To the east, beyond the hills, passenger flights hang in the sky above
cooling runways, like toy planes in a distant bedroom, held aloft by invisible
fishing line. To the west the
lighthouse stands pale against the sky, dwarfed by the horizon, punctuating the
long curve of the aching bay with an inverted exclamation mark. Shadows lengthen, making it into a sundial. The camera swoops around, doubles back,
follows the cycle path and road right back around the bay and climbs Main Hill,
with its terraces of terraced houses forming steps to the summit. The steps are deep enough to allow front and
back gardens and mature trees. The
camera slows and enters phantom-like through the sandstone-arched windows of
her third floor flat just as Maeve2 arrives home.
She is free at last from the auras of other people. The room is a cloister. She lights a joss stick and puts a CD
on. She walks around, looking at the
furniture and welcoming clutter, touches the edges of bookcase shelves. She breathes consciously. The window has been open all day. The leaves of the elm tree outside flicker,
alternate emerald and yellow, so when she frees herself of her sandals, and her
jeans and top, and her underwear, the breeze that raises goose bumps across her
breasts and hips, and stirs her pubic hair, smells green and gold and mingles
with the sea and the coconut incense and the yesteryear pulsing of Eno
music. Through a screen of lowered
lashes and dancing leaves Maeve2 spies a distant smudge of white smoke from the
power plant. She breathes in deeply
through her skin and ears and nose, a feel of the time and place: a hippy
science fiction, echoing from childhood.
Pausing at the big old fireplace where dried flowers stand sentry in the
hearth she brushes the mantelpiece with dreamy fingertips. Her gaze fractures. Stiffening her arms, placing the heals of
her hands against the edge of the mantelpiece she leans her weight against it,
lets her head drop forward; her face draws itself back into the shadows of her
brown hair. Moondance clicks through
her inner eye in a montage of freeze frames.
His cologne spirals with coffee through her inner nose. On the shoulder of the leather armchair by
the window is the hat that Maeve2 isn’t sure is a trilby or not. He would suit a hat like this. She walks over and lifts it up, examines it
with thumb and eye. She raises it high
into the air and holds it there, imagining Moondance beneath it. Then she places it on her head and turns to
the mirror door of her wardrobe. The
hat accentuates her nose, making it look even bigger, until she pulls it down
low over her eyes. Now she must tilt
her head back in order to peer out from beneath the brim. She watches the naked Amazon in the hat
carefully, who suddenly walks towards her.
They meet at the mirror, press against each other, each feeling the cold
hard surface flatten their breasts and bellies and thighs. She glimpses Moondance standing behind her,
stepping up close, his breath warming her left ear, his body mass pressing her
into the mirror, crushing her intimately.
She stretches her arms upwards and presses herself further forward,
straining to optimise the amount of skin to glass surface contact. She mists the mirror with shallow breath,
closes her eyes and imagines she is horizontal, lying face down, Moondance on
her back, drowsy, falling asleep maybe, so that she will be held accidentally
captive by his weight until he stirs.
She feels the slow heaving of her breasts against the glass and time
passes. When she opens her eyes she
steps back and peers from beneath the safety of the hat into the shadows that
hide the Amazon’s eyes. The Amazon kneels
on the floor before her, back straight, parts her knees wide. Maeve2 watches as she is moved to touch
herself. Moondance appears behind her,
also kneeling, also naked but for a hat, cupping her rump in the hollow of his
thighs. His hot dry erection stands
upright, resting between her buttocks, aligned with her spine, attuned to her
chakras. His big blue fingers slide
beneath hers, become their shadows. She
shows him how to touch her and feels a fine, fuzzing field of electricity
coating his blue skin as she leads him to where she is waiting. A gap between tracks on the CD draws the
room into a sudden, deep silence that makes her feel exposed, and which she
pierces with a startled yelp.
Away across the docks to a pocket in time: a set of parallel terraced
streets line up along the length of Dockwall Road. Dumpy Rita lies back on her single bed, naked beneath posters of
David Cassidy and The Bay City Rollers.
A wooden wedge has been jammed into the gap at the bottom of her bedroom
door. The Rollers sing Bye Bye Baby
from her record player, censoring the annoyingly loud buzz of the primitive
vibrator she is pressing against her clit.
Her fantasy date for the evening is the same one as always. Maeve1, suddenly paying attention to
qualities he has never picked up on before, has selected her at last from the
ranks of the more popular girls at the youth club disco. Driving her home he has managed, against her
earnest attempts at resistance, to insinuate his way up the stairs and into her
bedroom, somehow undetected by her parents.
After a deliciously prolonged period of coaxing and wrestling he has
teased her out of her clothes, licked her body in every imaginable location and
is now entering her under the strict understanding that he will ride her ever
so gently or be asked to stop. His
voice soothes and reassures.
“Of course, Rita. You can trust
me. Sincerely.”
The heat waves coming off his cock tell a different story and, even as
he makes the pretence of being the gentle deflowerer, the tautness of his body
and the immediate movement of his hands to take hold of her hair betray his
uncontrollable need – for her, and her alone.
Dumpy Rita presses down harder with the vibrator.
Outside, and down the street, Pauly’s double decker is parked up by the
side of the garages. By reclining on
the back seat of the top deck he knows he is out of sight of the upstairs
windows of the houses, and safe to masturbate.
Cigarette in left hand, dick in right, he finds himself standing in the
living room of his flat before a tall box, as big as a coffin, which has been
miraculously delivered to the eighth floor.
The box has a Plasticake logo on it.
He has been waiting for this delivery a long time.
Slowly, reverently, he opens the box, folds open its flaps. With a deep breath he whips away the
covering sheet of bubble wrap like it’s a veil, to reveal the latest model from
the Plasticake Cheesecake range: a Plasticake 3000. A helpless moan escapes him at the sight of her perfectly shaped
thighs, with polished chrome finish, materialising from beneath the short wispy
negligee. Her gleaming arms are slender
yet strong, her neck long and fully articulated. Her proportions are mathematically precise, her breasts the
firmest on the planet, complete with ten-year guarantee. Taking the remote control from the box he
smiles, and turns her on at the flick of a switch. Eyes lighting up she steps forward, hard round hips swaying with
a smooth movement that suggests finely tuned suspension. Her mouth is a circle of perforations in a
polished metal surface. Her voice, when
it comes, is pure digital velvet.
“Master,” she sighs in erotically modulated tones. “I am programmed to please.”
Pauly champs down on his cigarette and cocks his head.
“Ya got dat straight.”
He lifts the hem of the negligee and casts an appraising eye.
“My pussy is made from a durable yet yielding body-forming latex that
will mould to your shape. Self
lubricating, vibrating, temperature control and muscle contraction features are
included. Would you like to configure
my settings?”
“Baby doll … ya sure know how da talk dirty.”
She takes him on the sofa, straddling him and wearing a cowboy hat,
while her voice control cycles through a random selection of sampled sighs,
moans and phrases.
“You’re the man! Ooh! Your Peter’s inside me! Mmm!
Teach me to sing! Yes! I’ve never been to China Town before!”
Camera pulls back, out of the fantasy, out of the bus, leaves the
street behind and curves above the rooftops and roads back to normal time and
the estate of council houses at Mount Clement.
In Vera and Annie’s garden a brightly painted and well-groomed gnome
guards a mound of earth, rubble and cider bottles. A buckled old shopping trolley lays there, wheels held aloft,
brittle and disregarded, like a dead fly on a windowsill. Inside the house expensive yet tacky
furniture has been made tackier still by neglected beer spillages. Heavy-duty glass ashtrays, industrial sized
brewery ashtrays and meat pie foils have all failed in their mission to contain
the cigarette ends that have multiplied and overflowed like randy Cheezy
Wotsits.
Vinegar Vera walks into the living room, hair wet, a vast beach towel
wrapped around her. Annie is naked,
having showered already (their dream is to convert the bathroom into a shower
room so they won’t have to take turns anymore), and has been playing with
herself in preparation. She is slouched
in one of their giant leather armchairs.
Now she shifts her hips forward, projecting her pubis beyond the edge of
the chair and splaying her thighs wider.
Vera kneels. Her big fat hands
move to Annie’s knees and rest there lightly, fingertips tracing spirals to
infinity on the soft skin. She lowers
her head and delicately nibbles her way in from Annie’s right knee, taking time
to mouth and suck the inner thigh at its highest point before skipping over the
cunt and working back outwards along the left leg. When this ritual has been completed in fullness, and Annie is
shifting and fidgeting in a suitably needy anticipation, Vera lowers her jaw to
Annie’s cup and unfurls a tongue that is broad and thick and muscular.
Closing her eyes she dreams of Susan Brown. Cradling the fragile beauty in her strong arms she runs
fingertips through her clean dark hair, kisses the small perfect mouth lovingly,
becomes lost in her scent. Susan
Brown’s eyes glow with the emerald colours of a summer forest seen through a
teardrop.
Annie twitches and groans and bites her bottom lip, harnessed and
buckled to immobility in her mind’s eye, helpless on her back as a latex sealed
Susan Brown whips her tits and laughs.
In his rented room in the student house on Biscuit Crescent Adam Norman
also works towards a Susan Brown fuelled climax. Bjork gazes down at him from a poster above his bed as he tugs on
his sock-clad hard-on. Having tricked
Susan Brown into entering his secret, government funded laboratory he has now
locked the doors, injected her with special stimulants and unleashed the three
tentacle monsters that he has genetically engineered for the soul purpose of
raping her and impregnating her with more tentacle monsters. While horrified, mortified and revolted,
Susan Brown cannot fight the effects of the stimulant, nor the mind altering
secretions of the monsters themselves, which soon cause her to become hopelessly
addicted to this sort of thing, even as she howls with shame.
“How can you!” she demands between orgasms.
He jots down a few scientific observations on his clipboard before
looking up.
“If I didn’t do it, somebody else would have to,” he says coldly.
Camera pulls back. We head for
the Marina.
The Devil’s body jerks back and forth on the floor of the hotel room as
the two fat barristers spit roast him.
A third, smaller one prances around them like a goblin, pulling on his
cock, telling them to work harder and asking when it’s going to be his
turn. He slaps the Devil and calls him
a little bitch. The man fucking his
arse grips his sides like he wants to rip his kidneys out. The man fucking his face holds onto his hair
like it’s the mane of a runaway horse.
“Make them cum, you filthy little bitch!” squeals the goblin.
The Devil keeps his eyes closed, trying to tune out as many senses as
he can by focusing on the texture of the carpet under his fingers. He takes himself far away, finds himself like
a stranger, standing on a beach in heaven, watching the gulls glide and the sun
rise, feeling the cooling breeze sooth his red skin, listening to the rolling
of the surf, the rolling of the surf, not another soul in sight. The sky is an eggshell, sealing him in.
Cut now to the adjoining houses of the three Hags, out on Golden Hill
Lane. Each of them lays in an identical
bedroom, on a single bed, right hand in pants, middle finger rolling clitoris
in a clockwise fashion.
Lavender Hag is remembering an old lover, long gone. Sunlight falls through the bedroom
window. He is laughing as they make
love, about the size of her underwear.
She is laughing too. The scent
of honeysuckle wafts in from the garden.
His cock is narrow but long. She
traces the top of his left ear with a fingertip. There’s a triangular dent there, and though she always meant to,
she never found out why, and now it’s too late.
Pink Hag is a schoolteacher in the Wild West. Indians have surrounded her single room schoolhouse and now she
is defending it valiantly with a handsome deputy. He’s impressed by her ability with a rifle, but she’s running out
of bullets. It’s only a matter of time
before the redskin warriors overwhelm them, leave the deputy for dead and carry
her off for ravishment. She hasn’t yet
decided whether he will recover and rescue her (belatedly) or if she’ll be made
a permanent member of the tribe.
Magnolia Hag is remembering an old German shepherd she used to own, who
had a curious tongue and an eight-inch dick.
Pull back and move down Peninsular Road back towards town. In Cwm Cross all is quiet at Gumbo’s
house. The three kids have inexplicably
retired to their rooms and the grownups, sensing they have enough of a window
to lay out the tissues, wet wipes and lube on the bed, have wedged a chair
against the door. What they like to do
best is sixty-nine while fingering each other’s anuses. Gumbo invariably dreams his head is
burrowing between Maeve2’s wonderful thighs.
For Mary, she is with her sons.
This evening she is covering Liam’s small penis and balls with her mouth
and rolling them over her tongue before sucking on them, while Daryl diligently
licks her out. She stops sucking
periodically to sigh, and she groans: “Good boy … good boy.” Gumbo thinks she is talking to him.
Pull away and travel out onto the landing. The kids’ doors are all closed so the camera must travel
ghost-like through the wood. Today
Daryl is graduating from humping his mattress to using his hand. Keeping his foreskin firmly sealed in the
grip of thumb against knuckle he squeezes his erection rhythmically like he’s
milking an udder. He’s a couple of
years older and he has slipped out of the house to meet Susan Brown. They ride out around the coast on his secret
motorbike and find a sandy little bay that is hard to get down to. They build a fire. The sun is balancing on the edge of the sea. She lets him strip her and touch her and
kiss her. It’s the sight of her belly,
as he slowly pulls her skirt down, curving perfectly down to the mound between
her legs, that makes his erection really hurt.
She waits patiently as he takes his time. She knows she would be laughed at if people knew, but she can’t
help herself. She just thinks he’s the
cat’s whiskers, and she says so. After
pulling her little pants off he touches her lightly along the creases at the
very tops of her inner thighs, suspecting she might be especially sensitive
here. He is right. He plays with her until she is ready. He smoothes her hair out of her face and
traces a fingertip from her temple down to her jaw as he enters her. The world is absolutely silent around them
as they fuck. He is aware of her hard
white teeth, her hot breath on his ear.
She moves a hand around to his bottom, her eyes dancing, and pushes him
deeper into her. She moves beneath him,
showing him how she likes it. The
silence stretches outwards, into the past and the future, forever. The beach becomes bathed in the red sunset
glow. He is aware of her smile, slow
and ecstatic. They fuck and they fuck,
and nothing changes for the longest time.
Next-door Liam has buried himself beneath his duvet. He does not touch himself, neither does he
hump the mattress; he simply lies there, small erection aching as he is rescued
from a burning building by Susan Brown, who is wearing nothing but a little
underwear on account of her being woken up by a sudden and unexpected terrorist
attack. Explosions rip nearby buildings
apart and terrorists run back and forth in the shadows down at street level,
intent on their important terrorist business of destroying the city. Liam has been injured by a stray bullet and
must be gripped tightly against Susan Brown’s body as she clambers and climbs
up and down wrecked buildings to try and get him to a hospital. He’s most likely going to die, but she won’t
give up. When she needs to cross from
one rooftop to another by way of a steel tightrope she quickly decides to
clench him between her thighs so that she can dangle beneath it and make her
way, hand over hand, across the street that is a havoc of fire and violence so
far below. It is a slow and laborious
process and Liam is rocked back and forth between her legs, grunting from his
injuries, but valiantly holding on to consciousness. The trouble is that Susan Brown’s exertions are making her sweat,
and her legs are becoming terribly slippery.
They are only halfway across the street and her grip on both Liam and
the tightrope are both failing. He
suddenly discovers a little strength and manages to throw his arms around her
hips, gripping onto her knickers (he’s sure she understands that he’s short on
options), but it’s no good. He and the
knickers begin to slide inexorably downwards.
Things are looking pretty grim.
Pull back. Swerve away and through the wall into
Chloe’s room. Five-year-old Chloe. She is clutching the Hulk to her chest in
one hand, tracing the primroses on her wallpaper with the other. Her gaze dislocates back and forth as she
lies there, because a seventeen-year-old boy has just climbed in through her
window, and she is sixteen, and now they are climbing trees together, and the
bark is as vivid as the real bark in a five-year-old’s world. His name is Jonah and his hair is black and
they are going to be together forever, and later they are going to go
skateboarding. The grassy hill they are
on slopes away for miles, and far below is Cylinder City, small as a toy town,
lost in cloud.
Pull back, pull back, pull
back. Back to the Mount Clement estate,
where Gypsy Woman is being enjoyed by Sidney Poitier and Denzel
Washington. This is only to be expected
for she is a gorgeous young would be starlet looking for a break in
Hollywood. Her family lie ill and
destitute in their trailer. Sidney and
Denzel know she is desperate to make ends meet. They see no reason why it shouldn’t be their ends that meet
inside her. Secret audition cameras
film discreetly as they flip her periodically like a burger, making sure she is
done equally on both sides.
Back, back, back. A big house on Devon Drive, tucked discreetly
out of sight of the road. Stroking
himself ever so lightly the Mayor thinks only of Susan Brown undressing,
slowly, slowly, slowly. Then she
touches herself. This is all he needs.
In his empty new apartment
in the bowels of the Cylinder Tower Moondance strips, thoughts of the girl he
bumped into as he was leaving Gumbo’s filling him like an intoxicating
vapour. She is a genie, made from the
essence of sex, and he is her lamp. He
is erect already as he lies on his back.
The bed is the only object in the room.
The walls are white and windowless.
With a hostile discipline he rubs his thoughts out and takes a moment of
blankness, before starting again. He
begins his fantasy with his mother and brother being led by a distinguished
blue physician into a pristine white room, featureless but for a hospital bed
and a minimal amount of medical apparatus, including a large colour
monitor. On the bed lies Moondance,
naked and sleeping, electrodes attached to various parts of his body, including
his temples, chest and his erection, which is standing perfectly straight,
pointing to the heavens. High in the
wall is a long glass window, beyond which stands a gallery filled with friends,
family and dignitaries belonging to the upper echelons of blue society. All watch with a repelled fascination as the
physician switches on the monitor, explaining how it is wired to Moondance’s
inner dream world. From the clean white
room they watch. On the screen a dark
scene is unfolding. A sea of filthy
human primitives surrounds a hugely stepped Aztec pyramid, which rises tall
into a twilight sky of broken black clouds.
The camera of Moondance’s inner eye glides over the heads of the
undulating crowd of savages, up, up the steps to the summit of the pyramid
where Moondance stands, star-shaped, arms and legs tied akimbo to two great
stone posts. His chest heaves, his
mighty arms strain against his bonds.
Giant drums are beating. Fires
are burning. Susan Brown kneels before
him, a sliver of whiteness in the dark.
She removes her small hands from the tip of his cock where she has just
fixed a clip to his foreskin, pinching it tightly shut. Now she rises and lifts a large amphora
brimming with golden wine. With a wild,
half-maddened smile she uses her fingertips to flick some of the wine across
Moondance’s face and shoulders where it sizzles and spits, evaporating
instantly. Moondance writhes, throwing
his head back, catching a glimpse of a gibbous white moon above and behind
him. The rhythm of the drums intensifies
as she climbs onto her captive, holds his head back, pours the wine into his
mouth, letting it splash and overflow as it fills faster than he can
swallow. The amphora contains limitless
amounts of wine. Through blinking eyes
he sees the moon become a crescent, the first stars beginning to shine around
it, as she makes him drink. He
thrashes, his skin burning, but Susan Brown rides him easily, pouring, pouring
more of the golden fluid into him. His
stomach fills, then his bladder, then the skin sheathing his cock swells like a
gourd. The pain becomes unendurable,
and yet … through a delirium of agony he suddenly sees that Susan Brown is
standing before him, her eyes clear of all traces of madness, alight instead
with sanity and love. The flimsy rectangles
of material hanging from the jewelled wire encircling her hips waft away and
she is naked, her pubic hair black and bold, her cunt red. Her cold arms and hands reach out and sooth
his hot skin, spreading spilt wine across its surface, and somehow he endures
the colossal build up. The sliver of
her body presses against his, cooling white on burning blue, and she straddles
one of his huge legs, smearing herself on him while licking wine off him. He must surely split apart at the
seams. She winds her body around
him. Each and every one of his muscles
strains, screaming for release. He’s
going to burst. She places a small hand
on the gourd. It is taught and smooth
and dense with fluid. She rubs her soft
palm over it and he knows he must die.
“Release me,” he begs in a
tight voice. “Please.”
She hushes him gently, and
she continues, lovingly, mercilessly, her teeth and tongue here and then there,
her thighs clenching and sliding.
From the white room the
spectators witness his dreams of bestiality in silent, frozen judgement.
Pull back.
Pull back from the depths of
the Cylinder Tower and zoom way out to Pennarch, across the golf course and
down the winding, pitted, sandy path to Susan Brown’s chalet on Pebble
Lane. She is about to fuck Mitch up the
arse with the double ended strap on she is wearing. They have already syringed his hole with lube and he is bent over
the coffee table in readiness, but now he baulks.
“I’ve changed my mind!”
Susan Brown groans and rolls
her head. She grips the protruding
dildo and uses it to grind its partner up inside her.
“Good,” she moans. “I’m glad.”
She fucks herself gently.
“You really won’t let me do
you unless I let you do me first?”
“S’right.”
“God, that’s so tight!”
“Not as tight as you’re
gonna be.”
Mitch takes a series of
short sharp breaths, psyching himself like a power lifter. Then he lowers his chest back onto the
coffee table and grips the legs, his muscles standing out.
“Okay, come on! I’m ready for it, come on, give it to me!”
Susan Brown winces, disappointed
but not surprised, and gets down into position.
“Okay, you little pig,” she
says, guiding the tip to his anus. She
starts to push.
“Oh fuck!” he screams.
“That’s right,” she says
through gritted teeth. “You better
believe it, you little piggy. But you
know, you can just say the word and this will all be over. Just say the word, you tight assed little
pig.”
Tears begin to stream down
Mitch’s face.
“No! Never!
Fuck me you cunt!”
“Oh, little piggy,” says
Susan Brown sadly. “Stubborn fucking little
piggy, you’re going to pay for that.”
Mitch tries to imagine that
he is Susan Brown, only his beautiful female body is sculpted from a firm yet
yielding pink blancmanche. He focuses
hard on the idea that the dildo jabbing further and further up him is his own
cock, but he is having difficulty concentrating. His screams can be heard clear across the golf course.
Pull back, pull back, pull
back. His screams can be heard clear
across the golf course … except there isn’t anybody out there to hear. Camera takes off in the direction of
town. His screams can still be heard …
but all the way back to Cylinder City the roads are clear of traffic, the
pavements free of people. Back, back,
back.
In the centre of town a
solitary figure walks along the dotted white line down the middle of the
Queensway, a bald, earless man wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Relax’. He walks along slowly, in the way that old
people do when they are learning to appreciate every moment, especially in
spring. He observes his reflection in
the Jazz Bar window, observes the absence of humanity around him. Pigeons peck on the pavement, content to
have their city to themselves. The
streets and architecture stand in silent contemplation of the negative shape
they have defined, an upside down invisible city slotted intimately into
place. Empty of people, as a mind in
meditation is empty of thoughts, these two cities stand awhile like the two
hemispheres of a brain, each appreciating the stillness of the other. But God notes an invisible tidal wave
approaching. It rears above the
skyline, curling over like an open maw full of bared teeth. And now it closes, engulfing the city in one
definitive chomp.
Maeve2 starts to cum.
After touching and fingering her, Moondance, still
kneeling behind her, has placed his hands in her armpits and lifted her to her
feet. Then, rising from his knees also,
letting his erection protrude between her legs, he has lifted her into the air
as though he is a single pronged forklift.
In this position he has touched her some more while she gently ground
her pelvis to and fro along his shaft, her head lolling back against his
shoulder. She knew, of course, that she
would have to settle for a hand-induced climax: he is much too big for
her. But a spasm of rebellion has
overwritten the scenario. Now she is on
the bed on all fours. He has one foot
on the floor, one on the bed and she is managing to accommodate him. The aura from the giant blue cock inside her
resonates through her flesh in multiple frequency vibrations, exiting through
her skin and surrounding her as though it is her own. She cums, silently but powerfully, embraced in soundless bands of
curling blue paisley.
Dumpy Rita cums.
Maeve1 is riding her with wild abandon now, pretences at
gentleness cast to the winds. His need
for her is all consuming and cruel. She
climaxes noisily. He bangs her
furiously through her orgasms, utterly undeterred by her parents bursting into
the room and applauding.
Pauly cums.
The Plasticake 3000 looks directly into his eyes and
strokes his face as she clenches the internal muscles of her latex pussy along
his length. Her body shudders
perceptibly with a synthetic orgasm that is all the more convincing for being
understated.
“There’s a good boy,” she says, her aching voice breaking
slightly. “You make me feel like a real
woman.”
Vinegar Vera and Annie cum.
Each dreams of Susan Brown. In Vera’s world they fuck gently, encapsulated in love, the world
kept at bay by its strength and purity, the sex flowing from perfect, innocent
beauty: incorruptible, even in the throes of completion. In Annie’s world Susan Brown is lewd and
compassionless, wielding her riding crop with vicious precision, riding Annie
towards a purification that recedes further into the distance with every swipe.
The
two titan women cry out together, and discover they are trembling and weak.
Adam
Norman cums.
Susan
Brown’s shame is complete as his measurements of her arousal jump off the
scale, causing his expensive array of computer terminals to crash and spit
sparks. Her tentacle-raddled body
judders and writhes obscenely and he shoots his load into the sock. He surfaces from the fantasy to find the
light in his room is rose tinted with twilight. He wonders if he can fall asleep before the hollow feeling sets
in.
The
three barristers cum.
They
empty themselves into the Devil, and across his back. He accepts it without complaint.
He is finding a shell on a beach.
It’s lining glistens with mother of pearl.
The three hags cum.
Lavender Hag flops back onto
her pillow, shaking. Her love whispers
sweet everythings in her ear, promises for eternity, then he disappears.
Pink Hag is finally rescued
by the gallant, wounded deputy. He is
carrying her on his horse out of the Indian village when he gets an arrow in
the back. Dieing slowly in the dirt his
last sight is of her being dragged back to the village.
Magnolia Hag and the good
German shepherd cum at the same time. Then he watches over her as she sleeps.
Mary and Gumbo cum.
They leave their heads resting between each other’s thighs and they stroke each other’s hips.
Daryl cums.
He tries to carry on masturbating but it hurts too much.
Liam and Chloe do not cum. Liam falls with Susan Brown from the steel tightrope. They are both injured terribly and must recover together in a shared hospital room. Chloe flies down the hill with Jonah, their skateboards snaking back and forth like a double helix.
Moondance does not cum either. His fantasy continues and so does his untouched erection. It will be late in the night when it finally burns out without closure.
Susan Brown cums.
She cums hard.
“Oh, you bastard!” she
yells. “You sweet little pig!”
Her head drops forward. Beads of sweat drip from the tips of her wet
hair to land on Mitch’s backside. After
a few deep lungfuls her breathing begins to slow down. Her heavy eyelids crack open slightly.
“Oh babe,” she says, voice suddenly small with concern. “You’re bleeding.”
