Gustaf’s Castle

The face disappears, descending below my cheek. The sharp, quick pain at my throbbing vein, and I turn my head away from it, stretching out my neck, making my vein bulge. It is holding my hands in each of its large hands—away from my body, fingers intertwining mine. Intimate, loving. I feel warmth at my neck and a pleasant pulsing sensation. The sucking noise. The same sucking noise I’d heard upon entering the chamber—echoing off the stone walls. Someone in the camber is groaning and sighing. I slowly become aware that it is me.

Everything joining in one rhythm: the slap, slap of the fuck, the throbs of the deep-digging cock and the answering ripples of my channel muscles, the sucking sensation at my neck and the responding pulsing of my life’s blood to the point of giving, the rhythmic changing of pressure of its fingers interlaced with mine. Even my sighs and moans are joining in harmony with the ultimate taking. It is humming to me—letting me know that it is enthralled in its feeding. The supreme compliment. I am found acceptable. I am ecstatic, but in a warm, increasingly detached way. Everything is getting hazy—except for the reverberating sound of the slap, slap, slapping and the rhythmic suck.