Slut
by Jonathan Quince
Monday, February 28, 2005 15:27:16
“How many men have been inside this cunt?” I whisper up to her as I kiss its fragrant lips.
A thousand men, she answers, laughter in her eyes as she watches me lap up their seed.
“How many orgasms have you invited into you?” I ask as I mount her, sliding into hot pinkness slick with the cum of her historic orgies.
I’ve lost count, she answers, smiling and flicking her hair about her bare shoulders. You can check the book if you really want to know, she adds, gesturing to a thick, black leather-bound tome on the bedside table.
I’ll always fall for a meticulous record-keeper. Flipping over with her atop me, I embrace her, penetrate her, bring her lips to mine; kissing her deeply, I taste the flavor of every cunt she’s sucked and every cock she’s swallowed.
Today, I may be catching her on the tail-end of a righteous gang-bang. But a tireless nympho she is, exuding freshness and vibrancy; and with the sweat of orgy and divers bodily fluids still drying on her skin, she’s still desperately hungry as a youthful virgin. For all the power of the English language, I realize the need of new superlatives to top “insatiate” and “ravening”. And I, in particular, do empathize with her needs: I am, after all, the one who taught her, who freed her, who made her who she is, and I have the same desires wound up like an infinite spring at the core of my psyche.
We fuck, so filled with light laughter and heavy heat. And, as poet caught short of rightful words, I ordain her as a beautiful slut.