by R. A. Roth
Three whores come in.
I sit naked and nude in the center of the room on a pile of dirty laundry. I've been held up in this pigsty-shit-hole room for a week with no way out, only a way in. That's just the breaks -- you don't always get to pick which way the door swings.
They regard me like a stain.
One of them is a tall handsome blonde, hair like a plague of locusts. Next over is short and dark like me -- like me in more ways than I like. The third of their trinity is red as a newborn dawn with alabaster milk white skin. Ambrosia as I see it.
I can smell the dark lady's juices; see thick translucent Liquid of Creation dried on her inner thighs. Aftermath of the last job. Cleanliness may be God's trip. It's not theirs or mine. We like it natural and filthy and Original.
The redhead's alabaster tits and fiery red nipples, erect and bumpy, commence to rubbing on my cock while the blonde hovers above my mouth, trickles onto my tongue. The dark-haired one, my feminine self as I see her, rips off her panties. To my astonishment she has the most incredible labia I've ever seen. Picture perfect. Soft and smooth as china. Pink as the Easter Bunny. She relieves the redhead and glides down the shaft of my adamantium hard cock.
She is not there with me as her hips roll in small, controlled quenching thrusts of in and out, side to side, left to right, to and fro, past to future.
I climax into obscene blindness. My eyes open. She is by the wall, leaning. Nothing has happened.
She is still not there.
The redhead puts her mouth over me, won't let me come down. Pain. Pleasure. The two sensations become confused perfection, the perfection of ignorance.
The dark lady digs between her thighs. Fingers dripping with sticky ropes of coagulated me. She laps up much of the jissom, laps up me. A quick, efficient clean up, or maybe her first meal of the day.
The redhead continues to caress my balls, separates them like criminal suspects. Let them sweat it out alone. Think the other has given him up. Break rational thought, through deprivation no less. Just lonely barren walls and one-way mirrors lined with perverts betting on which one will cop a feel on himself first, or pick his nose, or maybe, a hundred to one odds, jack off on the mirror.
Yea -- I can see that.
Still the flaxen bitch pours her sacred essence into my hungry mouth. I can taste that the world, to her, is erotic. As it should be to us all.
The redhead isn't finishing me off. Can't. Her saliva feels like acid. Her tongue like sandpaper.
The dark doppelganger straddles my chest, thrusts her dark cavity in my face. I suck the clit like a hungry baby. The redhead's tongue, hot and wet and flicking, teases my tiny cock hole, coaxing me to just let go and speak to her.
Then I speak.
My hands become palsied fists that grip the dirty laundry, hold onto it like I will shoot out the window if I don't grip tighter and tighter. I can feel each transverse process snap and crack and buckle under the strain of the release.
An unburdening for the ages.
A confession of man to the Universe for being just a man. Just a thinking animal. Please forgive us, oh Lord, for we know exactly what we do but not why we do it.
I heave and spasm across the floor, mixed up in the filthy clothes, wallowing in my defeat. My only contact with the person I was before I came into the room. The rational, future-minded person that left me behind to clean up this mess.
The moment when he realized -- I realized -- that he hadn't -- I hadn't -- anything but the moment.
He got scared.
I got scared.
We got scared.
And want to never never never let go of this moment.
So we sit in this room and wait for the blonde and the dark and red to come by every day. Every week. Every year. Stuck in a moment. As we do our thing naked naked naked to the place we were born into but won't embrace, love, hope, dream as we do.
Because the door only swings one-way.
And it doesn't swing toward us.