They’re not delicious, these sinful thoughts. Grand perversions jauntily prancing about, casting long shadows. Shamefaced and morose at the very thought of them, the beginning of the cognitive function. Pathetic premonitions and admonishments swirling around the conscious head. I mentally castigate myself and project an air of loathing, loose upon the skin, wincing and slithering down the flabby stab at thee Botticelli bodice. How I hate this regrowth of adipose tissue! My clumsiness leads to a downfall fall down and renders me useless, stuck in cast and cast aside from active duty. I lament and stammer on, growing in my corpulense as the days of our lives rambles on.

And I think, and rethink, languishing away at dreadful machinations idling away, polluting breathing space and cranial nerves. I delighted then in that lecherous perversion. Sinking deeper into the pit of Dante’s hell, exciting my little friend to a frenzy. Gathering images sewn into my brain of the pretty perfect feet I longed for. Grave, deleterious desires foaming at my mouth, busily licking and sniffing away at forbidden fruits. The smell maddens me, arouses me, automatically. I crave and rave about growing weaker and stronger in my horny escapades. I inhale in that lush smell and ohh and ahh away in this loser lump menagerie. Sick I am! What fresh hell is awaiting this dick-happy degenerate!? Every sick unfathomable wish draws me nearer the final stab in the dark. No, no, it never goes away. Nasty little contrivances and desires making havoc with mine mind. I curse myself into sleep and dream of filth and depravity. Slop around the pig pen you disgusting little cur. Lap up like the passive dog you are and bow down to sexual masters dominating your living corpse. Corpus callosum filled with dirty thoughts.

And lo did I wish and pray for secret desires to be fulfilled, given to me in my intoxicated state by higher gods of pornographic omnipotence. What a filthy muggle I was. Dastardly, drooling, sucker feeding off my own misery, putting the fair sex on a pedestal while hate jerking to cocks and lower extremities. Grind away nights in pleasure palace getting lower and lower. Must hit bottom, must degrade to a nebulous state, nonreactive. And what women wanted the obese mess, groaning with depression and sullied hands. Barely an effort made and whimpering away at dirty deeds and creepy pastimes. Panties on display and shoved upon the gross face. Writhing in euphoria and hedonism as the hormones play their symphony. No. 5 with a bullet.

And what dreams do play in my head at times. What fancies arouse the slumbering slavish satyr. Sexualis Rex. Must I embody the horned demon debasing self to gratify self? Pitchforks and hardened knives poking out. Slimy seeking imagined playthings, made just for me. Twist and pick and tongue and prick the voluptuary harpies. Ass is for the eating. Feet are for the licking. Mouth is for the abusive ramming of that hardy hard-on, delighting in the coarse flagellation. One stroke, two stroke, let loose a bevy of seedy skeezy remnants of the poor boy’s sinful play. What rapture, what disgust, what horrid acts of play were daily being done. No eyes should see or peer at dark and twisted things going bump when no one’s around. Hate me, beat me, rap me sweet. I must delve into the toy box and make amends for these indiscretions. Plucking out the deeds to torture and repent. By the grace of a better me for eternity.


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