Last Stop Bubbles: A Lost Blondie-Verse Tale, Part Six free porn video

I. Crumbling

“Caution, approaching platform.”

A gum bubble pops and my body seizes up, bandaged hand smearing charcoal detailing across the page.

“Gross. He had his dick inside her butt?”

“And a dick up his ass. Some tattooed pretty boy he’d introduced as his wedding suit tailor. Fucking humiliating, Jess. My own fiancée. Having… ugh. I can’t even say it.”

“Just be glad you didn’t marry into that sleazy lifestyle. I mean really. I’m exit only. So, what did you do?”

“Played Frisbee with his Springsteen vinyl at the park. Titus liked it more than his tennis ball. Snapped him everything.”

There’s a choked gasp. “You what? It wasn’t that ‘Spirit in the Night’ album he always gloats about was it?”

“Yea. The one he’d never let me touch. Why?”

“Like… You know how rare that vinyl is, right? Holy shit, Tiffany. Even I know you could have pawned that thing to pay for that new Gucci bag you’ve been salivating over.”

A pause. Grinding of teeth.

“Whatever, Jess. Totally worth the look on his face. I don’t even care about the… other thing. That rat bastard traded up for a younger model. Jesus. She even looks like me. What was I s’posed to do? It makes my skin crawl knowing they fucked in MY goddamn bed! You know how hard those sheets are to replace?” There’s a choked sob, followed by a rant about needing to burn it all in a dumpster.

Then silence.

My body relaxes. It isn’t her. Just another mindless high-society girl that probably thinks she’s hot enough to avoid giving head. All style, no substance. Vapid. Pretty to look at but a bore in bed. Not at all like the strange woman my brain keeps denying my heart.

I pick my pencil back up and wince, hand still raw and throbbing.

The two women continue jabbering, trading material what-ifs and missed opportunities and whether or not it’d be too much to fuck the brother of the recently dumped fiancée. I tune them out and try to draw, to repair the damage done to the page, to your smudged face. Nothing comes. I’m exhausted. Run dry. I’m that smoking beater in the desert running on fumes. Mad Max with the engine light in red, rumbling toward something, but all prepped to explode into a black cloud of garish smoke and blinding flame. Fuckin’ out with a bang and a glorious scream about oh what a day it is. Except it’s no fucking day at all. It’s no fucking life at all if you burn straight to the sad fucking truth of it.

But at least my monster is silent, beat down from a month long binge of talented pussy and slutty white ass topped off by a final reunion with Jasmyn I wish I’d never had.

I can’t remember names. Can barely recall faces and locations. Part of me wishes I could. But it’s just blinding lights and blurred shapes and tight wet holes bleedin’ the cum from my dick more efficiently than the Twomps bleeds light from the fucked up souls just tryin’ to survive.

Truth is, it feels good to stop fighting Granny Teague’s biblical demons. Better to embrace that shit, man. At least, that’s how it started out… until visions of bohemian beauty and pink fucking hair started multiplying. Taunting. Can’t say if it was the drugs. Or just a prison broke mind. I’d need years of therapy to figure that one out. All I know is that I can’t even say if she really does exist, that it isn’t just Ana hell-bent on torturing me. That illusory stuff crazy people swear is true.

I shake my head.

The page in my lap is filled with a giant black blob now. I flip back a few pages. More blobs of varying shapes and sizes, each one more horrifying in nature, snapshots of that inky chaos inside my head. Rorschachs. My own thought prison given pictorial form.

*

“Caution, approaching platform.”

My eyes are blood shot and heavy.

I’m blazed outta my mind and hung the fuck over.

Tried to fill the void of losing Jasmyn for good this time the only way I know how.

I can still feel the clawed lines from ruby red nails on my back. I slipped again. Fucked up. Let him out the cage. Or maybe I just forgot to lock it? Doesn’t matter. It was the redhead, my little red fire engine with the flaming cunt and the easy smile. Can’t even remember her name. I’m surprised how much that sticks me in the gut. She wanted to be wanted for real. Wanted by me. Imagine that. Another woman that desperately wanted the kinda bullshit I’d bring into her life.

And you know what? Maybe a piece of me wanted her, my very own firecracker to keep in my hand. But… here’s another truth. She was just another stranger with a tight hole providing the sort of non-judgmental warmth I can’t seem to keep in my bones.

My head throbs and I see her coppery body climbing on top of a spray tanned shit head in a VIP room. Tribal tats up and down his arms. Surfer hair.

His prick is dusted white like those real fancy donuts at a pastry shop in the well-off part of Oakland. And she’s giggling. I’m giggling. Everyone’s giggling. It’s a freak show of fucking giggling VIPs, naked dicks jumping with fucked up laughter as men circle and females tease their gushing pussies against her nose.

A real laugher alright… I helped turn her into sex-starved gutter trash. A girl who’d do anything for a kind word and a never ending supply of weed. Even agree to get plugged by hood dick all night. And the monster is pretty damn proud of that fact.

“Stand clear, doors opening.”

The blurred memory vaporizes and the train fills up like sardines in a tin can, bodies bundled up against the colder than normal winter wind of Oakland. Everyone’s wearing Raider’s gear and smiling, chattering excitedly. A long playoff drought will do that to a city desperate for another championship. I can taste their hopeful delight and it makes me nauseous.

I need something to occupy my rattled thoughts so I try to sketch my way out. Moonlight glowing around the edges of the windows as the train breezes along. Ruddy hues of pink and red on cheeks. Bumping of bodies and innocent smiles. Life. I wish I could join them, but after a certain point, something becomes very clear to me. Some places aren’t meant for you, no matter how much you want them.

“Caution, approaching platform.”

Some of the passengers catch me staring numbly with reefer eyes and I pull back nervously. Then they get to chit-chatin’ again, real hushed like, like my first ride outside a now nostalgic prison of steel and concrete and guilt.

Someone next to me suddenly grabs my arm. “I can still feel it,” a voice moans softly, tugging my hand to the junction of her thighs. “Stretching me. Filling me. Completing me. Fuck. I need it again. I want you to get me pregnant, baby. He’d just looooose his shit to know I got knocked up by big black dick.”

My skin prickles and I freeze up. Her hair is blue now, though I still recognize her. The girl I left in a BART Station restroom, cum leaking from her puckered hole. Her eyes are crazed, like she’s finally murdered someone and wants to tell me all about it in macabre detail while sucking my dick. The monster rumbles, sensing her, wanting her, this tiny little Asian doll with murderously obsessive eyes. I can feel a disturbing erection starting to form. Images draw themselves in the air between the too few inches that separate us. She’s bent over a seat, naked ass in my hands. I’m bouncing her off my dick for all to see, laughin’ like a ten-year vet in a psych ward.

“Stand clear, doors opening.”

“I want you to choke me next time,” the girl husks in my ear. “Bring me to the edge and fuck the life out of me. Then bring me back and do it all over again. Gawd I’m wet. Feel it, baby? That’s because of you.”

I yank my arm away, but she flows with me, hand shifting to my crotch.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” I hiss, trying to ignore our growing audience of Raider fans.

“I’m fucking wet for you, that’s what. Shit. I want your dick back up my ass. Right now. Right here.” I swear her eyes bleed black tar. “Put a needle in my arm. Fuck me till I die, killer.”

I reel back, stomach turning. I don’t want to bleed onto the tracks this time. I want to jump off. Bang. Crack. Splat. Hit the ground. Bright train lights. Crunch. Click. Clack. Crunch. Click. Clack. Crunch. End this nightmare for good.

“Where the fuck is Kim?” a frustrated voice calls. “We’re gonna be late for kickoff.”

Kim groans. Licks my ear. “You don’t want me to leave do’ya, baby? Take me hope. Fuck me all night long. I don’t even care if daddy hears us.”

“Kimiko!” A frazzle haired pair of teenagers in Raider’s sweaters appear, eyes worried. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” they chime together. Then they see me, tracing the now familiar tattoo slowing down my cheek. And they follow it right down to my lap, and her lap, and her fingers rubbing the spot between her legs. “What the fuck are doing?” they scream, followed by, “get away from her, you damn pervert!”

They grab the girl and yank her up and out of the door right before it closes, her eyes trained on me the whole way. They’re dark. Like his. Mine. Prison mirror, blood on our hands. Empty eyes.

I look back down at my sketchpad and the black blobs. They tell a different story about what I am this time and what I should do.

II. Flesh and Bone

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, approaching platform.”

The stations blur by and my mind speeds up so fast it’s like the train never slows down, never stops, just one stop after the next in an endless cycle. Like poetic beats dropped to machine gun fire. Rata-tat-tat till blood splats on the mat. Nine round KO.

The last fucking stop.

End of the line.

Seem so innocuous at first, right? It’s just a phrase after all. That simple concept the inner city prisoners of the ghetto experience on the daily. The warning the metro-line pilot announces before the “Not In Service” light flickers on, leavin’ dead tired mommas cry’n on dangerous street corners after workin’ a double for shit pay and shittier respect.

Thanks for riding. Thanks for flying.

Last stop.

The line screamed from gangbanger to gangbanger

Under indiscriminate hails

Of cheap bullets and cheaper hate.

Leavin’ shattered windows, screamin’ women,

Sirens ringing.

Stolen by Oaktown tragedy.

Like a girl with a rubber hose,

And a needle in her arm, smile on her lips.

Last stop.

Different recipes in rusted tin cans

Count em all up all till they number

Ten by fucking ten

All windin’ up with the same noxious flavors

Of misery and death and rotted hope.

Life as misanthrope woulda been a helluva lot easier.

Which gets me thinking of a different sorta path. A poor little black kid in the Twomps ends up like that white comic hero, Bruce Wayne. Straight up vigilante in the streets. Fight that crime. Fuck all the pussy. A brooding mind with the black-hearted fists bloodying the fuck outta the evil life’s bitch ass shits out.

But nah. Those are just dreams within dreams. A never was mother hit by a bus while high as a kite. Split splat. Single father. Couldn’t cope. Bam. Bam. From Golden State to murky abyss. Granny Teague’s doorstep. Ring-a-ding-ding. The last stop before a parade through run down orphanages and life as the villain. Bam. Don’t be chasing them little white devils. Bam. Needle in the dark. Bam. Broke heart. Bam. Heart attack at seventy. Bam. Dropped cold before grandson gets released.

Last stop.

There’s finality to it isn’t there? Once you pass it, then what? What happens? You don’t collect free parking. Not us anyway. You chase your way back to the beginning before the light fades to black, before the curtain drops. You do it all over, even if it’s all the same, cuz you don’t want it to end. You don’t want to end. But you know some day it’s gotta. Like I said. Irrational. No rhyme or reason. It’s all inevitable. Shouldn’t complain. Drives you insane that unknowable end.

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, approaching platform.”

“Caution, doors opening. This is the last service of the night. Stay safe.”

Safe. What does that even mean anymore?

I stuff my pencils and my sketchbooks into my bag and step off.

And there you are on a bench, knees drawn up. Even bundled in a long ratty sweatshirt with the hood pulled over your head, I know it’s you. Can’t even describe the feeling that confirms it. It’s one of those things, like viewing a Rembrandt in a museum. You don’t need the card telling you who painter is. You just know. That’s how that shit works, right?

I tap your shoulder and you jump, springing off the bench into a low crouch like you’re readying to fight tooth and nail, to the death, green eyes feral, angry. Sad. My monster growls, trying to synchronize and harmonize with that rage. I push it down and step slowly forward. And under the station lights I see your hands shaking, fingers clenching and unclenching. But what worries me is the dry rusty red they’re coated in, like you’ve been playing with finger paint. Which makes no damn sense at all.

You stuff them in your front pocket when you see me staring, when you recognize just who I am.

Your shoulders slump and you fall to your ass.

“Pretty out huh?” you mumble, nodding up to a full yellow moon. Damn if it isn’t a broken sound.

I drop my bag and squat down in front of you. I reach out to pull your hood back and you flinch, but allow me to continue. Your pink locks are mostly gone, faded back to the blonde you’re known for.

“Blondie,” I say, pushing frazzled strands of hair from your face and tilting your chin up. It’s the first time I’ve called you this and you know it. So you smile through a busted lip, wincing all the way. You wink and a small cut above your eye oozes blood.

“Fancy seeing you here, jitterbug. Last stop n’all that.”

*

In an area this run down, with a motel starving for cash, there aren’t many questions asked. But when it’s mostly just a front to sell sex and drugs, questions are never really on the menu, even when you’ve got an infamous black man whose face consumed the daily news for an entire year, clutching a tiny hooded white girl in his arms.

“Room sixty-nine,” the greasy looking manager grins as he hands over a key. He smells like Bud Light, Marlboro’s, and sweat. “Last door on the left.”

You’d have grinned and laughed and made a cheesy, dirty joke about our room assignment. You don’t though. You’ve gone mute. Which, surprisingly, has the monster in me seeing red.

“Have fun,” the fat man leers while the monster rages.

I grit my teeth and take the key.

-

The pungent odor of sex, stale traces of marijuana, and Pine-Sol slap me in the face like a Mike Tyson jab. I lost my white-girl virginity in a shit hole like this while still running drugs for Ray. Had the real romantic ghetto soundtrack of bullets fired in alleys, spitting mufflers, screeching tires, and hellish shrieks to serenade Anastasia and me as we fucked like awkward rabbits, fueled by adrenaline, the taste of Molly, and the fear that a stray bullet may sneak its way between us, ending two lives during the act that created it. Fucking twisted ironic reality of that fear just got her wetter. Melted that lily-white fear of dying in the hood into a puddle of desperate, gluttonous humping.

But no… Actually, the weird truth of it is that I was never really scared that night. Never. Not of what her father would do to me if he found out a poor black kid from the Twomps was fucking his little princess in a dank motel room. Not of what Ray would do if he found me spurting inside the girl was that still ‘his.’ Not that Ana ever belonged to anyway.

And I sure as hell wasn’t scared when a bullet danced through the window and buried itself into the empty bed we’d just rolled off of. The light tinkling of shattered glass. A soft pillowed whoomp. It all happened right as I nutted inside her for the first time. Shit just got us hornier.

And here I am now, scared shitless and still tweaked out of my mind, try’n to play the black knight for a tiny little white girl when I can barely play hero for myself.

I set you down on a rickety bed that at least boasts clean sheets. You curl in around a lumpy pillow, leaving smeared red handprints everywhere.

I don’t need to ask, though I don’t know how to anyway. Splotchy bruises on your neck are already turning dark. Lines of rainbow eye shadow smears down your cheeks like war paint. Whatever happened, you got the better of it and someone else got the worst of it. That knowledge doesn’t make me feel any better. I want to let the monster out. I want to let it out and remain conscious.

‘And what, Jalen?’ my monster purrs. ‘You finally want to feel it this time?’

He’s right, I’m right. I do. I want to feel a body break in my hands, create a certain kind of art with bone and gristle and hot rod red to serve as a sort of symbol against the kind of cruelty inflicted on a tiny little blonde that has such a capacity for love and compassion and tenderness that a piece of shit like me would rip his own fucking heart to shreds. Use the pieces to stitch hers back together.

Maybe be some kind of a hero instead of a drugged up fuckup.

The monster laughs. ‘That need to kill finally bubbling to the surface, Jalen? Once a felon always a felon. Killers aren’t heroes. But shit, man. We don’t need to be no hero. That derivative Hollywood bullshit is for the brain dead masses. How bout we be something grade A original? Set your little white hood rat up with some money and a castle. I’ll show you how to really make a living.’

My head pounds and I lurch against a battered dresser that’s taken one too many sexual beatings to be of any real use anymore.

Granny Teague’s voice echoes inside me. She always said when the devil comes knocking, you don’t answer the door. Cuz once you let him in, he ain’t never gonna wanna leave. He’ll slave you to him like our ancestors got slaved.

I stumble into the bathroom and collapse next to the tub. Water gushes out in a roar and I pray for scalding warmth as I fiddle with the knobs. It takes awhile, but eventually the water turns hot. But not hot enough. I need something to boil away what’s flowing in my veins. Vaporize the thing inside me.

‘Why would you go and do something like that?’ the monster asks ‘Aren’t we friends? Birds of a feather?’

“Shut up,” I hiss and bang my head back against the wall.

‘Never happening.”

“Shut up.”

‘Stop being a bitch, J.’

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

The cheap plaster splinters and my head crunches into the thin wall. Chin hits chest. The world spins. I spin. The gushing water slows to a trickle, and slower still, until it’s just fat drops hitting the surface.

Ploop. Ploop. Ploop.

Like the intro beat to a sad ass rap.

Something pulls my knees apart and settles between my legs. Small hands cup my face and tilt it up. A forehead presses against mine. I expect it to be her, finally here to usher me to the end. Last stop reaper. Scythe to brittle soul. Goodnight moon. Peace out girl. And yet, it’s green gems, not crystal blues centered on my shit-colored pair. Of course it’s you, looking like hell. A heart stopping sorta hell. Your eyes are puffy and raw and your lower lip is swelling up at the corner… tragic as fuck and still intoxicating.

I try to move, but you push me back.

“What?”

You see the state of the wall behind me and shake your head sadly. Somehow, you’re far more worried about my fracturing psyche than whatever torment you’ve suffered. And it makes me feel all the worse.

“The fuck you looking at me like that for, blondie? I say, voice hoarse. The pity. The sympathy. The compassion. And yea, the love in those green eyes… they’re like knives. You don’t seem to understand that though. Or maybe you do. And that’s why…

My thoughts, my rationalizations, are cut off when your mouth finds mine, warm tongue worming its way inside to stir up a different chemical mixture inside a plagued mind.

I try to fight it. Fight you. But it’s a dumbass kind of a war to stage, so I give in to your manipulations and wrap my arms around you, pulling you into my lap.

“Let it go,” you mumble breathlessly into my shoulder after an infinitesimal eternity. “Life sucks enough as is to hold on to,” you pause, draw circles on my chest, “all the mean dark bullshit you let eat you alive,” you finish. You pull back and stare with green-eyed curiosity, a raised eyebrow questioning, imploring. “You feel me?”

I close my eyes. Nod.

Breathless, you fumble around my pants for button and zipper to fish out my dick, hand pumping it to life like a shotgun. Neither of us cares about the dry blood that still stains your hands. Because somewhere deep down in subconscious thought, it tethers us to this world even as we do our best to blast off and leave it all behind in a smoking ruin – wandering souls, lost and searching and hoping to be found on distant worlds.

I pull your dress length hoodie up over your pert ass. You lift up without breaking contact with mouth or cock. Desperate, movements awkward, we shimmy you awkwardly out of thin, Tinkerbelle-print pajamas. Throaty growls and high-pitched moans mingle and harmonize when your hot naked ass settles over my lap. Your hips swivel, trapping my shaft between your tight muscular crevice, pussy drooling warm fragrant cream that gets my mouth watering.

There’s a pregnant pause… two sets of lungs sucking down oxygen, two hearts thumping wildly, threatening to rip from their cages of bone and cartilage to slow dance beneath a shower of spurting red life before trading places. To pump their new bodies with tenderized love… the brain’s tricky drugs… to shock systems back to life.

It’s an image that will come to me again, much later, demanding to be painted in the middle of sleepless nights.

-

What follows is a quick needy war to forget, to leave the world behind in a haze of nuclear sex. The pause shatters into oblivion when I finally push inside your tiny pink pussy and the world around us burns to suffocating ash, Vesuvius blasting its ruin into the night.

It’s like lightning, voices thundering nonsensical verse, skin humming with electrical sparks as we come together again and again over a cracked tile floor. The sensations cause muscles to jerk and teeth to find shoulders, drawing fresh blood and pleasured pain. For one heavenly moment, your talented pussy ripples and caresses with velvety smooth waves like… I don’t fucking know… moon tides I guess. Some poetry slammed rhyming sequence that brings forth Granny Teague style Amens and Mmmhmms.

And when that moment ends, you clench like a vice, sucking the cum from of my dick like Bram Stoker’s Dracula. And it’s not the monster who howls this time, but me. And you. And all the voices of our hidden lost selves that we’ve trapped deep within scar tissue.

-

I keep moving, pumping slowly inside you, trying to push my semen into the deepest recesses of your quivering cunt. And for a brief, stupidly subconscious moment of deluded weakness, when I swear I’m somewhere else… floating naked and alone in the Dead Sea beneath a fat golden moon, entertaining notions of a family, your pale belly rounding with growing life, marbled tits swelling with milk… one girl fissuring into two. Blondie times two. Love in threes. Granny Teague’s little trinity of hope she had for me, a tiny little furnace of life to burn happiness into my black ass… into your green eyes. Maybe puzzle us back together ten times by ten times as strong as before. Until I’m more than just Andy Worhol’s ten by ten grid of miasmic beef flavors forced down and shat out. Until I’m something different… soaking up the new fucking normal… slurping down exciting new flavors in the company of smiles.

I hold onto that image, sketching it in my head. I rearrange scenery, moments in time, faces and people, until all off life’s zigzagging bullshit just winks out. Until the silver lined scars crisscrossing your body both above and below the skin just… melt, like ice cubes on hot Oakland pavement. Replaced with carpet burns from sneaked sex during Christmas parties. Grass stained knees from tire swing falls. Skinned elbows from monkey bars slips. Stretch marks. Happy smiles. Your vanilla cream belly swelling once more. Blondie times three. Breakfast in bed. Buttermilk waffles and maple syrup. Stickier pussy. Languid sex. Laughing sex. Tears into angry sex. Bitter memories. Old age creep’n in till blonde hair fades.

And then…

I douse that painting with gasoline. Light it on fire. Because it’s just a fleeting boyhood dream fueled by desperation and hurt and glossed over by illusion and smeared with quick n’ dirty sex meant for nothin’ more than repairin’. Straight up Mr. Rodgers make-believe where life’s just the greatest and anything seems possible.

But this is America.

And I’m just a black man from the Twomps.

-

We lay tangled in the comforter on the floor, never quite making it to the bed after another heated round in the bathtub. You haven’t said much, which worries me.

The only real sort of communication between us has been words drawn across my skin. Nonsense words. Silly words. The kind of words that pull smiles out from thin air, turn jaded thoughts to quirking lips.

And then, “When I was younger, when it turned all golden yellow like this, I used to have this fear that the man in the moon was dying. Skin all jaundiced ya know? Dying. Little body failing. And his closest company is thousands and thousands of miles away. Stars, right? And they twinkle bright, trying to cheer him up. Heal him up. And, thankfully, I guess they do, since eventually he returns to his normal, silvery self. Sometimes full. Sometimes crescent shaped. But he always bounces back with a little bit of help. A little bit of twinkling love conveyed over empty vastness.”

Through the crack in the curtain, it’s like someone has pulled the moon down low and hung it right outside our dingy room.

“Are you happy?” you ask, handing rising up, up, up, trying to cup the moon, pinch it between your fingers, gobble it down like a piece of candy. So it’ll always be with you.

A shrug. “I don’t know, blondie. Can’t remember the feeling.”

“Me either. Not completely? I think I’d like to know how to again though. Be consistent at least? Being honest, I’m not at all put together. And I guess you aren’t either. No fucking sir. Guess that’s why we’re like cookies n’ cream, Ben n’ Jerry, Bat n’ the cat?”

You drape yourself over me like a warm blanket, chin on hands, and look up at me. There’s a real curious look in those green eyes as they try to puzzle things together. This together. Whatever this is. Creepin’ inside the both of us without either of us knowing. Funny how that shit works, all chemicals and neurons and wires crossing.

And then you grow restless and start whispering demands from your bubble gum tongue. Crazy white girl demands involving Oaktown’s greatest ass.

-

When I jerk back awake into foggy lucidity, half hard dick still buried deep within your hot hungry asshole, I see her, feel her. The hose wrapped around her arm, my arm, lifeless eyes staring up, up, up into nothing. It’s then that I realize certain parts of me just won’t let go of her. Refuse to let go. Because, as your body stirs, the monster whispers, telling me she’s trapped inside you and if I do one simple thing, I can release her. Release me.

Simple.

Evil.

I don’t know what to do so I lay there, silent, as you wriggle in front of me till my cock slides free from your creamed hole. Then you climb to your feet, walk into the bathroom, and shut the door with a click, leaving me alone with darkening thoughts.

‘Do it,’ the monster whispers. ‘You want her back. This is the way. The only way.’

I bash my head against the floor, once, twice, three times in rapid succession. I go for another, with the thought that this will be the last time, and I won’t be trapped anymore with a nightmarish ghoul massaging my brain.

But when I slam my head back, it’s not into the floor. I look up and you shake your head, unfiltered emotion filling your eyes. I bare my teeth and you shake it again, more emphatically, before resting my head on a pillow. You crawl around my body to clean my cock with a warm washcloth.

I realize something in that moment as you handle my dick like it’s made of glass. The monster is right, but not in the way it thinks. I don’t need her back. What I need is her excised from my mind, and you’re the one to do that, the tomboy Aphrodite from the hood, who’s far closer to being the hero I stylized myself as in my early drawings as a kid.

I pull you back up my body until your lean hips hover over my mouth, your shaved pussy still flared open like one of those blooming pink tulips in Granny Teague’s garden. You squeak when I drag my tongue across it, and moan when I continue up, spreading your cheeks to lash your crinkled ring before worming inside.

You collapse against my abs, heavy gasps air tickling my hardening cock. You slurp the head into your mouth, but you can’t do much more than hold it there as I continue my oral assault.

I have to make you let go right along side me, repay what you’ve been trying to give me since we first met. So I ease out from under you.

-

I travel over each scar that marks your pale form until I reach your mouth, your eyes. Your legs shift up, crossing around my waist as I push inside your messy wet heat.

“You gotta let it all go too,” I whisper above you. “Let it out.”

Your eyes narrow, eyebrows knifing together. “Let what out?” you lie.

“Let it out,” I repeat.

Your jaw clenches.

“Let it out.”

Your face contorts.

“Let it out.”

I hover above you. Six hundred and eleven seconds. Time so viscerally real I can feel each and every second burn off, leaving a swirling cloud of heat behind.

Your body shimmers and bubbles. Skin melts, leaving a younger version beneath, sixteen maybe, innocent still, in the ways a white girl from the hood can be innocent. I lean down, lick an erect nipple and push deeper inside your clinging bubblegum cunt.

“You don’t always gotta be so damn tough, blondie,” I say. “Sometimes, I think… nah. I know. I know. We need to drop our baggage. Spill the pain out on the floor. Bleed it out. Give it a good hard look. And set it on fire.”

Your nails dig shallow trenches into my back; your legs squeeze more tightly. I accept the pain and push deeper.

Six hundred and eleven seconds.

Your body shimmers and melts again, a slightly older version taking her place in the fire. Barely inside her twenties, I think.

This face has no innocence. It was bled out of her. There’s rage and sadness to it, a fury that needs release. I flip us over until you’re perched above me like a hawk eyeing its meal. You snarl and sheath me fully inside you, grinding your smooth crotch against my pelvis.

It’s a reckless, wild sort of fucking that ensues, hips hammering brutally against each other, my balls swinging up to slap under your ass like a gong. Lips curled back over bared teeth, your breath comes in hisses. I try to hold on and can’t. The movements are too strong, too fast, and your cunt’s too messy, too talented. I growl and you claw my chest and that’s it. I squeeze your undulating form against me and blast a heavy load inside your sucking pussy.

Six hundred and eleven seconds.

I roll us back over and a new face greets me, an older one. There are laughter lines at the eyes, at the corners of the mouth. Cheshire happiness. A freeness of mind and body. You grin mischievously, reaching around to pop a slick finger into my ass. I grunt and my cock thunders back to life. You giggle and purr out a profanity laced verse of lascivious slam poetry. I add my own feeble lines of dark lust and pump your squelching cunt erratically, disturbing the thick load already inside until it froths out.

Six hundred and eleven seconds.

“Paint me, baby,” you whimper breathlessly. “Paint me.”

The bed shudders and squeaks under the force of our colliding bodies, and beneath us, the sheets grow damp with sweat and cum. You giggle madly in my ear and scream out a seedy request that has my prick jerking spastically in your cunt.

Six hundred and eleven seconds puff away till only seven remain.

I clench my jaw and wiggle my hips, working myself out of the tightening grip of your collapsing inner walls. When my erection, coated with a film of arousal finally slips back out into the harsh world, I point it at your belly and fist it like I’m having the best damn wet dream of my life.

Cum sprays out like a fire-hose, glazing your steaming white skin like a piece of pottery. When the intensity of my orgasm goes nuclear, my hand slips off and I have to catch myself so I don’t crush you. It’s quickly replaced by your pale, smaller one, directing the stream from your gushing pussy, up your flat stomach, your delicate chin, to your perfectly sculpted face.

My heart hammers loudly in my ear when it finally slows, my prick jerking one final time to ooze out over your dime-sized nipples.

-

I struggle for air in the aftermath, certain the world, or at least the cheap motel around us did burn to ash, smoke filling my lungs. It’d the sort of ending I wouldn’t mind. The sort I’d even welcome. But no, there’s one last thing I need to do for you.

-

In a daze, I push your slim legs back to your freshly cleaned belly and lean in to capture your cum stained pussy with my mouth. It’s salted and slimy and warm and tastes of us both. Earthy. Sweet. Raw.

“Fuck!” you keen, followed by another belly-racked blast of laughter that helps push out the remaining cum trapped inside onto my questing tongue. I slurp it all up and hold it in my mouth. I ease your legs back down, shift up, and hover over your smirking lips.

“Did you know eating your own cum turns you…”

The rest of what you plan to say is cut off by a sloppy, cum textured kiss of heated passion. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation, perfectly content to just… feel, our tongues dancing against each other, trading the sticky residue back and forth like a polished string of pearls. Your legs wrap tightly around my waist again and you swivel your hips against my limb cock, greedy for another round when the kiss ends. I’m spent though, exhaustion bleeding into my muscles even as I flip us around and spank your sweet peach ass like an African drum. The impact draws one last gush of honey from your overworked pussy. I smile against your suddenly slack mouth, roll your lush bottom lip between my teeth.

Chest heaving, small breasts sliding against my chest, you spill out a cacophony of broken curses and fragmented verses before the void hits and your mind brakes hard. You stare down at me with those wild green eyes I’ve decided I love and your form bubbles and melts one final time, leaving you how you began this night: bent, and bruised but also glowing in a way I’ve never seen.

“I should charge double for this fucking magic show,” you giggle, exhaustion creepin’ hard into you, eyes sliding shut as you collapse against me. “You feel it, don’t ya? Spanking you wide awake again?”

I squeeze you to me and you purr, all sweet and content and soft.

“You sayin’ Marvin Gaye had it right, blondie?”

“Maybe,” you murmur, stifling a yawn. “Who knows? It’d be nice though, wouldn’t it? Fix all the evil with a little love. A little nakedness. A little sexual…”

You drift off before you can finish.

“I wish it were that easy, blondie. But this?” I run a hand down your perfect white thigh. “I guess it’s a start.”