The Naked Truth

Tongue, heat, pressure: breaking, building again, but quicker this time, and again. Losing track.

Fingers slide into me, slickly. Curled gently inside me, but that won’t do it. I need hard and unyielding. I need something to fight against.

I can never remember which chemicals it is that are released after orgasm. I think I overdose on them. At some point whoever me is is reduced to a speck, clinging to the inside of my mind, fingers grappled onto the bones of my skull – or maybe not. Maybe I’m in my cunt, or my hard little nipples (semaphoring “bite me!”), or every muscle I seem to possess, now stretching and clenching, pulling and dragging me too breathless to scream… nah, I’m pretty sure I’m in my cunt. And when I’m there, I’m pure animal (and not one of the more-intelligent-than-human ones, at that).

I want… break.

Nothing so coherent as I want to, or I want him to me: just break. As if I could be grasped firmly by the thighs and given a good yank, splitting easily down the middle, or just wriggle farther and farther down till I split.

Of course, that’s barbaric. Rational, normal me, sitting here writing this, is slightly appalled, but I don’t go to bed with her. She’s there, no doubt, when I start out (on my back, with my head on a pillow), and vanished when I’m wondering how I got here (face down at the foot of the bed). Maybe I put up a bit of a fight, and maybe I won. Maybe I’ll know for sure when I climb back into my head.

His body is a cage, enclosing me. It’s a tight fit, and I couldn’t crawl out of it if I wanted to, pinioned as I am by his cock at the pivotal point, so I don’t try: I just hang on.

“It’s scary, sometimes,” I say, “coming like that”, but he just looks at me politely and makes me do it again.

Fucking, I suffer from delusions. On my endorphined, dopamined high, I believe not that I can fly, but that my body is invincible, and that it will endlessly stretch and bend and flex and be twisted into places it is probably not meant to go; as though my sentient mechanical puppet body can be unscrewed at the joints so I can keep on reaching for the next high, double-jointed. And then afterwards, it feels as though it’s all come adrift, and I don’t know if I can find the pieces to put me back together again.

Stroke my skin, kiss me tenderly, and then that’s enough: you should hurt me now.

“You look… well used”, he says, peering between my thighs. “Very well used,” I say, but what I’m thinking is that I’m not finished yet.

Hurrah! Fleshbotted! Thanks, AAG.