Prawnography

They lie, motionless, occasionally you see a glimmer of light in their emotionless eyes. They know they are being selected, that their bodies are being scanned, their curves and protrusions examined and weighed. They seem to try and blend into the corners, and hide their ripe flesh from hungry gazes. To no avail, they are beckoned out of their hiding places, and resign themselves to being served before you. You take it slowly, knowing that they are unwilling participants in this, until at last your appetite robs you of self-control and you tear into their soft pink thighs, the audible splitting sound both terminal and erotic. As their soft and perfect inner parts yield to your assault, you need to pause, and wipe your mouth; you call for more, until the sauces and juices have spilled down your chin and to the floor. Their nakedness does not offend, it stirs you, drives the primeval passion, your id seems in control, and you will not, cannot stop until the act is done and you fall back among the ruined evidences of your gluttony. Their sacrifice was your satisfaction, your desire their ruination.

There has to be a better way of doing this. I have the horrible idea I’m going to get crabs, next.