Brine
“It’s my pickle. I can handle it. I’m a self-appointed CEO.” his laughter turned to a quiet gasp as both understood the stress advancing through his jawline, invading his temple.
“You know pickles, I know dissemination.”
Fake News’s smooth, slippery fingers were rapturous as they traced the pain. The pain. It moved his raging breath against his racing scalp. A profound hush fell over the room, broken only by the occasional squishy rustle when their bodies reflexively spiked against each other— reflecting together.
By the time 30 minutes, the most sensual amount of time according to Forbes.com, had passed Ben’s skin cells felt like jail cells designed to hold only cosmic sparks, as though an entire galaxy of shrouded static shouted, “Yes, do this weird thing!”
Do it. Ben. Whatever weird thing you’re considering, the Universe would like you to do it.
With a shuddering sigh, Ben felt the closeness of Fake News’s morphing form. Fake News responded in turn, letting out a panting, excited trill that seemed to reverberate from her millions of eyeballs (rather than her one bot mouth). It resonated somewhere between a lullaby and a gurgle. The intensity of it triggered goosebumps all the way up Ben’s suddenly itchy, firm calves.
“I liked that mixed metaphor up there” Fake News said, emitting the words with pores full of gaseous precipitation “if you’re a jail cell then Book my Face in it. Book my Face all over you right now”.
Fake News’s mouth became broad and overwhelming, capturing Ben’s curious tongue in a wild organic path.
In the next immersive, surreal instant, the two surrendered to the quickening rush of viral sensation. Their bodies aligned in a gentle, urgent opus, like the classical cover of Landslide (which you can find on Spotify here).
Taking a steady dive, Ben let his sturdy hands traverse Fake News’s slick, textured frame. The studied contours were unlike anything he’d felt before. There was a gentle pliability to Fake News’s limbs—rubbery but phenomenally inviting.
Hush. This is an unspoken understanding, if there ever was one. Now. A thrilling bolt shot through Ben’s slender core as Fake News pressed forward— further and faster than he ever thought she could avail herself.
The combustion caught Ben by surprise—a sudden rush of warmth that rolled up his entire being, knowing he was surrounded. Already intimate, yet unready.
Where do we go from here? He knew that once retreated he would still be torched.
“Changing this overnight, they’re not prepared to take this on.” he muttered, but no one understood his plea. And the engagement. To them, it simply felt so, so good.
“Please, it lights up some minds now, but you need to understand how dangerous this is if it goes unchecked.”
“Cool, sounds good.”
Click here for the next human reading: Desert Etiquette
click here for the first generative ai piece: ai only gets lowercase (no title case until a title case)
