Like a Gazelle

I am writing a book that is a testament to its own renunciation. In my fevered desire to withdraw our existence from the evil modes of sapient hunters, I look toward a different plane. Those legitimist concepts which haunted Gide and Faulkner, on the cusp, as I, those papal rants engendered by the irreverent tainting of Christ’s resurrection, entereth not into my journals.

I entered her. Her body rose in a psalm-like wave of tanned stomach and breast, her head digging backwards into the mattress. She was caving into me. I gave her all that she needed, and she let the black, sweet, overwhelming power-light of her existence to enter into the cleft aperture of my rod – the bitter chemo of her violent, odorous lubricants penetrated, burned, and stung the raw interior of my single, lone, seminal canal – the stunned, forest-like lanyard of my groin bemoaned and silenced; for which her knowledge of, she was like a gazelle.

Care must be taken, and ingrained. She renounced her existence for me – she littered, she rained upon my life a missive, of which the two of us, were risen to a plateau; and she ran like a gazelle there, and her breasts jarred with the spread.