Dirty Desert

My head was aching and my back hurting when I awoke. I was sore all over and I soon discovered why. I was lying on a cement floor in the middle of nowhere. Far on the horizon around me, I could trace something, but unlike the concreteness of the floor I was sitting on by now, it was quite unclear. I could not just stay there and ponder. I stood up, stretching and rubbing myself, trying to feel erect. “I must be in some weird dream,” I considered. “No!” I decided. “It is quite real; really strange.” After a while, standing and waiting took also the attire of nothingness. I went forward toward the unknown; the direction seemed somewhat consequential but mostly unimportant.

The blur became distinctly genuine as I approached it. This progression brought forth two familiar words out of my mouth: “Holy shit!” I was approaching a wall about fifteen feet tall and I was less than six in all. My tactility dictated that it was metallic and very hot. “Fucking steel!” I figured. There was nothing else for me to do but walk along the steel wall on the cement floor. During my long march, my mind managed to come up with another menacing reality. It seemed that I had awakened around the centre of a large circular cement desert. I had to find an opening, a door, a gate, an exit, a passageway to civilization, to freedom, to liberty, to a toilet; I had to go and what could I do but go right there on the cement floor next to the steel wall. I used my bra to wipe the crack between my buttocks almost clean and went on my way, leaving it over my shit.

There was no gap, no space, no window to let me out, and I had been walking for quite a while. Suddenly, as most things come about, I nosed the smell of shit. I located it on the cement floor next to the steel wall. “I couldn’t have walked the whole circumference of this cement desert,” I thought. I then noticed that no bra was covering it and the shit to be different from mine. Its shape, odour, and makeup suggested its belonging to someone else; perhaps a potential friend, companion, even a man. I must confess that I was hoping for a man, for I had not felt one in months. I did not know if I should pursue my walk forward, go backward, or simply stay close to the hope-giving shit. I decided to march back towards my own shit that must have caught by now at least two of my fellow captive’s senses.

No one was there to greet me when I finally reached my shit. It was all there, but my bra had been moved. “Where could he be?” I wondered but agreed that I would settle for a she. A plausible answer surfaced in my head. Upon finding my shit, my fellow doer of dung had the same grain of logic and had gone backward to his or her shit. I decided to trace a message with my shit: “Stay! Wait for me!” It was brief and clear. Hopefully, he or she would understand it.

I left my shit and took the other heading towards the other shit. In this way, I would visit the rest of the circumference of the cement desert and perhaps even meet my companion. I arrived at my destination quite tired. The shit was displayed in the form of the word “Rest!” I fell to my knees, lay on my belly, and rested for a while. “What in the hell am I going to do?” I stood up and took the way towards my shit, hoping to find someone livelier and better looking.

Not far from my shit that was quite dry by now, rested a man wet with fatigue. Despite his perspiration, he looked very appealing. His beauty somehow shone through the moistness of his skin. I gazed with excitement and relief, gladness and desire, at the circumference of his being and the poetry of his smile, and I began to appreciate the cement desert. He rose to welcome my arrival with his arms, and I embraced him, letting my sweat intertwine with his. Our lips opened only to seal a kiss, and the sound that they made clang of content. We lay exhausted on the cement floor, resting our bodies and minds for a good long while, and giving whoever dropped us here the chance to watch us at close range. We only slept; we did not fuck yet.

We opened our eyes to meet each other’s look of thirst and hunger. We undressed. I seized his glass with my dirty hands and sucked its circumference, awaiting the appearance of his milky wine with great eagerness. I was praying for abundance. He grabbed my entire plate of pancakes with his salivating mouth and licked its centre with all his might, but it was dry. “Let the juice come out!” he almost whispered with a dripping tongue, “Give me your sap!” he added. Our orgasms appeased some of our thirsts and hungers, but our lust for each other only began to reveal its fare. We fucked with what was left of our strengths, feeding upon an almost passive passion by now.

After a few hours of recuperation, we left our bed and table and walked around. The steel wall was getting colder as the day grew dimmer. Not before long, darkness spread its apparel upon us, the moon lay its coat on our faces, and the stars darted us with their colours. We leaned against the wall to feel its coldness of steel while speculating about our situation. We agreed that our “utopia” lacked some basic needs, but we were extremely joyous regarding the selection that had been made; an election that had brought us together. We looked into each other’s eyes, with the reflections of our desires meeting with no surprise. The moon revealed our nakedness, and the stars caressed our dirty bodies with their smiles. We embraced while whomever were watching us: voyeurs.

The day greeted us with its colourless cape, but a parachute had brought us food and drink. We rejoiced heartily and consumed the victuals with ardent appetites. That envoy of the sky also produced us with enough water to wash our oily frames, and the parachute itself became our new bed. The water that I poured over his sensuous body was scarcely dripping from him, hopelessly in love with his sunny skin. He trembled in ecstasy as the cold water lingered on his body and as my fingers fondled it fervently. He washed me with his mouth, teasing me with his tongue and the tip of his penis. Like a cat, velvet lingual, he licked me, paying close attention to my hardened nipples and caressing me with idolizing delight. My pussy became his altar. I even thought at one point that he was praying to it, mumbling foreign words like “Bon dieu que ta chatte est belle” (Good god that your pussy is beautiful). I granted all that he prayed for and desired. I was a good goddess, a dirty deity, a fucking machine when it came to sex, and not the easy-go-quickly kind. I liked it rough; not pain-rough, just unrelenting and geyser-like. He did not disappoint; he really did not.

I still remember vividly what he did and did not do. He did not stop till I told him to. It looked as if he decided to forget everything that we had done before and begin anew. We were clean now, after all, in this dirty desert. He even took his time with the little clothing that I had on, electing to peel them off with his teeth and his tongue, but then proceeding to smell my panties and even comment that he liked the stringy design and the sweet stemming scent. My stomach was next, where he could eye as if his eyes could move independently from each other, my breasts and my face on one side and my pussy and my feet on the other. He surveyed the hills and the valleys on both sides, moving his head in wonder at what he could see and observe. He loved my face; everybody did. But it was not a deal-breaker. A ballbuster, yes! They all wanted to ejaculate on it. My pussy, my ass, and my other offerings were not sufficient. Come on! He did not. He only kissed and licked it, including my ears, my nose, and my chin. Then came my breasts. He loved them like no one ever did, not even yours truly. He looked at them with tears in his eyes; joyous tears, of course, but tears nonetheless. He touched, caressed, held, cupped, massaged, kissed, licked, suckled, and declared them godly and out of this world.

My navel was like Middle Earth, except that it was bordered on both sides and underneath by heavenly estates. He owned them all, his hands and his mouth serving to make his claim at every turn. What about his penis? you may ask. It was late, very late, notwithstanding its continuous salute to my stateliness. It stood in wait, dripping some pre-come from time to time to soften the standby. But when it penetrated me; I am jumping the gun; it comes later. My pussy was next. He almost swallowed it; I swear that it felt as if he did. He parted the lips, inserted his tongue, and slowly added a finger followed by another finger, with his thumb pushing into my asshole to stake a claim there too. What a prospector! All men should be this thorough. Back to my pussy. I think that he would have inserted his entire hand and even his whole head had my pussy been that accommodating. Some men (and women) spit out the pussy sap; he swallowed it at every occurrence. I am sure that some of it was piss, but he did not seem to care. He considered the pussy to be the greatest evolutionary advancement. Try to imagine anything better! he stated. There is not, he concluded. The pussy is everything and that is why lesbians have it so much better than gays. A cocksucker is a cocksucker is a cocksucker, but a pussy swiller knows that s/he is tasting and swallowing the essence of beauty or beauty-incarnate.

Was my ass over-esteemed to some degree? He parted my buttocks with love in his eyes, and his heart, I presume. He was also admiring my asshole, pointing out how refined it looked, how inviting, how flawless. I concurred, of course. He was right. My ass was, after all, my second best part after my breasts, but listening to him in his blissful reverie, adoring my pussy and even speaking to it, I surmised that in his sex book, my pussy would be highlighted in gold, and perhaps some platinum around the clitoris, which he only confronted with his tongue, considering that anything else, even a finger, would be a sacrilege. Sex should have been the only religion. Everyone, almost everyone would have adhered to it knowing that commandments would be needless since all one needed is love, the poetic representation of lovemaking, intercourse, penetration, mating, screwing, fucking, shagging, coitus, copulation, sex, le sexe.

I orgasmed profusely, holding his head hostage until I drifted away, carried away like a writer in the middle of a remarkable paragraph. What am I saying? I must have spaced out in my own blissful reverie. Then, finally, his penis in hand, he directed it towards my pussy, but put it in my ass instead. I told you that my ass was my second best part. He could have put it between my breasts, my best part if you recall, but that usually transpires when the penis is barely awake or when the tits are immense in size and disposition. I digress. I tend to do that when I consider sex. It did not take very long for him to ejaculate inside my ass. I am sure that our captors heard us, especially his grunts. But it did not end there; no it did not since he proceeded to love my feet, both with his penis rubbing against them and with his eyes.

After some water and rest, we went for a walk, not because we needed the exercise, but to explore our novel home with new eyes. We concluded that cement, steel, and air were the sole witnesses of our state and that the parachute senders were perfect builders. The sun began to hide its circumference from us and the air became cooler. We settled in our bed, watching the sunset and the moonrise, and talking about religion and love. We did not pray; we only loved.

We slept for the night and awoke for the day. The number of beds kept on growing, for the parachutes kept on dropping, but we never could see their senders. We decided to keep shifts of observation in order to discover the identity of our captors, and it is during one of these stretches that I began to write our story. Believe it or not, pen and paper were included in the first parachute.

It was just before dawn when I saw the airship that supplied us with life. I woke him up and we gazed with dirty love at our new god. However, following our brief encounter with it, the parachutes ceased to come. Death was around us, for we could smell its loveless odour. There was no salvation in sight, and time lost whatever little meaning that it had for us. We made love to nourish the devotion that we developed for one another and to quench our pain. We lay on our deathbed looking into each other’s eyes, watching our reflections become dimmer, feeling the claws of death upon us, and kissing and kissing and kissing with our lives.

...

A few days following their expiration, an airship landed on the cement desert and a few identical androids prepared the place for the arrival of a new set of sexual beings.