98 Wounds Read Online Free

your craving and you wrote fifteen letters to sex advice columnists in several magazines and newspapers asking for some counsel. For weeks, you scanned the columns trying to find your letter, but the letters were always the same: small dicks, large dicks, burst condoms, fear of intimacy, can’t find small enough dicks, can’t find large enough dicks, regrettable sex, want to do something the other doesn’t and vice versa. You took this as a sign that all was well and your deviance was well within the range of normal deviances and in celebration of this epiphany I took you on another feeding.
    Once, in a private moment, I asked you what those puddles of jism tasted like, if each was in some way better than the other, if I should lead you to fresh splotches and forgo the ones sitting for so long till they become indistinguishable from snot. Your answer surprised me, you said they all tasted the same. It tasted of all the men you never had, you said. The urgency in your voice scared me, and I told you I had a dream about nachos.

    You tell me I am a faggot piece of shit and that I do not deserve your dick. You snap your finger and point to your boot. I go down and lick the tip of your shoe, allow you to step on my face, to cram the tip of your boot down my mouth. You reward me by spitting into my mouth and fucking my mouth in slow, sharp thrusts. On my knees when I look up at you, you purse your lips and a gleam of spit forms on your mouth that I take willingly into my mine. Sucking your dick, my mouth fills with the sour sting of your piss that I choke down. I let you pinch my nipples until they hurt for days.
    I adore your large-balled fists as they smack across my head, each blow a token of your affection and my worthlessness. I teach you how to cut into my flesh with a sharp knife like so many words. You say that I am your dog and I say less than that . You wrap your big hands around my neck, I have seen how you snap barbequed beef ribs into two at dinner tables, a messy display of strength to split a piece of yummy treat for us to share. You close your hands around my small neck, my face turns red, I cum hard and you eat the jism off my hands, off my thighs, and off the floor like a gentle goat at the petting zoo.

    With my hand up your arse, I can feel the strange squish of your colon in my gloved hand insulating me from your body temperature. The rubber glove, cool against my palm, not long enough to shield my forearm from your warm sphincter and the blood and juices staining my arm a medicinal pink, the color of fresh kill. I uncurl my fist and snap it close again like a sea anemone inside of you; I run my arm in and out of you as if I were digging crab traps on a soft, low tide beach.
    You wince when I grab the nub in your pelvis where your spinal cord ends, a hard lump that hides bundles of nerves and arteries, the stuff that tragic car accidents and snapped bungee cords are made of. With my free hand I caress the front of your body, fingering the nipples embedded in your hairy chest, running my hand down the bristly extent of your body, I say hoarse, Breathe, relax. Take a deep breath. But whatever you have punching your heart through your bloodstream doesn’t even allow you that comfort and I refuse to take my hand out of you even as you plead with me to. I lean over to place your cock in my mouth and you say Bite my dick . I clench my teeth down in the middle of your shaft, I draw your foreskin under my teeth and nip into the elastic flaps, you flinch and bear down on my fist sweaty from the heat of your body and the tight non-porous constraints of the rubber glove. I pull my hand out, turn the glove inside out, and hold it up to you. The insides of the glove now filled with traces of your shit and anal slime stained by your internal ruptures. You slip your hand into the glove, retrieve your fluid insides and devour it like a stupid dog that would slurp at anything in front of it. I wipe off the