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Escorted through a gastropod shell of primordial compulsions. Gratification from the leathery skin of a corpus cocoon. Stimulation from the scent of a distinct garment fabric. The close examination of genitalia. Self-pleasure seekers. A reclamation of the lawless body. The right to own the will to please.

If the bedroom is a battlefield, my body is your arsenal. If the body is a playing field, this match-up has no rules. The die is cast and you deliberately choose to lose the game of chance. Just because you’re on your back, doesn’t mean you’re not in charge.

The codes of sexual orientation get switched on and switched up. The adaptation of anatomy, insistent seeds. A screw churns through the open wound, unwoven laces of basic needs. Touch of finger tips fiddle keys, a key unlocks my paraphilic feed.

The moment of transition: in luminous nudity the arrested adolescent wryly seduces the ripe, in this capriccio. A farrago of contorted limbs. Parading proud pricks, playing circus tricks. A game of dress up. An aphrodisiac’s itch.

The power trip is lodged deep within a libidinal crevasse, creeping out at the height of night to wake the slumbering avatar in a frenzied panic, at the very edge.

When it broils to a fever pitch, a shinju is in order. Phantasms have a way of making such a mess. Rising to this state you ask, what drives the soul to such perversity, to which I say, you’re in control my dear.

 

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