Here’s my attempt at erotica from Regan’s Musical Chairs BlogFest…yeah, okay, I know…points for trying, right?
Another thump from somewhere overhead and a thin line of cement dust trickled from the ceiling onto the couple. The man shook his head, dislodging flecks of gray paint that landed on the head of his limp penis like dirty snowflakes. His new bride, also distracted by the approaching violence, didn’t seem to notice when she put his cock back in her mouth. He thought she was humming quietly, but realized she was whimpering.
The man looked longingly at her bobbing head. It was surely a crime for such lovely hair to wind up so greasy and unkempt. No water to spare since the brief civil ceremony, then the rush back to safety. The god-forsaken thumping never stopped. A giant walked over them day and night in an angry search for the two lovers.
“Let me shift.” The man touched the kinky locks that surrounded her ears, the crown of his penis paused between her chapped lips. It was the sadness of her eyes that caused blood to pump back toward where he desperately needed it to go. He glanced at the locked door, then back into those beautiful eyes. “Good,” he said, and she continued looking at him while using her pink tongue on his stubby shaft.
It was cold and damp, and the lights flickered in response to the booming footfalls. If only the phonograph had been spared from a loosened chunk of ceiling, this would be the proper time for Handel or Mendelssohn, maybe Wagner.
Their consummation was supposed to happen beneath a Mediterranean sun, snuggled in a goose down matt a lieutenant would have arranged on the yacht’s foredeck. He could almost see the tiny rainbows cast from crystal goblets still half-filled with French wine.
The French, thought the groom with disgust. How this current horror reminded him of the filthy Parisian backpackers who fucked like animals in the top bunk of the Vienna hostel a lifetime ago. Their sour sex smell even more revolting than how the woman moaned to Jesus Christ. The long legs of the bed thumping on the wood plank floor, pausing only for a moment before resuming more frantic than ever. The animals went at it for his entire stay in the city and he couldn’t afford to move.
“I’m not making you happy.”
The groom blinked, looked back down at his pathetic member. It had become a disobedient worm, a disappointing weapon that had once been a fine saber.
“Don’t stop,” he ordered softly. “It’s almost time. I’ll help.”
With his good arm, the man reached for his penis and pinched the shaft with two fingers and a thumb. His bride left her lips parted as if blowing on hot stew, a single strand of spit connecting their bodies. As he began the short rhythmic strokes he’d perfected over the last half century, the giant over their heads walked closer.
“You’re getting warmer,” the man said breathlessly, and his bride smiled, probably thinking he meant her instead of the bombs. His erection nearly full, she offered her tongue and he arched his hips to accept her wet mouth. “Good,” he repeated, then closed his eyes and used his bad arm to reach into his breast pocket for the two hidden capsules.
The giant was nearly upon them, shaking the bunker floor and rattling the heaviest paintings, as his orgasm approached. His good arm became a piston, short up and down strokes in a maddening blur. The groom clenched his eyes tightly, reaching up to slip one capsule under his tongue, then prodding for her hot mouth with the other.
“Swallow,” he said, meaning the small oval capsule, as well as the semen that approached the hole of his manhood’s angry purple head. When the orgasm began to pull away and the blood began to recede from his penis, the groom also swallowed hard, rubbing his throat with his slimy hand to work the object down the dry passageway.
When the cyanide’s warmth spread out his limbs with a comforting tingle, he glanced down at his dead wife and told her he loved her one final time.