Sometimes when they fucked, he imagined that he was a great machine, a turbine, as was she. Made to work together, the relentless pounding of pistons and friction never wearing on the well oiled parts.
Her knees would up around his face. His face would be in her hair, smelling the auburn scent, fillings his soul of it. His breath drinking wisps into his soul. The noises still rang in each of their ears. Her scream and smile echoing through the caverns of his mind. Sometimes they loved so hard that things had to stop before starting again, they had run out.
