/lit/ - Literature

>Sorweel could scarce breathe. His spit seemed gravel for swallowing.
>Two pale forms against depths of grey and water-green, the one slight upon the one hard, locked in a clenching, quivering embrace.
>Kissing as though the other possessed the sole breath.
>Grinding, their groins famished, piercing and knowing.
>Never had he witnessed such a thing, breath-stealing, filled with rage and horror and imperious lust. He was not who he was for seeing it. Not one of his concerns survived the trespass before him. Not his father. Not the Tear of God that would avenge him.
>Nothing mattered save this...
>The children of a god mating. The woman he loved betraying...
>His little brother called out for him. He found him, grasped him, cold fingers opposite a burning palm.
>And he coupled with the sinuous image writhing before him, arched in answer to the man's black-haired grunting, spilled his seed to the girl's high blonde cries.
>She lowered her head to his chest in carnal exhaustion and lay there, her breasts kissing the barrel of his chest, her back bent to the arc of an oyster shell. Sorweel stared, held motionless by the shock of his dwindling ardour. Shame. Elation. Terror.
>Knowledge that he could not move without alerting them robbed him of the ability to breathe. He stood stupefied as she turned to him and smiled.
>He ducked in abject panic and shame.
>"Who are we," she called out in a drowsy laugh, "for you to abuse yourself so?"

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