Little Secrets Old Men Hide

A summer morning of no particular consequence was flowing in with the vitriolic sun as you stood at the window from where you could see the long, lithe leg under her summer dress and she could see you from the corner of her uncharacteristicly large eyes. You wonder if she could tie you up to the chair, legs embrassing your waist. You would be amazed when I tell you this, shes been wondering how your sweat soaked fingers would taste and if half moustaches do tickle inner thighs. What a lovely way to start a morning, her dying tongue flickering against yours as you rub her little tummy against your rough palm while her proud chest pushes your shoulders against the walls your wife pressed you against when she hit you. Lovely, late Lolita, mine.

Oh now shes crying amazements in her head as you talk dirty to her in yours. Unchristian ways of beckoning Him as she's calling you names, lonely, tired ones. The ones you wanted to hear so often from your wife. She deserved what she got, a stunning death at the hands of her brother. Lovely, lovely C, with his brawny shoulders. Sometimes you just wanted to...

And just when the maid walks in, so many liquids on your widower floor. She's surprised because she doesnt know what it is. Not anymore. There is more than secretion there. A little girl and an old man with their dirty smells. A proud, fertile woman and a tired, willing old man. A lovely vagina below a lovelier face. A tired face over a scarred body.

Oh for the love of secrets.


Im angrier than this post can tell you. Penises ruling the world is just bugging me right now.