THE FLAMBOYANT YEARS OF ONE FAILED STAR.

LES FLAMBOYANTES ANNÉES D'UNE STAR RATÉE, by Pascal H.
*SHORT EXTRACTS* OF THE 2012 FINAL VERSION RIGHT HERE!

ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!
Over 1,000,000 worldwide web readers already did! Hymne à Berlin, Hymne à la Sodomie, L'Épicier, Battery Park...Ratonnades à pédés!
A MUST READ! GLAMOROUS!! SEXUAL!!! DECADENT!!! And more!
Definitely NOT! Politically correct
!!! POWERFUL & SO REAL!
WorldCopyrights@SACD 2011/ # 245252, 75009 Paris, France.



Thursday, June 16, 2011

A new Abraham. 2011 version.

The Man.


This man, this terrific man I did not know so well, this infinite male power, this force of a king I did not know at all, this absolute virile beauty who only loved girls without knowing I was a pure woman inside and an experienced slut who could satisfy him beyond any pleasure he knew, this prophet of mine whose all sensitivities I could feel and read with passion between his lines, drove me mad. His long grey hair, his perfect Hollywood biblical beard, his noise and his lips, his intellectual looks of one real artist made me want to hit his mind and beg for his cock to hit me. His prick, of which he was a bit afraid of me being too attracted to as only a sex maniac queer, upset him a bit, though tolerant and opened to my whims as he was, I probably was going over the edge of my dreams to let him know that hearing him sigh and roar like a lion when invading my deepest throat and shoot his seed deep down in it would honor me like the best reward I ever got. I knew I was making feel uncomfortable and I could understand how I could sound obnoxious to a man whose sex appeal could bring all the girls he wanted at his feet. This Jewish patriarch of ancient times with a perfect contemporary sophistication was all I dreamed of since childhood, and that meant to me the infinite power he had inside and what it meant to my world of imaginary images none of us could escape from, fucking me deep, all the way through, any way the Abraham of my visions pleased. He was The King, The Man giving birth to a brand new era, and I, as a subject, a new Eva, a new Goliath, a new sacrificed Isaac, a slave or anything else willing to loose and being scuttled like a ship in distress, just would follow with honor and pride his passing fancies beyond any decency, the way no other girl could or would satiate, and satisfy him to the fullest the way this exceptional man deserved. My passion for him could drive my mind wild endlessly. So I let my dreams go and let him know, foolish and passionate as I was, though I was fully aware how it could make him feel uncomfortable and only make him see me as a cock sucker or a pussy to be screwed. I had great and huge and beautiful circumcised dicks up my gob and I was not desperate for one more to dig in. I was fucked so well everyday by young handsome Hebrew soldiers as the woman I was provided all men's needs expectations I entirely fulfilled, and beyond, and deeper. This man who knew about cinema, art, literature and painting, music and poetry, reached all my sensitivities without knowing mine which went in the same directions than his. That was a fact already set and therefore there was to my eyes only left, the total admiration of the physical beauty of my prophet, yet so masculine, so powerful, -invincible. His name started with an A, an A like Alleluia, a Jewish glory. And me, as a goy, a half Jew I hated to be dragging along my cock's foreskin like a degenerated handicapped weakened whore, looked upon that force that meant to me in my entire soul, all the suffering and culture of his Eastern Europa ancestors. Yes, I dreamed of his fabulous cock, of the delightful sound of his sighs of pleasures his suffering deserved to throw up and give away, freely, his pleasures and his only. I did not count and I did not expect him to treat me right. I had the right guys for it. Just to admire him was already getting me wet, and putting my ovaries in fire. My new Abraham, my new Moises, with his square jaws and his shoulders of a giant, and his dick pouting out all horizons proud and strong in the zenith, loved Magritte. And, as a Parisian Montmartre artist, I could only see him from my window the way Chagall did, or write , that '' Ceci n'était pas une pipe''. For if he knew the reality of my dreams, he did not know my surrealistic dreams. And I in no way could blame him for it. I just had to comply and adjust myself to his tremendous intelligence and extreme sensitivity. Leaving aside his terrific fascinating manly beauty that suffocated me of wonders, I left to his Gods' wills, any other fate that might occur, in any case, controlling myself the best way I knew how and whether it came true or not to the sight of my visions, any other possibility.




No comments: