Orange jump-suits daub Rosa with an invitation camouflage of fish paste. The python’s tail undulates to Bukkake rhythms as does the jungle girl/vore legend. Her soused head soon dangles from the eyeless abomination.
He watches all this in a séance glad to conform finally. We never watched ghost-porn at home, even after links were disseminated by worm.
She sat in an area designated for the Cabal. This iconoclast bathes with us, interminably bored. Everything is operational and broken. With each transition, it became harder to acknowledge whatever we shared.
He leaves the theatre in an orderly ripple of souls. Her driver is assessing the threat weather. He hangs back. Gulls remonstrate above the esplanade.
Narcissus hires surgeons to make him art patisserie. He is filleted for the injection of crème anglaise, sugar glazed into a post-operative triumph!
You look rested she whispers from behind.
He sees Rosa among his tasters, cream-filled mouth buzzing with knives. I too like to think that I am delicious. But then we heighten the sensation with the usual brand of magic (which I never claimed to understand.)
Cut me. The scars waver in a thousand modal windows. She lifts the hair from her neck. Cut me there, just a little.
My parents became ludicrous meat products. I dab procreative ulcers while they honk and roll together. Later I stuck lighted matches in my side. You can picture my relief.
Nicki is concerned by the poor quality of the pirated tape but she’s “turned on” by its representation of a women being flogged in a bare room with wet clay walls. Early blocks of code self-embed and later, self-assemble. I love you to see me like this. Rosa lifts her hair above her neck. Max wants only what she wants (This is how he paralyses his victims.)
Nicki lifts her hair. We never left that room? Yes, there is only one sexed, wet room. I only want to touch you.
Nobody uses organs anymore.