June 22, 2010

I am the fly.

Hey, you randy bastards, it's the Fornicator, fresh out of the dungeon and ready to slay that mighty dragon of yours. Bring the fire, baby- I can handle it. Speaking of fire, it's one hot son of a bitch in the asylum today. Those managerial motherfuckers upstairs think that extreme variations in temperature will help kill our desire. Fuck them. This heat just makes me horny, which is pretty goddamned convenient for you, isn't it?

A swollen fly buzzes lazily around my cell. We've been trapped in here for weeks together. I feed him scraps of my lunch, imagine him regurgitating up his stomach acid to dissolve the bits of meat so he can slurp them up with his sticky fly tongue. Leaning up against the cold concrete wall of my cell, the fly's somnolent buzzing fading into daydream, I think of your tongue against my naked skin, tracing its way from my lips to my neck, around the curve of my breast, flicking over my nipple. Your lips suck and your tongue teases and my breasts swell and my nipples grow taut and I slip a finger into my warm wet cunt while you suck me, biting now, twisting that hard pink bud gently in your teeth. A wave of heat surges through me and my hips push involuntarily forward, upward, and I flick my finger over my clit while you lick and suck. Our tongues meet, pulsing, warm and wet, and I come in spasms while we kiss.

As the dream fades I become aware of a panicked buzzing and I watch the fly struggle helplessly in the web he has worked so hard to avoid, watch the spider dance happily over to its plump prize and inject it with venom. The fly twitches, once, twice, and is still.