by Jamie Joy Gatto
is fucking me from behind and his cock tip is riding high up into my belly,
slamming against my cervix. I howl... I am not really coming, but what
I feel is so much more base than orgasm, so animalistic; it's raw. So,
this is why they call it "dirty." I believe it: I'm a dirty, dirty girl.
And that simple thought alone makes my lips swell so fat and full, I hurt.
I drip, I ooze.
My body also drips: sweat and more. I trickle with sweet, poisonous pheromones, warning anything male that I'm fuckable, that I'm open, easy, eager, waiting. I am ripe and present. My whole body now becomes my blooming, red cunt. And it is hungry, so hungry, and this need is so good. This need is what makes me crave the fuck again and again. The snake swallowing the snake, craving that perpetuates it's own need, it creates a constant, almost steady yearning.
My mouth becomes an instrument of sexual music: I wail, I sing, I sob, I grunt... "fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck me." I cannot keep from thinking this mantra, I'm not sure if I'm speaking these words, or if these words are in the air, belonging to a separate voice than mine, or right in my ears, simply there in my brain. The words resound in my guts, my groin... I no longer hear them, I simply feel them.
I'm humming now, inside my head my brain wants more. I'm not coming, no, hardly! I'm fucking, and I'm getting fucked good. I couldn't give a shit about coming when the fuck, plain and simple, is just this good.
I have completely, unconsciously, detached him in my mind. He is nothing but a cock, a big fat fucking cock, and his balls are angrily slapping at my asshole, teasing it to open along with my sex. My emotions are completely unchecked, impossibly needy, the urge to grind so strong. And I wail, he is grabbing my ass with splayed fingers, digging his fingernails into my flesh, deeper, and he's pushing his cock, deeper. It's not enough. It's never enough. This is the point where my hunger is greater than anything in my universe.
He slows down, and I become desperate. I whine, "please," I whisper, "please." I almost feel like crying, not from sadness, but from a sheer reaction to the shock of need: like an infant needing milk, like a child who needs to be held, I am a living cunt who needs to be fucked. Fucked hard. Fucked good. And he tells me, "wait," and I know he is about to come, so we must slow down. I can even feel the taste of tears creeping at the back of my throat.
The tantrum begins in my legs, they start to shake, uncontrollably. I groan and I push my ass high in the air, backing up, scooting on the crumpled, soaking sheets. My cunt searches for his cock, and I feel it stab at my asshole, and I grab it with my fist and shove it between my lips, instead. More more more more more. I know he won't be able to hold on much longer, but I don't care, I need it more than I need to breathe, to eat, to sleep.
And when he comes, I ache. My lips are pounding, throbbing, feeling as if they are blue, swollen, bruised. I know I can release an orgasm from my clit in seconds, a few swipes of my fingers right there, and it's done. But that is not the same as the come from the fuck, and it leaves me feeling a little ridiculous, a little sad. Too needy for the cock, too needy for the man.
I forgive myself for fucking his cock so hard, for milking it dry, for wanting it so much. But, I give myself and the universe one serious stipulation: never to let me feel hollow and hungerless during the game, make me to always feel the cravings: desperate for the need to fuck, to want to be banged at mercilessly, and never, ever let my lustful hunger truly be slaked.
Copyright © 2000-2001 Jamie
Joy Gatto. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without
express written consent of the author. "Benediction" first appeared on-line
at CleanSheets, 2000.