Traverses

Or is there? Somewhere deep down in my core, flocks of resolve condense on the bottom of the brewing kettle. They clot together into a cold, massive ball, and the ball acquires a voice. I don’t want to die. If I don’t want to die I have to hornify. Come on, it cannot be that hard. My body still works. Yes, my pussy aches, but I have come to realize that that is no impediment to arousal. When I push myself through some doorway, when I bring back my arousal above a certain minimum level, the aching no longer hampers it; indeed, it can amplify, catalyse, cultivate. Since I’ve been here, I have only grown more exhausted, more hungry, more miserable. The muscles of my thighs and my hips and my stomach can’t remember the times when they didn’t feel stiff and strained and overstretched. And during the same time, my orgasms have only become stronger. Sex has hooked into my body, and I know that it is here to stay. No matter that despair, the bending to an evil regime, the intensity of my orgasms shows a graph which looks like a booming stock price. No sex I ever had before was anything like it. The intensity of my cummings has exploded, rocking me off the face of the Earth. And if I am completely honest with myself, I have loved traversing every single one of them.

I turn back to one of the screens. Still they’re just disgusting bodies wriggling and fiddling. I try to ignore that feeling, I reach for a switch in my head which simply turns that disgust off. Somewhat to my own surprise, I manage to find it. I flip it off with a single thought. The bodies are no longer revolting, they glow and glisten. A girl is getting nailed from behind. She rides a wave of pleasure. The gloom and anguish evaporate; I can feel my juices swelling by just watching them. All is good, all is as it should be.