Rotten Leaves

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Sitting in the woods on the bonnet of my car, the headlights illuminate a circle of trees and this is the stage.  Underneath me, the engine ticks itself quiet and smoke gently wafts from an overheated radiator.  I can smell wet trees, burned oil and dead wildlife.  A rustling and a snapping of twigs announces your arrival.  Swearing, you emerge from behind a curtain of ivy and it is showtime.

Your toe pokes out of your thigh high stockings and your white bra is covered in small brown circles where you stub out cigarettes on your breasts.  You dance and twirl around a thick puddle of soft mud, shards of bracken and the corpses of failed saplings.  The lace thong is perhaps an ambitious mistake – dark hairs curl around the gusset like trapped spiders.  But when you swing those hips, I am in a trance for weeks.

We usually fuck in fields of freshly cut grass to hide the smells; warm iron and bad breath, sweat and yellow fingernails.  But here in the woods, I ask you to climb onto me.  As you walk my way, your foot disappears down to the ankle in mud with a horribly graphic sucking noise.  You gasp with distain, pull your leg free and continue hobbling towards me with one brown, slimy boot.

Kneeling over my prone body, I feel the metal hood beneath us buckle and protest.  I grab a handful of your hair, flecked with pollen and little bugs.  The natural scents of the forest are replaced with cheap vodka and even cheaper roll-ups.  You kiss me with chapped lips and I feel my skin melting like pizza cheese onto yours.  We fuck so hard the lights go out… only later, as we cuddle ourselves into an amorphous gel, do I realise that the battery has died and we won’t be going home tonight.

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