(Rewritten: An Ecstatic, Hallucinogenic Erotic Oratorio of Ruin and Rapture)
She is sprawled open, moonlit and magnificent, a fever-dream in flesh, her robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her elbows, the skin beneath slick and perfumed with sweat and the honey of wanting. Her eyes do not simply see, they drink, hypnotic and vast, pupils blown wide like she’s glimpsed the abyss and made it her lover.
You are not a man tonight. You are a wound, crawling on the delirium of need, cracked open by longing. You kneel before her altar, trembling, your voice lost to the throb in your throat and the ache flooding every vein with hallucinogenic anticipation.
She does not speak. Her hand parts her thighs with obscene elegance, fingers glistening, sliding slowly, languidly, inviting you with nothing but the pulsing dark between her legs and the sly smile that says, Bring me your ruin.
The room tilts. The walls pulse with breath, every shadow throbs in time with your heartbeat.
"Come here," she whispers, her voice a ribbon of silk through the fog. "Bring me your sorrow. Make me filthy with your honesty. Cry until your tongue is slick with it, and feed it to me. I want to taste the ache you never let out."
You fall forward, not with hunger but with desperation, the weight of everything you buried in other mouths and bodies breaking loose. Your mouth finds her, lips trembling against the hot velvet of her cunt, and the world fractures, vision swimming, reality warping around the heat and salt and musk of her.
Tears spill, burning down your cheeks, mingling with the flood she offers you. You lap at her like a man dying of thirst, your tongue lost in her folds, each sob swallowed into the slick, the sacred, the unspeakably dirty.
She arches, hips rising, thighs trapping your head, cunt greedy for your grief, pulling you deeper. You choke on her, gasping, moaning into the cradle of her, tasting the electricity, the bitterness, the dark syrup of surrender.
Your tongue is clumsy with desperation, every circle around her clit an apology you will never say, every trembling lick a confession that strips you bare. Her thighs are slick with your tears and her own flood, the room saturated with the smell of sex and sadness and something too holy for daylight.
She moans, a sound that shudders through your bones, that unravels your last defenses. She rides your mouth, her hips ruthless, her fingers knotted in your hair, holding you to her, demanding you stay until you are emptied, until your face is ruined and your soul is scrubbed raw.
You break on her, body shaking, mouth sobbing, licking, lost. She comes, slow and seismic, a resounding ripple that vibrates through the floor and up into your ruined chest, her moan a guttural hymn, a low and dirty benediction that coats your tongue.
She drags you up by the hair, mouth crashing to yours, her taste and your sorrow mixing between your lips. Her kiss is not mercy, but reclamation.
She grins, wild, unrepentant. "Now," she breathes into your open mouth, "let’s see how much filth is left in you."
You collapse beside her, forehead pressed to her breast, both of you glazed in sweat and tears and the sticky aftermath of everything you have given and taken. Her fingers rake through your hair, not gently, claiming. You breathe her in, lungs filled with sex and salvation, and for the first time, you are clean, filthy, and utterly undone.
- jspc ] Artist of Wanton [
