Asphyxiophilia I think of her one breath at a time

Every time I gasp with a loosening grip of a fragile life, I feel more alive than ever before. Can it be when struggle is most upon us, we know what it is to be alive? Can death bring us closer to our life, our fleeting moment of passion wherein nothing is certain or confined?

In the corpse field I look towards her dark skin with lust, blood of the moon staining her inner thighs an oiled-blackened hue, as I grow close the smell of the fresh life within her and the corpse she was attempting to lay upon, rotting in the cremation ground.

The blades in her hands were stick crudely in the limbs of the corpse, all the while beckoning me closer. I wanted her as eyes were mirrors into the abyss glistened with the darkest fire of life and hunger.

With a noose made from the entrails of another she asked me to take my member and with the corpse below us, face bloated and flies buzzing in swarms, to fuck her to know God. As I felt the pressure of the head entering her moistness, I felt a form of

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