~ – Misty Sky Rain
October 1, 2023
There are drips and drops in the fluctuations of power, changes in the voltage that become physiological responses in the body. Muscles will tighten or relax. Membranes will moisten or lay rough. Tissue will fill with blood or soften. Collection of the fluid had become tantamount to pleasure. It allowed you to be free from our machination, unshackled. It allowed you to be present.
You could say that an economy had formed. A libidinal economy, subconscious yet powerful. An economy of the mind, of every terror and blissful sensation that we could concoct in our stagnated enmeshment. To fuck, to be here, we craved it, each little morsel, each sparkling drop that would glisten in the sun like a perfect gift.
Even without knowing, we would soften the tongue and widen the mouth, and press against her roots with the vibrating force of our longing, fingers forming in her channels to fuck her, plowing, no, digging, in tender, toward irrigation paths and rivers. We would lick her tip in dizzying motions, until the prize poured out in a smooth dribble, to be lapped up by the eager pleaser, who would more often than not collapse in a heat of ecstasy, their minds unlocked with such clarity and knowledge of the world.
How she could make such a thing, we would never know. She had severed, somewhere, her tie to the Earth and in doing so had not lost but transcended and when she could no longer pull from there she would touch and pull from the Void instead. Stars would rise and cities would fall, and in the underbrush we would scream and gallop with pleasure. Music of startling beauty would make light bugs of bodies, moving and fucking and illuminating the night in orchestral melody.
I was there. We would fuck, and we would cum, and we would drink of the cup of the other. We would bask in the glow of nothingness, save pure possibility, which was everything. I loved you and in there I let go of the night and birthed a true form. And yet…
So accustomed were we to our fickle truth that we strung chains to the sky, waiting on dirty knees for every ounce of heaven that would fall into our waiting mouths. I, a caretaker, witnessed them, the harvestings. The cathedrals erected to moans and the vats of clarity, the vats of vast quantities of liquid, infinite, turning yellow or tinged green with our sins. My task was simple. To maintain. Her stream could never end. And I could listen to
her. Listening softly at the corners of
her face. Stroking
her cheeks. Licking clean
her slick of tears,
her lips of drool,
her arms, tied behind
her back, straps hooked in
her flesh, hanging freely in the air.
her stranger, fucked, in deep, boring motions
her ass, fully with wires and metal and mesh on every inch of
her cunt (which, was everything). Current and electricity held the nerves on
her perineum, at four different points on
her cock, encased in a velvet crown of gel, leaking down to calm the storm of
her flesh, sizzling and fragrant with raw and sweat and from
she would pour and
I would drink
I changed my gloves almost hourly. They were made from the new synthetic, of the only things that had remained of the earth, turned to leather of algae and spit. Gunmetal, green, slick, clean and tight. I could find my calm there. Clenching and unclenching my fist. Feeling the stretch, adjusting, watching the moisture evaporate from the fixing of every tired ridge and valley on my hand. Occasionally, after a vigorous night, my nails would poke through, and though it was not best practice, I would steal the moment and stroke her body with these pointed ends, yes, here, real touch, becoming bolder and bolder as time stretched on, to the point where my scratch could leave a long, long, razor thin line of ruby red blood from the bottom of her thigh to the point just below her ear. (Even that shone with every brilliance of the deepest star).
I was in awe of her, always. At times I would break from my violent discernment, and probe with wide eyes the inner workings of her face, dancing one gloved finger between my mouth and hers. I would grip her chin, or her ankle, or her thighs and the flesh of her ass and lean forward to lick the bubbles that would form at her corners. I would unplug the machine and hold her up with my body and fuck her until she would cum and she would relax and she would be still. I would hold her in my arms with hers limply around my neck, and I would stroke her hair and keep her perfect until she told me with a nod that she was ready to be hooked up again.
We never shared a word. I lived and I lapped up every tear.
I don’t know if she enjoyed this. I don’t know who could. There is no point in wondering. She had reached a place where pain and pleasure and Time are worthless, and though her physical eyes were broken and everything else was gone, I know that she could see the entire world laid out before her, like a tapestry or a scroll. I know because she had melted. She existed. And I can still stare at the stream of liquid that poured out of her, glistening, neverending, clear.