A letter from somewhere

Sunday, 25 October, Year 12 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

It is better to forget what you were looking for,
than to have forgotten what you are looking for.
~ apud slavegirl, nakedly nude in the buff,
standing by luggage scattered on the floor.

Perhaps you find yourself in my situation. Though it may seem improbable yet maybe it could be the case -- if not right now then who's to say, maybe one day. "You never know", as the expression goes, "perhaps one day". For such a time as that may be, if not right now -- eternally, heres's then found just what to do, certain t'inform an' worry you.

Should you find yourself with enough success to, say, have copped a pretty young new high yellow whore, specifically an' as it happenes (incredibly, if need be, yet nevertheless) from among the warm, narrow circle of her two narrow yet lovingly devoted (in a narrow way) parents, who had brought their only beloved daugther to the very beach in question exceptionally an' to try out something new a mere half hour prior to her running into perilous hounds and other manifestation of otherwomanhood, and should she be just as eager yet just as inexperienced, just as curious yet just as blushing as ideals written expect of the poet's sixteen year old (or close enough, in any case, almost there's good enough in these things) schoolgirl inexplicably two or three shades more darkly mulatto than either of her indistinctly unremarkable (if shockingly heavier than her at about the same height) parents,

What's to be done is as follows : sit yourself comfortably on a comfortable couch, your knees a foot apart, your hands in front of you,

Where they support the prettily brown package afore-discussed, her gracile arms unbound, reaching behind her aimlessly for yet-ununderstood support, caressing incidentally and accidentally -- in any case undeliberately -- your neck, shoulders and upper arms, and upper chest, her feet on either side of you on the aforesaid couch, her lubed, never-probed butthole swaying ever lower, soon to be stretched, and used, by your menacingly erect penis now pointing doubtlessly the true North,

While naked, butt-experienced sluts take turns, by twos, back and again : one to kiss the adolescent being turned out right between her widely spread, delightfully athletic thighs, their slithering, warmly demonic tongue in betweeen and for the first time separating well responsive labia time and again ; the other to impose her own, experienced, wise, slick womanhood upon the young girl's mouth, separating lips by otherlips and otherlips by lips in a horizontally-vertical delight of deluvional destraint (just like restraint but going the other way), keeping her quiet thereby and moaning deeply therefore (or vice-versa, who's to say, for who's to know).

Then all that's left's to pump her, to your heart content ; atop and almost above you she'll die time and again, both properly, in the sense of the slaughter of innocence, not necessarily bloody yet unimportantly so should blood occur (still today as ever, still for sixteen year olds as great a lubricant as it ever for all time an' for everyone it has ever been) an' metaphorically in the sense of what the French perhaps once called petit mort, though I should rather propose and humbly suggest it doesn't seem quite as small at all as it occurs -- in fact and speaking guided by very well lived experience it's certain to loom larger than the other one, at the very least the few very first times. You pump her, and you let her die. You pump her, and you wink at your own slavegirls extracting their alternating rents out of her quivering frame.

You pump her, and you spend, her flower undeflowered, left behind, as in that ancient joke on the reaching of the heart : Nu va temeti -- ocolim!

I'll spare you the details, circumstances an' informations, as well I know I better might. Suffice it to say I'm having a pretty damn blasty ol' good time at the beach.

Stay frosty,
Me.

Category: Zsilnic
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