by John Calvin Hughes
(04/02/08)
The room is cool and quiet. The shadows are deep and green and dusty. A slice of lemon-colored sunlight slants across the hot tangled sheets of the narrow unmade bed.
Her hair is dark, wet, and combed back. Sweat shines in the hollow of her throat. Her lips are full and bruised-looking. The thin cotton of her shift clings to the curves of her breasts and hips. She beckons, staring into your eyes, her face a blank, totally without affect.
You stand over the bed, your cock rising. She pulls the dress over her head and takes your cock between her breasts, mashing them together around it, her sweat glistening on your skin.
Her pussy is like a furnace. When you push deep inside her, her knees rise up around you. She's boiling inside, and soon, too soon, you squirt her full of your juice.
You roll off her, your heart throbbing like a black brass band. She squats over you, rubbing her hot cunt against your belly, your seed oozing. Her breasts bounce. The dark nipples stiffen and her lips tremble when she comes.
No cigarettes, no liquor.
Now the shadow of the column falls across the door.
