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How she deceives, as though she didn’t want me to do what I do to her; as though I were to large, the thrusts too deep, the girth too wide for the width of her thighs. She pants. She grasps the sheets. She glares at the ceiling. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth is open. Her voice is filled by my thrusts. Poor woman: object, female, fated, receiving inseminate. But then what changes? Her ankles cross behind me. Her hands clutch at my hips. She bites my shoulder. The pleasure—denied, resisted, refused—turns her eyes upward, lifts her spine from the bed, arches her feet.
····her thighs to the flood of semen—she
Redbud | January 29 2017