by Croissant ©
The morning begins with a slash, as Beethoven suddenly descends upon our neighborhood, loud and liquid flowing into the alleys and through the crevasses in the walls.
The bums arouse with this, exchanging smiles, then scraping their pockets for bits of bread and stale pizza they rummaged from the trash bins the previous night. We arouse too, me with my customary morning affliction and you with the remains of your dreams.
I waddle towards the bathroom but am restrained by your rigid arm as it sneaks and snakes down to inquire below. I sigh rolling my eyes up in anticipation and praying my bladder doesn't spill at the wrong moment. Your eyes do the talking and I obey, parting-lifting your robe to be presented with a view of your rose in bloom, crowned by a laurel wreath of soft curly down in hues of chestnut fire.
Tasting your pink petals deeply, I uncork your nectar as it spews out with warmth and that cheesy smell I have learnt to lust for. You oblige by unlocking your passage in a yoga posture that simultaneously exerts assertive pressure on my lower back, further lengthening my shaft so it almost becomes impossible to leverage.
Your eyes signal Yes, and I decide to hold back just to tease you, listening to Beethoven floating on pussy odor instead. It's a bad idea, because that gets me so horned up that moaning grunts deep in my abdomen, I kneel between your gates of venus.
Now it's your turn to tease and as usual you are far better at it than I, turning over ever so carefully to zip your slash shut but allowing a little labia to stick out. Tormented and impatient with sperm battling to out, I try and pry them apart, half smiling and pretending to be in good humor. You sulk seriously, your small pert breastlets tucked under you safely. I understand, and reluctantly and eagerly grope my way underground to arrest them in their cosy nest.
Your eyes gleam and as you turn over your nipples tell me why. Aimed at me like supersize rivets, they challenge my fingers to nurture them and watch them grow into full-blown pacifiers. I am reminded briefly of your baby sleeping soundly satisfied with her sovereignty over your teats, little aware that a denouement is about to happen.
You softly cradle and squeeze them into conical weapons, inviting me to defuse them with wetness. I salivate, into, onto and over them slicking those twin peaks into submission but unable to prevent the tips from erecting tall into the nippy air. Beethoven washes and swirls around us, and there is a bird reporting our every move to the bums below from our window sill, and your eyes flicker perhaps in similar alarm as I momentarily am. The bird flies away perhaps seduced by a mate in estrus, as I turn to your womb with every intention of making it awash with my semen.
Now, your breasts aflame, the fire moves into your eyes and I can see them flash morse-coded signals to my body machine. Knowingly, and giving up the notion of further resistance, I lay my palm upon your lips. Pause. Feel the pulse pound, and the wetness ooze from within. The muscles clench, and unclench. The restless button press insistently against my middle fingertip, pleading for immediate attention.
My palm sends a momentary electric shock up your spine, then you lose control and open your legs wide and close them tight around my hand. In a single sinuous twisting motion, I find your heavy buttocks pressing into my crotch, closing in on my erection. There. You got it already.
Even as I wrap my arms around your full belly, your cleft parts in heat and wetness, almost sucking me in with a violent slurp, all the way in. I stop breathing and think I should burst any moment, as your fingers reach me before my thought can, and you squeeze my shaft in that womanly way that gives me reprieve from ejaculating.
Only for a moment, though - a moment that you exploit, writhing and rubbing your clit, nursing my arms around your breasts, sucking my tongue in sideways, and your heels thrusting me thrusting into you deep.
Yes, there it is - I orgasm, you orgasm a fraction later, we both give, give so much that it floods the room, the space, the street, mingling with Beethoven as he marches to a climax unaware that his purity has been carnally invaded by our symphony. The bird returns, at peace now, and we lie langourously entwined, not knowing which part belongs to which of us, and where it is tucked away for now.
The bums have finished pissing on the walls, and walk out, singing.