The DM13 Journal
She had the gift of flight, and she reveled in it.
Her friends and family warned her of Icarus' fate, but she reminded them of the other part of the myth that they had overlooked–that if she accepted complacency and flew too low to the sea, Poseidon would surely make her his bitch. So she soared.
Closer and closer toward the sun she ascended as I applauded and cheered.
The clouds lifted her up in eulogy.
She was her tribe's high priestess, and as such, was responsible for overseeing that the male sacrifices were executed with the proper liturgy.
They were a morally diligent people, and only sacrificed sexual invalids to the Supreme Being in the sky.
A steady shellacking was administered across the testes with white sage bundles. Thereafter, their incantations would convulse and crescendo as the castrations consecrated the nirvana night air.
And at once the crowd assailed the young girl, hurling insults and spewing hatred.
Seeing this injustice, The DragnMastr intervened and spoke thus:
"ENOUGH! Do NOT condemn this young girl, for she is My pupil! And the teachings are sound!
You who fetishize the concordance and nobility of the forest believe the roots beneath our feet bind each of its members together, but your vision is muddled and myopic! We are NOT all one. We are INDIVIDUALS.
Do NOT be like the stagnant tree who is rooted with rigidity! Be like an early morning mist who descends unto the bramble and brings relief from the overbearing sun. It is free to go where it pleases and disperses when the time is right. It is nebulous, and in motion. This weightlessness begets freedom, and freedom begets choice.
Be FREE!"
Upon hearing this, the over-zealous crowd dispersed into the awakening daylight of reality.
Undulating waves of sound serenaded the Amazonian crown canopy and reverberated in their ears.
Primordial vibrations trespassed unto the slumberland of their consciousness and educated the eternal id.
The mystical didgeridooist was given the keys to the holy kingdom of Imagination, only to be later crucified by Peter.
The Sword of Truth baptized many, in their own blood.
All she wanted was a quiet little spot to sit down so that she could concentrate on survival.
The warm sunshine embracing her was pleasant, the gentle breeze caressing her beautiful face was pleasant, the excitement of being in a new town was pleasant.
Everything was pleasant. Apart from Beelzebub strangulating her possessed lungs and pissing occasionally on her tired feet, everything was, in fact, pleasant.
Some golden showers are of an internal nature.
And when asked about Her Grandson, The Dragon Master's Grandmother spoke thus:
Verily, I say unto you...
As the wolves stalk their prey, and as the sage elucidates nomadic truth, so too will the naysayer pathetic worms be condemned to pussy-suckle in The Second Circle.
Chapped will their lips be.
Chapped will their spirit be.
Chapped will their hope for salvation be.
For their Heavenly Lord is My Grandson, and His FURY is their cross.
We had broken through to the other side, and were welcomed by a magus who owned a falafel shack. She ordered a chicken falafel, and I the beef kabobs.
Death was who we were there to see, but decided it was probably a better idea to find a safe, quiet place to sit.
I looked into her honest eyes and saw that they had been anointed with the absurdism of the breeze.
I remember not liking the other side–the beer was foul there.
Maybe Death will still be there for us next time we visit–I hope so.
It was a daily cat and mouse game–between looking, and looking away. I couldn't help it. She never wore any panties, and the way she sat persecuted my cock's throbbing ambition.
Eventually though, the shyness surrendered to our impudence.
It wasn't that I was a horrible Spanish tutor, I just knew what my priorities were.
What bedeviled me most about the entire episode, was the look in her possessed eyes as she petitioned me for her gift–a pearl necklace I projected onto her face.
She wore it proudly for me as she got up from her knees, walked across the hotel room, and kissed her boyfriend adoringly as he stroked his cock with indulgence.
They were in love, and it was beautiful.
As she waited for her bedroom sheets to finish washing, she contemplated what she had just done. She loved her boyfriend–it was evident from the vacant expression on her face.
There was a mournful air that asphyxiated the room as I dressed.
"Same time tomorrow?", I asked.
"Please," she replied.
I smiled, and made my way out the back door into the anonymity of the night.
As I turned the ignition key in my car, I could see her from across the street sitting in the living room, staring at some pictures on the wall as the washing machine tumbled.
Although it was a botched breeding, the psychological assault had been executed.
His semen was weak–the result of sleep deprivation, poor diet, and uninspired technique; not to mention flaccid meat, induced from the cocktail of drugs.
Upon hearing of the egregious offense committed against her, I vowed revenge–not because I cared (she was merely a concubine), but because El Duende that co-inhabited My lair spurred Me to do it, and he was very persuasive at times.
There would be retribution to pay, preferably sodomy by meth pipe–an ironic sentencing for the perpetrator, whose screams would soon be nothing more than a smear on My walls.
I wasn't particularly tickled pink with the proposal given to me.
Frankly, I wasn't into feet fucking. But after having been shown the heights of what was physically possible that fateful Groundhog's Day afternoon, certain ethicalities of mine were being condemned to death.
The capital punishment of our preconceived notions is the mark of an ever-evolving individual.
"But why me?", she asked.
I couldn't hide the bufuddled look on my face. Was she not aware that her divine cunt was my ambrosia? Folds and flaps that I ravenously consumed with Dionysian dependence.
I stepped forward, turned her around, and bent her over. Sometimes actions are far more effective than words, and this was one of those moments.
