El Búfalo Irlandés

by Horror Sleaze Trash on December 2, 2011

El Búfalo Irlandés was born in no particular place in the northwestern United States to Irish traveler’s who immigrated to America just after World War II. He currently lives in the Palouse of Idaho with his wife and two daughters. He enjoys long walks in the woods, general mayhem and typing words onto blank pages.

A Hunter’s Repose

How can you be so cold afterwards? Grania said. And she laughed, and it was carried out over the trembling moon and into the 3am mist.

Tomas didn’t bother to roll over, didn’t say a thing.

Grania moved onto her left hip, chin resting on Tomas’ shoulder. She felt his cum slide across her thigh to the fleshy mud. The air smelled of sex and sulfur. Water slapped at the banks of the lake. It reminded her of the act, and that made her want more.

And she said, Ah, we fucked like bangtails, din’t we? Then she leaned and whispered, Don’t worry, babe. I’ll still love ya tomorrow and tomorrow.

Tomas still didn’t move.

Grania reached up for her jeans, knocking the bulky revolver it into the mud, the barrel still warm to the touch. The roach-clip and lighter were in her front pocket.

You want a hit?

Tomas did not answer.

Grania sat up and shrugged. She cocked her head, lit the tiny speck and pursed her lips, kissing at the air. The red-hot cherry pulsed and then dropped, rolling across Tomas’ bare arm and chest.

Oh! Sorry, she snorted, trying to hold it all in while brushing the ash from Tomas’ thin, black hairs. Then her face reddened to purple, and she let it out in a single, fabulous rush.

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