Charlie J Forrest

The door of the flat closes with a muffled thud. There are incoherent noises, giggle sand groans, then the bedroom door opens and they stumble in, bow tie draped over his shoulder, her dress rippled up high on her buttocks by his groping hand. She pulls her face away from his with a wet sucking sound. She’s panting arms half heartedly grabbing at his head, shoulders, arms. Another step and they topple out of sight into the mountainous landscape of unmade bed linen.

Shapes writhe and undulate, appearing and disappearing like rocks with the tide. Clothes are cast like dark smokey clouds into the sky, only to fall back beyond the impossibly close horizon.

Between two peaks the lightly furred rolling hills quicken their pace, rising briefly only to come crashing down with force to make the white mountains shiver. The winds roar a cacophony of agony through the cotton valleys until, finally, it fades into the distance with one last wolf howl.

The wind is gone, the ground no longer trembles and the peachy hills lie still. The last ripples of excitement wash over me, as I wait, knowing what is to come. The shapes finally stir, pulling themselves from the make-believe landscape and tottering dazed and happy about the room. He comes to me, wrapping fingers around my cool dry surface, lifting me up into his embrace. His soiled spent manhood slips past my brim without touching it and I open myself to him, enveloping him in cool wetness, taking his sweat and spunk into me, he stirs me a little, pulling back his foreskin with his free hand to grant me every last lingering taste of him.

When he pulls out he leaves his traces permeating every millilitre of me, wearing the little foamy scum on my surface like a medal. A good job well done, his dirty little glass.