BPTP April Fool's: Motley
BPTP description: Black currant, rhubarb, mushroom, champaca, and myrrh.
Rhubarb and Black Currant are making sweet, sweet love, so entangled in each other that I can't make out where one begins and the other ends; they are truly one. Their coupling fills the air with the aroma of real, not candied or fake, but juicy, fresh, real strawberries. As their pleasures build, their complementary rhythms stabilise, and they emerge individually briefly. Rhubarb, tarted up gleefully, gently rides the more traditional and staid Black Currant.
Just as I identify them, decaying Mushroom ninja grips me so fiercely, envelops me so utterly in his musty folds, that I can't detect anything else afterwards. I especially want to discover some lovely Champaca, and I'd even welcome bitter old Myrrh at this point - but alas, Mushroom ninja won't share me. If I cautiously creep towards the scent and move back as soon as I spy Rhubarb & Black Currant intertwined, I can evade Mushroom ninja - but I can't properly ogle the happy fruity couple, so what's the point?
Maybe if I leap right into the fray, things will be different. *holds nose, slathers copiously* Oh, god! now Mushroom isn't even bothering to sneak up - he's outright raping Rhubarb & Black Currant, marring their copulatory beauty, thrusting his dusty, rotting spores into any available opening. He has permeated them completely, and the once gloriously gleeful gays are now victims in a sadistic, grotesque threesome.
Like a car crash or that goatse meme, it's horrifying but I can't tear myself away. I blink, or glance away now and then, but my gaze returns each time. Champaca and Myrrh, similarly mesmerised, draw nearer. Even tiptoeing in and hunching her shoulders a bit, Champaca can't dim her innate loveliness, and as she approaches she gleams more and more brightly, like a candle as it gains wick.
Myrrh is the crafty sort, in that I never know quite what to expect from him. He's unpredictable in timing and appearance. In all incarnations he is old and wizened, with a long beard - a misshapen, scarred sorceror. I suspect he knows the secrets of ancient Egypt, so even though he scares me a bit and I don't enjoy his company - I wish I did. He seems so wise, if gruff in his ways, and I think he could teach me things.
Here Myrrh's experience shows - he waits until Mushroom has spent himself and rolled off Rhubarb/Black Currantm, though the sadist's stench still fills the air, but passively, or maybe I've acclimated. Alas, Mushroom has beaten down his victims beyond repair. Trauma and misery have united them more than ever; they cling to each other and raise their heads limply now and then, but collapse weakly each time from the exertion.
So Myrrh rolls in, and though he has taken his sweet time, he's not pulling any punches now. As he strides up, his heavy cloak unfurls thick fumes of black smoke which prickle my eyes and cloud my vision - both a pro and a con, in this case. Champaca has stronger glamour than I, and the noxious vapours seem to swirl around her without quite touching her. Somehow, she's able to stand apart - she's thrown off her gown and her pale curves glow fiercely like unicorn horn. I try to touch her - it's almost compulsive - but Myrrh's bitter smoke bites at me and the sticky residue of the earlier rape coats my skin.
This is so not my type of scene.
Rhubarb and Black Currant are making sweet, sweet love, so entangled in each other that I can't make out where one begins and the other ends; they are truly one. Their coupling fills the air with the aroma of real, not candied or fake, but juicy, fresh, real strawberries. As their pleasures build, their complementary rhythms stabilise, and they emerge individually briefly. Rhubarb, tarted up gleefully, gently rides the more traditional and staid Black Currant.
Just as I identify them, decaying Mushroom ninja grips me so fiercely, envelops me so utterly in his musty folds, that I can't detect anything else afterwards. I especially want to discover some lovely Champaca, and I'd even welcome bitter old Myrrh at this point - but alas, Mushroom ninja won't share me. If I cautiously creep towards the scent and move back as soon as I spy Rhubarb & Black Currant intertwined, I can evade Mushroom ninja - but I can't properly ogle the happy fruity couple, so what's the point?
Maybe if I leap right into the fray, things will be different. *holds nose, slathers copiously* Oh, god! now Mushroom isn't even bothering to sneak up - he's outright raping Rhubarb & Black Currant, marring their copulatory beauty, thrusting his dusty, rotting spores into any available opening. He has permeated them completely, and the once gloriously gleeful gays are now victims in a sadistic, grotesque threesome.
Like a car crash or that goatse meme, it's horrifying but I can't tear myself away. I blink, or glance away now and then, but my gaze returns each time. Champaca and Myrrh, similarly mesmerised, draw nearer. Even tiptoeing in and hunching her shoulders a bit, Champaca can't dim her innate loveliness, and as she approaches she gleams more and more brightly, like a candle as it gains wick.
Myrrh is the crafty sort, in that I never know quite what to expect from him. He's unpredictable in timing and appearance. In all incarnations he is old and wizened, with a long beard - a misshapen, scarred sorceror. I suspect he knows the secrets of ancient Egypt, so even though he scares me a bit and I don't enjoy his company - I wish I did. He seems so wise, if gruff in his ways, and I think he could teach me things.
Here Myrrh's experience shows - he waits until Mushroom has spent himself and rolled off Rhubarb/Black Currantm, though the sadist's stench still fills the air, but passively, or maybe I've acclimated. Alas, Mushroom has beaten down his victims beyond repair. Trauma and misery have united them more than ever; they cling to each other and raise their heads limply now and then, but collapse weakly each time from the exertion.
So Myrrh rolls in, and though he has taken his sweet time, he's not pulling any punches now. As he strides up, his heavy cloak unfurls thick fumes of black smoke which prickle my eyes and cloud my vision - both a pro and a con, in this case. Champaca has stronger glamour than I, and the noxious vapours seem to swirl around her without quite touching her. Somehow, she's able to stand apart - she's thrown off her gown and her pale curves glow fiercely like unicorn horn. I try to touch her - it's almost compulsive - but Myrrh's bitter smoke bites at me and the sticky residue of the earlier rape coats my skin.
This is so not my type of scene.