Canonical hours My mailbox always smoked when a letter from you filled it. That’s how I imagined it. Set on fire. For the burning desire contained in each of your words. And the plastic of the computer melting every time we masturbated online, facing each other, without saying a word. You always asked me in writing to put a pillow under my ass so you could better see my fingers unraveling a complex and wet pussy. This is how we met. By Internet webcam sex. And so we decided to nurture this relationship. Like the good old school, you told me. In an epistolary way, using the best of new technologies. And so I spent months with my hand buried in my pussy, my legs shaking, weak,
contracting in brief spasms, my cheekbones red, and my mouth dry. Reading you. Connected in a darkness broken by the light of the computer, you asked me to turn around and my thighs were heavy. My hair spilled across the mattress and onto my sweaty face as I shifted my position and exaggeratedly arching my back so you could get a good look at my ass. Your shadow looked like a ghostly apparition. Open it well, you said. I want to see it throb for me. And I obeyed. I imagined your mouth on my neck and then your breath near my anus. You smelled like Heineken and three packets of cigarettes. You pressed with one hand my buttock while you played with your cock. And you were whispering something that sounded like evening prayers. Then you would hum a song with the same rhythm you were moving with. A sung mass, perhaps. Fervor and stubbornness were the threads that shook your hips. I tried to look at you on more than one occasion out of the corner of my eye but you always prevented me by pressing my face against the pillow. That’s what pillows are for. To kill someone in their sleep or stifle groans. You told me you dripped and stunk of sex. Or maybe it was me. Sometimes, I was confused by the ringing of the Malware indicating that it had expired and that I had to restart the computer. I have not updated it for years.
As I crumpled the white sheets and ate tissue, my head followed the chorus of your song against the head of the bed. This noise and that of the waters in my pussy drove you crazy. They always appeared in my fantasies, for a moment, the seagulls pecking at my back. But it was you, scratching me, marking me like a man possessed. Then you bathe in the sea and you get screwed if the wounds sting with the salt, you told me, seriously. The sea is far and you are so close, I answered. So close. They were the few words he managed to pronounce. You would grab the little cross-shaped pendant that drummed between my boobs, tore it off, and put it in my mouth. And you kept me from spitting it out until I was completely drenched in saliva. So I couldn’t scream, but growl like an animal being chased by your damn hands. And you would lower my head even more, if possible, to better slide between my legs, thus wrapping your whole body around me. The metal smell of the pendant was starting to fade on my tongue. It was a taste of war. The one we had in this bed, separated by a blue screen and some imaginary trenches.
A strange wobble of two bodies because one wanted to be more carnivorous than the other. And I, with the cross in my mouth, trying not to swallow and destroy my windpipe. When you were about to come, you would put a hand on my forehead to pull my head back and stare into my eyes. You looked bigger and more imposing from that angle. Bright, even. It was difficult to hold this posture and my eyes got wet. You hated that. This is not the time to cry. Lock the fucking tears in the closet, you let me go. And He held on. I kept blinking several times as you turned me around to fuck my mouth until there was not a single drop of your milk left. Only afterward would you turn on another lamp in your room so that you could show me how irritated your dick had become. You asked me to spit out the pendant covered in my drool. Only after all that. Only at that precise moment. And your cock was swelling again. We could spend hours and hours like this. All night. With you it was like visiting a country you did not know, waking up in the home of a stranger, and feeling at home. With the echo of Matins. The liturgy of your hours.
