The room is always white.

Not warm-white. Not the glow of innocence or peace.

No—this is sterile. Blank. Merciless.

A void so clean it resists memory.

There’s a sofa at the centre.

It does not move.

She does.

She is already there when I arrive.

Always is.

Lying back with her head tilted toward me, her red hair spilling like fire across the ivory cushions. Her body is bare—skin green, impossibly smooth, glowing slightly in the sterile light.

The first time I saw her, I flinched.

The colour. The wrongness.

But then she smiled.

And I forgot what shame was.

I walk toward her. I watch myself walking.

My hips sway. My thighs flex. I study my own ass with the strange detachment of a voyeur who cannot look away.

I know it’s me. I feel the floor beneath my feet. The ache between my legs.

But I’m not inside myself. Not fully.

She rises as I near, slow and fluid, like a goddess unfurling from myth. Taller than me. Thinner. Hungrier.

She extends a finger and runs it from my bottom lip to the space between my breasts, down across my belly as if drawing a path she already knows.

There are no words. There never are.

Her lips meet mine.

And I open.

We touch in mirrored rhythm—hands in hair, then gliding down the slopes of our bodies until fingers rest on buttocks, gripping, holding, guiding.

Her tongue tastes of leaf and heat.

Mine must taste of want.

Our breathing thickens.

My thighs part.

She slides two fingers between them.

Dark green sliding into pink.

I bend forward to meet her. Open wider. Deeper.

Her hair curtains her breasts, but I part it.

I suck her nipple into my mouth—deeper, darker than the rest of her, like a bruised fruit that needs to be bitten.

My fingers reach between her legs. She is slick, almost glistening. Sweet.

She presses my face harder to her chest as her fingers speed inside me.

No words. Just breath.

My body folds.

The orgasm comes before I’m ready.

No noise. Just light exploding behind my eyes.

The floor trembles. The camera in my mind shakes.

Everything pixelates—then sharpens.

I am on my knees, head resting beside her cunt.

Hair red as fire. Lips green as spring.

She raises her leg and hooks it over my shoulder.

She pulls me in.

I don’t resist.

I lick her. Slowly at first, then faster.

The taste is unlike anything human.

Sweet like sap. Or rot. Or nectar.

She grinds against my face, the rhythm urgent, building.

Her legs tremble. Her fingers grip my skull like antlers.

She presses harder—

And then she breaks.

She cums with her whole body, pulling me so close I could disappear into her.

And then—

She opens.

Between her legs, something emerges.

At first, it is just a shape.

A swelling. A movement.

Then a head—thick, veined, green.

A cock.

It pushes free of her with impossible length, pulsing, growing, rising like something pulled from the deep.

The shaft glistens. The head leaks. Her eyes—once dark—now burn with red light.

She smiles.

I don’t move.

Can’t.

The shadow of it falls over my face.

I lean forward and kiss the base.

My tongue follows its length—a long, wet journey guided only by the line of spit I leave behind.

When I reach the head, she grips my hair and pulls me down onto it.

No tenderness now.

This is not romance.

This is a claiming.

Her cock fills my throat—fast, deep, relentless.

I gag. Drool. Moan.

She fucks my mouth like she owns it.

Like I was made for this.

Through tears, I see her laughing—eyes wild, mouth open, a demon in the shape of desire.

She lets go. I collapse onto the edge of the sofa, coughing, gasping.

Then I feel it. At my entrance.

She pushes in. All of her. All of it.

I scream without sound. My whole body vibrates.

She grabs my ass, her nails biting deep.

Each thrust splits me open.

Every inch of her inside me is a new orgasm.

The room shakes. The floor pulses.

White dissolves into colour, then back into nothing.

She doesn’t stop.

She fucks me through wave after wave—

and I receive her like prayer.

Her balls slap against me. Her cock grows, expands.

It feels like she is trying to fill every cell of me.

And then—

She cums.

She erupts with a thrust so deep I swear her moans fill my mouth.

Her cum pours into me, thick and endless, spilling out, pooling beneath us.

It drips onto the floor.

It runs along the white walls.

It splashes the ceiling.

The room shudders.

I lose consciousness for a moment. Or hours.

When I open my eyes, she is cradling me.

The cock is gone.

The glow remains.

Her fingers stroke my back.

I tremble. I weep.

I do not want to leave.

But I always do.

In the morning, the sheets are wet.

My thighs are bruised.

There is no green woman.

Only white light through the window,

and the ache of something inside me

still opening.