Secrets of an anarchist

Secrets lay silent, as he dreamt. Secrets lay dormant and he professed to be. And I found his visage to be alluring, to be fragile and soft and timid. And I faced it, in the heat, in the searing moment, and I fucked it then and there. I stuck my dick in it, is that what you want to hear? I put it there and rubbed it and came on it in my evil little fantasy. I punched it and beat it and pulled away, satisfied.

Satiated.

Darkness didn’t fill me that day, but secrets did.

Oh, but you know all about it, dirty whore. You know more about me than I do. Than I want to. You feel it and caress and lie to me. Sweetly. You abandon normality and natural law, you’re an anarchist, you draw deeply upon my breath and suck upon my cock and feel the drama unfolding within you. You whisper of secrets as you lie silent, dreaming. You profess to be. You’re an anarchist in a world of unholy order and the last thrust pushes you over the edge and you lose sight of it. You lie still now.

Heartbeats.

Savagery.

Secrets.