06 Enero 2012

La petit morte

Impatient with his languorous love-making, his wife Rita pushed him out and off of her with all the agility left to a forty-five year old woman. Her tits slipped out of his hands and out of reach. He would have groaned if Rita had not taken him into her mouth, frizzy hair in a ragged halo around her head. Despite a desperately limited erotic vocabulary, a pious dedication to oral hygiene, and her favorite spearmint toothpaste, Rita sucked, groaned, licked, and tickled like a porn star half her age. Groaning, he pumped, knees audibly creaking. He  had vodka for blood; there was a sweet metallic taste in his mouth. Dino shoved himself deeper down Rita's throat almost choking her, flushed and panting, glad to have waited twenty years for his first blowjob.

And when his body shook and failed, Dino didn't know the spume he squirted nearly gagged his wife. It burst in her mouth, spilled down her throat, but he wasn't done. He lost control and he rode like a bucking bronco, arms in the air, prick in a hot, wet mouth. Pumping, pumping, pumping till his hips gave way. It went with a small pop, unheard behind the braying that escaped him. He was cursing and laughing and provoking the gods. When he finished, he was finished.

That's how he went, dry as a bone. It was as if nothing happened and nothing ever will.

Because Pao insisted, during an argument we had this evening, that there was no way to die instantaneously.

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