the quiet room is a place of... contemplation. time moves differently on that side of the door. it moves at the pace of flesh and pleasure and this (now and then) is to stop time inside our heads allow us to linger on what really matters.
outside the window the village paces itself to its long-set routines. the ancients shuffle from the post-office to fish mongers to the doctors surgery, then - a full days work done - shuffle off back home to boil cabbage and apply whatever ointments they have been prescribed that long, long day. life is very slow in the village - and empty of purpose.
it is slower still inside the quiet room - at times - but infinitely more... creative and... dynamic. speed is no measure of industry.
the cunt blossoms in its own time. swells and opens its petals unhurriedly; springs its scented wells without tempo. the season of arousal is the only signal to wake from its long sleep.
there are prompts of course - some ritual, some visual, some... tactile. but the cunt cannot be forced to open itself, but must be allowed to soften and moisten and awaken... naturally. and no two cunts can be prompted in the same way, or tempted to relinquish their depths (and shallows) by the same means twice. each blossoming is anew and the scent is subtle, and the flavours fresh to each bloom.
two days ago i took time to contemplate the cunt as it unlocked itself from between two gently swelling lips. to aid my observations my 'subject' pressed those lips apart, tugged them (and not without some violence at times) so that they flat against her top-most inner thigh and all the better to watch the little streams of cunt juice as they spilled over to trickle down her perineum. the inner flesh darkened as it was gorged, and, almost miraculously began to glisten. all the delightful dips and mounds were sudden-slipped and slippery with wetness.
and all it took was one promise of pleasure and the slight sting of my old wooden ruler on my 'subjects' budding nipples. no more than that and cunt - visibly contracting - ran over with a creamy sop. and the streams merged and mingled... pooling themselves on wooden bench and seeping under her and between her buttocks as she began to squirm.
one strike more (even from such a simple instrument) might have sent her over - and, for that reason i spared her the 'rod' a little longer. there is no such thing as time in the quiet room and so we paused (i paused at least - though she continued to pant and the little spasms at the neck of her cunt increased in frequency despite my deliberate neglect)
my 'subject' forced her thighs further apart, tugged with even greater urgency on her thickened labia, thrust her heavy and budded breasts towards me - there was a longing in her eyes which i chose to ignore. at such times the cunt rarely knows what is best, and tends to rush the moment.
though my 'subject' (on this occasion) is not physically restrained she understands that to move now, and without clear permission, would be to forfeit the game - and that it would be her loss more than mine.
so, impatient though she is, she waits. and as she waits her cunt begins to almost baste in its own juices. the cit so swollen it almost visibly pulses and has darkened to a deep shimmering crimson.
when she is almost still, almost beyond waking again i strike down on her nipples - sharp, crisp... three blows, and cunt gushes as it almost gasps to be unburdened......
this, i think to myself, is the poetry of the cunt and flesh.
