Four writers for the price of one blog
I’ve come home. I’m a mess. My hands are dark with grit. I’ve been on a roof. I’ve wiped sweat out of my eyes and dirt’s in my smile lines. You complain my lips taste like road-tar. I get ahead myself. I hear you in the shower. I imagine you, naked, clean, slender. I shed my clothes climbing the stairs. By the time I’m at the top, my cock’s upright, like a satyr’s. I burst into your late summer freshet—cock bouncing. First you’re startled seeing me. Then you’re startled seeing my cock. You don’t know what to do. One hand fumbles with soap, the other with the washcloth. But I’m already planting my feet. I’m turning you, pulling your ass back, pushing your shoulders forward. Then your hands, soap and washcloth, are high against the tile. Then you’re heels lift. I thickly rise inside you. I wonder what it must be like: a woman’s soft core filled by a man’s rigidity. And then the thrusts. You balance on your toes and your fingers climb the tile. It’s too much. Your little cry. The heavy glue of spunk filling your womb. But here’s the confession: When I turn you and kiss you, biting your lip, holding your hair at the back of the neck, cock half-tumid, balls low with the burn of release, I piss—piss and semen—like a satisfied bull. Up and inside you, my semen, and between your ankles, little girl, my streaming piss. I can’t explain it. I pinch your tit. I spank your ass. Twist. Bite your lip. I’m never more satisfied.
September 1, 2015