Archive for April, 2012

Do All Snakes Shed Their Skin?

I never ever had any luck at bars. Alone I would march forth, and alone I would slink home. I should have learned my lesson: I’m just not that kind of guy, the bar scene isn’t my scene. And yet, not often, but from time to time, when I found myself in a certain type of foul mood, I kept going back to the Good Times Saloon, false sense of optimism tucked neatly into my pants, fixated on the possibility (admittedly not likely, but certainly statistically possible) that this time I might go home with a girl. Or at least with a phone number.

I sat at the bar and procrastinated my way through first one beer, then most of a second, trying to appear at once cool and collected; mysterious and intriguing; non-threatening and disarming; and most of all not desperate. Desperation, I’ve been told a million times, is pure female repellant: they can smell it blocks away.

The bar was not crowded, and the ratio was lousy. It was too early, the beginnings of the after-work set, with a heavy contingent of construction workers. Soon enough, the place would be flooded with the young and the hip, and I would return, half-lit and depressed, to my solitary apartment; another evening wasted, never to be regained.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Is this seat taken?” Of course it wasn’t, half the bar stools were empty. She plopped down right next to me.

She was shockingly beautiful; in the dingy light of the bar room she might have been an advertisement for some outrageously expensive kind of perfume. She seemed to glow, as if a stagehand had been assigned to track her every move with a followspot. She was a petite thing, with delicate, reptilian lines; older than me, but not by that much. She had short-cropped dark hair, and severe cheekbones. She wore white pants – I caught a glimpse down the back of emerald-green panties – and a white top which contained a pair of small but delightful jiggling, obviously bra-free breasts. Her fingers were long and slender, the nails gnawed close, painted with chipped and flaking turquoise lacquer. Her eyes were pale blue, the moist, needy eyes of an opium fiend.

“Why so glum, chum?” I had no idea my mood showed so obviously. I’ve got to work on not wallowing. It’s almost as bad as looking desperate. “What’s got you down?”

She engaged me, and I was hooked, like a trout on a well-tied fly. I killed my beer and ordered an almost unprecedented third drink. My dick was already obnoxiously hard inside my pants, full of optimistic anticipation.

She was splitting her attention between me and the dude to her left; but that was ok by me. Half her attention was miles better than none at all. I found myself telling her everything: the ex-girlfriend, the unfinished master’s degree, the ex-ex-girlfriend and the long tortured conversations across the time zones, the dwindling freelance gigs, the work-in-progress novel that laughs at me from the blue glow of my LCD screen.

Her foot kept bumping into my legs as she swung her legs from the stool; the dark hairs of her forearm kept brushing against my elbow. I was pretty sure it was not accidental. My cock was certain of it.

The bar was starting to get noisy and crowded: young, hungry faces smarmed around, full of well-groomed arrogance and carefully affected angst. The hipster tide was coming in, deep and fast.

“It’s loud in here,” she placed a cold, exquisite hand on my forearm, “Let’s get out of here. Why don’t you come back to my place?”

Definitely too good to be true, but I wasn’t about to start questioning my good fortune.

She turned to the dude on her left. “You coming too, Sailor?”

The three of us, one on each arm and her in the middle, elbowed our way out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The night was startlingly cold and clear, a last gasp of winter.

She hailed a cab, and we all piled in, bound for the furthest reaches of fashionable Brooklyn.

What had started out as veiled flirtation in the bar turned into outright molestation in the back of the taxicab. As we zigzagged through the labyrinthine streets of lower Manhattan on our way to the hinterlands of the outer borough, she coolly and professionally started petting my erection straight through my jeans. I am embarrassed to say how long it had been since my penis had been on the receiving end of that kind of attention. The fact that the dude sitting on the other side of her was absolutely receiving the same treatment didn’t bother me in the slightest.

In between losing my mind with barely-contained horniness, contemplating my ridiculously good fortune, and just basking in the rare pleasure of having my dick touched by hands other than my own, I regarded the dude on the far side of the back seat. He was my age-ish, a little shorter than me, but tough and wiry, with a hungry, weather-beaten look. He had a gleaming shaved head, and squinty James Dean eyes, and the kind of ropy tense muscles that said he was scary strong, although he wasn’t bulky in the slightest. He had a bit of a beer belly. He wasn’t looking at me, his head was lolled back, with an expression of pure bliss on his face.

Her apartment was a cavernous converted industrial space. It must have been an aircraft hangar, or a dry-dock for battleships in its previous incarnation. The walls were painted bright white, and her effects were scattered around the place like stones in a Zen garden. There was a couch, a ridiculous red velvet couch that must have been fifteen feet long; a four-poster bed next to an antique wardrobe; a steampunk-looking coffee maker of epic proportions, and a minimalist but extremely expensive looking stereo. Uncurtained windows with warped and cracked panes looked out toward Manhattan. An old gantry crane was tucked away in the corner. Overall, the effect was halfway between ‘boudoir’ and ‘operating room’.

“Excuse me,” she said, “While I slip into something more comfortable.” Our girl was full of clichés. She drew blackout drapes around her bed area, disappearing from sight, and leaving me and dude standing stupidly in the middle of the arena-sized room, hard-ons jutting uncouthly outward from our pants.

“What’s your name?” I asked, when the level of awkwardness had surpassed a certain level.

“Kevin,” he said, “What’s your bag?”

“Writer,” I told him, “Failed writer, actually. How about you?”

“Machinist.” His hands were big and strong, and ingrained with grease or oil. The fingernails were cut painfully short. “Actually, I went to art school but that didn’t work out. So I’m a machinist.” He shrugged. “It’s a living.”

“Do you know her?” I nodded toward the curtained-off bed area.

“Her? Not a chance. No way. Something’s not right. I never meet women in bars. And I never ever get picked up by beautiful women in bars. Something’s definitely rotten in Denmark. But hey, for now I’m letting the little head do all the thinking.”

I nodded in silent agreement. Something was definitely fishy here. But my dick wasn’t about to argue the point.

She emerged from her cocoon, wiping her nose. ‘Slipping into something more comfortable’ wasn’t exactly accurate: she was now wearing green thong panties, the same ones I had glimpsed down the back of her white pants, and painful-looking high heels, and nothing else. Her breasts were small and precious, and jiggled as she walked, a little unsteadily, across the echoing, cavernous space. She tottered over to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a poisonous-looking green drink that may in fact have been absinthe, put a scratchy disco LP on the turntable, and then sat ungracefully down on the red velvet couch.

“One of you lucky fellows gets to fuck me tonight,” She declared with a sweet little smile, “Now fight for it.”

Kevin was fast, like a striking snake. He pushed me hard, both hands on my chest, and I went sprawling ignominiously on the battered hardwood floor. He kicked me in the stomach and ribs while I struggled to get back up on my feet. I caught a glimpse of her on the couch, bare-breasted and sipping her cocktail, a nasty smirk written across her angular face.

A fight. I hadn’t been in a fight since the fifth grade, and that time I got my ass kicked. When I finally managed to regain my footing, Kevin was all over me, showering me with punches. Each one hurt. I had my hands up to protect my face, for all the good that was doing me. He hit me again and again, and I felt myself spiraling down into a preemptive defeat, like one of those hapless TIE fighters from the Star Wars movies. I resolved, at the very least, not to cry.

I staggered backward, reeling like I was drunk, which I halfway was. A freeze-frame, an unguarded moment, and I saw my opportunity and seized it. Kevin had both hands outstretched like a scarecrow, or a scrawny white Muhammad Ali. Easy as reaching out and taking a slice of pie, I smoothly punched him in the nose, breaking it for him with a satisfying crunch that, just for an instant, made it all worth it. Blood sprayed everywhere, like a morbid lawn sprinkler. He howled in pain, stepped back, spun around, and busted an insanely expensive-looking post-modern retro lamp over my head. I saw fireworks, Fourth of July chrysanthemums in red, white, and blue as the porcelain shattered against my skull, and then a quick fade-to-black as I wilted to the floor.

I don’t think I was out very long. The next thing I remember is sitting unsteadily on the red couch, feeling nauseas, and being offered an icepack to hold against my throbbing head. The ironic thing was that I still had an erection.

“Well,” she said, “We have a winner!” She graced us with a feline smile, and licked her lips lazily. “Ready to get your dick wet?” she asked Kevin. “You’re welcome to watch,” she told me.

She was sprawled out, spread-eagled and naked across her 800 thread count sheets. She was the kind of girl who shaved everything, or had it waxed, and I had to admit she had a lovely little pussy. She was wet and excited, the lips were splayed eagerly out, and a puffy little pink clit peeked eagerly up and out. She played idly with her own nipples as Kevin got undressed, peeling off his blood-spattered t-shirt and unbuttoning his greasy jeans. His nose, I was pleased to see, was swollen and crooked, and the blood was smeared all over his face.

I was obscurely pleased to see that Kevin’s dick wasn’t appreciably bigger than my own. It may have been a little longer, but I thought mine was thicker. An perfectly-formed mushroom head crowned it, and it had a slight bend to the right. I thought it was actually a pretty nice-looking cock. Apparently she agreed with me. She went at it like a greedy kid with an oversized lollipop, licking and slobbering all over it, and occasionally trying to jam the whole thing into her mouth. To facilitate this, Kevin straddled her chest, kneeling so that his balls rested on her breasts. It looked pretty hot, but Kevin looked alternately bored and aggravated: every time our girl started to find a good rhythm, she would change tack and leave him bobbing, red and frustrated.

It hurt to breathe; I was pretty sure Kevin had cracked a couple ribs during the pummeling he had handed me. I gingerly probed my scalp with one tentative finger; my head ached like a buzz saw. I found a lump the size of a tennis ball, and plenty of crusty, not yet quite congealed blood.

She looked up from Kevin’s cock and scowled in my direction. “Why are you not naked yet?” she asked me pointedly. I hurriedly disrobed, even as Kevin tore open a package and rolled a condom down his shaft.

Drunk on a bubbly mixture of beer, lust, and envy, I watched Kevin slide his condom-covered cock up her pussy. It was fucking hot, pornographic in the very best sense of the word.

She was an enthusiastic and verbose fornicator. As soon as he was safely lodged inside her, she cut loose, bucking and writhing around under him, alternately urging him on and cursing him out, as if she were riding a temperamental racehorse. “Come on Big Guy, fuck me, fuck me harder, like you mean it goddamn it! Oh yeah, that’s right, fuck my cunt! Fuck me deep you big stud! Fuck that pussy hard! Oh yes do it to me, don’t you dare stop, don’t you fucking dare! Yes, harder, do it harder! Faster, can’t you do it faster? Fuck me! Fuck me! God damn you to hell! Fuck me hard!”

It didn’t take her long to get off, and when she did, it was like a thermonuclear explosion. She thrashed around under Kevin, screaming like a cat being dismembered, kicking her legs wildly and baring her teeth. I thought her head was going to start spinning around like that girl in The Exorcist.

When she finally settled down, she pushed Kevin away. “Come on my tits, Big Guy”

He peeled off the condom and obediently went at it, jerking off onto her proffered bosom. He came with a deep, throaty grunt, splashing a fairly shocking amount of semen all over her cute little boobs. She idly spread it around with one finger, bringing it up to her tongue and tasting it like it was lemon custard.

“Well come on Tiger,” she said to me, stretching lazily and running one finger up the length of her vulva, “You can be dessert. Call it the consolation prize. Dive in!”

Her pussy was wide open and physically hot, wet and slick, and she tasted faintly of latex. Any attempt at subtlety was quickly corrected with a sharp tug on my hair: she wanted her clit licked, and she wanted it licked hard. I slid one finger up her asshole, my thumb up her gasping, loose pussy, and then I lapped at her clit like a dehydrated dog at a water dish. I was rewarded by having my wounded head crushed between her surprisingly strong thighs, and my face mashed violently into her twat. I fervently hoped that she would come before I was asphyxiated. Fortunately, she once again did not take long. This girl was a short-fused firecracker. She was just as loud with me as she had been with Kevin, but this time there were no discernable words. She sounded like an acid-tripping opera singer belting out some macabre aria.

At long last she pushed me away, sighing contentedly. “Oh yeah,” she said, “That’s more like it. I needed that. That’s the stuff.” Turning to me and Kevin, she added as an afterthought, “You two can sleep on the couch.” She drew the curtains up tight around her bed. We were dismissed.

The couch reminded me of a 1970s era Ford station wagon. There was plenty of room for us both, each guy occupying his own end of the sofa. We piled up the cushions possessively. What was lacking was any kind of sheets or blankets whatsoever. The apartment – what a joke to call such an enormous open space an ‘apartment’ – was just on the chilly side of comfortable.

“Are you asleep?” Kevin whispered at me from the far end of the couch, like we were kids at a slumber party.

“No.” I answered.

“You didn’t get to get off, did you?”

“No.” I replied. My dick was still hard, obnoxiously hard, and my balls had a deep-down throbbing ache that competed for attention with the hangover/concussion that was brewing in my head.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said, “If you want me to.”

We snuggled together at my end of the gargantuan sofa, sharing our body heat. For a little while, we just cuddled. Then we started kissing. I’m not sure which one of us initiated it, it just seemed like a natural thing to do. It was strange to kiss a guy, with his chapped lips and scratchy chin, but it felt nice. I liked the way he smelled: a combination of sweat, sex, machine oil, and something else, something I couldn’t identify. He reached down and his strong, meticulous mechanic’s hands found my dick, and my body stiffened.

Between the harsh white of the walls and the city glow seeping in through the windows, it wasn’t really very dark in there. I watched Kevin through the gloaming as he slid down my body and applied his mouth to my cock.

Oh he was good. He played me like an instrument, using his fingers, lips and tongue. He kept bringing me to the very edge and then backing away, squeezing and petting my shaft, kissing the head, licking my balls, taint, and asshole. My dick felt like it had never been bigger or harder. He had me squirming like a kitten, frantic with desire, leaking oodles of slippery pre-come out the end of my swollen cock.

“I want to fuck you” he said.

“Ok” I said.

Everything guys say about being on the receiving end of anal sex: it’s humiliating, degrading, emasculating, excruciatingly painful; all that went straight out the window. The closest to uncomfortable was when the head of his cock nudged its way past my anus; I can only describe that sensation as ‘strange’. Then he was inside me, fucking me, and it felt great. It was really pleasurable, in a deep-down, bizarre way, and it made my dick stick out harder than ever. I was fucking back against him, twisting around to kiss his lips as he sodomized me. The thrusting action of his cock in my ass was almost enough to make me come all by itself. Almost. His hand wrapped around my dick pushed me right over the edge. I think we came at the exact same moment, him growling like a feral dog, his dick twitching and swelling inside me, squirting semen into my asshole, as I finally let go, arching my back and emptying my balls all over her lovely red velvet couch. My orgasm seemed to last forever, like all the pent-up frustration and depression was being forcibly ejected through my penis. It was amazing, and when it was all done, we fell asleep like that, a couple of spoons in a drawer.

The apartment was so big that when she emerged from her Bedouin tent, she almost appeared foreshortened. She looked older, harder, a little haggard in the stark light of morning. Her hair was mussed up and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing flip-flops and a bathrobe as she staggered over to the counter and fired up the Rococo coffee machine.

That’s when she noticed me and Kevin, still nude and entangled on the couch.

“Out!” she scowled, cup of coffee clutched in both hand, “Shoo! Both of you, get lost! Out out out!”

We hurriedly got dressed and made ourselves scarce.

Outside, the streets were fairly empty. It was still pretty early. A few bedraggled hipsters were making their way home, a few unlucky souls with day jobs were on their way to work. We walked together toward the subway.

“I’m sorry I broke your nose”

“Don’t sweat it Man,” he said, “I’m sorry I busted a lamp over your head.”

We walked in silence for another block. Between the two of us, his swollen and purple face, my blood-encrusted head, we must have looked like we’d just come back from a war.

“We didn’t use a condom last night.”

“No” he said, “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m clean as a whistle.”

“Me too.”

A pause, another half block.

“I’d double team her with you any time.”

“Yeah,” he said, “No doubt. But we’d have to tape her mouth shut first.”

“Definitely.”

We were almost at the subway station.

“You ever date a guy?”

“No,” he said, “I never did that. I’d give it a try though.”

We got on our separate trains, and I dragged my aching corpus up five narrow, dingy flights of stairs to my dark and cluttered little apartment, where the unfinished novel lay in wait. I felt like I’d been run over by a bulldozer. Kevin’s phone number was folded safely up in my pants pocket. “Well,” I said aloud to the echoing stairwell, “That was different.”

END

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A Clockwork Tangerine

I stole my brother Simon’s Tangerine. His security wasn’t exactly bomb-proof; he’d been using the same password since he was thirteen. Father was away at the wars; Mother was out doing her Good Work, Simon was courting; and the servants had all been sent home for the night. If ever the coast was going to be clear, it was now.

I punched it into the alpha-numeric tumblers he’d installed on his closet door about the same time he’d started sprouting body hair and his voice had cracked. T-r-i-X-X-X-i-e was the name of the main character in his favorite pornographic serial. He’d had a manic crush on her for the first year or so of his adolescence, and I had followed her erotic adventures with a mixture of horror, fascinated disgust, and titillated lust.

I’d been breaking into Simon’s closet to snoop around his pornographic picture-novels for about as long as I’d know what pornography is, and what to do with it. Trixxxie, with her impossible breasts and cartoonish, generic features, wasn’t something I masturbated to, but she had taught me all I’d ever wanted to know – and then some — about the mechanical aspects of sex. And there were plenty more picture-novels for me to peruse. I had whiled away many hot and sticky hours locked in Simon’s closet with a dirty picture-novel in one hand and one finger busy between my legs. Eventually I’d discovered that I preferred to get off to the written word, and I had acquired some erotic novellas of my own. I still came back to visit Simon’s closet now and then. But I’d never actually removed anything. I told myself I was just ‘borrowing’ it, even though I had already downloaded an entire new (and pirated) ROM.

The Tangerine was a hand-held tubular little Turing machine, designed with one purpose only: to serve as a pleasure envelope for a lonely penis. I didn’t have a penis myself, but my own parts were just as lonely as could be. The ROM I’d illicitly downloaded was supposed to modify the thing’s operating system to suit my ‘more feminine needs’.

It sort of reminded me of an exotic weapon out of one of Simon’s futurist graphic novels: it was black and plastic, fit nicely in the palm of your hand, and the backside had a small array of buttons above a keyhole for winding and a USB slot. If it weren’t for the anatomically-correct pussy in front, it would have been the exact sort of thing a space-zeppelin officer might wield, shooting energy beams at the enemy or projecting a laser whip. The front part was a different, softer material, sculpted to form a realistic pink plastic vulva. It looked like something straight out of an anatomy textbook, the kind of thing that budding gynecologists might practice exams on. It came with a large brass key.

Josephine had gotten a Schlong from one of her ‘secret admirers’, and it was (in her words) “incredibly fan-fucking-tastic!!” I wasn’t about to buy one of my own. I didn’t have a well-heeled Admiration Society of my own; neither did I have that kind of sterling in the bank. Anyway, the Schlong was pretty intimidating: a big black polymer cock, realistically molded, and studded with knobs and sensors, packing nearly eight pounds of gears and clockwork. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready for that.

He’d never miss it, I told myself. My heart rate shot through the roof as I slinked back to my own room, the stolen Tangerine clasped in my greedy, sweaty hands. Simon had a real girlfriend now, prissy Miss Violet Verne, and he wouldn’t be needing wind-up toys anymore. He’d never even notice it was gone. Anyway, he would be graduating soon, and beginning his compulsory service, and I doubted they’d let him bring that particular item along with him to the wars.

Back in the privacy of my own room, my jitters swiftly transformed from ‘nervous’ into ‘horny’. I was dying to try out my brand-new ill-gotten contraption. I’d never masturbated with anything but my fingers before, and if my friend Jo was telling anything like the truth, this was going to be intense.

I plugged in the data stick with the pirated ROM into the slot in the back of the Tangerine. A couple million microswitches rearranged their configuration, but nothing appeared to happen. The thing just sat there on my dresser, a sullen pink-and-black lump. I pulled out the key, and wound it up until the master spring clicked. It took a surprising number of turns to wind up. I counted 128 turns before it finally clicked.

I stripped out of my petticoats, garters, and knickers, and sprawled across my bed. The pink polymer vulva seemed to stare at me in my nakedness. It looked disturbing from this angle, almost alien. Did my private parts really look like that, when viewed head-on and in the abstract?

I reached over and grabbed my novella, flipping to a dog-eared corner that marked a particularly steamy bit. I read the words, but I was having trouble concentrating on them. Even so, the pornographic text did the trick; I felt my pussy getting wet and swollen with excitement. I put the book down, and pressed the central button on the back of Simon’s Tangerine.

The clockwork clicked and hummed almost inaudibly as the gears inside came to life. When I held it in my hand, it seemed to tremble, as if it were alive. The thing generated its own heat. The artificial pussy pouted open, like a blooming flower, and clear lubricant started to seep out. I jammed it between my legs, mashing the polymer pussy against my own flesh-and-blood, and the thing vibrated with a fierce intensity.

Jo was right. It was absolutely fan-fucking-tastic. I almost couldn’t stand it, but I rode the wave, squeezing the humming Tangerine between my thighs. I came almost immediately, hard, curling up into a fetal ball and hiccupping with pleasure. I had to take a break then, my parts were suddenly way too sensitive. I paused the machinery and read some more of my smutty book, until I was ready to go again. And go again I did, until I was spent and limp. Each orgasm seemed to me the best one I’d ever had, and it seemed like they’d never stop. Already, I was asking myself how I’d ever gotten by without a Tangerine of my own.

The only distraction was that it kept calling out his name. “Oh Simon, fuck me!” “Oh Simon you’re so big and hard!” “Oh Simon yes, do it now!” Whatever programming my sketchy ROM had overwritten, apparently my brother’s name was hard-written into its BIOS. I didn’t mind so much. It was easy enough to ignore.

When I was really and truly done, I wiped the pink polymer clean and wound it up again before I went to sleep, leaving the thing safe in my top dresser drawer buried under my dainties, the big brass key laying beside it. I slept restlessly, and had murky, sexy, confusing dreams.

I didn’t get to play with the Tangerine again for a few days. We all had to go to the capitol to watch Father march in another victory parade. With all the victory parades, I wondered, when were we going to win the war? Then I was swept along to Aunt Veronica’s under-heated and under-lit mansion to knit socks with Mother and all the ladies for the men at the front for two interminable chilly and joyless days. Anyone under the age of about sixty (which included Mother and me, but not Aunt Veronica) was expected to be seen and not heard. Before we got home, I felt like I was going to die of claustrophobia, annoyance, and pent-up sexual frustration.

First chance I got, I locked myself in my bedroom. The Tangerine had grown in my absence, and it had changed. Now it barely fit inside my unmentionables drawer. It was more pink than black now, and resembled a giant, malignant tadpole. It had a suggestion of arms, and stubby vestigial legs to either side of the vulva. It had grown a head; a small almond-shaped head fused with no neck to the body, devoid of features except for a mouth with delicate, pouting pink lips. The thing kind of gave me the creeps.

It did give me the creeps, but that didn’t stop me. I wound it up – the master spring had come unwound while I was gone – and let it rip. The vulva parted and drooled, and a long pink tongue lolled out of the mouth-opening and probed lasciviously out and around.

I squatted over the thing’s head, straddling it. The Tangerine’s tongue stretched up toward my vagina like a charmed snake. Gingerly, I lowered myself down onto it. It was pure heaven.

The tongue was soft and warm and wet and squirmy, and constantly in motion. It seemed to be driven by an onboard intelligence, some kind of cunnilingus algorithm cooked up by a roomful of horny mathematicians. Unlike my first experience with the wind-up toy, it didn’t drive me straight over the cliff. I discovered that by manipulating the buttons in its black panel, I could control the speed and intensity of the artificial licking it was giving me. I found a setting that made the thing’s tongue zig-zag all over my slit like an automatronic coal-fired sewing machine. I dialed both speed and intensity down to their lowest level, picked up my filthy novella, and read almost an entire chapter while the Tangerine chug-chugged up and down my pussy. It was exquisite. I ignored the muffled cries of “Oh Simon you’re so big and hard!” “Yes Simon, yes you big stud!” and so forth. By the time I was ready to get off, I was sopping wet, absolutely soaked and dripping. I could stand no more torment. I set down the book, reached down, and turned up the controls as high as I could stand them. I bore down against the suddenly racing, humming tongue, and came, hard and fast. It was probably the biggest, longest, most intense orgasm I had ever experienced, and when I rolled off the Tangerine, I was shaking. My thighs were absolutely coated in wetness, both mine and the machine’s. The hair between my legs was wet and matted. My clitoris was throbbing like a collapsed star, a pulsar. I realized that I had probably been screaming.

I wound the Tangerine up again, and stashed it in the back of my closet, behind all the off-season pinafores. I figured it would be safe from the snooping eyes of the chambermaid back there.

There was a massive explosion downtown. We were let out of Academy early. The authorities couldn’t seem to make up their minds whether it was a cowardly act of terrorism, or an innocent industrial accident. My clothes reeked of coal smoke. Dirigibles prowled back and forth through the filthy grey skies like hunting sharks. I got home, disrobed, and showered. The water was only luke-warm, and smelled like sulfur.

The Tangerine had grown again, and changed even more. It was now almost my size, a recognizably human female figure, with the bland, inoffensive features of a dress mannequin. The black control panel was still there, now located on the back of the thing’s neck, but the rest of it was eerie flesh-soft pink polymer. Its pussy, though still prominent between its meaty thighs, was no longer its sole defining feature. The thing had buttocks, breasts, ears, lips, and a nose. Two glassy dead eyes, like camera lenses, had appeared in its face.

It definitely gave me the creeps, but I wound it up anyway. At this point, I could accurately be described as an addict. Winding the master spring took longer than ever. I counted 256 turns before it clicked.

Despite its bulk, the thing was still relatively light. I manhandled the Tangerine up onto my red velvet fainting couch, and straddled it, still pink and damp from my unsatisfying shower. My intention had been to read another chapter of my smutty novella while it percolated away on its lowest settings.

The Tangerine had ideas of its own, however. An impossibly strong, iron grip pried my legs wide apart and gripped my buttocks. It lowered its head into my crotch, and that inhumanely long tongue went to work: licking, lapping, dancing up and down, in and out, vibrating the whole time. I was powerless to get away, even if I had tried, and frankly I didn’t try very hard. After a brief moment of panic, I surrendered to it, arching my back and drowning in the sensations. It kept calling out Simon’s name, lavishing praise on his manly body and his big hard cock, all the while bringing me to orgasm after orgasm. I lost track of how many times I came. Dexterous, artificial fingers caressed my clitoris, stroked and toyed with my vagina, and even probed my anus, making me squirm. I pinched and pulled at my own nipples, crooning wordlessly as I came over and over, again and again.

Just as I was starting to think that I couldn’t take any more, that I was physically spent, it disengaged. Clockwork humming inside, it lifted it’s head from my quivering pussy and slid up my body until its polymer lips were pressed against mine in a parody of a kiss. I could tasty my own salty, tangy juice on the thing’s squishy artificial flesh. Its breasts were squashed up against mine. “Oh Simon, you big stud,” it whispered, and slid one mechanical hand between my thighs. Long fingers pried their way inexorably inside my pussy, plucking my virginity dispassionately away. I yelped as my flesh was torn asunder. The clockwork inside the Tangerine clicked and hummed and ran down, and the thing went limp on top of me, leaving me almost catatonic; still atremble from the multiple orgasms, wounded and bleeding, sweaty and sticky and leaking and still oddly turned on. I needed another shower, in a bad way.

I was sore for days, and not just from being summarily deflowered. It may or may not have been my imagination, but I thought the servants were giving me strange sidelong looks. The government changed again. A new Prime Minister was appointed; as usual no-one said what had become of the last one.

My friend Jo disbanded her Admiration Society. She told me she wanted to join the Air Forces, and asked if Father would give her a recommendation. When I asked her why she would do that, she turned her head so I couldn’t see her eyes and said “Cute airmen and sex on a blimp.” I told her I’d see what I could do.

Something was deeply fishy about that ROM I’d downloaded; this was not the way a Tangerine was supposed to behave. A Tangerine is not supposed to grow and change and mutate and start acting out on its own; it’s supposed to be a passive toy, a warm wet vibrating place for a horny guy to stick his penis. I wondered if Josephine had had any such issues with her Schlong.

Despite my misgivings, and my still tender pussy, I came back for more, like a dog worrying at an old soup bone.

The thing in the back of my closet was me. Or my identical twin. It had gotten all the details right; every freckle, every hair, the crooked toe; the only the wrong was the eyes, which were dark and glassy and dead.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go there. Horny or not, I couldn’t bring myself to wind up that spring. I left it where it lay, folded into a Z in the back of my closet; and I walked away, feeling edgy and unfulfilled. I went downstairs to the library and tried to lose myself in a long, dusty book.

I stayed down there a long time. The house got quiet and dark around me. I thought about masturbating, doing it the good old fashioned way, right there amongst the books, but then I thought better of it. Mother would be back from doing her Good Works soon, and Simon could get home at any moment. I closed the big dry book of history I had been struggling though, and traipsed my long way upstairs toward my bedroom.

I heard them from the bottom of the stairwell. It was my voice, but her words: “Simon, you big stud, fuck me, fuck me all night with your long hard cock!” I hurried up the stairs, thankful that the servants had all gone home for the night.

My bedroom door, of course, was locked against me. I could hear the bed squeaking all the way out in the hall. I knelt down and peered through the keyhole, like a skulking scullery maid.

Simon was facing away from me, standing in front of the bed, with his back to the door. He was still wearing his grey Academy tunic, but he was naked from the waist down. He had, and it bothered me obscurely to admit it, a pretty cute little white butt.

The Tangerine was on all fours on the bed. Even as I watched, Simon turned, removing his penis from her mouth. It was hard and wet, and it jutted erectly up, waggling as he moved. It was the first penis I had seen, outside of pornography, and academically speaking anyway, I liked the look of it. It seemed a nice size; neither too big nor yet too small, crowned with a bulbous scarlet cap, and two ripe, full-looking balls down at the base. If it hadn’t belonged to my brother, I could have wasted a lot of time thinking of interesting things to do with that cock.

“Fuck me with the big hard dick!” the thing that looked just like me cooed, “Fuck my cunt and then fuck my asshole. Fuck me deep and hard!”

Simon readily complied, picking the Tangerine and depositing her on my fainting couch, flat on her back with her legs splayed wide, and driving his erect penis straight up her pussy, penetrating her with an audible squelch. I watched, eye pressed to the keyhole, as his tight little butt humped urgently in time with her clichéd moans and coos, her legs – my legs! – wrapped around his back and kicking wildly in the air.

He pulled out of her, his dick shiny and slick with wetness, and flipped her over once again, so that she was bent over the arm of the couch, pale pink flesh against the red velvet. He carefully parted her ass-cheeks, sliding his dick up and down between them before carefully taking aim and penetrating her with a throaty sigh. I couldn’t see much in the way of details, but I knew where he must be slipping that wet penis of his. I wondered if I would take that particular intrusion so placidly. My own hand found its way inside my knickers where I discovered that my own pussy was not just moist, but completely soaking wet.

I masturbated shamelessly, kneeling on the hall carpet, watching my brother sodomize my mirror image. And when he started humping wildly, grunting and groaning and calling my name out loud, I found myself coming too, a long deep orgasm that left me shaking and spent.

I left them then, and went up to the widow’s walk, where I paced back and forth for a long time under a dark sky that in another age might have been sparkling with bright shining stars.

At breakfast, Mother was, as always, absorbed in her newspaper. More mixed messages from the front lines: another victory to celebrate, a plea for used clothing and blood donations. Simon nodded and smiled absently in my direction from across the table, giving nothing away. The maid may have leered as she brought my breakfast plate, but it may have been my imagination.

That afternoon we got the news that father had been wounded. The telegram was terse, there were no details. Later, Mother was summoned to attend to him in the capital. She blanched at the news, delivered by a rigid, expressionless officer, and warned us that she might not be home until late, or not at all. The house was oddly tense and quiet, as if it were holding its breath.

I don’t know what woke me up, but I startled instantly awake. It was the middle of the night, and the noise of the city had reached its low ebb. My closet door gaped wide open, and door out into the hall was ajar.

Wearing only my nightdress, I got up and padded out into the hall.

Father’s study, where he keeps all his confidential papers, was just down the hall from my room. I had never been inside it, and the door was always locked. Now the door was standing open, and a light was on inside.

There was an explosion, like a clap of thunder directly overhead, and I think I screamed. My scream dragged on and on, and then I realized it wasn’t me screaming. The scream changed pitch, metal grinding on metal, high-tensile steel coming unhinged and unwound with a noise that I thought would shatter the glass in the windowpanes. Suddenly, it was cut off, and there was a silence that echoed in my ears.

Simon stepped out of the study, carrying a smoking blunderbuss in one hand, dragging the wreckage of the Tangerine in the other. He was wearing his Academy grey uniform.

He deposited the still-twitching remains of the Tangerine into the incinerator chute. Then I followed him dumbly downstairs into the kitchen.

He poured us each a tall glass of brandy.

“That wasn’t me in my bedroom the other night.” I told him. The liquor burned the back of my throat.

“I know,” he said, “The eyes were all wrong.”

“What about Violet?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She jilted me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He shrugged again, “She’s a cow. Believes everything the government tells her is true. Bit of a prude, too.”

He took a big swallow of brandy.

“You downloaded a corrupt ROM for that thing, didn’t you?” He stated it as a fact, not a question.

“Yeah.” I said.

“It was a virus,” he said, “An enemy espionage tool. If the government found out about this, we’d probably all be arrested.”

“Good gracious.” I blew out a long breath. “What a mess I’ve made of things. I’m sorry I stole your Tangerine. I’ll give you money to help buy a new one. I don’t have much sterling saved up though…”

Simon laughed harshly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make do somehow.”

If I’d been another girl, maybe Josephine, I would have gotten down on my knees and crawled under the table and fished his cock out of his crisply ironed uniform pants, and given my brother a blowjob right then and there. But I didn’t, and we finished out drinks in a moody, morose, silence that was loaded with words unsaid.

*

The boys in Simon’s Academy class were mobilized six weeks ahead of schedule. We all lined up by the front door to see Simon off in his dress greys. Father, rigidly erect and wearing his full military regalia, but still swathed in bandages, shook his hand. I couldn’t see the expression on his face: the flesh that wasn’t covered in cotton gauze was a livid salmon pink and slimy with salve. A different Air Forces officer might have landed his son a purely symbolic post, or made sure he was given a clerkship, and would spend his two-year mandatory service safely shuffling paperwork. Not Simon. He would be piloting a Zeppelin over the trenches of the Eastern Front. We all wept as he walked down the hall, looking crisp and manly and invulnerable in his full dress uniform. Mother, me, the maids, were weeping shamelessly. Even stoic Cook had tears streaming down her fat pink cheeks. He kissed each one of us in turn.

I was the last before the door. “Don’t worry Sis,” he whispered in my ear, “I’ll be back.”

I hoped, hoped so hard that it hurt, that he was right.

END

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A Book, By Its Cover

What does a guy look like, the kind of guy who would cheat on his wife, sight unseen, with some stranger from off the internet? I can tell you they’re all over the spectrum, but this one was a bit of a knuckle-dragger.

I’d scheduled three appointments for the day, which was kind of a lot; but not, I thought, excessive. This one was early.

I was in the shower, of course, when he knocked on the studio door. We are four stories up, and the bell is broken. I got out, wrapped a towel around myself, showing off plenty of cleavage, and answered the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the grimy hardwood floor. My hair was wet and straggly, and I wasn’t wearing any make-up, but I didn’t care. My breasts are, I think, my best feature anyway. And that isn’t really saying all that much.

Like I said, our boy “Roger” (and I am willing to bet that wasn’t his real name) was a gorilla, a real meat-head. He was my height (and I’m a big girl), but he probably outweighed me by fifty or sixty pounds. He’d been an athlete in high school, football I’m sure, and he’d let himself slide. He had pink, shiny skin, and a receding hairline. He wore cut-off shorts, Teva sandals, and a white t-shirt that should have been a size larger. There was a diamond stud in his left ear, and a circular indentation around his ring finger where a wedding band belonged.  I let him inside, and he shut the door smugly behind him. How do you shut a door smugly? I don’t know, but Roger managed it.

“So,” I said, “What’s your bag?” When he looked blank, I added “What do you want to do to her?”

He grinned. “I wanna rape the shit out of her. I want to throw her down on the floor and rip her panties off, and I wanna fuck her cunt. Then I want to shove it up her ass. Then I want to cram it right down her throat. And then I want to come all over her face and wipe it around with my dick.”

“Ok.” I stifled a yawn.

He seemed a little taken aback that I’d agree so readily, but the play-rape thing is so common with these guys that it’s less appalling and more just boring. “What’s the catch?” he asked suspiciously.

“You know the rules.” I said. I was dripping shower water, forming a little puddle on my studio floor. “You don’t do any permanent damage, and you wear a condom.” I’d had to pry one of these dudes off Tiffany by spraying him with a fire extinguisher and threatening him with a cell phone. I have a Taser too, in case things really go south.

He nodded eagerly.

“And you have to pose for two pictures: a before and after shot.”

“No way,” he said immediately, “No pictures.”

He obviously hadn’t bothered to read my email. Jerkoff. I sighed. “It won’t show your face, Jackass.” I gestured over to the unpainted sheetrock wall, which was covered with paired photos of penises, erect and flaccid, side by side. I’m working on a coffee table book, and I let my little sister Tiff live with me rent-free in exchange for helping me out with the material.

“I’m going to go get dressed. She should be here any minute. Go crazy. Do you need a rubber, or did you bring your own?” He leered and pulled a chain of four or five condoms out of his back pocket. In case he fumbled the first three times, I supposed. I was betting he didn’t make it through the first item on his little agenda without shooting off. I stepped back into the bathroom and got dressed and started putting on my makeup. My lipstick of choice is French Whore Red; I should buy the stuff by the case.

I heard the front door open and shut; I heard her scream; and then I heard the thunk of her body hitting the floor. That was my cue: I grabbed my camera and stepped out into the big open room of the studio.

Tiff was wearing her red plaid little-catholic-schoolgirl skirt, complete with fishnets and a stuffy white blouse that was just begging to be ripped open. He obliged me, scattering buttons everywhere, and yanked her bra down around her middle, setting her perky little tits free, the pink, puffy little nipples pointed up at my studio lights.

Tiffany can blame her name on our parents. At school, she calls herself ‘Jezebel’. I’ve asked her why she doesn’t just legally change her name, and she just gives me the finger. She’s working on her doctorate, but she looks all of about fourteen. We’re both tall, but unlike me, she’s a skinny little waif, the kind you could break in half like a stick of kindling.

With a knee placed squarely on the center of her chest, he lifted up her skirt, and with a sneer, tore off her plain and boring white panties, exposing her brown furry muff. Tiffany, unlike a lot of girls of our generation (myself included) doesn’t believe in waxing or shaving. Her pussy was already pouting wet. She gets off on this kind of shit.

He slapped her open-handed across the cunt, and then punched her in the gut for good measure. I heard her ‘whoof’ as the wind was knocked out of her. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, and rolled her over onto her stomach, encouraging her with a kick or two from his sandaled feet.

He placed one foot right on the back of her neck, and favored me with a big fat grin. She was weeping piteously and protesting incoherently, and he was absolutely eating it up.

As she whimpered at his feet, he pulled down his cut-off shorts. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Classy. His dick was straining eagerly up and out.

“Hold it right there!” I swooped in with my camera. The shutter clicked, I got my shots, and I got out. “Carry on.” I said.

I have this theory that every guy’s dick is like a miniature version of himself, in the same way that dog owners tend to look like their dogs. ‘Roger’ was no exception. He had an ok dick, I guess. It was about average length, but definitely on the thick side. He was circumcised, and the head was shiny and pink, disproportionally small compared to the shaft. It reminded me of the nose cone of an ICBM, and the pee hole was red and irritated-looking. He had a neatly trimmed triangle of pubes, but his balls, which hung down like ripe fruit on a vine, were completely shaved, which made for an oddly disturbing look.

He carefully rolled the condom on, which would have been the ideal time for Tiffany to kick him in the nuts, if that had been her inclination. Then he got down on one knee, muscled her legs apart, put a big meaty hand around her throat, and jammed his cock straight up her cunt.

She wailed, a long, high-pitched scream of terror and pain, saccharine-fake, and kicked her legs wildly, struggling underneath him. My money was that he would come just from that.

Our boy Roger proved me wrong. After two or three brutal strokes, he pulled his cock out of her cunt, all wet and glistening; spread her little butt cheeks, and with a series of low grunts like he was power-lifting, he proceeded to cram his dick right up her anus. Tiff howled again, and this time maybe it wasn’t quite so fake.

He was fucking her asshole like a bulldozer, one tit clutched in each hand and gnawing on the back of her neck. Suddenly he yowled, “Ah, you fucking bitch!” That was it for Roger. So much for fucking her throat and wiping his come all over her face. He bucked and squirted into the condom. Tiff milked him for all he was worth.

They’re contrite afterward, always. ‘Roger’ was no exception. He tenderly pulled out and removed the condom, and I got my ‘after’ shot of his dick all limp and sperm-slimy. Then he got dressed, apologizing profusely to Tiffany, who was curled up on the floor whimpering with one hand clutched between her legs. He’d never know that she was masturbating. He got dressed, said he was ‘so sorry’ one more time to Tiff, who never acknowledged him, and then he left.

Tiff had a nasty split lip, and a bunch of fresh finger-shaped bruises on her neck. She loves that shit, later on she’ll highlight the bruises with purple makeup, accentuate the cuts and scrapes with scarlet eyeliner, and make up elaborate lies about where she got them, just to fuck with people. For now we had another appointment coming right up, so she took a quick shower and changed into her prom dress outfit.

What does a guy look like, the type who would cheat on his girlfriend with some stranger from off the internet? Alex knocked on the studio door while Tiffany was still pinning on her corsage.

Alex threw me for a bit of a loop. She wore grey gas station attendant coveralls, with a white jog bra underneath, and Birkenstocks. She had hairy toes, and one lock of her unruly brown hair kept falling down her forehead in front of her eyes, which she would then impatiently brush back into place.

She stepped confidently into the studio, and shut the door behind her. She was stocky, shorter than either me or Tiff, and she had wide hips, and two circle-cross Venus symbols intertwined, tattooed on her neck.

“So what are you after?” I asked.

“You know,” She smiled knowingly and winked. It was kind of obnoxious. “What everyone wants. The usual.”

“So spell it out for me,” I said. To the best of my knowledge, Tiffany had never been with another girl. I didn’t know if she was interested, but that was sort of beside the point.

Alex sighed. “Ok. I want to sit on her face and have her lick my kiki while I play with her pussy, but I won’t let her come. At least not until after I get off. Ok?”

“Ok,” I said, “You know the rules?”

“Sure,” Alex said, “Before and after shots. Just don’t show my face, my girlfriend would kill me.”

She shrugged off her coveralls right then and there. She was commando underneath, what was this, a theme for the day? I took a close-up shot of her twat. She was one of those girls who waxed everything. Her pink and crinkled inner labia peeked eagerly out from in between smugly pouting soft and puffy outer lips. She was already glistening with excitement.

Tiffany lay down on her back on the floor, and Alex straddled her face. She lifted Tiff’s dress up and pulled her lacy red panties aside, wetting a finger and brushing it lightly up and down Tiff’s furry cunt. Tiff started to make a noise that was quickly muffled by Alex’s pussy covering her mouth.

Alex rode her like a cowgirl in the saddle, mashing her pussy all over my kid sister’s face; sometimes lifting up so that Tiff had to crane her neck and stick out her tongue to reach Alex’s juicy bald pussy; sometimes shifting forward so that Tiff could lick her asshole. All the while, she was playing with Tiff’s pussy; tracing her fingertips up and down Tiffany’s twat, occasionally bending over and giving her frustrated puss a quick lick or two, which made her squirm and kick. The lips of Tiffany’s pussy were swollen, pouting out and drooling; she must be dying of frustration. She likes it rough, and all that teasing had to be absolute torture for her.

When Alex came, she let loose, bearing down and almost violently grinding herself against Tiff’s tongue, reaching behind and yanking on her hair for emphasis, while she howled like an opera singer belting out an aria. When she was done, she climbed off Tiff, who was practically writhing with frustrated lust, and let me get my ‘after’ shot of her sticky, satisfied pussy. Then she got dressed and left us.

Now I bet Tiff was glad I’d made three appointments for us that day. The next one was due any moment; she barely had time to change into her Raggedy Ann costume before he was knocking at the door.

What does a guy look like, the kind of guy who will cheat on his wife, sight unseen, with some stranger from off the internet? Andrew looked shockingly normal; innocuously cute. He had a high forehead and hairy arms, he was slim and well-muscled, he wore jeans and a button-down shirt and a wedding ring, and he smelled faintly of marijuana. He looked slightly shy or befuddled, so I asked him in.

“So what’s your bag?” I asked.

He stepped bravely up to the plate. “I want to lick your pussy” he told me, “I want to lick it until you come all over my face.”

“O-k…” I said, “Only my pussy isn’t the pussy in question here. Then what?”

“I want to lick your pussy,” he repeated, “Until you’re satisfied, and then I’d like you to jerk me off. With a finger up my butt.”

Well, he certainly knew what he wanted. “My sister provides all the action here,” I said, “I just take the pictures.”

“But I came here to see you.” He was twitching a little bit, like he might just cut and run; but he stood his ground. And there was a nice-looking lump in the front of his jeans. He was cute. I figured what the hell.

“You know the rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I read the email.”

He dropped trou, and I snapped a couple shots of his cock. He had a really nice dick: big without being scary big; nice and straight and thick, with a purple bulbous head that was modestly hidden behind foreskin, and peeked eagerly out at me. His pubes were neatly trimmed, his balls fat and compact. I wondered if his wife knew what she was missing.

Feeling inordinately self-conscious, I stripped out of my own tight jeans and stretchy black top. Feeling his eyes, and Tiffany’s eyes on my naked body, I arranged myself on the little studio futon. Sure as shootin’, our guy Andrew hustled down between my legs, like a puppy after a chew toy. Rarely have I been so glad to have been freshly showered.

When was the last time I got my kitty licked? I mean really licked, not just a polite slurp or two, a perfunctory excuse for some dude to get his dick wet? It had been, my friends, a really long time. And Andrew, whatever else he may have been, was shockingly good at it.

He started off slowly, warming me up, teasing me, getting me into it. By the time the tip of his tongue made contact with my clit, I was sopping wet, and my legs were splayed shamelessly wide. He lapped eagerly away at me, sliding the flat of his tongue up and down my cunt, flicking at my asshole, drawing meticulous circles around my aching clit, sliding two fingers up my juicy pussy, pulling them out and licking them off, and starting all over again. He found my groove, and ran with it. I came all over his face, not once, not twice, but at least three times. By the time he finally came up for air, grinning like a madman, his fat cock bouncing and rigid, I was glowing and exhausted. I don’t know when I’ve come that hard, ever.

He sat on my lap. He had kind of a bony little butt, but I didn’t mind. I wrapped one hand around his dick and started jerking him off, whispering sweet nothings in his ear about how good it had felt when he had eaten my pussy. I felt his cock swell and strain in my hand. I whispered that he was a sexy little pervert, and I wet one finger and slid it up his asshole.

He was tight. His body stiffened, and his anus clenched down on my invading digit, but his dick got even harder. As his asshole relaxed, I started finger-banging him from behind, in time with the hand jerking off his cock. He was going wild, moaning aloud, rocking back and forth on my lap. I was determined to draw this out as long as possible and then some. I removed my finger and released his dick, and he whined. I ran my fingers up and down my still-drooling cunt, and then slipped two slick fingers back up his naughty little hole and he gasped. I resumed the handjob, with just my thumb and forefinger barely petting his quivering cock.

Of course Tiffany had to get in on the action. She got down on her knees and started lapping at the bright red head of his dick, now boldly exposed, free of his foreskin. It took about three licks, and he went off like fireworks. His dick pulsed under my fingers and his asshole spasmed and squeezed, and squirted about a bucked of semen straight into Tiffany’s pretty little mouth. Together, we milked out every last drop.

Tiff shot a couple ‘after’ pics of his soft, worn-out cock, which still looked mighty nice, and then he got dressed and took his leave.

Together, we printed the pictures we’d taken. Alex’s pussy made a nice contrast to all the dicks. The differences ‘between’ before and ‘after’ were subtle and sexy; she clearly belonged right at the center of the book. We worked on the order of the rest, arranging and re-arranging all the cocks, hard and soft, into a rough proof. The book wasn’t complete. I still needed more material.

Tiffany was fidgety and antsy; she still hadn’t gotten her rocks off. She’s a tough nut to crack, but her sexual frustration wasn’t my problem, and even if I chose to make it my problem, she was out of time. She was supposed to be giving a lecture on Woolf to a roomful of uninterested undergrads in a little less than twenty-five minutes. Resentfully, she took of her Raggedy Ann outfit and changed into a more professorial outfit, before heading out the door. The bruises on her neck were turning purple and livid; her split lip was swollen and crusty with blood. She knew, and I knew, but her students wouldn’t know that she wasn’t wearing any panties under that charcoal-grey wool skirt. Maybe she’d find some nice young English major to help scratch her itch.

I shrugged, and started to get dressed myself. I thought about masturbating, then thought better of it; my parts had received more attention than they’d gotten in a coon’s age, and were feeling more than a little tender and sore.

I switched off the tiny video camera that looked just like another unused studio floodlight, and pulled the memory card. Before I burned a disc, I considered editing out the part where I got my own kitty licked, but then I decided ‘fair’s fair’, and left it all in.

I sell the dvds to my landlord, a creepy Albanian octogenarian with halitosis, erectile dysfunction, and a decades-long drinking problem, in exchange for a fistful of crumpled, greasy twenty dollar bills, and a significant break on the rent, all under the table. Someday I’ll finish my coffee-table book and the rent will go up accordingly, but for now it’s a work in progress.

END

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