fsolo, MC

Writhing, swaying, you look in the mirror; you look succulent. Your head is filled with a rushing sound like the minute magnified pop of the cork and the champagne rushing from the long stem of the pipe. A sense of urgency, the shower water is hot, frothy, and moist and soon your image in the mirror over the porcelain bath will fade and film over with dew. You examine yourself with an epicurean eye; a gourmet feast presents itself, your good enough to eat, there, that's the thought taking a hold of your mind. Filmed over with steam, your figure in the mirror glass begins crossing over; arms and legs supine fizz into vaporous obscurities, the pane of clear glass diminishes, overwhelmed by steam, leaving finally only a small concentric circle with feathered edges, a cheese-cloth peephole, filled with smoldering flesh too narrow to identify.

You find you have a full Latin body, ripe curves in all the right places. The mist hangs from your bounteous breasts. With every sway of your rounded full hips, they sway. You reach up with your hands and squeeze the handful of your very own titty flesh. Each feels soft and ripe and bulges out between each and every finger. A soft breathy moan slips from your lips; a soft lick of the tongue across a lower lip as when you taste something mouthwatering. Rich fantasies of every flavor present themselves to your salivating thoughts. A blond haired beauty between your brown thighs eats you out enthusiastically, perhaps. Or a meaty penis nestled between your lips, you sucking out the white creamy cum. Or both of them, at the same time, all the more for you to fuck and suck. In this state, you could fuck and suck a harvest of men and women. You have an alien hunger for the taste of human flesh, of human cum sprayed across your face, in your mouth.

Eagerly, you reach your hand downward and begin to play with your moist pussy, as if it was a new prize, something coveted from afar and now attainable. You play with yourself with a passion of a first lover arching your hips forward, as you wind your fingers in circles, roughly then gently, exploring your tastes.

You bring your sticky fingers to your lips and taste the sweet nectar. The ambrosial scent spurns you onward. Fuck yourself; fuck yourself with your fingers! Imagine they're a meaty cock pounding! Suck it, Suck all the pussy juices of your cock fingers, you slut bitch! Fuck yourself until you lose control. Your eyes roll into the back of the head. Pussy scent bonds with the spraying water creates an odor almost physical, not smelled, but rather seeping into the pores of your body, enriching your own lust.

Your sways and writhes turn violent; your titties whip about, as you ride your fingers. The pleasure comes and to your instinctual capacities the sensation is matched and accentuates the pressure of the shower, as if the pressure building in the shower head is the pressure in you boiling, rising, whistling. . One hand thrust deep into your sex, the other squeezing and twisting at your breasts and nipples, you begin to cum. You bite your tongue and convulse in the grips of some deep spirit of lust. Your body is disconnected from your mind, your mind in an indescribable void, a nothingness that cages you in. A fear whispers to itself, belonging to a conscious brain that was once your, it fears the lack of control, wishes it back, but it is a small thing to the animal inside, baying for you to fuck yourself. Another being controls you utterly; your body is being brought to the very limits.

A final shuddering, or an after-shock, the pleasure left, leaving another void that you are unable to fill. Breathing violently, sinking to my knees, I feel the pleasure has left me like all my other one-time lovers, the same where it counts, slinking off me so they won't have to deal with the awkward morning after. O, Dios, I can not believe in such an orgasm, it felt like it wasn't even me. Like a demon. O, Dios, do not think of Church. What would Father say if I told him this story at confession? O, Dios, do not think of Father. My skin feels so hot. And so red. Is it so hot in here? What could have made me feel like such an animal?

When Maria was a little girl, in Mexico, She had once seen a bitch mounted in the street by another perro. Her mother had placed her palm, hot and dry, over her eyes. But what she feared to show, Juanette feared to see. After that, Maria feared animals and men. But now she knew what it must feel like to be an animal. And to be fucked like an animal. She wondered: If I opened my legs like that little perrita would some man fuck me like that? Turn the water off. I have my legs now good, O, Dios, I am still shaky, and (O, Dios, O God) horny. But it was like I was raped by a ghost. I want to be raped. I want Father to fuck me. I want to be fucked in the street. This is not me; it was like I was possessed. I must say my prayers.

Maria Ortega toweled herself and dressed in her long nightgown and going to her cosmetics table reached for the silver cross hanging from the vanity. This is the cross that she always wore to bed. The linking of the silver chain around her neck set off another blush. The chain was another form of spirit, different from the first.

The Stranger watched Maria until she fell asleep. He could still feel the attachment, the spiritus line, through the wall and when he could close his eyes he could even see it like a dark hollow nerve attached between them. We were twins, and lovers, for that one moment, he thinks. Still dimly, he could see into her head, feel her dreams creeping up at the back of his eyes. He clutches at the pain in his chest wishing that he could have the firm Latin breasts that he had once had. But his harvest was reaped for tonight. He no longer had the sexual energy; he was just a poor raggedy man in a drought. He licked his dry and flaky lips and ponders. Perhaps he will be back tomorrow night to take her body; to make it his and use it. As a child growing up in the Ghettos of Italy, there were those who would sometimes steal the cars of the rich Castilians, to drive them for a few hours, to feel what it felt like to completely possess and own something beautiful, and then abandon it. Only an empty night alley and he could hear the rattle of the descending steps on the fire escape, as he left again for the night.