"Why now?"

       He did say it. Didn't know why. His lips and tongue were untutored. He had been trying to tame them quite the numbers of time, but the eerie effort was always being defected. And saying twas, his instinct did applaud him. He tried to understand so many a things that had been supplanted. How he had given in easily to her. How he had made himself a pawn of passion. How he couldn't had stood his gaunt ground and splatter rage on the consciousness of his wanky wills. Twas more than the pull he was acquainted with. She rode him once more and sucked his face hungrily, as though a reptile had danced into his mouth to shelter. At that, her nosy nipples taunted his patience and he almost ignored the callous call of pious Poseidon. She rolled over from him and was on the bed. Damn! As she landed on the bed, face towards the ceiling, she was already clothed. He did have no idea how possible that was.  He wasn't actually trying to make meaning of its possibility. All he was trying to do was make a figment of fact from all the feigns he had been seeing since he had gotten to that world of fantasy. Well, he was yet stark naked!

      He looked towards Poseidon again. He wasn't having a cloth on. Had he ever? He was always the bare chested god. He wouldn't cover his draws neither would he force anyone to cover theirs. He was just some hibernated psychopath. Time had been testing the rage of the poet, Vulcan for naught, but time was waning. There were quite the numbers of things he wouldn't take. By the way, anymore.  No longer a subject to pain and wanky wish would he be. Never ever! There were curves on his stomach. He had no idea what they were. He hadn't seen anyone on earth who did have such spell inscribed in their stomachs. Probably what they were was the secret codes made into apt alakazam by only the gods. He couldn't be sure. His patience was being severed. He tried to make meaning of the shape. There were four strokes of smirking muscles on the right and left sides of the stomach. The strokes were immediately below and above the bare chest and abdomen respectively. There were pacts. Well he hadn't seen any one ever who had those, but all he knew was the fact that, if he were a lady, he might had fallen heads over heels for the delicate creature and creation. He was interrupted.

       The Nymph grabbed his erection again and looked into his eyes. He had no idea what she had in mind. Of course he wanted them to resume what they had dropped earlier. He wanted to suck her dry and taunt her boobs. He did have quite the numbers of plights to fix. But he needed to be sure that his instinct wasn't telling him a lie. A lanky lie that could smother his instinct and mar awed orientation. But one thing he wasn't getting correctly was, if she truly she wanted to have him again, was she blind? Couldn't she see pious Poseidon, her master, standing by the door? Or was she so daring? Or was she like him who would give no regards to any god? His thoughts were strangled as she chewed her lips with her gaze training his. She immediately left the erection and he was clothed in the same materials tantamount to the knicker pious Poseidon was having on. He looked towards the god again. He would understand alakazam later.

        He caught hold of the fork in his hand with his eerie eyes. He didn't know why and how he had missed such in the first place. Probably he needed to train his eyes more appropriately. Probably he needed to be crushed by pored patience when pruning mystery tossed by some filtered fantasy. The fork was huge. He could see it even if he was not having a hold on it. He could feel how taunting and tormenting it would be in his grasp. Of course he was trying to savor how intoxicating its presence would booze his jolting judgement and tame sassy sanity. The fork had three sharp edges. The tip of each edge was blazing. He was quite sure that Poseidon was coming from the Sea, like he swam across the depth of the sea before arriving there. How possible was it then for the fork to be kindled yet under the ferocious pounces of worn waves. How possible was it for the fire to blaze under water. Well, there was nothing impossible in the world of fantasy. He was trying to help himself realize that fact over and over again. He had no idea what he did do with the fork. He would ask him, but he wasn't in the mood. He wasn't going to set into reels quaking questions which might snap at his rage and rent his stoic stance. He was matter-of-factly recently snapping outta his subconsciousness and pulpy pleasure. He needed time to think. Time to ease the bidding tainted time was burnished in. He was familiar with quite things. Or to say, he was beginning to get familiar with them. He had no idea why he was making his fantasy a part of his reality. He knew that sooner or later he would return to reality!

         Poseidon marched towards him. That was the best word with which he could qualify how Poseidon walks. He hadn't actually had the best view of how he walks. Most of the times, he was on Leviathan. And there were quite the numbers of things he would love to see the pious Poseidon do. The towering of them all was seeing Poseidon fight! Ah! How glad he would be. He wanted him to fight with the Leviathan. He didn't know how that would be, but he would ride it into being, as the Nymph rode him to life. That is what a poet does. He looked below the abdomen of Poseidon. He wanted to measure the clown's erection. He wanted to be sure whether twas bigger than his. But telling from his muscles and all, of course, Poseidon's would be enormous. He looked closely but got something else in response.

        "It's a snake in there."

      Why had he thought of it in the first place?