It may surprise you to learn that C. Moore is a creature of habit. Rising early, getting the joy trumpet set, and starting work on the first load of the day has been the way it has been for as long as I can remember - even during those regrettable periods when I found myself detained at Her Majesty's pleasure was I able to observe the same routine, even if some cellmates were less understanding than others re my needs.
These days I live an ever more monk-like existence - rarely going out, interacting only with delivery drivers and the occasional hawker. I think of my modest apartment as my cell, my sanctuary, and my morning release as my first daily act of devotion.
The routine keeps me out of trouble, keeps me away from yet more days in court, yet more sessions with the psychiatrists and psychologists, yet more long nights behind high walls with restricted internet access. But the routine is also designed (by yours truly) to maximise the time I have to spend in adoration of the muscular female.
Some say female muscle is their porn. For C. Moore it's religion.
And today my joy trumpet rose - not for the first time, not for the first time this week even, and certainly not for the last time - and rang out in praise of the bum of Bakhar.
I see my hands on her magnificent calves, skin so soft and yet never giving as they continue up to and over her hamstrings onto those monumentally glooty wonders. Quivering with excitement, I wonder if my fingers can fit under those shorts...
The shorts are suddenly gone. Now there is nothing between my face and my objects of worship. I press myself into the centre of her muscle heart just below them, emitting my prayer of devotion in gasps and moans of ecstasy and no little amount of drool...
To the beach. I follow her, like a dog their master, like a bitch in heat. I throb, held in a state of constant arousal by the sheer beauty of her thong-framed rear in motion. "Stop!" she whispers, her words carried on the wind. "Go!", "Come!", "Hold!", "Cum!"...
I pull out. It's too soon. The morning prayer must be a minimum specified length because if too quick, the tribute is too small, and the goddesses would be displeased.
I consider Bakhar from another angle. Her exhibitionism, her fan loyalty, the perks (financial, sure, but also emotional - to be "loved", "worshipped" by a following equivalent to the population of major European city can't be bad for the self-confidence, can it?) of her trade. Her business is that body. Business is good.
She could have 10, 20 guys in that room. 10, 20 joy trumpets sounding out for her so superior posterior. C. Moore obviously arrived a little late and has to take his place at the side, but there are always silver linings and in this case it's the view of both the sacred, untouchable wonder to the front and the excitement and explosions she and her wonders are causing to the side. It feels good to be part of the congregation...
But even better to be alone with her and them. The garage makes me think of lube for some reason and just as I do my lube of choice starts leaking out. Polish the joy trumpet, make it glisten like her perfect skin sweaty after a hard gloot sesh. My (actual) head begins to tilt back in ecstasy, my eyes begin to roll, and my whole body starts to shake. Moaning, gasping, bucking, gooning, my prayer reaches an ecstatic climax...
BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!! BOOM!!!
The joy trumpet rings out in four mighty splats against the altar screen. It's the perfect half-gloot peek - the thought she actually walked into the gym like that - which takes me over the edge. I start to chant, "BUM-BA-KHAR-BOOM" as I squeeze out the last few droplets from the twitching, pulsing tribute-maker. "BUM-BA-KHAR-BOOM!"
Morning prayer is over. Time for some Weetabix.