The Garden of Rust

The grasses are overgrown and wildflowers have grown wilder than they ought to be allowed. Threatening, stinging potency. Taller than your head. The smell is palpable. Medicinal and dizzying. The bees are drunk. You could get lost in this meadow. And this is what you want sometimes.

You can still see the house from the center of it. The window, with the shower steam clinging to the pane and thick drops streaking down the inside of it. Wet and dripping. It stays contained. But some can smell it on you. You smell it on each other.

He has a peaceful life. He has made a home. He's built a life. You will sleep in the bedroom on the other side of the other side of the wall. There is some physical separation.

The reunion was wrought. Hot and troubling for the both of you. Your fear of someone else sensing the palpable confrontation kept you from being too in the moment. Which was a good boundary to have.

Tonight you will do drugs and gather around a fire in the wonderland of strewn punk art. The lawn of terrors and delights. With abandoned buildings and many, many corners to fold your shame into. You both know it could happen if you let it.

So here is the fire, and here is the gathering, and all is going well until you feel the prickle inside beckoning you to explore the dark corners. Little Jack Horny. Curdling and weighing. Off you go to see and sense.

You're wearing a short dress. So short the hem tickles your upper thigh like a foul uncle. He is not allowed to look at you, it seems. But as you wander away, you feel his gaze follow you like a thick plume of smoke, or a heavy moist cloud. He rises with a drink in his hand and stalks you into the dark like a mesmerized zombie. The drugs have made it so the earlier invisible boundary is showing chinks in the fence. Where the air can get out. He slips through a hole big enough for him to squeeze through.

The building is an old farmhouse. The space is wide and there is dirt and debris on the floor. Old rusted tools line tables along the walls. There are many instruments. You stand in the center of it and wait.

His dark, hunched, shameful silhouette appears in the doorway. You cannot see the eyes but feel them. Bass thumps in the near distance. Loud voices and laughter make a wall of sound that closes the chink in the fence you both climbed through.

A sliver of moonlight penetrates the broken window and illuminates your body as the shadows pool in the hollows of your face. Like a sleeping faceless doll. It needs to be this way. You unzip the front of you. The small, swollen globes of your breasts meet to make a well he wants to curl his tongue into. Crickets whirr. Cicadas scream. You stop the zipper below your navel.

He hesitates. Takes a drink. Looks over his shoulder at the congregation. They are talking with one another boisterously. He considers turning back. But when he glances back and sees you re-zipping your dress he moves towards you.

He stands in front of you. You both smell like sweat and dirt from this filthy place. Everything is out of sorts and unclean. There are no clean lines. Annihilation. Converging. Plants have been given license to swallow old, rusted machinery. Toys are strewn about. Weather-worn stuffed animals and shaved baby doll heads with unblinking eyes propped upon the antennae of old television sets. Clock hands point to roman numbers upside down. Time is a suggestion. He reaches a shaking hand towards your groin. Up beneath the hem of your dress. His thick finger prods your swollen lips. He pulls it away and lifts it to his teeth, your wetness shimmering in the moonlight. This is the permission.

He drops his drink on the floor and lunges his tongue into your mouth, grasping the back of your head with one hand and the small of your back with the other. The mouth hunger expressed from both sides awakens the south hunger and you feel him grow hard as a crowbar against your pelvis. He reaches a hand behind and up under your dress and finds your wet slit. He presses into the hole knuckle deep and rather violently pushes in and out of the tight hole. You are amazed at the thickness of one finger. The strength of it. Just one of five. Of ten. And you fear and thirst for what is to come.

He pulls back with effort, and unclasps his belt. He doesn't want your help. Staring at you he releases his cock. It springs out with fury. It happens quickly. You drop to your knees in front of it. It twitches in anticipation. It happens quickly. With hands behind your back you wrap your lips around the head and suckle gently. As a little girl would. It's a sweet and wonderful lollipop. You savor it. The feeling of warm, sweaty cock skin in your clean little mouth. It lives in the dark most of the time. In a cave. In the swamp. Banished from the propriety of the daytime politeness. But here up is down and its hard to remember the rules. A lawless land. Post-civilized. The darkness creeps into the light.

You pull the whole length of him into your face and he feels your tight throat hug the head of his furious itch. Scratching it so it weeps beads of pre-cum. He moans into the dusty dark atmosphere. The air is still. The sounds catch in the air above you as though a portal has closed around your sin altar like a womb. In which to unfurl the filth that has been festering all day. It's never been this bad.

You feel the wetness that has been gathering in your sex start to dribble down your inner thigh. You want to show him. You stand and hoist yourself up onto the work bench. Your wrist finds its way between the jaws of an open clamp and your other hand rests underneath a drill press. These retired, abandoned tools -- about to find new use. Rebirth. He fastens you into these devices with a menacing glee. The hunched gremlin stretching its legs and arms, disgusted with himself. Trying to push the shame aside. The foreshadowed guilt. He moves with a tempered speed that forms from a mix of unbridled excitement and crippling regret.

Once you are secured, he glares at you -- your body. His eyes scan your breasts and legs. Becoming aware of the position he is now in. Your powerlessness is his power. And then the darkness descends behind his eyes like a hood going up and over.

He unzips your dress and spreads it open to reveal your tanned breasts with their nipples hard. You can feel the painful gathering of the skin. It happens quickly. He puts his mouth on one and sucks and bites, hungrily. Then turns to the other, his hands cupping them to himself like serving dishes. Then he pushes them together and fits both nipples in his mouthful like a hungry beast. Sucking and licking, sloppy. He has lost all sense of self-awareness. The watcher has left to keep watch at the door.

As you become aware of the pulsing in your clit, so does he, somehow. He releases your breasts, wet with his spit, and pushes your skirt up in a bunch at your belly. He steps between your legs to spread them. You hesitate and try to close your legs so as not to feel so vulnerable and open, but he pries you open like a pair of giant pliers. Again, you feel his strength and the fear grips you. You've come too far now. There is no turning back. It is awoken and needs to feed.

You feel his glare physically on your pussy and it embarrasses you. He relishes your embarrassment. The unflowering. This flower that dares to waltz into his home and flash her little smiles and thighs and giggle at his shoddy carpentry work and silly art on the walls. I'll show her. Drain her of her pollen. Suck the marrow out of the sweet wet hole.

His lips descend on the wet wound and your whole spine responds with a tight, straight spasm. A wave of hot pleasure radiates out and up and down from the spot he feasts on. His tongue lashes the hard bulb of your hungry little fuck button. He knows your body better than you do. He doesn't do this consciously. His cock tells him what to do for you. Nature takes over to nurture you. To warm you up and swell your insides because nature knows it will make the hole more welcoming for his frothing, patient penis. He's a planner. A man with a plan. A toiler. The long game. He's waited years to play with you. Watching you grow up. Grow out. As he grew harder and harder with longing. With shameful lust. Pushing it to the dusty dark filing cabinet that never sees the light of day. The basement. The attic. Away from the kitchen, surely. (Now he fantasizes about fucking you splayed out on the kitchen table in the daylight.)

But here, now, might be the only chance. It needs to be relished and drunk to the last drop. He slurps you up and down your slit and your cunt is pulsating now. You feel the numbing tingles in your skull. You feel the rage grow. The need to feel release. The need to tense and gather before the explosion. Why is it so slow? So tantalizing. So protracted.

You start to feel the sensations overwhelm you and your body starts to recoil. He feels you trying to slink away, trying to close, trying to pull back and he doesn't let you. He wraps his fingers around your ankles and pushes your feet up onto the workbench spreading you wider than you thought you could spread. Holding you there, he continues to attack your pussy with his tongue. You start to feel the hot waves build and then crash. Your whole body tenses. Your spine is a xylophone and your head shoots back and you utter a guttural scream whose voice you do not recognize. It startles him too. Some filthy ancient demon finally able to pry open its eyes to the moonlight. Centuries of built-up filth and smut and dirt and what has been cast as evil. Finally getting to see the light and the chorus of their screams is terrifying for the both of you. He rides your writhing, driving with his tongue as the waves of pleasure undulate through your body and he waits for you to become still. Slows down his lapping to match your rhythm.

Then he stands back to gaze upon his work. You're heaving, unable to catch your breath. Your eyes grow dim but he can tell there's more. There's more of you. The sparkles are still flecked around the sides of your face, your shoulders. Glowing on and off. Pleasure shrapnel floating away like fireflies into the dark night.

And now it's his turn. He unclasps your wrist and hand and pulls you down from the bench, flips you around, pushes your head down onto the workbench, wrenches up the hem of your skirt, presses the head of his cock to the wet pursed lips of your back pussy. Although he wants to plunge into you, he takes his time just for a moment. Presses in slowly, feeling each millimeter wrap around him. He can feel the fruits of his labour in the swollen hot walls he's made for himself in your hole. And once he pushes himself into you to the hilt, he can be patient no more.

He pulls back and hammers it back in. He can't help himself. He drills into you like a jackhammer. The fury at the back of his neck growing with each thrust. His rage crashes on the beach in a crescendo as he unloads wave after wave of hot thick festering semen. Stuff that has been waiting at the back of his mind to pollute the garden of something it deemed worthy, something perhaps slightly unwilling, but to him this is the most fertile ground.