Surfiguration

The tree with a hundred eyes

 It goes hand in her hair blond to her middle back. Splendor. Home of soul. Delectation. Speechless without limit, I extend my being. Pearl, lipstick, bra, mini skirt, black stockings and stiletto heels. I watch as the fire eats the straw it will start. A few steps into the garden path and the car starts. Destination? From the city ... The world ... She cry and walk in front, behind me at twenty paces. I walk in fascination, she witchcraft. I walk with words the acting, I say: "I burn the evil in my breast. "I also said more calmly:" Nothing is more spiritual than a woman in corset. She trots. Passers return. The whistle. They are servants. She shakes her hair. Her bare breasts to tip, they think: 95 C cup! The route of the idol is in them. Me behind, I keep track of my righteousness, I am a buffalo attached to the belt around his hips, I'm crying in her ass fool who desires!

She sits at a sidewalk cafe. It is beautiful, the air is clear, she orders a coffee, she said: "A long coffee" by crossing the legs so high that sees beyond the edge of her stockings. Me, leaning against the bar, I'm indifferent, I veil my face with my words, I do not say: "I brought her here so that everything is revealed," I order without giving a hand to my excitement, I told the boy looked at her breasts, her bottom, her thighs, her mouth like a courtyard that is sweat: "You, you count my wandering, I tell you the payroll thanks. I poetizes. I module. While she still laying on the terrace among the attackers, crocodiles, and it oppressed putasse with persistence, I do my best, leaning on choregos with music, song and poem, I say: "It my injury, it upsets me and I unbosom myself! "

© Cauda

She gets up (his dear seem canceled, they later told their son, their fathers, their peers, who knows what else, I do not care anymore), I walk behind her to climax. Until the a priori form of the most perfect happiness. She will pay my vows, my desire stretched over it like chalk on the stone.

It is. I'm hiding behind a bush a little from all branches, trees, grass laid on the ground, and I ask a branch, so that no one sees me more. She sat on the bench.

It's a summer morning, the walkers are still few, some hurried through the park without roots, they go, others musent, badent dreaming after their dogs. There are also some couples who do not dwell on the beautiful waiting to play the elect astray. I say: "Show yourself, I give it to you to see but do not t'illusionne, it is the line, you're the fish. "Here it is. It comes from. He approaches. It was the sixties, a bit bald, light linen pants in a plaid shirt. Is this a sign? Yes. I can see him on the breath of my own cherishing. It will be dedicated, and made his life there, here, before it (scattered, moist, beautiful, booty wide open). He remains without a mouth like someone who eats no food. And I equally like a calf grazing in the hail ...

In return, I drive it. Quickly. Clenched teeth, without a word. At the last fire (the city disappears behind us) I open the glove box. And it's extraordinary, they are (the salt is in the salt box!) I pass and I accelerate, with printing to redeem my mistake. They are black leather, and without remission. So I say, "So you little slut still showed the old, all your debauchery, groove your finger down your grommet far? Say? Tell all! Say how you generated for your button and it all aside for the love of you! At this speed (I say this as I read: 135) is quickly countryside, fields on either side of a small road in laces, then the forest. "The woods! You hear! "The tires squeal. I rise sharply to the right a dirt road that plunges under the trees. I always ride with vitality, certainly, but in the caress and the splendor of the leaves, and while back in my chest my rumination, I say flip a voice that all at once: "Come down! "

© Cauda

She is standing there impassively as a terminal, camping without shuddering his reproach (it clear himself) when I pull her clothes. Do keep for her that her flesh, her stockings, her pearls and heels: she is naked, she triumphs. I told him to move where there is no trail or anything, where it affects the abundance that creeps on the ground, where green is a burr-free lawn. "Go! She wavers, always head up (his hair crochent branches and legs to the spine). She wobbles and it has the most beautiful ass in the world! A cul gold madness. Makes me ass and militiaman, whip in gloved hand, knock, I add to his turmoil, I hit twenty, thirty times, at every step, every yard, where it threatens to fall at every blow. I hit in order to enjoy! (She is my war). I hit up the tree, ours, the appointment of oak, the tree maker well: he has a hundred eyes in height! I tied up, hands up (the first branch that overhangs his head), her golden hair flowing over her back. Her belly and her breasts stuck out of the trunk, and I enter into it as at noonday.

Jacques Cauda