More Kisses and Spit

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“Why do they call them bears if they’re not bears?” I asked as she took another bite out of me.

“Why don’t you want to fuck?”

Hoisting her up in my arms, the beat of a jazz number flowed through the window from somewhere outside. It bebopped against our bodies, causing both her nipples and my cock to grow even harder. I wasn’t a fan of jazz per se, but the energy of the drumming always gave my beer-stained heart a much-needed fix of electricity.

“I do want to fuck you,” I said.

“Then why are you asking me such stupid questions?” she huffed.

Sticking my tongue in her ear, I tasted the unmistakable tang of wax and the salty tears of her flesh. I swore I even tasted some of the thoughts that were continually leaking out of that mish-mash brain of hers. Bouncing her up and down like a babe in arms, her ass rocked against my cock.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Not I’m not.”

“Yes you are” she growled, “let me down this instant. If you won’t fuck me, I’ll go ahead and fuck myself.”

Holding her even tighter, I sucked on her exposed neck as hard as I could. When I was done, I pulled away and saw the angry bruise caused by the bursting of her blood vessels. The sight of it excited me so much so that I leaned in and did it again. Working herself into a fit of hysterics, she thrashed around hitting me on the back of my head.

“Quit it,” I said while trying not to laugh.

“Kuso koya!” she screeched. I didn’t know what it meant, but I had a good idea. Laughing against my best wishes, I danced around the room with her to the jazzy tune that was threatening to spiral out of control. It never did, but it always felt as if it was never far from it. The guy on drums must have been possessed. He had the devil in him for sure, and every second it went on, I felt the same devil stirring in me.

“If you tell me why they call them bears, then I’ll quit messing and fuck you.”

“Why do you think? It’s because they look like tiny bears, you retard.”

It genuinely never occurred to me that it was as simple as that.

“Now let me down this instant” she replied.

“No,” I said.

Thrashing about in my arms, she bit the top of my head hard enough to draw blood, and yet as much as it hurt, I was having a ball. Dancing with her some more as she kicked and punched at me, I whispered into her ear what I was going to do with her, and although she at first hid her face from mine, the music brought out the same devil in her that had stirred in me. Giving me her mouth, she gave me her tongue, and I, in return, gave her mine.

“You’re a bastard,” she said.

“Yeah, and you adore it.”

“Such a bastard,” and then came more kisses and spit passing back and forth between our foaming mouths.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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