A Certain Hunger

por Chelsea G. Summers

I should have made it a one-off, a lone death-defying act in a high hotel room. Maybe he was my middle-aged madness, my little red Corvette, my last great gasp before I sloughed off into menopause and the attendant hormonal horrors that anti-puberty has to offer. Whatever Casimir was to me, he wasn’t just once, and now, of course, he is with me forever. We are joined unto death, which is a little ironic, if you think about it, and I do. Thus I passed weeks with Casimir, multiple nights in his hotel room, fucking. There was a hand job under a table, too, Casimir’s fingers parting my labia as I slid forward on a banquette, sly paroxysms of bad posture and muffled orgasm. There was also, if memory serves, a luxe bathroom stall, the click-click-click of expensive heels on the vintage tiles, and the red-lipped “O” of a surprised woman who had too much to drink (and not enough dick). For weeks, Casimir saw me, neither of us knowing that his life was ending.

Escolha o formato

📚 Você também pode gostar

Todas as cores do céuAmita Trasi A interpretação dos sonhosSigmund Freud A Nossa QuedaMeirelles, Mônica Thorns Of Deceit Eva Winners Devocional Alegria do AmanhecerDeive Leonardo