He’d just reamed my ass with the fury of a Pamplona bull, thighs foaming, streets in heat. Dawn light filters in. My hole pulses, gaping, slick with cum and sweat. Heart slams against ribs. Skin burns where he gripped. I crave another thrust. Instead, his voice rasps: ‘What if we got married?’ Shock hits like ice. ‘Who’d marry us?’ ‘No, I mean… what if we loved each other?’ Pulse races. Veins throb. Daily depravities whirl in my mind—me open, shameless, screaming orgasms through muggy nights, neighbors blasting music. I yield to perversions. But love? Heart skips. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Feel something for each other.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Love.’ Terror grips. Romeo and Juliet flash—poison, knife, death for love. Better if he fucked her cold body doggy, she wakes: ‘My prince!’ All fixed. Bertrand’s no Romeo, but I’m Juliette. ‘Love or not?’ ‘Eros and Thanatos, linked.’ ‘Freud says Thanatos is death drive of pleasure, frustration—not real death.’ ‘News to me.’ ‘Love stories end bad.’ ‘If they don’t end…’ ‘Can’t do endless.’ Dream haunts: skeleton bones invade—tibia in slit, humerus in mouth, femur up ass. Angels chant: eros, thanatos, bones. Evening. Angelus tolls. Church spire gleams through fogged breath. I kneel, suck him Lapland-style—ice cubes, bison herbs. Glop. Glup. ‘I’ll love you now. You wait.’ Heart pounds. ‘Glaçons… melting…’ ‘Take time. No sync needed.’ Truth. Early, no sync in fucks. He takes me ironing shirts, studying. I blow him driving Mom to hospital. Sister same: kid suckling, hubby fucking, her crocheting. Dinner with Amelie, Roland—tit-for-tat invites. ‘We decided to love.’ Gasps. ‘Me.’ ‘Him. I hesitate.’ ‘We love but split. Roland loves my lover. I’d cheat too much.’ ‘Truth: he craves handjobs.’ ‘Love needs tenderness.’ ‘I thought love.’ Kiss in neck later. Tenderness creeps. Dread. I prod his sleepy cock post-charlotte, champagne. ‘Sit me nude on anthill. Piss on me. Ants fight in, swelling my ass with tiny stings. Gulliver’s torment.’ ‘You ain’t loving soon.’ Days pass silent. Hearts heavy. ‘New condom, cum-flavor.’ ‘Better than strawberry. Like yogurt tasting spunk.’ ‘Angeline says same.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Fucking her. To make you jealous, love me.’ Pulse surges. Heat floods. ‘Smart. Psychologie Magazine.’ ‘Rip her eyes?’ ‘Prove love.’ ‘Prison?’ ‘I’ll write fiery letters. You, Duras-lusty replies. I’ll fuck blind Angeline—senses explode under moon, bats brushing wet bush.’ Meet Angeline. Yank hair, pinch nose. ‘I love Bertrand. You don’t.’ ‘Love fucked our thing.’ Her words: hand in blouse like starfish in ocean. Salty skin. Naked clothed, blushing, coat over clothes. Or nude out, forgetting till metro. ‘Tenderness.’ ‘Worse: delicacy.’ No eye-gouge. No jealousy. Modern. Photoshop test: Penelope on knees, Lea slurping zipper, Scarlett, Kate rimming. Brad too. Nothing. Numb. ‘Quit Angeline. No tits, no chill.’ ‘She loves me.’ ‘Boredom awaits!’ ‘Right. Tell her nothing.’ ‘Found anthill. Red ants, ass-hungry.’ ‘Piss urge like champagne cascading your shaved mound—birthday April 22. Cold on tits, warm at fever-slit, boiling in my mouth.’ Skin ignites. Heart thunders. Urgency claws. Dress empty under. Thorns rip. Ants hiss. Love later. Another life.
His piss jets hot. Ants swarm. Bite, sting, burrow. Ass balloons, electric fire. I buck, scream. Clit throbs. Fingers plunge pussy. He rams cock down throat. Cum erupts as ants invade holes. Waves crash. Body convulses. Pure blaze.
The Fever
Skin smokes. Ants flee. Holes weep. Heart slows. His arm drapes. Tenderness lingers. Unique burn. Love? Maybe next life.