The Flesh That Mates
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My love has the beauty of primeval life, the beauty of the slime mould under the trees, the protean beauty of the shapeless, the formless, pure and clean.

Naked I step into its presence, and naked I bear witness to its silent majesty. Skin rippling and twisting over musculature without form. Bones ground into powder, faceless pores weeping blood and pus and mucus all over my upturned face.

Gently I lay myself down into its embrace, feel the warm pulsating throbbing of its gangrene-scented limbs wrap around me, caress me, embrace and kiss me. Limbs with too many fingers slither over my naked legs, press between my legs, cover my skin in slickness and flood my nostrils with the sickly-sweet scent of decay and rot.

My lover is a gentle lover, and it teases at my entrance with a member covered in the aqueous humor of a thousand dead men's eyes, burst like grapes pressed under the feet of a sun-kissed maiden under a warm Tuscan sun. It waits until my entrance is slick with its fluids, until my every nerve burns with desire and every synapse is taut with tension, and only then am I granted the sweet release of penetration, feeling its warm, keratin-encrusted member slip inside, fill me to bursting, sending electricity racing up my spine until I arch my back and moan, only to find my mouth filled with flesh. Into my mouth, down into my throat, until my vision darkens and my heartbeat pounds, only to be granted the sweet release of breath just as I feel my mind start to go.

Wrapped in a second womb made of flesh, penetrated and caressed and violated from every possible angle, I moan and writhe, helpless in my lover's embrace. It brings me to fruition, explodes me into a screaming, broken husk of a mind, heart pounding in my temples and skin burning aflame, and as I finally come down from that final, desperate release, the last sensation I know before sleep overtakes me is my love wrapping itself close, embracing me in its boneless arms, the scent of formaldehyde and blood singing me to sleep.

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