Tuesday, March 15, 2011

jez

She lays on the bed blowing smoke to the ceiling. Long, curling, thick wisps of smoke tantalizing and teasing the air. She is underage, seventeen, I think. I stare at her, my eyes engulfing her lips, coloured in deep sensuous red lipstick; her mascara-laden eyes; bra pushing up her small breasts; black shorts with fishnet tights underneath. She is rock 'n' roll, free, wild, freak, femme fatale. She is young, too young and my wolf eyes lick at her presence as though they want to eat her youth and naivete up. It'd be so easy to tear her apart, to cram fingers up...her...I banish these thoughts as they rise up in my ceiling of a mind, the disturbing, perverted thoughts, rising up like the cactus breeze that's surging from her mouth. She's a nice kid, smoking a hookah, relaxing. Nice, cute kid. These girls are all the same these days.

Hey, can I have some smoke?

I expect her to reach out her delicate hand, grasp the hookah, and give it to me. I expect to fleetingly touch her fingers, a touch of familiarity, of 'I know you I saw you there once'. Instead, this waif of a girl, this innocent, naive kid looks at me with lurid eyes and with fluid movement, uncurls her limbs and rolls over onto me. Her legs on either side of mine, her arms above my torso, her hands over my head. Her face, overly painted with poison, hanging like a lone lighbulb above me. I cannot move and it seems my mind that was so animated with sexual thought before has frozen. Does she not realize what she's doing how can she not realize that--her lips touch mine, too rigid, too doubting to be a kiss...yet I can already feel myself crackling. Sweet, thick smoke erupts from her mouth into mine--and I feel as though she's making love to me, true love, the kind of sensual, passionate, romantic love that only two strangers who will never meet again make. I can almost feel her tongue on me, her fingers touching my skin, fucking me sweetly and gently only as a virgin can and my whole body explodes with...

She lays on the bed blowing smoke to the ceiling. Long, curling, thick wisps of smoke dancing above her closed eyes. Seventeen? Seventeen. They come experienced these days, these girls. They're all the same.

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