Diary Of A Degenerate 7

I woke up with an unfamiliar and pleasant scent in the air. There was a woman beside me and for once she didn't stink of stale sex from a night of fornicating. I reached down and grabbed my cock, it's lack of soreness confirming last night's chastity, then quietly scrambled out of bed to take a seemingly endless piss in the bathroom where I noticed she had done some essential decontamination last night while I slept. There was even a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging next to the shitter instead of being perched atop the sink counter, something that I hadn't seen in at least a few years. I made the uncharacteristic effort of washing my hands before returning, hoping the sound of running water would disguise my otherwise absolute filthiness.

When I returned to the bedroom she had already gotten up and was making coffee, nude, in the kitchen. From behind I could see the whisps of dark hair from below the base of her ample ass protruding slightly and I became aware of a morning erection.


"You don't have to do that, love" I told her, but she said she was happy to take care of me, and after all, I probably needed some coffee after last night's drinking. I turned on the radio and was happy to hear of some tragic shooting on the east coast. Dozens injured, at least three dead. She brought me a cup and sat at the table where she pulled another cigarette out of her purse and watched me drink it. She had her legs crossed high up as if to preserve some modesty despite her nakedness, and it was giving me fits. I drank the last of my coffee and walked over to her, snuffed her cigarette out on the table and dragged her into the bedroom.


We fucked for the better part of an hour, and she was making quiet whimpering noises that made me think she was either really enjoying herself or I was raping her. Either way it was great. I finished off, wiped my dick on the sheets, and lazily rolled onto my stomach while she ran her fingers over my back. She noticed the scars there and commented that they looked like I was an angel that lost my wings. "If I had wings they wouldn't be the kind that had feathers, babe" I replied, and avoided telling her the depressing truth that they were belt buckle wounds from a childhood event involving a broken window and a drunken father. There was a kindness in her that was foreign to me and it would be terribly irresponsible for me to poison it with my cynicism. I sat there while she petted me like some beaten dog until I abruptly sat up and got dressed. I told her I had to see about a job I applied for yesterday, which was partly true, but mostly I was trying to escape for some ridiculous reason that I couldn't identify. It was only after I started my car that I realized that I might never see her again.


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