Love. Hate. Parallel emotions. Thin line between. Almost the same thing. Make passionate love. Hate with a fucking passion. No difference. And I never did really like the slow shit, always just did it for them. All of them. That mean I loved them? Any of them?
You know what's making love to Chris Keller?
Making love is hard and fast and burying my cock to the hilt with a good slam, balls slapping, tightening. Hearing that gasp of pain pleasure pain. Hands reaching. Fingers tangling through hair and pulling taut. Taste of sweat, hot salt through grit teeth. I love you. Don't. I love you. Please. I love you. Short, deliberate thrusts, quick and hard harder fast faster.
Yeah, that last few seconds minutes seconds when everything starts to turn to fucking twinkles in the blackness. Yeah.
Those last rocket slams inside them when your cock feels as big as a fucking skyscraper and becomes bigger that you are. Becomes you. Takes over everything. Balls curling like fists. Eyes squeeze shut. Sharper. Harder. Shoot your fucking load. Still love me?
Fuck. Just like the right shank. Brings on self-realization.
Sometimes Toby liked it on his back like a bitch.
Hands holding me, fingers gripping. I touched his face. Skin smoother than mine ever was, golden hair soft like a fucking cat. Eyes all looking up at me like I'm supposed to give a shit. More than that. My mouth covering his, taste of I don't know but good. Taste of Toby. Fuck. I love you, too. Don't. Lips, teeth, throat. Push deeper. Deeper. Hate myself Love you. All the fucking same.
Yeah, but the right blade. Make that slow. Make that hurt like fuck. Make that sting. Make the hot blood run cold. Hate you. Makes fucking two of us.
Right blade like the right cock cunt asshole.
Tight muscles clamped around your cock until you can hardly see anymore. Only feel. Feel your cock ramming deeper. Sweet. Sexy scent of whatever Toby scent odor smell. Darkness. Blacked out vision. Hard. Don't look at me like that. Don't love me. Love me more.
Love me forever.
Fucking. Now, that's the shit. Tastes like pain and blood and cock so fucking hard and deep. Just don't love me. I don't. Because I know about love. You don't know shit. You know sucking cock and you know fucking and you know fucking over and you know favors. I know. No. No you don't.
Love is more than you know.
Yeah, but I know how to hate and I know how to kill and really, what else is there? Nothing. You never know the pain until it grips you. And then you know it good. And it's so good. When it hurts. Hurt is real and you can fucking hold it in your hand and it's big like your own cock.
And they're the same.
Don't believe me? What the fuck we doing in here then? You know. There's no difference. Pain love pain hate pain love painlovehatelovepain. Same fucking difference. Yeah, I know all the fuck about it.
You think you can teach me any different? You think you can fucking break me? Already broken. Irreparable. Beyond Repair. I love you. No. No you don't. Incurable. Incorrigible. Downright fucked up.
I don't love you. Right. Fuck you. Fuck me. Yeah. That part I know. I know that one good. Nothing else means shit.
Busted. I told you. Broken.