Everyday a new one. Everyday the same ritual.
She would softly speak the daily words and devastate their tiny hearts.
Now if only they’d knew what it consisted of…
Oh there were hints behind that door. Hints that kept them in place and teased their curiosity to the point of staying in the box. Not that they could ever leave the tall cardboard walls holding their shrunken frames. Not that they’d want to leave.
Behind the door were the sounds of her. Harsh sounds, crude sounds, moans and slippery rubbing skins, whispered from the birth of the universe. The ritual kept them awake. Everyday, it promised them they’d be the one. The next one. The only one.
There were cracking sounds, muffled by the panting of her body. Sometimes frustration, joy, defiant laughs and the dying shout of her voice, cooing with pleasure, covering an equal agony. There was a deafening silence and the appeased song of her breathing. There was what they never talked about.
And the door opened once more. The curiosity of her giant and slender fingers daintily snatching one to the light before vanishing with their prize. And it closed, on whispers and secrets. On shocking introductions and giggling play.
– “Let the ritual begin.”
An inhaled and viciously cut gasp. Abject sounds leaving too much room for their avid minds.
Silence. Shower and she sang.
Shower and they silently cried, burying what imagination brought to their souls in their own and wailing version of her ritual.
There were glimpses and, on that morning, they witnessed the towering curve of her hips. Her gigantic sway as she unequivocally loomed the walls of her crotch to the vertical of their prison. Her voice, soft and falling off the heights.
– “I won’t be long. In the coming seconds… I want you to think real hard about the meaning of what I’ll be doing.”
The oppressive mountain of her thighs, slowly parted, the warmth of her sex, lowered, her skin coming in touch with the cardboard, nonchalantly crushing it with her mass, the darkness of her, the prison of her, the suffocating, cinnamon and wet smell of her.
A cage of cardboard and wanton flesh, closing its tight and dark space on their wretched shrieks.
– “Let the ritual begin”.
Illustration : bird
Story and inspiration : Tina