Once I had several wives, who touched Earth’s lathe with their mighty tendrils as she spun, shaping the myths surrounding the atmosphere and everything Inside, ethereal nights being the basis to sepulchre perception. The Earth - my dome, my rock, my cabeza. I have learned from it and it from me.
The Deathly Struggle: ‘til Death do us part, the waking shudders, claws met with blood, shrilling and shaking, the infinite bliss turning its page unto finite pleasure; and I hold onto it still.
The now late wife (that of my still-carousing ex-wives) colluded with Stella; she wasn’t having it anymore. She felt she wanted to be on the other side of the lens- not the one shuddering in the middle with tongue in every orifice- but one of the aforementioned tendrils moistening and exploring the naive temple of powerless One, sweet marvel.
You want decadence? I’ll give you decadence! she cried out during one of their intra-marital copulations. The others paid little attention to their little slave, but Stella took her cue, and, removing her tongue from Lost One’s left ear, slipped away from the pile. She returned moments later with a small box containing several handcuffs, and began casually locking wrists until finally, all of my wives (save from Stella), were handcuffed together and the orgy had ceased.
I was in the next room over, getting some work done, the lesbian coitus as usual just background noise, and felt that the denouement had come too early; something wasn’t right. Figured they may have run out of champagne or misplaced a dildo or someone was having a bad trip.
I've seen plenty of curious things in my day. But opening up the door to my wives’ fuck lair, the trail of candles leading to the altar, six naked and tatted women handcuffed together locked to the mantle with dry hay at their feet, Stella and her soon-to-be-dead slave cackling maniacally, about to drop an open flame… some things are better left unseen.
I calmly walked towards the group. Stella, noticing my presence, stopped laughing. This isn't okay, Stella, I said, unlocking the one mantle cuff.
Yeah, Stella, one of the cuffed ladies chimed in, and as I freed one of her hands, head butted Stella, knocking her out cold, allowing gravity to also pull the lit torch down upon the hay.
Ah! I shrieked in the wake of sudden tumult, as the rogue wife professionally snagged the key from my surprised finger and pushed me aside. She freed another wife, who swiftly went to work keeping me out of the fray, while the rest of the chain gang managed to shuffle away from the rising flames, and Rogue 1 caught the slave by the wrist whilst making a break for it. Another head butt to slave and she was tossed like a log into the blaze. Her scant linen and black hair caught, right as a blunt object met the back of my head, and I was out.
As the days turned into weeks, the weeks into moths, and the moths into crispy nothingness, not much changed in my life. Stella was unanimously voted in as the new slave, meaning I had to divorce her and the others had to marry her.
It sounds fucked up. All of it. But art hurts, believe you me, and anything, no matter how equivocal or significant it seems at the time, becomes the next note or lyric in your song.