I had been visiting those web pages for a while, watching those bodies contort themselves like snakes convulsing for hours. It wasn't the same as watching porn, I got bored with it quickly, what excited me was the idea of watching porn, but once there, I'd confirm again the vulgarity of that false pleasure, hollywodense. There's nothing alike truth there, those actors' skin shines like plastic. But the camgirls were different, at first they were just bodies, then voices, spontaneous smiles, and undeniable pleasure in those lost eyes. The body was just bait, but it was delicious bait. Sometimes I didn't even masturbate, I'd just surrender to the hypnosis of foreign pleasure.
I had been visiting those web pages for a while, and barely entering, I'd review the most popular cameras or new ones, searching for a paradise yet to be discovered, and I found it. She didn't show her face, only her body, her white skin made me think of innocence, but her long fingers submerged in forbidden fruit, in her wet vagina, reminded me that she was also lost in pleasure. Her moans were honest like crying, happy and full of violence. I could see her entire body, her small breasts, timid breasts, but her nipples weren't timid, always erect, perhaps cold in that room, I didn't know, I knew nothing about that room. She'd always sit in a corner, leaning on a blue towel that covered the whole area, she was prudent, didn't want to reveal any trace. She'd bite her hand not to moan, but it wasn't enough, her teeth marked her skin, and her muffled moans pierced my body. When I listened to her, a lightning bolt would run through me, and my penis would jump hungrily. That was her for me, a plate of hunger that awakened the animal sleeping in all of us. She never spoke, unless her moans were a form of speaking.
With time, I stopped seeing the others. She had monopolized my desire. But I was no longer satisfied, I wanted to go further, I wanted to hear her voice, I wanted to see her face, I wanted to stop imagining those features in a futile attempt to complete the picture, because after orgasm her face would return to what it was, a question mark
Slowly she began to talk on the chat, not only sharing the price that cost taking off her sweater, that touching with her fingers her bright nipples of saliva, that getting down on all fours and looking at us with a wet vagina, while repassing her clitoris with circular movements, while sinking her ring finger into her anus, slowly, softly, lubricating with saliva and time, sometimes in her moans you could guess drops of pain, but it was a pain she liked, a pain that underscored her pleasure. Not only sharing the price of turning on her vibrator and seeing her lose control, seeing her belly shiver like from cold, seeing the flush on her face, the unmistakable sign of orgasm, and sometimes the squirt, the icing on the cake, a delicious cascade.
Slowly she began to talk on the chat, asking if we wanted to listen to a song, I suggested some and she was happy because she also liked them, because she also wanted to hear them. She asked if we wanted her to dress up as something or write hot messages, because hot messages warmed her up, and I told her that my tongue traversed her body, that I gently bit her neck, that I descended down her belly slithering, that I caressed with my cheeks her thighs, that I exercised my tongue in her vagina, that I penetrated it like someone drives a knife into a wound that already exists, into a wound thirsty for knives, and she moaned and closed her eyes until her moan was her world, and the rest didn't exist because pleasure was a whirlwind that took everything away.
Sometimes she disappeared to do private shows. There were types who paid to be personally with She, but I consoled myself thinking they weren't with her, that they were with her body, that they were coarse men, a penis and its appendage, but maybe it wasn't like that, or maybe I was also a penis hanging from a body, we're all that sometimes. I don't have a credit card, I couldn't convert my money into that virtual currency that their devoted followers invested to trigger their orgasms, to increase the intensity of their vibrator, to make her moan, bite her hand, twist in an uncontrollable pleasure. I can't help but thank those anonymous heroes.
One day I received a private message, it said it liked how I wrote, that reading my messages pushed them to orgasm, that my words also vibrated. She didn't write that, but that's what I read. It said it had been waiting for me to request a private show, that it didn't understand why I didn't do it, if I filled the chat with my hot enthusiasm. She didn't write that, but that's what I read. I attached its Skype account and it told me to connect that day at 1 am, that it would be waiting for me, that it wanted to hear my voice writing those messages.
That day I connected at 1 am. I had the camera disabled, she didn't. I kept silent, she said Hello. My whole world wobbled, my heart accelerated like a train approaching, a cold sweat broke out on my skin, I was breathing heavily. She said Hello and I knew it was my sister, I closed my laptop with a dangerous force and stayed looking at the wall for 10 minutes.
My mind got tangled in an irresolvable conflict. Desire and guilt coexisted in me, the urge to bite into the forbidden fruit. The next day morning I wrote a relatively extensive message, improvised a story explaining my escape, told her I was excessively shy, that I was self-conscious about my body, that I feared she wouldn't like my voice, that I didn't want to ruin this miracle. I don't know why I wrote that, at first I decided abandon everything, accept the condemnation and renounce. But I always surprised myself thinking about her, thinking about her body. Always surprised by a guilty erection that I couldn't deny. Because the seed of desire had been planted long ago, and this recent bout of guilt withered in the shadow of that thirsty tree eager to drive its cup into the clouds. That's why I sent that message, because I wanted to choke on her forbidden fruit, because all my questions dissolved when I saw her body, when I heard her moans, when my eyes submerged themselves and drowned in her wet nipples, when her nipples pointed at me and said you are guilty, your desire is beyond good and evil.
We agreed that our Skype sessions would take place, that I would write messages like I did on the chat, but without interruptions from other users. She accepted resignedly, but accepted. I thought about the power of words. That's how weekends transformed into my reason for existing, how I spent five days thinking about midnight on Friday, imagining what I would write, because I had to be creative, couldn't repeat the same refrain, couldn't risk boring her, had to compensate my voice and body with words, and the only way to achieve that was through poetry, the only way to achieve it was to write:
I thought I knew how to swim
But it was a lie
I stay quiet in your humidity
And sink like a stone
That's what I am
A stone approaching the bottom
But the truth is, I'm not a stone
Metaphors are too short
Metaphors, sometimes
Are complicated simplifications
The truth is, I'm a piece of desire
And you're a cascading statue
Your body made of words
Made of flesh
That's why the impotence of language
Can't contain your body in a poem
Only remains to think
About the same old thing. Is there something more seductive than death? But you're so alive anyway Don't know if your vagina is smiling at me Or showing me her teeth Like wanting to bite me
My sister doesn't live in the same city, she's older and already attends university. And even though I just turned 19, I'm still living with my parents, preparing to enter university. I felt it was time to move the pieces on this chessboard, to dare take a step forward. A plan occurred to me, a lie. I told my parents I wanted to go to a concert in my sister's city, that they give me money for the ticket, that I'd stay at her apartment and come back the next day, that I had talked to my sister about staying at her apartment.
Friday night at midnight, what always happened on Friday nights at midnight. I waited for her call, she was always the one who called. This time she remained silent, and I said Hello. This time she hung up the call. And maybe she closed her laptop with a dangerous force and stayed looking at the wall for 10 minutes.
The next day I took a bus and went to the city. When she opened the door we did what we could do, talk as little as possible and pretend nothing had happened, look at the floor like searching for something that would distract us, something that would make us think of something else. But the floor was clean and bare, the floor was a shiny tile, and if you looked closely you saw a stain similar to our reflection. She went to my room and I went to my room. I called her on Skype.
I activated the camera and microphone, it bothers me to see my naked torso and penis on the screen, my penis is an exclamation mark and your vagina is a question mark, between those two states lives desire, an inquisitive cry, an enthusiastic question. I start talking: Touch, yes, touch. Caress your vagina without mercy. Do you feel the humidity? I imagine it so much that I I feel. Get down on all fours, move your ass so the world moves. Keep touching your vagina. Scream louder. Scream until I can hear you from here. Until your moans reach your room, look at me in the eyes and forget who I am. That's what pleasure is about, isn't it? Forgetting for a moment who we are. That's what pleasure is about, isn't it? About disappearing. Disappear, where do your pupils point? Keep touching yourself. Maybe your doll is tired. Mine doesn't get tired because it has its eyes fixed on the goal, you're the goal. Turn on the vibrator, louder, louder, turn up the volume on that thing. You don't know where to put your hands. You're an enchanted snake, and I'm the flautist. You can't close your mouth. The pleasure doesn't fit inside you, you have to open it for it to come out. Like steam from a pressure cooker. I can already hear your moans or screams. I want more teeth to bite your nipples, I want more tongues to explore your vagina, that wound that resists healing, I don't know what to say anymore, I also disappear, I also run out of words.
Without even thinking, I get up and head to her room. I sit in front of her and keep doing what I was doing through the camera. She does too. We move closer, until our bodies touch without touching, until we share the same warmth. She pounces on me. Pounces on me, and the words I've been dedicating to her for so long become flesh. It's incredible to touch her, squeeze her between my arms, and now yes, bite her neck softly, kiss her violently. Breathe heavily. Now it's my fingers that draw circles on her clitoris, her vagina is almost overflowing, that's what pleasure feels like, sticky, wet, true. I don't like the word lick, but that's what I'm doing, licking her vagina until I'm satisfied. And she screams and moans and takes me by the hair. Then she gets into position and I penetrate her, softly, with a silent rhythm, like walking on tiptoes, like Remorseful. Then stronger, like possessed by an animal. That's what we are, two animals without morals. Then stronger. From behind I take her breasts and squeeze her nipples a bit. I listen to some drops of pain in her moans, but it's a pain that is enjoyed, a pain that underscores the pleasure. Kneeling before me, I'm not sure if she's smiling at me or showing me her teeth. She looks at me as if I were her prey. She looked at me as if I were her prey. She's thirsty. I accelerate my wrist and everything ends. A rain of semen adorns her face. She swallows everything she can. And after that, we look at each other. Without saying anything, we understand that everything changes forever, but it doesn't concern us, desire is a giant tree that obscures everything else with its shadow.
The next time someone connects to the camgirls site and finds her being penetrated.
I had been visiting those web pages for a while, and barely entering, I'd review the most popular cameras or new ones, searching for a paradise yet to be discovered, and I found it. She didn't show her face, only her body, her white skin made me think of innocence, but her long fingers submerged in forbidden fruit, in her wet vagina, reminded me that she was also lost in pleasure. Her moans were honest like crying, happy and full of violence. I could see her entire body, her small breasts, timid breasts, but her nipples weren't timid, always erect, perhaps cold in that room, I didn't know, I knew nothing about that room. She'd always sit in a corner, leaning on a blue towel that covered the whole area, she was prudent, didn't want to reveal any trace. She'd bite her hand not to moan, but it wasn't enough, her teeth marked her skin, and her muffled moans pierced my body. When I listened to her, a lightning bolt would run through me, and my penis would jump hungrily. That was her for me, a plate of hunger that awakened the animal sleeping in all of us. She never spoke, unless her moans were a form of speaking.
With time, I stopped seeing the others. She had monopolized my desire. But I was no longer satisfied, I wanted to go further, I wanted to hear her voice, I wanted to see her face, I wanted to stop imagining those features in a futile attempt to complete the picture, because after orgasm her face would return to what it was, a question mark
Slowly she began to talk on the chat, not only sharing the price that cost taking off her sweater, that touching with her fingers her bright nipples of saliva, that getting down on all fours and looking at us with a wet vagina, while repassing her clitoris with circular movements, while sinking her ring finger into her anus, slowly, softly, lubricating with saliva and time, sometimes in her moans you could guess drops of pain, but it was a pain she liked, a pain that underscored her pleasure. Not only sharing the price of turning on her vibrator and seeing her lose control, seeing her belly shiver like from cold, seeing the flush on her face, the unmistakable sign of orgasm, and sometimes the squirt, the icing on the cake, a delicious cascade.
Slowly she began to talk on the chat, asking if we wanted to listen to a song, I suggested some and she was happy because she also liked them, because she also wanted to hear them. She asked if we wanted her to dress up as something or write hot messages, because hot messages warmed her up, and I told her that my tongue traversed her body, that I gently bit her neck, that I descended down her belly slithering, that I caressed with my cheeks her thighs, that I exercised my tongue in her vagina, that I penetrated it like someone drives a knife into a wound that already exists, into a wound thirsty for knives, and she moaned and closed her eyes until her moan was her world, and the rest didn't exist because pleasure was a whirlwind that took everything away.
Sometimes she disappeared to do private shows. There were types who paid to be personally with She, but I consoled myself thinking they weren't with her, that they were with her body, that they were coarse men, a penis and its appendage, but maybe it wasn't like that, or maybe I was also a penis hanging from a body, we're all that sometimes. I don't have a credit card, I couldn't convert my money into that virtual currency that their devoted followers invested to trigger their orgasms, to increase the intensity of their vibrator, to make her moan, bite her hand, twist in an uncontrollable pleasure. I can't help but thank those anonymous heroes.
One day I received a private message, it said it liked how I wrote, that reading my messages pushed them to orgasm, that my words also vibrated. She didn't write that, but that's what I read. It said it had been waiting for me to request a private show, that it didn't understand why I didn't do it, if I filled the chat with my hot enthusiasm. She didn't write that, but that's what I read. I attached its Skype account and it told me to connect that day at 1 am, that it would be waiting for me, that it wanted to hear my voice writing those messages.
That day I connected at 1 am. I had the camera disabled, she didn't. I kept silent, she said Hello. My whole world wobbled, my heart accelerated like a train approaching, a cold sweat broke out on my skin, I was breathing heavily. She said Hello and I knew it was my sister, I closed my laptop with a dangerous force and stayed looking at the wall for 10 minutes.
My mind got tangled in an irresolvable conflict. Desire and guilt coexisted in me, the urge to bite into the forbidden fruit. The next day morning I wrote a relatively extensive message, improvised a story explaining my escape, told her I was excessively shy, that I was self-conscious about my body, that I feared she wouldn't like my voice, that I didn't want to ruin this miracle. I don't know why I wrote that, at first I decided abandon everything, accept the condemnation and renounce. But I always surprised myself thinking about her, thinking about her body. Always surprised by a guilty erection that I couldn't deny. Because the seed of desire had been planted long ago, and this recent bout of guilt withered in the shadow of that thirsty tree eager to drive its cup into the clouds. That's why I sent that message, because I wanted to choke on her forbidden fruit, because all my questions dissolved when I saw her body, when I heard her moans, when my eyes submerged themselves and drowned in her wet nipples, when her nipples pointed at me and said you are guilty, your desire is beyond good and evil.
We agreed that our Skype sessions would take place, that I would write messages like I did on the chat, but without interruptions from other users. She accepted resignedly, but accepted. I thought about the power of words. That's how weekends transformed into my reason for existing, how I spent five days thinking about midnight on Friday, imagining what I would write, because I had to be creative, couldn't repeat the same refrain, couldn't risk boring her, had to compensate my voice and body with words, and the only way to achieve that was through poetry, the only way to achieve it was to write:
I thought I knew how to swim
But it was a lie
I stay quiet in your humidity
And sink like a stone
That's what I am
A stone approaching the bottom
But the truth is, I'm not a stone
Metaphors are too short
Metaphors, sometimes
Are complicated simplifications
The truth is, I'm a piece of desire
And you're a cascading statue
Your body made of words
Made of flesh
That's why the impotence of language
Can't contain your body in a poem
Only remains to think
About the same old thing. Is there something more seductive than death? But you're so alive anyway Don't know if your vagina is smiling at me Or showing me her teeth Like wanting to bite me
My sister doesn't live in the same city, she's older and already attends university. And even though I just turned 19, I'm still living with my parents, preparing to enter university. I felt it was time to move the pieces on this chessboard, to dare take a step forward. A plan occurred to me, a lie. I told my parents I wanted to go to a concert in my sister's city, that they give me money for the ticket, that I'd stay at her apartment and come back the next day, that I had talked to my sister about staying at her apartment.
Friday night at midnight, what always happened on Friday nights at midnight. I waited for her call, she was always the one who called. This time she remained silent, and I said Hello. This time she hung up the call. And maybe she closed her laptop with a dangerous force and stayed looking at the wall for 10 minutes.
The next day I took a bus and went to the city. When she opened the door we did what we could do, talk as little as possible and pretend nothing had happened, look at the floor like searching for something that would distract us, something that would make us think of something else. But the floor was clean and bare, the floor was a shiny tile, and if you looked closely you saw a stain similar to our reflection. She went to my room and I went to my room. I called her on Skype.
I activated the camera and microphone, it bothers me to see my naked torso and penis on the screen, my penis is an exclamation mark and your vagina is a question mark, between those two states lives desire, an inquisitive cry, an enthusiastic question. I start talking: Touch, yes, touch. Caress your vagina without mercy. Do you feel the humidity? I imagine it so much that I I feel. Get down on all fours, move your ass so the world moves. Keep touching your vagina. Scream louder. Scream until I can hear you from here. Until your moans reach your room, look at me in the eyes and forget who I am. That's what pleasure is about, isn't it? Forgetting for a moment who we are. That's what pleasure is about, isn't it? About disappearing. Disappear, where do your pupils point? Keep touching yourself. Maybe your doll is tired. Mine doesn't get tired because it has its eyes fixed on the goal, you're the goal. Turn on the vibrator, louder, louder, turn up the volume on that thing. You don't know where to put your hands. You're an enchanted snake, and I'm the flautist. You can't close your mouth. The pleasure doesn't fit inside you, you have to open it for it to come out. Like steam from a pressure cooker. I can already hear your moans or screams. I want more teeth to bite your nipples, I want more tongues to explore your vagina, that wound that resists healing, I don't know what to say anymore, I also disappear, I also run out of words.
Without even thinking, I get up and head to her room. I sit in front of her and keep doing what I was doing through the camera. She does too. We move closer, until our bodies touch without touching, until we share the same warmth. She pounces on me. Pounces on me, and the words I've been dedicating to her for so long become flesh. It's incredible to touch her, squeeze her between my arms, and now yes, bite her neck softly, kiss her violently. Breathe heavily. Now it's my fingers that draw circles on her clitoris, her vagina is almost overflowing, that's what pleasure feels like, sticky, wet, true. I don't like the word lick, but that's what I'm doing, licking her vagina until I'm satisfied. And she screams and moans and takes me by the hair. Then she gets into position and I penetrate her, softly, with a silent rhythm, like walking on tiptoes, like Remorseful. Then stronger, like possessed by an animal. That's what we are, two animals without morals. Then stronger. From behind I take her breasts and squeeze her nipples a bit. I listen to some drops of pain in her moans, but it's a pain that is enjoyed, a pain that underscores the pleasure. Kneeling before me, I'm not sure if she's smiling at me or showing me her teeth. She looks at me as if I were her prey. She looked at me as if I were her prey. She's thirsty. I accelerate my wrist and everything ends. A rain of semen adorns her face. She swallows everything she can. And after that, we look at each other. Without saying anything, we understand that everything changes forever, but it doesn't concern us, desire is a giant tree that obscures everything else with its shadow.
The next time someone connects to the camgirls site and finds her being penetrated.
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