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The theory of the kiss.
A kiss can express eternal gratitude beyond the feelings running from one mouth to the other. The kiss creates one velvet; private universe of unique discharges trying to find the perfect way of flowing. Then the kiss becomes an aim, leaving behind the proposition that, sublime, lies ahead. So the kiss dismantles everything inside that secret but mysteriously shared world, just to give into the timid but never naïve notion of the swell.
Just give me a simple “yes” and I won’t give you the finger. I’m not that bad after all; I just love to be always right. I’m completely in love with myself, can you see it?
It’s like defying. Feels like fire. Desire. Feels like burning all the time.
It’s like dependence. Feels like ecstasy. Tastes like blood.
Makes all the difference. Becomes wild, uncontrollable, unbearable. It’s all about security. Safety.
Just say “whatever you want, wherever you want it, whenever you need it” and I’ll fall in love over and over again with myself. Make me feel like a dominatrix, because I’m not a simple soldier who searches for her own death, I’m a woman, and nobody can touch that.
I’ve just realized the difference. I’m not even a program, I’m a lady, and that makes me as human as any other woman who has ever fucked with you.
I just love being fucked by you. I utterly love fucking you.
And you, my dear, you truly deserve it. You deserve everything I feel about you. You deserve all my moody solitude. I am now what you’ve always wanted me to be. I am your shadow. I am the shadow that rests on your pillow.
Let me say it for you: you are feeling underappreciated. You think that I’ve become a monster, and it might be true, but I’m your monster. And now you just gotta take care of me. You gotta dress me, fill me, taste me, fuck me, feed me…
But you don’t have to tell me what to do.
Never.
I own my own glitter, and don’t you dare saying that it might be litter. I curse you. I curse everything you do. I curse everything you say. I curse every little and insignificant thought that crosses your mind.
I think I hate you. It makes me glad: hate can be considered as love, and I won’t be wrong if I say that both are human feelings.
I can feel, my love. You can’t.
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“So what’s up?”
“They want to see me.”
“Who?”
“Morpheus and his crew.”
“Oh… really?”
“Yes.”
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Just say “yes” and I will know exactly what to do.
Make me feel like a goddess; give me reasons to love myself even more. Make me feel like dying in passion. Pretend you are my slave. Make it even greater than before. Tell me exactly what I need to hear. Say the words that are dying to be spoken.
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“You look tired.”
“I am.”
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Not that much of a conversation. You don’t like talking. I never ask you for explanations: I prefer the intrigue. I prefer what’s no good for me. I prefer you, even… at the cost of my heart. – Because I have a heart. And although I try my best not to show it; I know how to use it.
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“So, when’s the meeting?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You don’t look interested in the whole thing.”
“I’m not.”
“So…”
“I’m fucked up.”
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You are not the only one, honey. But don’t you worry. I’ll be there too when these rebels come to see you.
No… Not because I want to walk this path with you, but because I want to know them too. I want to look into Morpheus’ eyes to see what true pain looks like. I want to look into Neo’s eyes to desire his young blood, and to see how an honest man slowly stars to desire a monster like me. I want to look into Trinity’s eyes to know what’s like to be hated, intimidated… I want her to envy me just as much as I envy her.
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“Why don’t you get some rest? Tomorrow seems to be such a long day.”
“I have a better plan for us.”
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I swear I knew you would say that. But you are wrong.
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“I’m tired. I’m sorry. I’ll go to bed.”
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And there is silence, you never expect me to do exactly what you want me to do, and you are right. This is when I turn and find you; this is where my hands start to travel your neck. This is when my tongue lands on your mouth.
The sexual eloquence of the kiss.
Spinning round the deepest corner of the skin, the kiss explodes inside the mouth, reaching distant, dark redoubts that send the mind to oblivion. Then the tongue becomes wild, acting at the same time, punctiliously moving with the lips that start to leave little, beautiful touches in the other mouth, playing with a perverse chiaroscuro of wetness/dryness. Then the body cannot delimitate its own limits, as the kiss grows stronger, so the mouths become small, insignificant, lost under this sexual eloquence of two pairs of lips and two tongues working blindly together.
So the world melts away and everything that’s just sexual becomes existential.
Now you know for sure. Never tell me what to do
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