Xeno-erotic 2 – The Dolls House

The Doll on a veranda, folded on a Barcelona chair, a gingham dress, the deserted shore, the recent upper layer of powdered bone, barely visible now. Sea shivers in dead air.

He summons the courage to sit beside her, thinks of removing her shades to peer – into what?

Somehow, he convinces himself of the futility of such a proposal. He is momentarily ashamed and wonders if he might instead sing cheap ditty from the Radio Era.

Are you smiling inside, he wonders? Are your thoughts nesting in my ribs, still?

The Doll tags his hand on white exoskeletal plates. The sphincter extrudes an oily rubber tongue; the cilium licks the air speculatively. Gelid from rouged and striated membrane, onto the unbuttoned dress.

So they kiss.

The ridged tongue glides, counts and considers several vertebrae. He slips his hand between the segments of the carapace, into the undermeat, lathed by proprietary mucous – some hairy fog at the intersection of The Doll’s thighs, fingering the avid cilium.

He is about to melt when it uncoils, seeps warm between his fingers; pouts and swells.

‘I want you’ he declares, removing his light summer clothing. The Doll puckers, warbles in some upper frequency band. He genuflects naked in sun and breeze.

The Doll trills like a chorus of detuned flutes: too much reverb for this empty, floating place.

From the sterile shore, he would appear as a pink and ginger root against the grey massif of the Sea House and the articulation of the dark-hooded arachnid, rising, white razor clawed.

The Doll’s hair fusses violently, as if underwater, slowly lifting the skirt.

The cilium furious as tensed cable.

Opens to receive a mercurial flood – brown and pink; barbed, pocketed, involuted as memories.

All that I want now, he thinks, giving head, gagging and suffocating in an afterthought. A gestation chamber, a matrix of vectors…. Who knows the truth of the reproductive cycle?

He only wants this bukkake holocaust deep, interiorized, so when the load is shot he’ll chain toxic shocks, vesicles bursting like pomegranates.

The Doll’s song modulates somewhere into the far ultrasonic, startling, for a moment, a dying porpoise, belly up in the sterile water.

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