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"Did you dream about me last night, Steven?"
"I found come on your bed this morning. Dog was going to lick it up, but he didn't when I came in. It was thin. You need more of Mama's cooking, that stuff spread on my hand like milk. Mama wants you to be strong, doesn't she? She wants your come all thick and gooey. Eat up, there's a good lad, oh that's a good boy. Swallow it down, that's right."
In this blurring, roaring cocoon he felt the weight of the gun, and he felt Cripps against his back, arms circling to the front of his pants, unzipping, pulling down. Then Cripps was in him, pounding at his arse, whispering encouragements he couldn't understand but which filled his head with a mounting pressure,
The slaughtermen hung on and moved faster, blood on thighs and stomachs, howling through corded necks until one of them fired a boltgun and made the beast close like a fist and all six of them shot seed into the torn, dying guts that had hoped one day to swell with the weight of a calf. Steven's eyes closed.
he heard the voice behind him he froze, thinking it was Cripps.
What did it matter if they loved each other or not as long as each could be used as a screen against the world?