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PERAMBULATOR

I will need a wheelchair after you bang me so violently hard that you paralyze me.

I’ll be a vegetable. You can push me around as I moan and drool.

But I’ll be smiling. On the inside. I’ll be your human fleshlight that you don’t have to clean out.

You can just hose me off in the yard when I get stinky.

You build a custom perambulator so you can still lick me and smash me wherever you please. Meals on wheels.

It will look nothing like a wheelchair. More like an old timey stroller or one of those half shopping carts.

I’ll be bent forward, ass in the air. Legs splayed to the sides. Like a wheelbarrow that you steer by gripping my thighs.

You can walk around with me impaled on your dick as you pilot my cart.

My ratty hair hangs down to the ground, sweeping away all the dirt and leaves as we take evening strolls through the neighborhood.

Children point and cry. Mothers gather up their babes and hide their faces from the grotesque sight of us.

Men shake their heads reprovingly and mutter under their breath at the shameless flaunting of our love.

You casually wave hello, unconcerned that you are fuck-wheeling around an insensible woman-buggy.

The swivel caster wheels wobble and squeak when we go fast, you thrust and pop a wheelie to navigate up and down steep curbs.

They don’t let you take me into the convenience store.

You park me out by the bike rack, maneuvering me between dirt bikes.

A wheezing lament escapes my lips as you pull your dick out with a wet slurp and put a rock under my front wheel so I don’t roll into the parking lot.

Time seems to stop when you are not in me. It hurts. I feel incomplete and yearn for your return.

Teenagers flick their cigarette butts at me and kick pebbles. I don’t care because I am missing you terribly and have no will to exist without you.

I hear the door bang open and the kids scatter.

Your rough hands pat my rump and I shudder with relief at your soothing murmurs.

I blow puffs of air out of my nostrils in acknowledgement as you stroke my thigh and unceremoniously reinsert your manhood into my eager hole.

Pleasure ripples through me and all is right in the world.

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One response

  1. Magic. I think you need to go full on and Palahniuk a novel.

    September 11, 2011 at 7:35 pm

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