Spin Glass

We discuss a few things on our way over to the kitchen. It is about eight PM now and we are soaked in a sense of overdue enthusiasm, like after I woke up from that panic attack, where the energy has finally returned in our exhausted bodies. Or at least I feel exhausted, and I would like to think I can sense Tabi's mood better than I used to. We talk about football again and mutually confess to not knowing much about the rules, and we talk about what we're going to drink tonight, and Tabi decides to pull out an unpopped bottle of champagne. And then we spitball things to celebrate, since champagne typically means celebration; we try the idea of fixing the coffee machine or learning how to bowl, but both ideas are dumb and trauma, so we settle on celebrating a two-year anniversary of living together. "I don't think it's been that long," he signs, "but close enough."

"Close enough is good enough." And so we pop open the champagne and I drink two flutes in ten minutes. A flute is a kind of tall glass for getting wasted in a dignified way. This wine tastes like sour-sweet carbonation and acid, and actually alcohol is a unique sort of flavor that the tongue can't detect. It is just soft burning, like an anxious memory, and two flutes of champagne is already enough to feel like I am trying to get drunk on purpose. Drunk is a shortcut to cuddling Tabi.

He is compositionally different than me, but mostly of the same parts, and as susceptible to alcohol. He pours himself one flute of champagne and then another and then another. And he keeps drinking. He is so bubbly when the tipsy comes on and his eyes get so warm, and at one point he grips me by the hips and pulls my skirt taut with his fingers and kisses me, and I can taste ethanol between the two of us. And on our next flute of champagne we toast. "Happy two years," he signs, and then drinks and drinks and drinks.

Then we are a little wine-satisfied so we move to the fridge where we have stashed away six cans of Cool Valley Brewery IPA, which strikes me as another company that could easily have met the same fate as Lone Star Lanes where it falls through the world. And actually... maybe it did and that's how we have some beer from there. But regardless we pop open a can each and tap it against each other and drink, drink, and drink, and it tastes like berries and bitters and mint and grass, wheatgrass, and it tastes like alcohol again. It tastes like last nights.

I am not really a fan of beer but it gets to my head faster than wine.

Is that why I'm drinking?

The kissing and cuddling is getting out of control now. We are hovering around the kitchen, and I feel this stupendous heaviness and exhaustion inside my body, which nonetheless makes it exciting to continue being around Tabi. His presence is unpredictable and funny and cute to me. And his ass can only be felt not seen. And at some point I tap his rear and feel his fluffy tail vibrate from that sensation, and he pauses what he's doing in a slow manner. "Hush, Euclid," he signs, "I'm trying to wash the dishes." And he enunciates 'dishes' with his hands like it's a joke, and I make a funny face and kiss him again.

It's just two bowls and a frying pan, and it nonetheless takes forever, because we are stupid and keep trying to grope each other. Or, well, I am the main problem here.

He is heavier than me and taller than me, but still at the same height where I can rather easily brush my hand by his member. He is often naked around the house, so I am used to seeing his limp member and treating it casually, but in this case I am exploiting it, butting up against him, not really helping with the washing process. And Tabi gets excited less easily than me, but he is easy to please once I make physical contact. I am so flush with blood in my face and he is fuzzy and his fur poofs out. "You're trying to wash the dishes," I sign.

"Yes, I'm trying to wash the dishes!" He thumps my chest.

I kiss him on the neck from the side. "Washing the dishes," I sign.

Every sign language can be a kinetic thing, and ASL is no different. Actually I have been doing a lot of translation for the sake of reading these things in English but it must be said that we are—or at least I am—incredibly flowery with my language. The whole of human expression is so vast when it involves the contortions of the body, my expression, how quickly I sign, how loosely I sign. I can yell, whisper, cry. And in this case when I talk to Tabi I am thudding my hands against him. I am kissing him and desperate for touch. The heat is welling up inside my body, the fake-heat, the bodily exhaustion or maybe just expenditure. "Washing the dishes, but you are too distracted," I sign.

And he signs back, "Yes! Obviously!"

And kisses me with a little laugh. And so on.

He drags me out of the kitchen eventually, and he has this wonderfully flustered look on his face. He is—of course—hard now, erect upright against his own belly, tearing me away from him so we can start planning the rest of our night. "Okay," he signs loose, "do we need any more alcohol?"

"Oh no, for sure not," I sign. I am not stumbly or unsteady but I feel like my head is twisted a few times, and that heat is my grounding rhythm. And that heat puts my hand in his hand. I exhale and smell the beer on my breath again, and the crackly sensation of the champagne, and all at once my organs are uproar. I am drunk enough.

Tabi looks down at me. He takes a big, long blink. "Good, my darling. I've got just the place."

"Not from Austin?"

"Not from Austin." And he has a warm, embarrassed grin. "An old building in Leicestershire." Tabi's free hand signs fast, fingerspelling individual letter as he spells out the place-name, and it's all blurry and my mind is the only part that gets the word clearly. And he begins to elaborate...



This place was just called the spot and it was the spot for a few dozen people in the early eighties in England who wanted to get fucked up. But this was a more progressive and transgressive sort of being fucked up which was rather new to the planet, which involved taking pills that attacked the sensory part of the brain with a three-pronged artillery shell so that you have fun without really doing anything at all. For these people the spot was a warehouse building which nobody else was particularly using at the time, and which would eventually sink into the earth after they got done with it and forgot about it. There was a man named Jack who hung out here and had his sources of ecstasy and so was the reason that his friends and tangential-friends would come to the spot to rave. Raving is a kind of dance that you do until you fall over. And this was an arrangement that was convenient and fun until it wasn't.

Temporary and fun arrangements are pretty common not just in the rave scene but all underground scenes. Actually I think this is why my own gay self had a lot of trouble in Austin, in Jersey, et cetera. And maybe even also why I have trouble with Tabi, because sometimes I think to myself, isn't this just a temporary fling between two gay men? And so thus I wonder what it would be like to have Jack be your dealer or friend or whatever he was, and the inevitability of knowing that the eighties will end, and then so will the nineties, and then all the rest of the world will melt away.

In stark contrast there is Tabi. He has told me a lot of times that he has been around a very long while. "I have not gained mental wisdom," he has clarified. "I have to write it all down, or have it written for me." And I wonder what my presence here has felt like to him.

Two years for me. Or at least nearly two years. Good enough for champagne.

And just two minutes for Tabi.

Or at least it can feel that way.



We reach the spot on separate trains through the Room. And first it is the invisible concrete floor again, the emptiness, the running, vastness, echoes. For Tabi and I, it is like we are a pair of those ravers in the early eighties, following instructions that we only half-remember. Actually traversing the Room is a lot of instinct and kinetic memory over our navigation skills. Up is not a concept until we go down. It is like going through a maze not the first time, or second time, but the third time in specific. And Tabi has me by the hand again.

He taps my palm with two fingers. We are going to have to hoof it quite a distance.

I don't want to get lost, and so I grab onto his hand tighter, and then soon his arm. And though he is floating, I think I can feel him lower to my level to keep me steady. I really have lost some of my motor function from the champagne. I am not sure what the saying is—liquor before beer, never feel fear? Except this isn't liquor, it's just sparkling wine. And I am just a lightweight. And in spite of that, I drink a lot of nights, and I suppose thinking about it I drink most nights, especially with Tabi, because it is our tendency. It strikes me as pitiful that I'm such a lightweight.

If I could see Tabi, he would sign that it's all going to be okay.

And for now he just taps my palm.

When we reach the spot it is after a prolonged journey that could not possibly be expressed as a length of real time, because it feels like forever but also seems likely to have only been a few seconds. And again the world comes into view, and again it is all sensory for me.



The spot is tall-ceilinged, and there's moisture and mildew, and holes in the ceiling where sunlight streams in. Low sunlight. Evening sun. And the air tastes a little bit like motor oil and gasoline and smells of candles, and there are fairy lights making up for the spots of darkness, strung along the metal scaffold-pillars and rebar. And the floor is concrete, but it only peeks through in spots where they couldn't cover it with cheap carpets.

Along one wall there are four water coolers and copious cups all piled up half in their packaging. And a paper which details how to get back home to various places in case someone is having a shit time of it. And there are also temporary plastic-wood tables set up around the perimeter of the warehouse and one has been knocked over, but on the other tables there are bagels from a corner store and other various things that fill the stomach fast. And in addition to the water coolers there are discarded water bottles everywhere, everywhere, because it was important nobody dried up.

Like all places in the Room it is empty of people, and yet I know people are around.

Tabi arrived with me. He takes in the room for a little while, but only a little while. And then he gets to the point of this place.

He floats to the darkest corner. Behind a crate marked SOUTHWESTERN SHIPPING, and below a piece of plywood, there is a stash he knows about via methods of magic and the occult. "One second," he signs, but when he signs that, he's already found what he was looking for. And he pulls it free and emerges with a mischievous grin stricken across his face as he shows it off. This is a dusty baggie full of little, wonderful pills known as ecstasy, which we ran out of circa last nights. My tongue instinctively tells me that they are sweet-tasting but I know they don't taste like anything. And when Tabi floats back over, the anticipation, the eagerness, it is overwhelming. My body is crackling with electricity. I think about his penis. I think about crossdressing. I think about being fucked until my brain melts. And Tabi waves the baggie back and forth and when he reaches me, it is to kiss me.

"We aren't doing this here," he indicates. "Are we?"

I feel tired. So I sign back, "No, I want to."

He smiles, and it is still impenetrable. "Easy, then. I'm going to retrieve some toys from deeper in."

And Tabi hands me the baggie, and before my brain can process any movement, he's gone.



While I wait, I obviously inspect the tablets. They are decently homebrew in appearance but somebody has carved or embossed '40' on every single one, so I calculate that I need to take three to get where I want to be. Actually I recall that I should need a lot more, but that He has assured me to always hover around one hundred milligrams in my body, because He is sure it is a perfect number. "You won't have trouble with tolerance," He had signed, a while back. "I have luckily come up with a fix for the both of us." And all this is just magic and the occult.

Coffee is its own kind of magic. And so is alcohol—my throat still stings, and I am heavy, and the heaviness of my head makes me lean over into the baggie until it envelops me. And MDMA is the most magical thing of all.

Memory tells me that I did ecstasy first when I was sixteen. And then later when I was seventeen, a lot of times. Memory tells me that I underwent a process called 'serotonin syndrome' which got close to making my body die. And my tolerance got too high to really enjoy it anymore.

Until I found Him.

I grab three pills and throw them into my stomach from above. They taste like nothing. Actually they do taste like a variety of thoughts passing by my head, they taste like dehydration and heat sickness and serotonin syndrome, and the pills also taste like somebody grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. She doesn't know that I can't read lips very well and thinks the Cochlear will fix her slurring voice, and she is screaming into my face. She is telling me to stop fucking up my life. It sounds like static.

I think about Him again to fix this.

The water coolers along the walls are filled with clean water to the top. Again the magic and occult of the Room strikes me as funny here, like in Lone Star Lanes where I felt like it had been recently waxed and maintenance was done on the lanes, because it feels like somebody or something set up the spot for Him and I. It might just be that this is some form of platonic ideal for this location, the time it was closest to being remembered, though of course eventually it became empty and forgotten and fell through the world and ended up here. But in its best shape it was stocked with hidden tablets of MDMA and water coolers full of cold water and space to dance. A lot of space to dance.

My body does not want to dance. I am tipsy and exhausted and I want to drink water. I retrieve a discarded plastic bottle and fill it with the chilled water from one of the coolers, down half of it in one gulp, and then fill it up again.

And now I have to wait for anything to happen.



I think surely He hates to wait. I know that He sleeps less than me, and so He spends much of His life waiting for me to wake up again. Maybe that is why the nights feel so long. Maybe it is just one long, torturous night.

I don't mind waiting. There have been many points in my life, I recall, where waiting was the only solace I had for anything. If I wait around, things will eventually be different. And yet that is the only thing untrue in His house. It doesn't matter what I do.

It doesn't matter what I do.

It doesn't matter if I get drunk and then do molly—which I have been told many times is a sort of stupid idea—or if I get drunk and then do various other things we find and use in the Room, like ketamine, which is supposed to be very dangerous with alcohol. And it doesn't matter if I stay deaf or change that part of myself. It doesn't matter if I keep the Cochlear or take it out, though I wanted it out for personal reasons, and because I was in a state of disarray, and He helped with that. But it is all just window dressing.

It is all euphoria and hedonism.

He has told me many times that He will keep me happy when He is in my thoughts. And I reckon even if I were on the floor drooling, puking, dying, that thoughts of Him would bring me joy.

Though of course everything else is nice.

Joy comes in two forms—the longform and the shortform. And many of the concessions I've had in His house are longform, like my body, my clothing, and the love I feel for Him, which is something close enough to love to trick my brain into happiness. And then many of the things He delivers me are shortform joy, like food, ecstasy, sex. Especially sex. It goes unsaid that I am here for His intimacy, specifically his bodily intimacy, because the brain will start believing that shortform joy has longform benefits. As I have said, if I left, I would lose the ability to have Him pin me to the couch. And maybe that is what is keeping me here mostly.

Or maybe just inertia.

Or maybe just the idea that I am a very short-form kind of being. I was made without the parts necessary to aspire for anything more, I think.

I wait for a long time thinking about this, but my head is all loopy, and I just want to stop thinking so I can completely tune out the world. All of it. The spot included. Stop thinking.

So I stop.



...



It will sound obtuse or maybe corny, but I pass the time by counting sheep in my head. I imagine them in my visual cortex as jumping over a fence one by one, left to right, below a moonlit sky. And I count them as they pass—one, two, three, and four, and so on. And the mind, or at least my mind, gets distracted by this, and falls into a daze. I force myself to focus on the sheep until I pass out—when trying to sleep—or zone out, as I do now.

Even as words flit through my mind, even as I think about the act of counting sheep, I am trying to focus on the act itself. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Sixteen. Seventeen.

And I did this before I met Him, of course. Or at least I think it is probable I did. I am unable to calm down without hands around me and so I don't calm down, I just spiral and spiral, and this is one of those methods of spiralling around. Like His eyes when he has me caught in hypnosis. This is a form of time dilation that He would later come to master in me. He can turn my mind off and transport me right to the moment I want to be in, as he has many times, and as I have wanted him to many times. But right now it is just my own, primitive method.

Seventy. Seventy one. Seventy two.

And all this, and et cetera. All I want to do is get high and wait for tomorrow to come.

And I guess it doesn't matter if ten thousand years pass. I wouldn't make good use of it anyway. Just get me to the good part.

One hundred sixty one. One hundred sixty two.

And I am hoping there would still be a world if He disappeared, but I don't think there would be.

He is all the sheep in my mind.



...



Tabi.



The back of my neck tells me he's here, and I turn around, and by this time, I think the ecstasy has started to flow through my veins. The three pills are now aerospace gel and they exist throughout my nervous system, and specifically they are assaulting my nerves that register touch. And it feels like there is a fuzzy, static blanket over me. Around me. In me. And then Tabi appears and he is his own form of fuzzy blanket. He has changed in appearance. He has done this to surprise me, though of course memory tells me this is nothing new, and that it is only a surprise because I am drunk, but Tabi has now given himself makeup. His eyes have this long, trailing eyeliner and a flush eyeshadow which makes his gaze explode, and he is wearing something on his long feet. I said long before that our legs are digitigrade, but still I enjoy wearing stockings even though they had to be adjusted for my form, and now Tabi is wearing two-toed Japanese socks called tabi. Ha.

He is wearing these socks because of a kink that I have.

A kink is another kind of brain malfunction that makes ordinary objects into erotic objects by way of tricking the brain into making false pathways between normalcy and sex. I am equal parts embarrassed and exhausted to have as many kinks as I do, but I think it needed some explanation. I like socks and stockings a lot, and they make me hard, and I don't know why.

I suppose this is a lot like Tabi himself.

He embraces me and I realize I am no longer having trouble with standing. His great big chest is expanding and contracting with pacy breathing. When he pulls back I realize my jaw is wide open to breathe more heavily, to smell him and taste him, his aura of flowery Tabi. He signs, "I can tell you've been thinking of me."

"Yes," I sign. "Did you take any pills before you went?"

"No, but I'm perfectly happy sharing your energy!"

And I sway a little bit. "What were you off getting, besides the socks? And the makeup?"

His big, beautiful eyes blink slowly, as he knows something I do not. "I couldn't quite read your mood, but I was thinking you might like being bound up."

Ba-thump. Ba-thump. I can feel my heart inside my head.

My body shivers involuntarily. And I hop on one foot. I can't control this. And my head is so heavy, it is heavier than the whole world, but my breath keeps it upright. And I sign, "Yes, yes, yes, but I want to fight it, too."

His smile curls back further. "Role-play?"

"Yes. Fuck yes yes yes." And I am tapping his chest with my 'yes'.

I appreciate the part of him that has fun with this. I can tell he's nearly as giddy as me about the prospect. Tabi spends much of his life being the sweetest and most empathetic person I know, and I think he likes playing different parts. He backs up a moment, still floating, those delicate socked feet avoiding touching ground as always. And he signs, "Good. Good. Then we can just... we can say you are just one person raving late into the night, that you are so out of it. Don't you feel out of it?"

And, yes, I do. "I feel like dancing," I sign.

His arms go wide, and he looks at once intimidating and welcoming, but he is floating away from me now. Floating on and on into the corner of the spot. And one last time he signs, "Then dance, my love," and fades. He does not disappear, but he fades. I know he is here, still. The back of my neck assures me that he is here.

I can't focus.

This is why I use. My feelings start to go nowhere. I ponder what he's doing and what might happen and then my brain just trails off into nothing, and again I feel my outfit against my fur and my body jittering, tilting, resting. I try to think about what is happening with my biochemistry, but then I just feel good all over and forget about all that. And I start to dance. I have to dance. I need to work out the energy in my limbs. And it feels good and good and good.

My world is all sensory.

I shut my eyes. When I shut my eyes I can still see the fairy lights dancing in my pupils, hovering, and my vision boggles and tenses. And when I open my eyes again I feel all the lights meld into each other again. And I keep dancing. I have no rhythm, no internal pulse to dance to, except for my own pulse, and I am beating my heart against the wall at two twenty five BPM, or a little more than two every second, and I need to shake out and off the static. Isn't this odd? but I don't even notice that this is odd. I am experiencing the divine. I think my jaw has gone slack some time ago. I think that I must look a fool but it doesn't matter and the thought evaporates again. The ground rumbles through the tips of my hoof-toes and vibrates me from legs to abdomen to chest to head and I float and explode, and my hand goes down the inner band of my skirt so I can fondle myself through my panties, and then I feel hugged, and dance from one leg to the other, and holy shit I feel hard, sometimes ecstasy makes me dysfunctional but clearly that hasn't happened, and I am exhaling happily, and my eyes roll back, and I don't even know where the fuck I am anymore.

Tabi grabs me.



My wrists are compressed by six thousand pounds of force and I am stopped suddenly in my death-dance, and the figure in front of my wide-open eyes is supermassive. He has a fierce look in his eye like a predator animal. My body lets out a yelp for me, but it does nothing to quell his movement, a decisive lunge onto me, and by the time I can process the moment I have been forced to the floor.

Carpet, rough carpet against my back. And he is pinning me down. My arms and legs instinctively fight against this, because they still want to dance, but as soon as I've started to try and kick away, he has pinned my knees down with his feet, perching on me like a beast. And I yelp again when the tightness around my wrists gets tighter. His gaze remains locked with mine, utterly ferocious, and I cannot see what he's doing, but I realize he is binding me, he is locking me in leather cuffs.

I let out a sound resembling his name but it doesn't exist, it doesn't matter. I am not in control anymore.

I am cuffed against the table leg behind me and when I pull down, jolt down, they're stopped suddenly. My fur is compressed and matted instantly. I cannot push him off of me now, and his sheer weight is almost enough to push me through the floor. If I fell here I would fall deep into the Room and far beyond the spot into nothingness and forgotten rooms, and then I realize that his weight is good for me. It feels so indescribably pleasant. He is in control of me, which means he is in control of something, which means someone has this shit figured out.

Between his digitigrade legs, Tabi hangs half-hard. And I see him bob up and down, thrust involuntarily, gyrate his hips. And he is more eager than me. He has had more time to think about this than me. I let out another sound, a weak pleading sound, and he signs, "Hush." He tells me how to feel.

From nowhere and noplace, he retrieves a piece of bondage equipment called a ball gag used for shutting people up in a kinky way. I try to kick up against him but he pushes down harder on my knees with his feet. And he wraps the strap of the gag around the back of my head, coiling behind my horns, and uses this leverage to stuff the rubber ball into my muzzle, past my teeth and deep into my mouth, blocking my tongue. I'm forced to exhale, to nearly dry-heave, and he clicks the strap shut around, tight, tight, tight. He is fucking up my perfect fur.

"Hush," he signs again. And he signs it into my chest. He pulls open my jacket and forces his palm down on my thorax to force me down. And I try to plead and my mouth won't shut and he tells me to hush, hush, hush, and thwacks his fingers against my chest. "You are mine to command."

It doesn't matter

what

I

do.

He decides now that he wants to pull my clothes up and expose my groin. And I have to key into my brain again the fact that I want this, that I am consenting, I want to fight it, too. And I know this. And he knows this. So after Tabi throws aside my skirt, he grabs my neck with both hands.

"Hush." And he is signing it into my throat.

And he gives me such an intense look. And I can feel the air squeezing out of my muzzle against the gag.

He signs again, "Hush," and I ball up my hands into fists involuntarily.

And he pushes down on my windpipe until I go out.

And it is all colors.



At some point I died and left the real world, and maybe this happened many times. Or maybe existence is a trudge into the impossible, and I am just deeper in than I thought.



I come back to air like a head-on collision and heave and breathe and it is all through my nostril, and I can smell fabric softener and booze and I can feel my own sweat from where I went out, and then my other senses try to come back as I struggle for consciousness. And then my dick erases every other sense in my body very suddenly, because pressure is being put on it.

Pressure. Pressure. I am under the weight of the ocean. And the weight of Tabi. And he has pulled my dick free of my undergarments so that he can stick it between two of his asscheeks—which can only be felt not seen—and I am feeling them—he has me pinned so thoroughly that the only movements I can make are with my hips and it's useless because I am just grinding his ass. I mumble out something and my throat feels sore and he pushes down on me, pushes me with "Hush," and I shut up fully.

From below he looks a god. And he has a stiff expression on his face. And when he leans back he is leaning onto my member and squeezing me with his ass, his ultra-soft wool trapping me, locking me in place. Saliva pools up around my teeth and soaks the gag. At least I have something to jaw on. The feeling on my dick is static electricity and chill; I can hardly feel myself before I groan, and then I realize I made a sound, and I am apologizing in my head, I am sorry Tabi, I am sorry, I will shut up, but he reaches forward and grips my face and caresses my cheek and I can feel him enter my mind and say oh darling I love you I love you and then I fade out again.



All I can think of are sheep.



And bliss and goodness and when I come to again I can feel the spots where Tabi has touched my cock, where he has caressed it and coated my length in lubricant, and those spots alight in pleasure and waves of overwhelming, explosive force. My flesh is erupting in song. He is hovering over me with a new smile on his face replacing stern, and he puts his hands on the floor to balance, and when he lowers, he is doing so with his asscheeks cupped around my length. I squirm endlessly and jaw again and bite and shudder, and the chill and tingling and static turns into warmth. Warm, warm, warm.

Tabi's ass can only be felt not seen and his hole, his butthole which is used explicitly for the purpose of penetrating him sexually when he deems it allowed, can only be felt not seen, and now I am in it, I am in him. It is slow going but not difficult because I am outrageously erect like a slab of granite and Tabi's entrance feels at every bit like a tunnel paved through vibrato flesh. My world is alight with color. And he tightens his hole around my length and is telling me in my head, fuck me fuck me fuck me, or else I will choke you unconscious, so I fuck him I fuck him I fuck him. My muscles are all contract release contract release. I am dancing again. I am dancing for him. My legs hardly function. Actually the ligaments are all failure and overexertion. I squeeze my toes inside my shoes. I am wearing stockings and they feel so good and I feel so good and warm, warm, warm. And Tabi pushes down until he bottoms out and I see him erupt into gasps of joy, and finally finally finally, and he does it again from the top.

The cuffs start to ache but I am incapable of feeling it. I am on rough carpet stabbing Tabi's rear with the spear of ecstasy and start to forget where I am again and fall out.



And fall in again and I have been pumping up and down and I can't stop biting the gag. Bite, bite, bite. I am being held by ten thousand invisible hands and then Tabi squeezes my dick with his fluffy ass until I am being milked. Find my fucking prostate now or I will choke you unconscious, so I fuck him I fuck him I fuck him and my brain is really starting to rot now, because I forget that I am fucking him and fall still until I am drooling aimlessly into the gag and then he is back in my head fuck me fuck me fuck me and wakes me back up again.



Do you need this, darling? he asks me and he fulfills my kink my fetish and puts his feet on my face on either side of my muzzle such that he is blocking my sight and he digs his toes into my forehead and squeezes me and I start wallowing in the glee of it for a while, mumbling and yawning and biting down, and he tells me to keep it up, so I keep thrusting even though all my senses are exploding in fireworks. Fuck me fuck me fuck me and I keep doing it and I become a machine built to hit his prostate. I know where your prostate is and I am going to hit it hit it hit it and he shudders, I can feel his shaking through the tips of his toes, I am forcing my face against his soles, I am stupid.

At some point I sense that he is reaching orgasm because it reverberates through me in sheets of snow and then sheets of semen. His breathing rolls through me in waves because it is quaking. He has to take his feet off my face to get stability on the ground and I can see his expression, I can see his eyes. His big beautiful gaze is eyelined and visible from miles around. And it contains a kind of love that I can only examine from that distance. He has a smile on. His dick bobs up and down while he milks me, and drools a line of cum and then shoots out another one, and he is so self-satisfied that his ego itself is experiencing the divine.

And, of course

like with many things

he is not done there.

When I catch my breath, the world has reached something of a calm. I am shaky, but when Tabi lurches forward on top of me, he looks loopy. And he holds me by the shoulders, and he undoes my cuffs. And he is close enough that I can hear his heavy, labored breathing, this panting and exhaustion distinctive to him, which resonates orgasm, like a balloon has popped in him. He is so damn happy.

And when I bring my hands down they feel so weak, but strong enough—barely—to grab the back of his head and kiss him. I am limp. I am all limp.

And, of course

like with many things

we are not done there.

- - -

Sex without a mind looks like this. It looks like four hours spent in the Room and at first it is just the spot but it quickly turns into some other places; it is all horny leg-grabbing and nausea and dizziness, so much dizziness. We visit another place made out of wood and concrete and rusted rebar and Tabi takes a bottle of liquor from there and starts to really knock himself into oblivion and I am just experiencing fairy magic the whole way through. I don't know if I cum at any point but it doesn't matter to me because, like waves on an ocean, there is no beginning or end to any of it. It is melted glass.

My world is all sensory.

What is oblivion? and the answer is that it is true nothingness, and the answer is that I have been trying to find it for a very, very long time. But in some ways this is oblivion, too. It is everything at once and it is also completely meaningless. It is the real world I have been trying to avoid for so long.

Where is my memory? and the answer is that I don't have any of that, I never had any of that.

I bite down and feel my teeth, and Tabi puts a gag back in to protect my tongue. And later he makes sure I am drinking plenty of water so I never stop. My eyes hurt but I can't stop dancing dancing dancing