Perched
Posted on Sun, 11/23/2008 - 23:16
He’s got me up on top of the fridge, his face cunt-height; he is up to his knuckles inside me.
I’ve got my foot planted on the ceiling above his head, can’t feel the cupboard digging a bruise in my back. He tips me forward off the edge, hooks his fingers a little more, then yanks them out. I buckle, my legs down around his neck. The absence inside a wail that gushes over his chest, pooling on the floor.
I hook my finger into the hollow of my lovers jaw and lead her to our bed room; ropes all ready laid out on the bed are a familier and welcome sight.
The little brown paper bag of crickets on the night stand though, now this will be another matter all together.