Or....alternatively....The Passion




church bells are tolling in the distance.. whether they're ringing in joy or mourning i don't stop to care.

we, the praetorian guard, stand vigil at the window...watching them...judging them. they know not what we do. if they knew we were here would they be fucking in such raw and hypnotic oblivion?
maybe...who knows?

'watch how he touches her', you whisper in my ear, hands entwined in my misshapen ponytail, naked ourselves and barely breathing in the spell cast in this moment.

i, pressed against the window, you pressed against my back. Your cock, hard against my ass, stands at attention as a good guard should.

sheets of rain cascade down their window
and ours...
the only light is the flickering of lightning across the gray-dark late afternoon sky.
the only noise the thunder,
your occasional rough breath...or is that mine?...
and of course the bells.

he pulls himself away...passing over her, he starts at the beginning....kisses her toes, nibbling them one by one in transcendental delight. his lips will devour her entirely....skimming every curve and plane as she watches.

She...the victim- willing to give herself over to the feast... eager to offer him sweet salvation.

you can see it in her eyes 'my body, my blood...yours for the asking, for the taking.'

and as she cums its as if she's howling, spread eagle as if she's nailed to the floor..the martyr overcome by such delicious flames and forsaken by all other sense as she cries out:
'it is finished.

your hands grip my shoulders, fingers curled into my flesh possessively. i can almost see your nostrils flare as i hear the sharp inhale. you press me harder against the pane, willing us to be at one with them

in the only true communal experience....the only true body and blood...the only true satisfaction for sin. as the bells still toll and the thunder still crackles...

all on a friday afternoon.