July 2017
THE INITIAL, almost timid suggestion was rather unexpected. Now, it certainly wasn’t that she didn’t know what it looked like; she had been subjected to more porn—relentlessly obtained and waded through, for the purposes of inspiration, obviously—in which this was, in fact, the central theme, the goal, sometimes even the only thing that even happened, and yes, she had truly had enough of that nonsense and had said so. No, this was a spark from somewhere else. Someplace hushed and darker. There was almost a mystery, there, in her bashful request.
And it was not unexpected that the first solution proposed was nixed right off the bat. Too technological, too risky, too much “just like a guy,” without there being the slightest sympathy for or comprehension of the notion that the camera was invasive, intimidating, judgmental, not to mention that whole leaving a record of sin problem. Her regrets at having mentioned her nonchalant interest skyrocketed as tripods and remote triggers and lighting rigs were being trolled for at the local pawn shop, which ended up being broached on an outing one day, with a beeline made for the old-fashioned photographic equipment counter.
“Hey. What do you think?”
“You do know that’s an outrageously expensive hobby, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t it solve our problem?”
“What problem?”
“Oh, you know.” The slight smirk and wiggling of eyebrows tipped the hand about what was being thought about. Like that was a surprise.
“Jesus Christ. Give it a rest.”
“What am I doing here? I’m trying to help. To fulfill you, darling.”
“I should have just kept my big fat mouth shut.”
“Oh, come on. We might have some fun. Look at it as art.”
“Yeah, no, not that kind of fun.”
“Spoilsport.” The word “bitch” tacitly floated around somewhere behind the squint.
“Besides, just who do you think is going to develop your, uh, art?”
“Maybe I’ll have to have a darkroom.”
“Not a chance in hell. Not no way, not no how; we don’t have room. Not in our crappy little love-shack, sweetie.”
Shoulders fell, along with senses of humor. The store was exited, and the rest of their day was gotten around to in a stilted silence. The usual day-off intimacies were put on hold until a couple midnights down the road, when the aims and ponderings toward an obscene documentation process could be ignored and maybe even forgotten about, as there was, after all, this better thing they could be doing. Until the next time that they found themselves out there on earth somewhere, and another happenstance happened, and the subject “managed” to come up again. And got put back down again.
“Look at me, and repeat after me: I am not that kind of a whore.”
There was a moment of pause.
“No. No you’re not.”
That seemed to be the end of it, and the funny looks of shot-framing and visual composition planning died down. Before long, they even started staying up late again for some more-casual less-outlandish smut before retiring for familiarities and affections, occasionally going so adventurously far as doggie-style or the butterfly position.
But it was on one of their weekend excursions—that usually involved a late breakfast, perhaps a movie, or maybe some random explorations of the city, deliberately getting themselves lost in the hunt for new and interesting romantic places to visit—that the real fulfillment of the desire presented itself. It was there against the far back wall of the local flea market, amidst all the old chipped toy tea sets, the racks of Life Magazine that had no meaning to anyone any more, the endless mountains of entrepreneurial junk from the attics and garages of would-be collectors of landfill fodder.
It was pricey, of course. Immense, ostentatiously ornate, almost overwhelming in its worn-out grandeur. But it was unique, in that it was split down the middle and opened up on side-hinges to reveal three brightly polished surfaces, just like in clothing boutiques.
“I love that.”
“It sure is old. I’m not so sure but that it isn’t real silver. The way it’s tarnishing around the edges?”
She stood there, mesmerized. “I want it.”
“Where are we going to put it?”
Her eyebrows crossed as she came out of her spell for a moment. “Someone cleverly put casters on it at some point.”
“Ruining the authenticity.”
“Who cares? We can roll it around. Room to room.” She swiveled her head with a creak, and narrowed her eyes. “To room.”
With that moment of clarity and understanding, the credit card limit was reached.
Dinner that evening was simple and quick, and the expectations of what was going to most likely happen later on ran pretty high. High enough to make the news and the sitcoms seem even dumber than usual.
“Let’s go to bed,” wafted across the cozy seating arrangements early, when she couldn’t stand the stress any more.
“I thought you’d never ask,” came the muttering snicker back.
“Shut up; don’t ruin this.” She disentangled herself from the loveseat, and stepped off toward the bathroom.
“Am I bringing the, uh—”
“—What do you think?” She ran her hand down the craftsmanship as she walked by, almost like she was petting it. The scrambling and thumps she got to listen to as she washed her face, brushed her hair and finished off the bottle of mouthwash kept her chortling until things finally quieted down out there. She flushed the toilet and opened the door, wearing just an old thin robe that barely covered anything.
There were candles flickering in the bedroom, which got the shadows of the infidelic column of skin and muscle and surging blood to dance around the walls in an ancient fertility-rite, and, in some ways, the inordinate quiet was unnerving and amiss and awry. There should have at least been drums pounding away; mercifully, there wasn’t any bad seventies jazz-funk fusion set on a too-short loop that was supposed to inspire the swaying of loins and shoulders and the lickings of lips, but usually worked out to honestly just needing a laugh track, what with all the atrocious script writing and dreadful acting and amateurish editing surrounding the only forbidden “redeeming” reason to bother with such wretched films.
Their new purchase was opened up at the foot of the bed.
“No. Wrong.”
“What?”
“I got it; don’t worry.” She stepped down alongside the closet, and closed the imposing piece of furniture…backwards. The casters came in handy, and, when she had swiveled it all the way about, she opened it back up again. Facing the other way around.
“What are you doing?
“Didn’t you notice?”
The looking glass was concave on the backside, and it magnified the bed, the room, and especially, the-the…erection.
“I cannot believe you wouldn’t thank the stars about how it makes you look, hmmm, bigger.” Her smile crinkled her nose, and she dropped what little clothing she had on, crawling up on the bed with the devil in her eye.
The first attempts at positioning her were rebuffed. “Oh, no you don’t. You have to be on top: missionary tonight. So I can lie back and look over your shoulder. So I can see.”
There was no disputing that kind of proposal, although the usual nuzzling and cuddling was dispensed with, as it only cost time, and tended to obscure her lazy view. “Stop that; you’re in my way. Move.” All the pre-production visualization procedures and imaginary storyboardings paid off, and, with only minor adjustments to angles and trajectories and refractional geometries, she had a magnificent panorama of what was about to happen to her.
“Slow. Do it slow.” She gasped and held her hands up to convey and control her wishes, and there was no reason not to comply; male orgasm is inevitable. She leaned her head over to the side, stretching it as far as she could get, and beheld the sight of her very own self spread open and wide, trembling, more ready for the act of love than she had ever been in her life.
The plummeting began. At first contact, her exhale went on forever, dragging the timing of the events out even further, and at first nudge, she started quivering and moaning, her eyes anime-ed wider than was humanly possible; breathing was dispensed with by everyone on the mattress. At first breach, with just the tip of the tip, the mild swearing was initiated, along with the nodding, and her whole body shook. When the glans ultimately vanished from the scene as if by magic, her hips launched into bucking, and her hands snaked around to the lower back that was so precariously hovering over her. She barely touched the undulating spine, then flicked her fingers up and away to brush the flanks that hung in the air above her with the heels of the palms of her hands, to begin to set up the kinetics, the rhythm, the familiar motions of intimacy, of knowing, of sexual intercourse, on a miniscule scale, at her leisurely dream-ridden pace. The teasings of the impending penetration went on for what felt like an eternity; they conspired to off-handedly drive her insane.
She practically wet the bed with the unbridled dripping welcome into her body that a woman can give to a man, drenching her own winking filthy hole that she had in common “down there” with her lover. The chamber flooded with the heady feminine aromas of the happy anticipations of consummation. She submitted all the love she had to the universe in order to see the penis restraining itself with throbs and shivers from yet fully defiling her quaking and nervous vagina; it was more love than she ever thought she could love, as they moved together slower, ever slower, dear god how can it be this wonderfully slow. The slightest of dippings in—not evensofar as half way to the circumcision mark—and the soul-shattering hollowings rendered from the withdrawal of mere millimeters of that handy pound of flesh, went on and on and so maddingly on, nigh unto eons, until the very end of time itself was stumbled upon, and she cried out the words.
“P-please. T-taaake mmeeee.”
The plunge was full and long and deep and to the hilt, and she screamed. She threw her wrists and her ankles up and around the bulk and mass that was violating and occupying her, hooking and binding herself to her fate with her own limbs, drawing herself up toward the thrust, falling back down onto the bed, pulling herself back up for further conquering, for sex, for sheer lust, setting up the percussive tempo, the jarring pacing, and the most-primitive of desecrations was on in full swing.
He beast-fucked her, pouring every ounce of frustration and wrath he had ever had onto her, there, in between their legs, with howling and braying and screeches of the foulmost words for women, and she slut-fucked him back as ferociously as she could, taking in everything he hit her with like she liked it that way—rough, like a paintoy would—craning her neck around him to look, to see, to absorb the vision of the splitting and the parrying and the piercing intently, and she orgasmed before he did, and she studied the stabbing and the force and the brutal personal invasion and came again before he even got close, and then, she raptured herself once more and then yet again, staring solidly at his cock with astonishment and reverence as it buried itself alive within the abyss of her cunt, only to surface and splash about in the swamp, over and over, his balls iron-slapping against her asshole which threatened to let them in, too, before the finale, with her shrieking out how god damn fucking good this was.
After a literal detonation of mutual ecstasies inside of her, that expended all of the life forces there were in the hovel to expend within her, there were raspings and pantings and flirtations with unconsciousness as the planetary weights were levitated and bounced onto the bedsprings, and she was exposed to the atmosphere once again. She found that she could float. She gathered her senses quickly, and swam around in the oxygen to rearrange things against the pillows so she could watch herself give some grateful fellatio: what she saw when she glanced away from the headboard was true. The phallus she set out to lick and to kiss and to swallow appeared, for all practical purposes, to be forearm-huge in those nearby echoes of glint and luster, even when it was limp. Which she exerted all due diligence and effort toward to turn back around from its retreat into fatigue and uselessness, back into a rampaging hardon, into the utmost pride of a man, ready to commit war-rape on the very angels of heaven, with her going so far as to induce envy in the pornstars they sometimes scrutinized at night before turning out the lights and closing the shades and hiding under the covers with how many fathoms into her own throat she was willing to gag herself to, until the sought-after enchanting growth she was pilgrimaging for miraculized and her swain changed size and the ever-carried weapon reached up, way far up—in the likeness—farther up toward a nearby navel than had ever happened in real life, ultimately obscuring said umbilical scar, approaching a heaving ribcage.
“Jesus. That’s—oh god—that’s—fuck that’s goo—how does—”
“—It’s only a trick of the shine, my dear. Now you just lie back and relax, and allow me to perform the righteous work of sex-slaves and fucktoys, concerned as we should so very be with the bliss of our masters.”
Arguments? None.
Reverse cowgirl was on deck, and she thrashed and tossed her hair around, twisting her own nipples in ways she wouldn’t let anyone else do to her, with her mouth completely agape and drooling as she sank down on the shaft, eagerly letting it slide into her bottom, her well-moistened anus, her taboo and off-limits virginal ass, for the first time in this—or any—relationship. There was groaning and profanity unlike what either of them had ever expressed or ever even heard before, not even in all the indecent erotica they so sheepishly rented from the video emporium at nearly closing time.
She went absolutely wild; there weren’t any objections. Only awe.
Although, when glimpses were caught around her in the midst of all the ravishing, the veritable ravaging, the turnabout-is-fair-play rapine, there, beyond the end of the bed, in the reflection, it looked for all the world like the dick that she was throwing herself onto with such abandon was even larger than before. The funny part was, that, in the convenient representations of such proximate magnified sexy-as-shit doppelgängers, this time, the uncannily stout pillar she was so thoroughly exhausting herself on worming all the way on up inside her there where it could blaspheme the most, was black. Not that it mattered.
No, it didn’t matter at all that she was scrying out other former and future lovers to slampig herself with and to and for through the mirror. Not when her increasingly pale current boyfriend was getting his brains so fabulously fucked out as much as he so gloriously was.
Posted with Blogsy