A bench stands on a strip of green, ancient, wooden, immutable. Black locusts bloom behind, a lazy river carries waterbugs and presumably pike upfront.
On the bench, a man and a girl are sitting. She's wearing a halter and a thigh-high pin skirt. His hand is firmly wrapped around her slender, nervous neck. She's kissing him submissively. Her roller blades are off, her bare feet up on the bench, on either side of her behind, heels digging into wood. Her knees press together, holding the skirt up, holding up like a flag of her newfound station girlish underpants all bunched up.
Her friend, rollerblades still on her feet, hotpants still in place, lays in the dirt at their feet, her straight elbows supporting her upturned breast in its upbeat quivers. She has her friend's big toe in her mouth, the other toes pressing on her jaw. She's sniffing the wetspot, nostrils flared, a tiny drop of sweet honeydew sparkling on the tip of her nose. Yesterday they made the best of friends, and tomorrow they'll make the best of lovers. In between the two, today's present, extending itself, endlessly, like a sweet drop of honeydew.
The bitches pestered me until I caved in and bought an industrial blender, it could be said. It wouldn't be said by me, or by them, but then again what's said's perforce rarely going to be said by us : most of the market for sayings goes for idiots' sayings, and idiotic sayings. Somehow the amplest demand follows the lowliest, lowest quality goods -- like in any other market. The naive expectation of "rational markets", an unwarranted extension of the situationi in the British Empire's London's most select of quarters (ie, including Bultitude Senior, but excluding any woman he ever fucked, and any maggots that ever crawled back from it) a century ago, whereby increased supply improved overall happiness through (implicitly) judiciousii allocation of resources long gave way to "equality", whereby increased supply ever spawns more and more of Elena's sleepless worms. The more of everything the less of everything, and especially lesser everythings.
In actual reality, they told me how great it is, and inquired for support. I readily extended it, as I readily do, and in the usual terms : "if it's as great as you say, why not". "Because it's a lot of money", doh. In the end though, that is precisely what money's for : to acquire the best there is, and good stuff generally -- and besides, we certainly spent more on fruit. After a moment's hesitation, driven by that old "well... what if it isn't going to turn out as great as it promised ?" nevertheless the grand is spent, the blender's boughtiii, and let me say plainly it's quite as great an addition to any slutfest as they had said. If you're going to blend at all, go VitaMix or go home, there's no two ways about it. The stuff that comes out tastes differently, for having been reduced to its atomic components by the 2.whatever horsepower engine. No, seriously, we have to keep it hidden lest the local kids attempt to mount it on their bikes ; it could probably blend blenders ; it's just a nice thing to have around in these end days of polyvynil & viscose underpants on all civillian butts everywhere. A lasp gast of white man's industry & savoir faire, as the toilet flushes to Africa ?
She enjoys her ankles tied together while she's fucked, a belt or a ziptie serving just as well. One bites rosy flesh painfully, deliciously. The other's so overwhelmingly domineering, so harsh, so inescapable. Rubbing her ankles together merely helps drive home her helpless state and the helplessness of her condition. She can appreciate all of them for their own reasons, she's clever, sensitive like that. Rope's good too, so is a firm hand grasp, index separating her feet or no, even duct tape, though it's a pain afterwards. And electric cable, also biting, metal chain, with lock emplaced or just wrapped until the legs are too heavy to lift on quad exertion alone. She secretly dreams one day to be put in cement, and thinks this secret dream's her own, unknown to all, impenetrable to her owner. Now she finds different. Though she long suspected, on some level, published certainty's a different matter, and public exposure a delight in its own ways. So she paints her toenails, and she dreams.
When she's not dreaming, when she's living it, the rod inside, she whimpers, curled up, legs to the side, heavy tits battling against nearby folded thighs. The fetal position fuck, whimpering, biting her nail sometimes, biting her lip other times, she fucks on her side, eyes rolled up, breath bated and released in the particular manner of the subdued female mammal. She doesn't like it dry and he doesn't force her that way. She loathes to admit it, others love the sudden, sharp demand, but she prefers, so much prefers the well lubricated, whispered slide in and out. She doesn't know how to cum just yet, though doubtless one day she will learn, or rather discover, and the miracle's not long away, not far away. Soon.
For now, she fucks and whimpers and he spends in her.
- Speaking of which, did you ever see that most amusing picture of the cheap "suit" Americans on their cheap "War Production" cruiser, receiving the visit of some Japanese fellows dressed in 1880s British fashions ? It's quite the sight, let me fish it for you. Here :
- This judiciousness means something quite akin to "let the victor have the spoils", and necessarily "your daughter is to be sold, like so much fresh fish, on the open market, to the gold importers". It is not merely orthogonal, but actually opposite, to any contemporary notions of "reducing inequality", or any period "Reformist" nonsense along the lines of Huxley & co,
We must therefore concentrate on producing a single equalized environment; and this clearly should be one as favourable as possible to the expression of the genetic qualities that we think desirable. Equally clearly, this should include the following items. A marked raising of the standard of diet for the great majority of the population, until all should be provided both with adequate calories and adequate accessory factors; provision of facilities for healthy exercise and recreation; and upward equalization of educational opportunity.
No, the poor shouldn't have food, no, the stupid shouldn't have sunlight. They should rot, and they'd better rot, in isolation. In the ghetto, in the five points tenements, in the swamp that bore them. There is strictly no space for human civilisation anywhere, except as carved out of their tears. Their "justified", if you ask them (do not ask them), tears. [↩]
- Fancy that wonder, a plane Made In The USA used to fit comfortably within a thousand dollars. You could have a new car for three hundred. The Indians "sold" their land at a dollar-forty an acre. Can there be greater luxury than a whole grand blown on a blender ?
I'm sure the future will tell. [↩]