You know how some people, especially my age, start doing drugs to "it's fun" then start taking pills to sleep, then start taking pills to wake up, soon enough they've completely lost it, like when you breathe deliberately and then you're stuck doing it ? And then they die ?
Yeah, well, this isn't about that, I sleep and wake naturaly still. Fancy that wonder, I've not owned any kind of alarm in decades ; the very rare cases when I have to be woken up a certain time they kiss my feet and things. It's nice to wake up to kisses.i
Instead, this is about how I woke up, did some Trilema stuff, then opened the door. There was nobody there! And still isn't! Anywhere! The whole place is empty! I looked! Two bathrooms, nobody. Three walk-in closets, nobody (though we occasionally hide in there during the normal course of harem affairs, this time -- nope, nada, zilch, no cuntii at all). The whole length of balcony, going all around the building, nobody -- hey, that's a hot chick in the skirt down there. Kinda short though. Actually, let's count the paces.
Two, three, four, five, six o look, there's a door. But nope, nobody in there. Seven oh wow, titties down below! Hey!
Jesus F Stickfucks, why is she so dog-ugly! Eight, nine, ten, eleven paces, we're not halfway there, another door, nobody in the door, nobody walking on the street except old dudes with dogs and very wide women with shopping bags and insecure dweebs with beards and hey -- did it ever occur to you I only ever write dialogue fiction because I can't do description ? I can do description just fine, I prefer dialogue because you think it's hard to do, not because I think it's easier or anything. Twelve, thirteen laugh all you will, i'm actually counting while walking, resting the laptop on the steel lattice supporting the glass panes ever so often to write. It's pleasant, there's a breeze, you can look out... besides, this way I can't lose track. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen o look, we're on Ordona now. Seventeen eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one twenty-two o look, doggy! You know what, I'm going to get myself a chair, sit down right here and compose the rest of this. Call the balcony two dozen paces long or whatever, nobody cares anyway (though it's great, very relaxing to walk the length of it, I find short allowances counterproductive).
So there's nobody anywhere, I'm left all by myself & alone. It's like one by now! This is the first time I woke in an empty house in years. I don't even remember when the fuck it was ; it's practically unprecedented. What do you even do, by yourself ? Hm.
I guess I'm gonna pour myself some milk, why not. In the livingroom one double couch is pulled out and set with bedding, the other's folded. So part of the hussies went home, or did they share overnight warmth ? Teh other room's clearly been slept in, so we're looking at up to maybe five but probably not six. AND THEY ALL LEFT, AND LEFT ME! Here I am, alone! I am becoming a kissless virgin in my old age!!!
O look, there's coffee made. In a bucket. So the hussies left after the sun came up, did they. Or maybe it's from last night ? Did we make coffee at some point last night ? I don't recall. What day was even last night, Marticuri ? Joineri ? Ah, alcool, masina timpului pierdut... cine mai stie cit, si unde, am baut.iii
Could you tell, I wonder ? Could one taste coffee such as to say whether it's say eight or sixteen hours old I wonder ? I'm not about to taste it, I'm hyper enough as it is, deem it a purely theoretical line of inquiry. O look, there's chocolate cake left-over. Home-made. And that cartwheel of marzipan in chocolate we bought at the Raped Preteen Guarantee store. Yes we went back yesterday, of course we did. Practically speaking we had to. I suppose I should alter the "How to satisfyingly have sex with a girl under 12" guide to include a "First, take her to E. Wendel" intro.
So I'm going to have milk with chocolate cake, as Denzel King Washington well pointed out during that famous speech, it has milk, flour, eggs, it's a perfect breakfast, and the children love it, and he has a dream. Let's count shoes. There's a pair of nude shiny six inchi things sitting properly, and then a pair of six inch sandals sitting fuckingly, then... eh fuck this, I'm hungry. What's the point of bare shoes with no bare cunts atop them anyways.
Come to think about it, I do vaguely recall tearing an asshole last night. I hope it hasn't come to grief ? O look, there's pork knuckle! And camembert! And oh! They're at the door, will I be spared the need to actually amass my own brunch by myself ?
Nope. 'Tis butt the maid. Don't worry about her. She knows about the nudity rule, and she doesn't mind. Honestly, I wouldn't say pretty or anything, but... well, what can you do. I suppose I could fuck her... Hm. Should I fuck the maid, what do you think ?
I suppose this is a spurious question, by the time it could possibly be answered the maid will have left unfucked. And here I thought "science" of this sad sort is the solution to all problems! Anyway, I'm not fucking her, I'm eating. Eating and typing, typing and eating. She undulates bent over, pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling. There's large piles of debris she has to get through, I mean the dishes are all done, but... oh look, is that a condom ? It is. Don't worry, she's seen condoms before, and besides, this one isn't... well I mean, it is used, but it's not filled. The filled ones are usually shit-covered anyway, and so they get wrapped in toilet paper and placed inside bags, at least most of the time. It's just used, you know, like I suppose teenage boys use them, it was on my cock at some point and inside some cunt most likely, because I do plain oral and obviously not all the girls are cuntimate and... look, it's complicated.
This poor woman, she's been folding napkins with straps and assorted such slut garments for a while now. Maybe I should fuck her after all, otherwise this is becoming cruel. Not that there's anything wrong with cruelty, I suppose, especially in a sexual context, which... try as you might to sterilize it, nevertheless when a naked maid is going through slutwear the context is sexual unavoidably. Then again... it could be sexual without necessarily including copulation, she can just go home and rub herself over it later, nothing wrong with that. All the better for me, actually.
Do you like Camembert by the way ? Do you like it in a sexual way ?
Oh what the hell is this ?! Look, there was a note all along! They've gone : to get my suits laundered, to the gym, to scout for nice places to hang out and ready sluts to hang out with, to the gym and to the gym respectively. Not that they don't scout for ready sluts at the gym or anything, the difference's just marked as a mere manner of speaking. So that's everybody, then! Phe-ew, I was starting to get worried. Not really, but you know how it goes, there's manners of speaking. I wonder how Romanian deadlifts work with a torn asshole, come to think of it.
The ETAs, I notice, are all clustered between fourteen hundred and fifteen hundred hours, which is to say in about eight minutes... time exactly enough for me to publish this, finish the cake, and...
Do you really think I should fuck the maid ?!———
I thought I recounted a story of a matinal cocksucking sometime, but I can't readily find it and I'm not in the mood to keep searching. Thus -- no linking.Found and added. [↩]
- Of course they'd be naked if they were here, it's indoors after all. Which means -- yeah, I go looking for naked womanhood, not merely "honey, I'm home" sorta she's on the couch in jeans or sweats or whatever, slowly sliding off under the weight of whatever FMCG. [↩]
- There's not a drop of alcoholic anything in any shape or form anywhere, only empty bottles. Obviously. [↩]