Bone Machine



While she sleeps, I sneak downstairs and grab a few beers before sneaking back up and observing her. Pulling back the covers, I admire her body while masturbating over her feet, but before cumming she wakes and snatches a glass from the bedside table and throws it at my face. Striking me in the mouth I fall to the floor howling as blood trickles down into my throat. It’s at this moment I shift from one form to the next. Pulling the duvet up to cover herself, she asks why I have to be so much of a fucking creep, but I just stay at the edge of the bed looking at her with blood on my teeth. The other day she came back from work an hour early and caught me masturbating while listening to Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds. Sprawled out on the bed violently shaking as she watched from the doorway, in my head, I wasn’t a struggling writer or failed painter or general loser, but some kind of magician that could travel through time. In my head, I was fucking her and every woman I’ve ever loved in a forest where the animals danced as in the distance the lighthouse shone and bathed us in a magical glow, and when the little death took hold of me all of my dead childhood pets came and carried me away on their shoulders to a field of corn where there was no such thing as death, only the shape and taste of her breasts. When I opened my eyes just after shooting my load, she asked me what I was doing, and when I told her, she stood there looking at me not saying anything as I cleaned my stuff up with a dirty sock. And now she’s giving me the same look again. My behaviour is strange, I’m well aware, but my imagination is sacred. It shan’t be compromised, and as the blood drips my split lip, I crawl forwards kissing her legs and even though she complains she doesn’t say no and so my teeth find their way to hers and even though I keep bleeding we do our thing because this is how we roll.


A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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