My Cardboard Balcony

Jenna's Got Nice Lips by Belinda Roddie The rotund effect of a pivoting soft palate, the hot tongued, orgasmic syndrome in a handheld lover girl against my right hand. In short, she's got nice lips, and she knows how to kiss. She knows how to rub me in all the right backwards ways, from the spinal transmission of radio euphoria to the pilomotor reflex up and down my arms with just one finger, one dark finger, tracing constellations on the cusp of my astronomical, heart racing urge to incinerate the stars, just to fondle her faster. Jenna, you shake me, and you sugar me up, and you spice me down with the warmth baked into my pie crust cortex. You hypnotize my inner child, and you saturate my glutton angel. You've got the heat of a dessert-shaped molten lava spoonful of an intoxicating climax, served with cold medicine, peppered with one hundred five degree fever. You're fang-toothed, love-thirsty, pirate treasure-eyed ecstasy wrapped in a ...

The expression on her face was almost like mud smudged across her lips and chin. Her nostrils flared. She looked dirty. Felt dirty. She was like an angry, sick mongrel baying for nourishment. She felt starved. Emaciated. Weak. "Stop sneering at me," the stranger snarled, trying to be intimidating. But she wasn't intimidated. Not anymore, she told herself. As her hands curled into fists.