Ah, ah, ah. The junk slithers deeper and deeper and deeper into the cells; theirs is a craving that isn't the addict's metamorphosis, isn't the transformation the transfiguration the cellular metabolic alchemy that warps man and woman into that strange unreal numb sexless thing called the junkie. It is something more elemental than this; it is to taste magic layered upon magic, and one cannot displace another. It is meteorology; it is with generous quotation of Bernoulli; it is to taste the wisdom in these things that have been domesticated with a wild-eyed zeal for certitude in nature and that cannot will not ever be understood in man.
Because man is animal. Man is a flesh machine; man is soft machinery, not rattling gears but mutable bone; not twanging taut coils coruscating with electricity in their predictable marching perfection the one-zero-one-zero-one-zero binary but something absolutely apart from it. It is quantum computing; it is the suggestible and the subjective and it isn't even that the mind conquers the body but will never ultimately admit it is of the body.
Our faiths and our convictions. They are wrought in this. The flesh is perhaps a sumptuous sainted garden or even a cruel mendacious trap. But it is forever the body. Even the trendy atheists tacitly surrender to this one fundamental point. The mind is something unquantifiable. Ah, ah, this sumptuous heady psychobabble, this pious preening academical nonsense.
It is all our collective will not even to be what we are not; it is a joint conspiracy in our figments of accord in language to believe the world is what it is not. It is flesh. This is the truth. Amen. There are no prologues and there are no epilogues.
There is ultimately no life and death. Can you carve it into such absolutes when you know one half the binary? One half. It is something that surpasses the life's and flesh's very boundaries; the mind's cogitation. Taste the elemental psychic anguish with a palm cradling your heart tasting with a fanatical grandiose relish every fucking mote of blood coiling not with your will but only the soft machinery through your heart when that epiphany arrives.
Oh, goddess, I'm going to die.
Ultimately, eventually, you and me, right, right, right? Whatever my feats, whatever my life's sublimity or even its absolute prosaicness, ah, ah, all ultimately becomes meat, doesn't it? Sooner or later. What does it even matter if you're remembered or not, adored and adulated or not, if there is rejoicing at your passage or mourning that splits the earth and shakes the heavens in the throng's great plangent despair 'cause it can't matter!
Wah!
Every word mastered.
Every deed.
Every bit of knowledge; every philosophical epiphany.
Ah.
Ah.
And what will it even matter if there is an afterlife? If it's to bleed into a glorious ancestral communion where the flesh's boundaries melt off or if there're dreamy-eyed stoned-off-their-asses seraphim strumming electric harps in acid-rock symphonics while you trip balls with Jesus and Muhammad and Abraham and, hell, maybe even Shalmaneser V and God or Goddess or the pantheon rock the fuck out to a crazed Electric Kool-Aid-smeared musical frenzy...
What does it matter if it's not you?
If what you are is dismantled, teased apart, the spirit and the soul and the mind and your genius, ah, ah, not as a judgment in the IQ's vicissitudes but that most elemental essence, when they're torn out of you and your meat that has been so precious to you is lain into the cold earth or tossed into a ditch or set out to bloat and blacken with rot or you're little more than ash?
What, then?
All is vanity, y'see.
Amen.
There is the strut the swagger the madness the fingers the hands the hips the simple fundamental humanity in all of it, y'understand. It's to eat the night; it is to become the Great Wolves, your head thrown back a huge baying warbling howl pluming from jaws twisted apart, the Fenrir and its great diabolic children, Sköll and Hati, and you will swallow and snap and snarl and all will be little better than meat fine and fork-tender to be torn from the bone and you will you must feast on the blood dribbling down your fangs.
Amen.
So shall it be. Taste the eyes in their hungry drunken flit; know the time that is not time at all. Midnight or one or two or ten or... Or what even is it? It's not sleeping it off; there's nothing to sleep off. It's only to coil and wheel and whirl; it is to be the Jörmungandr this evening, or maybe this morning. It is to know time in its meaningless circuitous whirl.
Today is tomorrow, ultimately.
Today is today within a year.
Twenty.
Fifty.
All human life is predicated on a lie. From the geologic, one man's or woman's life is not even meaningless; from the celestial, the geological is not even meaningless; from the transcendental, the celestial is not even meaningless. All are less than even this, because that's just what it is. Scale and proportion.
Tell that to the one whose hunger is so deep the act of stroking your belly becomes masturbation unto itself. An act of fantasy. I am stroking my belly. I am defying Goddess-chan's dictates, even in my obedience, my groveling genuflection. It is why the feet are there; it is why there are eyes hot with hunger urgent and raging and implacable.
A kiss. A plea. It is not for the faces, for the voices, for the anything. It is hunger; it is a mad manic wheeling reeling thing. It is not with tyranny not with predation but only an equanimity. It is not indiscriminate; it is not with an obsession for these vicissitudes in station and esteem. It is not the jacket's cut not the senseless convolutions of imagery and iconography adorning the wardrobes. It is to jettison these things.
A beautiful young lady. Does it matter? Does it matter what her sigil her crest her class her anything is? It is not a point of belonging; at least, not in belonging to this broader figment of order that is only to invite a deeper and more irresistible more violent more urgent entropy. There is almost a plainness in the unequivocal perfection.
There is an ordinariness. An there is a grandiosity in this; it is an elemental defiant rejection of anything everything that is to be dictated appointed anointed.
"You're so beautiful, you know." With fingers laced through her hair. It is to know not the body in its impatient importunity but... But a plodding and elegant ease in all of this. To peer into the eyes in their lacquered anthracite heavily-lobed and profoundly Japanese dimensions; to savor the hair thick and lambent and pin-straight and plunging down down down her shoulders and wreathing her lean body, her fine modest breasts, her taut well-exercised belly; her legs slim but not emaciated and they are very beautiful.
She is lovely. It is what this culture lauds as ideal in flesh, and renouncing in its figments. The Night's Beauty is she who must not be admitted into our two-dee fantasia; she is simply... Average. An average perfection that is still coveted; still adored.
The complexion not bleached cream not ash but not a sun-dappled sable sublime. She is simply lovely. The nails are lacquered in an achingly elegant symmetry in violet; the lips shimmer with a glint a kiss of indigo.
There is a plea adorning them.
Ah, ah, ah, please.
"Of course. Of course." To twist and wheel and simply plunge. There are delirious places, gardens wrought in our collective fantastical craving for an urban serenity that is its most elusive bliss. It is a humanity whose will urges it irresistibly toward silence; this is impossible. It is not death's sepulchral quietude in the mere being the relentless susurration the ambient violence in more than thirty almost forty million humans crammed into mere geography.
Whatever the vertiginous scope the oppressive clamoring the lust for walls that can ward away our merciless meaningless yammering the engines in their awful thrumming multitudes the music the conveniences, well, we are still ultimately human. Solitude, isolation, a monastic shelter, this is impossible here. And there is the passion that can only spring into being; there are the fingers and hands and it is a glimpse of eyes an inquisitive glint while it is not exhaustion's enormity but a deeper spiritual gravity that crushes onto the shoulders.
Aren't you in my comparative religions class?
Ah, ah, yes, those sumptuous morsels of prepackaged belonging. Our tribes and clans and associations.
Ah, yes, yes, I am.
I'd always recognize you. It's Yoshida-san, right?
And her name?
Ah, ah, it is the shy beauty. It is the divinity in the luscious soft shimmering hair immortally nestled behind the notebook's curtaining gloom in the lecture hall; rarefied miracle in being attentive, rapt, not merely the familiar glazed-over apathy to what is, well, let us be candid.
It is better-living-through-chemistry.
It is dogma.
It is a conviction of absolutes. There is one answer; this is the answer. It is because it is printed in our text and it is in its most elementary guise generous preparation for the public's conception of faith, of religion. But there is an intensity in the eyes; there is a sharp glint and there is a ravening esurient craving for more more more.
A hand upraised and the sullen prof's shoulders imploding into his spleen and there is forever the exasperation.
Ah, yes, what is it, Yoshida-san? Try to keep it brief.
But you're wrong.
Everything is wrong, y'see.
And this is understood. And what is her name? Shy Beauty? It isn't Yoshida-san; that's my name, lady. Or, rather, it is my parents' name; it is something hereditary. It is as certain as irresistible in its shackling embrace as the wealth stamped on their accounts.
Ah, ah, ah, Shy Beauty. The elegance in the legs cradled not in gauzy stockings but the familiar thick opaque knee-socks that are nothing but fiction painted in reality; they are very very lovely, long and firm and sleek and it is self-evident that jogging without superhuman stamina is a pastime. Hers is a sinewy leanness that is not Ran's legendary violence.
There will not be stone mashed into powder to be snorted from some mesmeric beauty's vast mountainous tits. The apartment declaims ordinariness; it is not the soul's sepulcher, but it is banality in supreme efficiency for about fifty thousand yen for little more than two or three tsubo and there is a bath, and this is for her and for all that have tasted this rarefied wisdom a spiritual core. It is an altar, a temple, a refuge from the city's grime and dank and its gloom that rolls in thick bubbling nimbus along its glass-and-steel horizon and it is the vantage from which the consumer voyeurs peer at their sainted fellows in their Mercedes-branded excess.
It is a waystation on the passage to traditional corporate success. Or it is a transient bit of liberty before the Parasitic Single life eases them home to a familiar bedroom with parents whose comfort and luxury are commensurate to the worth they've suctioned out of a mortgaged future.
There is a sofa; it is something that could almost be called miraculous. It is heaped fabric tucked into a ragged ratty frame beside a futon tangled into itself with a likeness of a tousled bucatini, fastened with a heavy indigo band. There is an ambition to homogeneity; a studied aesthetic cohesion in this place perfumed with mango and passion fruit and a cruel pretension an ambition in our fanciful chemistries of the tropical authentic.
It is violet; it is indigo; it is amethyst; it is every gradation and twist and convolution in these sainted hues and she is self-evidently not merely lililicious but a lilac girl, also, the trembling lips shimmering with gloss in its soft and dainty hues and there is a breath a hot heaving gasp pluming from the pert plump chest.
"A-ah... Ah... Yoshida-san-"
"Ayumi. Call me Ayumi, 'kay?" There is only incredulity. She is, ah, what, exactly? A second-year? Third-year? There is not yet that sharply set absolute that could be called adult; but it is nearer, nearer. It is a bell-curve beauty who has still profited from being one of Darwin's winners.
Perhaps not the fullest victory, but a generous sharp raking stroke against genetic mediocrity.
The glasses capture and scatter the city's soft light in its invasion through the windows, the curtains drawn but for the tiny kitchenette's eased open to admit the dying night's soft satiny breaths wafting through and tousling the gauzy grease-spattered lace.
She is beautiful; she is beautiful cradled in any light.
"Feels so weird. You're... I'm always looking at you in class, y'know, Ayumi-san-"
"A-yu-mi. No san stuff, all right, ah..." There is a blink. "I'm sorry." It is not contrition. "I don't really know your name. You're just the pretty sorta-kinda shy girl-"
"It's Kyoko." Ah. There is no woe; the brows are fine and immaculate in their obsidian arches over the black eyes; the cheeks are stained in burgundy. "I-"
"Mmm. Don't be upset about it. I just never learned your name; you're so quiet in class." And there is a kiss. Another. Another.
It is... It is something sainted. Not a virginal kiss; not the slut's, either. It is slow and almost sugared in its mawkish elegances. The lips soft and pert and eased together while bodies wilt with a floral grace. Yes.
Yes.
We will consummate the clichés in Sapphic poetry. We are flowers and blossoms and beautiful delicate crops in fullest bloom. We are flourishing, opening; buds become vibrant and alive and rich with dewy sap and sticky opium hungers and there are now fingers easing together.
Women's kiss is something... Something that defies any parallel, any challenge, any compare. It is slow and untroubled and unhurried and it is not with the flesh's urgent clamor not with the roaring heaving howling exhortations in weary or at least strained blood puddling with the body's exotic muscular alchemies in a bit of meat yammering and pulsating and the universe does not become a warp narrowing cinching down down down to that hunger between the thighs.
It is to know the world steeping through the body. It is the purest sublimest junk; it is opium heroin morphine laudanum perfection; it is not paregoric parody. It is to know her; it is to feel the tongues' first slow honeyed caress.
"W-wow. Wow." Glazed; delirious. There is the parting and it is not in woe and despair and not simply levered apart with a celestial strain but it is without urgency. There is absolutely no time whatsoever in this place.
It is not stained in liquor's heady pummeling violences. It is Kyoko.
"You're so delicious, Kyoko-chan. Or, ah-"
"J-just call me Kyoko. Please. It's, um, it's written with apricot and child." Isn't this our imperishable compulsion?
To reduce ourselves to the abstract.
We are ideas.
We are ideals.
Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Her fingers twist, tangle.
"I- I've never really done this before, y'know, Ayumi?" There is a plea to be believed. She would protest this if the nostrils were still caressed with lust's elusive spirits, fleeting fitful morsels of little deaths consecrated in this place.
Because it is what is believed that is more precious than what is.
Consensus, you know.
"No? I love this; walking home with some strange beautiful woman." It is to admire the enormous eyes flaring open more, and more, and more.
"A-ah, oh-"
"What? Terrified that you've just dragged home some depraved slut? 'cause that's what I am. Ah, ah, flesh is my fanaticism, my obsession, y'know."
"You're just like you are at school. You scare people. With how passionate you are; with how uninhibited you are. People think you're crazy."
"Good. I am crazy." And she must be kissed. Again and again and again and it is to know her. Biblically, of course. The mouths twisting together and fingers grope and clutch. It is to loose one's fingers; to slip up up up over the satiny cheeks not in airbrushed perfection not Wormwood's immaculate grace but something...
Something natural.
Human.
It is not the actress, forever strutting upon her life's stage. It is one for whom there's little hope of being anything but an extra in her own life. And she is very lovely; very enchanting. It is a walk-on and there will perhaps be one or two bits of murmured dialogue.
"You're- you're so different, Ayumi." Drag her closer, and closer. Admire the knees clasped together.
"You think so? From myself-"
"From everyone else." Lips pursing now; they are plumper, more sumptuous. "I've never met anyone like you."
"Well, then you're just oblivious. There're many people like me; most of them are just too ashamed to admit it-"
"So they're nothing like you."
"Touché." It's true, isn't it?
"You're shameless, y'know, Ayumi?" And it is to drag her against my breast; it is for her to know to taste to gorge herself on the sweat's crisp elegances the...
The cleanness.
The Shinto perfection; the purity the purification in blood and wind and rain and fire. Tongue flitting over lips with puppyish zeal.
"I guess it's true, ain't it?"
"Oh, yes. And- and I've never brought home anyone like this."
"But you, ah, are a Lizzie, right?"
"I don't know what that means. I- I don't... I don't, um, is that English?" Our sainted tongue that is never spoken nor understood in anything but heresy.
"Nah. 's just... You are delectably lililicious, aren't'cha?"
"I want... I don't know what you mean-"
"You do love girls, right?"
"I- I dunno, really." It's furrowing brows. "I think I like you a lot. You're so beautiful-"
"And these titties, right?" Cradle them; her hands have become mine. A surrogate agency; the vicarious twists with the intimate and it is now her palms to clasp on the flesh. Her gasp with the heavy deep guttural groan splitting the stagnant air with a thunderclap's frenzy.
"W-whoa-"
"Yours are so cute, y'know? You're just... You're so different."
"You mean I'm plain-"
"Uh-uh-uh. Oh, let me guess. Your ex-boyfriend said y'were plain, right?" An awareness not in omniscience but only with a detective's eye for the vicissitudes; for the booze bottles roosting in their cold desolation littering the table.
"W-wha-"
"Well, 's true, right?"
"He said I was boring. Not that I was plain. How- howdja know I had a boyfriend?"
"'cause you never wear makeup; and now you are tonight. And you're not usually drunk off your ass; there're three empty sake bottles there on the table. And there're still the dregs y'just can't ever really pour out; they haven't shriveled into nothing."
"You sound- sound like that dorky jerkoff teen detective, Shin... Something-" Groping at a point of sublime mutual opprobrium in the childish preening, the idiot self-satisfaction. It is delectable.
"Shin'ichi." It is magic, you understand; the fingers' nimble flourish and, ah, it's a coin plucked with ease and aplomb from behind your ear. But it is the coin you lost in the fourth grade.
"Yeah!" Victory! Bliss in the huge dreamy eyes. "That's his name. That- that Kudo guy." It's a sense of incredulity. The befuddlement that this could be. "I- I hate that guy; he's such a smug asshole. He's- he's always solving these crimes that just...
"Who talks to a fuckin' kid about that kind of crap, anyway? I know our justice system's bad. That's just fucked up, okay?"
"Yes. Yes, it is. I know Shin'ichi."
"Whoa- really?"
"Slept with him more than once." It isn't even to anoint yourself with celebrity's greasy enameling disease; it's only matter-of-fact.
"Weird. Is he any good? I- I still feel kind of... Not even wasted. Just sad." With lips trembling. "I brought you here, and now I'm just getting weepy about my boyfriend. He- he's some kind of detective freak, too."
"No; not really. He's just average. A bit of a secret, though?" A whisper; conspiratorial. "He's never solved one crime; others do for him. He just doesn't understand that everything's orchestrated for his convenience."
Giggling now.
"S-seriously-"
"Seriously."
"Cross your heart?"
"Kill him myself." Arch and with chest heaving and the laughter's humongous and... And now, now, there's a deft darting grace not karate balletics but only a mere human's. The legs are sinuous in their twist and wheel and there is music.
Music.
Slow and heavy and conjured into being with a finger's brush against a stereo and there is only incredulity while the sonic sensuality flowers flourishes melts through the ears fills the efficiency from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall and it is almost leaden in its percussion.
Sawing tribal rhythmic trembling.
The voice is French.
"Do you speak French?" The words sticky and wet on my lips, because there is an intimacy in this. Drawn closer, and closer, and closer, and it is to know the hips' slow languid sway. It is not a professional dancer's ease; it enchants.
Patiently, ploddingly, they are stirred in the music's languorous current.
It is a nightmare in melody.
It is a tale of death and madness and drink.
It is delirium; it is perfection. Slip a hand into hers and there is not the archetype; not the orderly and fantastical and the structured. It is the hips' achingly graceful twist; it is to know her legs and it is something vacillating in its tyranny.
Her eyes flit and flicker in their darkness curtained in drowsy lids that plunge down, down, down; in the lashes that beat at fine fawn-hued cheeks and mine, also.
"You're such- such an amazing dancer, Ayumi."
"Y'think so-"
"You have hips!" Ah, yes, yes, this is true.
"So do you-"
"I have- I have a space where hips are s'posed to be. Lookit them; they're so small. And you have the biggest butt; the most incredible boobs. Your legs are so long; your hair's so thick-"
"Genes. And ink."
"Uh-"
"My hair's auburn. Naturally. I just love black-"
"But it's so huge."
"That's just what it is." Undulate; rock; writhe. To slip and pour together; dip and twist and sway and there is an awareness of her height.
Or that she is, of course, profoundly ordinary in this.
Crane down to daub the lips with a fleeting little whisper.
"An' you're so tall-"
"And you're just so pretty, you know, Kyoko. Don't be such a neurotic; you're gorgeous. I could fall deeply and passionately in lust with a girl like you. Why! I think I am. You brought me home, after all.
"I'm not a sure thing; I just love it." The smile quirking with a sharp vulpine hunger.
"Y'mean, you could say no?" While the voice teases; while there is a heavy husky elegance slithering through the ears.
"Oh, I'm sure I could."
"Would you?"
"Uh-uh. You're just... Just so beautiful. Maybe I'd take advantage of you in your apartment-"
"It's one of my fantasies, you know. I... I've never slept with a girl before." It is courage. Conviction. This meaningless ideal named chastity.
The shame and the validation.
"Not once? Not mommy? Not big sis? Little sis-"
"Ngn... I- I've never even kissed my sister-"
"Oh, but you'd love it."
"Duh. She's so pretty. She... She was always with me; an' then she just left. Left home 'cause my parents are shit. It's why I left home, too." No parasite singling, then? A pout; a woe in the eyes. "I miss her, y'know. Her name's Mariya."
"How cute. Christian?"
"We are. We're Christian; yeah. Kind of. I think we went to a cathedral once or twice for... Something? W-what about you?" Cooing and lovely and... And there is a need to drink the lips; to slip fingers with a patient syrupy grace under the chin and to perk up her eyes to mine.
Swallow her.
"I'm not really aaanything, I think, Kyoko. Pagan. Oh, oh, yes. I've tasted Goddess-chan's wisdom-"
"Whose?"
"Goddess-chan. It's... It's a gospel against the two-dee; it's a conscious spiritual rejection of all of our self-abnegating perversions. It's a faith that... Would y'like to see?"
"Uh-huh. Uh-huh." Exuberance.
Ah! What an evangelist I must be.
A natural one.
"Then yooooou need to sit down." Palms slapped at her chest with theatrical pageantry; there is a wheeling twisting drunken stagger and shuffle and the sofa's such an obliging plinth for her. A shudder and quake and her clothing is something that commands adoration in its fundamental ordinariness. It could be anyone; the creamy blouse and the satiny black skirt and the socks reaching up in their opaque taut fabric to the lush shapely thighs.
They are lovely, aren't they?
"I- I don't-"
"Yes, you do. You should understand vee-eeeery well what it is this faith preaches and promulgates. Why, it should be so obvious now, right?" Because it is bestial.
Slipping to your palms, your knees.
"Because I am Fenrir. And my children are Sköll and Hati-"
"Wha?" There's incredulity.
"Shh! Don't interrupt the vargr while she's pontificating."
"'kay." Quietude; exuberance.
"It's the stalk. It is predation, you understand. It is to... To piss on the carpet-"
"Hey, hey, hey! This's a rental; and they're tatami-"
"Quiet, you." A snap. Lunging up up up and it is paws not delicate and velveteen in their fur but bristling with ragged talons raked at a succulent thigh; a coo and quaver is the answer.
"W-wah-"
"Exactly. It's to piss on the carpet; it's to rut in the street. It's to cradle to your breast every housewife's manual, the Domostroi, the bullshit that man has wrought, and it's to just... Just shred them. Every page. Every one. Tear it into confetti and litter the street with all of the figments.
"All of the dogma. Cast it away. And then squat over it and strain and feel the shit just sluice down and then, then, when you're finished, it's to do this." To cradle a fine long slender leg in fingers laced together, intertwined. It's to serenade yourself with a coo, a shiver.
Lips brushed on an ankle.
"A-ah-"
"Don't read Le Ménagier de Paris or the Izmaragd with anything but ridicule in your heart. Know that a woman's place is in adulating Lilith, and not Hawa, who is named Eve. Don't bother with the corn they call maize-"
"A-ahn..." An ahn. An authentic fucking ahn.
Hot and shivering and pluming up on the breath flowering from her breast's pert lush grace.
A kiss; higher and higher and higher and, well, when there is no longer any fabric to be kissed, isn't it to be her thigh's lovely soft allure, then?
Breath.
Quavering flesh.
"A-ah-"
And there is woe; because it is falling down, down, down, and fingers have laced into the sock's seam, and the fabric vanishes along the leg and there is perfection there, also, in imperfection. There is fat's faintest kiss; there is muscle in its generously exercised leanness.
"A-ah-"
"This is the wisdom, y'know. You shouldn't be so impatient. It's about lust. What do you want?" Peering up, up, up, eyes wandering through a garden of sexual lassitudes; finally, finally, they transfix her with the lepidopterist's needle for a sumptuous Monarch through the heavy India ink lashes.
There is a perfume.
Hers.
Mine.
It is not sex's accumulated must be something purified. Yes, yes, divine.
"I- I dunno-"
"But you like girls, right?"
"I like you." It's almost helpless, isn't it? This denial.
"Uh-uh-uh. You love girls. Don't you? Their soft breasts; their long long legs; their round hips; their pretty faces-"
"The pretty girls always bullied me in high school."
"Cunts. Right?" A slap at a firm thigh and there's still the flesh's lovely tremor and her adorable squeak rearing up from faintly rubbery lips.
"A-ah-"
"Don't be so timid. The bitches that bullied you, they were cunts, right? Assholes; fuckheads. All of 'em. Right?"
"I- I guess so-"
"Maybe they were jealous. 'cause you're at the farthest reach of the bell-curve, y'know? You're beautiful; you could be a model." With bare soles upheld on a palm as a plinth.
"W-ah-"
"Well, yeah. Obviously. This beautiful body; this pretty face. Mmm... Your glasses. I have quite the glasses fetish, y'know? I love them. I wish I wore them; I've thought about doing the hipster thing and just getting them.
"Who cares, right? If they're real lenses?" With a shimmering intensity behind them; with the light flitting over the twinkling puddles like a stone skittering along a pond.
And there is a kneading convulsion between those thighs.
Craning down, down.
A kiss brushed along toes that could only be called fine. Because they are; because they are flawless in their pedicured grace; because the nails glint lililiciously in lilac. Because there must be another kiss, and another, and another, and because girls serenade with such a sumptuous little coo when toes are dappled with the lips' plump dampness.
"A-ah... Ah... Ngn..." When there is a wriggle that is not an ambition to flight but a grinding madness in the furtive whisper of legs against legs.
When another is offered without compunction; when the socks are dragged down down down and there is sweat's fine crisp clean fragrance, a spring aroma.
When there is now not merely a kiss but lips coiling serpentine hungry around them.
"A-ah... Ah!" The voice is madness now; the eyes devour, leering through the glasses without compunction, without unease. Because the lips are not content with any simple prosaic dappling damp caress.
Because they must swallow, tug her toes deeper, deeper, deeper.
"Wa-ah... Ahn... It- that feels so weird-"
"No one's ever kissed your beautiful feet before? They are very pretty." And they are; slim and fine and very very very dainty. "You had a pedicure-"
"I- I do once every week. I- I always used to with my big sis."
"Pricey-"
"I know-know a- a beauty student. She- she's my friend-"
"Does she get off touching them, too?" To tease and torment. To brush a tongue slowly slowly a painterly elegance along these fine furrows those groves of fragrance and allure and there's giggling shivering quailing.
"W-aha, ah, that- 's so fuckin' weird-"
"Don't like it?" With mischievous eyes; with mouth falling open to drag them deeper, deeper, deeper. Charybdis' hunger.
"'s- 's so good; I- I feel like I'm going crazy. It's... She's pretty; I get wet when she's working on my feet. She- she tells me they're pretty-"
"Well, it's true. But she's probably a Lizzie, y'know? Honestly, who isn't, right?" Kiss, kiss, kiss, up along the soles. Nip at the ankle and rear up to the calf and, well, how can you resist the clamoring that flowers through the breast?
Eat, and eat, and eat.
"W-wah... It's..." It is lips trembling and eyes straining closed; it is her sumptuous lililicious archetypal Yamato Nadeshiko grace. It is denial in selfishness; it is to curtain your table with an appropriately modest lace haze while there is ravening madness in silhouette.
"Tell me what you want, virgin-chan-"
"Don't call me that-"
"Oh, but you are! That's exactly whatcha are. And it's lovely. It's, ah, it's not quite my fetish; not now, anyway. Virgins. It's so cute. You're not a real virgin; just untouched by a woman's hands. Like this." And they are a woman's hands.
Quick. Nimble.
Confident.
Swept along a curvaceous thigh and the answer is madness.
Bearing down.
Trembling.
"Aha... Ah- ah- ah, oh, oh, oh, oh, it- it feels..." It is a finger; only a single finger, and there is already madness. "It feels-"
"'xactly." Murmuring; the voice is muffled in a fabric mist, rearing up and just vanishing into the skirt. And there is a kiss; a kiss that is the essence of the goddess' fingers brushed over your universe's very center.
The world implodes; crumples down down down.
"Waaaah... Ahn..." Because there is another; another. It is not bare flesh but tight crisp fabric and there is already an awareness a luscious intimate wisdom of the skin through the black cotton.
They are not grandiosely embroidered; it is not with expectation of another's touch.
The loveliest.
"A-Ayumi-"
"Call me Ayu, huh?"
"Ayu... Ayu..." Lowing hot shuddering convulsive and... And it is her legs dragged up over shoulders.
It is a kiss.
And another. And another; and another; and another another another another another feathering over that warmth heavy and weeping delectation in honeyed threads that bleed into the dampness gathering with the lips with the simple heat there.
Serenaded with the cries wringing themselves from her throat.
"Ah... Ah... O-oh, oh-"
"Do you know what's preciousest with the Gospel, Kyoko?" The skirt is...
Is not hiked.
It's a merry jaunt along a hillock.
Slowly, slowly, pressed up up up along her hips and, yes, they are... They are very Japanese hips; they are not the round lavish abundance in fleshly effusion but fine and adorned with adorable dimples that command the fingers' prodding wheeling caresses.
And there is the kiss.
Fingers lace through her skirt's hem.
"A-ah... Ahn... I- what-"
"It's this. Do what you want; what pleases you. Trip balls. Rape boyz. Fuck girls-"
"I- I'm definitely a girl." It's more than expectant. It's madness; not only staring but gawping down now with dreamy drowsy lust-drunk eyes and she is now not fucked up on sake and regret and despair but only clamoring and craving.
"Oh, yes, you are-"
"I- I..." It is still, still, still, that gunshy terror at this instant.
This, ah, seminal moment.
"Tell me about your fantasies-"
"I want a pretty girl to fuck me." Ah.
Well.
"It's- it's just... Ngn... I- I mean, what- what else can I say? I just... I fantasize about you, Ayu. Is- is it that... I mean, how weird is it, exactly?" Trembling; quaking.
Neurotic; terrified.
It is to confront the wolf in the forest's thick heavy darkness and to wilt before its hungry jaws and to whisper, shiver, quake, to brandish your huge doe's eyes and to announce: Eat me.
Please.
I've imagined this moment.
So many times.
The dripping wet heat.
The hunger.
The claws.
The paws.
The lust.
"That's it? That's all?" How can you not tease with a slow slaloming murmur? "That's it? Really? Fantasize about me? Mmm... Would those be girly little strokes between your legs-"
"I- I just- I imagine it being... Being all wet an'... An' hot- an'- an' I read porno manga-"
"Lililicious soft stuff, right?"
"Uh-uh." Oh, my. It's with enormous eyes and a furrowing sharp tension. "Uh-uh. It's... It's super-hard stuff; it's crazy stuff. He- he said I was sick when he read it-"
"What a fuck. Snuff-"
"N-not like that. I just... I dream about a woman coming in and fucking me. Raping me. Just... Just bringing her back for tea and suddenly... She just won't take no for an answer anymore. I don't want that right now.
"'s what I touch myself to, though." Rising; rearing up; the skirt's hook is a supreme convenience. There is only taut bare skin; only that lovely succulent hot skin layered in taut black-enameled relief in the mound's thick flourish self-evidently exposed with the lips in their tight puckered grace.
There is heat boiling up through her.
"Really? Being raped?"
"It's- yeah. It's screaming and knowing that... That nobody cares." With humongous quivering eyes. "I love it that way. Knowing I'm all alone and... And she's rough with me. There's- there's this one manga I imagine myself in.
"An older lady- a beautiful older lady. She's- she's all matronly and maybe she's the building manager or something. But I'm behind on my rent and- aaah!" A shiver a shock electricity-spattering cables wound through her. "W-what're you-"
"Helping you with your fantasy. Le duh." Nails prod those soft lush lips through the panties. "I wanna hear. I wanna hear. I wanna hear. I wanna hear. While we're here, you know. While we're still young-"
"It's embarrassing." With a shudder and a quaver and there is heat staining her cheeks.
"Duh. Would you like to hear abouta fantasy I had with a zebra-"
"W-what?"
"Zebraman. Sort of a centaur-"
"Weird."
"Sexy. His cock could reach through my cervix-"
"W-whoa. It's..."
"Your boyfriend sounds like a loser. Pardon. Ex-boyfriend. I'm not your girlfriend; don't have any misfortunate ideas. Just telling you now-"
"I don't want a girlfriend." Rewarded with teeth's sharp nip like a fox's playful fanged snap at lavish thighs.
"But I will fuck you whenever you'd like; an' I know a lot of girls eager to experiment."
"W-whoa-"
"There's... So many. Mmm... But, ah, you should really tell me."
"He told me I was a freak-"
"He's a twit. A twerp. A dingus-"
"She just... I make tea for her." And there is not languorous repose not a delicate wilting recline but toes curling trembling her legs flung over shoulders and it is... It is not to trace the fantasy's narrative geometries but only to urge her closer, closer, closer.
A hot breath on the thighs like a finger brushed on the nape of the neck.
"Ahn... An'... An' then, it's just... She's so pretty; she has long black hair and she- she has the softest whitest skin. She looks like a ghost; like the Snow Woman. And she has big breasts and long legs and- and...
"And she's dressed like my mom. My- my mom's an accountant at some big finance company. She's so pretty. She sleeps around; so does my dad. And... And she's wearing a skirt that's cut really sharply around her legs.
"My mom has the prettiest lee-eeegs." Coiling up, up, up. A tongue brushed over a thigh.
"Nicer than mine?"
"N-no. She- don't take it the wrong way, but you don't really look human. Y-y'look like a manga character; y'look like a goddess; like someone who walked out of an AV set. You don't look like you should be with mortals.
"It's kinda weird and... And queasy and sorta off-putting. You're so pretty; you're too pretty. It makes me feel strange. It's like being close to a photosensitive seizure." How clinical we are. "You're too tall; your boobs are too big; your ass is too nice; your legs are too long; your face is too pretty. You're just...
"You're the kinda girl- I, I mean, not..."
"Tell me."
"People are scared of you." A hot rasp of voice from her chest, from her throat. "You're scary; you're strange. People are too nervous to talk to you."
"I noticed. It's not really fair-"
"You look like you make a habit out of saying no."
"I don't. Not really." Wolfish; a brilliant fanged grin. "Just when it appeals to me."
"She... She has pretty legs. T-the girl in my fantasy. Woman. She's wearing stockings; I think they're just- just pantyhose, but they're real stockings. And a pencil skirt and nice designer heels and... And I ask her to keep them on.
"'cause it's my fantasy. She's so nice. And- and a jacket and... And a tight blouse. She looks strange; she looks a little crazy. But she's so nice. She doesn't put anything in my tea or anything like that. Just... She puts her hand on my knee... Ahn!" And now it is to embellish the fantasy.
It is for fingers to cradle those fine geometries.
For her eyes to goggle and gawp.
"And- and then... Then I say, No, stop doing that. I have a boyfriend. And she says... She just- she's not violent or anything. She just says, Okay. And then puts her hand on my thigh. And then..." It is to touch her.
Adore her.
Prickle and prod.
Palm clamped on her luscious soft skin.
A tremor dragged up like gelatin wrenched from a well with rusting tackle.
"And I can't do anything. S-she starts touching me, and- and I want to scream. And I do start screaming. She doesn't shut me up. The walls are- are paper-thin, an' nobody calls the police or anything. I keep begging her to stop.
"Stop. She puts her hand on my- on... Between my legs-"
"On your pussy-"
"She calls it my cunt." Rough and hot; voice thicker and ragged now. "She puts her hand on my cunt and says, You're wet. You're a nasty slut and you're already wet, so I'm just gonna fuck you now." Sublime.
Tremors rear up and slip down; again and again, this irresistible pattern. It is a cadence wrought in the heart's pummeling beat; it is tasted in the veins' produce their palpitation. It is known in the arteries the nerves not merely flayed but something deeper more ferocious still. It is every mote and morsel bared it is exposed in its sensual perfections and it is to know that your own fingers have become the serrated talons to priiiise away every whisper of that shelter.
There is only this ideal this fearful delicious point of horror named vulnerability; it is coveted and dreaded, also.
To be you.
To be.
"Really?" A kiss, a kiss, a kiss. It is now without anything like compunction, the mouth sticky wet soft grazed along a knee.
"A-ahn... Y-yeah, and- you really-"
"I hope this isn't a question, Kyoko." A nip; and another; and another. Creeping up and up and announcing its passage in ruby-clasped geometries. "I hope it's only announcing to me that what I want is to hear eeevery bit of your fantasy.
"'cause that is what I want. 's about Goddess-chan's dogma. Her doctrine. Her perfected wisdom. Her numinous knowledge. Geddit?"
"G-gottit-"
"Goddit, daddy-o." Murmuring now; it is to convey every thought every micron of this sainted fractious fissuring endlessly ricocheting diffracting distending constellation not in the voice but in the tremors coiling slithering up up up through the thigh's lavish soft flesh. The delirium sleeker than oil kneaded assiduously through butter's fine slathering skein; it is to know the spittle brushed over her; it is for the fingers to rise, rise, rise without urgency unhurried in their adoring elegance to the fine black fabric stripe that has already begun to darken sticky and thick and shimmering beyond black.
"Ah... And..."
"Tell me about this naughty cunt." A slap; a quick sharp swat on that luscious soft skin curtained in fabric that's become less than perfunctory. It's only an adornment, as modest as a string bikini garlanding heavy luscious tits. "Tell me about what she's doing to it-"
"Ahn..." Shivering; quaking. The head is not thrown back but iron-firm in the eyes' spearing hot stare down down down; transfixed with the communion of flesh and flesh and she is there, also. A malign sumptuous spirit wrought in hallucinatory delirium's animating passions and there are the strange gossamer fingers unfurling spidering out in their multitudes from mine. Twisting; plucking.
And there is the first slow graze; fingertips cohere into a lace. The first achingly delicate and graceful prod.
A whisper over the flesh clutched together now in a straining affectation of this delirium this idiocy called innocence.
It is not.
Innocence is not innocence; innocence is a sainted ignorance.
It is not desire without knowledge now. It is a lust that rears up heaving and huge and almost spasmodic; it is the essence of curling toes dragging urgent sharp rasps from the bare tatami; it is her legs trembling and convulsing and it is eyes gawping with a novelty in this. In the candor without judgment; in the adoration without revulsion.
"She... She just- she's not even cruel; I think that's... That's the worst an' best part, you know?" Cooing and gurgling and breathless. The chest heaves in its blouse's cradling cool crispness, darkening now with patchwork motes of sweat baring with sincere lust the bits of flesh that are not shackled to this unblemished childish ideal.
"She says, I'm gonna fuck you now. And that's what she- she does." A gasp; the chest heaves.
"How, though?"
"She... It's so weird. I only ever think about it; it's unreal when I just think it." But this is our delirium, isn't it?
The deed, the thought, they're meaningless things; dead history or private delirium but the instant it's validated in language, it springs into being. She is here now.
"Mmm... Lemme guess, Kyoko. She's not gentle."
"Uh-uh." Head shaken oh so slowly. "It's just... 's all kinda weird. I'm still so wasted." But she isn't, is she? But we must lie. The knees tremble like ancient battlements rattling with modern shellfire. "I'm so fuckin' wasted; I feel so weird-"
"What does she do?"
"She kinda... She pushes her hand up. And up. Up my skirt." Ah, ah, how woeful. "But then 's just gone; like you did. Just flips it off me. And she's- she won't stop talking. I'm begging her to stop-"
"How? Tell me. C'mon. I know I'm not the wraith haunting your dreams-"
"You're even prettier." It's true; it isn't at fucking all. Oh, no, no, no. "You're even prettier than she is. Y-y've even got that... That subjective thing."
"Oh?"
"You don't feel real, I guess. It's so weird; you're not really real, and she's not really real."
"Oh, but I am. I am no creature of stardust-"
"I know. It's even we-weeeirder!" Cooing quailing because there is not impatience but only a will to impersonation. It is a feast with the dead that we will call The Departed, because we must circumlocute. Fingernails dragged up up up along thighs taut and sleek and lean and there is a sudden violent spasm.
A jaw-grinding hysteria.
"A-ah, ah, ah, d-dammit, Ayu-"
"What's her name? In your dream?"
"L-landlady-san." Hah. "It's just- she's just perfect, y'know? The..."
"The luscious older lady that you crave. But, oh, oh, you'd never dare-"
"S-stop it. Teasing me." Without bashfulness; without shame.
"Uh-huuuuh-"
"Yes. Yes."
"Mommy and auntie and-"
"You're mean." Cooing with a plea for more, more, more. "Oh, you're so fucking mean-"
"But it's true, right?" Cradling a sole with a sense of inquisition, adoration, staining the eyes; her cheeks flare carnation.
"Ngn... C'mon-"
"Isn't it?" A nip; a nibble; teeth like fangs prick into soft slender toes.
"J-just a bit. A-auntie more than mommy-"
"An' big sis, of course-"
"Ev-eeevil!" Oh, oh, oh. Ah, ah, ah, this delirious cooing madness. "'s- 's not fair for you ta say that-"
"What does she do?"
"She rapes me." This word; this wicked odious word; this sainted word; this word that is industrial humanity's cruelest defilement.
Death?
A triviality. You are replaceable; you are not even a cog not even a tooth in a cog but an atom in that cog. You would be unnoticed; you are unworthy even of a glint of attention. Death is a banality, because you cannot dread your own death.
You are here; you are not.
There is a binary felt only in halves.
But, to rape?
To inflict that wickedness upon another? To flay them of those most fundamental boundaries, the body's agency, the flesh's autonomy, this is an inhumanity deeper than any other. And it is still craved; not even in power's abdication but a simple fetish.
To know the palm on the thigh.
"How-"
"She just... I hear her; I don't even believe her. But she says, I'm gonna fuck you. I'm gonna fuck your nasty wet cunt." The words dragged from those deep deep deep abysmal places. The chest is a conduit a warp to a dark demented negative world a universe where the shadows distend from the sun and the light is an elusive figment a fabrication wrought in its eddying void.
"And... And I dunno what to do. I just- I've been screaming and screaming and screaming before I even- even feel her hand there."
"Where is there?" Manic and fanged and with hands creeping up, and up, and up. And it is now to be seated with her because this must be. Because this is the command this is the universe that is being fashioned from another Kyoko's tears.
From dread and despair and surrender.
"Ahn... Y-y'really wanna do this?" The eyes beseech.
"And what is this-"
"Do you wanna rape me?" It's not with a soft satiny frivolity; there is a twanging raw frayed manic violence in it. In the lips drawn into a tight pursed seam and the words barely struggling out a ragged weedy fugitive whisper.
"Now that is quite the idea-"
"I- I really... He'd never do it, y'know?"
"Your loser ex-?"
"Uh-huh." While there is a kiss; while the lips slip together now with a sticky wet grace; while there is gloss upon gloss, and the tongues coil together not in some artful sparring but with a conjoined will an absolutely perfect cohesion a unity in ambition.
A lust that canters irresistibly toward one destination.
It is not that one monolithic perfection named orgasm; it is a fulfillment that ultimately never can be. A perfection as sure and unknowable in its cold face as death.
Fingers lace with hers.
There is a tension; an intensity; an anxiety.
This is a boundary that can be transgressed only once, you understand. It is to peer into Goddess' or God's or whatever's own boudoir; it is to admire the furnishings and the curtains, to prod at the old despot's tacky fixtures, to know that the vases aren't Original Ming or even Original Sumerian or Original Pleistocene but just cheap counterfeits from celestial Wal-Mart.
The curtains are dictator chic of the coarsest character; there're fucking diapers tumbling from the bins.
But it is to know forbidden places, nevertheless, even if the sainted perfume has rotted with time's passage, even or the timeless.
Kiss her, and kiss her.
"I wanna do it." A heave; chest straining with the breath that plumes up up up. "I wanna do it. I- I want you to be her. I wish you had the clothes-"
"Oh, honey, but I do. Y'see, it doesn't really matter what I'm wearing, does it? Because I still have the clothes. I have the flesh. This flesh." A hand snatched from its innocuous poise a trembling uneasy puppy on the sofa. It is dragged up, up.
Planted on one of the heavy soft tits that swallow that urge it to sink deeper and deeper and deeper, nipples thick and straining pebbling into a taut relief through the clutching fabric.
"I have this body, right? The long long legs; the too-long legs; the tits and the ass and the hips and even the face like one'a your porno manga vixens, right, Kyoko-tan?"
"D-damn-"
"And I have the ferocity, too, right? 'cause you'll scream." Punctuated with a kiss; a hot and scalding thing that is more a napalm-slathered brand. "And it won't matter. Screaming is for the audience; screaming is for you, too."
"G-goddamn-"
"Oh, it's the Goddess, y'know. Goddess-chan. It's her wisdom. I bear her power, her profundity in this ark. This great chest." Ah, ah, ah, the soft little tittering. "It will smite the innocent and the guilty alike, 'cause this just ain't the point.
"Innocence and guilt are something man has wrought; not Goddess-chan. All are equally guilty in her eyes-"
"Damn. S-sounds like the worst of the Hebrew god-"
"I knew y'were paying attention in class. So, y'want it-"
"I want it. I want it. I want you to be- be as rough as she is-"
"Good. 'cause I will be." 'cause it is a palm cradling that hungering flesh every thought's every genesis and every desire's nexus and our very communion with our fellow woman. Ain't that the simple reality?
Thought is conduit to procreation.
I do not believe the aged Greek and Roman philosophers who bemoan this lust, who court the age when their humors will shrivel in the flesh when their blood will be stilled and denied the epicurean and the hedonistic and the simple clutching clamoring need for more more more, to know only the words all-you-can-eat.
It's delirium; it's the simple self-loathing that is the male, that heaves its shoulder against the portal that can be tasted in its burbling wet perfumes in the feminine. It is the feminine the female the womanly the perfect that is the candid, the animal, the libertine.
The inspired, also.
Intuition is the deepest and supremest knowledge.
The constructed is the transient, and not the immortal; the constructed, the architectural, it is a delirium, a fever-dream stupidity that would anoint the skyscraper in its glass-and-steel affectations something imperishable beside the mountain that will be as the mountain even when it has corroded into soil and into dust and has settled again into the great waters to rear up again and break and fissure into mountains.
Men.
Are.
Idiots.
Their laws; their rules; their society.
Ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, you understand. Kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss.
"Ah... I- I'm afraid." This isn't a game, a fetishistic little play-pretend. We now dwell with landlady-san and she is a figure wrought from dust animated now with Goddess-chan's sacrilegious sacredness in breath and it is a violent urgent frenzy pluming through the body that is vaporous as smoke and tangible as a lead funerary slab tumbling from a passing Russian cargo jet whose crew'll simply whistle with a renewed intensity in insouciance.
Why, was that ours?
'least it ain't a cow.
"Good." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. "'cause you're going to serenade me, lil' Kyoko. You're past-due on rent-"
"D-damn." Shivering now. "She's... She's just like that. She's so rough."
"How rough-"
"However rough she wants to be. S-sometimes, she just fucks me even when I'm b-begging-" a squeal, a squeak, when nails rip into delicious lush thighs, "And- and sometimes she's just- jus' cruel-"
"What about now?"
With the eyes beseeching forbearance for the lies.
And a plea for candor.
"I- I dunno-"
"Yes, you do. Didja pet the kitty today?"
"T-three times. I couldn't get him outta my head. I wanted to just- just banish him, y'know?"
"And?"
"It works. Kinda."
"I wasn't in class, either."
"T-too bad. I would've... I wanted to ask you out sometime. Y'know, to karaoke? Or- or something lame like that-"
"But what you want is this, right?" Craning over her; heavier, hotter, even the shadow weighted in lead.
"Yeah." Thick in the throat. The eyes are huge and guileless and trembling and pleading for more and for liberation, also. Not balanced but mincing waltzing sambaing on that knife's edge. The soles prickle with blood and spearing hot violence and there is a will not to be shoved from it to commit to anything at all.
So fucking delicious.
Tongue lolling out to flit at the throat; to taste the graceful divot in the neck the collarbone in its fine satin allure. Fingers twist and pluck and pull at the buttons.
"She just... I dunno how to say it. She fucks me-"
"Show me. Show me. Show me." Ah, ah, ah.
Ra-ra-Rasputin-
"Wha-"
"Show me. Show me. Show me." Everything in its mad multitude. "Show me, show me, whore. C'mon. You are a nasty little slut, right? For her? 'cause you're not really fighting back with her soft hand on your knee. And then your thigh.
"What a cute lil' schoolgirl slut you are." A prickle and a jab and a stab and it's now nails lililicious perfection ripping along the thighs creasing her with huge heavy hot garnet stripes.
The answer is a nya.
"A-ah... Nya... It's- it's so fucking..." Trembling lashes flit and flicker and they will settle across those soft lush cheeks and ricochet away again. "It's so fucking weird; I thought about doing it-"
"'s not thought now. You are doing it." Pulling; tugging.
Palm slapped at the crisp black triad between her thighs.
"F-fuck!"
"'s what I'm going to do-"
"She's so formal. W-when she's doing it all; she has the most perfect elocution." Ah, ah, ah. It is a plea. A command. It must be.
So shall it be.
Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; but it is not the lips because they must be liberated to serenade, to adore with tingling tinkling sharp brittle notes like stained glass tossed into a centrifuge.
"Ahn... An'- an' she just... She has her fingers up my skirt before I even know what's happening, and she's pushing me down on- on the couch."
"Like this, slut?" A hand there; there is no subtlety. Palm clamped on her belly and now, now, rearing up through the blouse and it is on a shoulder. Twisting wrenching.
Her eyes now know the ceiling's sullen dust-whorled texture.
"Y-yes-"
"And she's fucking you right away?"
"Y-yeah. She just- she doesn't even take off my blouse; she just has her fingers in me right then and- and she's so mean. She's so cruel; she's evil." So there it must be, also. Tug down down down the panties and there's now nothing like resistance and there is an awe, a delirium in it.
In the tautly-pursed lips in their novel tawny hues, a grade deeper darker hot and throbbing and inflamed; the glabrous bare perfection already shimmering twinkling with lust with that essence that is not cum and still its ilk.
"A-ah... Hah... J-just like that-"
"Well, who cares about these little titties, right? Your lower half is much, much more interesting. I've been fantasizing about putting your footprints on the ceiling since I met you." The eyes huge and quivering and there is fear and fervor in that delirious haze staggering through a drunk not in liquor but only lust.
"F-fuck-"
"And she just fingers you? So unceremoniously? Does she have these lililicious fingernails-"
"Y-yes. She... She's a housewife; not at all. With- with that sharp-cut suit and... And her pencil skirt and blouse and her high heels and I don't know what to do when she starts." So there are fingers falling down, down, down.
Splaying open the lips.
The answer is a scream so intense that it wilts like a rose caressed with a flamethrower into a mealy tongue-trembling quietude.
A whisper.
A rasp of breath from the chest.
"You're fucking drenched, you know. Feel this nasty cunt; this hairless adorable little-girl cunt. Or maybe it's a slutty cunt. Is it that you fuck so much you can't even take the tiniest obstacle? It's so cute. These bare lips."
Peering down, down.
Eyes limn a riotous scalding passage down along the body's fine lissome geometries.
The model elegances; the quivering knees and it's there. The lips; the lips; plump and lush and lavish and pert and...
And there is almost a slovenliness now, sighing open with a quiet damp plea.
"A-ahn... It's- it's just like that. She... She touches me; I can't do anything." And so it must be; it is a fingertip simply brushed with a dainty inquisition over Little Red Riding Hood.
Not cowering; no, no, no.
It is a brazenness that belies the lips' frailty; the voice's brittle tortured little-girl exhortations for a figment named mercy.
Sodden; already drenched with that succulent essence in a woman's cravings.
"Hgn... It's- she- she just- just keeps touching-"
"Like this? Or rougher?" Or does it could it matter? To know the body's tremors; the savor the soft machinery in its impulses, its strange mechanistic neuron-torturing reflexes, its spasms and its simple sleek quietudes the satiny muscle and the furrowed and the ridges that coalesce that ripple through the soul.
The madnesses in this ambition to sainted purity.
"You really are a nasty little slut, aren't you? With this drenched cunt; with this sopping-wet pussy; this fuck-hole begging for more-"
"Yeah! Yeah!" The pitch has been captured; the cadence and the rhythm and there is absolutely no ambition to reason in this place. "'s what she does-"
"Oh, so it will happen, then. I wish you could really scream. Ah. Wait. You can." It is something so- so fundamental; it is a hand twisting up it is a palm clamped on her mouth the eyes suddenly irresistibly humongous.
We will abandon the narrative; it will no longer be the script's shackling geometries but an artful extemporaneous elegance.
It will coalesce now in accordance with the heart's throb.
With the fingers' twist.
It is her eyes in their immensity it is the pupils bleeding into the lacquered-crude obsidian that's more than glazed; it is perhaps now fondant, a sumptuous and irresistible dessert to be savored choked down not in revulsion but only in a craving for more, more, more, while the French pastry masters' spines buckle under the lash the fascist boot while the tyrannical Nazi command is for more, more, more, more, more.
Want. More. I. Want. More.
So there shall be more; so there must be more. A finger, the first, ah, ah, why be delicate? It is all a lie; it is not one not two but three fingers at once and there is the first huge sawing quavering tremor boiling up from the throat and it is not merely strangled but stillborn, permitted to gather and coalesce in its fullest most authentic bulk and then simply melting into tinkling bits of battered broken ruin against a wall that's less brick and more depleted uranium.
Because she is more than drenched; because it has been basting steeping sopping in its own sumptuous juices a carnal marinade and it is boiling with her. It is to know the geometries the prickling authenticity the purity in a woman's body bereft of a man's poisoning befouling invasion.
"Oh, oh, my. For having such a slutty body, it seems like a man's never really touched it bare." Dragged out out out and there is a deeper candor a supreme sumptuous sincerity in the flesh those...
Those fantastical walls, ah, ah, ah, they are walls in the manner that the grandiose death-trap chamber's walls bristling with velvet spines spearing ripping through the imploring meat are walls. They will crush and tumble and they are rippling quavering convulsive.
They are eating, eating; jaws that gnash and gnaw and tear and tug and heave with the gourmand's sainted compulsions in oil-draped silk. Ripping and pulling.
They speak one word; it is their universe wrought around a vernacular in hunger.
More.
"Look at these slutty juices. So- so perfect. Purity; it's something ironic, isn't it?" While sticky threads dribble down down down heavy clutching clinging gelid to the fingers' lissome geometries. "So so so innocent, right?
"While you're almost drowning in these soft luscious juices; with this honey. 's so fucking delicious, isn't it?" Tugged between my lips; swallowed down dragged into those hot clutching depths like a man captured in Charybdis' cradling embrace.
A wheeling tortured twisted vanishing.
You will not surface 'til the seas boil away into salt.
There is an ngn...
A coo.
A quiver.
"So perfect; sweeter than honey. Aren't you, slut? He must wear a rubber when he fucks you; or maybe it's that he wears a rubber while you fuck him. Whichever. But you're mine now. You're mine; you're mine." Bearing down; a cruelty a wickedness in the fingers nimble sodden with her lubricated still with spittle and with her, with those ineffable syrups those biologic sublimities those delectations that simply are.
It is the soft machinery's non-wisdom; it is merely because it is, and forever will be.
A twist.
A strain.
"Ahn..." To liberate the gasp; to gorge yourself on the heave and quaver and coo. "A-ah, ah-"
"Is this what you'd imagined?"
"Rougher." There is now only candor in the eyes that're less glazed and more iced; the body that quakes and thrashes. "I want it rougher; I want it rougher. I- I wish y'could be like some of the time, when she- she has a cock-"
"Too bad, alas, alas. This flesh this erudition are nothin' like Eri-chenchei." There is insouciance. "But I guess it'll just need to be, won't it? I'm. Fucking. Hungry." Slip away the buttons and the belly taut and sleek and a graceful tight-laced allure in muscle and fat and skin dimpling and concave and straining with a gasp of strength around the ribs' sharp relief is now tasted.
Is savored; adored.
"A-ah-"
"You're going to shut up while I fuck you. Got it? This is for me; this is for Landlady-san. If you come, if you don't, what does it matter, right?" And it is to drag terrible huge heaving warbles now from the lips; it is fingers three four twisted into her, wrenched through resistance's impotent hopeless fruitless affectations.
Quick daggering plunges and they are now squelching with her; with an obscenity pluming burbling up overflowing overstuffed with lust with her cum with her craving spurting up up up around the lunging figures that are no longer digits no longer anything so trivial but only a surrogate cock only esurience in flesh.
It is the Huns the Mongols the fucking Red Army hammering down every pretension of an obstacle; it is another hand no longer content with stymieing silencing the yowls and yelps and screeches and squeals but tearing tugging pulling ripping at her body.
Fingers fastened around a nipple when the bra's sloughed off like a moulting serpent in cream; the breasts pert and fine and they are very very tiny, a modesty that surpasses the word's dimensions shrinking narrowing into itself a recursive twist that could perhaps implode into its own black hole. The nipples are thick and plump and clamoring; the areolae more curvaceous than the dainty bits of fat.
"A-ahn, ah, ah, what're- what're you-"
"Fucking you. Fucking you." Sink down now; more and more and more and it is a hand hammered between her thighs it is a will to grind the four deeper and deeper more and more and more.
It is a wish to channel this sainted obsidian divinity this perfection named Sophie.
But, ah, ah, ah, alas, it cannot be.
The thumb is warded away; there is an authentic squeal and it is an aversive thing, because we must speak in the language of those that ultimately say nothing at all.
So it is lavished on that plump bead; it is wound twisted over Little Red Riding Hood and there is shivering there is convulsion there is wet delirious dreamy hunger there is a long terrible plangent howl when the fingers not merely meet those lips elusive and furtive and receding from the hungry groping maw but collide.
"A-ah, wah, ah, ah-"
"Oh, isn't this what you were craving? Inviting me over for tea?" While the lips capture and abandon; while they swallow down and spit up with a fanciful indifference to anything but the moment's appetite.
It is the savage presiding over a dinner party; it is to know the brute cannibal's lust for the fine canapés and the foie gras and the elegant petis-fours.
"A-what're-"
"Shh. I don't fucking care. What a delicious little whore you are." Stabbing; impaling. More and more and more and, well... "But I would like something. You wouldn't mind." It is not a question. It is to slip down, down, down.
Palms splayed with an achingly languorous ease over the belly; fingers become talons claw and rip and simply melt away into a graceful soft skein and lapse again into their murderous carnal mayhem; the lips are fangs and the fangs are lips soft and dewy and tearing and bestial.
Lap.
Sticky gloss adorns her hips' elegant feminine roundness.
And those lips.
There is no patient foreplay; there is no kiss of the delicacy that is not craved and it is legs not even dragged over your shoulders but just torn away; they are splayed twisted open she is a fucking meal she is cheap ramen she is the most sumptuous banquet and nothing matters because all is my province.
All is my property, to be abused and neglected and devoured as whim commands.
The tongue not a graceful patient flit and flicker; her voice is an articulated sob, rearing up up up dragged with a groping madness from the chest her palms slapped with huge quick wet stripes at the sofa, lashing ricocheting from tits to fabric and to tits again and back and there is madness there is a humongous tormented yowl.
"O-oh, oh, oh, fuck!" Bewail it.
Tormented.
Eat, and eat, and eat.
She is succulent; she is a purified rarefied allure and it is not Sophie's and it is, also, that lilicious sublimity untarnished untroubled with a man's ugly rotting essence with the quality that is at best sashimi and at worst a derelict fish market.
Tongue rippling laving lolling rolling; flitting and flickering and her clit is something to be savored, also, while fingers dagger through the lips trembling clutching splayed apart now with quick urgent caresses.
Clamoring for her.
I am esurience given guise.
I am hunger.
"I- I can't- I can't believe how much I'm coming!" Incredulity is merely this; it is reality rejected, but it cannot deny the flesh.
Toes strain; coil; curl.
The legs spasm and shiver and there is a kick; once and twice and again and again and again and...
"I- I- she always fucks me; she always really really really fucks me. Puts- puts herself against me an' 's the only time she's- she's naked even a little-"
"Like this?" With a quirk jerk; with skirt not hiked but just summiting up to my belly and it is to be bared exposed swallowed devoured churning thick sticky with the evening's lust with its eternity its endless unruptured madnesses.
Its lusts.
Yes.
I am become Lust.
It is an act of theogenesis.
It is an act of deicide, also, to fasten your fingers around Aphrodite's throat, to take hold, and to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze while the sainted breath is sucked from pert plump soft lips dragged down into your lungs taken into your body while it is known while it is devoured.
While it is atomized and dusted over every cell and while it steeps like the junk that still throbs through every vein and can only be known in the faint gradations the percolating morsels of vicissitude of nuance like balloons popped in Dresden while the bombs pummel and grind and crunch and flare.
Taste her.
Not with anything so prosaic as the mouth; it is another pair of lips. The perpendicular becomes alignment, becomes a geometry unassailable in its elegances, its perfections, and self-abnegation in the selfish selflessness melts down transmutes with carnal alchemy into the most achingly sumptuous communion.
It is to Know; it is something huge monolithic biblical.
Touch and eat and hunger and gnaw and there is a long sweet sticky heaving squelch in their collision; in our bodies' union. In the thighs entangled in fingers groping and clutching. It is combative; it is not delicate Sapphic poetry but it is beat mania madness it is slathered with her with this lust boiling up up up denied outlet pouring into spittle and the fingers' produce and it is her head thrown back.
Words without guise without form without shape and silhouette are flung from trembling lips in senseless babel that speak of meaning without meaning; that announce being in non-being.
"Wah-hah-aha-ah-'s-waitaaauuuungn!" Melting down.
It is a radio's last tortured strains while the iron fingers crunch down down down.
It is a screech.
"Wah!"
Touch her; touch her.
Fuck her.
Heels ground into the sofa and it is more than aggressive more than combative; it is her thighs groped clutched torn and tugged and it is stockings not merely damp but melting with sweat and it is to know her know her know her it is for the body to taste the body it is for orgasm for lust for bliss to coil and rip and mantle up up up with ragged serrated talons to prise apart the sheaths from every nerve and to lap at them with a blood-poison fervor.
It is to be transfigured.
Flung against the sofa's armrest and her body is mine, and mine hers.
Wriggle and writhe and there is only the sublimity in rearing up up up upon an endless unbroken plateau; it is not even circuitous, because there is no cant in this. An unruptured line; a seamless fervor a fanaticism that is heat red raw hot scarlet psychosis flaring up through the flesh boiling the bodies in their own skin and there is only the will to melt into her.
It is a spurting sputtering flourish and flare.
It is her wail.
Her toes tugged between my lips and eating, eating, eating; her mouth wound 'round my ankle and now, now, it is to silence one another with that feminine grace bathed in sweat that pelts with every twist; when it is to be in her atop her it is to fuck fuck fuck without constraint and it is to taste the gradations in geometry.
In what femininity can capture in hips and thighs and that flesh, that flesh. Wheeling and straining and it is a crash a collision; it is an awareness in rippling soft skin in the fat and meat and hunger in their confrontation.
It is falling back; it is toes a great clutch a harmonica elegance cradled between my lips tucked deeper, deeper, tasting the fine sleek softness and tingled tormented with plump gloss-enameled lust and it is her mouth groping tearing at the sweat-lucent stockings.
S-so fuckin' good.
So amazing.
Voice.
Ours.
It is a collective thrall; it is not mine not hers but a great conjoined being a vast snarling nimbus a front wrought in its constituent madnesses.
She will thrash; I will fall; and then she will fall and I must rise heave and...
And there is not a finishing.
Craving and clutching and her fingers twisted between my thighs mine between hers groping fastened around that sumptuous delta that triad in flesh in skin bare and shimmering and sodden and never ever ever with any word but more.
Kiss her; kiss her; kiss her.
Swallow the breath and her tongue, also.
Eyes glazed.
Crazed.
And now, now, it is to slither sway between the thighs; to savor their clutching deafening presence around your cheeks, the softness sheathing hard muscle the tongue's tingling flit and flicker and fingers spearing stabbing pummeling pounding knuckles introduced to hips and there is her exhaustion.
Forever; eternally.
Wilting.
Arms flung out; crane up up up and it is with hair draping us mine and hers and it is soft and shimmering with sweat it is effulgent with desire it is to be knelt between her thighs; it is to know their shiver and spasm and her toes' endless clutching curl.
Language has died an indecorous and cowardly death, huddled in its own greasy effluent.
It is smeared on the tatami in huge fat blackened streaks with our sweat.
"'s... 's so hot. I- I'm goin' crazy... C-can't take it... I... I've never come that much." While fingers gather and tug and coax her lust's Great Lakes puddles onto a palm; while it is dragged up up up to lips ornamented with a tongue wheeling out.
Lapping and stroking and swallowing.
"Oh? Never?"
"He was so fucking lazy." A riotous urgent epiphany. "He'd- he'd never just go down on me like tha-aaat." A stab between her thighs.
"Really?"
"R-really. Really." A strange Edenesque quality in this. We will gorge ourselves on wisdom's corruption; we are Hawa named Eve and Lilith.
But which is which?
"R-really. Really. R-r-raghn..." Falling back again when the spine strains into an awkward half-sit-up to peer at the fingers vanishing between her thighs.
"You have the prettiest pussy, y'know, Kyoko? It's so hot-"
"It hurts. Y-you... I never fucked 'til it ached like that. Your fingers are so amazing; everything is fucking amazing." Cooing and murmuring and sighing and whimpering and it is to tumble through acreages of quirk and convolution.
"No? Should I stop?"
"M-my body's saying, No. And, Yes, too. I- I dunno. I want... I wanna do this with you again-"
"I'm not your girlfriend."
"I don't wanna girlfriend. I- I see it. I... I mean, wow, what kinda fucking awesome thing would that be, havin' a girlfriend like you? But- but it'd be like having a pet wolf, right?"
"I'd say so." A heavy cohesive thick thread twisted around a finger; lapped away with tongue's inquisitive stripe. "You taste ambrosial, you know."
"I... Can we do it again? Fuck like this, I mean?"
"Oh, yes. Whenever you'd like; so long as I'm not busy."
"S-same here." We will kiss; it is something courtly, perhaps.
Lips settling on hers.
Slow.
Soft.
Tongues will converge.
There will be a mutual breath; it must be tasted in its fullest depth; it is gasoline flitting up into vapor, and her eyes are a torch, and mine, also.
You must swallow the flame.
There is no smoke to breathe or belch.
Cradle her closer.
A kiss; another; another.
"I definitely think I'm painfully in lust with you, Kyoko. Spiritually." Daddy-o.
