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From the Beach to the Lift.

Putting my hand down, I clamp your wrist, I hold it tight, talking into you mouth “stop….stop….not yet…do you trust me?”. Your eyes glisten and blink hard, “yes” whipsered, no exhaled. Pulling you upwards, keeping you close, bodies hard against each other, we stand…”Do YOU trust ME?” “yes” the glistening now wet. “Follow me”.

Holding your wrist I walk in front, leading you, from the beach, your erect cock beneath fabric obvious to the morning beach dwellers and revellers. I tug you along, not looking back, I don’t want to see your face, embarrassed as the people look at this couple. Me pulling you along like a naughty child being made to come in from playtime because he couldn’t play nice…forgot the rules…became too rough as he got over excited.

Continuing along the beach path, I stopped and pulled you to walk infront of me. “Go on this is your locale, take me to your house, take me to the place where you take all the others…take me home” With your pouty mouth and boyish frame you silently slide past me, starting our game follow my lead. I watch you walk in front of me, assured and confident, you know where you are going and know where you have been, you know your stuff, you are a man of the world. As we approach the block, the glass doors to the apartment foyer, I watch your back. I have your back, soon I will have all of you I see your demeanour change, I see the tension, the self concious apprenhension, the weight of my gaze measured by the weight of expectation. I smile wryly as I know you are begining to feel the fear, insecure, rattled by what you think I will do to you, make you do, make you feel. I shrug and shake my head as your discomfort, it doesn’t come from me, it comes from you. MY hand on your shoulder I stop you, you jump, startled at the physical contact, I turn you round to see your beautiful face, you biting your lip as you look at me “Don’t worry, don’t be afraid….all I am going to do is make love to you…how hard can that be…” Smiling, fully, I tilt my head, your troubled anxious face makes me laugh, it is funny, “you’re being silly…come now…take me to your love nest!” Embarrassed at your macho boasting of before, you turn and walk into the marbled cold foyer, clinical pristine and icy cold.
The lift is warm – grabbing hold of both your wrists, my Boy, my beautiful slutty Boy, I pull you close to me and bite your neck, letting go, I force my hands hard up over your cheeks, forehead and hairline, your glasses dislodged and uncomfortable, I push the hair from our face and pull your head back, your wanton slutty mouth eager for my kisses, you melt and submit. I step away, leaving you, back against the lift wall, head back, neck exposed, panting, I know that you are wishing you had breasts so you could really live the heaving breast sensations you are feeling. I grab my non-existent cock and grieve for it, for I want more than anything in the world to fuck you hard up against the wall of that lift, like a dirty wet hungry whore. Making you scream for my cock as I inpale you, trap you, make you take my all. For now we will just have to be satisfied with me having the breasts and you having the cock.


About Prim Quim

I am an artist and therapist. I work within the themes of sexuality, repression, guilt, greed, contradiction, objectification, compulsion, itches that need to be scratched and bruises that need to be pressed. I am a consentual bruise presser, a boundary straddler and limit pusher. I interview people and witness their lives, I write about what I see, how I feel and all the beautiful fragments that make up my reality. I am the sum of all my parts - some bits move and other parts are static, some bits need oiling and other bits just run and run. I am both subject and object to myself. I am slave to my Art and so are the others who come into my sphere. I objectify and use, interrogate and examine - I need their reality and reasoning to lay alongside my own to compare, contrast, season and gorge upon. Exponent of automatic writing, compulsive self realisation and daring myself to go further.

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