Tera [from PROWL] – Sean Kilpatrick

December 26, 2019

Puberty caught up and knuckled me under, file sharing necrophile fan club pics, preteen snuff footage circulated by elite, secret societies online, security cam footage of girls crushed under locomotives. One sailed out of her socks and skin and I was mentally on the tracks, mating with her shivering halves in a three-way before the next train. Around then, I chose to take a furlough from my dick. A different uterine lining was being shed by its girl every month in class, downgrading porn to a concept. One week of depravation imbued me with an undiscovered talent for banter. Chummy with any receptive female, I synthesized an ability to incite the recherché smile of my favorite: Tera. She had curly, raven-like, waist-length hair offset by milk-colored skin. Cute oval face, petite figure reified by an approaching buxomness, a subconsciously suggested fertility curved around the distance you’d pitch your biggest come up, a pre-voluptuous siren with eyes to commend the bangs she chewed. Goth in demeanor, but bouncy – a kicked-off-the-cheerleading-squad blend of elemental girl accomplishment, a refined compilation of fetishes. Mind-numbing in her skill to shift from tried-a-cigarette-once-smart-ass to airheaded-princess-giggling-to-be-fingered. Out of my league, but they all were. She possessed the best feature of every type, a living homage to the success of her own body. I wasn’t sure if I’d composed Tera from some jasmine-scented dementia after too much self-abuse. A team of robots assembled her to give me tennis elbow. There was intense competition to be noticed by her, if the teacher ducked out. The teacher was a lazy nun who had us correct each other’s papers. Tera drew little hearts around her name when she failed my math homework. A sublime tenacity, suicidal in nature, obsessive-compulsive in practice, brought her into the nerve damage of my worship. Homeroom found our desks situated on either end of the spectrum. Tera crossed and uncrossed her legs, plaid skirt more than a regulation inch above the knees, contingently exhibiting rounded calves disrupted from their pallor only by a single red spot where flesh had settled, resting against itself. Due to the arrangement, if she shifted enough – if all you did was stare – pink panties sometimes flashed. The sunken outline of her cunt, wetted slightly, I imagined, a calligraphy beyond religion, caused me to assault my khakis with a pile of books. 

Tera had a twin brother as equally divorced from the status quo as I was. Serendipitously, or through sheer will, we became friends. I don’t recall planning to like him under false pretenses. We just hated the same aspects of life: primarily everything. Their house was within walking distance of the school. I saw where Tera slept, the heartthrobs taped to the ceiling she touched herself beneath. I found reasons to haunt the room’s doorframe, sniffing her edible hamper. She often brushed past us, entering or exiting the shower, changing her bathing schedule, perhaps, I hoped, peripherally aware of spectatorial fawning. Ethereal in a billowy silk robe light blue enough to fill in her silhouette, Tera traipsed tiny wet footprints for me to skew with my finger. Tucking the phone against her shoulder, she switched jeans under a towel in front of me. I went home and made the characters of a two player fighter game hold each other in compromising positions, because the female pixelation resembled her. I feared becoming a fly on the wall type of buddy she’d never regard as a threat. Would she piss in front of me by fluke, without my demanding it?

A car decelerated, issuing three pops. Small-caliber bullets pinged off the house’s aluminum. Tera instinctually braced my chest, compressing us, trying to fold herself into a smaller target. The noise…she lied, embarrassed at her reaction. Probably a covetous gangsta she’d bewitched. My slacks became secondary to the erection charging through them. There was a looming, primal sense of life and death that prevented her from giggling at my faux paus. Her subconscious elicitation for security ameliorated my angst about how she might view us. Our bodies had informed her. This expatiated the obsession: reruns of Tera shimmying out of her blue bathrobe, a viciously monitored glimpse of the famous pink panties. I was so provoked, ornate table legs became hers. Tera ran a wire through my wet dreams, calves coiling around a rubber glove that stroked the bones exposed, waking me up mid-ejaculation. Being near her was a constant galvanic skin response. 

In a cannonading gymnasium, despite music designed for urinating onto preteens like us, an uncharacteristically shy Tera accepted my slow dance invitation. Our premediated carnality swayed at a mora opposing everyone else’s. Her tight black dress was cut low. The erection I shoved on and rode against its center inducted us into an endurance match as to whether our intrepidity would be addressed. For a short time, she accepted my upheavals, tapered to each pulse. Before I could swipe myself complete, she broke away, overwhelmed, foisting her malnourished friend against me. The friend was not unattractive, and I had to excuse myself before textiles were dampened. She was too niche a proxy for my more stubborn infatuation. The precum in my boxers could have held a beehive in suspension.

Her brother, annoyed by these transparencies, wontedly impartial, sitting alongside a few others at our lab table, insisted, partaking in some jaded thesis, that girls are all an alike entity. Only the pussy-whipped limited their potential to a singular advance. Underlining the female’s flimsy nature, he switched tables, pestering two girls behind us, trotting out boiler plate, socially adept, psychologically deriding placations, and presented their giggles to me with an expansive flourish of the hand. Unbeknownst to the cheerleaders, he jingled a set of keys above their heads. I respected his opinion, conceding that many men, including our boomer parents, bowed under ambivalently monogamous mates who evinced a browbeating, dissociated queenliness, coddled by the lifelong perusal of partner after partner, but I followed this up by pointing out that a unique quality of intelligence clearly ran in his family, or he wouldn’t be able to illustrate his point so effectively. When another in our group restated his conclusion as a blunt insult, I tripped over our own gender’s gridlock, mandated by a law dumber than its distribution, and shoved him into the wall. Tera happened by when the brawl was leaning in my favor, and I thought she bit her finger, munching on the prize flesh our brains detested and our bodies unwittingly responded to. We compromised, reduced to the discussion of Tera as a debilitating topic. We inspect the feminine form, doling out slaver after slaver, I offered, holding a cold pop can against my head, by dint of genetic girding uncontrollable at this juncture in our groins, so why complain? They never dedicate…Why should they have to, if we’re the ones with the impetus toward elevating every attention spent on them into something perhaps holy? A gaze sustains its object, magnified by the flattery of a frame. If you build a fine enough frame you can get your subject to stand still forever. He pretended to hump my head.

Her brother and I were in their basement, listening to angry music, when Tera cavorted forth like a kitten on amphetamines, ambushing us with a can of silly string. I grappled round her waist to impede the blitz, sparring with obscene playfulness, interpreting the entendre of this chemical rivulet as an admission on her part. Her brother left to mow the lawn in disgust. Tera, tweaking a fizzling stream from me, allowed my grip around her waist to linger. Our eyes snagged on each other’s. She grazed the drumming reoccurrence between us, on purpose. I was weightlifting her with my pants. We kissed like I’d bark her face off. Conscious of being too eager, unable to yield, I backed us against a wall and let our tongues web together, a bow of breath upon each earlobe, buzzing reward circuits till they merged a fomenting nexus, whispering ecclesiastical allegiances, lost in the mania of her taste. She paused the attack to express reluctance. People at school concerned her, likely my negligible standing therein. I licked her lips back shut. There is no society to an impulse, I shushed. She agreed, coasting on my urge, a flattered passenger of it. We stole a few last nips before her brother returned. Our connection demanded no less than meeting late at night in her room.

I took up knife throwing to alleviate sexual tension, stuttering OCD bets with myself after each throw. A can of silly string aided masturbation. We were no longer a haphazard accordance between my crackling palm and fate. In class the next day, she passed a note, cancelling our appointment. My response was to show up outside of her friend’s birthday party – a skating rink an unremittent bike ride away. She ignored me in the chaos of girlfriends. Aerosol solvent hit her as she skated by stuffed into short-shorts so revealing I could have guessed her wipe pattern. She clonked approximal. I helped her pinch off the gossamer. It dissolved against her blushing skin. We resumed a brief tournament of slap and block. I had to carry her over my shoulder, wheels spinning with each kick, wedging us between arcade games, ass ramming almost coital. My palm dragged the front of her shorts. Blushing took on a new character. She clawed me, in what I assumed was pleasure. I didn’t care if it was panic, because the teeth of her zipper felt wetted. I sucked her from my finger pads. We separated, seeking against witnesses. I showed her the lines of blood her nails made on my arm, the bruises by my spine. She cooed and petted, agreeing about tomorrow night. I could see scars up her arms. Self-inflicted, she whispered, with a hush-motion, curtsying dementedly. I removed one of her skates and broke the wheel off.

Waiting, awake in bed, I snuck out, dashing five miles to her house, through crackheads fighting with their own clothes and prostitutes bowling purses toward my bike spokes. Ninja-slinking through the backyard – her father owned multiple guns – I leaned the bike against some torn siding and, standing on the rickety seat, rapped her window. Trapped there for eternities, balancing on the stilt of my erection, I tried from my side and almost fell. Plummeting through many lives and deaths at the behest of this daft obstacle, risking everything, I busted the screen off the hinge, staggering onto Tera’s bed like an inebriated burglar. We remained stunned, copycatted, holding the screen between us, awaiting capture. I eased the frame down, her nails poinking mesh, thanking the effects of drugs, alcohol, or music that kept everyone else in the house unconscious. 

We exchanged variations on the word hi. I took her hands in mine and kissed them, hesitant as possible, with a savoring that went beyond perversity, into sacrament. Tera wore the famous bathrobe, as if she’d need to clean herself for what I was about to do. I plucked it from her body in one motion. She pressed against my clothes, helping me grab them off. We sunk below the covers, passed through an unknown voltage. My cock slapped her tummy in the fumble. She had shaved herself, or was a late bloomer. We started and stopped the process of mounting. I sat back, catching at the air, making out with a foot, licking up to the backs of her knees, almost coming on her as she spread her small slit. Unquestioned by kinesthesia, I took to her pussy, which tasted as if cinnamon had replaced carbon at the collocation of the world. She unfolded against my folding tongue, juicing heavier with each drink. Her foot rose under me, toes swabbed on what was going to be premature either way. We paused before the terminal jut, somehow knowing, not that our minds were active anymore. She wanted other things done to her before the explosion set in. Childhood trials and a thousand hours of porn became instinct. I flubbed and bit her ass, rabic. We scuffled, wound smooched, following into her asshole, sampling other fuchsias. Breaking contact, out of shyness, she abated. I got us on our knees and painted the area with precum, trying to shove home anywhere. Tera yelped and turned over, obscured behind her black curtain of hair, staring through it like a piece of prey reaching acceptance. On top, she lined us up, clumsily availed by excitement bordering on anxiety. The nails of her free hand dug into my chest to indicate pain and pacing. A tuft of pudenda bundled in dick tip, enlivening her labia, which had gone from pink to red, slight but swollen open, glistening meat peeking vulvar. I heaved forth, impromptu. She fended a leg under us and tried untwining, fickle with fright, and physical shock. We hadn’t ruptured her. A bit of cherry was glued round my cusp. I whispered insanities into her ear. Her no’s became a hold on, then an okay. I found the impossible resolve to teeter, hovering with diplomatic focus, bisecting her insides. An egression navigated hypertonicity, permeating tract to hymen, snapping her body down full-scale, blockage suppurating in our teeth, quantitatively curetted through a gasp, resting against an involute ostium with staff to spare. Tera was breathing as if she’d been rescued from a car accident. I arrantly fractured the moment to ask if I should retract. She couldn’t speak. Minimizing every urge to perforate, reducing the instinct to incite berserk velocities, I plodded into motion, rocking light as possible. Almost to the midway point of a retreating thrust, I swiped one bead of sweat that had collected in the divot of her collarbone and tasted it off my hand. She was fixed in a tortured posture, nevertheless luminous in such agony. I kept cramming into her, even in stasis. Her expression inspired my glans into a state of consistent accumulation. I broke her from her pain with a kiss. My tongue chased hers, lifeless in its stable. Blood roused to mix with the proper fluids. I could titrate resilience, enter a controlled dive, latently mutilating new room in her, organs fucked loose as one property. Each preemptive hump conjoined our function, screwed us in place, shunting me to her notch. She had to scream to hold her guts steady, a piecemeal impaling, drenching the sheets with our butchery. Her eyes did not seem to exist in their lids. A milkshake of egg gathered at the base of my shaft, frothing rheumy cataract of us. We went autonomous, grown into locomotion. She was so tight pulling out would have taken the rest of her with me. Enunciated across the rampant revival of moles, coloring them in, a gooseflesh vortex – her shit felt worthy of an incubator – we were zombified, brains spindling like a recalled joystick, genomes vectoring nomad, christening the pull-string knotted within, puppeteering her with my thickness, taming her limitation, fused to that aperture, splicing its tensility, arraying an opening in tandem, the tissue gone beyond, into her anterior sanctum, the A-spot cramped past O-spot, her alphabet of spots, belly-side fornix crest, cervix-vault held lateral, breaching in her breech, fucking mucus into stimulation, stationed back toward the cunt-barrel, pressure on the uterine wall making her piss without concern, tilting her G-spot high, flexing the star-fished nerve network toward swollen, calcitic expellant, ejaculatory crystal, urinary squall busting into a squirt, drenching our flanks by intermission, an electrified sponge wrung through the trepanation of her womb. My cum crowded inside a yell from her lowermost throat in matching letters, tucking in the corners of this exorcism, eyes blooming white and wide open with the same palpitation as her canal, snatched jitteringly, gulped on and engulfed by a tephra we couldn’t stop laying paved into a single identity, our mutual cum: us as a strand. Previously ascended terrain inside her cinched shut altogether with such force the ensuing vocals sounded as if they came from no part of her, but everywhere else, obliterating the room, walls and ceiling, coaxed into echoing arias, a hinge around our spurt. I stiffened more, if possible, and delivered radiating throbs she clamped on, concretizing her own, feeling strata of me coat beneath her sternum. I was crowned with her center, staying under all that body’s hallowed vitals, snagged by post-coital constrictions that made us jolt. After an idling while I slid out, levee disjunct for blood, sperm, and lining to plash. A contour of my cock dabbed along the damp spot.

Her gush left cartoon impressions patterned on the bedding. Both thighs distorted, as if she were entering death throes, light layer of fat periodically vacillating. She couldn’t raise herself up. I scrabbled to a sitting position, feeling the imprint of our bodies’ collision rubber-band inside my cock, a vice pressed up through the chest. Tera’s forearm went over her face and the motion became a sob. I tried to hold her, but she was inconsolable. When we lifted vertical too briskly, she froze, bounding sidewards, knees clapping shut, and wept again, apoplectic at the sight of the minor turd presented between us. I called it cute and snuck to the bathroom while she became fetal in the furthest corner of bed. Discounting the rash amount of risks already taken, I returned, door wide open, and nabbed the lukewarm pellet with toilet paper, covering the spot as best I could, and flushed it, quickly cleaning. She was carried, chirruping in terror, to the bathroom, red-faced, goofily convinced she’d have to live as a hermit forever, snot bubbles enclosed in my tenure. I set her, discombobulated, under the shower, heating her with its spray, and lowered us, two-backed – she couldn’t stand – scrubbing every inch, licking more filth into the last soaped portion, gnawing and swallowing crusted hymen blood, wiping and tonguing her asshole. She wasn’t embarrassed about her workings anymore and bit a lip bloody trying to relax the opening. I placed the head of my cock against the wrinkles below her star, pausing for protest, and we sat awhile, washing her clit. She repeated herself in shuddering rows, urethra to my cock’s base, and in I stretched. The cute rim nestled wider, straining cleaved, trying to wink. She bucked back toward me. Prying open her pursed sphincter, step by step, easing chalked inside lubed rectum, stroking each ringlet to unbind an abdominal scrunch, allowing the involuntarily clamping shit-muscle to evacuate my cock in repetition while she whispered curses, eyes shut, beautiful face upturned and agonizing, pogoing off me with as short a breadth as possible, I reached a finality of resistance. She attenuated from a moan to a cry. I shot against her pinched off rectal brawn, shat back to the tub with another stoppage. She lost control again and scraped forward, urinating in stenotic arrest, the stock of my come augmented to her substance. We shifted free of the booster shot. I squeezed back, held in half a lunge, bumping her forehead on the tiles with even energy. The tension became centrifugal, her pussy walls nearly squeezing prolapsed. She bucked off, squirting against the backs of her knees, dropping flat, twisting towards me horizontally, holding her little tummy while my come, restored in unreal portions, hit from where her lips parted, straight ropes draping watery over each tit, patting down her whole torso. We excreted our heartbeats, animated into a meld, basting the apparitions flexing through us. Tera’s infrared insides were like a kiln scaly with melted clay spit-shined for a lifetime. We’d joined the tick noise of our bodies, producing untold energies, sieving into her ripped tissue. Coated with us, I bottomed out, full in her backwashing grip. Falling again, laughter beaming over the shower, a faint groan jarred from the eaves of her voice box, wind chimes regurgitated by a dove. Someone knocked, muffled concerns. I turned the water off. She played sick, an exasperated claim. We waited for the shadow below the door to dissipate, flying to her room, one after the other. I stayed in the closet, waiting for the house to dim back into silence. Exiting erect, I kissed her nipples through the oversized t-shirt she’d slung on, anesthetizing the event, extenuating wrists to mattress, insect in a tray. Her tremors renewed. She was wet enough to sever, catching up with me, past shame and pain. Even my teeth felt swallowed into an infinite constriction. We joked about having just begun, preemptively clenching in prerelease. Dismounting was unnecessary. I stayed at her thoracic apex till daylight, humping at a thousand frames per second, brushing her hair back from her face so I could see her blush rubricate by the square millimeter. Her come met mine, roving without partition. We carbonated in the flush carried from her cheeks, to her neck, to her clavicle, such an intimacy that we had to struggle against the orgasm the second I fit into her – fifth or sixth round notwithstanding – negotiating when to release, teasing that release toward a shared and epic moment. We could have made a vasectomy backfire, discovering new tubes. She was my wife, lifespans riptiding. I fucked my girl into my chum, into my companion. We were in hospice together, same coffin, so our skeletons could stay fucking, so the bugs nutting in their shells from the pleasure of her flesh digested would be outdone by the elastic length of our ejaculate, penetrating a joint afterlife. I pointed in her at the propulsive mistakes behind the concept of time and kept huddling within the moment by a reservoir tip, useless as condoms would be for us, burst rubber cachalot.

Dead-legged, I biked home and went to school. First we couldn’t look at each other, then it was all we did, sinking in a hypnic jerk while people nattered on around us. Our gaits were off. We looked damaged and renewed. I resented the hurdle of any development that wasn’t her and I back in bed. At recess, I bee-lined toward her. She feigned another spell for curious friends, her newest theater, and met me in an unlit doorway. Tera was in horror of the mania she had been party to, cycling through anxious disgraces inside her head, half in want of a confession to the betrayal of her peers – having vaunted every protocol of age and gender – and half, reluctantly, alarmingly, in love, or was she split again, infinitum, between what the culture betrothed her frilliest expectation, a dowry of exigencies shouting down her sacrificed virginity. Regardless, because she was a decent girl, she would, at least for now, as another fugue symptom of our honeymoon, share an iota of the unending, demented, unconditional love I had for her, a love which she could only drive into dormancy with all the help of hell, and hell was gathering momentum, as always, the more she analyzed a situation. Whenever I took her hands in mine, she would stamp her ruffle-socked foot, relenting. Every other night, to be reasonable about recovery, became our night. But no more butt stuff, she hissed on the phone: I’m numb from the hips down and pooping the next day felt like acid. Don’t make me scared to shit, she whined, sexily. I nicknamed her poopy butt and she hung up, answering again, giggly.

I was studying what she responded to in bed, tipping into a plunge, equilibrant, so she experienced less pain, overdone prurience deriving an articulated layer, biding ataraxia, our catalogue of giddy love-making. Nightly bike rides to her room left me the leanest I’d been, able to postpone any urge. I arrived home, spellbound, in a sleepless sweat that smelt of her, high on our shared glow. I thought exclusively of Tera, and she reflected as much, peering back, in class, every minor intersection of contact amplified by a clandestine knowledge of each other. She re-crossed those beautiful legs, all the more visibly now, with a wink I punished her for later. When she napped in class, a ripcord got torn through her, rattling the desk, whisking a moan, like a dreamt-up motion could make her orgasm by proxy, come the memory full. Shame and self-awareness flashed by, in hidden glances, if she thought of school. Whispering her sins to the skinny friend as a secret promise finally relieved this. She rode on top with twice the vigor, afterward, tapping my shoulder, stuttering how she had to pee, me holding her down by the ass so she’d lift up just enough to go ahead. She went grippy, yanking me out for space to spray, muscles snipping tight enough to jerk me off through her esophagus, each groan squeezing out more come. I timed the twitch of her asshole. Fucking from behind felt like her overstuffed end would pucker till we both ripped. My little hippity-hop bunny poo butt cuddle champion sailing on my chest, I would have sucked the snot from her skull daily in lieu of eating. We tussled before another round of sex, speaking deeply till the sun interrupted.

I began dining on her periods. She was shyly aroused by exaltation, a hematometral engorgement toward paneling myself with her endometria. We were one cannibalized mass. Her organs pinched together on a seesaw inclining over the hardness put through her, limbic sunset reenacted under covers. She came uncountable floods, repeating the same expression of disbelief at her own pleasure. Her laundry had to become a household mystery. I started by licking her scars. She was more damaged than I could have hoped, thus able to complement my love. Her smallness rejected my size less, passing us between a shared inland, overtaken into acceptance, a livewire epiclesis that could only clarify itself later with intellectualizations of love, our vows and commitments a paltry representation, good excuses to keep almost fitting. We were fucking with a professional skill based on chemistry and instinct. I threw my blade one night into a charging shadow and hurried through the ghetto toward her house. The story astounded her. I brought another blade and bifurcated her camisole, carbide sapid against flesh. She gasped, delighted, whimpering for me to relent. We entered our exultations, her cloud smell encasing. Too often her bed smashed the wall, downed window screen whistling. We decided to hunker in the pitch closet, foundering together. She arched up, holding onto her wardrobe, climbing up her clothes to come. I felt the bend of her cervix bucking off and stood to shoot on her and her outfits. A grandfather living on the other side of the wall was found dead of a heart attack the next day, underwear runny with jizz.

We had to switch date locations. It required two long days away. I took her aside at recess, nearly insane, shaking without a fix, cooing: I miss you, back and forth. She cried, in mourning, and sexual frustration, shivering while I fingered her behind a column. My dick was swollen twice as thick from ceaseless commotion and blood flow. She pawed it into precum through my khakis, maneuvering, too rough, past the zipper, licking balls to tip, gagging back down. When she blew me, a trap door opened at the base of my cock and flung fluid after fluid, spoonfuls gobbing across her, spattering thighs to forehead, draining kneeward, if she was on them, shambolic if she backed up, helping, hands clasped, guiding wide arcs over what survived of her stuffed animals, skimming in her lips, skipping her face, covering the dresser, knocking perfume bottles down, confused amongst girly lotions. She’d play fetch with my cumshot, correctly predicting where I’d land, but the excessive amount made this a rare event, due to discomfort. Two days neglected, she forced herself to chug as I kept filling her mouth. 

Boys and girls were segregated for a guest Sex Ed instructor who told us a wet noodle may never bore through a peach, but an iron rod sure would. I came on a love letter and Tera tacked it to her erythematic leg, reapplied lipstick goop. After class we found our way, chasing the fuck-glint of our bodies, into the basement of the school’s church. There was a lost pew we tumbled into, tucked under a giant marble staircase. Gymnastics girls, wearing spandex, practiced strenuously. I bent her into an echoing contortion. She knelt on the kneeler, parting her ass-cheeks, mouth covered, the huddled rush of getting caught. Girls in the distance seemed to mimic this move. She calipered her posterior to girl-feet hitting the mat. I fucked through the cunt spume fluid popping encircled and came like my eyes were going to break. Before a week, we’d damaged the varnish on the pew, fucking so much her smell wore off. I wanted us to last till the worms in her corpse would come when they heard me digging.

Tera was holding the back of the pew, jumping on my lap, scanning gymnastics girls. I considered bringing their presence into some kind of acknowledged, kinky alignment between us, but feared this might offend her. They were Tera’s trimmings, as far as I meant my lust, and she never saw me ogling. None of their malleability could outvie the back of Tera’s knee. She lifted and squirted on my uniform, scampering off without much of an adieu, missing the next day, claiming sickness on the phone. Not just her skinny friend knew about us anymore. She’d been extra stealthy in our meetings. Were she into girls, or seeing one, no problem, unless she left. She was squirting smaller portions. I put the saturated shirt in my mouth and tasted someone else. The other person tasted awful. Not because I loved Tera more than anyone. Because it was a male. 

I gently inquired if she would like to try new things, await a better meeting location, anything. She was feeling cornered by the lies she had to spin in every direction, then compounded them by telling me sweet diversions. My desperation to please Tera exacerbated her skittishness. I spent weepy nights designing homicides. Tera’s broken home taught her no fealty. The father was in court, on and off, for dealing drugs, the mother dead. I missed having her period on my breath, and held out many empathies, insisting against common sense. Much of my pain came from the impossibility of replacing her, both because of what I had built her into, and the giant effort it would take to get anyone analogously pretty to speak with me. Circumstances had conspired against the poor girl, coupled with my immersive appetite – our abnormal, possibly unhealthy, all-night, every-night stamina. Too brash for my age, overstepping direct communications, I laid out how her cheating needn’t be the end of us. She denied it like I’d alleged incest. I remained patient through several hysterias and insults, her pernicious implication that all our sex had been an acquiescence, the only possible retort while she coasted along, helpless, conforming to my lewd vision of her for safety’s sake, Stockholm syndrome through a sprinkler. She’d been subjected to an unfair portrait of herself and felt abused by the comparison. Despite my not imposing this in any negative context she could substantiate, the fact that my idealization existed proved psychologically damaging enough. The pedestal she was on inferred a power she could never corroborate, and the unmet expectation justified her reprisal against my insufficient hopes for us, that we’d last forever, because she was far from infallible. Each time I proclaimed anything to the contrary she felt mocked by my insistence. She’d been worn down, after a long-term smothering, into sharing that agony, esoteric as it was, way more directly. That’s beyond blasphemy, I declared, putting my own moratorium on kissy face. Never again would I become the enfeebled casualty of an emotion. It wasn’t my insecure love employed as a stratagem of manipulation against her, like she suggested, rather arrogantly – considering her motivation to find fault with how much I cared and never should have – but the cessation of that love altogether, not just for her, for any scalp-hunted cunt who came in her wake. She shoehorned the unconditional into a condition of nonconsensual recalcitrance, and, worse, accused me of somehow violating her over the past year of a relationship. You are in a position to question everything about me, except my loyalty to us, I yelled. Are you done, she stated three times, bored by the mess she made. Not yet, bitch, I muttered, unsure of what it was I aimed to finish. Chemicals had been bribing me to perpetuate myself. Women sold their pussies out to courtship, not an individual mate. Taken with being worshipped idols, the power of society presented to them, but never given over, a twin service, cashing in on looks temporarily, they were usually betrayed by age, if nothing else. I hoped she’d stay suspended in that malaise long enough to come back, if it took decades. She started treating me like a friend the second I let sex become mere collaboration and not the appearance of despotism. Ensconced dominance was what she rode through an orgasm, not me. What had meant so much to me, the building of our lives together, was a momentary reciprocation that could be evoked again by anyone’s attention. Especially if that person engineered her along a range of rote rejoinders. Anything she felt was because someone had sustained that feeling, a reactionary procedure keeping her anally inchoate as long as possible so we could all endure the kernels within. The crisis would only ever be my fault for failing to cement negotiations with an uninterested party, while she adhered, without loyalty, to her next millionth option, settling on the lucky chump patient enough to dedicate himself to her faltering charms and the nonsense she’d inevitably demand until they faded.

Shittily explained disappearances, and general flirtiness with others, sometimes in front of me, affirmed Tera’s betrayal. She had us down to once a week, with the excuse that she was moving soon, usually coming once, a reluctant afterthought, fingering her clit for assistance. Dressing for a date, she directed me and her skinny friend to await an appearance. The friend, who I assumed was laughing at my situation, sat thigh to very-warm-thigh with me on a couch covered by boxes. I dejectedly suggested she hop on my lap to leave room for Tera’s kitschy valuables. Fervently alive with tacticity, perhaps misinterpreting it as a flat command, she did. Surprised, I shifted, gripping the back of her knee for balance. She squirmed, incorrigibly. Deprived, I inflated faster than could be prevented. My cock hiked upward, harder than her boney ass. Absently riding through our clothes like it might be a joke if someone walked in, I held the back of her knee, feeling heartbeats through the popliteal artery, kissing an olive-skinned neck. She purred, whispering to stop, wrists planted, saddling forward over her lap. I felt skirted asshole twitching to a close against my shaft and toted her lightness down firm enough to drag our cum out through the frottage. She rose, almost fell, refusing to peer over, insinuating she’d tell Tera I’m a rapist. Maybe when we grow up, I explained, forcibly hugging goodbye. Tera’s brother, vindicated, back from seeing girls in our class – older high school whores as well – presented an oleaginous shit-finger, and chuckled: guess who?

Instead of being furious her friend got cummed against, Tera was impressed at my gall, partially bested under the challenges she’d given a man, turned on in the aftermath, hormonally incensed by drama – my indifference perhaps implying she might have overlooked something – and allocated an occasional phone stroke. We converted her lack of loyalty into a kink. Her body’s absence was a torturous form of phantom limb by the nerve ending. I’d been scalped from her warmth, the girl glow hacked off. But she jumped houses, suburbs away, due to her family situation, and wound up living with Angela. I interrogated her for details, unable to veil my enthrallment. Angela had relayed our pool incident. Tera flirted nonstop, at my command, but Angela stayed nerdily reclusive, an awkward virgin spurning Sapphic advances. I was assured, though, with a titillating intonation, that auditory evidence existed. One morning, at least, between the twin beds of their shared room, Angela felt safe enough to masturbate while her slutty friend feigned sleep. How does Angela come? I insisted, close to shooting, guessing correctly: the lightest peep of a hastening inhalation. My cousin stumbled into adolescence and called to threaten me about certain memories, but was aroused at my graphic summaries and adulations. She mentioned an unknown urge to always finger on top of her teddy bear, its fluff suspiciously enticing. I’m naked under my hoodie, she sighed, like you and me in the basement. I switched her to a conference call. Tera disclosed herself by coming with us. After we calmed my apprehensive cousin, she admitted things to Tera, rubbing herself with such intensity cola spilled everywhere, sticky in her belly button. A fellow girl pervert with advice about the G-spot, she coached while I listened. Too nascent an activation, my cousin overachieved and was discovered, months later, pregnant at twelve, living with an auto mechanic.

Unlikely to seduce squirters on Tera’s level, I failed to garner a female riposte, daring cold approaches outside my new high school. Tera insisted she couldn’t squirt under other dudes, but I overheard the visiting rival team from her town. A girl there had been nicknamed ‘the fountain’ by several seniors. Pampered by a nympho, I meant to transfer the satanic power of Tera’s energy to other girls, not for revenge, just replacing an addiction, but they were accustomed to collecting dominant jock bravado – or would control introverted geeks. The push-and-pull duress of this tier of sex was scarier than anything patently social, anything certified mid-puberty, and seemed comically misplaced. I’d stay excerpted along Tera’s diaphragm, blurbed in her behind, an impression deep enough, at least, for an interim. She acknowledged this by quickly squirting into the receiver while Angela showered, and by shepherding me through girls’ tricky brains. A month of hearing about Tera’s escapades wrung me around my saggy britches. Plodding along the nethermost rung of a liaison, I approached girls individually, carefully, and charmed them against every expectation, triumphs flummoxed, but approaching an ability. I arranged to meet with Tera, yelling that she prepare herself. Cooze started showing blasé insolence, betting I wouldn’t bother. I’d prove our connection was real, if fleeting.

I arrived a couple hours before dawn, drenched in sweat, stashing the bike, stretching, erect already. Slipping through a previously unlocked door, willing to exterminate a path to what was mine, recognizing the placement of everything in the unlit house by instinct, I found Tera’s room from smell, not her dunderheaded details. Violaceous tresses pushed back as my hand constringed the other side. I didn’t care if this was the wrong bed, but Tera tongued a hello. Dew emanating off the sheets confirmed it was her. I penetrated before our hips reacted, zipper ripped down, sheaved beneath a band of panties, causing gasps that should have given us away. All the materials blocked amidst our bodies were scrunching, defeated by us solidified again as a single convolution. I dispensed indurate measures of myself, so swollen motion seemed unnecessary. We passed the same smothered breath back and forth, trembling, pendulous, between sets of lungs. Tera snatched me out by the base, emitting spritz, a pattern dotting in tides, dampening the atmosphere, fingers crossed around her mouth, climbing the bedpost. A line of squirt sped by my ear and spackled the doorknob yards away. Disrobing, we ventured past noises any bad dream would leave. I wanted to think her accelerated expulsion was because she missed me, but errant other cock had honed her body toward fulfillment elsewhere. The tits were huge in my hands, had nearly doubled their span. She sealed the taco of her slit around me from behind like a good little spoon, and I helped her move. Her body wanted to be pumped. We’d grown additions. Reaching bigger than I’d ever been, I watched the dawn begin its limn around Angela. The more I cultivated a detached line of thought concerning Tera, the harder and fuller she came, buckling in elation. The less I was invested, the meaner her pussy fought to hold me in. I kept extending deeper into the heft of her extra curvaceous breeding, without release. She slid off and sprinkled the nook where sheets and mattress met. Wondering if we could reach Angela’s perky lineament, if uncovered, I focused on an incipient lurch, and steadied Tera’s hips. Angela was awake, face pushed surreptitiously into a pillow, shoulders shifting, butt rising under the covers of the other twin bed. Scantily auricular gasps matched ours. I put my fist around Tera’s throat, collapsing her air. On my hummed directive, she stood up, weaving, and tapped Angela out of pretend sleep. Seeing them, all I had to do was pinch my cock at the base and the tip rallied another inflation, besting itself twice over, at a severe incline. Angela rustled, whispering plaintively. Our eyes clanged together. I leaned forward and grasped her foot through the cover. She nodded. Tera shushed her to our bed, massaging a sedated patient. She sat on the edge, pensive as I was when we were kids. Tera kissed her, pecks from neck to lips, and they made out, cautiously, before I added my own osculation, easing her prone, legs split. One foot stood tiny beside my cock. I squeezed it, tasting upward, divaricating the slimmest moue imaginable. Tera, knuckling herself, pistonlike, straddled Angela’s face, whispering how to lick. Angela looked like a pet beneath her, craning to maintain my line of sight. The fold of Angela’s labia was outsized by the flesh of her immaculate hymen. I slapped my erection on her torso. It rested above concave crescents of tummy and rib; eighty shivering pounds with a plump ass atop it. Clutching Tera’s arm, Angela delivered an anxious swallow. I calibrated us, using her fluids to stroke a path parallel along their slickness, facilitating the impossibly tight space, creating room, incrementally. Blood became a better lube. She bulwarked Tera so turbulently they both swiveled. My glans pierced through, trapped inside a copper traction, suspended between wound and arousal, unable to be instilled beyond the first furrow of G-spot, which proved enough in the oncoming hours. Tera crouched to the side, soothsaying. Angela kicked, feverish, the radius of her legs tremoring back up the rest. Reinvigorated, Tera tapped the scream back in. I was forced out of Angela by my breadth alone. Some brawn inside her cunt followed suit, contracting adjacently toward the hole I’d torn. She awakened from her spell, staring at her own body in shock, and laughed, a proven trooper. Tera separated us with her ass and I fucked Angela’s blood into her. She finger-painted their thighs red. I pumped, fully, right to where her insides stopped, pulling out to smear another layer on the head of my cock, swishing around on Angela, slamming home again. Tera ground forth and squirted against Angela’s stomach, muscles of her ass shrinking the hole between them to a pin. We took turns slurping the blood and femjac out of Angela’s belly button. I stacked them, facedown, Angela on top, and raised my tongue, bathing one ass to the next. Fucking Tera, then Angela, at an angle, sore mounds skived, every ounce of our pool was consummated till precum pulsed once too much. My sweat mixed with theirs and they slid off each other, sheened thighs to tits, crawling under Tera’s baptism, silly with eagerness, batting goo from girl to girl – a mural of me on their chests. Tera found it with her tonsils. Angela stole my cock in her hands, lips ajar, timid, but intent, and breviloquent papillae swarmed forth. Semen launched down her throat faster than she could gulp. She gagged away. More lobbed across her body, strung around upturned A-cup tits, cliffhanging from pointy nipples. Tera finished the load, pinning her thickness around my base, receiving a few last throbs under her chin, cupping rundown. The morning was well in progress. I kissed a speck of Angela’s hymen from Tera’s lips and left them toweling each other, sticky pale girls refulgent in sunlight. Tera wrung my cum from Angela’s hair, kookily lapping a rope – parting visual gift – making it so my boner couldn’t fit its stain back into my pants. The sense of ownership between me and Tera, a year of acrobatics, was never as exclusive as one tap from Angela’s tongue. Tera doubled her calls, complaining about being deported from their house because of that day. I let it ring. After Tera lost contact, I was able to finagle Angela onto the phone once, coming two sentences in.

I invited girls I chatted up back to an empty home within walking distance of our school, an extracurricular excuse. They dared themselves to enter a boy’s room alone. Then I’d aggress as naturally as possible, during any conversational lull, introducing touch by joke, or gradation, advancing and backing off, accordingly. There were girls in varying stages of progress with what they were comfy doing. None of them knew about each other because no one was in a hurry to divulge affiliations with me. I had the patience to put work in, but quickly developed a very short cut-off point for attention paid without sex in return. You had to shrink your territory to refine a map. You had to secretly, but genuinely, to yourself, see the desired object as something lesser in order to obtain it. Beauty left them incomplete animals. A female taking the lead caused too much scar tissue to rebuild. I did cruelty better. If you kept countering all their rebukes with spontaneity, they might mistake determination for confidence long enough to put out. There were worse templates available to obscure this commonality, and they’d double both our gain, schemas below perseverance.