Depression. Sanity. Frustrations of reality. The reason for being and why we are all the way we are, why we do what we do to each other… that deep existential shit of Plato and Socrates and Nietzsche in her blackest of moods. Zion 1 for the modern age. Or Lupe. Hopsin. Common. Pick your lyrical poison. Upside shadows in caves and alleys of flames and lies. Shit so far beyond me the head spins, brain screams for relief.Maybe I’m biased, but I think she could have torched them all in debate. Spun her logic with that detached spatial flight of mind and that sultry haze of voice. Looking fine in white cloth toga.-I still remember how she moved, svelte form liquefying into whatever style that suited whatever alchemic mixture of emotion boiling inside her, which was always a struggle to pin down.When her mind thrummed with too much chaos, we’d walk along the piers and end up here. And she’d flow from contemporary to jazz to ballet to styles I can’t even put a name to. Harley Quinn of. “Oooooo, it feels good,” I almost whisper. “I knew you’d like that,” he smiles as he pulls out and then thrusts back in. It’s so wet and feels so good, he can not help but find a rhythm and ride it. “I want you to cum for me,” he says as he feels his own climax rising. “Touch me,” I answer to his command. He slows his pace to a savoring thrust where you can hear the sticky wetness with the sensual movement. He rubs my clit gently with the tip of his thumb and my body ignites to a fire that only he can bring with the intense rush of need that borders on insanity. He knows its coming, he can feel it. “Come for me,” he encourages. I can feel my body rise as the feeling sweeps over me. I moan unintelligibly and he stills inside of me so he can feel my intimate muscles tighten softly around his hardness. He can feel the wetness dripping from me and knows that he can not wait much longer. He takes my legs and pushes them up to my chest, then dives deeply into me, thrusting hard and fast.
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