Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: Writhing

   (c) 2012
Author: Erosia
Summary: A mysterious women has a strange encounter

   In the shower
Keyword: fsolo, MC

   Writhing, swaying, you look in the mirror; you look succulent.  Your
head is filled with a rushing sound like the minute magnified pop of the
cork and the champagne rushing from the long stem of the pipe.  A sense of
urgency, the shower water is hot, frothy, and moist and soon your image in
the mirror over the porcelain bath will fade and film over with dew.

   You examine yourself with an epicurean eye; a gourmet feast presents
itself, your good enough to eat, there, that's the thought taking a hold of
your mind.  Filmed over with steam, your figure in the mirror glass begins
crossing over; arms and legs supine fizz into vaporous obscurities, the
pane of clear glass diminishes, overwhelmed by steam, leaving finally only
a small concentric circle with feathered edges, a cheese-cloth peephole,
filled with smoldering flesh too narrow to identify.

   You find you have a full Latin body, ripe curves in all the right
places. The mist hangs from your bounteous breasts.  With every sway of
your rounded full hips, they sway.  You reach up with your hands and
squeeze the handful of your very own titty flesh.  Each feels soft and ripe
and bulges out between each and every finger.  A soft breathy moan slips
from your lips; a soft lick of the tongue across a lower lip as when you
taste something mouthwatering.  Rich fantasies of every flavor present
themselves to your salivating thoughts.  A blond haired beauty between your
brown thighs eats you out enthusiastically, perhaps.  Or a meaty penis
nestled between your lips, you sucking out the white creamy cum.  Or both
of them, at the same time, all the more for you to fuck and suck.  In this
state, you could fuck and suck a harvest of men and women.  You have an
alien hunger for the taste of human flesh, of human cum sprayed across your
face, in your mouth.

   Eagerly, you reach your hand downward and begin to play with your moist
pussy, as if it was a new prize, something coveted from afar and now
attainable.  You play with yourself with a passion of a first lover arching
your hips forward, as you wind your fingers in circles, roughly then
gently, exploring your tastes.  You bring your sticky fingers to your lips
and taste the sweet nectar.  The ambrosial scent spurns you onward.  Fuck
yourself; fuck yourself with your fingers!  Imagine they're a meaty cock
pounding!  Suck it, Suck all the pussy juices of your cock fingers, you
slut bitch!  Fuck yourself until you lose control.  Your eyes roll into the
back of the head.  Pussy scent bonds with the spraying water creates an
odor almost physical, not smelled, but rather seeping into the pores of
your body, enriching your own lust.

   Your sways and writhes turn violent; your titties whip about, as you
ride your fingers.  The pleasure comes and to your instinctual capacities
the sensation is matched and accentuates the pressure of the shower, as if
the pressure building in the shower head is the pressure in you boiling,
rising, whistling. .  One hand thrust deep into your sex, the other
squeezing and twisting at your breasts and nipples, you begin to cum.  You
bite your tongue and convulse in the grips of some deep spirit of lust. 
Your body is disconnected from your mind, your mind in an indescribable
void, a nothingness that cages you in.  A fear whispers to itself,
belonging to a conscious brain that was once your, it fears the lack of
control, wishes it back, but it is a small thing to the animal inside,
baying for you to fuck yourself.  Another being controls you utterly; your
body is being brought to the very limits.

   A final shuddering, or an after-shock, the pleasure left, leaving
another void that you are unable to fill.  Breathing violently, sinking to
my knees, I feel the pleasure has left me like all my other one-time
lovers, the same where it counts, slinking off me so they won't have to
deal with the awkward morning after.  O, Dios, I can not believe in such an
orgasm, it felt like it wasn't even me.  Like a demon.  O, Dios, do not
think of Church.  What would Father say if I told him this story at
confession?  O, Dios, do not think of Father.  My skin feels so hot.  And
so red.  Is it so hot in here?  What could have made me feel like such an
animal?

   When Maria was a little girl, in Mexico, She had once seen a bitch
mounted in the street by another perro.  Her mother had placed her palm,
hot and dry, over her eyes.  But what she feared to show, Juanette feared
to see.  After that, Maria feared animals and men.  But now she knew what
it must feel like to be an animal.  And to be fucked like an animal.  She
wondered: If I opened my legs like that little perrita would some man fuck
me like that?  Turn the water off.  I have my legs now good, O, Dios, I am
still shaky, and (O, Dios, O God) horny.  But it was like I was raped by a
ghost.  I want to be raped.  I want Father to fuck me.  I want to be fucked
in the street.  This is not me; it was like I was possessed.  I must say my
prayers.

   Maria Ortega toweled herself and dressed in her long nightgown and going
to her cosmetics table reached for the silver cross hanging from the
vanity. This is the cross that she always wore to bed.  The linking of the
silver chain around her neck set off another blush.  The chain was another
form of spirit, different from the first.

   The Stranger watched Maria until she fell asleep.  He could still feel
the attachment, the spiritus line, through the wall and when he could close
his eyes he could even see it like a dark hollow nerve attached between
them.  We were twins, and lovers, for that one moment, he thinks.  Still
dimly, he could see into her head, feel her dreams creeping up at the back
of his eyes.  He clutches at the pain in his chest wishing that he could
have the firm Latin breasts that he had once had.  But his harvest was
reaped for tonight.  He no longer had the sexual energy; he was just a poor
raggedy man in a drought.  He licked his dry and flaky lips and ponders. 
Perhaps he will be back tomorrow night to take her body; to make it his and
use it.  As a child growing up in the Ghettos of Italy, there were those
who would sometimes steal the cars of the rich Castilians, to drive them
for a few hours, to feel what it felt like to completely possess and own
something beautiful, and then abandon it.  Only an empty night alley and he
could hear the rattle of the descending steps on the fire escape, as he
left again for the night.