Tumescent

This is the story of a man named Mean Mr. Mustard and a girl named Aurora.

Mean Mr. Mustard traces the soft of your forearm, his clammy hand grabs yours in an attempt to entwine your fingers with his. He licks his cracked lips. Your throat, tight. Your chest, hollow. Your body trembles as he and the night grow. His dirty fingernails dig into the spaces in between your ribs. His bitter taste is left in the back of your mouth. Let the sun go down on you. He is forceful and clumsy; never having experienced anything finer, you clench onto the wet grass beneath your body and accept the reality of the pleasure.

His throat to your mouth, you mark the cattle. No, no, obviously you suck. He reaches to his back, to his arse for a condom. You are ready as the day you swore your love to him, you smile, the metal that adorns your teeth shines for a moment as it catches the white light that excretes from above.

He covers your eyes and you giggle. He slips a shaft of coldness inside you. Your voice is soft at first but as he shoves it further you pull away in growing hysteria. The revolver looks at you in the eye. He cocks the hammer. He tells you not to yell, not to make a noise. Either way, he'll leave you bloody, holy in the park. Your voice begins loud as you scream but it ends in whimpers like a child's. He holds your torso steady not allowing you to move. He knocks the gun across your face, he strikes as you yell. The metal beats repetitively across your mouth until almost every tooth is ripped out of your gum and is now left hanging by your braces. Your face shakes in acute shots of pain. The Animal laughs, his face scrunches up, his dirty hair stands high.

He forces himself into your mouth. He orders you, and with a gun against your temple you know what to do. Your tongue, like a baby's, touches the soft of his foreskin. The Animal grunts, it moans in response to your movement. The pain engulfs you as his penis would have. Your blood makes for great mobility, your gums are supple, perfection. He can feel your loose teeth and braces scraping against him. He comes down your throat; thick and bloody.

Your face is wet with blood and tears that stick to your cheeks, your delicate neck, your youth. The shirt has been soaked through. He thrusts the gun inside you. He shoots, your eyes enlarge. You cry, you ask why, you beg. The gun only clicks. The barrel is empty. He shoots again. Each shot is met with your pointless yells. You are in grief aren't you? Bargaining has left. Acceptance is on it's way. The noise is distinct, each click echoes in your ears. Fourth time lucky. Again, and again, it becomes sinister. Your innards are left seeping out and staining the ground.

The moon shines down onto your newly red hair, your red lip stick, your flushed cheeks, your red eyes. You're so pretty, smiley face, exclamation mark. You are serene, staring aimlessly ahead until he flips your eyelids over. He leaves the revolver inside you. Nothing hurts more than how love feels.