BCN: regrettable sex (2008)

Getting home wasted, somehow hooking up with Cecilia’s mate…

Goddamn she was hairy. Hairy armpits, hairy crouch. How had I not seen these black mounds before? How had my eyes avoided these wiry swamps which festered in her corners?

And she stank. I don’t know what I had come to at this moment in my life, what sick fetish brought me to this station…but here I was, pulling off my boxer-shorts with her – odious, odorous and fur-like – sweating humid pours onto my quiet mattress. Perhaps I deserved it. Perhaps this was supposed to be a moment of clarity – one would hope so – perhaps this was just what I needed…but no, she still reeked the ranks, let us not ignore the issue. It was the worst rotten minge I have ever, and shall ever, inhale. It was time for clarity, enlightenment…

Ok goddamnit, lets just get this thing over with. But every sour stench has its lucid lining and once inside her…she wiggled like a dehydrated eel. Pure squirming, and not an ounce of counterfeit. She was ejaculating ten thousand gallons an hour, every thirty-three seconds. Incredible. I have never seen anything like it. She squirted and railed and rallied and protested against her tainted enjoyment. I had hardly touched her yet she was shrieking like a hound. Well, I thought…this’ll be easier then I imagined…I can put the sewer stench and stale socks to one side if she likes it this much. I’ll just have to take a damn good shower in the morning.

And by the time I had finished she was dead. Her eyes had glued to the back of her brain and her toes were turgid. She was pure rigor mortis, only her charcoaled pussy was breathing with its diseased breath, singeing her mound of pubic hairs with its yellow fire of pus.

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