By Detroit Jack, Phallus Press Writer - Sun. Aug. 9, 2:57 am TT
Photos by Detroit Jack
Boa hugged the creases between the ceiling and the walls, ready to strike the only scent detected through the darkness of night . . .
Slow random tasting of the pheromone ladened air, the thick silky atmosphere lay heavy in the dew of the late summers touch upon the colored skins of the hidden . . .
Blinded by survival through a harsh fraught existence, gallantry abounding in a weakened body of being, at the mercy of evolution . . .
Weary scales of damaged love guarding regenerated vessels of bloodied perfume to be lavished like Spring rain, washing away the doom . . .
Coiled openly, unseen, heptagrams warning of potency and spell, that would enslave in rapture the choice of prey, bringing succor and warmth, in the ending hours . . .
Paralysis laying out conscious eyes as clear stretching juices moisten the rigid lips of the feast at bay, glands swollen with perfumed sacks of heavenly musk . . . Boa struck.