As she came hard for the second time in an hour, she let out a low moan and breathed a long melodious sigh. In a drowsy state of satiation, Lilly reached forward, turned on the faucets, and pushed the plunger that started the shower. The warm water rained down on her and little brown streams of dirt and grime and sweat began their meandering their way into the tub where they merged and flowed to the drain, forming a whirlpool that sucked the sordid evidence of the night’s forbidden lust down into the depths of the city’s sewer system. As she stared sleepily into the cleansing downpour, Lilly noticed that the small remaining reservoir of cum from her homeless ravager was leaking from her pussy into the tub and being carried away with the dirt and grime. She smiled wistfully as she watched one of the whitish globs float away and spin in ever tightening circles around the tub drain. By the time it vanished into the vortex, Lilly was blissfully asleep.
A mile and a half away, the derelict veteran lay back against the headless parking meter, the now-empty wine bottle tucked between his legs. He was slumped forward, the memories of the night’s pleasures already eroding under the steady beat of the waves of alcohol that nightly washed away the good and the bad. The one night of pleasure out of the many thousands of nights of relentlessly unforgiving harshness was being taken from him before it could be recalled even once to blunt the sting of any of the countless nights of anonymous, wretched misery that were sure to come. The torn, sweetly feminine panties that had been unwittingly enfolded into the quilt and stuffed back into a shopping cart would be the only inexplicable trace of this strange and wonderful night’s respite from cold and inhuman suffering, loneliness, and hopelessness. And as he drifted off into the fog, no one asked him if the trade of this night’s passionate memories for the numbing sanctuary of the bottle was a fair one. No one asked and no one answered.
The preacher stood on his porch a few blocks from the defunct park and stared intently into the early morning starlight. He had already seen a few faint streaks, but they had died almost as quickly as they had appeared. Now, as he studied the twinkling vastness, two glowing pinpoints appeared suddenly and simultaneously at 9 and at 3 o’clock in the celestial vault. As they fell, trailing twin tails of sparks, their trajectories clearly set them on a path of intersection. The preacher watched, transfixed. The intensity of each falling orb seemed to increase as they approached one another, until at the instant of impact (or did they simply cross paths, one passing just behind the other?) their lights merged and seemed to explode with a brilliance many times what either had been before. The flare lit up the night sky for an instant, but died quickly as the two projectiles, their energy now spent, hurtled away from each other in opposite directions, into the empty blackness of space.
The preacher was unprepared for the sudden, dazzling display. He marveled that what most would consider space garbage, celestial flotsam and jetsam, had just shamed the stars with their brilliance and beauty. That it had occurred at a time of day when few could see or appreciate it seemed to him somehow appropriate and he felt privileged to have witnessed it. That there could be any other significance to the event did not occur to him then, nor in the next Sunday’s sermon when he would use it as a metaphor for the Creator’s subtle artistry in even the simplest and humblest of His creations.
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