Wednesday, 13 April 2011


Through the thin cotton fabric luscious mounds grind; they twist, crush and gyrate. Cotton meets cotton: one blue, one pink with white stripes. Thrust meets thrust: one pushes, connects, rubs; one accepting, yielding, demanding. They grind on; faster, then adjust position, and faster still. Then slower but more energetic, more deliberate. The glee of rubbing, grinding to the sweet, sweet rhythm of ecstasy.

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