SOME PEOPLE

HAVE WAY TOO MUCH

TIME ON THEIR HANDS.

The second touch..

was a lot more..

The second touch was a thrust,

a sudden deep nerve shattering drive,

straight into the depths of her heat.

Without pause or practice

the vibrating hum plunged into her scalding depths,

pushing the velvet aside,

and surging past her straining clit

and onwards...

along her tunnel of life.

She gasped and bucked

and moaned

and maybe screamed

as all the air in her body

was instantaneously consumed

by her flames,

and she lay

open and filled

suddenly filled to the brim..

Spaces that she never knew she owned

were sro

and nerves that fed them,

nerves that had been anonymous all of her life,

were swiftly and vociferously

aflame.

Her back arched as the seemingly massive and endless... thing

continued it's lightnin' journey

onward and upward..

all the senses which the last...

oh, what seemed like days...

had aroused

clung to it's shape..

each of clasping for satiation

as the shuddering thing passed...

she knew, in the small section of her brain

that still had blood and oxygen

that this entire process

had only taken a millisecond

and yet

her body was in slowmo..

she felt each pore as the thing stroked past it,

each cell as it's switch was turned higher,

and each tiny stretching of the canvas

to taut

over the frame of her passion.

The mask was no longer necessary,

simply because

her body could no longer spare

the electrical energy to work her vision anyway.

After what seemed like an eternity,

the thing stopped, pushed hard up against

her "go no further" place,

and there it stayed...

her body ceased responding to the surge

and answered now only to the presence..

It was magical...

filled and shuddering,

she felt herself beginning to climax again, beginning the physical observation

of millions of tiny trickles,

as they found each other and united....

They bonded, deep inside her core,

where there is no body

just soul,

and they joined in unison

for the race to freedom,

swelling as they grew,

and shaken into foam

by the thing within them...

she lay back

and waited..

waited for the river to grow,

smashing against it's banks

and carrying the flames to the air outside...

her breasts were alive things

by now...

aching and looking for fingers

or lips

or telephone cords..

yearning for more champagne

wanting

ATTENTION.

and yet,

there was none...

no balm for the nipples,

no salve for her own thirsty mouth..

just the sense of the river...

building inside of her.

She knew that the bodies

which had caused the bed to sink in

next to her

were gone now....

lifted and moved away

and it was just her...

and the thing...

as the river continued to roll and tumble

inside of her

digging up the silt and muck

of her repressed life,

and flushing it ever outwards,

she felt clean...

peeled and pretty and pure.

and that was a wonderful way to feel..

and it made her whole and happy and hell on wheels..

the river was a torrent by now,

and the last thing that she needed

was,

of course,

exactly what happened.

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