Anything That Moves – T.W. Selvey

Oh god, I’m so ready. Naked, I’m stretched out on the couch, writhing, knees up, tented legs splayed apart. Practically gushing lubricant, wound up and tense, I fucking need it.
I bring my right hand down and let my index and middle finger alight upon my upper labial lips. I can feel my clitoris throbbing. Throbbing with the pulse of my elevated heart rate. The bulging is so pronounced, I’m worried the skin might burst. My whole lower half is overwhelmed by sexual excitement, it’s too much for me. I want to peel away from my groin. Its heaviness is weighing me down on the cushion and my pelvis is immovable. Engorged and inflamed, the sensation in my clitoris alternates from extremely tingly and then torturous, with the alternations occurring in time to each heartbeat. (I don’t say clit, because I’m educated. All that education is wasted if I don’t bother to use the correct, clinical terminology.) I can’t restrain myself and loud, low moans escape my mouth, long and drawn out.

The couch is sopping. The microfiber material doesn’t absorb any of the discharge. My buttocks are vibrating. I can hear myself sloshing around in my own musky effluvia. “I fucking need it!” I shout, angrily and demanding. My pussy is taking me over. Shuddering violently, I’m losing the last iota of self-control I’ve maintained up to now. Grabbing fistfuls of cushion, my fingernails tear holes and several fingernails come off, detaching at the cuticles. I hold my quivering hands over my pounding clitoris, which is so big, I can’t believe it feels like a small head, poking out and bobbing. The sensitivity is unbearable but I gather what’s left of my will power and begin massaging the protuberance with the index and middle fingers of both hands, hoping to bring release and reassert control over myself. No, I can’t do it. It hurts and I scream, hardly recognizing my own voice, “I FUCKING NEED IT,” vocalizing not for my own need, but for the needs that have overpowered me, taking me over as an instrument of absolute pleasure. The living room barely contains my anguished cries. Decorative glassware rattles on gyrating shelves. Shocked, I find that I can clasp both hands over my clitoris, feeling it lengthen even more until it’s like half of a cucumber extending from my labia. Death seems imminent, if I can’t find a way to appease the monstrous, aroused appendage.

At the front door, a scratching sound turns into a series of thumps. I hear glass shatter. The recessed ceiling lights dim. The door creaks, as wood bends. Finally, I see a puddle run into the living room from under the door. More undefinable substance oozes through the door jambs. A terrible, sulfurous stench irrupts but slowly it transforms into cheap perfume and dank, sweaty pheromones. Somehow, my clitoral arousal escalates when I catch a whiff of the pungent odor that’s overtaking the room. I’m drunk on the scent, and love the way it combines with the bodily miasma my profuse secretions are creating. My vocal cords sore from screaming, I manage a last hoarse cry, “I fucking need it,” as my breathing falls into short, quick gasps. A gaseous fog hovers over a large, watery puddle on the floor by the front door. Suddenly, the fog and puddle disappear, and a human-sized figure is partially visible. The figure is Figure. Figure is where a person could be, but no person chooses to be, so only a mirage-like image is in the wavering outline.

The air is stagnant, like a hundred crematoriums firing up during an atmospheric inversion. While levitating a few meters from my twitching feet, the Figure outline shifts, drawing out a shape that looks like a photo negative of a massacre, an indiscernible mound of limb pieces and contorted faces. Figure comes over to the end of the couch and descends towards the gap between my legs. I further open my legs, unhinging them from the hip sockets, to signal without doubt that I’m not only welcoming, but begging for gratification. Figure evaporates. Figure reappears and mounts my clitoris, wrapping around it like tendrils. Figure-fuck is different. Twisting, lapping, tapping, rubbing, slapping, hitting, and punching me in a hundred configurations, all simultaneous and the same motion never repeats. “Figure, fuck me hard,” I say in my imagination, unable to produce sounds other than a feral growl. My imploring transposes itself into Figure, which gurgles out the words I’d only imagined saying. The clitoral friction is aggressive as Figure gets stronger, thicker, and heavier in girth.

The clitoris is not mine. Nothing of mine is mine. The clumped anatomical arrangement I pretend to animate is a hoax. Or better yet, a beta tested failure. A scam I perpetrated on myself, a grotesque platform for sunburns and riding crop welts. Father called me a mascara goblin, the kind that leaps out from behind an ancient pile of sacramental rocks and shits in your bed, too blacked out drunk to get up and use the toilet. I’m the toilet, crowdsourced, ready for surveillance and online streaming piss streams into the center of my being. Febrile images cook my brain but I fight to regain focus.

I remove the clitoris, leaving behind a round, hollow stump, a deep pit that terminates in my esophagus. I decide to switch things up for fairness. Figure is the clitoris. Mold spores are disturbed and a green mushroom cloud bursts open above me. Eyelashes catch speckles and I can’t blink as the green dust accumulates on my face like snow. But it doesn’t matter.
I manipulate the Figure clitoris, milking out more fluid. Clitoris slithers, sliding around on the slick couch, while juices run off and thicken on the carpet.

I look down and watch a clitoris push itself through at the apex of my labia and expose itself. It’s new. I’m trembling. I have virgin nerve endings. Oh god, there is so much more pleasure. The Figure clitoris notices I have grown a replacement clitoris. Sharing something in common, each adorned with a functioning clitoris, we’re bonding. I concentrate on moving my hips up and down rhythmically, and all of my strength is focused on rubbing clitoris on clitoris in the scissoring position. We are cutting in to each other. Figure is resilient or impervious, and either way, doesn’t suffer injuries. Hours are blending into days. Weeks are going by and we’re unstoppable. But there is little left of my crotch, upper thighs, or labia. My clitoris is unharmed, at first. As my pelvic bone is becoming more exposed, the grinding is wearing down the clitoral hood. Before it’s completely eroded, I reach down and push Figure back. Figure repeatedly thrusts upward, as if trying to fuck a hole in the air with its sheer willpower. I remove what’s left of the clitoris. Surprisingly, it was only one clitoris. I mistakenly believed we each had a clitoris. Figure goes limp, undulating and gelatinous between my knees.

Time for a penis. I clench my fists and grit my teeth. Pushing until a penis is ready, it’s starting to jut out of my pelvic bone, having pulled itself together from the loose pieces of skin hanging from my legs and the spasming chunks on the couch cushion. It’s been so long since I’ve felt a penis down there, wagging back and forth like a puppy’s tail. Oh, shit yes. Figure sees what I’ve done and quickly follows suit. The Figure penis juts out, eager and already oozing pre-cum at the fat, jerking tip. The crown has ridges. The opening at the tip is gulping. I see a small red tongue hanging inside. I see a collection of molars. The pre-cum is stringy. I see rodents darting around far in the back, where unrecognizable flora open and close their red petals in a terrarium.
I’m on my back, soaked in the collective mess of us, Figure and I producing substances. Figure is shifting, going in and out of polarity. Figure is an elliptical gash, powered by human rights violations, ghosts suffering from delirium in shuttered sanitariums, and invitational bukkake tournaments.

The Figure penis comes closer, bringing the throbbing member up to my crotch. Penises touch along the shaft-sides. Figure moves back and forth, picking up the pace in hard thrusts. Penises rub together faster and faster, turning and twisting as if they are trying to wrap around each other. I’m on the verge of cumming, hanging on to the precipice of release for what feels like a decade, but Figure keeps me at this heightened state, knowing that I love reaching the pinnacle and then staying there as long as possible.

The Figure penis stops abruptly. I’m startled but still quaking, panting, hungry for more. The Figure penis opens at the tip. Repositioning, the Figure penis points at my penis tip. The Figure penis makes a sound, squishing like a man drowning in a spaghetti-filled bathtub. The Figure penis comes into contact, placing its pee hole onto mine, and then slowly its urethra begins to engulf my penis, swallowing up the tip at first, and then eventually the glans. It looks like a python ingesting a rat. It feels like the most glorious, heavenly thing that has ever happened to me. It’s so snug and far more form-fitting than any other orifice I’ve had the opportunity to penetrate. The Figure penis has an exquisite muscle, squeezing rings that tug and pull, coaxing out my pre-cum, piss, bile, and blood. And that’s it, I can’t hold back. I cum. The Figure penis sucks it up inside. I cum more. It goes on for a week, a month, I’m not sure. Finally, my body converts to cum. One by one, organs break down and my body chemistry turns everything into cum. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t notice the couch underneath me had disappeared or that it had been replaced by a clitoris. In fact, the living room furniture, the TV, the ceiling, the dead cat, had all been replaced by clitorises. There is nothing left of my body, in the end, and I’m in the cum, completing transmission into Figure, an incredible pleasure I can’t feel but I understand now that it was never intended for me.