The DM13 Journal
I continued to watch, in oozing stupefaction, while Hirsutus Puella continued to stroke neighboring ovaries with her fertilizing tongue.
Up and down it slithered, engulfing entire anatomies in her mouth at times. This proceeded indulgently for 27 minutes, that is, until she bloomed from her comatose.
They interlocked gazes, and I could feel a premonition start to lick behind My left ear as the wind began to seethe in the cloister.
During one of My twilight treks, I chanced upon a cloistered patch of plumerias, and The Flexilis Pupa was busy secreting her sticky milky mysteries unto their stigmas.
I watched from a safe distance, as her feral tongue mollycoddled their ovaries with a deliberateness and precision that left My eyes fatigued, and My innocence groped.
The Flexilis Pupa was a curious creature. She had an indiscriminate prehensile penis that would latch unto stamens and pistil alike–leaving behind an unapologetic sticky residue that would pollinate our collective imagination.
Roll #1, Frame #1.
Roll #1, Frame #4.
Roll #1, Frame #10.
Roll #3, Frame #4.
Roll #2, Frame #3.
Roll #2, Frame #1.
Roll #2, Frame #6.
Roll #4, Frame #10.
Roll #1, Frame #6.
Roll #1, Frame #8.
Roll #3, Frame #2.
Roll #3, Frame #4.
Roll #3, Frame #10.
Roll #4, Frame #1.
Roll #4, Frame #8.
Roll #3, Frame #8.
During my time there, I witnessed the virtual anomalies that would squat among the thickets of the bush, binding themselves to the phantom appendages of deficient passersby.
The hosts were usually of a vacuous effusion, leaving the vectors unfulfilled and disillusioned under the mirage of love's embrace.
All the while I watched, from the shade, in quiet ambivalence.
Some creatures never learn.
Vis-à-vis they stood, immersed in the secrecy of the voyeuristic night's embrace–The Dragon Master and the governess of his heart–the one they called Lasciva Libido.
At last the tension was released as she opened the gates of the city and ushered the silence out as she spoke thus:
"A Holy Promise I have written in the Ink of my womb upon a parchment of Kotex. A Holy Promise that, if broken, reeks of consequence as pungent as the Vampyre's feast I have thus shed."
"DO NOT break this Promise", she admonished.
The Dragon Master retorted:
"Verily, I say unto you, I have tasted the sweetness of your cherry delights, and I suckle upon your seed. And what of your slender stem you ask? HA. My tongue will meticulously explore the path of its line and shape, touring and twirling its possibilities–twisted geometries that will yield enchantments for our insatiable appetites."
She smiled with wanton pleasure, as He continued His verbal provocations:
"Your cunt is my spermal mausoleum. May I rest in peace in your womb tomb. All HAIL Lasciva Libido!!"
A flash fiction collaboration with: @Its.Cherry.Sister
She sat on her throne abreast of My memory, not as My aristocratic subordinate, but as My vital accomplice.
Romance, sensuality, tenderness were of no significance to us, for we were assassins of the meek and mild.
Our daggers lay concealed, as we walked alongside the docile and domesticated with murderous intent.
We found satisfaction in eradication.
Eradication of surplus meat.
Eradication of rotting ideas.
Every meeting, our love was consummated in the blood of others, and it brought crooked, cruel smiles to our feral faces.
As I approached the city's gates on horseback, I could see the antlered heads of decapitated gazelles blooming in the hillsides.
Thickets of anonymous, outstretched arms distended from the soil, creating the occasional embolus on My path. They reached for the multi-colored mysteries on her body–mysteries that were known only to the hedonism of the night, and My tongue.
The Sacramentum was a mute, but it pronounced My destiny with the utmost susurration.
It's pulse oxygenated My lifeblood, and I was emboldened by the promise of incandescence. I could feel the stale presence of the mossy shills within the dampness of the trees, but not even they could deviate Me from My true north.
The herd can have their green pastures–I prefer to graze in the burrowed, dark vaults within.
The landscapes I was called to explore are the psychological–the terra incognita of the mind, of which, horizons stretch the imagination at the crossroads of light and shadow.
I arrived at a fork in the road, and paused while I contemplated My course of direction. In that flickering moment, My consciousness became the conduit to My soul.
I was present of mind, present of spirit, and I awakened to a latent dimension of attention and focus–artillery that detonated and thundered across the cryptic terrain of My cognition.
I focused My attention upon the opaqueness of My thoughts, marched upon the gates of self-overcoming, and besieged the citadel of My mind.
As I walked, I could feel the sticky residue of its vagueness adhere itself to the embryonic sprouts of hair that were germinating atop My exposed head.
The nymphets that frolicked in the cloak of its azure buttermilk mist looked on in awe as I ignored their fleshed enticements–I was a new metaphysical being that traversed the labyrinth of My psyche's embrace, with purpose.
