Pregnant pauses and other rule-based systems

I just got back from the gym... well, in fairness that was a few hours ago. We were occupied by shenanigansⁱ ulterior to my return therewith, it's been six hours or thereabouts.ⁱⁱ

Are the gyms closed where you live, by the way ? Supposedly here, too ; but I am perfectly if structurally immune to rules, and therefore the gym where I goⁱⁱⁱ... that's open. There's a spot for the Mercedes (not the bra one ; a different one) right in front, jealously guarded by the local parking attendants ever since a coupla trips ago when there nearly wasn't a spot for me and I got slightly pissy (they ushered some dizzy careerwoman, two small kids in tow, way the fuck out of there, and made room, so no harm done). They figured out whenabouts the black car's showing up, and have been doing their job accordingly ever since -- which, besides the abundance of birds fruit & such, is the great advantage of this blessed land : people at least try doing their god damned jobs. It's not to say they always manage ; but it is very much to say that any time they do not quite manage it's through sheer simplicity, never through the poisonous indulgence of Methodist idiocy and assorted Scottishness^iv so very typical by now of their (outright and unforgivably evil, and correspondingly ever more troglodyte) counterparts up North.

Anyways, so I just got back from the gym, we played & fucked, and had quiche. Yesterday we had lamburghers, which aren't hamburgers eaten in a lambo, but made out of lamb.^v I mean, fresh lamb leg that my slavegirl hacked to pieces with her own two tiny hands (you wouldn't believe the size, by the way, her hands are smaller than most babies'). She baked the buns herself, out of flour, I cut slices of Mimolette cheese for up top, then we had strawberry-topped brownie with ganache (a la mode) for which I cracked open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, a fine French wine -- cracked open being a term of art in the harem, the bitches line up, pouting their butts my way, and I shoot the cork at them. It's vaguely sexual, in the sense that one (or more) buns end up sweetly sticky as a result, plus there's sometimes bruises. Why, what do you do with yours ? The corks I mean, not the bitches -- I know that part, for, obviously, they tell me. Speaking of which indignity of fate : I'm getting a fresh shippment of teenaged, technically "illegal" cunt from over Yurp these days ; and I thought best I'd mention it just in case any rigtheous do-nothings need their jimmies rustled. Perhaps we can point and laugh at "FBI agents" thinking "crimes are being committed here" all over again, like last time ?

I'm pretty sure there was more -- after all, it's been two whole days in the harem, which is like nine and a half years to five infinicades^vi in socialist dog-years -- but... well, I kinda got shit to do. Bye!

1. Since I know how eagerly these tales are consumed... let's see here, how did this go... oh, yes!

   So, last week the fellow in charge of my comfort there (he runs around wiping down the machines after I use them, lest I could be bothered [and though I am escorted the slut's mostly there to stretch dat ass, putting the shocking lack of underwear straps on sheer display and, I suppose, drive my car], comes up with little coreographies & dance arrangements -- every day he takes time to think through what novel little pains he could bestow upon me, the aspiring Torquemada -- and so on) gave me a massage. I noticed the tool he was using, because it was quite noticeable. I asked him where they get 'em, he told me he could probably get me one, I ordered him to -- the quickest sale in the whole history of that, no doubt, though I don't think he even knew he was selling, or for that matter that he was being (unwitting) a part of what pompously calls itself "an industry" by now, I'm sure -- and today he delivered it. Comes with its own little case, has accessories, it's basically a hand-held drill for one's muscles ; and quite powerfull, too!

   Thus the naked sluts spent an hour or so drilling each other down immediately thereafter, to giggles and excited peels of laughter and more giggles and really, it was like in one of those Babydoll scenes you love and hate so. And then, once they were loosened up to the state of complete pancakes I said "Hey, kiss my cock, and you eat her out. I'm going to fuck you in the ass." This, far from an excitation-driven string of random expletives, made perfect sense in context, where it is both meaningful and descriptive. So the acts unfurled, we played with the multiorgasmic fucktoy's multiorgasmic fucktoyness, and then I fucked her a little too, and then I sent the anal queen for handcuffs, lube and a shopping bag -- because yes, now and again I'll assfuck her while she uses a plastic bag exactly the way infants shouldn't. Do you suppose they enjoy death that way, by the way ? Obviously infants don't ejaculate, but orgasm they do. So do you suppose, upon encountering a blue body weighing about the same as a dog (the body I mean, not the soul, yes ?) that... well... it probably had fun on its way out ? Which is so very much more than will can be said about you, rotting away by infinitesimal degrees in the "retirement" home that even now grimly if patiently awaits you ?

   Anyways, it took a while, then I made a mess (by which I mean, I crumbled chocolate brownie in a mug of freshly shook batido, mango en leche -- which in itself is a whole production, because it takes pre-frozen, Orotina-sourced bananas, I wouldn't touch your despicable dole with your dentures, let my palate alone -- and added specially imported rum and well, I call the result a mess, though you'd prolly think of it more as a Sundae, even though it's as plainly Wednesdy as ever can be.

   So this is why. [↩]

2. Oh look at that, what a fitting header today! [↩]
3. The cardiologist in charge of explaining to yours truly (and only) Superman that "You see Mr... the human body deals with 99.9% of anything it runs into. Something you had ; but it dealt with it for you." as the crowning denuement of the recent scare -- thereby upon retelling yanking out of the poor Bimbo (whose previous owner had a real and quite dire such infraction, unlike my very piddly and unconvicing ersatz) a most disbelieving "so... you cured your own heart attack..." -- also declared herself unimpressed with my peripheral circulation generally, and recommended her go-to rehabilitation clinic, which is a very well appointed gym run well by a competent fellow by the name of Eduardo (not Caruccio, something else).

   And I followed her advice, not merely because I wasn't any more impressed than her with said aspect of my superbly functioning, divine in its nature (hey, it's what you believe, quite literally -- that you of all things are exactly divine in nature and superbly functioning) body, but also because one of the greatest ways to have a fucked heart as a sixty year old is by having shitty peripheral circulation as a forty year old. And so, not being a great fan of paying interest, I... for the first time in my life, mind you... am now going... to the gym! Bought a pair of sneakers, too, which I never owned before, and such things.

   The girls say they're the best, and I trust in them, because he who doesn't know must trust. [↩]

4. At one point one of these cunts actually said to James there's two kings in Scotland, King James and King Jesus [but the latter's better because hurr].

   That James hadn't the presence of hanging the knave then and there's doubtless the darkest stain on his rather foul mantle. [↩]

5. She's been watching these delightful Azerbaijani couple, living out in their little hut, making traditional foods like they always have ; and it's proven an inspiration to her. [↩]
6. Like decades, except endless. Each and every last one of them, just as endless as all the other four.

   You figure it out!... Not like you ain't got time... [↩]