There was a guy once, who had a way with his fingers and tongue.
His fingers could do things, almost as if they weren't fingers at all, but polymorphic objects capable of changing into whatever shape was necessary at that moment to get the job done. His fingers could move in ways no other fingers could, and all the while the dirty talk his tongue crafted flowed in a constant stream.
It was a moving experience, watching his fingers work their magic while his words cascaded over me.
I would lay back naked on the bed in that tiny studio, listening the the foulest string of profanity and obscenity. The words were an odd counterpoint, at times erotic, other times insulting, never dull.
Right there, right there, yeah, fuck, baby, that's where you like it, isin't it?
That's what I like to see.
Yeah, spread that shit out for me, baby.
OH YOU DIRTY FUCKER! FUCK YOU, YOU BITCH!!
That's it, baby. Yeah, baby, that's it!
Work it. Work it! WORK IT!!
Oh, you fucking whorebag! You dirty fuckslut!
You WILL do what I want. You WILL take my command.
Yes. Yes, like that. Oh, yeah, honey. Oh, baby.
I would lay back naked on the bed in that tiny studio, watching as his fingers worked, feeling the expectation building within me, hungry for the payoff, but knowing he would tease me for what could be hours, sometimes it seemed days, before he would be finished, before he would let me crash down from that titillation, from those teasing heights of expectation.
I was never disappointed with the outcome, only surprised at the methods. The words more than anything shocked and appalled, confused more than comforted. It was as if he worked agianst his goal, as if he opposed himself and his muse every step of the way, insulting the very medium in which he created such beauty.
When his fingers had created what his mind envisioned, they were some of the most amazing sculptures I have ever seen. I have never watched another sculptor work, but I'm fairly certain his methods were his alone.
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