bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

This wheel lept out, said " shoot me ".." alright on the way back " i said,fumbling for the pocket camera, i always carry with me somewhere in this tiny van having loaded myself into this sunny saturday morning.It spoke of many things,why should it be abandoned left alone some art work perhaps, or simply some car feeling horny and decided to lurch into the future on three wheels..this small stretch is particular friendly to luvers on the back seat, sperm and spunk hanging from the hedgerows,kiss me quick hats imported from Blackpool are sometimes the strange things you face left over from the heat of the moment empty condom wrappers tossed out lay next too the nights feast of Roland Mcdonald bun-fries,the remains of the one bite throw away, full of climbing ants filtering past frogs slurping from beneath stray bluebells.

I found the wheel that morning in the bright sunlight the air still crisp, rather horny gulag troglodytes shivered in the shadows, the crispy playground in my mind laughed..strange man..yes i know....but that still did not stop me from thinking i could pull my cock out and just touch it once before some rolling monster on four wheels came flying around this tight country lane....had i passed in the warm night air riding on shank's pony i might well have lingered longer flowing my seed down the black burnt rubber.

Instead i floundered for a second in time for a quick instant shot...a four be four clipped around the corner i caught in the act, the driver shook his head..was that because he was not going fast enough..perhaps he was late, or did he think i was wasting my time and would have been better off riding with him and sucking his cock...
Do i have a fetish on old rusty machines abandoned, the smell of oil broken glass from shattered windscreens, spiders delight and yet if i have one fear it is spiders webs on my face..i cannot wipe off fast enough, scary thoughts rumble through the black passages in my crazy street mixed clouds floating in my daily thoughts...then there is that smell of dying leather and the wonder of whom who once sat or paid out crispy pound notes for the once glittering splendour,if i could escape the beasts guarding such rotting pressed steal and feel the warmth of night air on my skin what fun one could have haunting some old scrap yard, ejaculation.

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