An Enigmatic Melody of Depravity and Unity
She glistens, every inch glazed in the aftermath, hips splayed, breath fogging the air, thighs lacquered with the proof of your worship. The flesh of her ass is still pressed flush to your pelvis, heat radiating, your final kiss leaking out of her with every quiver, slow and unapologetic. You see it, the mess you left inside her, a raw, unashamed ruin, and something in you wants to sink back in, to smear yourself through every drop of it.
But she refuses to be cleansed. She wants to be filthy, wants to be bathed in every drop you have left. She grabs your wrist, fingers sticky with her nectar and the dark syrup of your mingled desire, and drags them back into the molten center of her. Slow. Soaked. Every knuckle is drowning in that holy, delirious heat. You feel it, the pulse, the tremor, the dizzying wave of sweetness and salt, a hallucinogenic tangle of everything sacred and profane.
She arches, eyes rolling back, not with modesty but with demand, every nerve ending burning for more.“Taste me,” she whispers, not from her lips, but from the velvet darkness between her legs, her voice rising from the heat itself. “I want you to know what you have done to me.”
You pull your fingers out, slow and aching, dripping with the glistening mess you have both created, slick, honeyed, shimmering like oil under dirty neon. You press them to your tongue and groan, the flavor burning away every memory but now. This is not sex. It is annihilation. It is her, sticky, wild, possessed, a sweetness born of moans unscreamed and secrets you never dared speak aloud.
She has been entered, but never seen. You see her now, you see her raw, unfolded, untamed, alive. You plunge your fingers back inside, deeper, slower, wetter, letting her thighs clamp around your wrist like a velvet trap. She is blooming, but not merely open; she is coming apart, petals unfurling, the fever of her want blossoming through every slick shudder.
You grind against her, your own body weeping, pulsing, every muscle screaming to spill again. You drop your mouth to her ear, voice shattering with need. “Let me melt inside you again. Let me ruin you, let me stay.”She nods, already lost, already trembling. Her body is a wound and a feast, begging for the next offering, the next dissolution. You press into her, harder now, hips meeting the sticky slide of her, your length swallowed by the drip and ache of everything you are together.
THE DRIP ...
This is not an orgasm. It is a collapse, a chemical high, a sacred surrender. Your release spills, messy, reckless, pouring into her, mixing with hers, becoming nameless, shapeless, molten. It pools beneath her, thick, viscous, gluing you together, smearing across your pelvis, the unmistakable proof that you did not just fuck, you offered.
You sacrificed. You let yourself be emptied and filled in equal measure. She looks up, hair wild, eyes wide and bruised with joy, her lips torn between sobs and laughter.
“You taste like I mattered,” she gasps, her voice sticky with satisfaction. She pulls you down, mouth meeting yours, the sweetness of her climax mingling with your exhaustion.
You taste the ruin, the salt, the need, the ache of a woman who will be trembling long after you are gone, because she is still full of you, of herself, of the sacred nectar you stirred up from the depths of her with every inch you refused to waste.
Now she is dripping, legs slick and shaking, a slow honey-trickle of everything that cannot be named. You did not just make her come. You left her undone.
Sticky, sweet, ruined in yes, held the way sugar melts when it is loved too long to stay solid. It is not over. The wetness lingers, the pulse thrums, the air itself humid with aftermath. The story is still being written, between your next breath and the next time she rasps, ‘More.’And you, aching, shuddering, still glazed in the holy mess of her,
already know you will say yes, again and again, until the world stops trembling.
It Never Ends ...
You think you are spent, that you have poured out every ache, but her thighs clamp around your hips and her eyes burn with something feral, refusing to let you retreat. She drags you down, your face buried in the salt river of her neck, her hair a halo of musk and sweat tangled across your mouth. You are delirious, your limbs trembling, but she is relentless, her hunger a beast that has just been fed and demands another meal.
She claws at your back, nails scoring red trails, marking you as hers, as if the inside of her was not enough proof. Her tongue is in your ear, wet and wild, her words making you dizzy: “Do you feel that? My cunt is still leaking for you. I want it everywhere. I want to be ruined until I forget what clean ever felt like.”
You grind down, half-hard and gasping, your cock slippery with her and your own spent seed, her body a slick, sticky vise pulling you in for more. She reaches between your legs, finds you, strokes you through the mess, coaxes you back to life with slow, deliberate pumps, fingers gliding, twisting, smearing your filth over her swollen clit, painting herself with the aftermath.
Your eyes blur. The ceiling twists and undulates, shadows bending into velvet tongues and ghost hands, all reaching, all urging you deeper. Her legs wrap higher, ankles locked behind your back, thighs trembling, breath coming in stuttering sobs that are half-laughter, half-command. “I want you to fuck it back into me. All of it. I want it dripping out of me until the bed is soaked and I never forget what you taste like.”
You give in, lost, cock sliding back inside her, the entry so wet, so hot, so ruinous that you both cry out, her cunt swollen and raw, still clutching, desperate for every last ounce. You move slow, then fast, slow again, hips circling, grinding, pushing deeper until she is squirming beneath you, hands in your hair, dragging your mouth to her breast, demanding you bite, mark, suck until she is wild with it.
She is chanting now, every word a spell, every moan a trigger: “Yes, yes, fuck, yes, fill me again, don’t stop, don’t you ever stop.” You feel her nails dig in, feel her cunt clamp down, spasming, milking you for everything you have left.
You spill for her, helpless, lost, shuddering, thick and hot, flooding her again, your come leaking out around you, mixing with hers, drenching you both. The mess is obscene, slick, sacred. She is shaking, laughing, sobbing, her body a mess of spasms and aftershocks. But she still wants more.
She rolls you over, straddles you, dripping everywhere, cunt smeared with your seed and her own, thighs shining with it. She lowers herself down, grinds slowly, back arched, hands splayed on your chest. She looks into your eyes, no shame, no fear, only that wild, sticky gratitude.
“Look at what we’ve made,” she says, dragging her fingers between her legs, bringing them to your lips. “Taste us. Taste everything we are.”
You suck her fingers into your mouth, lick them clean, groaning as she rides you, her clit grinding against the base of your cock, her cunt pulsing with need. The world is melting, every sense smeared and sticky, every breath a gasp, every moan a prayer.
She comes again, body bowed, mouth open in a silent scream, cunt squeezing you until you see stars. You break beneath her, your own climax a desperate, dizzy collapse, her name on your tongue, your bodies glued together with sweat and come, and surrender.
When it is over, you are ruined. She is sticky, sweet, glazed in every truth you never dared speak. The room is humid with the aftermath of your presence. The bed is wet, stained, sacred.
She collapses atop you, breath ragged, heart wild. She kisses your eyelids, your mouth, your throat, tasting the exhaustion, the love, the filth. She whispers, “More,” and you know you will never stop wanting to give it.
You hold her, shaking, knowing that long after the wetness dries and the mess fades, the ache, the stickiness, the taste, will still haunt your mouth, your hands, your dreams. You are marked, hers, ruined, and already begging for the next undoing.
- jspc ] street artist of wanton [
