Cruel

Standard

Bodies.

Hers was slippery. Smooth. Like fibre. Plastic?

Plastic doesn’t sound good when you use the word. It is supposed to denote fake and the distasteful. I liked her plastic body. Because in it there was no pretence. She did not try to be real. Her fakeness was erotic.

I rubbed my hand over her fins. Lightly at first. Feeling the water drip from it. Then hard, pressing against it. Feeling the smooth plastic produce friction against my hand. Heat. Warmth. I let my legs dangle in the water. Bare legs. She sensed my longing and moved closer. She was swimming upright. Like a buoy. And her mouth smiled. Cute, I thought. I rubbed my feet against her back. Hard. The water in between my feet and her back made a sound against the plastic. Elastic, plastic. I thought. She looked happy because her mouth curved. She nuzzled her nose in between my legs. I stroked her head. She let her tongue slide over my shorts. Over the crotch.

It was time, I thought. I jumped into the ocean. No one noticed. The boat moved on with the little islands which sailed it. I was sucked into a whirlpool with her. It was blue, very blue. Her tummy was soft and supple. Not plastic. I touched it rubbing . I think she laughed. A balalaika played somewhere. Drawing closer. Fast. With a noisy chirpy accordion. And jolly. Very jolly. The mood was festive. Several others circled around us and watched us dance. I was flying in the blue water. I kissed her on her mouth. Like an understanding mother, she drew her fins about me hugging me tight and I felt her tongue curling about mine.

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