Crooning, she's lifted her legs and clamped her calloused heels to my cheeks:
I look left to the wall mirror:
In the mirror, my doughboyish belly, twice her size, covering her: A great heavy sack dropped from a height, crushing her: Her arms, legs, neck and head splayed by the flattening impact:
In the mirror, my pelvis wagging though its minute arc: My semaphor cock wagging a signal:
Arm hidden between her thighs: Head secretly leaping inside her, there:
A signal transmitted over a great distance: A signal—my spasm felt through the latex the stop-bit—only she will ever decrypt. To her it might mean:
1. At last I can stop;
2. He got more than he paid for;
3. Now he'll get off me;
4. Make sure the condom hasn't come off.
The craft of being a whore is making a fat man come fast.
But she's loose, over-lubed; her crescendo of crooning won't do it.
Hello, glad to see you back, and well. Your journal stands like a lesson in freedom, against the "rising tide"...
Thanks! I'm glad to be writing again. Like the mute king in Once Upon a Matress, "I've got a lotto say"....
I knew that keeping you bookmarked would pay off again. Sooner or later.
Thanks DP (and sorry for the moderated comments, but the spam was just too, too much. And so stupid).
I like your stories a lot, but mostly I like how you tell them. I'm glad you're back.
Thanks, lola. I don't know if the world is hungry for this kind of "telling" or not, but it's interesting. And I think whoring is becoming more and more a central though buried metaphor for most of what goes on in our fin de siecle "end times" ...
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."