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My own secret life 
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Looking forward
Game Angel has raised herself to a four-point stance, after I'd pulled her all the way down me, me all up her, then ground her bristly motte round my arched muscletensed holdingbreath belly: Now only my tip touches her twatlips. She puts her weight forward on her fingertips: squats: begins to reciprocate. She knows me so well. She's gauged the distance: Her downstroke is soundless—Nimbly, she stops her butt short from a thwack on my thighs: soundless except for faint squelching, her sighs. The one place our flesh touches: my juiced shiny piston, stainless: up down, in out, in out; disappearing, appearing. Peekaboo. I see you. {290}
The alphabet
M-N O is for orgasm, the delight all may share with Poets, who also construct climaxes where {NA}
I'd practiced with a condom beforehand, to see what it felt like putting one on, to see if I'd stay hard, to see if I could come wearing one.
Lan was on top first; despite being so tiny and tight she was so juicy and loose I kept falling out. We'd laugh in amazement and have at it again. {NA}
"The bottle was almost empty, so I added some water."
As if she were a teenager topping off the bottle of whiskey Dad hides in his study. And I'd caught whiff after whiff from her cunt as I reached round her cheeks and twiddled her fleshpetal lips; too bad she didn't feel wet enough when it came time to mount her. {140}
The spectrum
Red Christmas bulbs round the Buddhist altar in the foyer; plush of the waiting room chairs and divan; hallway carpet outside her cube; LCD readouts from her boombox; curtains; the swoosh on her can of Diet Coke, there on its tray for half-time; swirly peppermints in a gold bowl by the door to the street; brakelights, as her driver spots the number I gave her agency; a felt cloche; the scales of the dragon tattooed on her biceps, its flames; a scrawled phone number; the O of her lips; a soy sauce calendar. {NA} Roy G. Biv. All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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