The Last Libertine, Freedom on Trial

She stole my cock, and every new beginning mist from its unfurled head. Almost a foot of shaved vein humming dick slapped her throat, cheeks, and wanking tongue. She sucked my leaking schlong as if having a personal conversation with it. She soaked it in spit, deified under and top, hand fucked it while feeding it deep into her swallowing tonsil.

The haughty adept pianist licked out her tongue, a musical snake hypnotized by her own inestimable talent. I took a look down, to see the pianist licked for good reason besides me. She had hiked up her dress revealing her virgin, bald pussy, impaled on a vibrating dildo, apparently built into the chair.

Her cunt compressed against it perfectly, and I thought her ass might be filled as well. The psychologist bent over the piano, offering herself to me. I spanked her snow colored ass, turning that pert hide fertile red.

My hands opened her in an attitude of master, one who inspected and subjected patiently. She was huffing for my hardness, spring dew river wet. I saw her excited red veined eye-whites when she sucked my cock. I imagined her heightened desperation.

"Forever. The poet and psychologist," I said, easing inside her. My dick found her cunt floor like a ship hitting the ocean's slippery bottom. She cried out. As I began to pound her at a gradual pace she spurted gash goo all over me.

Impulsively, but dramatically tuned, she jumped off my bone and rushed to eat her juices from my slick balls. Her face was boar-wild. I yanked her tongue wiggling mouth back, bent her over the piano again, and drove into her.

My mean thrusts were rough smacking fucks that made her shake. We fucked like lovers and lifelong enemies. We screwed standing up, on all fours, and lip succulent spell out sixty-nine. She rode my cock bucking her crotch... In one of our sixty-nines, her velvet diva mouth coerced my pudding fuck to spigot down her throat.

Our orgasm was meta-physical. Our time phase-locked, both parties like gelatin orbs writhing across space. All we heard was the piano and the climactic synchronicity of sexualized ethereal atoms. I locked my mouth on her pussy too, chomping on her meaty cream hole until my tongue choked up her clam butter.

If one of us were to remove our stuffed mouths, there was no doubt we would scream like big bangs in sinful serenity. Never did we know time! Our last act in the castle was on top of the piano. She declared that I must "fuck her ass." She wanted to stage her most shameful filthy part. During this I saw my host spying from a fortress window 30 feet in the wall. He had come to watch the most radiant of shows. I pumped up her butthole until she begged for it hard.

Her knotted spasm back door was a celestial gateway won by pain and crude trust. As I screwed her asshole faster, she came again and again. She abused her nipples, screamed yelping whines. Her nails clawed at my sweating skin.

"My name is 'LOVE'!" she cried. I almost busted my cloudy cock lotion, but she sensed it and spun around. Her mouth engulfed itself on my desegregated black and white meat sword. It was a shooting, spinning, pen-geyser writing bands of jizz jazz. She ate every word. I said so much...

Later, we had more fucking with the pianist, other partners, and the host... Even among such molten pornography we clung together as if faithful. I found out her career began as an analyst for institutions. When a greater calling (one more broad, unrestricted, occult) forced her to ruminate on liberal experiment psychologically, she quit. The system didn't want her to think like an enlightened seer, they wanted restrictive roboticism, drones to rules and one aim - stagnance. This castle I spell in words of my essence was her first vacation after quitting.

She said she knew "something" divine or life-changing would happen, once she agreed she would come by a mutual doctor friend of the host. We married like a "love" of no other, carrying out mantra sessions, tantric sex, unconscious exploration, and rituals beyond any known method in psychology/transcendentalism...

Our life was a library of books in sexual positions, rooms tailored to insight our phase lock powers. We wrote things together in more ways than one - yet we created one... The child's name is "Euphorion". For your devilish curiosity reader, the psychologist's name (-- my wife --) is "Colette."

We are doing what must be done in the universe, what love! Lust matches faith, and cosmic awareness of will. Like our democracy, it is a rare, golden monument. I believe we are under a threat as a country, but it (like each pebble on earth) is only mere hairs on our galactic beast!

The beast's tail continuously eating itself is LOVE. I wrote these deeds to enlighten your doubts, to breathe stardust into your eyes. See with new eyes...Love infernally free...!

With that last sentence, the moist Inspector tore her own starry eyes away. She was close to tears and an orgasm. This prosecution would be more difficult than imaginable. How could such a repugnantly romantic pervert have love thrown (star flung) into his lap?

He was extremely protective and loyal to his wife and son who had not been found yet. Eventually, they would be, and she would process their un-American beating hearts also. Research had to be done on the child's name, which she knew had mythic meaning.

No magic could save this interracial revolutionary born with Martin Luther King's dream blood. Tearing her from her thoughts, her emergency beeper rang. "What!", she yelled. "I'm sorry Inspector, but there's an emergency of red priority --". "What? What emergency?" "Code LAST LIBERTINE, he's escaped --" a magic silence captured the Inspector...

THE END