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Sandpaper Fancy Friday, Apr. 23, 2004 - Between his legs, one shoulder wedged against an inner thigh, his other thigh snugged under my armpit, my head fitted to the hollow of his hipgroin, the squashed side of my face glued to his skin with the shared slick of the moment past climax. His climax�I am content with the roles of benefactor and master. The thick fecund smell of aftersex wreathes my head, fills my head�mouth, tongue, throat clammed with raw, vinous, fungoid chowder. Spit or swallow? Hell, you can't swallow jism without a chaser, but you learn to savor the heady bogmuck like a black truffle tapenade. I rub my bristled cheekchinjaw against his still-swollen cockhead, knowing the blood-filled sponge of his glans is hypersensitive after orgasm, just to hear him make that sound, not a squeal, not a whimper, but a tiny breathless scream (all breath taken by oxygen-glutted redblood), just to know, and he knows, my power over his body, just to revel in my power over his pain and delight. Just to hear him call me a name. "Bastard you bastard fuck you." Sweetest term of endearment. I rest musingly upon his flesh, his pelvic bone under my ear. If science, almightier than God, could give us bodies fitted with our every genetic fancy, would I choose the cat's sandpaper tongue? And kill him with inexorable pleasure as I roughly lick his nipples, frenulum and ass? last eleven:
Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
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