was, huh?" The nexus. Fuck.

"That's what it was. But you haven't really been easy to... Y'know, to get into. Your head. So Crowley had her bring another one. That'd be moi-"

"Get lost, Cathy-"

"That's Catherine, mousy." Eyes narrowed.

They're not a dog's eyes.

They're cold, sharp, a wicked angular guileful animus for the world.

"Shouldn't dogs be cute and cuddly-"

"Shouldn't chinchillas flip the fuck out and have a coronary when they see a dog this close?"

"Touché, bitch." There's laughter.

A, ah, barking laughter.

"I like you, y'know, honey. I like you a lot. You're so cuuuute. Just... I could eat. You. Up."

"Oh, that's it. If you're gonna threaten me-"

"Figure of speech." A shrug.

Can dogs shrug?

It's an achingly languid thing; that's the only word. Languor. Syrupy and slow and rippling up through every taut muscle.

"Anyway, Catherine-"

"Let's be friends."

"Only if you stop lickin' his face-"

"Oh, that'd just be mean. It's what he expects. Mmm... I can see you've taken some liberties."

"They already know about things like me."

"I know. I talked to some veeery tasty, what, was she a Doberman? I think so. Damn. Now she was nice-looking; she said your boys were a lot of help. So, you know, I'm in good big strong hands." Gloating.

That's what that bitch is doing.

"Why're you a Dachshund, then?"

"I'm a petite girl-"

"I'm sure. What're you, a waddling cetacean-"

"Please. Don't be like that."

"What? Maybe a walrus-"

"I wouldn't suggest pissing me off. Dogs are very, oh, ungainly, y'know? We can just... Nose terrariums off tables. And then, well, if the glass breaks-"

"Try it." Scowling down your...

Plush soft adorable snout.

"I might."

"I, ah..."

Dean.

Dean.

"C'mere, girl. Hey, girl, y'here? Catherine's such a weird name for a dog." Dean... He's here. Hero.

Savior.

Delicious.

Topless.

Stippled in sweat's fine shimmering points; a shirt slung over a heavy thick muscular shoulder.

"Goddamn." Catherine's so delicate, isn't she? "I should lick off some of that sweat-"

"Do it and I'll piss in your kibble."

"It'd be worth it." Tail thrashing again. Wriggling; wiggling; rippling, the adorable little bitch just swaying tossing herself with that... That pandering pageantry across the mattress. It isn't fair. Snatched up and cradled against a shoulder.

"Oh, c'mon, Ceniza. You're not jealous, are you?" Dean, Dean, you...

You're a dingus.

That's what you are.

Peering up at him with immense beseeching eyes.

"C'mon, Catherine. C'mon. Get down, girl. I need to spend some time with my lil' 'chilla." Yes, yes, yes. That bitch's claws are a sharp little rattle on the floor. The door's eased closed; darkness is something not only beckoned but savored.

Fingers outstretched to snap on the table lamp; warmth splashes sloshes slops across dark hardwood like moonlight playing through a still ocean's gloom.

There is...

Bliss.

Transfiguration.

It is something elemental; something transcending even this. Rearing beneath and over at once the atomic. The subatomic. It is particles corpuscles morsels of matter reality's very meat its constellations of exotic motes and shards and subdivisions of subdivisions of subdivisions and ultimately, ultimately, all is merely divinity. It is not intervention and it is not judgment but it is to know something fundamentally Edenesque. It is Genesis' reflection.

Do not blame me for this. For the twist and the quirk for the terrarium eased open for his palms to be outstretched, and it is gamboling it is cavorting mincing wheeling pouncing onto the fingers the strange bits and gradations of geometry that become geography in their simple hugeness. The eyes' enormity, swallowing, devouring. Peer up and you are greeted with an eternity; with six or seven or ten or twenty eternities.

It is, ah, it is obsession. It is lust's enormity pluming from the fundament rearing through the flesh the soul that place tucked between the ears behind the eyes. It is to paint this black-velvet madness in strange wheeling obsidian gradations that should be colorless and textureless but rear up into a relief that doesn't merely rasp on the fingers but traces humongous pealing strokes up and down and up and down every nerve.

Muscles shudder. It is transformative; it is alchemical. It is to huddle there and suddenly, suddenly, there is the familiar rite. Poised on the mattress and it is for proportions for reality to distend to distort and it is no longer every furrow as a chasm a great valley swallowing dragging you down down down but simply...

Trivial. It isn't a blink; it isn't a cheap shitty sci-fi or fantasy movie flourish, either. It's something strange and sinuous; it's your body like an oscilloscope's strains unfurling sprawling melting out out out and it is for tiny limbs to become legs and arms a differentiation and individuation that should not be. For fur to retreat to recede without pain without despair without even displacement. It's here; it isn't.

Not in an instant; almost unnoticed, still. There is bare skin; flesh, flesh, flesh in its effusion. Sleek and creamy and taut and there is no longer a snout but differentiation in the face in the proportions; lavish voluptuous lips and the hair, the hair, the hair in its belief-beggaring excess. Spilling coiling twisting wheeling down down down over every. Fucking. Inch.

And the eyes, of course. His can no longer swallow universes in geography but their passion the simple power they exercise? They're vaster still. There's more than stirring more than movement. It's to know the eyes before anything so...

Well, not prosaic.

Damn, damn, damn, there's nothin' prosaic in the hands. The lips. The mouth. The tongue. But there's a depth a power that spears deeper than the flesh than only the skin the nerves even the mind's scrawling demented bowels that tremble shiver pulsate with those endless sympathetic strains with every touch.

It's to be tiny.

This is the word; no longer the chinchilla's flesh its fur its plump portly proportions but something lean and lissome. To know the eyes' hunger; to be devoured with the predator's madness the figure slithering stalking skulking through the forest's hot steaming quietude. The stillness.

It is to know the shrubbery's faint rustle; it is the fear the frisson rippling up through the fur every follicle ablaze with this wisdom. There are fangs; there are fangs tethered to deft padding paws and there will be strength with be muscle's huge urgent strain there will be the snout's pulsation the nostrils scenting the air. There really is no escape.

"Damn, damn, damn, I can never fuckin' believe how delicious you look, Ceniza." It's not even gloating now; it's only a glance cast down at the pathetic little Dachshund that legged sausage peering up at me with plaintive eyes while the long-stemmed divinity unfurls across the mattress.

There is already sweat. The tiniest dappling slick like some exotic negative ice gathering on a hot ocean and it is to know your hair swept in its huge satin bulk across your spine. A palm on the mattress; a glance cast with a deep-sea fisherman's finesse over a shoulder while the back arches while your hips heave up.

It's a dancer's grace; it is not a dance that would be acclaimed, oh, child-friendly. It is heavy hot shuddering throbbing with a guitar riff so sleaze-encrusted it's ricocheted back into decency and again into the depraved. It's to know the toes' graceful curl over the mattress the oiled-butter perfection in the skin's every inch.

"Hi, Dean." Fangs; there are fangs, and not simple teeth. An animal allure; a grace conceived to capture the ear to tug to nip nibble to hunger. "I was getting so bored, you know. You need to play with your pets.

"'specially the ones with bad attention spans like chinchillas."

"Damn, Ceniza, I... I just wanna dive right in there; I wanna bury myself-"

"Do it." How can you not? There's an urgency a violence an intensity in all of it. Still capturing his face in your eyes. A madness inflames everything. An iron rod twisted through the sinews' and the muscles' nexus and just... Cranked.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Drum-tight is slack as a tea partier's command of climatology.

Trembling with it.

"Don't wait. Just... Do it, Dean. Do it. Do it." It's the plea the exhortation the wish the hope the... The patient delicate caresses the teasing playful elegances the everything just cast away and it's not indelicate or fragile... Or anything. It dwells apart from this. It's the eyes.

It's always the eyes.

Enormous.

The lips trembling.

"I want it. I want it now. I feel... I feel so crazy, y'know. If you're not going to dive right in, then I will." Pouncing; lunging. It's to know your skin ah ah ah you have skin. You have skin and it's not curtained in fur in metric tonnages; every morsel's cohered into that soft plush pillowy supersaturated mane and smears itself across the spine. Fingers on his shoulders.

A will to dip down down down; with thighs clamoring for the sharp twist with legs coiling almost recursive back onto themselves around the thick muscular waist. To know his hips; for all of this to be stained with the biblical madnesses the figments in purity and impurity. Crave it clamor for aaaaallll of it.

"W-whoa, whoa, Ceniza, what's got into you-"

"Not you. That's for damn sure. For about a week." Snarling; sapping. It is with fingers like talons now. Yes, yes, the common chinchilla ain't infamous for this. But it's a triviality because there's nothing common in this. "I'm going crazy, watching your stupid rat-faced brother go on and on and on about all of this...

"This supernatural shit. When you've got a bit of the supernatural right. Here." A hand snatched up; the wrist seized in my fingers and dragged up up up along a chest that, well, fine. It's not really a chest. They're not tits. They scrawl with electricity; spattering, spacking, roaring through every nerve spiraling out in great constellations in huge hungry ravening nebulae.

It's more than pricking up.

"I haven't been neglected this much since Mistress punished me for four days."

"W-whoa." Kiss him; but not the lips. It's to adore the eyes, the mouth, that dewy tremor, the cherubic elegance that ain't his brother's Caravaggio cliché.

Nip and nibble at the jaw.

"I want it. You can just shove it in, y'know-"

"N-not even a little gentleness, Ceniza?" The eyes huge and more than a little, oh, is that disbelieving? Why why why why why? Gentleness? That's another fucking universe. Heaving pummeling pounding the rhythm straining with a Rebel Yell frenzy through the blood. I am lust; I am craving.

"What're you, a girl?" How can you not? "You must be. My, my, my. Did- did lil' Samantha's sissy genes seep into you, honey? Oh, oh, oh, are you two maybe a lil' more intimate-"

"H-hey, Ceniza- Jesus Christ." A nip a snap fingers hungering slithering scything down down down carving into the belly. "You look crazy-"

"I've been listening to you and your brother babble about this tedious supernatural shit for a week; you've been neglecting me; I'm horny. You reek like wet dog." Lapping, lapping, tongue lolling out to slap at the collar bone. Dig carve excavate into those fine hollows those lovely vicissitudes those delicious dips and furrows. Up up up along the neck.

A shudder a quiver and...

And it's a need.

Hands slapped at his chest; taste the heavy muscle and know a strength that ain't quite fair flaring through your body. It's a lunge a twist legs slapped around his hips and it's heels daggering into the spine. It's a need.

"I want you to bang me like a fucking kettledrum." It's to gorge yourself on strength; to savor the muscle heavy thick cabled taut coiling tendrils coalescing into sheets the sheets becoming human statuary not dragged down down down but the legs still firm still stout stern body upright.

"D-dammit, Ceniza-"

"Stop just saying that." Nip; gnash; nibble. It's to submerge yourself your eyes vanishing into the neck; the flesh tortured and soothed with a tongue's quick flit and flicker. And a kiss. A kiss. Finally, finally, finally.

The enchanted symmetry in lips, in the softness, plump and luscious and it's not quite a girl's lips but that isn't the point at all. It's the proportions; it's being dwarfed. It's exuberance; now now now always forever the palms clapped on your shoulders or maybe now now a hand on the small of the back, and another creeping up to the nape of the neck.

A warmth; a strain; a tremor. Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it's to know a delectation in purity, in perfection. Not ornamented; not the Painted Woman. But even the bare lips fall sticky on his, hunger for the mouth.

Drown in the eyes cool and serene and now a still pond introduced to a few million tons of napalm. The very water will boil; but there is an endless rejuvenation. They will not recede to parched wadis; they will not falter. Hotter, hotter, and wetter, wetter, wetter. His tongue slipped with a sumptuous questing ease between the lips.

It's to taste your disparities in proportion; the masculine heavy thick meat and the sinuous soft flesh and his fingers aspire to dimple to bruise with every urgent hot clutch and clench and there are words that're little better than meaningless senseless bits of non sequitur.

They spurt from the lips; sentences die with the universe's heat death and their vestiges coil into the future, strange evolutionary dregs that are unnoticed even in their accumulated multitudes.

You

We

Really

Need

Wow

More

More

C'mon

Why

Wha?

The last is... Is with something hotter than only hot ground against him; it's to know the thick belly the muscle the slabs in their communion like a knight's plate armor wrought in meat and it's to grind heave pitch shudder it's...

"A-ahn..." Yes, yes, an ahn. Hot and sharp and breathless and it's just smearing out over his belly; it's adorning him slathering him with that briny scalding lust the bubbling thick creamy explosion that races rears heaves up.

"And- and you complain when I go too fast, Ceniza." Peering down; both of us. Jaw tumbling open spittle dragged between lips and there's a dance, slow and sensuous and it's to know exactly his strength his proportions 'cause the hands just...

Just twist my body like a marionette; long hot heaving growls gurgles spray from jaws quavering from lips that've abdicate any pretension of ever tasting coherent language again. Tongue lolling out eyes glazed and humongous and everything is melting down down down 'cause the hands have caught captured my ankles and there's an irresistible strain a crush and it's ground against him, oh oh oh so slowly and it's the very peak that insanity in its scalding supersensitive violence.

Ripping through me.

Fucking me with his stomach.

"W-ah, ah, ah, D-Dean-"

"What? Y'don't like it? I dunno. I think you're having a good time-"

"S-s-stop, stupid-" Wheezing; breathless. A plea for breath for anything but there's absolutely nothing at all but my head thrown back but a convulsion but the spine arching a pounding psychosis 'cause the hips surpass everything.

"Oh, don't be like that."

"D-Dean, you d-d-dumbass-"

"Stuttering. I love stuttering. 's kinda like those Japanimation girls-"

"You're- it's too much! You're driving me crazy-"

"Ah-ah-ah." Teasing. He's. Teasing. Me. A sudden slackness in his hands and it's to be draped now crumpling over the mattress with a very fine glimpse of the ceiling and little else but the face in its roguish broad-jawed grace still still still oh so beautiful yes yes kissed with a touch of authentic beauty, also. Not feminine; not effete.

Just...

"You're so damn beautiful, Dean." Or something like that. It's more an articulated gurgle than the voice that whispers those sainted words come-hither. It's to know the palms on my chest; it's the body curtaining me it's his lips down down down brushed whispering and...

And it's a soft little stroke through the cum.

"W-wah... D-Dean, you-"

"You always taste so sweet, you know, Ceniza?"

"You're such a queen, Dean." Bitchy, bitchy, bitchy.

"'s 'cause you taste like vanilla ice cream." I do try, you know. "Doughnut glaze, maybe." And there's a kiss; fingers laced around that swollen ridiculous thing not the lust's locus but still still shivering spattering with it and the squeeze wrings a humongous deep guttural growl from the throat melting down transmuting itself into a girlish little coo.

"D-Deaaaan-"

"It's so cute, you know, Ceniza? Ah. Damn. That name, too. Ceniza." Oh. Oh. Oh. "Ceniza." A squeeze; a squeak. And it's slow slow slow the patient caresses the knuckles in negative hot rasping callouses his body's heat concentrated gathering in the palm and it's to be absolutely dwarfed and not at all.

"A-ah... Ah..." Arching; heaving; the eyes scrabble for something like clarity they aspire to focus and it's still little more than peering through a lens smeared with gelatin quavering with breakers' endless tempest-stirred crash. He's there; he's there; the universe is there. And it's to admire him bowing down down down a kiss dappled on its head. It's his hair luscious deep heavy thick auburn tousled twinkling with sweat and it's...

It's insanity. Lips wound around it.

"W-wah, ah, D-Dean, y'don't-"

"You don't usually let me." Fingers twisted around its bulk. "You don't usually want me to do it-"

"'s 'cause I always want you someplace else. An' since when're you so cock-h-happy-"

"'cause it's yours. Duh." A kiss; another, another, another. "This girly thing definitely isn't a cock; at least, not the usual kind. You're so pretty. Your thighs; your legs. No boy has legs this long, man.

"C'mon. You can't pretend to be a boy." Ah, ah, who cares? With them flung over his shoulders; with a twist a sense that any resistance would snap like a twig tossed into a trash compactor. Oh, oh, oh, who fucking cares about the semantics. "You're just delicious." Suckling, suckling.

Heat wreathes; warmth puddles swirls eddies and the tongue twists.

Trembling.

"O-oh, oh, Deaaan." Shivering; the thighs strain muscle flares into a fine relief and it's to know the body drawn taut a bowing figure a sexual-mechanical transfiguration that transcends that eclipses any simple geometry. It's fingers dragged in huge raking furrows through the bedding already darkening with sweat that's not now only one or two faint little prickling points shimmering motes like starlight but a swarm a swamp spilling puddling in the serene bronze-stained darkness a place without breath because there can be none.

A flame's been sparked; a gasoline grace ripples from the lips and the inferno laps this, kisses and strokes with every wet unselfconscious little snap and spatter in the mouth. You will know you can taste this in an unreal symmetry; the awareness that it's probably too small for him. A cute little morsel a- a delectation to be dragged down it's to savor a wisdom in the palate's wet slathering slick heat it's not instant-onset orgasm but...

But it should be.

It's a cawing crazed chatter like a schizophrenic fox; it's feeling an ascension, rising up, up, up, closer and closer not to the light but to the dark, the gilded aura spilling from a lamp poised on the bed standing in another world dwelling in another universe. Wild crowing speaking-in-tongues spirituals rear up from my lips, soar in fine levitating spittle-flecks.

They will rise and soar and suddenly, suddenly, everything crystallizes in an ice mist settling over a dust fleck that shouldn't even be. A celestial offering not god's finger outstretched 'cause, well, have you seen or heard from god lately? Uh-uh-uh. It's... It's something spiraling away, an angel's feather, perhaps, oh, wouldn't that be a fuckin' nuisance?

But it's its essence. A faint shimmering point and everything gathers there a sense that it's being seen as surely as a candle that's begun to flare up gorging itself on its own flesh a relentless exuberant hungry self-immolation and there's a break.

Everything will break. Fingers find fleeting fitful purchase in his hair; his stubble is a five o'clock cocktail sensual and heavy and heady and... And it's arrogant and ravening and, yeah, it's almost angry. The first convulsive pump up up up battering at his jaws and who cares anymore?

Who who who cares?

"Dean. Dean. S-suck on me; lick me; eat me; swallow me. I- I wanna come in your mouth. I've never done it-"

"Y'mean, you won't let me-"

"Whatever! I've been- I've been so weird, 'cause... Ngn..." Groaning. A sense of more than levitation; being borne aloft in the tension and it's to deny gravity to toss it the fuck away and to rise and rise and rise.

It is to know an urgent irresistible violent ruin.

To be the ship tempest-tossed so fucking romantic and still so fucking true heaved hurled on breakers melting against a craggy shore's brutal spearing boulders its pits and its immense impaling stone talons to be twisted apart not something delicate and slow and soft not for fingers finer than spider's silk to be laced through the artisan's most exalted produce an achingly graceful embrace seduced into ruination.

No, no, no.

Not for the invasion to become annihilation; to know at once that the preparations assiduous sedulous invidious have finally been consummated while the threads stitched into your body are simply plucked with one quick stroke.

It's a bayonet flaking with rust smeared with blood raw hot with brutality to be speared into you; to be torn open and to just break. A wail a whimper a quiver a quail and it's to know absolutely nothing but the apocalyptic. It's for reality first to fissure with a blow like a sledgehammer on heavy plate glass and there are great creases and cracks and seams and they burgeon bloat out out out and the second stroke is annihilation.

It is destruction. It is every sense smeared on that glass and it is no longer heavy plate no longer stern and boisterous with swollen-chested defiance. It is fine cathedral stained glass; it is brittle and intricately ornamented; it is flamboyant hues in their confluences with great and convoluted patterns and it is to be precious irreplaceably precious and what can that mean when even life can be cast away with such ease?

The soul is transcribed duplicated reduplicated again and swept in glorious Caravaggio portraits across these shards and these shards melt down become dust and every bit of dust is so adorned, also, and it is for the spirit for your awareness to heave in a great wafting plume like a mushroom cloud up up from the lips from him from your communion.

Fall back.

And back.

A thunder. A scream; it's something candid and unpretentious and there's no palm clamped on your mouth to stifle it. Nothing could stymie it; it surpasses any simple shackles in reality's very fabric. It would melt through the clutching fingers and it would perhaps be infectious, a presence tromping marching not with orderly jack-booted clattering but with a yelping garrulous Hare Krishna onslaught. It would be Taoists occupying Paris.

How could it not be?

"D-Deeeaan!" Screaming; screaming. Yes. Scream and scream and scream 'til the gasoline condenses becomes something more explosive still coalesces with some novel alchemy into jet fuel. Meaningless figures flit through the eyes.

Illusions that are not any simple nocturnal emission fodder; it's a knowledge it's... It's confabulation; it's the past crunching together with the present like wayward maglev trains. It's a squealing torment in metal melting together promiscuous as untroubled unselfconscious as lovers intertwined in a great swirling tango serenaded with a clopping strange flamenco rhythm.

It's cum; cum, cum, cum, flaring throbbing up enormous pulses that spatter and splatter and make themselves very well-known to the palate down down down his throat and it's to be eaten to be swallowed and I am a boy and I am not at all and I am a girl and not at all and more than anything it's a communion with evolutionary vestige.

Fangs should be bared; talons should rip into meat and bone.

There is blood.

Ah.

More than anything, there is blood.

Redolent of a distant wind wafting from Olduvai, it is here. And suddenly, suddenly, this is all that can be known.

The eyes are denuded of sight, as surely as a cave fish that has renounced light, that is content to dwell in its navel-gazing universe of subjective ricocheting sense. It is a cold flat battering universe; it is tumbling through the clouds and settling not into the ocean's delicate dappling waves but splattering across a palace's fine marble floor.

Everything is atomized; and these atoms are broken further; and these subatomic things are ruptured and twisted apart and everything plumbs the irreducible's deepest reaches. I am become less and less and less and it is a paradisaical place, unperturbed with sight and even sound because there is only sensation, writhing rocking a rhythmic madness heaving and pitching against him, against the mouth that swallows clutches gropes inhales.

It is to be drawn dragged deeper and deeper and deeper.

A murmur is intuited known from somewhere and it's rearing up rising rising rising in a strange symmetry a harmony that becomes a plateau a musical thing slashing crashing battering ripping through everything while toes curl and it's a soft little hum it is melody pulsating modulated through me.

"W-wah, D-D-Dea-"

"You love it, right?" With... With something almost girly. Shoveling a few sticky threads between the lips. "You came a lot, Ceniza."

"S-so sue me. That was just..."

"Y'know, you're not a really convincing brat when you look like you're about to go crazy." Lying there; lying there. Draped over me with something that's a demented confluence of predator and prey.

He's there; he's eaten me.

And there's the tongue swept with a quick flit over his plump luscious lips.

"O-oh, Dean, you're totally-"

"What? C'mon, Ceniza, honey-"

"Aren't you backed up, Dean?"

"Like I'm gonna die." Oh, yes, yes, yes.

"Then bring it over here, man. C'mon. Don't- don't just starve your cute lil' chin-slut." There's nothing fragile now; no cooing; no whispering; no soft little glances and fitful flickers of the eyes and no meaningful long looks.

There's nothing but lust; nothing but hunger. It's reality in its twist it's to know the perfection in hips straddling your chest in a quick urgent lunge and how how how could you reject could you resist could you eeever complain about that? About his hands; about his body; about the flesh the meat the tight cinching fabrics the denim that enamels itself like coarse latex over his legs' every inch.

"Argh! Y'didn't undress, Dean-"

"Hey, I was a little busy. What can I say? A guy thinks with his hands-"

"Think with this." A jab a prod and, well, it's obvious, isn't it? It's an invitation; it's an exhortation. Begging the familiar rite of spring the neck's strain craning up up up fastening teeth around the zipper and...

And there's a dexterity. There's a nimble swift elegance an ease in this and it's a pull.

A tug.

A sharp prolonged rattle and it's there; it's there. Fingers are a perfunctory bit of, well, a surrender to necessity.

It's being confronted with an immense animal bulk; it's swollen and heavy and thick and it's liberated with a quick tug coaxed out springing up and it is not denuded with Busty Asian Beauties. There's only one beauty and she ain't busty and she ain't Asian and, well, she ain't really a she at all.

But what does it matter?

"G-goddammit, Ceniza, look at you. You're so damn hot; look at you. So pretty; look at you." Strange twisted verbiage; a ridiculous ritual refrain.

Jabbering senseless nothings and there's really no answer at all.

"A-ah." Palms cradle my cheeks; rough and coarse and it's to luxuriate in the touch the stroke the fingers laced under the nape a pull a jerk a tug. It's to rise and rise and rise and, well, maybe not that much.

Greeted with the heavy swollen underbelly that becomes the universe; that monopolizes the sight. A whisper against lashes vast and inky brushed dappling him with quick kisses less the butterfly and more the cocainated hummingbird.

"A-ah... Ceniza, Ceniza-"

"Y'like it?" A brush a quiver a caress it's a slow slow slooow kiss.

"I- oh, dammit, honey, I more than love it-"

"Then you'll love this even more." A wink. Yes.

A wink.

'cause that's what you do; 'cause that's what must be done. It's a preface to a kiss to lips gathering slapping at the head that tremendous almost diabolic presence. All right, all right, not only almost.

's exactly what it is. A huge wicked thing; it's the universe's collective obsession every bit of madness condensed into that figure. The bloated plump peak; the helmeted convolutions, very well-cut.

Thank eeeverything.

A kiss; once and again and it's something adorable, a ricochet, a flicker and flit a reflection a deflection springing up and away from every dewy collision. Spattering pattering twisting against him and suddenly, well, how can you not expect it?

"C-c'mon, Ceniza-"

"Oh, I don't know-"

"Suck- suck on me. Please. Please." Peering up, up. To know reality bounded in the eyes' dimensions; to admire the thick sheets of muscle the stern planes the graceful undulations the topography in the belly drawn taut still oh so faintly dimpled with the jeans' ridiculous James Dean seam; the hair aspiring to tousled even in its tightly-cropped dimensions; the fingers trembling obliterating light a divinity gifting warmth and taking my peripheral vision.

Everything narrowed threaded down down down into a slender funnel that is his body. His presence; the skin barely intuited the pubic hair little more than a faint little bubbling from the hips. It's been carved away from that.

From... You know, it really is an artful thing, isn't it? A man's flesh; it's the one one one point natively irrevocably feminine. An unassailable grace in its thickness and its sinuousnesses and the simple elegance. The beauty in that flaring head tapering down down down to its stern core. Swollen.

Trembling.

Kissing him; the sensation flits flickers stitching like a thready dying heartbeat through the body.

"A-ah, sonofabitch, Ceniza, are- are you punishing me or somethin'?"

"Perish the thought." Yes. Yes.

Yes yes yes.

For being beautiful.

"I- I can't tell my lil' brother what to do, okay? He wants to chat my ear- ear off about... Y'know..." Eyes glazing now.

Simpleminded grace.

A perfection.

"What was I talkin' about?"

"Rock-paper-scissors, Dean."

"Whuh?" Squinting; eyes narrowed peering down down down an ambition to purchase on the words but there's only a sense of their geometry, like a blind man fondling a ballistic missile. What is this thing?

"Rock-paper-scissors-"

"U-uh... Why-"

"If you win, I'll let you deepthroat me-"

"You're on! You're- you're totally on!" Alas, alas, Dean, you are...

Not an idiot.

Emphatically not an idiot.

But simple.

Simple can be lovely.

Simple is often an asset. It is perspicacity; it is the willingness to taste reality as it is, and not only in accordance with consensus.

When the emperor's swinging his cock around and the groveling aristocrats proclaim his wardrobe the most beauteous raiments ever conceived, simplicity is the peasant boy who'll call his shit and say, Dude, that's your schlong, man; it ain't the world's biggest weirdest tassel.

But simplicity is not for a game of chance of probability.

He's shitty with poker, too.

It's not the tell. It's the predictability. It's always the ambition to victory in something sure. It's going for the flush when there's a perfectly convenient solution in something else.

"Totally. Totally o-on." While there're quick feathering kiss; while the juices rear up sticky soft slathering lavish on my lips.

A delectation.

It's...

It's not even autosuggestion.

It's a simple truth; it's the briny hot creamed-ammonia quality tinged with pineapple with a kiss of something unknowable unplaceable and it's magic. It's strange nebulous fingers unfurling between the ears it's a madness in staining thick unctuous lusts.

"'kay... Ah... Um..." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; tongue swept up to slather to stroke to swipe the dribbling bits of those weak juices from him. "I- how're we gonna do this... This?"

"Mmm?..." A murmur is a flamethrower's hot aura whispering creeping closer closer closer to a cannon's fuse. Another kiss; it's a hand reaching up clutching that plump bulk against adoring lips; and there is a long slow stroke there is a moment's pause.

It's another hand freed; it's a one...

"O-okay. Okay. We'll g-go on three." Or will he be? 'cause the eyes have popped like a hypertensive chihuahua on bennies and there's a one...

And a two...

And a three...

"Whew! I- I won! Damn, I never win!" Well, duh. 'cause it's as fixed as pro-wrestling, dude.

But he's rejoicing; arms pumped up with a quick little wriggle and, ah, why would that be, Dean?

Right.

'cause it's paper.

It was only ever paper.

You're simple, Dean; always scissors.

"Oh, it looks like I lost." The words wafting up heavy thick sticky on my lips, from the throat. "Too bad for my soft lil' throat. It's gonna get fucked."

"Y-you lost on purpose." Simple, but not stupid. "Oh, well. Good enough for me." Even the pretension of fairness is enough. "Hope you don't regret it. I wanna go deep-"

"Do it. Do it. Do it. Force-feed me your cock. I'm serious. I- I wanna... Waitaminute. Let's do it this way; get off me, 'kay? So you can go as deep as ya want." That little bitch is still there.

The eyes are crazed. There's lust.

Jealousy.

Madness.

Try licking your crotch, Cathy. I hear it helps about as much as stroking your belly to ward off starvation.

Ha ha ha.

Drooping now; the mattress' edge is a fine purchase for my neck and it's to know a strange confluence of the weightless and the weighted; your body's bulk still upraised upheld tethered to gravity but noooot quite.

Wilting; falling down down down and there's an awareness of his presence more than the shape, than the form. Just a protean smear of black shadow like a reflection rippling twisting and distending from a lacquered quivering petroleum puddle.

"Take off your jeans, Dean. Go as deep as you can. I don't have a gag-reflex, y'know-"

"Sonofabitch, I know. I love it. I love it-"

"Choke me with it. C'mon. C'mon. Lace your fingers under my nape and just- just fucking pump my mouth. I don't care if I pass out." There's always that peril, huh? Oh, well.

A wriggling non-striptease.

Or, well, the planet's most ungainly thrashing spasmodic spazzing striptease, anyway. Tossing and lunging and bouncing and the painted-on jeans are not what you'd call an asset in these moments. Not the socks, either, a heel planted on a bit of surplus fabric and there's a pull and a tug and it's a crazed tumbling dance half-falling before gravity's resisted and likeness of a pirouette balances it and...

And there we are.

It dances.

It springs.

It bounces.

Diddy-bops to another rhythm; to a demented longing cadence a torch song. Yes. Yes. It is a modern torch song.

It does not speak in elegant metaphor; it does not convey its lusts and wishes with a furtive grace.

It is hungry and explosive and it is an ear-battering beat poetry frenzy and it is raw with snarling obscenity that'd twist Ginsberg into a moral majoritarian and it's there.

"C'mon. Fuck my mouth; fuck my slutty mouth, Dean. Fuck it; choke me; gag me. Torture me with that huge goddamn cock; torture your chin-slut 'til she creams herself-"

"G-goddammit, you're crazy." But he's there; he's there.

And that stupid fucking dog is still there, too.

Eyes flitting through the curtaining hair in its ashen flair and it's. Not. Fair. While the trembling soft head's brushed against my lips and the jaws are ground open and there, there, there. My universe is him; is the cock the heavy pouch trembling under it and it's to be blinded with it with both of them for those humongous ridiculous heaps to settle on my eyes and now, now, it's only sensation.

"D-damn, I'm... I'm blindfolding you with my balls, Ceniza."

"Duh." Or something; it's a gurgle 'cause the scalding plump thing's brushing the palate spearing down down down a splitting of the breast or something 'cause the universe is being bifurcated its huge lavish shoulders brushing away any resistance and it's to know flesh yielding not quite yet a frenzy but just plumbing those depths that're almost philosophical in their dimensions.

Falling, falling, falling.

The throat distends.

Strains.

There is no voice; even his has swaddled itself in a humongous muddling muffling haze like peering up from the Caribbean's clarified depths beneath a moonless midnight darkness while some mischievous motherfucker's jelled it into aspic.

Sweat smeared on me.

His body.

Mine in its convulsions.

And hips simply... Simply kiss my lips; an exoticism in this. To know the very root in its pulsating bulk the muscular strength the blood not throbbing no no no but trembling along those knotted veins that rear up in their ridges without furrows around them.

There is no symmetry. There is only wet sweet perfection and it's a will a wish to gag 'cause the spittle's gathering coalescing coaxed into being with irresistible reflex and there's more and more and more and when it's dragged up up up like glimpsing a shell's passage from the gun's barrel, well, it is pulled up coaxed into a huge trembling smear spattering the cheeks lacing up along my hair with its simple enormity.

And falling down down down again.

Fingers cinch; stitch into my flesh.

Drag through the hair.

Twist and tug and it's one hand bracing another...

"Choke me." A wish; a will.

It's his eyes; his eyes can be felt in their goggling gawping incredulity. But how how how can you ever reject your lover's command?

At another huge heaving pump's apex.

"C-choke me, goddammit, Dean-"

"If you're sure. Damn, if you're really sure, I'm not gonna stop." So, well, I am. Another long huge squelch and now, now, it's his fingers encircling laced around my neck and. "Damn, damn, I can feel my cock in your throat.

"It's just kinda... Kinda swollen with me." Pumping. More more more more and it's rising falling rising falling an endless cadence that grants light when that thick presence is pulled away and it's that pouch slapped on my eyes my nose's bridge and there's not even the time to scream with the simple bliss in your flesh's huge angry convulsions.

Only a breath.

Spittle gathers in the nose.

There's a universe of spit; saliva slathering smearing swept up painted over me a surrogate cum and I know that it is, that heavy thick trembling deepthroat delectation and it's a huge lunge ramming it down and...

"I- I wanna really fuck your mouth. Get- get on your belly." Yes, yes, yes. 's not the fucking banality in porno shit; it's the authentic article. It's bowing twisting, fingers groping at your ankles, your arms your own strings drawing yourself into a tension that should probably snap bones and rupture muscle and tear limbs from sockets but who fuckin' cares?

Finally finally finally admiring him eyes cast up under huge lashes shimmering with tears rearing up heavy from eyes trembling glazed-over and the universe convulses with a regular throb like a timpani battered with sledgehammers cradled in a giant's fists, to his heartbeat and mine, and it's a sense of convergent amniotic pulses, mother and child, but we are not mother and child and...

And it's so so so huge. Growing and gathering in its strain bloating up more more more heavier and hotter and scraped at my throat gouging out the spittle and inviting more and immense sticky curtains splash spatter down ornaments my jaw sways in a vast bifurcated tendrils finally settling down on the mattress.

It's a lunge.

A pump.

"G-goddammit, Ceniza, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen. You- you seriously need high heels doin' that." Damn, I do.

I do do do do do.

Oh, well.

High high heels.

Slutty makeup.

"I guess- aaagh!" A racking huge cough 'cause he is not patient. "Dean, you jerk-"

"What? You told me to fuck your mouth-"

"I was trying to say something nasty. Jerkoff." Wheezing; heaving. "I was gonna tell you that you should make me up if I don't have my high heels."

"O-oh, oh, damn, you're serious?" Aren't we enthusiastic?

It isn't porno.

Exactly.

It is porno.

Not exactly.

That trembling massive thing just huddled there; an ominous cudgel heavy and hot and shivering and pleading for outlet.

"O-oh, damn, I dunno. I love it; you're so hot painted like that-"

"So paint my face." A kiss; a kiss; once and again and it's an athleticism that would reaaallly profit from not having a spine.

At all.

A boneless liquid grace and there're still the familiar urgent hot pangs from the thighs and the calves and the arms and wrists and my back yowling at me like an octogenarian.

Tongue lolling out.

"I- I wanna come in your throat." Well, that's decisive. So he is. "Ceniza, Ceniza." And it's trembling hot shuddering every pitch every pump riotous heaving with some convulsive reflection ricocheting spattering through me 'cause it's to rock me over the mattress that hungry thing between my thighs begging for more more more.

I can't resist.

Plush.

It's so plush.

So thick.

Hard and soft and it's the essence of some velvet tyranny it's iron sheathed in scalding silk or maybe it's a silk core ornamented with dimpling iron but it's to know its yielding without breaking its surrender without failure. It is a dance it is something almost martial, feints and twist and wheeling reeling pirouettes plunging pumping cradled in a seesaw madness and it's to be battered with a selfish selflessness the hammering against my lips hips upon cushioning plump flesh and...

"I- I'm... Yeah." Without warning.

It's here.

Gathering.

Bloating; flaring up more more more more more stare up into his eyes and know the perfection the delirium while sexual insanity speckles your sight in flaring hot huge effulgent points like cigarette burns in cinema cellulose.

It's there; flowering up into my throat enormous pulsations an appulsion against the neck and whatever the swallowing there're still a few fine perfumed threads that announce themselves with an angry wet spattering spurting up from my nostrils.

A gasp a cough and his hands are merciless. Firmer than only hard.

"A-ah!" Ack, hack, cough, what does it matter? Slackening only when the cock... It's not yielding; it's just no longer spasmodic thrashing pummeling at my throat.

"A-ah, D-Dean, c'mon, c'mon, you can keep going, right?" While the last few anemic thready motes dapple my chin.

Hot hot hot.

A few cum tendrils captured puddling in my mouth; brushed away from my lip like some carnal milk-mustache.

Daubed on a cheek.

Painted over my left brow.

"Well?" It's harder harder harder than harder. Springing up.

"Oh, yeah. Sonofabitch, yeah-"

"Hey, Dean! Dean! You in there?" There are three words.

They are all very impolite.

Shit bitch fuck.

It's Sammy.

"W-what is it, Sammy? I'm a little busy here, man. Doin' some research; havin' some quiet time. Takin' time off." That voice; Dean's voice.

I am his pet.

On my belly that palpitating madness about...

About some infinitesimally fleetingly tiny increment from its own perfection.

Wriggling.

Shivering.

It'll be here so so so soon, right?

"Hey, I'm comin' in, Dean." Oh, fuck.

It's a tumble; Dean's fingers outstretched slapped at the door.

"Sammy, worst timing. I'm totally starkers, man-"

"Then get dressed. I need to talk to you about, y'know, you-know-who." Fuck fuck fuck what does it matter?

"Oh, well, ah, dude, can it wait-"

"Dean, it can't, man. C'mon." Sam, you whiny little rat.

And that...

Can a dog chortle?

She's chortling.

While cum's thickening and still peeling itself apart with warmth's strange centrifuge into the tacky clotted gelatin motes and its rheumy frail serums.

Damn damn damn.

Tease him.

Fingertips swept through it.

A pinprick of it dappled on an outstretched tongue.

"Ah, Sammy, I need to rest, man." Cough, cough.

Pantomime.

"I could be comin' down with somethin', Sammy-"

"We don't have time. Even if you are sick, all right? I just got an urgent message from Cas." Ah.

That word.

The bromance invoked.

Fuck. You.

Angel bitch.

"All right." The eyes implore forgiveness. Huge and beseeching; his fingers slipped together in prayerful exhortation. "Please, please, please, all right, Ceniza?"

"Be back soon, dumbass." It's petulant.

Pettish.

'cause that's what I am. Slipping off behind the mattress and it's the planet's most undignified camouflage, hunched and huddled and, ah, the door's a sharp clatter and rattle and it's footsteps and loneliness and

"Well, well, well. Look who's the little whore." And this. Of course, of course, there's this. Crane over the mattress with the sudden sullen quietude and there're words coalescing on the lips.

Not kind ones.

"I wonder if there's a hot dog bun in the..." Dead.

Dead.

Language dies.

And not a dignified demise.

It is not a kind death, nestled amidst its child clauses, waiting for its parents in some paradisaical grammatical afterlife. It is sprawled over a grimy dank grease-smeared floor while a menacing verb brandishes a machete poised aloft and it's a quick crunching snap into its constituent syllables.

It is not even with a scream.

A wheeze.

"G-goddamn."

"Thank you. You know, I always love seeing people's reaction to, ah, the change." 'cause it is quite the change. Not that... That you could never infer, ah, what she is. Kind of. Maybe... The fur's satiny auburn cast has become a caramel-skinned elegance and she is, ah, petite. In height.

Only height.

The hair spills down in an effulgent stripe a concentrated supersaturated thickened crude oil splashing over the lissome shoulders and, yeah, she's probably, oh, five-one, if that. And her chest is about five-five. It's more than generous; it's fucking humongous.

A mince; a grace; it's long-stemmed beauty the legs are endless higher higher higher craning up up up from fine toes to lissome calves to curvaceous athletic thighs gathering at a delta in glabrous soft skin and rearing up in shapely hips and a wasp-waisted allure and the breasts are just...

"Y-you have tits."

"Yup. Eight of them when I'm, ah, in another shape."

"T-those tits are bigger than just eight women's. Eight normal mortal women's. I- I think." Gasping rasping straining with the... The insanity in it. In the supremely pretty face, also. It isn't fair. All of it condensed there.

The fanged jaws.

"Oh, look at you, little mousy. Why, you just look so bewildered, huh?" A twist and sway and the proportions belie the tiny height.

She's a perfection; long and lean and still oh so voluptuous.

The smile flays the flesh from your bones.

"Mmm-mmm-mmm. Why, you smell just like... Slut." A fingertip outstretched; not a daub but a swipe. Cum jellied and quivering peeled from my brow. Her lips large large savage oh so curvaceous mincing on that knife-edge between sumptuous and hideous and lovelier still for that. The eyes are huge, liquid limpid dark.

Absolutely black.

"What a cutie you are, though, Ceniza. Ah, ah, I can see why that's your name." A tongue outstretched; brushed on a finger. Hungering for him. "Oh, he's bitter. Makes me shiver."

"Sure that's not just your huge tits sapping off all your heat?" Damn, that's lame.

"Wow, that was lame."

"Like a quadriplegic horse. Damn, you're..." Well, it isn't anything exclusive, y'know. It's an adoration for Dean.

And the flesh still rears up.

Shuddering.

Hungry.

Yes.

"I'm what, honey?" With nails long sharp brutal jabbed under my chin.

"A-ah..." Her height; and there's still the sense that she towers. Vertiginous. It shouldn't be. "You're gorgeous."

"Yeah. I am. Dogs can look into mirrors, you know. Confuses the fuck out of some of them. But not all of them. I knew a beagle once in Michigan who could use mirrors like a human; very bright little pup."

"Ah..."

"She wasn't like this, though. Mmm... Look at you. You're very nice, you know. Watching you and Dean, I'm a little amazed by how... Queer he is-"

"He's not queer."

"You're just that girly, I guess." And, damn, it's a vamp. A twist and wheel on toes you could only call elegant. "And your throat... You don't have a gag-reflex, huh? Do all chinchillas have that?"

"Hell if I know. He loves it. My throat-pussy-"

"Oh, listen to that." A pivot a pirouette. Palms slapped on her tits. "I think he'd love these more, y'know-"

"Screw you."

"Oh, presumptuous now, aren't we?" Posturing. The chest craned closer, closer, with the spine's achingly elegant twist.

The smile is a fox's for a mouse.

And a Dachshund's for a chinchilla.

"Ah- ah-"

"Not that I'd mind, little mousy. You are very delicious, aren't you? Especially just adorned so artfully with a bit of his cum. It's heavy, isn't it? So thick. You know, I was hoping I'd see you get the planet's hugest facial.

"He puts out a lot, huh? What do you think? Good for the skin? Yours feels like butter; it really does." A brush on a shoulder; down down down, the fingers in their wicked meander.

A grope.

Swaddling it; cradling it.

"It's a nice little toy, isn't it?" Weighed.

Measured.

"A little on the small side, but it has a good heft." Assessed; scrutinized.

A tremor in the knees.

"A-ahn..."

"And sensitive. Wow, wow, wow. Watching your throat get plowed out was the most exciting thing I've seen for... A year? Maybe?"

"O- or is that seven?"

"Nice." Closer, and closer, and closer. The lips beseech; there's a brush on mine.

A slow syrupy kiss.

Sweet.

Lingering.

Wet.

An exuberance in the warmths clasped together; in the bodies falling closer, and closer, and closer. A sense a superstitious strange fantastical sense of being captured in her orbit while the fingers not only work but torment, strain and pulsate and wring and throb around me the skin immaculate.

Not his callused violence but something so delicate.

A deep heavy hot breath from the lungs.

"A-ahn..." A coo; a moan; everything plumes up up up swallowed down into her mouth. It is the fire-breather's exuberance inverted; it is one of the Mexican youths barefoot and with minds dreamy with strange chemical incantations simply gasping down the velvet fire that plumes thick and satiny from the lips.

"Ah, ah, Cathy-"

"Ca-the-rine. Catherine. Get it right, mousy-"

"S-same t'yurrrr..." Groaning; guttural.

"Lookit that." With huge gloating eyes. "Even the little girly-boy mousy is stiiiilll a boy-"

"'s- 's my tail. You're pulling on it-"

"I know. I could just keep pulling 'til you, oh, have a little accident, right?" The smile is enough to loose it all now. Savage; that's the only word.

's fucking savage.

"I- I just... D-don't, all right-"

"Why not? Y'know, maybe I should show you what it's like. A beautiful girl's lips around your cock." Oh, oh, oh.

It's less knelt and more... More a rippling mercury grace; it's quicksilver elegance it's a flamethrower grazing a mirror every shard dissolving into sticky dribbling tendrils puddling at my feet. It's to peer up and down and for the eyes to swivel and find purchase on nothing but this.

Her hair in its thick velvet elegance; a satin-tongued whisper over the flesh her fingers cradling it and already, already, already, there are heavy threads dribbling down down down coiling over her lips.

"Wow, feel that. You're already just drooling precum. You're so naughty, y'know, little mousy." The voice is modulated breath pulsating over the head; becomes feathery soft flitting kisses.

"Nga-"

"Oh, you're so cute. Are you gonna pop? Do not cream my face. I will not be happy about that. 'sides, I'm sure you'd love it all over your face more, right?"

"S-stop-"

"Stop? Seriously? Stop? What? Is this some kinda twisted pet thing for Dean? Oh, c'mon. Y'think this puppy's nose can't smell other girls on him? Other boys? He does hit the town-"

"I- I know that-"

"Then don't be all sanctimonious." It's cruelty, isn't it? The eyes in their entrancing sharp glint and it's less a dog and more a cobra now and the vacillation isn't in the long lissome elegance swaying writhing with sinuous ease but it's the tongue, flitting up down left right and it's to be mesmerized.

"A-ah..."

"Are you gonna come? Tell me. Tell me. I'll know, aaaanyway." A squeeze; once and twice and again and again and again and it's something so...

So achingly fragile.

Feminine.

My fingers rip; there's a will to gouge, to tear, clawing with a merciless mad frenzy at your own breast. A wish a will for something sumptuous, succulent, a lavish heavy heat flaring up gathering the chest coalescing distending but it's...

"Ngn... Feel that. I can taste what's in your head, y'know. Dogs can smell fear; they can smell lust and thoughts, too. You can't kick a dog that doesn't want to be." While she's knelt; not hunched, no, no, no, but only a standing-wave poetry the spine arching dazzlingly elegant.

Beautiful. Peer down into the eyes and know madness.

"I- I-"

"You want a pair of biiig tits, right?" Cooing and singsong. "Too bad, really. 'cause, ah, we're different, you know?" It's just...

It's snatched up; it's twisted ground between her fingers a pressure heaving the head into a brutal carnation-stained beacon snapped slapped pounded against her tongue with a sharp wet percussion and it isn't isn't isn't isn't fair.

Is...

Is it a pet's fealty?

"I- I'm gonna-"

"I know." Stilled; stilled still stilled with the long powerful fingers just... Just laced around it; with a fingertip jabbed against the flesh pouring down down down from that pucker clutching palpitating begging for something anyyyything.

"W-wha-"

"Ain't retrograde ejaculation fun?" It's more than wicked; more than evil. Eviler than evil.

"I- I didn't-" And it's true it's true it's true 'cause it's just... It's not quite that perfection; not yet that toe-curling spine-thrashing psychosis. Not yet anything but only only anguish. Trembling torment; more than frustration.

Sexual exasperation.

"Too bad. 'cause I hear it feels like coming in reverse. Mmm." And the tongue's long slow caress on the peak. "You're so sweet-"

"You're mean. You're mean-"

"Oh, so I've stopped being a bitch. I'm just mean now, huh? That desperate to come?" With a glance up up up through heavy lashes like anthracite carved with a master artisan's elegance into long prickling quills.

"D-dammit-"

"You wanna come. You wanna come. You wanna come. Just saaay it-"

"I wanna come!" It's, well, pride is a farce.

A fraud.

Pride is not nourishment.

Pride is not relief.

Pride is not joy.

Pride is Anthony Comstock scowling at a heap of rubbers and calling it vice.

Fuck it.

"I wanna come! I wanna come! I- I really do-"

"Too bad about that. You don't want to indulge, to- to dignify a bitch like me, right?" Oh, this isn't fair. "After all, I'm only interested in stealing away your nice hunk of meat, aren't I? Oh, Dean, Dean, Dean. Now that is a bone I could sink my teeth into-"

"D-do you wanna share?" Gurgling cooing crazed, it's...

It's a rodent's passion.

I know this.

Relentless hip-pumping.

"Share?" Not quite standing; no, no, no. It's springing upright; it's fingers laced around my shoulders a twist of the wrists a cock of the hips and it's the universe melting down down down tumbling through an obsidian funnel and staring up at the ceiling while her skin twinkles in sweat's faint kiss capturing the bronzed light spilling from Dean's bed stand lamp. "Let me think."

"W-well-"

"You played with Mistress, right? So you're not ooonly into boys. I can see that."

"Uh-uh. Uh-uh." Insanity. 's all insanity.

"Mmm... Why don't you show me just how committed you are?" It's wicked. It's cruel. It's irresistible.

It's her body's twist and sway it's to be swallowed into a darkness wrought in the universe tapering down twisted warped contorted into that soft luscious skin absolutely bare shimmering drenched stained with an inexpressible sweat delirium a sticky dripping sexuality the lips clasped together and slipping apart with a finger's long slow stroke. Levitating over me; the knees cradle shoulders and the thighs shiver.

"A-ah... Your breath is so nice, mousy-"

"C-call me Ceniza."

"Call me Catherine, then." The voice is a murmur, a distant senseless thing.

"'kay." And mine, also. Dreamy and demented and there's... There's a sudden dip in the figure and she's crashing down, down, down, and not only her hips but everything. Stained; chin smeared with the lips' slathering sleek grace sodden with that dewy lust that becomes juicy overflowing overripe.

"I haven't had a good tongue there for some time, y'know. Because Mistress has been sooo busy lately. Ah... Ah..." There is no answer; there can be no answer. It's not only an invitation but a command; it's a Sapphic face-fucking, that hungry mouth ground against my left cheek, and then the right. Pitching up and falling down and there's a gathering manic psychosis in it. "Oh, oh, oh! Your cheeks are like butter!

"D-damn, damn, damn, that's so fucking nice! Yeah! Yeah! Lick me, m-m-mousy- Ceniza!" Is that conciliatory or...? Fuck it.

The answer is not silence; it is only wordless. Tongue tumbling out stern firm daggering into her and it's not only a delicate patient lick but something berserk, manic, thrashing wheeling twisting plunging pumping into the scalding wet feminine grace a flavor that's...

That's absolutely unplaceable.

It is.

Faintly musky; a hot overripe peach elegance. A faint lemon meringue bitterness. More than anything, it's a texture a presence as fragile and soft and feminine as a jungle breeze wafting over your sweat-stained cheek and as crude as a fucking sledgehammer to the prefrontal lobe. It's a sense of awe; it's to be delighted with this.

Kiss and kiss and kiss and jaws are being peeled open and now...

"Oh, oh, oh, I need to give you a reward, mousy. I like that name. Mousy Mousy Mousy. C'mon, c'mon, Mousy, y'can't tell me that 'Chilla sounds as cute-"

"F-fair enough!"

"Chin-slut. Ah!" And it's there; it's scarlet in the cheeks. "But that's nice. C'mon, chin-slut. Beg with your tongue an' I'll give you a nice reward." And it...

It is.

It's something prickling firm a brush against the very peak her body a constellation of sinuous geometries intuited and now, now, rearing up, the belly flat and firm and muscular and lean and still oh so sleek and soft and the navel a fine divot and it's her tits. Well, one of 'em, anyway. The nipple brushed oh so patiently with fingers poising aloft that thing that...

That venomous weakness. That blood poison that metabolic disease that's all reason just cast off.

Abandoned.

It's groping imploring it's...

It's her breasts; it's to be swallowed between them it's to...

"Y'know, I can't even lick your, oh, petite lil' chin-cock like this. My tits are way-hay too big for you, honey-"

"I don't caaaare!" Or, well, it's...

Wahogaaaahr.

Fuck it.

Swallowed into her; tongue dragged down down down and it's sensation it's frenzy it's the perfection in flesh in heat devouring that trembling twanging plea.

It's so so so close.

It's-

"Holy fuckin' shit." It's the door rattling open.

There are great pointillist constellations of nonsense already coalescing on lips half-numbed with her, with that smearing syrupy delectation; with the soft supremely lavish luscious drenched skin with the flesh lurking deeper concentricities in succulent pink pink pink pink in its gradations in its grandiose guava grace inviting the mouth the kisses sharp hot pummeling and the tongue is already captured paralyzed with desire's enormity.

Gawping; blinking through lashes shimmering with her with that sodden hot lust.

"A-ah, hi, Dean." It's something incredible; it's a perfect stillness; it's, well, it's a cliché, right? That infidelity caricature when you're just whimsically clattering through the door, Hi, honey, oh, is that the mailman?

Hey, Carl- the fuck're you two doing?!

And there are, of course, the companions to this.

The knife's brutal cold fang.

The pistol's quick crack.

The shotgun's cough amplified to about a quadrillion decibels.

There's stillness.

Catherine's voice simply reverberates.

"Ah, hi." And Dean's, now, also. Delirious; delicious; wafting in its gravel-pattering-on-satin allure. "Am... Y'know, I must've gone in the wrong room. I musta just walked through some kinda portal to another dimension. Hey, it happens-"

"Dean, Dean, c'mon, darling." There's a squeeze; long lovely fingers cradle her tits those tits titties colossal soft soft plump plump plush lush delicious a heat flaring around me swallowing hungering stalking in their stillness it's the forest stirring a great diabolic demon simply shrugging off millennial torpor to eat.

Everything.

A hot husky mewl, well, it's a struggle, wandering up from between her thighs. Once and again and again.

"Won't you close the door, Dean?"

"Who the hell are you, an' what're you doing with Ceniza?"

"I'm Catherine." The silence is not only pregnant; it's tumbling into its ninth month, hell, it's probably already overdue and there's a plea for a Caesarean for something to break it rupture it tear it open. "Don't you recognize me?"

"I, ah... This's so fuckin' weird." Incredulity; disbelief in a voice upraised, beckoning another Catherine. The figment; the fantasy in a thrashing tail and lolling tongue. "Catherine. Catherine!" That hot husky voice; that perfection that's a sledgehammer slapping at your gut with Catherine's tits in their cradling hunger. "Catherine! Here, girl!"

"Woof." Slow; long-suffering from those savage luscious lips. "Dean, come on, I am Catherine-"

"That's- that's total bullshit. 'cause- 'cause you're a hot, uh... Latina? Something? You're a sexy tanned chick and Catherine is a-"

"Dachshund. Specifically, a red short hair Dachshund. Well? Don't you recognize me? The eyes? The, ah, nice tail?" Wriggling wiggling a twist a sway wickedness pitching plunging down down down.

"This's... Y'know what?" Dean's voice is dragged from the throat, boulders ripped from a quarry. "I should really start volunteering at the pound more often. Sonofabitch." Closer, and closer. The boots a familiar clomp; eased off with what's almost become a point of somatic memory. A pattern that could only be called predictable.

Elegant and easy and, ah...

"What're you doing with Ceniza-"

"D-Dean, it's, ah, it's..." The words are pathetic anemic things struggling addled and undernourished from my lips. "Not exactly what it looks like." In my defense, it's really an ordeal to coax anything like a persuasive lie into being when a beautiful woman's pussy's still about a half-inch from your lips; something like sparking damp kindling with a leafblower. "I mean, um, okay, it is-"

"It's sweet. Dayum. I'm serious." Not quite peeled off; but there's a, oh, a displacement. A sudden throttling cruelty in numbness in the flesh prised away but just... Vanishing. It's a twist a quirk and she's sprawled out a self-conscious elegance in the thighs still clasped together hair curtaining us in that shimmering wet obsidian sublime, the tits quavering plump splayed apart in their simple bulk.

"Well, Dean. Do you like what you see?" With hip against hip; with her shoulder clasped on mine; with the fingers lacing up up up through my hair with tingling electrifying pageantry.

"Damn, I do. That's... Who woulda thought I'd have two shapeshifters? You a familiar, too, ah... Catherine-"

"That's right. It is Catherine." Hot husky sumptuous. "I am, indeed, a familiar. Mistress gave me the... Whatever off. Do you like my cute little tail, Dean? How about my big black eyes?" Hand a beveled grace, the knuckles cradled with that archetypal girlish pageantry under her chin; the lashes beat a quick hummingbird stroke along soft satiny cheeks. "And what about this one?

"Oh, Little Ceniza. She hated me, you know. So so jeaaalous. 'cause you were scratching my cute little ears and petting me. I got in, oh, a few licks at your sweat."

"This's... I must be dreaming, man. Or maybe the pain meds are still kinda kickin' around in my system or something." But, well, something is surrendering a little more candidly to reality. More than pricking up; perking straining flaring swelling bloating up against the denim and it's a sense that he's smuggling another pet there.

"Ngn... Dean, aren't you going to say anything?" How can you not tease? Torment? With palms cradling a chest that...

Ain't hers. Slim, yes; a lissome grace, nipples straining tortured taut. Hand falling down down down and it's to camouflage that; to whisper of its shapes, the thighs slipped apart.

"Ah, Ceniza-"

"Oh, don't be upset." Mine is a heavy hot wet pout of a murmur, vamping and delicious. "We were just playing. Don't you want your pets to get along, Dean?" Twisting onto a shoulder; hair pours into hair. White and dark chocolate; the skin, also, soft lush shimmering with sweat's whimsical smears. A kiss brushed dewy with her lust on her cheek.

There's a coo trilling up from her lips.

"O-oh, goddamn." This should be anyone's answer.

The hips.

Long long long endlessly long legs.

"We're not too petite for you, are we, Dean? Were you expecting, oh, a Doberman, maybe?" Such as anything's petite about Catherine but her height.

"Ah, no, no-"

"How about it, Dean?" And it's perhaps the woman's essence. Whatever your rancor, there's only an implacable craving to torment, to terrorize, to...

Well, to subjugate.

It is to know surrender in the eyes.

It is genuflection in a glance.

"How- how about what?" How adorably simple he is.

"Two beautiful naked girls. Well, one girl, one girly-boy-" Ah, ah, and still, Catherine's implacable bitchiness.

"I'm enough of a girl." Rearing up now; a half-sit up becomes a full one. It's something slow, patient and plodding like cyanide syrup's sweet sticky creep into the ears. Hair swept over a shoulder, spilling down down down with modesty's affectation, still split apart like a tuxedo's tails over my tail. Spine arching; palms and knees on the mattress.

Slipping slithering closer and closer and closer.

"We didn't finish, did we, Dean? And she got me even messier. I was waiting for you to jam that huuuuge thing in my ass-pussy. Right? Well? You're still wearing clothes. Should... Ooooh. Have I turned you over to the dark side? Can't get it up for busty beauties anymore-"

"Oh, honey, it ain't that. I'm just- I'm a loyal guy, y'know, and, ah-"

"From the guy who comes back reeking of whiskey and pussy." How can you not? The head cocked; and the cock, well, it's very comfortable answering.

No equivocation; no ambiguity; no pretension.

"C'mon, Dean. Let me see it. Take 'em off; take everything off."

"I'm in agreement with your little mousy, Dean." With that bitch still in repose. "Sorry, sorry, not mousy. I just think that's the cutest. With the plump little belly and the soft little ears. How she grows up, huh?

"But, ah, your chin-slut, right?" The words are talons laced up and down up and down the spine. Heavy scalding threads stitched into every nerve and pulled and slathered with electrified napalm. "C'mon, Dean. Ain't she cute? Aren't I cute?" And now, now, there's movement; a sway a faint little creak from the mattress and it's her knees now.

An awareness of a breast heavy heavy heavy falling swaying a nipple's trembling brush against my left shoulder; a palm on the small of my back.

Heat.

"C'mon, Dean. Don't you wanna do something fuuun with us?" How deliciously she croons.

"Oh, yeah, I do." It's a Penthouse Forum submission coalescing between his ears, isn't it? "Ah, ah, uh, y'know, Ceniza-"

"I know you're kind of a pig, Dean. 's all right. I mean, after all, it just means we can allll have more fun, right? A pig and a chinchilla and a puppy walk into a bedroom-"

"Oh, I love how this one ends." A coo; it's a coo. From Catherine's plush soft lips dewy with desire with the tongue's stroke. "The joke always ends with something wet and messy and crazy."

"'xactly, Dean. So... Take 'em off. Or we're just gonna rape the fuck out of you. And I do mean that literally. Don't try to run. You don't want another broken leg. Dogs, ah, I hear they get pretty aggressive when you try to keep food away from 'em."

"That's right." Springing; damn, she's gorgeous. Quick; nimble; a quicksilver athleticism and it's not only on her feet wheeling pirouetting but beside him. Dwarfed in height; there's still a menace you could only call superhuman.

Supernatural.

"I wanna watch you two kiss-" Implore them now with a drunk garrulous mewl.

"You must have some kind of fetish, y'know, Ceniza? Are you quite the little cuckquean-"

"Ah, maybe. Who knows? Who cares? I just think it's... Delicious. Beauty. Maybe that's it." Admiring; awed with it. With her fingers; with the complexions; with the dusky grace and the dark eyes and his skin firm and masculine and paler and still, still, with the sun's faintest little kiss.

Craning up up up and there's a brush of lips.

Trembling; a quality like bubbling lead in the gut.

Enchanted.

"Whoa." The universe throbs; the walls pound to a timpani rhythm like some demented ricochet in hydrogen bombs' sonic mayhem palpitating through gelatin. Their lips; their mouths; jaws fall open and tongues are coaxed out and it is self-evident that Catherine is never not in heat. It's a hunger a rage flaring up; it's fingers groping and clutching and there's nothing delicate in it.

It's her nails like talons now raking tearing twisting pulling the jeans snapped open that flannel shirt just sloughed off like a moulting snake, and his eyes have bubbled open huge and incredulous when the shoulders are hammered against the bunker's cold wall.

"W-whoa-"

"What is it, Dean?" And how can you not stand; how can you not offer yourself beside the canid beauty in her candid lust?

It is elegance akimbo; it is a grace in juxtaposition, in cream and caramel; in ash and char. Kiss and kiss and it's falling down, down, teeth fangs nipping nibbling at his shoulder while hers feast on his mouth and now, now, it's to be replaced to be displaced, wheeling twisting craning up to implore his while her jaws work while the tongue flits flickers down down down along the firm muscle the sinew the scars in their brutal ridges.

A gasp when the jeans simply melt off; when they're pooling at his feet and there's a pluck a pull a tug and there's absolutely nothing like underwear. Fantastic.

"Dean, Dean, c'mon. Didn't you say you were gonna fuck me? Your little chin-slut?" It isn't a tease; no, no, no. It's to fling yourself at him.

"I- ah, w-well, yeah-"

"Oh, don't mind me." Catherine standing; her fullest height is still barely to his shoulder and it's something oh so lovely not to be dwarfed by your, what, competitor?

But the presence is immense.

"After all, I haven't been spayed. It'd be veery bad to do it in there, Dean. Unless you wanna wear. I'm a natural girl. And, ah, I don't know where it'd all go if I went on the pill."

"S-shapeshifters, familiars, you can have kids?" Is it that incredible? His eyes humongous.

"Ah, duh. What, are you some kinda moron or something, Dean?" Catherine's huge black eyes narrowed to faintly feline slits. "We are all the same biology at least some of the time. Why?"

"I, ah... Should prolly call back a few girls I met-"

"Oh, damn, Dean." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. An invitation to his arms; duly embraced. It's to be pulled tugged up up up, palms on my ass. Cradled; held; adored.

"You're so- so small, y'know, Ceniza. So soft; so cute. So- so fuckin' hot. You, too, Catherine. Sonofabitch, I just wanna howl like a dog-"

"Then do it." While she's...

She's just plunging to her knees; not a hard crack on the floor but something silent and furtive and that would be her mouth, her lips, a kiss a stroke a lap a lick her tongue flitting flickering devouring now and it's...

It beggars belief. It's to be peeled open; her palms clapped on my ass and digging daggering tugging the cheeks apart.

Bracing me aloft; the weightless is now something negative, soaring and soaring of your own volition. A sticky long lingering kiss squelching sputtering spattering and...

"A-ah, Catheeerine-"

"What? Don't like my fingers? They're all nice and soft, aren't they? Not big and callused like Dean's." While his are almost conjoined with hers; while they're still just- just spearing clutching clenching into my ass. An awareness of soft sleek skin dimpling yielding still a tension, well...

"D-damn, Ceniza, your butt is amazing. I think I could probably bounce a quarter off it-"

"A silver dollar." Is this reconciliation now with Catherine? With that praise? "You might not have any tits, but all that womanliness went somewhere. Your little ass-pussy, oh, that's so cute, by the way," her voice is a slam a pummeling sharp wet stripe on every nerve; it's thunder reverberating down every vein, "It's just delicious.

"Look at this, Dean. I mean, c'mon, you must eat it all the time."

"Y-yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" Crane up up up taste his belly against that ravenous esurient thing my tail thrashing wriggling against him so so so so close so close and so far, also. Not fucking fair. "Dean, you love it, right-"

"Damn right, I do. I- I wanna fuck you-"

"Don't stop yourself on my account." Oh, how lovely Catherine is. It's something absolutely fucking incredible; her fingers, her fingers, ah, hers cradling him clutching the root twisting it up up and it's to admire it in its sensual reflection in his eyes.

Staining his face scarlet.

"D-damn, this's... This's so weird. I had a dream about this once in the eleventh grade. I- I had to wash my sheets." Quite the confession, Dean.

"Hah. Listen to that." Catherine from behind me; beneath me. And it's... There.

There.

The bloated swollen head just jammed into that clamoring pucker and it's to know its displacement and it's not only her fingers sleek and spittle-slathered and twisting coiling along those strange furrows and ridges in their nebulous sensation in the cognitive dissonance the duality in sense and numbness, in an ambiguous protean intrusion scrawling with sensation but just...

Its simple bulk.

Humongous; the head alone is vaster than a tank slipping through the front door and my body's just dipping down, down, down, and it's daggering into me, immensity shouldering away any pretension of resistance with gravity's grace with...

Well, with magic. What? Y'think saliva's enough? No, no, no. It's fucking magic; it's a dewy elegance an ambrosia that coalesces there. There can be no pain; nothing nothing nothing but the elemental perfection in the bliss that rears heaves spurts up up up from him.

Eyes enormous; the universe is smeared swarmed with a jellied effulgence mincing pirouetting over every inch of your awareness. It's to be bathed in a febrile instant-onset sweat.

It's his body.

Mine.

Converging.

Colliding.

Crashing together.

Swaying; rocking; writhing. A rhythmic elegance now and... And it's my tail pinned between us. It's a plea for tits and a simple satisfaction with her hands there and his, also, arms wound around my waist not only to be lifted but totally weightless. Jerked up and...

And down again.

Filled.

Skewered to the root. And still, still, her tongue is a wickedness; is a wet-velvet madness a mania that stabs jabs twist and tears deeper and...

"Oh, look at this slutty ass-pussy. Perfect for a chin-slut, right?" It's... It's true; it's a gurgle a guttural scalding insanity and there's definitely not the jealousy not the possessiveness now.

Just...

Just him.

Just his body.

And hers, also.

And-

"W-wah, fuck, Catherine, man, what're you doin'?" Is that yelp from Dean? A hot husky entrancing masculine one.

An' still a yelp.

A mewl from my lips.

"Chin-chin-chin. Ngn... C-Catherine, that's... You're pushing your fingers in me! It's- it's way too tight-"

"Uh-uh." It's denial; rejection; it's... Holy fuck. Her knuckles graze that elastic taut flesh; it's... "It's not too tight; it's very tight. But not too. This is such a slutty fuck-hole. Oh, y'little chin-slut, you're just crazy for sex, right?

"You're already fuck-drunk?"

"'s true. Chin. Chin. Chin." Not even something teasing or conscious but just... Just jaws tumbling open lips rubbery an insanity flaring up huge and hot behind my eyes. "I wanna fuck; do it harder, Dean-"

"She's- she's gonna rip my cock off, Ceniza." His protests persuade no one.

"Yeah, right. You're just worried you'll shoot off way too fast if I do this." She's... Her fingers...

It's an awareness of movement.

A wisdom deeper than anything Socratic or, ah...

Definitely Platonic.

Har har.

Stroking.

Fingers laced around him pulling jerking tugging and straining and pulsating and squeezing and...

"G-goddamn right, I'm worried. I feel like I could pop in a second. I've never done that-"

"Not once? You don't stick your fingers in, too, chin-slut? Well, I'm just so fuckin' disappointed in you. Really. Really. How can you pretend to be a good little fuck-whore if you're not willing to do that?"

The words are a palm's crack on your cheek.

Hot.

Skin reddening with it.

Stare into Dean's eyes and know the simple candor in it.

The exhortation.

The overture.

"C-Ceniza, ah, y'know-"

"I love it; I love it rough like that. I- I'm kinda... Kinda s-shy, I- I guess, but... Nghyaaahaa!" Another finger; another.

Three and his and it's just...

It's a tension that defies any understanding; crashes crushes tears twists brutalizes it's a sensual butchery. It's a wail a howl grinding mantling up up up every fucking nerve.

"W-wah... Dean, Dean, Dean, c'mon, c'mon, pump me. Fuck my ass; fuck my slutty ass-pussy. I am. I'm your chin-slut, right? C'mon, c'mon, c'mon-"

"Damn, all right. All right." Numb delirious and it's- it's not something delicate or graceful. It's a pump a pound hammering swatting slapping wet her fingers still there lacing wriggling slithering through me around him and they're just teased deeper deeper deeper and it's fuckin' incredible.

Again and again and again and...

And it's obvious, isn't it?

The novelty.

The tension.

'cause... 'cause it's not even something so discrete as one orgasm but something endless, uninterrupted, one cohesive thread unfurling playing out longer and longer and longer toes curling legs flung around his hips and his hands tearing into my ass; one, anyway, planted there, entwined with her fingers, another cradling my nape and it's...

It's just flaring flowering up up up.

That monstrous thing just ground against a point that's the universe condensed into a micron a cell a corpuscle something and it's riotous scalding spraying unfurling unfolding an enormity that defies anything like human understanding.

No philosophy and no anatomy and no biologic truth can capture this cradle it 'cause it's just there there there that point that little bead that's more incredible than anything else. It's a femininity in that root, in that plump spongy yielding thing.

Shuddering through me.

Legs tighter and tighter and tighter around him; heels grind into his spine and dig and tear and furrow and twist and there's only muscle, muscle, muscle, soft skin, yes, but the sleek faint fat's just vanished dissolved into little more than memory.

Arch and heave and...

And it's not coming; it's coming going coming back wheeling around and it's here again.

An endless leak a seep a slithering passage from the flesh more more more pouring over him smeared on his belly twisted over the tight flesh the heavy meat the stern chiseled abs the- the everything ground strained and...

And there's movement.

Not carried so much as just borne; pushed down down down onto the mattress and there's still the flesh intertwined the meat and bone and blood and there's orgasm, yes, orgasm after orgasm a fucking avalanche it's the Boston Marathon through a minefield.

It's your head snapping back into the cushioning fabric it's your universe slipping down down down into a sweat ocean that doesn't drown so much as just muddle and muffle and twist and break and deform and orgasm is something deeper still.

It's the Marianas Trench; it's a sudden emptiness. It's to know something Taoist, sitting and forgetting. I have forgotten everything; more than everything. It's carving deeper deeper deeper knowing the heat pluming up from a mantle from the core from...

From Creation.

Primeval.

Primordial.

Groaning and rasping gnashing snapping clawing at him now and there's a selfish hungering spurt; spraying up up up through me spattering at that point inside me a warmth like the world melted down and splashed across every inch.

Without relent.

Dragged; pulled; atop him now and it's to know your hair not flattening but just dampening with a sweat-mist like rain's haze and a palm on your chest it's his and it's mine settling on it lubricated with his cum a grandiose sticky ropy puddle on his belly.

His eyes; my eyes.

Conjoined.

Her lips there now, dragged through the cum in its pooling effusion.

Tongue flitting out; gathering huge heaps and now, now, rearing up, there's a command. Fingers laced around my cheeks and there is no escape.

Force-fed the lust in its immensity.

Sticky and gelid and coiling between our tongues; hers not so much slipped with ease as just jammed between my lips. Kissing, kissing, kissing, knowing the frothing enormity burbling up bubbling fulminating gathering falling over him again with a slovenly indifference to anything but the simple sensation and...

And it's irresistible.

Kissing him.

The wince cast away. Who fucking cares about anything else? Kiss and kiss and kiss and her lips and his and it's something strange conjoined split and twisted apart and joined again and it's just...

I need it.

Craning over him; her body an achingly elegant twist and quirk and those humongous ridiculous tits just fall down down down ground along the chin cradling his face and it's to kiss her, kiss her, cum swapped tangled between tongues slopping and sloshing and swallowed down with spittle in its humongous bulk and...

And I need more.

"I- I wish you had a cock, Catherine."

"Really?" The eyes mischievous, glinting. "That's quite the plea."

And it's swelling; Dean is flaring up, bloating more more more a humongous bulk ripping rippling scalding squelching sputtering with his cum as lubrication through me.

With that delirium, with that succulent sumptuous ambrosia.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I do. I do. I'd swallow you; I'd gag on you-"

"Good thing dogs have such long tails, huh?" It's not... Wha?

Eyes.

Stillness; somehow, somehow, the stillness is something cinematic, absolutely unassailably perfect. There should be a camera quirk; there should be a wheeling pivot a full-rail sway around us, 'cause it's just...

There.

No incantations.

No double, double, toil and trouble.

Just there.

Not even springing up. It flares; pops into being. A long voluptuous thing. Not quite Dean's, but there's a sense that it should be huger in its proportions. Heavy and swollen and drooping wilting down down down under its own bulk, the head drooling succulent juices from its broad yawning slit carved in a deep shimmering furrow.

"Whoa. Whoa-"

"Still excited?" Her voice is a barbed spear twisted in the gut, spattering with ol' Sparky's collective essence.

"Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Both of you." Dean's eyes craning up gawping at the simple, well, can you really complain about the unreality in it when you're a fucking werechilla?

When she's a weredachshund?

Who cares?

Who cares?

It's just...

It's urgent sudden rearing up standing fingers twisted into my hair a purchase in the satiny hugeness and pulling tugging jerking it between my lips. Nothing delicate. There is no graceful progression. There is one long heaving stroke and my throat's distending elastic and hungering and lips clutch sticky and beseeching around her and the jaw is tormented with the simple bulk.

Pulled out and pushed down again and again and a relentless pummeling pump; kiss kiss kiss her hips that soft sleek luscious skin. A merciless crunching pattern and his is to commune with it. It's an elegance in the quick syncopation; in his body and hers and it's to be dragged pulled up and down up and down seesawing between them bound pinned penned.

Their hungers are simply presence; a delirium a delicious crazed swivel-eyed thrall that smears a sticky wet electricity over every fucking inch. Sight melts away; afterimages linger in strange swirls like Navajo sand paintings swept together promiscuously with a dog's tongue.

Lunge and shudder and jerk and plunge.

More more more into me.

Moans guttural and heavy and thick with spittle with...

With her cum.

Just- just so insouciant; maybe silent or maybe it's just for all sound to melt off to taste only your heartbeat and theirs, also, aligned in an unreal amniotic perfection that achingly lovely rhythm the lavish allure in flesh upon flesh upon flesh and...

And it's spraying up. Slashing slapping at my throat and there's no will to stop. There's no need. Why why why?

And...

And it's being dragged out; quivering threads like jellied lead spool out with her.

"W-what're you doing, Catherine-"

"Shh... I'm not gonna stop." It's a slap.

Her palm.

Just a languorous crack on my cheek and it's, well, it's bearing down like childbirth. It's that cruelty in judgment feared just tossed away.

Crunching around Dean.

"W-ah, honey, what- what the hell, Ceniza, gonna break me-"

"Slap me, Dean! S-slap the fuck out of me! Really. I love it. Choke me; slap me; break me. Pound me. I- I love it so much-"

"D-damn, Ceniza-"

"Do it. Do it. Strangle me-"

"Yeah, Dean. Like this." Draped over me; behind, behind, suddenly, she's just there. Fingers long and sleek and the talons absolutely brutal sharp wicked laced around my throat and there's a squeeze. A pressure that becomes symmetry.

Twisting around me.

Tangled with him.

Voice vanishes.

Lashes tremble, dewy with his cum and hers and... And they become my life's boundaries. Fall down over cheeks scalding straining a certainty that they must be purpling with the pressure with those giddy words carotid and jugular introduced to the beast's visceral predation and...

And just crushed.

"A-ah... Ah..." Pulling jerking and it's to know her body slipped with a sodden velvet elegance against mine; falling folding into me, tits plump flattening over my shoulders belly against my spine and that monstrous straining palpitating thing dragged up down up down and...

"C'mon, Dean. You should really try it. Putting a leash on a chinchilla's maybe a little unorthodox, but you can do it." His arms.

His arms.

His hands.

"Ngn... Look. At. That." Her eyes can be felt; they're tasted in reflection ricocheting through his cock bubbling up bloating in me and... And it's rising falling rising again again again a mad untroubled frenzy and... "I want some, too." A kiss on my shoulder; a nip on my nape.

Submerging herself in my hair.

Enameling herself on me.

And.

There's...

There's always that cinematic flourish.

A broken radio.

A screech.

Silence.

Waaaaaah.

Not blacking out; no, no, no. Reality has become red; a burgundy haze plumes up up up pools 'cause... 'cause there's no gentleness at all. No delicate progression. She's there.

And inside me beside him above him and their plump underbellies are clamped together and it's...

It defies language.

It is simple in its geometries.

Ah, well, if there's one, why not two?

If there's one sausage you've managed to wad into your throat, why not two?

Exactly.

It's a wail.

A squeal.

A silent huge urgent enormity that flares up up up that's muteness and deafness and eyes quivering plunging down into his.

She's there.

Lurking.

Still; for just a moment, brutally hellaciously still. It's... It's incredible. Knowing that taut ring cinching clenching struggling to force them away and to know only failure.

"W-whoa, Ceniza, is- is it okay-"

"It's so fucking good!" Because this is also true. It's... It's the tiniest little sting of pain and that pain is rocket fuel for a deeper masochistic exuberance a bliss a fervor a frenzy and- and it's begging for her nails ripped down my shoulders and... "P-pull my nipples; slap my cheeks; slap my ribs. D-do something, dammit!"

And so it is.

A perfect consensus in their hips' graceful vacillation; a seesaw up and down up and down an immaculate native coordination and it's his body it's hers it's mine it's just... A stillness and not at all. Knowing curling toes a palm slapped on his belly another hand captured with her reaching fingers and a squeeze and her mouth scalds roils like water tossed into boiling oil.

Madness.

All of it is simply madness.

Twist and shiver like a tempest-tossed willow because the body is more than enervated. It's exhausted; it's been broken reduced to absolutely nothing but an atavistic animal clamoring for more, more, more. Clutching at that word; at all-you-can-eat carnalities.

And I will eat.

I must eat.

Shiver and grope at them and... And it's bubbling up, a pump, a sense of a pump worked with their merciless endless clamoring pummeling strokes his bulk crushing her into me or... Or maybe it's her bulk crushing him into me.

Whichever.

Yeah.

It must be... Him, right? Giggling and cooing and just melting now, draped over him limp and slack and spurting with cum more more more swarming him and...

And it's to be flooded.

They are there.

Spraying.

Racing.

Once; and again; and again. 'til there's absolutely nothing but the sense of being little more than flotsam tossed and twisted between mischievous breakers. His fingers and hers and they will sway between the postures and they are...

They're both cradling me between them; crazed, crazed, crazed, soles twisted up to the ceiling braced with his strength and hers and thighs split apart and their cocks are conjoined both arcing spearing through me and there's one last great violent convulsive throb.

A roar.

An eeeverything.

And...

And a breath.

Gusting out of me.

"Yeaaaah!" Screaming; more than screaming. My ears protest. Who cares who cares who cares who...

Darkness.

Darkness and light and there's another sharp clatter a rattle a figure silhouetted suddenly in the door and...

Who can arrest it now? Both beating pounding pummeling at that perfection that likeness of a boy's clitoris tucked in me deep deep deep and there's a sudden explosion like fucking Hiroshima.

Spraying up up up mushroom-cloud lust and a sharp patter on his cheek.

"Dean, what the fuck is going on in here?" Incredulity. It's... Well, if you opened the door and found your brother and some luscious top-heavy dusky goddess cramming their cocks, never mind the anatomical exoticism, into a creamy-skinned yowling doe-eyed divinity wrapped in hair like ash as silk, ah...

Could the brain quite cope?

A finger brushed over his cheek, trailing through, uh, well, me. Eyes narrowing; they're still vast enough to accommodate the Baltic in duplicate. And nature is very obedient, springing up through his jeans.

"H-hey, there, Sammy, ah..." Dean's voice an inverted squeal; a pitch like a deflating helium balloon twisted to basso profondo. "Just takin' care of the pets."