I still recall it, the flavor of Bonbibonkers - the sweet, red licorice taste when I'd chewed her neck. In my excitement, I'd thought Bonbi's sweat was flavored, as if her body were fueled with candy, draining sugary clear syrup from her pores as we undulated and invaded each other on the raw altar of my dakimakura. I licked her skin for the taste like a naked, groveling cretin at a salt-lick. Her eyes reflected the flickering of the monitor on the desk displaying my Bonbibonkers megamix playlist. The screen cast a glow over our slithering flesh and mimicked us with gobs of writhing LEDs, as if our greedy souls had been extracted from our bodies, then encased in the Asus, transfigured into liquefied abstractions, performing suspended in the pixels. Bonbi moaned like a tortured inmate in a padded cell, in long unbroken exhalations unencumbered by consonants, possessed by a satanic force, spread-eagled and pushing out at the beast-demon struggling and clawing to get born from her cunt. I licked her underarms, mouthfuls of hair caked with flaking deodorant and roped with sweat. I licked her belly, sipping the sweat from her navel like mana. I licked her back - washing over the ridges of her spine, flicking my swollen tongue over moles and pimples, working down to her ass, diving into the vault of fermented hair and musk like a dog rooting for some buried offal. Finally, still craving and thirsty, as if each mouthful of her sweat had parched my tongue with ascorbic acid, I subsumed my face in her cunt and sponged in its weeping juices like a dazed wolf at a wound disgorging blood.
You're slouched in a corner of the room on the floor, a mixture of your drool and her juices dripping down your chin as you're slowly regaining your breath. Roxybon sitting on a sofa regaining her own strength. She locks eyes with you and beckons you closer. You notice she's already starting to stiffen again. You try but you cannot resist the siren's lure and crawl closer, sitting yourself on the floor by her feet.