The flat of his furred thigh. The thin membrane between thumb and forefinger. The subcutaneous slug of vein just above a temple. A finger crooked on the sun-warmed metal of the trigger. The latticework of history. a web that skins his back. The sun-creased corner of an eye. An expulsion of breath that hitches before its limit.
She’s made a Frankenstein out of sundry parts the men she’s known: some loved, some disdained, some feared, some expended too soon. A towering creature formed from the detritus of others. This patchwork corpse reanimated, not with lightning, but with nouns and verbs and curdled lust.
“Play nice, now,” she says, nudging him into the forest of prose.
“Fuck you, bitch,” he replies, sitting down naked and seamed, between two paragraphs.
She backspaces and starts again.
With the tendon of a forearm. The tiny fold of skin an earlobe. The absent tail at the end of a crooked spine. The calloused wedge of a heel. The sweat-beaded crevice above a lip. A semi-tumescent uncut cock. A two-tone voice. The concavity of a buttock past its prime. The temper of a weary taxi driver…
Well, Good Morning! This was a nice thing to find in my inbox and have with my coffee!
Sometimes, sometimes I hate when you make me think…
Sorry. 😛
Recipe for a lovely personal crafting project. Thank you, RG.
your Frankenstein lives…and has devoured many in the past… just as is you have…
your look, is of wander…want…lust…drawing you to me…your lips taste of moscoto…
kissing you softly yet deeply my hands wander…slipping under your sweater into
your bra…pinching and rolling your nipples… slowly pulling your turtleneck over your head…
my fingertips tremble as I slowly unbutton your blouse….my lips tracing lines down
your throat…kissing and nibbling along the fabric of your bra….unfastening your bra
my lips now suckling at your breast and swollen nipples…reaching under you to
slide your panties off…then sliding your wool stockings over your feet as I kiss your toes
suckling each one as I try to refrain from attacking you in Ernst….kissing slowly up your calves
in between your knees up to your thighs….my cheeks warm from your flesh.. just the brush
of my lips across your vulva and clit cause you to lurch…pushing yourself towards my
wanting lips and tongue….just the thought of my flicking tongue and soft lips cause your
vulva to part and clit to swell…pulling my face into your hot gash…telling me what you want
what you need …you pull my ears and tell me to “enjoy…use more tongue…shove it in you ”
you yell…wanting my fat softness full of saliva shoved into you as deep as I can thrust and
still breathe…holding me there as I flick your clit and tickling your softness by suckling on ‘
your nub….she begins to fill with blood…and the spasms take over your legs…shuddering…
quivering as your toes curl and she explodes all over my face….drinking in as much of
you as possible…your legs stretched and straining to hold me…as you force your ass into
the air shoving your pussy against my face and trying to pull away.from the trembling and
flicking of my tongue….you ask me how I liked my dessert…I exclaim…delicious…..thank you
Remittance Girl! You just totally turned me on with the power of the act of creation.
What a gift (I hadn’t realized it was a sex toy).
Thank you very much.
I would hate you if I could, but I can’t.
Such is your power.
“The latticework of history”… Leaves a heart keening on the moor, or hopeful at the table encounter offers. Surely it mans many “waiting rooms”.
Oh, the vivid visual, the camera click of the eye. A wonderful gift in words.