Black Magic then some.

We'd done the lush cubes of body oil.
The brown and white contrast of apparent magical oils were beginning to fade from the friction of sliding between the four hands two bellies and fettered taste buds. Two weekends of bed and kitchen; a kitchen full of 'Strawberries', a fridge full of milk and dilute bottle of over-dilute Rose Petal juice.
Communication was presumed more serious but the sexual overdrive of testing each others limits seemed to create an undertone drenched in later deep psychological misrepresentation, her in the child posture crying for daddy.
I could never replace a father figure although the pleasure three weeks before that simply oozed out biologically left a man hard for a year and a day later.
That 38ff left a phallic symbol etched upon the hillside of a city that seemed to silhouette from every skyscraper, but like a jet she'd crash her charter back upon my impressive reflection.1

Energy became flexed not just in the motor or out on the terrace, the accident in the bath or the neighborly note of disapproval.
Orgasm echoed through the whole road and the iron bed rocked more than just physical perseverance. For three hour session of sex and 10 minutes of recuperation left nothing else to be desired or for that mattered imagined, for the oil soon sore to that, soaked in fresh aroma’s drenched in bodily waste and communicating post iron age like.
Purse or a woman’s juice soaked in something more delectable than mere change or favorite fancies, although some what forced and tongue tired orgasm always seemed immanent an the jolt and scream proved more than just affirmation of every atom of my being.
Sat back for ages and eventually enjoyed the home made shampoo that drawn a man back in the bathroom.
But the keyword toilet seat triggered more than just strenuous verbiage, Like " The cat could fall down the toilet", "WHY DO MEN ALWAYS" and later how it led to the make up bag sprawled open and I looking for her lipstick on request; then the punishment of vacuuming up the cluttered pieces of tissue that the sucking market could possibly buy.
I mean we'd done every possible pleasure: what else could possibly happen a year and a day later.
the second level of seduction waiting to be revealed, yet almost breathing with subtle suggestions, French letters were never an option, but the after pill encroached more than just biological diffusion, yet buying my ex's shopping had always been bore'n in mind.
For a year and a day the visitation reminds me of smoky rooms and perfect alibi’s, for the secret added some fantasy on both parties yet honesty paid of in the end, for without honesty between pro's of the Pluto and Saturn there would never be shooting stars from constellation, the planets will always exist but how far will these sexual metaphors continue to evolve, and when am dead, will she still be fucking me?
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