God of the Game

Bumped out. I throw the house keys on the glass table. Slumped straight to bed. I dreamt. I don’t remember the night vision. I woke up. I took a drink. On the night lamp to read a book; something unspectacular, something boring. After the adventure of the day, I care for some mundane chore, a story on trivialities. Stupid, hot gossip, perhaps. Thick, steamy chocolate drink for company, air conditioning at an ideal temperature, cosy under a quilt, my mind left my body and twirled round the lines, the lines of words; an engaging novel is one which hums in the brain, your eyes following the sentence trail like a child to Pied Pipers’ tune. Onward to destruction or not, you don’t care.

Do I feel guilty raping Brunette? I admit to the sense of thrill; yah, it is a bit similar to reading a sensationalized tale, the world disappears, and all you see is pussy. Logic goes out the window, lust swarms in; did I tell that my sanguine lover left because I raped her?

But we’re in a relationship, the ‘r’ word does not constitute. However, she was not in the mood. Fact, she’d not been in for months. She was, in the beginning, but over the years the relationship soured. Unspoken dissatisfactions, un-discussed frustrations. Pent up feelings. Habits, behaviours, mannerisms of mine she couldn’t bear but didn’t say, or said too late. I frequently misjudge characters; she was different too at first. But she changed; and she clammed up; and her pussy along with her.

I reverted to excessive masturbation, hit on her; humped her legs while asleep. She was totally put off by my frantic pet dog behaviour. I was a sex starved slave, but the queen was cold and lofty. She did not placate my fantasies. One night, I mounted her without consent; she pushed me away. I pressed on. Determined. She got upset, and angry. But I didn’t care. I tore off her knickers and rammed into her line of defence. Sanguine lover struggled. I hurt her, I held her down. I finished my job. She just lay there; docile, defeated, pouting, but silent. Brewing resentment, but never communicating. Our love became awkward after that, mechanical. Kisses were cold and rudimentary, as if they were a regulated response, a chore. She began seeing other people behind my back; she treated me with a wall separating us. I could feel, by the way she talked that she was attracted and interested in other men. I confronted her. I was frustrated, suffering too, inside. In the spur of annoyance, I suggested we cool off. She agreed. Two weeks later, I wanted to be back together; the separation should have been enough, ran its appropriate course. I was already missing her. But she was enjoying her liberation, her independence. She couldn’t fathom rekindling the relationship; it was not that she was being heartless, she was sad, she explained, sad that we had to come to this; but, we are not meant to be. That’s what her heart says, that’s what her gut is telling her. I took her hand, she recoiled. I put mine out halfway, asking her to meet if she cared. Sanguine lover’s arms were politely folded. I realized then, without a doubt, the battle was lost. And just like that, I watched her silhouette walk away. Every day, that silhouette walked away in my broken heart, leaving nothing behind but an evil shadow of repressed wanton desires.

Till today, I never truly understood the reason for our breakup. Therefore I am afraid of accidentally meeting her in eternity. God knows what mayhem will ensue if I see her. Already, I’m projecting my anger and yearning by ravaging Brunette. I miss her, I still love her, and therefore I have to humiliate and mutilate every goddess whom I’m acquainted with in my long and winding path. Otherwise, I need the roles reversed.

Sentiments never work with me. I will screw it up. Destined to be a bastard. I carried this fantasy throughout my Earth life, I still do; but first I want to say how strange it was my sanguine lover and I ended up as soul mates (a tag I hate). Even relayed my sexual solicitations round the world without shame, and she’d laugh through my pathetic shell. Perhaps, after all we’d experienced as a couple, we sincerely found some middle ground of grace and composure, of amity; but perhaps, too, it’s just a cloak, on my perverted part, to be actually hurting and secretly wanting to experience CFNM adventures with her.

I deserve nothing more.

In it, this fantasy, sanguine lover is crying and confessing, repenting, saying how sorry she is to have hurt me. I am aroused; I say if she is really remorseful she will appease me by handjob. She does; and with her other hand, she wipes unending tears off her cheeks, snivelling hard. Near the tail end of a good weeping I urge her to play on fast as her strokes and sobs soften at the threshold of a new emotion; and she states suddenly, with renewed vigour after crossing the sentiments, that she will give me the cum of my life. She fulfils; I ejaculate, and in ecstasy, I scream, “I forgive you...I forgive you...I forgive you...!”

Sanguine lover is smiling in happiness, a weight is lifted off her shoulders, a heavenly peace descends, and she says she senses her soul is cleansed from all unrighteousness; she is forgiven for all her errors, washed of impurities, and lifted above the mire of transgressions.

Then, her four best friends enter the room to join in mortifying me. I jizz again to this embarrassing emasculation.

Next, one by one, each girl had her way with me, all in their own unique fashion - a policewoman, a nurse, a judge and a nun - ending eventually with my sanguine lover and I again, alone. She pleasures me simply as she is without play-acting, a natural Madame poised on the balance of power on the scales of the sexes; this time no more feeling downcast, on the contrary, she feels powerful at my expense, and full to the brim, even overflowing, with feminine confidence.

All in all, I came a perfect seven times!

And we didn’t kiss. That would have screwed our flawless relationship.

Did it ever happen? Of course not! Not in the world; and besides, the second coming changed everything. But I carried it with me, in the locket of my heart, this besotting reverie of absolute union to and beyond the pearly gates of infinite notions.