December 9th, Year 22

The pulsating migraine. A beating of pain, forcing me to stay closed up in a tight bud. The world outside existing in grey, flickering static. Sounds are muffled but loud. Light is razor-sharp. Everything presented is a poor imitation of reality. It is familiar enough, but it is deceitful. I am up, but I am shaking.

A call came through. One of the women from The Order of the Frustrated Cunts has asked me to become she and her partner’s lover. They find me attractive, and have decided that I would be a wonderful addition to their sex life. Perhaps I could bring them both a glass of water, once I was done being pumped full of seminal fluid. And if I was a real darling, I could even cook them a hearty meal.

There, in a bed occupied by three, we would happy. Overtaken by pleasure with every breath. Lost in an orgasmic fog. No reason to think, only feel every finger, every suction, every thrust. A woman, made for man and woman. A man and woman, made for woman.

I feel much like an apple, plucked from a tree. I have been chosen for my color and shape. Because I have hated apples all my life, I rejected their offer.

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December 9th, Year 22

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