Viewing the local antiquities

As she bends down 
to plug into the powerstrip, her indigo sweater rides up, baring the skin of the moment: the pale swells where the flesh of her hips just begins, her vertabrae, the youthful folly of a tattoo that must scrawl its green way all down her unseen left cheek.

Typing away, I still harden.

In two hours, Angel will give me a table shower. Then I'll eat her. Then, inside her, I'll come. And again. And, if I'm lucky, again.



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