This is something i originally wrote for a friend a few years ago, following some "disagreement". The original copy in french can be found just after. I've tried to recapture the mood to the best of my abilities but obviously, i'll let you be the judge of that.

 

Julius is fond of creation.

Unclad, to the floor in fetal position.

Moment of pure elation.

His head freed of thought, gazes now at the masterpiece.

An incongruous sense of unease takes him. Something morbid.

Still, he ventures forth and embraces the delicate fragrance.

In the bathroom, he is alone.

His face nears in to better contemplate.

He resists no longer and pushes in. Pleasure submerges him.

Face sullied, he licks, still.

He dares now and bedaubs his body, his torso

Lovingly, his gleaming "guns".

His body is taut with pleasure.

Surely, comes the moment,

the grandest thrill.

Placing himself to face the ground,

He leans in, ever so slowly, as to prolong pleasure.

And feeling the orgasm come now,

chokes down rabidly with a mouth full of teeth,

the turd that is his.

 

Original version:

Ode à Florent

Florent aime la création.

Nu, a même le sol, en position fétale. Moment pur de délectation.

La tête vide de pensées. Il contemple sont œuvre.

Pourtant il se sent mauvais. Quelque chose de morbide.

Il poursuit et hume le doux parfum.

Dans la salle de bain, il est seul.

Son visage approchant de plus prés, pour mieux contempler.

Il ne résiste plus et ne peut qu'enfoncer sont visage. Le plaisir le submerge.

Son visage sal, il lèche pourtant.

Il finit par s'enduire le corps mais surtout le torse,

Sur ses beaux muscles luisants.

Son corps se crispe de plaisir.

Finalement vient l'apogée,

Son plus grand plaisir.

Se mettant face au sol, il se penche doucement, afin de faire durer le plaisir

Et sentant venir l'orgasme,

bouffe à pleines dents,

La merde qui est sienne.