Tuesday, July 14, 2009

The Beginning




She fell asleep.

When she woke up, she couldn't move. The soles of her bare feet pointed east toward the rising sun. Her outstretched arms felt the last of the cool evening air as it was drawn away and up the flank of the mountain. Beneath her nude buttocks, the hardpan earth; above her naked breasts, the sucking sky. The first arrow point of sunlight that shot over the eastern escarpment impaled her pussy, pinning her to the desert floor like a butterfly. It radiated up her toes, up the insides of her splayed thighs and into the depths of her shameless womb. Her nipples, round and stiff and icy, soaked up the sunlight until they started to burn like candles, releasing her scent into the rising waves of air. Her wrists and ankles were secured tightly to the earth. Her hair entwined in the cement-hard soil held her head in place. She did not remember how long she had been in this place. She waited as the sun ejaculated over her sensitive skin.

She heard him before she saw him. The way the dust swished and scuffed told her that he was barefooted. He approached from behind her head and she really never saw his face. What she saw, looking upward, was two towering legs that ended in a heavy ball sac and a strong rigid cock. She could only watch as he stroked above her. She could only watch as his full nuts swung above her in rythym with his pumping fist. She could only watch as the bulbous head expanded and he shot cum all over her naked, immobile, body. Then, he left.

She lay there, rivulets of jism tickling the sides of her chest as they ran down her to drip onto the desert floor. She could smell the sweet pungent odor of his sperm as it baked and dried on her brown skin. The scent made her wet, made her ache. Lost in the aroma, she barely noticed the others. They stood, crouched, kneeled, bent above her. Men of all shapes and colors, all beating their meaty cocks above her freely offered body. So many cocks. They kept cumming on her. They coated her body with white thick streams of life. Some men pissed on her, some women did, too. Some women planted their crotches above her lips and squirted their juices over her face and hair. She glistened and sizzled and popped and fried in the blistering desert sun, covered with sex, sweat and pee. She was animal, she was earth, she was the chalice into which life poured. She took it all; it kept coming. The ground beneath her became mud; she sunk into it, becoming part of it. She was all woman and every woman who had ever sprawled, crawled, sat or walked upon the planet.

As the sun dipped below the western edge, the air chilled and drew her nipples up and nearly off her chest. She was planted. The roots of her sunk deep into the playa and spread in a fairy ring about her. She should have been uncomfortable in the cold, but the heat of her growing, dividing, splitting glowed within her. Dried cum flaked off her shell and blew into the baked and cracked mud of the ancient lake bed. With each puff of wind, she became warmer, incubating the fertile eggs of humanity's passion. She lay there, under a buck moon, her tendrils weaving flesh in every direction.

In the morning, when the sun's return flowed like melted butter across the desert, the crop was illuminated: bone hard cocks, rolling balls, obscenely open pussies, upward-arching asses, rising nipples, undulating breasts, gaping mouths, grasping fingers, curling toes. A sea of sex, in all directions, flowed across the playa from her firmly-rooted form. As the sun climbed higher, a wonderfully sloppy symphony of sex escalated toward collective climax. The cocks waved like poppies in the breeze; the pussies pulsed and gaped and leaked like squeezed lemons. Women gathered and squatted on the cocks, licked the pussies; men wrapped the grasping fingers around their cocks or shoved their members into open holes of every size; women sucked nipples; men fucked assholes. No combination of joy was overlooked. All day, the sweat and piss and saliva and cum of humanity spilled and pumped and spewed around her, as she sank further and further into the mud. By nightfall, she had become like her children, the holes into which life poured, and from which life and joy spread.

2 comments:

  1. I think I like this creation story better than the "traditional" one.

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  2. Yeah, the Methodist church ladies I grew up with need to hear that one on Sunday!

    Beautiful Mr. BAK! It makes me think of the Burning Man art theme for this year: Evolution, the tangled bank. "At night the tangled bank will come alive with luminous life forms scratching, crawling and slithering their way through it. This space will also house a pond known as the Gene Pool. Strange Ur-creatures will peep outward from the surface of this primal soup. The central tree supporting Burning Man, beribboned with a double helix, will exist in flux: switching on and switching off, changing colors unexpectedly."

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