My Cardboard Balcony

Heart Ripple Oh, if that doesn't make me wanna scream like a saxophone, trilling up the hot air between my hips and your lips, singing a one-note melody that dips only when the tongue cools the drool dribbling down my chin. Lean into the fornicating swivels of the Möbius strip of two folds four parts flesh, creasing in and out like a sand dune, thick, warm castles burning without salt to swallow them. There's brown sugar on my eyelids - lick it off, suck at my lashes, removing all the mucus hyperventilations from what would be tears of exhausting difference. There. No cigarette. Chocolate fountain bliss, hot swirling syrup configuration on a sweet and sour high eating my curds and whey. Rub my tuffet a little longer, sample the confection first before judgment, and then you have a crippled current staggering from the stove and starting a short-lived flame before sleep.

Calling for help wasn't an option here. Instead, as he groped for every open part of me that lay exposed but closed up like a puckering, terrified fish, I was left with one option. I used my remaining strength to clamp my right hand against his throat, ignoring the sting of my new black eye and the handprint on my left cheek. My left hand went somewhere else entirely. I twisted. I heard the muffled scream against the closed trachea. His eyes bulged in terror and skepticism. "There," I snarled as I held his manhood in a distorted knot. "Now you know how it feels."