what nobodaddy?

What if I found my nowhereman in some utopian city, some land tethered by the slenderest ship shrouds to my urban not urbane reality?

What if I found him, my nowhereman, my nobodaddy, no longer silent & invisible, this starry-eyed celestial man whose cock hides divine in fluffy pubic clouds to point at me like the finger of  Michelangelo’s God on his putti-borne litter, while I recline in Adam’s leisure and nakedness? What if I found him?

(Would I then be recreated in his fashion? Or would I just lose a rib?)

What if I found him and he placed my hands on some vinyl wallpaper while some Oscar-turning blind-bard performance broadcasted banal in the background?

What if with one awesome godhand he pinned my two human hands there, on that vinyl wall, its texture pebbled like a Gideon Bible under my flat and pressed palms, what if he held them there, and what if with the other he raked his celestial nobodaddy fingers into my hair?

What if he did that? (What if he gave me words & laws, would I follow them? Would I defy them? Or would I merely make them mine own?)

What if his hands clenched grabbed whiteknuckled my hair as if it could save his sweet sweet nobodaddy ass from drowning (and what if it could)?

What if he raised my dress with his other hand, the hand not pinning my palms to the Gideon wall, what if he raised my dress and cupped the generous and good-humored curve of my ass? What if he ground his godhips rhythmically into those generous and good-natured curves?

What if his lips his mouth his teeth his tongue tasted the delicate manna of my throat like it were the fruit none dared eat but the wily serpent? (And what if it were?)

What if we kissed, my nobodaddy and I, what if our open mouths met, might we speak in tongues? What if the room spun around us like Baz Luhrmann’s camera with the nearly nonironic romance of it all?

(What if it didn’t?)

What if I knelt before my nobodaddy in an attitude of prayer, my hands pressed as on a pew but under them lay not unrelenting hard wood but a soft and forgiving mattress? What if my knees were kicked apart by the giant feet of the nobodaddy, kicked as far as the lilac lace of my nearly pulled-down panties would allow? What if the nobodaddy ran his hands over my ass as I knelt, bent kneed and supplicant, before his godhead?

What if he found my ass perfect, magnificent, beyond good-humored and in fact glorious?

What if he told me so? (And what if he in his lovingkindness had unknowingly created this benevolent ass in his seventh-day recreation? Or what if it just seemed like this?)

What if while he was cupping my ass, palming it, lifting and hefting it, while he was whiteknuckling my hair and hardsuckling my neck, what if while the nobodaddy was doing all this I imagined his cock? What if I imagined it into being out of its darkness & obscurity? (Or what if my nowhereman simply disrobed?)

What if I imagined giving my godhead’s God head? (What if I did so?)

What if my dress laid Technicolor puddled on the floor? What if my lilac panties joined them?

What if I, emboldened emblazoned, took the god reins, what if I commanded the nobodaddy to lie down on the bed, to recline like a pasha, like a potentate, like an idol/idle/idyll? (And what if he did as I told him to do?) And what if I were allowed to touch and kiss where I pleased? And what if where I pleased most were where I pleased most?

What if I swallowed my nobodaddy’s cock until my nose was pressed against his pubic bone like a ragamuffin child’s at a sweetshop’s window?

What if my mouth were fucked by this utopian cock as if it were my pussy and what if my pussy were jealous of the seriously deep deep deity-deep dicking my throat was taking?

(What if sucking the godhead made me wet with recreational desire, filthy little godless slut that I am?)

What if nobodaddy’s broad and expansive hands clasped grasped clamped my hair as he gasped hasped and rasped his come down my throat? And what if I swallowed the come of the godhead?

What if I suckled his spent cock like a thumb until it was nearly inert?

What if it happened and I told you? Or what if it didn’t and I told you nonetheless?

What if in the dead of the night I created it all—my nobodaddy, the godhead, the whiteknuckling, the gasping, the swallowing, the temple and the Gideon walls—in my head and in the beat beat beat of the quickening pulse of my pussy? What if I didn’t tell you? Would it be better because secresy gains females loud applause?

Comments

At Last, At last, so good I could sink my teeth in.

[O]

I adore you, you filthy godless slut. You write like an angel. One that's fallen of course.
Beautiful.
Worshipfully, your O.

[Goose]

You are very yummy, Chelsea. Full of sweet, liquid goodness that drips off the page and into my waiting mind.
Goose

[Alohalani]

I just melted. My knees are weak and trembling. Damn you, goddess!