In my American southern Gothic portmanteau, i am uninhibited, when it comes to the opposiIn my te sex. Not surviving on pornography alone. Listening to voices in my head. My ink becoming my mind’s apothecary, fantasizing debauchery with my mother-in-law, Annachelle, as my insanity reaches a boiling point…between her and sweet ice tea. Suffocating in humidity, letting the good time roll. The ceiling fan spun lazily, her scent of “Magnolia Aprodisac,” clinging to balls in my sack. The chifforobe in the corner held her unmentionables as my mind began to wonder. Same old story…my wife had gone to town, riding a crooked pony, but in reality, it was tempting the “Cujo,” in me.
The ceiling fan’s hum was the only sound keeping time with the thrum of my pulse. Annachelle had left her silk robe draped over the chifforobe door, deliberately, I was sure. She was naked and I was to be her Benedictine in the rye. Her labia major winking at me as if asking for a cigarette. She straddle my guilty omens as if a cat licking its chops. My precum bleeding through my jeans. She fucked me well. Her blue veined tits full, sagging, but not enough to lose my eyes as I capitulated to her tongue working in tempo. Now stripped down to my gunny sack and cock, her thighs trembled against mine…eschewing the moment. Clawing at my shoulders as if she was peeling okra or something unholy, but didn’t seem to hinder the blaze in her cunt as her hips rolled. A shadow slipped out from the chifforobe door, wearing a strapon dripping something thicker than molasses. A shadow, I knew…
