Torridscoptical Eros Cannaibal
by Chris Hagelstein

She sucked his dick effortlessly, looking up on occasion to see the yawning organic beefy face he often used to signify his satisfaction to her. But his dick was so cocked up from all the drinking, she was just using his hard fellow to get it really bloated so she'd get some inside her later. He felt her licking it and actually sucking hard on it. Feelings barrelled around in his spine, and he got confused in terms in where he was, and how he felt. The stereo wasn't on, and he heard himself repeating "damn" and "oh god", and her sucking away. It was as though he wasn't there, and she wasn't his wife. In a matter of years, the lovely intellectual aura he attributed to her was merely a tool he used to have her lips wrap around his meaty quivering boner, smirking his spine into a brain joke. He couldn't care anymore. Borrowed time, borrowed thoughts, he would quote, supposedly, of himself in the day he would die, sometime out there, hidden behind his foreskin, ridiculed by his logic. Suddenly he ruptured, but it was a tremor only, and he didn't explode all over the place. He trusted her, as she knew how to suck his dick after so many years. Curiousity often stole him, sitting with men members of his status quo in the insurance company cafeteria, how any human being could suck a sweaty long hard cock. These were private thoughts, often coaxed out, in secret to himself, sometimes in anticipation, sometimes in disgust. His dick swung his nerves like a panther wagging the tail in front of his prey, swinging his spine, and bubbling up his buttocks, debilitating his brain functionality, parsing his quavering emotions and philosophies into fleshy jello, as if suddenly all the outside world was merely like whistling for a dog to fetch a bone: simple, yet undefinable, for he could not ascertain if he was the dog of if he was the bone. He only felt fluids and cash and bombs racing in his blood stream, pulsating tartanulan veins bulging from his lower stomach, all the way up his sweathy meatchamber, enlarging the veins and arteries housed in his neck and forehead. He was so delirious, longing to burst out, like his dick now, huge and clumbersome, as if it gained a torso of its own. His dick, raw and powerful as it was, had no will, just to fuck away. His wife's body was big and full of meaty boobs and neurotic diet wounds. After a kid and birth control pills and her own drunken liasons with other men, she latched onto his hard ogre--curved like a smooth sabertooth, yet gentle as a monk-- rocking and jiggeling her body inside, hearing him swear and mock his uncontrollable passion, whipsawing her around as though she were the sea which flooded his ark. She rose up and over him, spreading her legs wide with hunger, oggling his lips with her sweating, dick-smelling face. She pressed her ravishing heated flesh upon his damn chest, sodden and huggable, and he grabbed her plump ass and started engraving his masculine identity way deep down into her chamber of Lilith. She coiled around his organ in full carnivorous force, for she didn't like sucking his dick all the time, but, in these rare instances, she supposed, it must have been the combination of his job, the spicy indian food they had that got him going. He was bonging her good and she began feeling her nerves rattle as frothy and wicked as swirling historical newspaper bullshit. Her hands mushed her breasts with his hands and he swished her around, all engourged inside and thrusting her motherly body into babbling hypocrisy. She secretly video taped herself in black and white fields of her stupid intellect, watching goals and theories completely fucked by male capitalist pigs like the one she straddled. She ultimately wanted to kill him, while she, as her thighs tingeled about and lower body glowed, as his thing squirted unemployed brute force into her library of dry cob webs and made her split and groad, and slurped itty gasps as her husband grew and formed his woodman maneuvers, upping her body and gushing her with his arms, squeezing her entire body inside his, and pulsating into rythmatic swings, farming her soil with his sticky warm seed. He felt like his head was going to pop off as it hung over the side of their bed, and she, with her breasts bouncing and hair swaying, she was sweating under the arms, inside her legs, and her breath became higher and hotter and rotter. She grounded him into place, feeling his body and him groping to fester hers all around, dragging his hands up and down her legs and down her thighs, swerving her flesh like a drunken acrobat. He was growing into her and pounded her systematically while she began to loose her capacity to direct the energy in her, allowing it to take her over. His dick felt like a runaway woodland creature scurrying warmly inside her, her home and palace, and her blood carried her rush through her back, behind her thighs, down her legs and then shot up in an endless pursuit to wear her out, but, rather, it only multiplied, making her dig deep and harder for him inside her. "Oh god, if you could go on," she breathlessly screamed over and over again, as she tally-hoed with her body stirring like a lava milkshake, hunkering over him with tons of wet kisses, and suddenly pulling backwards and swinging and singing and eradicating puny questions and plowing up gross rotten vegetable gardens made from Mommy. Their mutual secreations wafted through the bedroom and their gushes and saliva-wetted bodies lubricated the expressway, making driving dangerous as they sped into heavenly insanity, cursing themselves for loving illogically and wearing themselves out until the last drop of his seed drilled long and hard up into her cerebral fortress. The bed creaked and moved in the same fashion, giving way to the hurried confusion and rapid smattering of guiltless confessions to nobody's god in a room of virtual hell, and he felt his dick growing tree limbs inside of her and her blood pounded so hard it unclotted recipes and telephone calls, and in the flow of life instead coarsed her hot agonizing finality and crushing out-of-breath pronouncements of love and stupidity. She felt her neck, spine and torso shatter into pieces as the groveling nectar of his pump completely uplifted her and started to burst into erectile swarms of redundant exasperations of some dehyrdated maniac, drinking all that he can, and she felt the ripples of her private feelings rush down her arms and legs, deluding herself into other persons, women, children of previous stages of her life, innocent, immune to civilzation, protected by virtue of simple enjoyment of self and bewilderment. She lost track of her rulebook of emotions, and chronological assessement, derailed into the lush kindergarden angst of lost segmentation. She released sobbing gasps out of being inconsistent selves, and so rallied around the cause of this man that filled his Geist up with her as she did with him. Such a severe loss of control caused her to get herself buried within him, and if it was only him she found in the various selves she lost along the way, she knew he must surely be lost too, until he frantically unloaded delivery way nested inside her dizzingly isolated soul.