Before the little death takes me, I look down and realise, the other girl, she’s just a fuck-toy now. I run my eyes around the flesh puzzle, trying to untwist its kinks. Dana looms above the girl, enraptured, one hand clutched upon her breast, artisanal fingers masticating greedily, the other, thrown behind her, dug into the sheets, a sutric pylon. I trace my hands within the decadence of skin, finding them grappled to hips like rubenesque gymnasium rings. My thrusts are parried with expert riposte, sweat covers us all and as I shiver, the girl is truly lost.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.