Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Humanity is something elementary. Reflect on the mechanics. It's meat. Bone. Blood. A bit of messy muddled subjectivities in the tissues nestled in your skull, but even when they slop out on the pavement, it's still just there. The flesh and the simple biology. There is reflex action; impulse and answer and it's something as fundamental as call-and-response. A touch is a quirk through the peripheral nervous system; it's a clutch of sprawling spidering roots, every one slipping slithering through the skin, the meat, even the bone. Laced into your every reach. A graze, a stroke, a caress. It's something predictable. Everything in its gradation.

All is self-interest; all is atavistic. Pain and pleasure alike are little more than mechanistic, implements conceived to perpetuate the flesh. It's the frog's essence; it isn't a myth. To ease them into their own annihilation. Toss a frog into roiling water, and there'll be a quick straining rippling lunge . Muscle flares into irresistible violence. The figure bouncing springs from the pot.

Permit it to lurk in water merely patiently warmed, and it will boil itself.

Humanity boils itself with the supremest bliss in its own juices. You will flinch from the pain, yes, but the mind the strange squelching heap of meat between the ears, ah, this is the water's patient caress. It is something malleable, mutable. An idiocy in its own intricacy; a computer altogether too fucking grandiose for the soft wet machinery into which it's grafted. There is a passion, a fervor, algolagnia.

A lust for pain. Pretentious. It is. Our collective lust to gratify our intellectual affectations with a dead tongue that's still lolling out with an animal exhortation for something wet, soft, sumptuous. For the delirium the delectation in flavor.

We have not domesticated ourselves. The world lies prostrate in its simple animal reality; and still, still, still, it is to delude ourselves that we have surpassed this, that our meager architecture is geography. It is not.

We will all die.

Tiny deaths.

Glorious deaths.

We feast on algolagnia. On sadomasochism; but there is a bliss, a delirium, in this word, isn't there? Algolagnia? It is without affected artistic allusion; it is merely exactly what it is. A lust for pain. Greek, fine. But, hell, what does it matter? The words were once spoken not with simpering pretension but only the heavy and the hot and the guttural; lovers would whisper it through the steeping wet Mediterranean darkness. Philosophers sodden addled with the wine that no amount of water can dilute into wholesomeness would spit it at one another.

Generals would issue grandiose commands cradling figments of indelible divine power in their hands and the sergeant's voice would be upraised, All right, ya mufuckers! Stab them fuckin' Spartans. Put a Zeus-damned spear up somebody's ass today! Fuck.

Fuck.

“F-fuck.” A whimper; a mewl.

Because Masoch was an ugly self-indulgent misogynist whose sense of women's power was still elementally their wickedness, if not their weak genuflection. De Sade, well, what a fucking edgelord toddler. Tedious pretensions of the decadent; a simple churlish zeal for scandalizing minds whose values were warped into Modern Art vicissitudes, unperturbed with a woman being broken on the wheel and broiled in a pluming hot pyre but god forbid, indeed, god does forbid with the church's imprimatur, that anything as scandalous as sex should be written.

A bit of torture? Passé; a banality beside the simple truth.

Reality is truth.

“Fuck!” But it's all just... Here. The simple being in this. In the mind not numbed and not sharpened, either, but just twisted battered broken into a garden of strange and senseless geometries. It is to know the unrealities that simply are, because they can really only be admitted.

It is mincing through landscapes wrought in inscrutable opaque juices and in the thought and in the confluence of the within and the without and the noumenon is immanent here; it tyrannizes in this place, formless and without guise, without sensation, and still, still, it is here. A whisper; a breath. There is heat. A candle gutters with a conscious inkling of mortality; the wick is wooden, a sharp spearing bit of carnal parody, upraised and eaten, swallowed down down down while it gorges itself on its own flesh.

A cannibal Ouroboros.

“Fuck.” There is not only heat; there is dampness. A candor, windows flung open to the city's intrusion, a sticky sodden aura wreathing the flesh. It is to know the night in its bubbling hungers; it is to savor its simple unpretentious depredations. It is humanity in its crammed supersaturated multitudes, every one wallowing in the stagnant summer swelter, unleavened with the rain that is only teased with the fan-dancer's grace, a glint a glimpse of flesh for a transient instant, and it is gone again. A cool kiss of wind through the opened balcony doors.

The candles inflame bare skin; the light is a glimmer like starlight flitting playful coiling heavy over every fixture that rears up not into cold hard flat relief but a nebulous quirk in shadow's thickness and its thinning. It is geometry intuited in black water's shallows. The centerpiece, however, is an object of shame in its absolutism . It is to cast away the darkness' perfected grace, its inverted clarity, and to gorge itself on the explicit.

It is the sulfurous leaden fart like brimstone in a chamber wreathed with jumbled perfumes' distant and nebulous ghosts. The face is an equivocal and distasteful thing; the lips wriggle and ripple and strain and distend and the eyes are snapped closed pursed more comfortably more surely than the lips tumbling open trembling and crazed. The tongue tumbles out; it's something almost dainty, delicate, flitting over the chin slathered with spittle that's gathered in its effusion, with the sweat that creases the self-conciously cheap makeup adorning the cheeks furrowed with pain's convulsive strokes.

But the mind, ah, you must understand, yes? There can really only be this. This perfect binary that still denies one half. It's something that must be. It is an absolute. Pain is bliss with the appropriate incantations. With the gauzy fabrics curtaining the muscle's fine planes; with the long legs cradled in stockings taut and not merely lucent but simply brilliant with sweat steeping through the nylon's every creamy reach.

The complexion tawny; the bone and meat and muscle hard in their relief through the skin that's straining with a violence rearing up a compulsion to retch to protest to struggle away from the pain but the mind, the mind, it is the mind that is perhaps the disease. A metabolic disorder. A blood poison.

As surely and completely transformative as any other addiction. It is a will for more, more, more. Knelt now; the thing there, the pathetic wriggling gastropod, it isn't a woman.

It isn't a man, either.

“Oh, look at you. Still petulant; still so goddamn mouthy, aren't you, you piece of shit? You ridiculous degraded fuck-pig. That's all you are, isn't it?” The words are mine; they are my monopoly in this place. Even the obscenity cannot be countenanced. It is, of course, visceral.

Natural.

A convulsion spurting through the autonomic nervous system.

I should be a fucking neurologist. This is terra incognita ; this is our society's, our farce of a civilization's, delusion that there is nothing here. It is Where There Be Dragons. It is not painted upon a map; it is a void, an abyss where the mind dare not meander. There is a great deal of unexplored territory.

It is known. Intuitively, elementally, bubbling up from the fundament, it is perhaps so native to the human spirit that it doesn't even merit academia's cold ambitions to conquest. To domesticity. For the flesh to be cowed like a dancing bear; to rear up and indulge you with a samba on command, ah, ah, maybe a waltz now, Ivan.

But it's all horseshit.

This is a wild and feral and frenzied thing. The figure is not large; it is not tiny. The proportions are meaningless because its servitude lies deeper than any geometry. If it is ordered in this instant this strange moment of the sublime to carve open its own throat, perhaps the flesh's animal need to survive will not accommodate it, but there will be...

A twinge.

For a moment.

It is a possibility.

We have sought to carve reality into extremes; into the impossible and the possible. For there to be something Appropriate. And not. It is all context; we will wish to desomaticize the reality, and instead to substitute our own ideals even when the flesh protests otherwise. The flesh is the victor. Grandiose and glorious things die inglorious deaths in their collision with the simple truth in meat and bone.

In blood.

In lust.

In craving.

In hunger .

It is not two semis in confluence; it is a terrible trundling misshapen evolutionary vestige, a monster wrought in those depths that are never, felt never known, never tasted, the pre-sensual, the pre-sensory, the preconscious, an eldritch thing that light cannot kiss, a cave fish anachronism whose talons are only felt in their reflection their tremor sympathetic and leaden and brutal through the flesh. And then there is the stained glass elegance as fucking brittle as the first hardening slick of ice on a sheet of water.

The fist rears up.

The ice disintegrates unnoticed.

This is the truth. We are ; our every ambition, our every design, our every act is simply twisted to this. Every bit of civilization is about gratifying with orderly reliable predictable perfection this need. To procreate. And procreation has been programmed as bliss for us. A compulsion that cannot be reasoned out of being. There is no thought that can overtake this.

It is only in its vicissitudes.

Even the most glorious mind will peer with dull-eyed glazed-over idiocy at the cyclopean screens throbbing rich with reflected sex. Directed and prepackaged carnality in pornography, and there is still the simple voyeuristic giddiness puddling between your thighs.

But this is not this.

Fingers groan with latex; thick lacquered crude distilled into its elemental obsidian perfection painted taut and cinching and clutching over your hands' every inch, great diabolic gauntlets that coil serpentine up up up over the elbow, cinching into the biceps' tight muscled flesh. Knelt on legs that must be venerated, must be worshiped . They are not sodden with strength now; it is less atrophy and more a surrender to the natural that is still superhuman. It is vanity.

Vanity, narcissism, it is this production's essence . To be conscious of their length; longer than long; enough for two or three or four women. The bustier snapped into the body; tight-laced sartorial psychosis that still admits the breath that cradles the breasts pluming exploding up in a creamy hot marshmallow effusion.

The nipples are only intuited in the faintest peachy aura, a sunrise cresting those black hilly horizons.

You would taste the starlight if it were not for the mountains that obliterate every prickling point from your eyes.

You must not and cannot touch them.

Stare down into the eyes; the lashes thickened with mascara, heavy prickling points that are still only a parody an effigy of the natural feminine grace in anthracite quills. The shadow is painted smoke; the liner runs with sweat, with tears, a studied deliberate cheapness . The rouge shimmers lambent with waxy gloss on the quavering lips.

The eyes bubble with sorrow; plead not for relief for reprieve but only for more .

We are a word. It is our essence. We are industrial humans, craving more, more, more . All-you-can-eat is the state religion; it is not Buddhism, not Shintoism. It is fucking consumerism . A palm creeps over the flushed cheeks that make mockery of the blush smeared with the harlot's brazenness on the skin.

Fingers cinch .

Squeeze.

Another groan.

“You little fuck! Who told you you could even breathe without my approval?!” A crack; a snap, a slap, it's your hand drawn back scribing a huge plunging stripe over the figure's cheek. It does not merit a name; it does not warrant anything so grandiose as a face.

Stiletto heels split the thick air like lightning skewering a heady pregnant darkness. A crunch into the floor that's not tatami but ostentatious hardwood. It's a perfection for the little whore's knees; for their palms; for their fingers trembling, straining.

Rearing up and there is a command on my lips.

“Lick.” A heel offered. It's muddled, strange, the tongue swept up and down and up and down along an ankle brandished. It is a sense of levitation; an unassailable balance. It is the kata's essence; a ritual perfection still steeped in bone and meat and sinew in their brutal crunch.

The figure shudders ; the slender grace the sinuous muscle the spine arching the flesh tucked between its thighs clasped in panties sweat-blackened in their fine lace quavering.

“You little whore. You're loving this, aren't you? It's just fucking pathetic. You're pathetic, aren't you? You don't deserve a name- stop licking my goddamn boot, you piece of shit!” A quick stroke; not a kick, no, no, no.

It isn't to maim . Not to kill when a committed blow will batter concrete into mist and powder.

When a fist can still warp metal into a graceful bowed ruin.

But it's still violence ; still the belly bruised with a chorus girl's nimble high kick.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to lick; not keep licking. You disobedient swine.” The wig heaped in its lavish soft satiny black luster's been disturbed, tousled. “And you can't even put on a fucking wig right.

“You know, I don't think you're a very committed sissy, are you?” Knelt now. Hunched.

An impatient sigh flaring through the breast.

“I don't know why I bother with you. It isn't the money. Well, it is. It's the alchemy that turns my time into indulgence. But... Why bother? Oh, I'll take your money. No refunds, you little whore.” A palm on a cheek; not a slap, no, no, but it's the bliss in reflexes twisted.

In a flinch.

In fear .

“Mmm... Look at that. Has it finally begun to seep into you? The wisdom, now, little girl? Oh, look at that flush; look at those dazed glazed eyes.” Lingering on every word. It isn't with a sense of urgency.

There is no transaction in this.

It is a gift ; it is to implore Mistress Orchid to condescend to squander her time. To ornament herself in fine latex; to perfume herself with sweat and desire.

There is hunger. It is something shackled, imprisoned in ice, but still, still, it burns between the thighs. A fervor that rears up with every blow, with every groan.

Every bruise.

“You understand it, right? Your algolagnia, oh, what a delicious word... It's like a drug, isn't it? It just... Creeps through you. You start with a little idle experimentation. A joy bang, as little Ayumi-tan would say. But you keep going. First? Because it was just so nice before. Why wouldn't you? Mmm. But then the sickness sets in. It's just like heroin. It's there. In your veins, right?” Fingers softened with the latex graze.

Whisper over a brow.

The hips wriggle.

“You're just so excited, aren't'cha? 'cause you loved it with little Kazuha-tan, didn't you? Oh, but you couldn't tell her that. Not when she was so afraid. She remembers all of the soft little Sapphic manga strokes and...

“And kisses and cute little caresses from high school. Not that I mind those with her. But not with you; not with a fucking boy. You're just fuck-pigs; you're sweathogs. That's all you are. You and...” There is a word. It's a transmutation, a metamorphosis, sloughing off its dreamy opium-pluming chrysalis to expose the reality.

Pupating into a fucking pejorative .

Shin'ichi.

A spasm through the body; a lightning bolt insanity .

Rage.

“You fuck! You're all just fuck-meat. That's all you are. I don't want to sound like Ayumi, but it's true. That's all you are. Boys? Boyz? You're useless. You're just heaps of desire, of meaningless idiot craving.

“You waste time; you eat and eat and eat. As- as bad as girls are in the culture you've made, you're still the originals.” It's not a slap now; not an open-palmed stroke. It's a closed fist.

There's a groan .

“F-fuck, fuck-”

“You little shit! Silence! I told you to stop talking!” Now, now, it's a stomp to anoint a splayed palm in rich ruby anguish; not the heel, no, no, not the stiletto that could spear through tank armor. But the flattened sole and it's to be serenaded only with a mewl.

A whimper.

Lips pursed .

Quivering.

“A-ahn-”

“Ahn?” Linger.

Gloat .

It is production. The bliss, the desire, the fervor , they're not found in crude human geometries; they're not tasted in the immediacies. It is something ineffable. The hips' cock; the brow's quirk; the fingers' snap .

“Was that an ahn, sissy slut?”

Silence.

“I'll permit you to speak, because that was just- just the most adorable thing I've heard tonight. Speak!”

“Y-yes, Mistress Orchid. It was an ahn-” Oh, but the truculence in this sissy whore's voice dipping to a ragged hot rasp like spit spurting up through coarse gravel.

“Falsetto. Falsetto!” It is not a command; it is nothing that would even credit this slug with defiance's possibility. It is only what must be; it is self-evident in this.

“Yes, Mistress Orchid!” It's a coo; a keen; the throat's still tormented but there's an authentic frailty in it now. “Yes, Mistress Orchid. It- it was an ahn-”

“It's so adorable. Aren't you just the cutest?” Silence; the eyes are downcast.

Dumb.

Animal.

Bovine .

But there's a visceral knowledge lurking in the breast. Ah, ah, ah, this awareness of penalty's immediacy. The lips strain; the jaws shudder.

“You can just stop, you know, little sissy slut? It's not as if you're my captive. Just say, I'm done, and that's it. No more Mistress Orchid. No more... Of this.” A sigh; slow, slow, slow, fingers slip slither plunge through the sweat enameling his satiny sable skin.

A man's coarseness, maybe, but there's still something ineffably womanly in it.

Delicious.

Well, girlish.

“Look at this sweat. You know, I love girls who sweat. I don't hate the ones who can't; but a bitch who prevents herself from sweating, well, that's just diseased. That's just abhorrent. Ain't it? Like Vermouth. She refuses to sweat.

“She'd never be my type. She's just too fucking self-possessed. There's the arrogance, the- the pornographic detachment, abstraction, in sex with her. She won't surrender herself to it. Not that I'd ever let you fuck me again.

“Mmm... Unless it's with Kazuha-chan. Now that was very nice. Too bad she just doesn't understand that the best sex leaves bruises; the deepest passion bites to the bone. Right, Hei-tan? I expect you to fucking speak-”

“R-right, right, Mistress Orchid.” Such a good little sissy.

But there's still a palm cracking down on his ass; a wet brutal slap like a cannon shell crashing through a serene cool pond.

A yowl.

A yelp.

Because pain is something irresistible, autonomic. Bloating burbling up through every nerve; wringing the screech from the lips from the jaws the pain that becomes a presence inflaming your lungs like napalm. And there's another blow, and another, and another, the ass absolutely bare, the candles' flit and flicker and play with a reedy crackle and staining his bronzed grace a deeper hue that's an invitation to verdigris' corruption.

But it is not here. It is perfect, shimmering, sodden, slathered over his skin.

Enriching me.

Enriching him .

Penalty and punishment and cultivation are as meaningful for the professor as the student.

“You may speak freely now, you sissy fuck-hole. Your silence bores me, you piece of shit boy-meat.”

“M-Mistress Orchid. Mistress Orchid.” Whispering it; cradling the syllables as a superstitious talisman. “Mistress Orchid, you're so pretty-”

“That's what you want to tell me? Jabbering at me like a fucking toddler? And look at this thing between your thighs. Get on your back like a good little doggy.” And there is obedience. “You disgusting fucking bitch. Look at you. Look at you.

“Degrading yourself.” Legs and arms upraised; the hips wriggle with the dog's demented plea for adoration. But it would be wicked to abuse a dog.

A bitch like this?

Well, it's an invitation to a stiletto's graze along the belly.

“Now, tell me, Hei-tan.”

Silence.

A smile creases the lips; slow and treacly. It is poisonous; it is the essence of cobra venom weeped from a tigress' jaws.

“Tell me. What's your desire? Do you want it to end?”

“M-Mistress Orchid, I love it. I love to be degraded; I love to be abused; I'm your whore; I'm your slut; I'm your sissy cunt.” Ah.

“Well, that's something. I'm not very persuaded. I'll see you later, Heiji-”

“I'm a worthless piece of shit! I'm unworthy!” While you're turned; while there's still a languid cant in the spine, in the cocked hips.

A wisdom of your own body, a supreme somatic knowledge , framed between the candles littering the tables, the shelves, their shadow never darker than at their core. The voluptuous hips; the shapely legs; the high high high heels and the stockings reaching up up up, a delicious cinching strain around the thighs, biting into that sleek fat and taut muscle.

The soft soft skin.

“I'm disgusting subhuman garbage; I don't deserve even to be in your presence. I don't deserve to lick your ass after you take the world's hugest grimiest shit! I- I should be trained for years before I can even lick your toes after you've walked through mud!” It's something. But still, still, turned, there's an opprobrium.

“Oh, please. Anyone can speak-”

“I'll prove it! I'll prove it!” While the shoulders still strain; while the spine has become an overstrung bow, tortured, heaving while the belly throbs in slim muscular firm definition and sleek tight skin and the eyes are crazed, wild.

Fingers tremble; toes quiver, splay out and narrow again into a likeness of fists in the sweat-darkened stockings.

“You'll prove it, huh? You'll prove it? Please. You can't prove you're a piece of shit. Don't you understand? You are; that's it. It's like proving the sun rises. It just does, Hei-chan-”

“I'll- I'll wear whatever you want; I'll do whatever you want; I'll be whatever you want.” The eyes are steeped with panic; the lips grope for purchase on language, on the perfected pusillanimous pathetic groveling, on the sonic genuflection that will mollify this deepest cruelty.

“Do you know about noumenon?”

“The- the Pokémon-”

“Goddammit, you're stupid!” Wheeling around; a heel jabbed into the left kidney.

“W-wah!”

“You are stupid; you're just boy-meat. You're just fuck-meat. That's all you are. Look at that disgusting fucking cock.” It's not foot-fetish indulgence; it's not grazed oh so delicately with lingering manga-perfect veneration over its straining flesh. It is a stomp; the heavy meat's slapped against his belly; the proportions taut overwrought they're bowing, rearing, up elbows upon knees clattering together with a sharp crack.

“W-wah!”

“What? Were you expecting a nice little footjob, Hei-tan?”

“N-no, no, no, Mistress Orchid! You'll punish me like I deserve! I- I trust you!” With flesh seamed now with its simple violence; with every rippling with an anxious intensity that is the body's, even while the eyes, stupid, stupid, stupid, have melted into...

Something religious.

Yes.

Ayumi would approve.

A surrender .

It is faith.

“Really?” And so now, now, it is the sole brushed over that ridiculous thing.

Idiocy's locus.

Desire's nexus in flesh and spirit.

A long slow caress .

Ground against his belly.

“What a good little doggy. Or at least, you bark well on command. Do you mean it? What you said?” The stiletto skewers now. “Here. Hold your little tail up for me.” It is obedience.

Immediate.

But there is fear, also. It's not only the dog's senses that taste this terror; it is the wolf's, the tiger's, the beast 's. Yes. Yes. A tendril stitching together those great throngs. Trembling fingers clutch at that cute generous bulk; not colossal, no, no, no, but the thickness is something lovely. Rearing up; hungering; drawn tight against the belly, an ordeal in the quavering wrist to urge it up up up.

And the stiletto is tucked into the slit; into that ridiculous guppy mouth forever groping at more more more. Squelching into the rheumy juices, the lubricious tears that weep out.

A groan; a gurgle.

Everything is simply enameled on the lust, on the fuck compulsion that gathers thickens between your thighs. A shiver, a shudder, it's something that cannot be exposed with candor to a slave, no, no, but it is there. It surpasses anything as prosaic as exhilaration.

It is no simple excitement. It is tasting the familiar orders riven open battered, broken, twisted apart. It is a Berlin Wall of priggery, of compunction, of childish absolutes hammered into dust; it is curtained with napalm and extinguished and then anointed in white phosphorous. It is a sexual madness. It is jaws clenching.

It is fangs bared.

It is transgression without this word's idiot connotations.

Its convictions.

“A-ahn!” Squealing; squalling; it is to know the flesh surrendering to the pain's will, to its force, to its authority, to its oppression its repression not merely without despair but with bliss. It is hatred; it is will; it is frenzy; it is madness; it is a relentless throbbing Arabic rhythm coiling up up up through the legs, rising from the heavy hardwood and not taking root but just settling like nesting vipers in your belly.

“You piece of shit spoiled rich fuck. Look at this apartment; look at this penthouse. Mommy and daddy's beneficence. Rewarding you for being just so fucking cute with your little detective game. But that's all it is, isn't it?

“Play-pretend. Just like... Like that heap of shit pretender; that poseur.” Wrath. Venom. It is the cobra's rage gathering in the jaws, spit in the words that coalesce like strychnine gelatin. “You're all just so pitiful. Beneficiaries of convenience; of a credulous youth-venerating culture and a police department that's never met an easy answer it hasn't liked.

“Right? Happenstance; convenience; coincidence. More than anything, conjecture. That's what you call deduction. Fuckin' pathetic. I should rip this tail off; I should maybe split it in half. Would you like two?

“Wouldn't that just be the cuuutest, Hei-tan? That's your name now; I'll write it with the kanji for flat. Isn't that nice? 'cause you don't have Kazu-nyan's rack, do you? Aren't you embarrassed? To be wearing such sexy lingerie with a boy's body?”

“Yes! I'm so sorry!” The eyes are huge, wheeling, twisting, limning immense crazed orbits again and again and again. “I'm so sorry!”

“Are you? Are you really? How sorry are you, Hei-tan?”

“I-”

“You don't get a pronoun, you piece of shit!” And the strain's slackening.

The pain's diminishing.

Shouldn't that be punishment's recession?

Ah, ah, you're finally paying attention.

“W-what should...”

“Exactly. Hei-tan will call herself Hei-tan. Or, well, whatever's cute. Aren't you just the cutest? Show me your tail, cutie. C'mon. Wag your tail for me, cutie. Wag your tail.” Sneering. A bit of opprobrium that is not play-pretend. “Good cutie.”

“Hei-wan,” oh, oh, oh, yes, “Hei-wan wantsta be all cute for- for Mistress Orchid.”

“Then get on your knees, Hei-wan. What a nice lil' bitch you are. Aren't'cha? Aren't'cha?”

“I wanna be the cutest.” Far gone.

This is the phrase.

When knees crack and palms slap wet on the heavy hardwood.

When there's a waggle.

A wriggle.

“Good girl.” Reward the little whore. And it's with exactly what she craves.

With a needling heel stabbed into the ass.

With a wail.

A howl rearing up from her lips.

“W-aaaahn!” Crowing cawing howling; the spine arches; the body heaves.

“Good, good girl-”

“It- it hurts so much, Mistress Orchid!” And there's no complaint.

“Too fucking bad you're such a truculent noncommittal fuck-pig. You should grow that long beautiful hair; that shimmering soft hair; that perfect hair that's just... So deliciously Japanese. Pin-straight. Elegant.

“The tonsorial Yamato Spirit. Don't you want to be a Yamato Nadeshiko?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Wriggling wiggling overheated. Febrile and psychotic and it's a lie.

“It's a lie. You're not a girl; you're just a sissy faggot fuck.” It's a blow. An authentic slug; not concrete-melting violence but a quick jab into the side and it's to know defiance. A defiance you've invited, you've commanded.

“W-wah, wah-”

“You won't change. Or should I just... Carve it off?” With fingers not slipping not easing not slithering just snapping around that.

His cock pulsating between the knuckles; a knowledge of a strain, a plea, begging, beseeching and...

It's all so lovely.

“Should I just break it off? 'cause you're such a faithless little fuck-pig, aren't you? You won't leave Kazu-nya for me, will you?”

“This... Hei-wan can't! Hei-wan can't-”

“Fuckin' pathetic.” Not a snap.

As rewarding as it'd be.

Just a palm hammering down on the plump ass' left cheek, and then the right; mmm, my, such an exotic pattern, 'cause it's not the right and then the left again. Why not gorge yourself on asymmetry? Why not just whale on the left, on evil's mythologized repository?

Right.

It should be the right .

A crack.

A snap.

A blow.

Beating.

Pummeling; spittle gathered in your mouth and heaved out. Another layer of lubrication for the gauntlet that's lovely shelter from anything like pain. For Mistress, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, for little wriggling wiggling Hei- wan , it's anguish supersaturated.

The screams are protean sonic apparitions; are starlight nebulae flitting from distant galaxies, long dead when they creep into the senses, skulk through your awareness. Beat and beat and beat and it's the right hand and now the left but it's only the right cheek, pummeling more and more and more while the howls rear up up up.

More.

More.

Toes curling.

Shivering.

Jaw clenched and falling open and the tongue lolls out and, oh, oh, oh, it's something... Intuitive. A wisdom in experience's scope, in the variegated pitches, in the deep tortured lowing like an anguished calf springing up to a shriek like a kitten being fed through a meat-grinder.

Wailing.

Whimpering.

A palm clasped around that nasty fucking heap of meat.

“Don't you dare come without my permission, you shit-heap.” A command; a command. And still, still, the body is weak. Its defects must be corrected. A fingertip jammed into the flesh coiling from its root to the ass' soft pert pucker and it's to know divinity.

I can taste the wet sticky insanity in the eyes springing open; in the lunging hips springing not away from the blows but with pantomime carnality, pumping pumping pumping while the body aspires to fulfillment to empty itself with bestial fervor into a fictive lover. Sexual shadow-boxing; it is only instinct.

And it's instinct unconsummated. There's only perfect nothing ; the flesh quavers strains twangs , but whatever would be is simply... Suctioned back.

A horrible plangent groan from the lips.

“O-oh, oh, oh, what is that, Mistress Orchid?! It hurts; it feels so good-”

“It's retrograde ejaculation. A piece of shit like you doesn't deserve to come. What? Did you think I'd just ruin your orgasm? Please. It's disgraceful enough that you'd disrespect me by coming without consent just by being beaten.

“But there must be punishment for this. Pathetic. Just pathetic. All right. All right. Did you clean yourself, Hei-wan?”

“Yes. Yes. Hei-wan is- is all clean-”

“And you haven't eaten?”

“For- for a whole day.” There's no more embellishment; a perfect succinctness.

“Good doggy.” Another brutal clap on his ass. A bliss at a glimpse of skin spidering with an unreal glimpse of contusion psychoanalysis; a Rorschach violence. Delicious; absolutely. Fucking. Delectable. Perfection.

Dipping down, down, down.

A kiss ; oh, oh, but when the flesh is inflamed with anguish, it's withdrawal's cruel essence. It's junk-sickness; it's to know not the joy bang delirium in every nerve shivering with twanging sensitivity but for even bathwater to be brutality, to be affront to your very being.

It's a heave, a shudder; it's an awareness of a nausea retching, with shoulders rearing, with muscle and bone hurled into relief like tectonic convulsion, with the spine thrashing, with the body tortured , the lips' graze ripping with serrated rust-encrusted claws down every. Fucking. Nerve.

“W-waaaah...”

“Don't you dare puke-”

“W-won't. Hei-wan won't- won't puke. Hurts. Hurts so much; hurts so weird-”

“Why not this?” A kiss; a kiss upon that exotic mouth. Not a woman's, no, no. Nothing so beautiful. But sleek and satiny and pink. A palpitating fuchsia; yawning open and snapping closed with its own manic wisdom.

It's a pucker.

A tongue jabbed there.

A gurgle.

“Don't you dare laze around, you filthy fuck-pig!” While the body sags; while the shoulders slump down; while the palms slip stained with sweat over the floor.

Straightening again.

“Ah, ah, there we are. Let me see just how clean you are.” There is decorum.

Not for him.

Not for a boy .

But for Mistress. Blood is... Distasteful, you understand. It isn't even disease; isn't the microbial grotesque in it. It's disagreeable . Artless. It's the squelch and spatter in the lubricant's bottle snapped up, graceful beveled discreet , an elegant convolution in roundnesses, fine shimmering points of light from the candles prismatic through its satiny lotion.

Poured down across fingers; over the ass.

His filth is not my concern.

“A-ah, ah, it's cold-”

“It should be cold, you shit.” The slap is lubricated with more than spit now. And it's not merely the palm; no, no, no. It's a brush, a prod, a jab; it's a finger and now a second and now a third cohering into a wicked angular geometry.

A gathered point pricking at that pucker.

And there is no gentleness at all. Just...

Impaling.

Stabbing down, down, down. Plunge and jab and skewer and rip through him. The answer is not; it is the senses overtaken with a blitzkrieg frenzy. It is a wet sticky sputter and squelch and it's his body surrendering because there is nothing else to be done. It is gloved fingers melting into sleek greasy flesh; it is to taste with an exotic diffuseness every bit , every quirk, every convolution; it is to know in an instant that filthy fucking tail's root.

The prostate. Ah, ah, prostrate while his prostate is not kneaded not stroked just prodded ; once and twice and again and again and satisfaction's already receding. Fucking him; fucking him. The fingers taste only a slackening in the body's play-pretend resistances.

It's only bliss for him now, isn't it? Digging down down down deeper deeper deeper, well, why not a fourth?

A wail.

Warble.

“W-wah, ah, ah, it's- it's-”

“So delicious, isn't it, Hei-wan?” While the body arches; not only the spine but everything. Head thrown back; toes curling; thighs shivering; ankles quaking; jaw clenched.

There is a mirror; it is something almost forbidden, and what is forbidden is savored with the supremest relish. It is to know the eyes' shy furtive flit; it is to adore the shoulders heaving, the self-conscious sissy fervor to diminish the well-exercised strength.

The sweat-dappled wig half-curtaining the face; the vast velvet wavelets dappling the sumptuous bronzed flesh.

“Ah... Ahn...” This is the answer.

“Are you admiring your slutty face, Hei-wan?” While you creep closer, closer. Up.

And up.

And up.

Latex-enameled tits graze his shoulder.

“Well?”

“Y-yes, yes, I am, Mistress Orchid.”

“Do you like it? Your rubbery lips shimmering with the gloss; your body just bathed in sweat. So indelicate. So delicious.” Tongue indulging itself with a flit a flicker over his left ear. “Tell me.”

“I do, Mistress Orchid.”

“Four fingers in your slutty ass. And it's still so loose. Have you been playing with it? Answer me!” A strain; splitting them apart; fingertips dagger into the wet clutching meat.

“W-wah! Yes! Yes! With- with Kazuha-”

“Oh, really. She likes that kinda play, huh? She fucks your ass-pussy?”

“N-n-no, she doesn't. She just- she likes to touch it-”

“You're a failure as a man, you know. You're shameful as a man. But that's fine. A man is a shameful thing. A fucking worthless thing. You're just meat; you're just grist for the Bushido mill. I wish you'd all been swept away during the war. We beautiful women could've just savored an... An idyllic land without you pieces of shit.

“Brought out some captive meat to breed with when we needed it. But with new technology, well, you're goddamn obsolete. Y chromosomes.” Stab him; torment him; twist the blade. “Are you gonna come soon?”

“I won't without your permission-”

“Yes, you will. You bitches always do. What every man craves is to be like a woman. Just... Just to gorge yourself on it. Again. And again. And again. This nice little button here is just like a clit.” A finger's prod.

And now a stab .

And now it's not only one finger but two ; whirl and coil and torment and torture and delight and the eyes are vaster than twinned black oceans cradling a sulfurous thermonuclear sunrise.

The lips have abdicated any pretension of language.

“W-warghwahwawwahhhhahnnnn...”

“Gonna come?”

The head shaken.

No.

No.

No .

“Oh, you're so cute. Aren't you? Aren't you? Aren't you just the cutest little girl?”

“Hei-wan wantsta be-”

“I'm gonna show you what it's like to be a girl, then, Hei-wan. Oh, if only I had more girls with me. Mmm... Maybe some nice boys. Would you like that? They do have their uses, y'know. Maybe, oh, big foreign men.

“Colossal cocks. Black guys; or brown guys; or just white guys hung like fucking sequoias. To split open your asshole like a cherry tree. Right down the middle. To plant you between them; an adorable sissy fuck-sandwich.

“Wouldn't that be the cutest? Oh, oh, but you don't visit Okinawa without some sata andagi, right? Who visits Tokyo without some bukkake? Wouldn't you love that? Patient cute little slut in your costume? You'd need to kneel for them and offer your adorable face.

“That beautiful Kansai complexion. A perfect bit of caramel for their cream. You'd love it, wouldn't you? Eating your bodyweight in jizz?” There's insanity in the eyes. Madness roils through its native ecology in the mirror's quicksilver glint.

In that cold leering eye; in its place of perfect candor.

Humanity is perfected there.

Its vanity and vice.

A finger laced between the lips.

“Suck this cock, won't you?” Fine plump luscious; alight with the gloss and fastening twisting coiling imploring; wet sticky messy sputters and spatters and it's to hook to crook the finger. Jab it into his left cheek.

Pull .

A fish hooked.

Strain.

Tug.

A groan and gurgle and now, now, well, it's to know your supremacy in height; taller, taller still, six-something and dwarfing the pathetic little waif.

“Wargh...” Tormented heaving heavy soft gasps and shivers and shudders and sighs and now, now, it's prodding, probing deeper.

Jabbed at the throat.

A gasp.

And the thumb has become companion to the four fingers.

Anguish .

Delirium.

“W-wah-” There sound is something that defies anything like language; it's language's denial. Its renunciation in a crazed quaking algolagnia-fueled drunk; it is a haze; it is a histrionic tongue-lolling mist that converges with a clenching clutching compulsion to snap closed the jaw, to roar and heave and howl and struggle against the intrusion. The four fingers are no longer four; it is the disparity between a mere island and then fucking Australia; dagger spearing stroking straining.

“Ah, ah, ah, Hei-wan.” An admonition, because this pain is my bliss; it is the algolagnia's selfless selfishness; it is the binary perfection that is nothing so absolute, the unpretentious living duality that shudders in great quavering spurts and spatters, races, laces up through the flesh.

It is a possession. It is an immanence, swallowing that deity and being swallowed in turn, also. An act of mutual surrender and mutual tyranny. It is the unpretentious juxtaposition in the celestial, in the supernatural. To know its tendrils scrawling through every inch; for the roots to pour hot, urgent, bladed through every finger every toe; to become it. It is to become the unknown, the ineffable, also; a reflection without guise, without shape, without light and shadow.

It is being without geometry; it is this beast, this strange non-figure, this essence wrought from the negative a dark-matter fabric to drape itself with your skin with the latex in its groaning wet luster effulgent with the lubricant with our zeal for better-living-through-chemistry, drunk on silicone and lust.

A squelch.

The hand pours deeper, deeper, deeper; it is a deluge crashing from its broken dam and into still tranquil waters. It is answered with terrible plangent lowing despair; with the wounded-calf tremor and gurgle and groan from the lips.

Fingers prod and jab at them, rubbery and tormented. Oh, oh, the bliss in this. The supersaturated liquid-glass delectation that spills sloshes sputters between the ears, behind the eyes. It is not a pornographic alienation; it is not a sense of abstraction. It is here.

Here.

Only ever here.

Bubbling between the thighs. A tremor without candor; it lurks in the breast, scalds like a sword-swallower with an affection for napalm. Jellied sexual psychosis trickles and coils and eases out; great thick sticky wads slide with an untroubled languor as sure and ineluctable as a Red Army tank through the hips.

An inferno.

The world has become an inferno in the pain that can be tasted, rearing up in its great waves that don't merely batter but crash. Inundated. Delirious. Buffeted and it's only to steep yourself in the swelter that reaches out with its great groping fingers to coil around your cheeks, to lace into your hair.

That gouges and excavates. Deeper and deeper and deeper. Huge flesh plumes should spurt out; they do not. The reality is defiant; it isn't fair. The hand plunges now. Skewers. Impales him.

“W-waha, aah, ah, ah, Mistress Orchid!” Keening wailing squealing; there is nothing like equivocation now in the falsetto. There is no pretension. It is not the sissy's affectation but the simple truth. The genuflection has become prostration.

Play-pretend surrender is real quiescence.

Because there is not the word no.

There cannot be the word no in this place.

It is to deny it.

It is to cast it out.

It is concrete, the great edifices, the brutalist horrors, the belief-beggaring ugliness in our priapic architectural hubris that blights this land, ground into dust; it is to taste its flare, its spray, its flower while it's fed through the machinery, the flesh machinery that will persevere even when the metal and glass have become memory, have been reclaimed, because it will not capture humanity's guise but only a guise.

There will be form. Ultimately, irresistibly, there will forever be this, even when it is only in time's ricocheting splashing back against annihilation's great wall.

Deeper, deeper.

Dug into him.

The fingers outstretched and simply... Closing. Coalescing into a fist. A long stroke a cartoonish strange conceit; a pantomime act of slaughter in its patient gelatin creep through him. The eyes are not only enormous but explode beyond the face's boundaries; the exotic confluences in geometry, the pretty-boy masculinity and the perfected sainted femininity in the makeup in those hard coarse strokes that have been softened to bewitching grace, they are quivering, spasmodic. Lips sag open and his tongue lolls out and there is a huge long dark hot guttural mewl .

“Waaaarhgh...” It's beautiful, isn't it? Admiring him; to know his eyes in this coveted this courted humiliation.

“Isn't it fucking pathetic, Hei-wan? What man, even what boy, would consent to this? I can't see daddy doing this; on his hands and knees in such a delicious slutty costume with a woman's hand in his ass. And not only my hand. Do you see?

“Arch that cute body; c'mon, c'mon. Be a good little girl. Whores like you should learn the proper poise. Face down, ass up.” And there's obedience, obedience. Surrender and the chin's a sharp immoderate crack on the floor, because there's no patience here in the zeal to satisfy.

To delight.

Groveling.

It is to beseech more .

“Oh, look at that. Such an... An adorable little bitch. That's what you are, isn't it, Hei-wan? A bitch in heat, right? Look at you. No woman would even do that. You're the worst; the lowliest; the ugliest. And such a cute face. You're just a fuck-pig; you're a slut-machine. That's what you are.

“Right? Right? Look at this!” The finger hooked into his cheek tugged, jerked, wriggling twisting through the flesh and there's a demented half-sneer, symmetry denied in another hand invested in the heat pulsating throbbing huge huge huge through that cavernous place that abyss opening around not only the fist but the wrist, forearm dipping down down down vanishing into the dark.

“Waaargh-”

“Oh, it's just... It's so ugly. Only half your mouth opened; use one of yours, slut.” Obedience; a bare finger wrenched into his right cheek. It's delectable, isn't it? The surrender in it. The madness; the eyes not only glazed but crazed. There is a coalescing clarity a lucid perfection that's the essence of the rheumy insanity hardening in an inverted ice with the swelter that only deepens more, more, more.

This is the word.

More.

Pulling open his cheeks; a crazed parody in the child's taunt. In the tongue tumbling out between teeth that aspire to patience and still gouge into that swollen fuchsia stripe that's become something almost animated with its own will, a fat bloated worm twisting slapping down at the floor and rearing back up again.

“Are you going to come? Are you going to try to come from this?” It can be felt.

The tension.

Clenching.

Cinching around my right wrist.

“Tell me, you fucking whore-”

“Waash.” Pathetic.

“Pitiful. Just fucking pitiful. You're being punished, you worthless irredeemable shit. You're just an irremediable failure, aren't you? A woman's arm in your slutty loose broken-up sloppy asshole, and you're going to come.

“Aren't you going to apologize-”

“Shooowwwy!” It's comic, frothing with spittle. “Showwy. Showwy-”

“You fucking should be. You're not allowed to come, Hei-wan. Uh-uh-uh.” An admonition in perfect stillness. And still, still, the fingers are mischievous, still an irresistible wickedness.

It is this tyranny's essence.

It is noblesse oblige; it is the sharp glowering cold-eyed violence that can only announce a deeper inferno so great so hot that it's raced through reality's boundaries in sensation, warped itself into a chill that swallows the universe's every morsel of warmth.

Deeper; deeper; deeper.

A prod at that point; that delicious root . That idiot fucking desire's root; grazed once, and twice, and it is absolute liberation. It is the tyranny in ownership; in peering at the drapes and ripping them from the walls; at shrugging at the china that just ain't your hue, your pattern, gorging yourself on the comic crash that melts down into the faintest little anticlimax in tinkling porcelain.

It is brandishing a flamethrower, the walls napalmed in tribute to your opprobrium for the fucking tacky wallpaper.

Harvest gold? Avocado? Well, there is a place for this.

It's 'seventy-seven. Whatever Ayumi's aesthetic perversions.

It's to know this .

Control.

And it is because they've tucked the keys into your hands. Not to be Whistler; not in the insouciant exploitation, the trust abused.

It is a plea for this; this is the trust. The cruelty in the hand that is animated, perhaps, with cash. But this is only the preface this is only the relationship's foundation. It is in the mutual craving for these sublime syllables, the algolagnia that gathers in the flesh; a great tendril spearing through me through him at once.

It is an artistry; he is the canvas, the flesh offered not only freely not only with his will but with his invitation for more, more, more.

“If you come, I could just kill you, you know. No one would know; no one would care. Well, maybe little Kazuha-nyan. But I would be there to comfort her at the funeral.” A whisper; scalding, sticky, wet on lips brilliant, lacquered in carmine like jellied blood. The words are a bladed cavort; a sonic sword-dance through the ears.

The flesh clenches .

Crushes.

“My, my, my. Maybe I should. Something this fucking diseased should be excised like cancer before it can metastasize. Every one of you. I fantasize about this, you know. It's a vision of the future. Not in mushroom clouds; not the apocalypse that Ayumi adores. It's something subtler.

“No eschatology at all. It's a great new transition. It's a reckoning. And you lose; all of you... Pathetic heaps of Y chromosomes. You broken genomes. You lose. You lose. You. Fucking. Lose. I might be studying law, but I think genetics, maybe virology, they're more than pastimes for me.

“To hell with chemistry. It's mother nature that's wrought the greatest weapon. The virus. That's what you are; that's what should take you. Women should flourish. The worthy, mmm... Not these pathetic little sissies like you.

“But the ones that understand what it is to be a woman. They should be spared.” Lips brushed in a pantomime kiss again, again, again along the ear's fragile shell rearing up like fine sleek stone washed of its impurities surfacing into a sunset-bronzed low tide through the satiny jet wig. “But not you.

“I'd love it. Putting my hands on you; squeezing.” Finger slipped from his lips; it's not only one, no, no, but two, and then three, and then four... Well, why not count them again, just to be sure? Ah, ah, a fifth.

Settling around his fine slim neck.

“Oh, now this is a very feminine throat. No fingerprints at all. Mommy and daddy, why, I'm sure they'd be so eager to silence it, wouldn't they? Their son in this adorable costume. It's all about our culture's poison.

“Its face. They wouldn't even ask. Ah, ah, Hei-wan, I could just squeeze.” And it is a squeeze. It's to know the succulent symmetry in the body's strain; sudden, explosive, every inch flaring into a tortured twanging relief like an overstrung guitar.

“Ahn...” And still, still, how compliant the little bitch is. It will not stir; there is a warped half-sneer again with the finger still twisted through its lips.

“Take your finger finger out of your mouth; you look ridiculous. You're just pathetic. Just. So. Fucking. Pathetic.” Stabbed; fingers gathered into a fist and plunged down now, again and again and again.

And it's to know the unreality in it; in body rearing up arching heaving the somatic transcending the psychic because the mind has abdicated anything like power to the flesh. It is writhing wriggling twisting straining; the belly glimpsed in the mirror's sharp cold glint warm with a reflected heat in the candles' quiver and vacillation.

The skin dimples with the knuckles' caress.

“Look at you, you disgraceful slut. You're filled with my hand. It's so hot inside you, you know. And you're betraying it. How deeply you're swallowing me; how much you're clamoring for more, more, more. This's your refrain, isn't it?

“Such a pathetic little materialist. Such a hungry ghost of our culture's death, its prosperity. Always just begging for more. How does it feel?”

“Schyo, schyo good, Mishtress.” Gurgling slavering the spittle frothing with senseless tongue-numbed gibberish from the lips. “Schyo good-”

“Schyo good, huh? Fucking pathetic. I haven't even ordered you to babble like a little girl, and listen to you-”

“Cwan't hyeeelp it.” There is no longer speech; every whisper every gasp every word every shape is tinged twisted defiled with the lust's huge sulfurous bulk. It is only sexual gibberish. It is only a baby's squalling plea for indulgence.

Atavistic.

Simpleminded.

“Cwan't hyelp it.”

“No? What about this? You're just disgusting. I should punish you.” A blow from within; the fist rises up up up through the flesh into a cruel relief, knuckles glimpsed like a ghost's terrible silhouette intuited through a lambent satin curtain.

“Waaaargh-”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yesssh. Yesssh-”

“But you love it?”

“Yesh. Yesh.” Wilting; drooping.

“I couldn't even try to ruin you. This slutty ass-pussy's already fucking broken, isn't it? It's already just wreckage. Flotsam. You're desecrated; you're wrecked. Right?

“Isn't that right? Why even bother with this pathetic sloppy hole?” There is no answer; there is no rejoinder; this is not a joust.

Not a duel.

There's only quietude; only the heart's endless pulsation intuited through sleek soft unctuous flesh.

Fist dragged from him; and it is not only strings cut but a ragged chainsaw's blades the machinery belching greasy smoke gurgling throbbing torn through the marionette's taut trembling cables. A snap and a failure and the figure is simply imploding in the mirror.

Reality converges with reality; geometry with geometry.

Elbows are a brutal bone-ravaging crack on the floor.

“I'm not finished with you, you filthy fucking slut! What's wrong with you?!” Rearing up; it isn't to stand but simply gravity denied, defied, soaring to the heels' sharp rapping points.

And one introduced to little Hei- wan 's spine.

A groan.

A gasp.

“I'm not fucking finished with you. No, no, no. Look at what you smeared on my gloves!” Brandished now; no longer content to admire that lovely roundness in the hips' remarkable voluptuousness, but with fingers laced around his neck, dragging him, jerking him, up up up to something that could almost be called standing if the knees weren't little more than overwatered gelatin.

The body's juices jumbled with the lubricant twinkle with a starlight pungent not with the profane but only the visceral virtually to the elbow.

“Well?”

“I- I cweaned myself-”

“Yes, you did. I would've fucking killed you if you'd smeared shit on my gloves. It's just... This. So juicy; like a girl.” And there is not a kiss.

No, no, no.

It is his cheek as a canvas; and it is not a slap, but the back of a hand cracked over the jaw. Syrupy essences paint him in gouache; the body wilts .

Crumples back with a boneless tortured thrall, shuddering on the floor.

“It looks like there's nothing. Perfectly colorless. How lucky for you. But you're not finished, Hei-wan. I want to reward you for being such a hygienic piece of ass. I know, I know, it really doesn't reflect grandiose hopes for you, does it?

“It's kind of the lowest common denominator. Expecting you to be clean. Just a micron above Charles II of Spain. At least you don't have the Habsburg jaw. No, no, no. What a cute little bitch. But I have a gift.

“Would you like it?”

There is silence.

Answering is an invitation not to anguish and not to discipline, because these are fundamental.

But a deeper torment. A profounder wickedness. Not merely the sumptuous algolagnia to be tasted in its fetishistic self-flagellation but authentic cruelty.

So there is quietude.

“Mmm... You would, wouldn't you? You may speak.”

While the tongue has swollen straining desiccated into a contorted fat twisted torment; while the lips tremble, aspire for purchase on even the most elementary word.

“What seems to be the matter, Hei-wan?”

“C-can't tawk-”

“Why is that? Are you that huge of a slut, then? You've just... Just abdicated every bit of pretension of being a man, is that it? Do you think women are nothing but holes to be filled? To be fucked? Is that what you think?!” There is no victory.

You must understand now. These mechanistic things; to fasten your fingers around the levers and gears and the cranks and the vagaries and vicissitudes wet and sputtering and soft and still yielding with such a predictable ease. It is to know the convolutions in the meat and bone; it is to know the wisdom tattooed with such candor on the blood's every droplet, its every corpuscle .

Peer at them; study them; scrutinize them. It is our collective history. It is our civilization's truth ; it is felt in a great Möbius whose tendril sprawls in its vast scope beyond the horizon and loops back again with mischievous mendacity, that teases those whose delusions urge them to phantasmagoria in this sainted thing called Progress.

But there is no passage into the future. There is only what is ; it is to live and to relive the past's pageants. The hungers. The technology may perhaps be finer, but the clarity is only tasted in retrospect.

There is only our heritage; there is only Genesis' cold hand, not dead and not alive but a celestial duality that perhaps dwells beside Schrödinger's Cat. It is; it only is, and cannot be anything but this. The compulsion to touch; to adore; to lust; to hunger.

To breathe and to breed, also.

And there will be no procreation; this is meaningless to a body whose blind instincts and spattering coruscating neurons misfire or perform with the flesh's exacting perfections not calibrated not manufactured but only perfected in whimsical experimentation in life and destruction through time's endless sprawl.

There is a stroke.

A touch.

The fragrance is heady, heavy, in the sulfurous mist the candles define; it is a reality whose boundaries lie alone in the light and the deepest shadows that can only flourish in its haze.

“A-ahn... It's... It's not that, Mistress Orchid-”

“Oh, I'm sure it is. You're just like any man. Wearing this ridiculous costume.” A heel poised now on the spine's theatrical slashing arc. “But no high heels. It's for your convenience, your comfort, right? That slutty makeup.

“You're wearing this wig. Do you know how uncomfortable long hair is loose in this sort of heat?” There's only a delight in this.

A tremor through the fingers.

Because there is a fundamental compulsion.

You're wearing lingerie.

Your hair's loose.

Ah, ah, but this is not the point, is it?

“You're just a bad pantomime; you're probably one of those sissy faggots that thinks a man is the best woman. That you embody the caricature the best. Maybe it's true. So you're going to find just how true it all is, little Hei-wan.

“You're nothing but a fuck-hole; you're nothing but a sissy boy-pussy to be plumbed. Right? Right?” Falling, more, more, more, an act of tyranny. The statuesque now statuary; rearing up, prideful. Bliss in your conquest.

The heel driven deeper, deeper.

“Tell me!”

“Yeees!” There is only the great Möbius, you know; there is only the strange inscrutable quirk in time, and in reality.

All life is nothing but a fantasia courtesy of Escher.

We will twist into ourselves, and into yourselves; we are you and you are we and, ultimately, when the mirror is broken with the fist outstretched when the shards tumble down tinkling chattering like ice-tormented teeth, well, what does any of it matter at all?

There is a figure.

A being .

It is perhaps an obsession. It is all hypocrisy; it is all sincerity. Ah, ah, this fundamental animus for the male. For the self-indulgence; for the selfishness; for the stupidity . Swollen and ravening with blood; pulsating pounding pummeling rearing up from between the thighs, animated with the fingers, with the imagery strange and vaporous and ultimately meaningless and preciouser than even the truth, perhaps.

It is there. Poised upon a table that cannot be seen, cannot be known, because it is not willed for this little doggy's eyes.

Snatched up; hefted on a palm. Admired in its fundamental hugeness. It is this surrender to hypocrisy. It is to know the infinite , a confluence of man and woman, the perversion the forbidden . It is both of Life's halves at once.

There's a celestial quality in it. I am not steeped in Ayumi's superstitions; this is true. I do not believe in God or god or Gods or gods. But there is still a fundamental epiphany lurking forever in the breast, a great wheeling constellation whose stardust aura can be grazed, can perhaps be taken wholly into one's hand. Can be clutched and cradled to the soul and kissed and licked and tasted and dragged deep with a long long long breath into the lungs, can be sucked deeper than this.

It is Creation. It is not with Ayumi's hedonistic fervor to wade into these beliefs in their every gradation and every vicissitude; to be the ecumenical party-crasher, throwing herself into a Temple for an evening and then jandering off to a mosque and then maybe up to a cathedral for Mass before carnal rites are taken amongst the Satanists.

It is a very particular voyeur, perhaps. But there is still a spirituality in it. In the Creation here. Without destruction. It has not yet been conjured into being; not yet shuffled off to Bethlehem to be born. It is not stillborn and not extant, either.

It is plastic Creation; it is counterfeit Conception. It is a fabrication stained with the words better-living-through-chemistry and it is still extant . It is still real.

It is heavy; it is a burden on the palm; it weighs on the arm straining with muscle sinewy and graceful and not thick , no, no, not quite the karate-ka's brutality but still without this sainted feminine quality called weakness . Long. Curvaceous. Sinuous.

Its geometries tantalize. The bloated head whose helmeted convolutions speak of clopping jackboots and the hand upraised with a stern sieg heil; the slit that is not play-pretend along its great swollen flourish.

The shaft , stern and straining.

There is a...

A shiver.

A whisper of man's own ingenuity; mankind's device that could only have spilled from a woman's hand and a woman's mind and a woman's heart . This will that is called insecurity and envy and is nothing so fickle, so banal.

It is not a wish for the trite political offices.

It is a craving for the sensation . It is a plea for the confluence in the masculine and the feminine; it is a fucking need to know.

Yes.

Yes.

A strange quavering orb at its root tucked deeper, deeper between the thighs; jaw clenching and lips quivering and it's a moment that declaims the impossible and this impossibility is still here, reality's triumph over the ideal called normative .

A shudder.

Sensation flares , flourishes, stitches itself in grandiose embroideries, becomes elegant traceries and strange rarefied filigree enameled over every nerve. I am become this thing. Toes curl in the stiletto'd boots; the latex stockings are steeped in sweat; the heat is frenzied.

And this, this , this constellation of play-pretend neurons, they're no longer only play-pretend . They are here; they are an immediacy a transcendental delirium a delectation.

It is often denied.

So often.

And still, still, there is the recursiveness in its masturbatory fervor; in the palm's cradling caress in the squeezing clenching onanism in the fingers brushed up and down up and down its great bulk. He is here; he is here.

And he is she .

It is something orderly, isn't it?

The male is deliverer; the female is receptacle.

It's bullshit.

But there is still a twinge, a strange and irrepressible spasm in this imagery.

Ah!

Pluming with mushroom cloud thunder between my ears.

It's epiphany.

Of course!

He is she.

She is he.

Ah, ah, we are wheeling twisting inverting ; our biological mathematics our carnal mechanics, they are trembling and breaking and melting down and being reassembled with a child's conception of its orderliness, simply mashed together into a primal likeness.

And it does not matter at all.

“A-ah, ah, Hei-wan, how deliciously hot is your slutty loose ass-pussy? How fucking sloppy is it?” Jaw clenched; palms simply clapped on his ass now, faint gradations in warmth and slathered with the lubrication's greasy wheeling patterns. “You really should've worn latex, too.

“A bit of symmetry; ah, ah, ah. Creamy pallor for your soft brown skin. I love that Kansai complexion. Won't you serenade me with a little Kansai-ben, too, Hei-wan?”

“W-whaddaya wan' me to say?” How obedient now; the ease with which the voice that quivering waltzing jumble in purified sonorous falsetto and its grinding implosion into the masculine and its rise again will capture the words. The novelty in these whirling patterns like Sand Paintings, coveted, adored, in their impermanence.

“So fuckin' cute!” Yes, yes, yes.

Knelt now.

Craning down.

“Are you ready, lil' Hei-wan?”

There is no answer. It. Doesn't. Matter.

Palms hammer at the hips.

Slap with a merciless thunder at the thighs.

“Well?! Well?! You're not a fucking girl at all, you nasty little slut. You sissy whore. These legs are too firm; there's no softness. No flesh. No goddamn meat, Hei-wan. You're nothing but a cut-rate piece of shit ass-pussy, aren't you?

“How hot is it? I'm gonna bang you raw.”

“Naaaw! D-don'do'at!” Not only Kansai-ben; slurred histrionic nothing.

“I am. I am. I'm gonna pump your ass raw 'til it bleeds; I'm gonna pummel you; I'm gonna fuck you there so much we'll finally learn whether a boy can get pregnant.” There's no teasing.

No get ready for the rape bullshit.

It's just there. Poised at the cusp and it's stouter than a fucking cola can in its girth; it is a figure of violence. An act of atrocity against gentleness against grace against delicacy and who cares who could care?

Poised there.

Slip it against the yawning hungry maw that's nothing so trivial as just some frail little pucker. It's already sloppy; already depraved; already slackened, falling apart to entice to invite with the fist's pummeling pumping strokes. It's already wafting its strange hot heady sticky delirium, smeared on the nostrils.

Deeper and deeper and deeper; not cocaine but a quick huffing heroin joy bang. No simple bell-ringer, no, no, no. It's a wish for coke at this instant; it's a clamoring a craving for more, more, more. Because the nerves are already aflame, so why not knead them with napalm and spatter them with electricity and torture them 'til there's only a numb catatonia?

Admiring it.

Beethoven's Ninth lacquers the senses.

Ah.

Ah.

Ah .

it is not a fragile wilting falsetto trill; it is the a basso profondo psychosis . It is lyrical pointillism.

Freude, Schöner Wem der Große Freude trinken alle Wesen

Seid Such'ihn

Freude Freude Freude Freude Freude

You will be as gods.

You will be as gods.

You will be as gods.

Buffer overrun.

Please insert system disco inferno-

And it becomes death metal.

Aaaaargh!

Fuck.

Snarling.

Snapping.

Torment.

Impaling me; impaling him and being skewered and, yes, yes, it is a point of approximation it is honey slathered on a fucking cucumber and perhaps not authentic melon, but when the melon has never been savored in its sticky juicy delirium on the tongue, honey-smeared cucumber is sublime . There is no alternative.

All is approximation.

All is subjectivity.

Bare.

Exposed.

The flesh's strange oleaginous cleanness ; the grace the sleek soft tight perfection; that ring clenching closing around me the great exoticism in the abyssal heat that unfurls around you that entices you deeper than is not formless at all but still shapeless and protean. It is not natural at all.

Nothing is natural. It is bliss to be absolutely resolutely unnatural. The law is not natural; science is not natural; breathing , ultimately, is not natural, either. It is only with the autonomic nervous system that this is possible.

A paramecium cannot claim this.

“W-waaargh!” His-her voice. What does it matter in its delicious duality? Pumping, plumbing, plunging. Impaling little Hei-wan and the sissy boy-pussy ass is in sumptuous ripeness today. “You're ripping me in half, Mistress Orchid!”

“Good. I was afraid it was too gentle.”

“'s- 's hard; 's so hot-”

“Oh, stop whining-”

“H-Hei-wan ain't doin' no whinin'-”

“Fuckin' cute. You little Kansai cunt. You need some Kantō education, doncha-”

“Yeah. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

“Tell me. Tell me.” Purchase ain't possible in the wig; alas, alas. So it's a bit, oh, lower. Fingers laced around his neck and tugging and pulling and it's to know the spine's obliging arch while the flesh yields while that monstrous rubberized perversion sinks plunges plumbs deeper, deeper, deeper.

Finally just...

“I'm bottoming out in you, you little whore. You can really take it deep. Does it hurt?”

“Yeah! Yeah! S-sure fuckin' does!” Craning; twisting; the eyes have slackened, half-opened half-closed and it is a collision of both in their failure. In the neurological mayhem lacing its terrible fingers up up up not the lover's elegant caress but the torturer's serpentine wires twisted through the body.

More than bottomed-out.

Just vanishing into him.

“I'm amazed you can't taste it on your tongue.”

“W-wish I could, Mistress Orchid. Feels... Feels so fuckin' good-”

“You piece of shit little slut. What feels so fuckin' good, you Kansai cunt?” A palm not only slapped but hammered at his face, an open-palm punch for the cheek, once and again and again. “You whore; you disgusting dirty piece of shit.

“What're you trying to tell me?”

“H-Hei-wan's ass-pussy feels so fuckin' good; so goddamn good I can't take it no more! Hei-wan wantsa coooom-”

“Come, huh? You want to come? Well, that ain't gonna happen. Don't even fucking fantasize about it. D'ya know why?” Stillness; at once, at once, perfect stillness.

The heartbeat throbs through me with a violence deeper than knuckles hammered in your gut.

But it's an anguish for him.

“W-waaaah-”

“You fucking whining about that, Hei-wan? You whore-”

“Hei-wan is. Hei-wan's a dirty worthless whore; Hei-wan's only good for gettin' pumped full'uppa girl-cock!” It's pitiful; pitiful. The trembling lips and the ungainly tongue that probably couldn't even delight a man or a woman without spilling spittle in a likeness of the fucking Atlantic across the floor.

“You think it's only girl-cock. No, no, no, little Hei-wan. You're gonna have real boy-cock, also. Do you think a real sissy gets to have pretensions of dignity? It's a fucking affront to a girl's dignity to be forced to cope with anything as ugly, as graceless, as a man.

“Don't you understand that? It's degrading; it's a punishment built into our fucking genes. There're times when I wonder if all of that theology shit is right. That the gods hate and envy us so fucking much that they'd punish us with those lusts. Don't you understand it?

“If you wanna be a real sissy, it won't just be my girl-cock. Oh, it'll be so much fun, won't it?” It's the... The rage. A colossal bubbling heap gathered in celestial palms and lathered and stroked and slathered over every inch and fulminating and it's more intense than the word can accommodate.

It just is. It's a drunkenness; it's to feast not on your twin but a parallel being; my sister is here, and her sister, and my sister, and her sister, and all of our sisters and we are each sisters, also, peering at this insanity in the mirror.

She is there.

Or perhaps I am there; it is she whose eyes are sense's locus, their home. It is only delusion only my figment. But what does it matter at all when the eyes can close and the heat is still there? The heat that is conveyed to me only in gradations of soft sculpted mathematics; in a great celestial mist heaped there, wrought and rejuvenated. It is a firmament; it is the ether the transcendental .

All is a fiction. Eat your flesh and your flesh will eat you back and you will be Ouroboros; you will be as gods, you know. To know and to know when you do not know, also.

“A-ah! Ah! You fucking whore, Hei-wan. Oh, oh, oh, you're going to feel what it's like to take a real boy-cock in this pussy of yours. And your mouth? That's your throat-pussy. If you only have two holes, you definitely need to compensate.

“They'll love it. My friends. Won't you, little Hei-wan?”

There's silence.

A hand crashes ; it is nothing gentle now. It is a 747 plunging down down down like a sparrow stricken with a Sparrow missile, guided, you know, beam-riding, a forty kilogram warhead spiraling out in a great Möbius reel and we are here again .

“W-wahaaaa-”

A blow.

Once.

And again.

Bruising.

Pounding.

Pummeling.

Already, already, there's the familiar hot garnet flare; and it will become an authentic sunset while it festers, while it yields, while it wilts and falters and fails. While the flesh does not die but simply rejuvenates itself.

You're either bruised or you're dead.

There is a long huge heaving knee-trembling pump now; once and again and again.

“Won't you?”

“H-Hei-wan'll love being a sissy whore! Hei-wan'll love being fiiiiillled up with cock; with cum. Let- let it all- all spray on my face; I wanna wear it like makeup. H-Hei-wan wantser sissy makeup to run with it.

“An'- an' get all in Hei-wan's ass-pussy-”

“That's right.” And the fingers are dragged sloshing through the sweat that gathers in huge slopping puddles that coalesce that spatter and splatter over the floor in sharp popping pricks like a brand jabbed into a plastic lens, twisting and warping and all is prismatic all is madness.

Yes, yes, yes.

“Here you are, lil' Hei-wan. I have a gift for you.” Well, for me. Who cares. It is a tug a pull and there is no pain even when the girl-cock is warped yanked jerk. It is to twist and pivot and deform him; plant the beauty on his shoulders and the muscle is quite the asset, ain't it?

“W-waaah! You're-”

“That's right!” Staring down at the little doggy bitch; admiring the soles craned up to the ceiling. An ambition to staining the world with their adorable footprints; an ease in clamping gloved fingers on the fabric that's simply become transparent around the toes with sweat's fragrant hugeness, the perfume something...

Something so exotic .

Lust.

Sex.

It's fucking 's native aroma.

It's the faint kiss of eau de parfum; it's a delicate fruit tone, resolves itself with vanilla like cum spattering from that hungering jealous flesh. It's there, dusky skin inflamed scarlet and thrashing bobbling staring down at the little dog bitch while the shoulders are planted on the floor while the neck strains pleads for relief in its crane along the wood and there is no relief at all while the hips twist and it's a quick pummeling pivot like a fucking pile driver.

Battered pounded down into the floor, once and again and again and again.

“You need a humongous pair of sissy tits, you pathetic little fuck-hole. You need massive titties like Ayumi's to flop around; to spill all over your face. But that cock is very cute. And you're already about to come, aren't you? You nasty slut.” Yes, yes, yes. “You're just a slut-machine, aren't you?

“All this wet hot meat is just a system. Isn't that right? Taste the kybernetik; the slut-machine that you are because you've become that, because you've willed yourself into it. Ain't that right, little Hei-wan? You slut; you whore.

“You're that because you wanted to be it; but you can't change because that's what you willed yourself into being. Don't you get it? Feedback isn't feedback at all; it's just the future inflicting itself on the present. You didn't even know it.

“It's what your body already knew!” Drive it deeper and deeper and deeper and know the jaw clenching the lips drawn taut the body trembling with him with it. And it is to change me, also, that vigor that vitality that fucking energy. I am the vampire and he will drink and I will drink and which one of us ultimately is the vampire when we both are?

Pitch pump plunge rip through him know the faint whisper rippling through the belly's sleek taut skein rich with muscle and still, still, when you will it, when our collective psychic fervor builds that great edifice, how can you still call it an empty field? There is a femininity there.

It's irresistible; it's delirious. It's perfection. Perversion. Pluck at the cute little toes and there's a sudden urgent hot lurch . A wisdom, a knowledge, because the machinery is conveying this to me. I am become the machine because the machine is become me, also.

“A-ah, ah, Hei-wan wants cooome!” Quailing up, up, up. The voice is insanity.

“Really?” Is this awe? “That's all you want-”

“H-Hei-wan's goin' fuckin' crazy; totally fuggin' crazy-”

“Reaaally?” Crane twist leer down; there's a sense that the universe telescopes, implodes into itself, and it is to crush down into the little boy-slut and for the little boy-slut to rear up into me. “Really, really, really?

“Why do I fucking care-”

“Hei-wan wants- wantsa be... Be a real boy-slut; wantsa do it... An'- an'- an' a slut needs cum on her face, right?”

“Oh, listen to that? You want to come on your own face, huh?”

“Yeees!” How lovely.

So there is not a stroke.

There is already a shimmering smear gathering over the head so fucking tight that even without its dampness it would be effulgent glinting glimmering.

A palm slapped at a sole; fingers close around the toes.

“All right. All right. If you can, then Mistress Orchid will let you come on your own face. But you need to open your pretty made-up lips; just wearing it ain't enough. Besides, it's just filled with protein. You must be famished.” Stare; admonish; indict.

The eyes' every flit every glint every glance.

Plunging .

Quick merciless pumps and it's something absolutely fucking incredible , admiring the syrupy threads that're distended with the fist's deliberate pounding stroke against that stout pearl, once and again and again and again and it's just gathering growing huger hotter more, more, more.

More and more and more.

Yes, yes, yes.

It's...

It's not that orgasm is something absolute and discrete; it is not a man 's. Not quite. But there is a duality. That place of unknowable dark heat between the thighs speaks and bellows and roars but it's clamped in an iron mask; it is an almost hopeless thing, a yammering narcissistic solipsistic protest against the insurmountable. The legs shudder with every new scrawling bliss that rears up like a broken stained glass confetti.

Every nerve is twisted apart and stitched back together in those strange instants that're intervals between breath, so countless so vast so deliriously relentless that they're not unnoticed and not unremarkable but just...

Just as deserving of comment as the sun.

It is there.

If you refuse to admit it, it is still there.

Compose glorious soliloquy, and it is still there.

“Ah. Ah. Hei-wan, you filthy little whore. Do you know what Mistress Orchid is gonna do?”

“Hei-wan'll do anything!”

“Call yourself a girl; not just a sissy. You're a real girl right now. I fucking hate boys, so deal with it-”

“Hei-wan wantsa be a pretty girl!” It isn't true.

When this is finished, the truculent little fuck will not have forgotten, but this will be tucked into those dark shameful places, the addict or the abuser or the pedophile or... Or the eccentricities or perversions or whatever it is, an unwholesome affection for gangsta rap, where judgment is dreaded.

You will be One of Those People.

Your life as one of The Exalted will be finished.

So it will not be said.

“You fucking liar-”

“Hei-wan wantsa be!” Defiant, crowing, because this moment is an instant out of time. It is fantasy's fulfillment; it is ideal without permanence. Its geometries will die as surely as clay that is never introduced to the kiln.

“You'll be very pretty coated with jizz; that's for damn sure.” But who can care? Now, now, now, well, is the Bushido Spirit not to be a broken piece of jade and not a simple roofing tile? It is the aesthetic's triumph over the reality.

You are all tools; nothing much matters.

Fuck it.

Yes.

In the most earnest possible way.

Fuck it.

Fuck him .

Bear down down down jab it pound it pummel it and the eyes have flared open and simply coiled around themselves; their great lakes have simply taken the land into themselves and in so doing have vanished into their own seas. The tears rear up and shimmer on the mascara-thickened lashes.

There is a tremor.

A quaver.

A wail . It's here; it's here; it's here. It's him clenching clutching shuddering shivering; it's woe and despair rearing up. It is rising, and rising, and rising, and it is with a thunder that should announce the Apocalypse, a vision of the eschatological.

A screech .

“W-waaaaaha! Hei-wan's cooomin'!” Yes, yes, yes. “Hei-wan's gonna coat her own face with cum. W-wemme toooouch it!” Defiant, petulant, presumptuous. The hand still obedient, obligingly clamped on the hardwood that's begun to gather great effulgent pools in Hei-wan's lust-fragrant sweat.

“Mistress will touch it; keep holding your slutty fuck-hole up for me. Pathetic piece of shit.” Snarling, snapping, and it's one foot abandoned, the leg castoff, derelict, toes trembling scribing demented wheeling orbits now with the pummeling strokes.

Adorable Hei- wan 's palms slapped on the floor, once and again and again and it's gloved fingers twisting around him now; a jerk a clench a stroke a pump not long graceful caresses but quick pummeling stripes, bruising and merciless, because this must ultimately be.

Heels set on the heavy hardwood and it's here.

It's here.

“Hei-wan's gonna cover her face!” Yes, yes, yes. And there is no paucity of the lust burbling throbbing humongous convulsive violent. Vast gouts rear up; there is a sense of displacement, a cannon shell spat from the body's depths. The flesh trembles palpitates and it's a blaze. Wet huge sprays; squirting up up up or perhaps down down down.

All reality is fundamentally without frame of reference here; it is splashing , splattering now, guided with a vigilant grace because it is Mistress Orchid's noblesse oblige . Alas, alas, even while the cybernetic psychosis roars at me, rages at every fucking nerve.

While it's begging to waggle and wriggle and indulge exactly this . While vast thick creamy stripes settle over the cheeks; while great creamy gobs slip over the nose's bridge a humongous drift sliding spattering across Hei- wan 's brow, settling in the hair, the eyes inflamed enormous and it hasn't yet arrived.

The Regret.

The Dread.

Coughing with the cum's fine briny pearls dappling the tongue; there is a heave a retch and who the hell can care when it's a spasm that's the essence of the universe ending . Crushing onto itself; into itself. All melts.

All surrenders.

“A-ah, ah, Hei-wan, what a good little whore you are, you fuck-meat. You're- you want me to spray your face, right, doncha? To be a good little bukkake slut?” What's the answer?

None, none, none.

Dazed; the cheeks are stained with infernal sunset, blood puddling there in the inverted strange twist and quirk.

A pump.

Once.

Again.

“Well, too fuckin' bad. I'm gonna paint your ass-pussy with it; I'll stain your slutty dusky Kansai fuck-hole white.” More, more, more.

A lunge.

One last stroke and...

And it's something theatrical.

It's something supernatural .

Eyes not open and not closed, either; there's only sightlessness. It's an explosion flaring up, up, up, from that flesh that is not, that still gorges itself on the body's sleek elegances, on the shapeless protean wetness there cradled between Hei- wan 's delicious hips, boyish as they are.

The universe is perfected in this instant; with this rarefied forbidden indulgence.

All falls into its most sainted order.

And it sprays up. Ah, ah, it is no simple figment; it is not merely fabrication. It is a pump straining pulsating perhaps not with flesh and meat and blood; it is electricity. But all sense is ultimately electricity.

A flare. A flower. A gout liberated and gurgling and it's something palpable , racing into him falling down down down like a missile cast out into space and still, still, bits spurt up around me, slosh and settle and wheel and whorl and the little whore's eyes are humongous .

“M-Mistress Orchid's fillin' Hei-wan!” The bliss is more resolute, isn't it? It's gurgling with the cum; and more, more, a thick frothing swarm swamping him bloating up and splashing over the adorable cock still swollen and straining with hunger, still tight and shuddering in my fingers, a treacly nacreous curtain that's sloshing and slopping down, down down.

“Eat it! Eat it, you little whore!” With mouth open; the faux-cum is a very real dessert for the lips now.

Smeared on the skin.

Gagging on its unrealities.

Who. Fucking. Cares?!

A last grunt and strain and pump and...

And all is stillness.

It is the perfect quietude that ensues from the atomic bomb while the fallout settles in a wicked black rain; it is the tranquility when there is no longer life to taste the concrete that has become dust, and the glass that tinkles while its great puddles coalesce again. While the firestorms have stilled, because they have eaten themselves into starvation.

Shivering.

Dragged out of him; and there's only the wet splash in the juices burbling up up up from his slutty ass-pussy, loosened, slackened, broken open, cheeks spattering on the floor with every morsel of strength abdicated; his body simply wet meat, sprawled out now with a slack boneless delirium.

Jerked into his mouth.

“I'm gonna fuck your mouth now, little Hei-wan. D'ya understand?” Snarl and snap and it doesn't matter now. The wig? Cast away.

There is now only the hair's authentic Japanese luster, an anthracite elegance that pleads for the fingers. Digging lacing twisting into the sumptuous sweat-drenched grace; the answer is a groan. Is silence.

Is the teeth dragged with only a purified polarized delirium ripped over the flesh; it cannot be furrowed, but only dimpled, and it's delicious .

A gurgle a gasp a gag .

“You look so fucking dykish now without your wig, Hei-wan. E-even with that adorable makeup. Oh, oh, look at you, smeared with your own jizz; with mine. You're even more fucked up. I really should take a picture, shouldn't I?

“They're worth a thousand words, I hear. Somehow; somehow. So what about a film? Is that sixty thousand words every fucking second?” Because it is a camera; dredged up. An act of the most delicious alchemy in humiliation. The eyes plead and beseech and...

And there is a thumb brushed at the record key.

A chime and chirrup and its cold mechanical eye, unblinking and absolute, it will feast and feed and gorge and swallow and commit these vicissitudes to perfect definition.

Mowaahaahhwahneeewwww .

Something.

Something.

“A-ah. Ah. Ah. Ah.” Shivering with it; with him. With thighs thrown around his shoulders mounting the slutty sleek delectation our mutual delusion portraying them as leaner, lither, girlish. Yes yes yes.

A world of yes .

A People's Republic of Yes.

But there can only be one Citizen More Equal Than Others.

Plunging.

Ripping through him; the throat invites and it's legitimate anguish, isn't it? More than the ass; there isn't a neck cradling the ass.

Distending and there's an urgent huge retch .

“Fuck your gag-reflex.” Well, that is what I'm doing, ain't it?

A giggle sharper and brittler than an obsidian blade. Than the knives with which the Aztecs would carve through the flesh the meat even a horse's leg snapped off with a blow.

Pump.

And pump.

And...

“A-ah, ah, it's here again! Now, now, noooow!” Singsong. “Get ready for your bath, Hei-wan! Good doggy! Open your mouth like a real slut! Wait. No. No. Close it; close that nasty fuckin' whore mouth, 'cause you shouldn't waste on drop on your belly.

“I want to see it.” Dragged out out out up up up while the spasms crash down every nerve through every synapse fill the body like an invading army. A virus.

Yes.

This thing is an electron virus, isn't it?

It's glorious.

The first spurt is an executioner's shot; it's a cannoning thick concentrated explosion that simply reflects and ricochets back again. The makeup's warped and tormented with tears, rheumy and shivering; with the cum that's already begun to twist itself apart in biologic centrifuge into its thin weak serum and those immense pearlescent clots; the lipstick in its resilience is still ultimately surrendering, because it must.

The jaw trembles and the mouth is clenched closed and the second spurt and the third and...

And what does it matter?

They're machine gun pulses, raking at lids cinched closed against the deluge like fucking battering ram. They're lacing themselves into the nostrils; they're an invitation to huge convulsive gags and rasps and shivers and they're settling in vast heavy drifts sliding ineluctably down in a vast pearl mustache over the upper lip and gathering into play-pretend semen stalactite from the chin.

And it's finished.

A chime from the camera.

“Oh, looks like it's over, little Hei-wan.” Standing. Standing. Heels are a brutal rap at the floor beside the cheek; a forlorn tormented little groan wafts up like a forest's silent pleas on a distant wind.

“Aaaah... R-Ran-”

“Mistress Orchid, you little fuck. I'm finished with you; that doesn't mean you're anything but my whore. Do you understand that?” Wheeling around with a rage that isn't play-pretend.

But the time is finished.

“I have this luscious film, y'know, Hei-wan. So you should remember that. Shouldn't you, Hattori-kun?” And there is now reality's intrusion; it is a serration in the tanto dragged over his ribs. “Don't you fucking dare imagine doing anything untoward.

“So this is what you'll do. Kazuha-chan will fuck you up the ass, 'cause you need it that way now. Keep your slutty ass-pussy in practice. Make sure it's loose and sloppy. And, oh, why don't you find a niiiice boy?”

Knelt again; awed with the luscious symmetry in the hips stained white, and the face simply obliterated in sprawling fantastical cum puddles.

“You need to learn to suck cock much better than that; you never would've brought me off with your technique. Look at you. Look at you. You are very pretty, you know, smeared with jizz.” Fingers dragged through the alabaster haze wreathing him like thickened cigarette smoke.

The smile adorning my lips is not the seductress', and not the tyrant's.

It knows no challenge.

It is the divine's.

“Learn to suck cock much better. And you should be able to take a facial like that without flinching. I'll find some nice boys to give you a little bukkake.” Trembling; gurgling. “Of course, of course, if you'd rather not, you can always leave.

“I'll destroy the recording. Every byte of it. And you'll only have the memory. The itch like a disease under your skin. The addiction. You decide. But I want you to make a diary of it all. Just for it to be really real. We'll use the honor system, all right?

“I'll know, anyway, if you've been lying to me.” Another sharp slapping clap on his cheek. “Good boy.” Because words are obviated with this union.

It's already obvious.

The latex slipped off.

There is no need for a shower; no, no. That would be a corruption, a perversion. To deny yourself the elemental delectation in the steeping sensuality in this sexual mist curtaining every inch . The sweat and desire and lust.

The cum's faint perfume.

And whatever novel formulation is conjured from that delicious bit of fantasy.

Abandon him there, still shuddering on the floor. The wardrobe is something simple; a satchel slung over your shoulder, unremarkable and unprepossessing. Kitten heels and stockings reaching up, up, up along your legs; thighs dimpling with their seams unseen and not conceived to be seen beneath the skirt's loose hem cradling your knees.

A simple tee-shirt.

A universe of indigo. It is not black. What bliss it would be for even the hair to cast off this. But, ah, ah, alas, alas, there is normality's wicked figment.

The apartment swallows, drapes in its shadowed geometries. The city steeps in the unleavened swelter that pleads with lips not parched but only heat-blistered for rain's cooling caresses. They will be deeply regretted when the steam becomes a stalking ravenous divinity, fingers outstretched and groping for blood and flesh and meat, animated only with hunger.

It will be delicious.

It will be to throw yourself upon the cool tatami and wallow in the sweat with curling toes and fingers pulling stroking tugging jerking.

And then heaving yourself into the bath.

But for this instant, this moment , there is only the simple delirium in this . In the silence but for the city's intrusion while the windows are thrown open, while a desk fan scribes its sibilance, a rush and rattle and whisper over a cheek painted in sweat and craving.

There is more than algolagnia.

It is nothing so prosaic as nymphomania.

It is esurience.

Fingers forever trembling with a violence that's sexuality's essence condensed into perfume and churned and boiled into a steam that riots and rips up up up through everything. And the junk, Afghanistan's finest, Ayumi's bequest to her Goddess, well...

It is not to still this.

And it is not even to embroider this, either.

It is an indulgence apart that does not lurk in addiction's territory. Addiction cannot overtake addiction. The fanaticism is a fundamentalism.

It is a fervor that does not proselytize; it is something explosive, flaring forever from the breast, but its announcement is not in language and only in deed. It is perhaps an Evangel of the flesh, of the meat and the bone.

It is cynical in its self-satisfaction, and guileless in its essence.

Quivering.

Stockings peeled away; the skirt sloughed off; the tee-shirt cast into the darkness and the bra melting into a distant heap with other orphaned bits of wardrobe and it is to be bare. Perfectly inviolably bare; a creamy pallor capturing the cold moonlight that scalds with venomous intensity upon the nude skin.

To sway and pirouette and it is not the karate-ka's shadow-boxing this evening, but only a dance. Slowly, slowly, it is the fundamental confidence the surety in dancing with only yourself, with eyes closed, without even the mirror's judgment to admonish and upbraid. It is a waltz that suffuses itself with a grinding silent beat wrought from the heart's rhythm hammered with the smith's grace into ragged serrated violence.

Rear up and fall down; again and again and again.

The hips tremble; the ass' generous round heat thrashes and pops up and recedes again and again and it's to know the toes' whisper over the exposed tatami, a long long oh so long leg, damn, they're fucking obscene, aren't they, in their perfection? Ah, ah, ah, self-love without narcissism. Toes settling with an elegant arch onto the sofa's cushion.

Introduce yourself to your silent audience and wheel away again.

There is a will a wish for more, more, more.

And there is... Is a sense of the sublime rising nearer and nearer to your grasp, pluming up from the floor like radon gas. It will poison you as surely as cyanide; it is a hastened apoptosis thundering along on swift galloping hooves.

It is delirious.

It is to dip down now, and to snatch up the works, because it is a rarefied moment when there is only...

Quietude .

Tranquility; it is not that the dance is finished. It is never done, after all.

It is powders in their novel formulations; it is their purity savored and adored. It is economy in their extortionate grace; it is to know the cocaine, the heroin, a touch of morphine for its novel flavor. For the shabu to consummate a supernatural superhuman speedball immensity , such purity that there's no need even to bother with a fucking filter.

Only the syringe; only the alcohol's cool brush on the elbow.

The tie-up snapped around my left biceps.

There is muscle; still, still, oh, oh, oh so sinewy, so lovely. So beautiful. It is not having gone to fat; it is for the baby fat denied in youth's fanatical self-inflicted violences, mommy's disease , you understand, the resentment and pain and suffering sublimated into pain and suffering controlled , domesticated in karate's circumscribed mayhem, it is for this to rear up, to surface anew.

Sleek and tight and sumptuous . The sexual ideal; an object of veneration, adoration. The tight belly; the navel's shallow divot; the slender lushness in the arms and the long, long, long legs. The breasts that flare upturned with exalted marshmallow dimensions.

The prick jabbed into an elbow; a thumb caresses the plunger like a woman's clit.

Slowly, slowly, it sinks .

Flesh becomes a shrine to the junk.

There is a chime .

Madness while the heart quickens; while everything hastens to convey this perfection, this delirium, through the flesh and the body and quickly, quickly, it is the soul, also.

A bell; distantly, there is a bell.

Church bells chime.

It is not Ayumi's fervor for what is not there, and what is through the soul's and senses' transmutation.

It is only to know what is here now .

To open the eyes more, and more, and more, 'til they're simply flayed into perfect clarity.

To stand.

To dance now. To fling yourself not at a pole, oh, oh, how lovely that would be in its balletics, but only to twist and coil over the floor. To bounce and thrash and sway; to grind to a sleazy sawing riff that could melt Larry Flynt's fucking head like a glimpse of Indiana Jones . Pound and lunge and jerk and the shoulders have dissolved into gelatin like a kitten's unset cartilage; know the writhe and swivel and ripple and the hips are emboldened more, and more, and more.

Fingers outstretched.

And it is to know your chest's thrash.

Its quiver and jerk.

It is not para-para.

And-

A chirrup.

A familiar tone.

It is, of course, that cruel mandate named work .

Money, you understand.

Makes the world... Blah, blah, blah.

Snatch up the cellular; my soul's stereo has not died but is very quiet now.

“Yes?” Because there are no names. Vlad Ţepeş did not answer the phone with, This is the impaler.

Do not reflect on the historical inaccuracies in this.

“I, ah...” It's a woman's voice.

Thick.

Trembling.

“I heard that... That you, uh...” Shuddering; there is the essence of bile in the belly, clamoring to rear up.

“You heard what, exactly? This isn't a twenty-four-hour ramen shop-”

“I want to hire you. To- to be my Mistress.” Oh.

Well.

“Who told you about me?”

“Uh... Yoshida-chan.”

“You sound older than she is-”

“I'm in my forties.” It's hot; stains the ears. “L-later forties.”

“I see. Why do you imagine I care?”

“It's just... Ah, how... How do I say this? I...” It's more than anxious.

“Are you touching yourself right now?”

“F-fuck.” Sharp; shocking. A paranoiac spurt through the voice. “H-how did you know that?”

“I can hear your slutty fingers groping at your dripping-wet sloppy pussy. That's how I know.” Snarled into the line now. It's a lie, of course. No telephone is that sensitive. “But you love it; you knew I'd hear.

“Right? Is that what you think I do? Phone sex-”

“N-n-no! Not at all. I- I don't think that at all. I just...”

“Are you pretty? Yes or no?”

“Does it matter?”

“I asked you if you're pretty, you stupid fucking middle-aged slut. Did I ask you for an answer but yes or no?” It's a bark; cold and clarified violence of the tongue.

“I- I'm really pretty; I hear I'm pretty. Really pretty.” A squeak.

“How pretty?”

“D-d-do you know, um, an- an actress? Kudō Yukiko?”

“What about her-”

“People tell me I look just like her! I'm mistaken for her all the time on the street!”

“You're lying-”

“I promise that I'm not!” It's a strangled tortured squeal. It isn't a lie.

“All right. We'll see about that.”

“D-do we- we meet publicly-”

“No. You send fifty thousand yen to the address I'll tell you in a moment with your number; have it couriered over if you're that impatient. And then I'll meet you. I'm not afraid. I will beat you senseless if you even think of trying anything.

“And I'll decide what to do after that.”

“I- I just...”

“And another thing. You don't have an I anymore. A personal pronoun. You're This Little Girl for the time being. Until I know more about you. Send a nude photo; you can keep sunglasses on, if you're that anxious.

“But I want to know how serious you are.”

“'k-'kay. T-that is, um, This Little Girl is okay with that.” The voice's tremor is a delirium.

A sublimity.

“Good. This is my address.” Now let the dance resume.

Chapter Text

Tyranny. Is that not life's essence? Is it not society's quintessence? It is our very conception of reality. We will persuade ourselves that there is freedom.

There is no freedom in this life. There cannot be freedom. Freedom is not the soul's and spirit's rights; it is not a natural ideal that eases the mind and the senses along vast grandiose inner universes, landscapes of the sensual, of the human . Freedom is something rarefied; freedom is not merely an ideal but a being . It is to taste a reality, a life, absolutely unconstrained with the shackles' leaden bulk. It is to cast the word surrender from the lexicon.

It is to be without word, without voice, without this prepackaged convenience called belonging, called identity. It is an absolutism transcending all absolutisms; it is an unattainable thing. Even to think is to feel the fetter's first cold caress slithering with the Serpent's enticement.

Poisonous. This imagery, this aspiration to a truth. Not courtesy of Ayumi- chan , but you can feel it. Her venom; her delicious dreamy delirium in the will's simple force that hammers at you like a battering ram. It is to be trammeled with its elemental bulk. It is its enormity washing over the spirit and the soul; it hungers , eats, serenades with celestial flesh's ruination. It is to be tugged into the gnawing gnashing jaws. It is to be lavished with the wet crack of bone and the squelch and sputter of meat and the cannibal frenzy that is her conviction.

And it is mine; it is their collision and it is to know the simple impossibility in supremacy. It is to taste my blood seeping through hers; it is to know hers sluicing into mine. It is fingers laced together. It is the carnal vampires' mutual insanity in this ambition to conversion that cannot be. It is a wish for addiction to overtake addiction, for magic to surpass magic.

It cannot be.

There is not the freedom for this. Hers is perhaps the nearest of any to it. It is not a charming humility; it is not a sainted simplicity. It is only a nakedness. It is a perfect and unperturbed and unpretentious nakedness; it is still to be conscious of our flesh, but for apathy to shelter and wreathe like Edenesque gardens' soft velvet foliage.

It is not yet to... Not to regress . Language is imprisonment, also, because language can only reflect the culture and its sensibilities. Its biases. The throttling ideals and absolutes. The faith named normative . Yes, yes, the normative perfections that are the axis around which all must be broken. It is the anvil on which society's weight will hammer all into a sainted homogeneity.

It must be. Even in the words, we will find this. Rebellion is an impossibility.

Freedom is impossibility when thought in its sublimities, its purities, its exacting geometries are to be warped around this, are to become a fragile frost dappling the cold iron that We , the Great We, humanity in its pageant's immensity, its societies and its civilizations and its faiths and its empires and more than anything its compromises, are. We are welded to one another; we spear into one another.

It is not the hedgehog but the sea urchin; our spines are something absolute and defining and mutually parasitic. It is to know the brutal angry rake and rip into meat and to know the bone broken and stitched into your lover, your hater, your parents, your children, the whimsical maundering fingers that are an invitation to the scarlet-cheeked revulsion and shame nestled in the soul's sepulcher called public transportation.

It is deeper and more visceral than this. Even before we are born, even before our mothers shit us out into this world, this nexus of mother and father, enforced and inflicted in accordance with a compulsory self-abnegation, a prostration before the divinity called materialism, we are pummeled with this. Faint little mutters and murmurs.

Language coheres in minds that have not been permitted a choice.

Freedom is a fiction. Freedom as a word, the absolutes in their imprecision that would deny the deeper perfection in knowledge without knowledge, in an intuition that defies all else, is its own delectable bit of hypocrisy. It is paradox.

How can we convey freedom's ideal without language?

And how can we know freedom with language?

All knowledge is imprisonment, also. In this House of The Rising Sun, this place where the inferno gathers and eddies, and where its passage is grudging, not quite yet huddled upon the equator in its sumptuous satin equanimities but altogether too fucking close , there is a cruelty in tyranny more absolute than any other.

It is our ambition, ultimately, not to flee, but only to know a more rewarding one. The processed identities; the subcultures; the better-living-through-chemistry society that accords you a convenient belonging .

It is all flight surer than the heroin needle's pricking invasion into the flinching vein; it is a plea for liberation. It is for all to be fugitive, fleeing elusive headlong from this . From this simple being. From the act of existence , something so elemental and ultimately dreaded with an immensity surpassing all else.

We have begun to resent our simple biology ; not merely the body's imperfections, media-peddled and authentic, but its being. The act of being ; life in its daily throttling meaninglessness. Because we will seek meaning. And failing this, we will fabricate it. We will gorge ourselves on figments of worth and worthiness.

They will be found in the paper stamped with dead men's portraits, with sainted geographies, with morsels again that will heave another leaden slab upon our souls in the compromise in the collective. It will be in the act of consumption.

It will be in genuflection before the ideal named celebrity. It will be to sublimate ourselves into the figures that are glimpsed only as some strange distant abstraction, as surely fictive and still as profound as the divinities that are cherished in effigy. It is our will that they are to be animated, given life , with the certainty that the idols tucked into temples and cloisters had in dusty carved-stone ages.

We are now curtained in plastic.

We are chromium humanity.

We are cyborgs; we melt ourselves and pour ourselves with our own will to be without will into this cohering kybernetik. We have gorged ourselves on the insanity named sanity . DSM and ICD and PSM and for the fucking cash-painted play-pretend commies the CCDM are our faiths. They are our new gods.

They are our new high priests.

Language will not die; no, no, no. Orthography will be transmuted, yes, but language is something more than indispensable. It is control's most fundamental mechanic in the kybernetik.

It is god.

Do you not understand?

Language is god. Even a godless society is still fundamentally tethered to this. God is language, because god is control. The atheists venerate a void that is still tinged with the noumenon named divinity . The name is ultimately meaningless, because the deeper guise is god. Is conquest. Is control.

It is our ambition not to be as gods, no, no, no. We are not 'Adam and Eve, whom Ayumi demands be called Hawa, 'cause she's cool like that. It is not even Lilith. We are content to be their offspring. I am not a Christian; I am not a Jew; I am not a Muslim; I am not a Buddhist; I am not a Taoist. I am not a traveler and not a voyeur and I am not a theological party-crasher. I am not an atheist, either.

I have seen . With eyes stitched closed and the third eye gouged out and planted on an outstretched palm, crushed underfoot, I am finally no longer sightless. It is not in the drugs, either. Do not misunderstand.

The drugs are not the mind's horizons opened, because they are to taste the deeper shackles in finer clarity. They are to efface the figments from the soul and the spirit and for the prison to be known in its fullest deepest immediacy.

To drag deeper than deep its immanences.

No. No. The true epiphany is only in sobriety, in those moments achingly near to death's cusp when hope in its delusion has been cast away. When it is known that there is not the cynical selfishness, the solipsism that would brush away reliance, and there is also not the ideal named society, named culture. When you are there, and they are there, and it is only the moment's mere anarchy that will dictate the future. When the only order that is to be known is total disorder; when it is only chaos in its most fundamental perfection.

It is blood and sweat and brimstone and the blade's sharp cold quicksilver wet and hot and red with death. It is life because there is only life. It is the simple unfairness in mortality, because life is to deny this thing.

More than anything, it is the supreme entropy that is being . It is to capture reality's vernacular in this thing, to know that it is the hips' quirk the fists' crunch the body's ruination or its survival that is the truest language. That is the nearest likeness of freedom.

To cast away the fictions and know that there is no hope, and no hopelessness, either. There is only being .

To be free is to be an animal.

It is not possible to be an animal here. This is the fanaticism's, the fetishism's, this industrial algolagnia's plea. To know the closest likeness of animal absolutism in surrender to another's order. It is perhaps the only ambition for those that would still dwell in this world in its orderly figments, who would rather not cast off this materialism's this surety 's swaddling husk.

It is to prostrate yourself before another, and to debase yourself as a mere beast in their sainted audience.

Yes.

It is a package slipped into your hand. It is a nod; it is the simple unreality in this. In the bland faceless mediator with reality, a deliveryman like any other deliveryman. A fucking courier; it is the tawny uniform the bland textureless face that commands little purchase in the senses. It is the middling physique, neither memorably fat nor emaciated; it is an unspectacular nothing in dimensions that are neither grandiosely handsome nor enchantingly ugly.

Just... There. A rap at the door that is not mine at all; it is the adjoining apartment. It is the neighbor's drowsy importuning quieted in any meaningful aggravation with the kiss lavished on her luscious sweet soft lips; it is a glance out into the corridor and he is there, and the package is being slipped into her hands with the familiar ritual pageantry and politesse that is as sincere as passionately reflective as returning a library book.

It is a smile that is not a smile; it is a simple nod, chin jerked up and down up and down.

It is a glimpse of humanity in its candid self-consciousness in profile; it is a perfection a clarity that's an invitation to photography, to the Caraviggistis' achingly elegant technique not in photorealism but in an authenticity in the confluence of the subjective and the mechanically exacting. In the tenebrism that is the corridor; in the chiaroscuro that is Kaede's firm lean face, the faint kiss of fat that is neither baby nor adult but just softness ornamenting the cheeks.

The long slender fingers cradling the package in the hall's sharp effulgence, stained with the sun's dappling caresses slopping beneath the awning.

It is another tedious mansion that is nothing that could merit the word. It is an extravagance, an engrish appropriation with our culture's fanaticism for the novel and the trendy and, well, let us be candid. There is nothing real here.

We are a people still dwelling in divine delirium.

Even then, it is not only we People of The Sun.

It is everyone.

Sensation is electrical delirium consigned to the muddled confluences named consensus.

Sight is light in its imperfections; it is not only sight but our lenses' faculty to capture its vicissitudes, our neurology's command of these things. It is less than imperfect. It is more than flawed. It is almost meaningless.

Sound is air's pulsation.

We are collectively helpless without these things.

And touch? What is this but still the neurons' bias, their conviction to construe a caress as bliss and a knife's squelching stab as anguish and there are still the visceral twists in this, the quirk that is algolagnia's gradations.

Death, also, can be delectation surpassing language.

It is to be nauseous, buffeted with this.

And nauseous, meditating upon humanity's delirium, its false certainties, its faculty to conflate the unknown with the known, to call ignorance wisdom, to exalt true wisdom as shameful disobedience. It is enough to shudder through the body to tremble like a lone leaf lingering on a denuded tree captured in a hurricane that converges with a tornado that is pummeled with a hydrogen bomb.

It is not enough to burn. It is not enough to melt. It is the will not even to be here. The monetarist madnesses that fuel our society's collective misery. The willingness to surrender to senseless tokens of paper.

The fiat inhumanity that whorls with the inferno's implacable hunger. It is to feed. For ours to be an incendiary culture; for our bodies to be but the fuel. It isn't fair.

Ah!

Here we are.

It's not fair.

This phrase. It's the object of last resort. Well, goddammit, it's just. Not. Fucking. Fair. Nothing is fair. I am not one for whom this phrase has meaning now. I understand; I have sucked it down into my lungs, atomised it, smeared it and tattooed it onto every vein and through every artery and it is my every nerve's name.

Unfairness.

Yes.

In love.

In desire.

In adorations betrayed.

In the simple prevarications. It is to have exercised patience; it is to have gorged yourself on a convivial ignorance; it is to have been human even when humanity is dreaded, when it is a curse, an affliction, an onus. And it is to have been betrayed in all of this.

To know that closing your eyes or opening them means little when only lies will be painted for you.

There is hatred. Here, here, roiling in the gut, there is a legitimate hatred. It is an animus; it is an odium.

“Hey, so you were listening, huh? It's kind of strange that you have people bring stuff to my door.” While the city in its gradations, its convolutions, its corridors and antechambers and boulevards have become morsels of geography; while they are now galleries and bowers and great rivers and tributaries that slough off with little more than a muddy gurgle and where they are eddying streams dying in the swelter.

While the corpuscles twist in their shape and dimension, but are forever distant. The cars' insectile luster and their subdued thrum and sigh that coheres into a great roar; the humanity clopping and bleeding into a senseless dimensionless babel.

It is all insanity. This floor, also, amongst every other. To know that any alien peering through the atmosphere would know us only as the insects swarming amongst corn stalks indistinguishable in their cohesion.

It is all madness. Laugh, and laugh, because laughter is the language of reality.

And tears, also.

She is beautiful. It's something... Unreal. To glimpse the elemental ordinariness in this; in the weary bored housewife whose life is not rot and not putrefaction but only stagnation. It is to have been consigned to expectation's oubliette. She is normative geometry's victim. She is pretty, but this must not be admitted in anything; to do so would be to rupture the familiar orders, the expectations.

The lithe proportions; the long long achingly long and lean legs; the pert belly and the modest chest and the hair that has been maimed in expectation's image. It has been carved away to the dimensions they call mother. It is an unfairness; it is as sexless in its wickedness as the neurotic tribes that carve out a woman's clitoris at its root and ravage her cunt into scar tissue, lest disloyalty be tasted. It is fear.

It is an awareness that power does not lie with the man. It is only the will to power; it is a dimension as fundamental as the architect's rage against the mountain. It is impersonation. It is perhaps an original sin; it is a fear that bleeds from Genesis, from the blood-steeped fertility cults that would cradle the young boy virgin and carve open his neck to nourish the land in its great black soil.

It is misfortunate that Monsanto has replaced this.

There would be fewer deaths with only an annual sacrifice.

Even her clothing is concession to ordinariness; the prim perversion in language called mom jeans. The short-sleeved blouse that is the warmth's admission.

The arms are fine and sleek and lean; exercise is announced with mom's self-abnegation, with the plea that the merciless yammering lusts the heavy juices and humors begging for outlet be subsumed into the sweat-steeping deed. It is impotent.

It is her husband's clumsy drunk groping once or twice annually, if even this.

It is the shame, it is the humiliation, in budgeting his infidelities for him.

It is the ultimate enervation, the simple exhaustion, in being obliged to care about this. Tears have ossified into stone figments. There is only a shrug now with the husband in his wayward idiocies; there is only the admonition that the children's university funds not be drunk away or wasted on hostesses. Otherwise?

“You're so pretty, Ran-chan.” There is hunger in her eyes. There is a fervor, a fetish, a fanaticism. It is stained in gradations of seifuku Sapphism; it is to recite ancient Lesbian poetry stained with dreamy belief in this fantasy called The Future, named Progress, with a girl named Mariya-tan. It is memory lubricated with sake or cheap vodka or whiskey; it is tears poured out in a great splashing carafe.

It is her fingers.

It is an exhortation.

Would it be stupid if I wore my old uniform? I still can; I still can. I'm not fat.

No. She is not.

She is not fat.

She is beautiful; she is long-stemmed and graceful and she is the quintessential Yamato Nadeshiko and the words are something predictable, strange, adoring.

You don't look Japanese, y'know, Ran- chan . Why is that? Is your mom an American? Or- or maybe your dad? Korean, maybe? You look like one of those beautiful K-pop idols; but even better. You- you look like Sailor Pluto without a tan.

Ah.

Ah.

And she is being dragged through the door. Light betrays only geometry in the kitchen; in the dishes assiduously scoured and neatly heaped. In the bottles roosting in their orderly rows, patiently waiting for their politically correct annihilation.

It is a kiss.

It is fingers rearing up slipping through her hair with the faintest little whisper.

“You should really grow your hair, you know, Kaede-san.” A wince; a torment.

“C-call me Kaede-chan. Please. I feel like an old lady when you call me Kaede-san.” Not quite wilting; it is the stern blossom, but perhaps not the iron magnolia. It is the eyes huge and beseeching; it is the familiar compulsory myopia that will not surrender to the vanity in contact lenses.

But this is lovelier still.

“I do love girls with glasses, you know, Kaede-san. I wish I had poor vision sometimes. It would be a beautiful excuse for them.” Admire her; gorge yourself on her. Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it is an insouciance, a languor. “But you really should wear your hair longer. I think Kaede-san is perfect for you.

“Because you are Miz,” oh so English, so upright, “Kaede. You are... The lady of the house-”

“He hates long hair.” It's something...

Predictable.

The wince .

The sharp brittle quality in this.

Ah.

The specter .

The wraith .

The cranky apparition whose visitation is a haunting, poised behind the business pages that could be read on the fucking train, but which must be enlisted as a surrogate for real intimacy, barking at her for another beer or sake or some tea and it's never wakamezake. It's never beer sipped from between her tits, modest, yes, but modest in the manner that a delicate bikini is still pornographic enough to have your head carved off by a yowling moralist.

It isn't fucking fair.

I know this.

It is the pauper's outrage , glimpsing the rich man tossing a steak on the floor for being just a kiss overdone.

What does it matter?

She is not perfect; perfection is phantasmagorical, idiotic.

“Fuck him-”

“I wish. I wouldn't...” It is a tacit confession in the half-finished sentences.

I wish I could fuck Suzuki- san .

Not because I'd rather not fuck you.

I'd rather not be tempted.

“I could simply seduce both of you. I've seen how he stares at me, Kaede-san.” Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. A tongue slipped with an achingly delicate ease between the lips that invite, that implore. They are there to be kissed; they are luscious, soft, a plumpness that awes. They are blowjob lips; they have not tasted a man for eight years.

It is a confession; it is whispered with a lachrymal misery, with eyes rheumy at this wisdom.

I haven't sucked a cock for eight fucking years . And it's not that there was so much goddamn fucking during those years that I didn't have time for my lips. My pussy's shriveled up; it's just dying.

It is resurrected.

Lo!

It is Lazarus' cunt.

It is to touch her; to slip up the blouse along a belly that's perhaps a bit too steeply chiseled, but there is a binary with age. One will either be tight and overmuscled or melt into fat. There is little hope of that sumptuous taut youthful balance.

“Y-you're hungry this morning, aren't you, Ran-chan?” Is that incredulity? It's her head thrown back; it's bare feet slapping over the tatami; it's her shoulders clattering on the wall and it's her ass' muffled slap and her spine's slow sinuous arch, craning closer.

The thighs splayed apart with anxious expectation.

“Yeah; I am. I haven't had breakfast yet.” Nip and nibble at the long swanlike neck. The complexion is oh so faintly kissed with a Japanese complexion; it is not the manga-perfect pallor. The eyes are heavily lobed; the hair shimmers like oiled bitumen.

“A-ah, ah, ah, Ran-chan, I- I really don't have time-”

“You don't have time?” That would be something archetypal.

Kabedon .

A palm cracked at the wall.

“W-wah!” And there is still fear's sharp twang. There is a knowledge; it is somatic, preconscious. It is a wisdom in the flesh that you are with a domesticated animal whose bite is only when provoked, but something predatory, ferocious. It is the lady as the tiger; it is the wolf whose fangs do not glint in the cold moonlight but froth with hydrophobia's enchantment.

“You just came to deliver the package, Kaede-san? I have a great deal of difficulty in believing that.” And it is obvious; it is ostentatious in the shiver and quake with a fingertip brushed over her tight belly.

Palms splay sprawl out.

Nails prickle at creamy skin.

“W-well, it's...” It's an ahn.

An uhn .

An um .

It is hemming animated in the flesh; it is a tremor and it is legs nudged apart more, and more, and more, and my knee eased up in a patient chorus girl's kick filtered through molasses oh so plodding oh so patient . It is a brush ; it is her fucking ridiculous mom jeans as little shelter from anything .

“You know how selfless I am, Kaede-san.”

“I- I just-”

“You know, it's pathetic, isn't it? He doesn't fucking care, does he? So long as no one else suspects that you're, oh, what's the cliché? Hot-to-trot?” How witty we are. How delectable she is. Lips fastened on the throat.

“W-wait, ngn...” Groaning; a sharp tortured squeal like a piglet tossed into a furnace. “W-wah, what're you-”

“What? No turtlenecks?” It's cruel. Yes.

Yes.

It's a brutal kiss that becomes suction; it's the vacuum's caress.

“W-what'm I gonna tell my kids-”

“That mommy has a very special relationship with Ran-san next door; and when little Yumi-chan and Hideo-san grow up, if they're as adorable as they are now, they should call her up-”

“G-goddammit, don't- don't talk about my kids like that.” Why? Your shackles? It's nothing... Well, gentle now. It's fingers introducing themselves to the buttons; it's her belly exposed and now, now, the fleshly candor glides up, up, up, an ekranoplan creasing tranquil white seas. She is delicious; she is encrusted in a post-nuclear snow that scalds the fingers' pads.

A whisper and a shiver.

“Why not? Oh, you know, Yumi-chan will be delicious when she grows up. Are you that worried? I'm not a pedophile; how un-Japanese of me. Not really even an ephebophile. I love mutton much, much more than lamb, you know. I'm just that kind of girl.” Nip; nibble. “He won't care; they won't notice.

“They're just so damn adorable. Really, darling, they are.” Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; maunder along the throat's soft yielding dimpling grace.

“I- I just came over t'd'l'ver'yer...” A groan.

Implosive.

“Why, you sound just like you must have as that little chick from Aomori-”

“S-stop makin' me talk... Talk like a hick. Hya!” It's a heave; a squeal. “A-ah, ah, Ran-chan, c-c'mon-”

“Listen to me, all right-”

“N-Nancy-san, she... M-my kids' English tutor-”

“Oh, you need to be very careful of foreigners. They go native like that.” The fingers' sharp snap as punctuation. “They start to think that pedophilia is the law of the land. Which it pretty much is. I've seen Nancy-san; she's delectable.

“Ah! Is that it? Are you saving the sashimi for her?” Capture the eyes; the cheeks indigo with a huge scalding flush.

“Not like that, no-”

“You're so fucking fickle. And here I thought that I was your only infidelity. Looks like you're screwing around more than I thought. And here I was, so charitable, going to recommend some discreet friends-”

“I'm not fucking her! I- I just-”

“You have a crush. A gaijin crush. A blonde gaijin crush. You're the worst kinda cliché, you know.” Gloating; teasing. The shoulders tremble; the lips purse.

“You're mean-”

“I want breakfast. I take my fish raw.”

“J-just... Okay. Okay.” How can this be resisted? The blouse slipped open, carved away from the shoulders, and there is not surrender.

Not resignation .

It is not this culture's ugly sexual catechism in this sainted rape . No, no, no. It is eyes smeared with a quality like gelatin roiling with a merciless boil; it is crazed and manic and delirious and it is to adore the soft skin, alabaster touched with a meager fine sunset reflection. It is fingertips plucking tugging pulling at the jeans' button.

It is her fingers' tortured tremor; it is the package still clasped in the left hand, the right itinerant in its drunk staggering hunger, rearing up to a shoulder, maundering off to a cheek. It is a somatic plea; the lips are quietude in its simple perfection, because language has been denied worth and meaning and purchase here.

“Ngn... R-Ran, Ran, Ran.” And honorifics melt. There is not the tyrant's obligation here; there is no noblesse oblige. There is not a will for this little death, because death embraces whatever guise it covets.

“Uh-huh. Pleading for something, Kaede?” And there must not be these manufactured morsels of decadent propriety. Not knelt but dissolving, down down down, a quicksilver elegance like a broken mirror in achingly patient slow-motion, twinkling tinkling shivering shimmering. Sweat already cavorts along nude skin; hers and mine alike. We are warped reflections in the psychic and the corporeal.

There is a symmetry in the hunger, if not the meat, and the bone, and the blood.

A caress; fingers jerk , yank, the waistline slipped down down down along long slim legs, still tinged with that most achingly luscious softness. There is awe.

There is candor .

There are no panties. Only bare bare bare flesh. Only the curls' heavy thicket cresting plump lips clasped together with delicacy's with innocence 's affectations brittler than the first anemic crust of ice coalescing on a still pond in winter's stirring chill.

“Oh, you had absolutely no interest, had you-”

“D-don't tease me. I- I just- I don't have any clean panties-”

“Oh, that's so cute.” Admire; adore.

Eyes twist closer, closer, closer.

The soft skin; the puckered plumpness in the luscious lips, oh so faintly wilting and still tightly cloven and ostentatiously still, an almost rictus tranquility that doesn't merely belie but accentuates the hunger, the weeping sticky lust dribbling down, down, down. Already, thready tendrils coalesce into cohesive rivulets pattering over the left thigh.

“You were touching yourself-”

“Y-yes!” Admission; confession.

It is not a brutal inquisition; it is a palm splayed out with fingers in a great creamy sunburst over her luscious skin, the belly's flourish from hips not boyish and not quite voluptuous and still oh so womanly. She is a woman.

There is a novel sublimity in this. In the everyday that is still absolutely delicious. A kiss.

The first kiss that is not the first kiss at all. Lips clasped without patience, without restraint, without the familiar lingering cruel tease and it is to know a warmth in the fragrance wafting up, up, up through the nostrils.

“I love born-again virgins like you; I love women whose pussies haven't been befouled with a man's cum. It's just... It's so sweet. The soft mawkish richness.” Muttering, murmuring. “Too bad for you, I'm sure, but...

“Men are rot's genesis. You're just suffering from a metabolic disease. Like I am. A genetic defect. A desire for that flesh. For man-meat; it's a sick and defiling hunger. Isn't it?” There's silence; there's the lips clasped together.

But not these .

Not when fingers wreathe them; not when there is a touch .

The first touch. The enchantment in this caress; slowly, slowly, not some crude impalement, but only a delicate flitting meander up and down and left and right and it's an artistic elegance, less painterly and more a cross-hatched grace, geometries defined in negative spaces as intensely as the actual strokes.

“W-wah... A-ah, ah, ah, Ran-”

“Soon, soon, we'll definitely need to introduce you to my friends. Would you like that? You've met Ayumi-”

“A-Ayumi? T-that top-heavy schoolgirl-”

“Uh-huh. Isn't she lovely? Luscious? Delicious?” Another kiss; and this, this, this is for language not only to fail but to be put to the sword. It is a jab; it is a stab; it is the samurai executioner, the blade drawn up, up, up.

And swept down with a surgeon's finesse.

A growl .

A snarl .

A wail .

“A-ah, ah, Ran, Ran, Ran, r-right now, I don't care-”

“I know you don't. Maybe Genta-kun and Mitsuhiko-kun. Ah! Do you like Kansai boys? Hattori-kun is just... Lovely. And there are others. Supplicants. Subordinates. Mmm... Have you ever fantasized about one very naughty word, Missus?” There is another kiss, and another. Bathe yourself in her.

Anoint yourself with her. With her scent. With the ineffable; with the novel and the sumptuously unique. And there is still a fundamental thread stitching together every woman. It is an elemental olfactory geometry; it is an alimentary shape savored on the tongue, tumbling down down down into the belly. It is syrupy and thick and it is with fingers splaying her open; it is the tongue's plumb and caress, swept up and down and up and down again.

There is no patience now. It is for her fingers to stir my hair with the first pretensions, affectations, in delicacy.

Fingertips furrow the hair; they whisper with the essence of the spring's cool greenery ruffled and rustled with the wind's dewy breaths.

And they tear now.

Rake.

Rip.

Dig .

Carve through the heavy drifts and twist , pull, implore. A gasp flowers volcanic from her lips; the head is thrown back, bone upon wall meaningless punctuation.

“A-ah, ah, Ran, Ran, Ran.” It is adulation; it is adoration. It is our implacable sacrilegious mantra, our irresistible compulsion for worship in the presence of the cut-rate divine. I am not a goddess; there are no ambitions to this.

Ye shall be as gods .

I do not care.

This wisdom, this Freedom, it is not my world. There is only hunger here. There is a contentment with the lust 's bite upon the wrists, the urgent terrible fetters that command without imploring, that demand without whispering.

There is only a roar. Her thighs splayed apart; and it is our familiar elegance, our acrobatic play. I am her life's axis, and I am mounted, and the right thigh is eased up, up, up, planted on my shoulder in an act of exalted balance.

“Ran, Ran, Ran.” More, and more, and more. It is nothing so trivial as a lick; it is not to lap; it is not ice cream; it is not a simple dessert.

It is a confrontation with the succulent, with the delirious. It is to be intoxicated with an inkling of a whisper of a kiss.

Plunge.

Immerse yourself.

Smear it.

Brush it.

Paint it.

The universe melts down into her; it is to know the world, every sense, every convolution, every gradation, simply becoming her. Reality is a mad and dangerous warp; an implosive funnel that crushes down, down, down.

I am obsessed. In this instant, lust melts down and transmutes itself into something more elemental still. It is a stardust delirium; it is a crazed shuddering convulsion that shoulders away everything like sense.

It is to become wedded to her.

Welded to her.

There is heat. There is presence. It is no longer tyranny and no longer surrender but a parallel place a plane that would reject anything so febrile in its absolutism. It is to know her thighs in their creamy trembling tension; it is to gorge yourself on the muscle, the sainted meat, that rears up into a relief that denies anything like its mere biology.

There is humanity in this.

In a kiss. In the tongue's endless crazed thrashing flit and flicker and it is to know authentic addiction. It is not a fix; no, no. It is not the velvet feathering normality that is withdrawal, the junk-sickness , finally leavened.

It is not that banality that is relief from the merciless gnawing hunger that defiles and corrodes and desecrates.

It is the joy bang.

It is for everything but this to melt away; it is to be bathed in a sensual mist that denies everything but itself. It is her body, and it is my body, and it is neither. It defies the pornographic absolutes, the certitudes in geometry. It is unpretentious paradox, the flesh renounced and affirmed at once.

Because nothing matters.

Not the veins aching, pleading for that elusive it .

Not the mind hungering for the novel wisdoms that will ultimately bleed away into desiccated banality, because this is every thought's and every word's destination. It is not to deny their worth; it is only to admit their simple truth. They become stale; they are the fruit's essence, wrung of their sweet exoticism and simply wizened.

But this, this , this is forever rejuvenated.

There is never weariness.

There is nothing but what it is in its immediacy. It is drunkenness as certain as the vodka quaffed down with a sharp gasp. It is immoderate and intemperate; it is to deny these things. It is to cast these away; it is to shred them into confetti and savor their fitful litter gingerly flitting on an unfelt breeze.

Everything enameled upon the skin. Kiss her, kiss her, rear up and know the flesh not yielding, no, no. It is yours ; your lips melt into hers. Her body shudders, bears down, more, and more, and more, and more, and more . It is her palms now clamped on the brow; fingertips tremble prickle prod and...

“A-ahnnn... T-that's...” An ahn. Soft and cooing but it is something evanescent in its patience. The knee fastened around my shoulder is convulsive; her body has simply been gripped in lust's huge heaving inferno. She is borne aloft upon its great carnal currents.

She will soar.

I will be dragged with her.

Kiss and kiss; tongue rolling out, laving her with long, long strokes that displace the lips in their faintly rubbery elegances. Their perfumed allure. Their simple being is an invitation to the fingers' creep down, and down, more and more and more.

A caress along a knee.

There is a delectation in this. In the wardrobe's obliging exposure; it is not immodest, and it is not a habit. It is moderation that twists itself in an instant into the decadent. The skirt eased up and her eyes wheel with a wild feral frenzy at the first wet stroke there. Panties eased away with fabric's silent submission; the finger is my own.

There is no delicacy.

There is no patience.

It is to impale yourself. At once, daggering, spearing, tearing, and it is an exotic act of sexual mathematics, one becoming two, and two becoming four, and... And it is the jaw's tremor still wrenched cranked open to admit her body's exhortations.

Battered now with the heavy juices that coils and sluice out; tongue a wet unpretentious hunger against her, through her.

“Y-yeah, yeah, yeah!” It is a scream.

In an instant, without preamble, without the familiar theater, without anything like affectation. Without patience. Without impatience.

Sound.

Presence.

“Yeah! Yes, yes, yes!” It is affirmation. It is to cast away life's dualities, its juxtapositions, 'cause they've been pulverized, pulpified as surely as a steak introduced to a pneumatic hammer's passionate caresses.

A thunder.

Straining.

Pulled up, and up, and up, to greet the weight crushing down onto my lips.

“Y-y-yeah, yeah, ngn... R-Ran-chan!” Without hierarchy; only with obsession. “O-oh, oh, oh, okay, okay, okay, 's- 's enough, right?” There is never this boundary, this threshold. It is an immanence in wisdom; it is a glorious divinity that announces itself in holy writ scrawled in a vast lightning spray across the eyes craning up to admire her through lashes dappled with lust in a few errant dewy motes.

“Does it feel like enough-”

“S-she'll be here sooon! I can't...” Just be impolite?

Because we are polite, of course.

We exist to indulge others.

“Fine.” A huff. It's something, oh, insouciant. A palm clamped on her left shoulder, and now her right, and there's a bleary delirium shimmering through the eyes.

“W-wah-”

“Well, you didn't give me the time to savor my, ah, bit of sacrilege against Ayumi-chan's divinity, so ablutions must be made. It's only right. Right?” The knees gelatin; the body more malleable than metal dribbling from a furnace in sticky evocative immensity.

Hunger.

Pull her drag her tear her closer, and closer, and there's nothing like resistance. Only delight; only adoration. The fingers clapped on my thighs.

Jubilation in the first stroke.

And the second. The tongue serpentine, wheeling out to lap at the molasses-thick threads liberated, gathered condensed in yesterday's depravities. In today 's expectation. Muffled murmuring and there's nothing like gentleness. It is to mount her; to surmount her. Ridden; bucking. Rising and falling and there...

There is something that a febrile idiot mind would call masculine in the selfishness, in the impatience.

It is not their monopoly.

She surfaces with lust puddling on the lenses, eyes huge and gawping and orgasm's lovely prickling insanities still playing with a languorous numbness through every inch, gnawing at every nerve.

“A-ah, ah, all right.” The words are something perfunctory from the lips; they're something to be said. They're the divine's dispensation for a bit of sacrilege. “That was lovely, Kaede-san.”

“G-g-glad you liked it. You came... Came so hard. Y-you squirted a little on me-”

“Ngn... That's just because your tongue is sublime.” So she must be kissed; dragged up again, and it is to know the sublime surrender in this.

An absolutism in her wilting listing delirium, still buffeted, still addled.

“O-oh, oh, the box.” And still clutched in her left hand. Snapped open on the table. “Wow.” Kaede's lust-dappled lashes limn a sodden little symphony through the sticky air, reality in its sodden sultriness already intruding through the balcony door flung open to embrace the day. “That's a lot of money-”

“It's yours. Call it, oh, a gift. Buy a very long wig. And some delicious new lingerie.” And there will still be more than enough, won't there? “I'm very enthusiastic about stockings, you know. High high heels.”

And there's...

“H-holy shit!” Squinting.

Because we must disbelieve.

Because there must be incredulity with a glimpse of these things; these acts of obscenity, of profanity. We must deny the reality.

Kaede's voice a reedy little trill.

The photograph is a shimmering leaf quivering amidst the cash with an unfelt breeze in breath. She is beautiful. A divinity in sleek elegances, oh so faintly dusky with the sun's dappling kiss. A glimpse of a thoroughbred beside Kaede's Clydesdale insecurities, whatever the reality.

“She- she looks just like Kudō Yukiko.” Doesn't she? There is not clarity, and not incredulity. It is only to reflect on the simple geometries. The urgent awareness in everything; in sight and dimension and proportion. She is beautiful. Whatever the incidental likeness in our celebrity saints, whatever the act of impersonation, there is only the simple truth.

Swallow it.

Draw it deep, deep, deep. Suck it into the lungs. Waft the cash's mouldering paper aroma; choke down the banality in our beloved anachronism sainted immortalized in this culture's most exalted guise. It is to rejoice to uplift in wealth's trite gradations. It is to know that you have Arrived, that you are most adored, most exalted, when your face is passage to our culture's most sainted act.

Consumption.

Hunger.

Yes. To be painted with these exalted bits of meaning in their ten thousand yen increments. It is historiography in a Playstation; it is to commune with your society, with the ideal in the collective, when narcissism triumphs and the public in its potential is consigned to the private.

Snatch up the fifty thousand yen. They are tucked into Kaede- san 's oh so lovely and bewitching fingers.

“This is for you, Kaede-san-”

“I- I really couldn't do that. It's just- that's a lot of money. I mean... For a student like you, that must be a fortune-”

“A fortune is a fortune. This's only fifty thousand yen. Five hundred dollars; less now, isn't it?” There's a murmur, lingering with a sticky lassitude on the syllables. Because Fukuzawa Yukichi is a triviality; he is a fat imperialist apologist, and the beauty captured not in dusty paper but in our more enchanting photographic alchemy devours.

There is a brazenness.

There is a candor .

Our public morality is affronted in this sincerity. It is not the geometry; it is the knowledge of what the geometry reflects . An Edenesque authenticity untroubled with the cold gray Stalinist bureaucrat's meddling.

It is to know the hair in its fine taut curls; the thick obsidian grace elegantly trimmed, cropped to little more than a meager little nimbus over the tight soft lips, a shimmering glint captured and embroidered with the camera's blaze, swallowed down into its unblinking perfected lens. The dusky elegance little more than a trivial grade darker than the sun-teased skin.

The long long long legs. There is an awe.

Yes.

There is a word.

If there is an ambition to consigning thought and lust and craving and sensation and sensual fanaticisms that roil and pulsate and race through the nerves, that nestle with huddled stalking predation in the dark stygian places behind the eyes and between the ears, to a simple word, then there is a word.

It is fetishism.

It is fanaticism.

It is a fervor for this.

For the rarefied perfection in a woman's legs.

To know the sleek lush thighs; the elegant lean sinuousness in the calves; the geometries twisting, wheeling, whorling, rearing up and tumbling down down down to graceful arching ankles. Even the toes in their fuchsia-kissed nails.

She is...

Incredible.

“She has such big boobs.” And there is, of course, insecurity declaimed in this fervor. In Kaede's eyes immense and incredulous. “I've never seen a pair of tits like that. I- I mean-” And there is silence; sudden and throttling and guilty. The lips drawn taut with a dog's affectations of a smile over the adorable overbite.

“What is it, Kaede-san?”

“'s just... I- I mean, y'know, not- not that I haven't ever seen them in reality. But, um, in photography. I think yours are probably bigger-”

“I think I'm probably taller. There's no frame of reference for the photo but her sunglasses; but she's probably five-eight or five-ten.”

“They're huge. Aren't they? And they're natural.”

“Not explicitly.” And we will meditate on the biologic vicissitudes in the heft. In the belly's lean roundness; not chiseled in grandiosely athletic sharp angularities but only the most achingly sumptuous pride in nature's beneficence. It is to know the satin planes kissed with some rarefied living oxymoron in lean fat. It is the faintest whisper; it is the navel's divot and the hips' lavish roundness. It is the chest's vast vast flare.

The tits' fall, and still oh so pert.

“She's obviously had something done; she said she's in her later forties. At least a lift for tits like that.” There's warmth staining Kaede's cheeks. “What is it?”

“You just- it's so weird that you're, I mean, I guess casual about that. Staring at a naked woman.”

“I love admiring naked women. It's a pastime of mine, you know, Kaede-san.” This is not a bit of conversational lassitude.

It is knowledge imputed.

Affirmed.

“W-well, I know that.” How lovely it is to savor the dark eyes, averted in something that could only aspire to gorge itself on shame's sainted ideal.

Shame?

Shame?

It is self-indulgence; it is the wish to be ashamed. To quaver with the terror, the revulsion, in another's judgment. It is still algolagnia's sainted kiss. It is to know the twist and the quirk in the neurons, the synapses warped on their axes, clutching at the fulfillment in the pain's sharp kiss. And it is not this at all.

Culture, also, is algolagnia; and civilization, too. It is an act of sainted groveling; it is a lust for self-abnegation, for self-abasement. For the eyes in their anonymous judgment to be heaved into great esteemed constellations, their cold eldritch starlight preciouser than the sun's warmth.

She would love to be the Traditional Wife.

The Perfect Mother.

There are fingers already laced through her hair.

The eyes are captured; they are swallowed as surely as plucking them from their sockets with nimble fingers whose nails have been bladed in their long lacquered elegance.

“I hope that you do, Kaede-san-”

“I- I- you're h-hurting-”

“Am I hurting you?” It's a faint little tug; not even a squeeze but the follicles only teased. A tension that stirs through the fragile flesh. “Am I really?” It's madness. I know that it is. How can it not be?

We are all mad.

To dwell in this place of long reaching shadows and the light's shelterless inferno, how can we not be? We must all be mad. We must all gorge ourselves upon the delectable figments in these sainted fictions named Freedom, Liberty, Rights, Privileges. They are all only Capitalism's children. It is all in service to the Gray Men that lurk in the towers that define our horizon in nature's truth's denial more surely than any mountain, than any sea.

It is not Leninism.

It is not Marxism.

It is not Communism. No, no, no. It is only an admission of the truth.

We are all children, groveling and pathetic; we are all slaves dwelling in pens wrought from our own febrile fantasies of being the masters. The heat is stoked in the material selfishness; in the self-indulgence.

Kiss her.

The heat is nurtured with the Idol's squeal.

Kiss her.

The heat is inflamed with the grandiose apartments.

Kiss her.

All is as vaporous as morning mist.

And still, still, her lips are there to be kissed. The hair cropped to its Housewife modesty is still there to be stroked. Grass carved to little more than stubble is still grass. The spirit is something that can only be stamped out in its own surrender. It will carve out its own roots and exuberantly offer itself to the sun's bleaching depredations.

Her mouth entrances. There is a softness, a sweetness, stained and steeped in me. And I with her. It is an act of reflected onanism, sexual narcissism. The hair will not yield; it is firm, stern. The mouth is a fine cherry blossom bow, trembling, the eyes rheumy not with tears but only lust's manic fervor.

“I- I need...” A gasp; a shiver; a heave. The breasts still bared in modesty's pretension, cradled with the bra's tight band. The flesh percolates up, oh so delicately, the fabric well-fitted and there's still the faintest kiss of a vain seam along the pert sepia skin. “I need...” With lips adoring her throat; with fingers tangling now like some diabolic seaweed around her wrists.

“You need what?” A murmur. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly, a deliberation in everything. The dancer's grace; the simple production in every quirk, every whisper, every act, every deed. It is a perfection. It is a sublimity.

“I- I should be go-wiiiiing.” A whine; a hot high shrill tremor that's the essence of the desert's arid breath pluming aloft in great scalding currents.

“Really? Oh, will the blonde beauty be disappointed? Why, you're already so disheveled. And you reek of pussy. Mine. Yours. It's a fine fragrance for you-”

“I need to go. Really. Really.” Conviction.

“You know, you're just the most delectable housewife, aren't'cha, Kaede-chan? I think I'm desperately in lust with you. Maybe even a little poisonous bit of that... Oh, proprietariness.” Fingers tumble down, down.

Dagger into the tight belly; lace around the lithe waist to capture her ass' delectation in taut lush roundness.

“Ah, your ass really compensates for that tiny chest. I'm still, well, I'm always incredulous at the stupid shit that men do. The Y chromosome is corrosion's locus, you know. If you could mend that, transfigure every man into a woman, this planet would actually be livable.”

And there is still the defiance.

The plea for relief.

But this is what it is. It is a plea; she is beseeching me. It isn't power seized, snatched up in the defiant fingers.

It's a wish for the divine's indulgence.

It is a prayer.

“I- I really need to be going home.”

“Of course. It would be quite the scandal, wouldn't it? Maybe you should just invite, ah, what's her name? Nancy-san? Delicious; soft; sleek; lean; blonde. If you invited this little novelty over for tea here. I am, after all, one of your friends. I speak fluent English.”

“I- I didn't know that, Ran-chan.”

“Et Français. Und Deutsch. Well, maybe not French that proficiently. And Ayumi-chan is even better cultivated. We're the ten thousand yen ideal, you know. So international. And not at all of this place because of it. Where's the Yamato Spirit in us?” But then again, where is it in you?

The eyes are cold. There's a moment's fleeting sharp epiphany. A pang rips its talons through the breast. It is awareness. A philosophical knowledge in the ragged tattered shards' edges. That they flit and flutter like tempest-tossed medieval pennants, but they find no purchase on their poles.

They are there.

“All right.” Slip away from her. There is something... Something venomous in it. There is lust, yes; it will not cool. Its embers are a cold white and still, still, it would be the folly in groping at the coals when the inferno in its huge thrashing garnet tongue has dimmed to memory.

It is most violent at this moment; most intense. There is a will to touch, to taste.

“You know, I wouldn't mind it.” While the blouse's buttons are eased into their familiar modesty again with a deliberation that aspires to memory effaced.

While she is silhouetted against the door frame.

“W-what wouldn't you mind?” Without turning.

“I wouldn't mind doing more with you. If you'd like me to find a man for you to fuck, I'll be there so you can be comfortable. You've never had a ménage, right?” Quiet, quiet, oh so quiet.

But the shoulders are more eloquent than the lips; the hips more articulate than the shoulders. The fingers' tremor betrays the heat coiling like nested vipers in the belly.

“A-ah, I- I don't think that's a very good idea-”

“Why? It's not like you'll be forced to do it raw. Not that it'd matter. Mmm... Are you on the pill?”

“Why would I be?” There's a bladed mirth in it.

It's an act of nuptial seppuku, every syllable a twist through the belly.

“I guess you're right. You know, if I had a cock, I'd never be satisfied. I'd fuck you 'til your cervix just tumbled out on the mattress. I'd hammer you against the wall; I'd raise you up in my arms and smother you with my tits and fill you like an éclair. It would be delectable.

“I think you'd begin to appreciate the gradations in every day's flavor. Even in my diet. I definitely wouldn't drink like Suzuki-san. I do drink. A great deal. Mmm. I'd forgotten to ask you. Are you a square?”

“Wha?”

“A square? Y'know, a rectangular object, daddy-o? Do you use?”

“I- I don't know what you're talking about.” Turning, oh so slowly. But the cash is still clutched in her left hand. The eyes devour it in their conscious blindness.

“Mmm. No? I'm talking about, oh, heroin, cocaine. Those delicious chemistries. Idiots delude themselves they can see god with them. That they're conduits to the divine. They're not. They're just... They're a reintroduction to yourself, you know.

“Your own body tasted like you never have. Fucking on heroin is something you should definitely taste-”

“I don't- I don't want to get addicted.” This is our cultural morality's basis.

It is economic.

It is flinching from stigma.

“Oh, you won't. It's a myth, you know. Not addiction. Just the ease. And, well, an addiction can't displace another. Aren't you already addicted to this?” To the tee-shirt simply... Eased up, up, up. With unperturbed languor.

Breasts not bared; the bra is modester than the bikini that context obligingly launders in platinum sand and briny sea air.

They are still there. Large; larger than this word can accommodate. The photo plucked from the courier box; a graceful juxtaposition and a simple symmetry.

“A woman's body. Mmm. Mariya-tan.”

“Don't talk about her.” It is a sincerity in anguish.

“I could find her, you know-”

“I- I know where she is. I know where she is. I...” Swallowing, slowly, slowly, a tortured thick burden in the throat. “Why're you talking about this, Ran?” Intimacy; such unpretentious intimacy. “You look so angry.”

“I am. Just not with you. I have these pangs. Do you understand?” Of course.

You do.

I do.

All ultimately must.

“I- no, I don't really get it.” The smile's wan and pathetic and mendacious.

“Of course. I, ah... I know about Mariya-tan, too. She really is pretty-”

“Stop talking about her.” It's not the familiar ambition to meek invertebrate surrender. There is iron in this.

“Really? Why? Worried that I might, oh, decide to introduce her to a bit of extramarital-”

“Shut up! I'm- I'm going!” The door jerked open; a sharp clatter.

The cash unreturned.

Oh, well. The photo is there, clutched in fingers cinched around the sleek sweat-slick sheet. It's something strange, this figure. The fanaticism that roils in the gut; the breathlessness in the scalding iron fist fastened around the lungs.

It is something Teutonic; it is a knowledge of a jackboot clamped on your throat. It is a kick, once, and again, and again, and it is a convulsion that gathers with a slow syrupy elegance, a patient plodding grace that belies its immensity.

It is eschatology's first seismic tremors.

It is the first ripples that rupture the pond's serenity. It is to know the first individuation, the Genesis in this. In the creation that tears the wavelets from their unburdened cohesion in the pool.

It is the first hot wind that plucks a cherry petal from its branch.

It is... Strange.

Ruptured with the cellular's familiar chirrup. Frustration.

That's what it is. It's the anguish companion to a philosophical epiphany not only within your reach but your grasp ; savoring the fingers' first fitful brush upon its strange unknowable geometries.

And you are tugged away.

“Yes?” Snatched up. There is no salutation, because there is no politesse for this gossamer thread that tethers me to their lusts.

“Ah, uh...” A murmur; a soft articulated little sigh.

“Who is this-”

“It's- um, did... Did you get the package I had couriered over?” It's fragile, the whisper that isn't morose, and not retiring, but only wilting like a lily grafted into desiccated desert sand.

“How much was it?”

“A-ah, what? I- I don't-”

“Am I to infer that you've decided against this?” There's only silence.

Long.

Reflective.

“A-ah, pardon-”

“I told you that you don't have an I. There's nothing personal now about you. If you'd like to do this, you're property. You're my property. It's only incidental that you're allowed to have your own fucking body.” There is...

It is addiction.

It is not this.

Not this fervor called power .

Not the junk.

Not the cocaine.

It is something transcending these humble dimensions; it is something surpassing the flesh's prosaic boundaries. It defies language in its imprecisions; it is something that is not of the celestial, riven from the meat.

It dwells in an unreal borderland, a dreamtime awareness that is tasted in nothing predictable. It is creation 's anguish.

It is perhaps the divine.

Superstition. Idiot superstition in children groping and clutching at meaning, at figments of order in the ostentatious disorder that announces itself in life's great wheeling scope like an electron cloud pulsating and heaving and throbbing with the multitudes in their uncountable constellations, their great heaving throngs of thousands and thousands of thousands and thousands of these thousands of thousands.

The planet trembles with their bulk, their immensity, but their very being their essence is denied.

Is unfelt.

We would aspire to shackle all to perfect orderliness, and invite the entropy deeper into ourselves. We would be persuaded to offer ourselves in our thoughtless unreflective obedience to the tyrants that gorge themselves on this plastic Order's evanescent produce. We will not starve; we are not of this system .

All is simply orders in their orders.

We no longer dwell in the first.

The second slips from our grasp.

We are a simulacrum.

And our simulacrum becomes simulacra.

I dwell here, also. It is the anguish in impotence . It is the rage , the fundamental meaningless powerless rage , that is companion to sightedness without limbs, without strength, without the power to remedy what is seen. There is a compulsion to roar and howl and heave, and there is also the understanding that it would accomplish nothing .

Even with the Power in its fullest scope, even taking hold of the sainted divine, what would it matter? A lone god is still only the god of their lonely world. The Fool on The Hill.

Yes.

Jaw clenched.

“Ah, um, are- are you still there, um... M-Mistress Orchid?” A whisper; a shivering.

“Yes? What? I'm not obliged to listen to you.” It's so fucking petty. I know this.

“It's... T-this Little Girl, um, she... She was- was so excited to see you-”

“Mistress Orchid. Don't presume that I'll condescend to hear you from your lips. Even when they're perhaps very far away. You've never done this before, I infer.”

“N-no, I- that is, This Little Girl hasn't, Mistress Orchid.”

“There's no one else to whom you'll be speaking without my imprimatur, so don't imagine you have a fucking need for pronouns.”

“A-all right. This little girl was so excited to see Mistress Orchid that, ah, that she couriered the... The money and picture right over. Does Mistress Orchid like it?”

“Yes. A great deal. You really are a remarkable likeness of Kudō Yukiko. You're gorgeous. I'd never imagine that you're in your late forties. Whatever that means. But you're wearing sunglasses. What's your eye color?”

“Um, blue.”

“Like Kudō's, huh?” A slow syrupy languor; it is to settle with a spine-arching lassitude at one of the chairs planted in family orbit in grandiose affectations of normality around the table.

A quick slap of your ass on the seat.

“That's- that's right. I guess. Ah...”

“Is it a natural tan? You don't have tan-lines.”

“This- This Little Girl goes nude sometimes.” Isn't that quite the confession?

“What a disgraceful whore.”

“It's- it's a private beach-” A plaintive beseeching little whine.

“So you're rich, huh? Well, that private courier was probably pricier than the fifty thousand yen. Or not. I don't really care. Touch yourself.”

“W-what-”

“I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, you stupid inattentive fucking cow. You're not accustomed to this. But I told you to fucking touch yourself. You're going to touch yourself.” It's not a growl, not a snarl. It's something perfectly convivial. Because this is.

A conversational ease in this delectable cruelty.

Every word is the palm's sharp wet crack on cheeks shimmering with tears.

“Yes. Yes. This Little Girl, um, she's- she's at home right now, and... And she's not really alone-”

“What? Worried your housekeeper will be scandalized? You're beautiful. I think I'd adore seeing you touch yourself. If only we had a line between us. Alas, alas. But the serenade alone will be enough.

“I want you to open up your slutty thighs and stroke your pussy. Right now.”

“All right-”

“That would be yes, Mistress Orchid. There's nothing noncommittal in your conviction. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Have you ever done anything like this before, whore?”

“N-no, This Little Girl hasn't, Mistress Orchid. Just... Why are you calling her that?” It's a taut twanging anxiety in the voice. A sharp hard-ribbed tremor.

“You're really asking me? Sincerely? You're asking Mistress Orchid that?” Laughter; laughter. Comic cartoonish pantomime laughter.

A villainess.

The quintessential Wicked Lady.

The Princess curtained in lace and latex and with bitch heeled boots ground into your palm.

Oh, my, my, was the little peon expecting delicacy ?

“You're asking me? It's because I'm Mistress Orchid. That's the reason. I'm Mistress Orchid, and you're slave to my every whim. Why should the willow ask the hurricane why its fragile little limbs are being pulled and twisted and broken?

“If it appeals to me to beat you senseless 'til you can't even imagine opening your eyes, that's my prerogative. If I wish to steep you in luxury and venerate your every inch, it will not be your privilege but mine. Do you understand?

“Am I understood? Do you understand Mistress Orchid's words?”

“Yes, Mistress Orchid.” It is obedience.

“Now, I'd like to hear from your nasty dripping cunt. It is just sloshing with lust, isn't it?” Silence. Silence.

Why?

And the answer is not defiance, and not the phone tossed away with horror's sudden violent epiphany gripping the heart, Oh, fuck, I cannot do this.

It's wet.

Sticky.

A sumptuous breath through the line. It is to know a delectable symmetry in the lips' dewy grace. In her mouth's shiver, in the wet-petaled allure that plumes up, captured and conveyed with figments of authenticity through this grandiose electronic figment in communion, in intimacy.

And it is still here.

“Can you hear it?” Muffled; muddled. “This... This Little Girl put you on speaker phone, if- if that's okay, Mistress Orchid.” It is the essence of quavering knees. There is something almost queasy in the voice.

It is transgression.

“Are you married, slut?”

“Yes.”

“And yet, still, still, you're... What, are you unhappily married?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“It's humiliating-”

“You want to be humiliated. Tell Mistress Orchid why. How many fingers are stirring your cunt so noisily? It sounds... Absolutely drenched. Is that cum inside you?” It's a delectation, savoring this sonic sensuality.

It is to know your thighs slipped apart.

It is not self-abnegation; it is not noblesse oblige 's patient restraint.

It is only the flesh's irresistible pangs.

It is pornographic; it is not at all. It is not the prepackaged prosaic in another's will, another's whim, another's flesh captured in the digital indelible for those whose imaginations have been permitted to atrophy, or whose convictions wilt beside the elemental chest-clutching terror in fingers outstretched, in the voice upraised.

It is all painfully pathetic.

We are all simply bound to our bodies; we are all shackled to them.

The priest and the hedonist.

We are merely two faces of a Janus being.

Touch, and touch, and touch. Toes curling, bare on the tatami underfoot. The spine arches; jaw clenches; the universe has melted down not into light and darkness but only gradations in flesh, warm and raw and ripe and fresh and hot .

It is meat and bone and blood.

It is her body.

It is hallucinatory; it is the most sumptuous junk sloshing through the veins and burbling up through every artery. It does not creep but sluices, spills, through the body's every reach.

Fingers are animated with their carnal steam.

A touch.

The first long slow lingering graze. It is a single finger; it is a universe condensed into this.

“It's- it is cum inside This Little Girl-”

“My whore. You're my whore now. I don't think This Little Girl is appropriate for such an older lady, do you? After all, Mistress Orchid is only in her twenties. So you're now just my whore. Are you happy about that?

“Mmm. But it's a bit different, isn't it? After all, it's not often that a whore pays their client for the privilege. I'm thinking more about what you are than who you are. You're just a sloppy sopping heap of meat begging to be degraded.

“Whose cum is it?”

“Your- your whore's... Lover's-”

“You have a lover? Well, isn't this interesting?” Lingering on the words.

A jab.

A barbed spear raked down the spine.

“You have a husband and a lover? My, my, quite the European relationship, isn't it? Unhappy at home. What about your lover? Unhappy with them?”

“No, Mistress O-oooorchingn...” It springs into being.

Sudden.

Jarring.

Something explosive; it is something that international treaty bans, you understand. A nuclear weapon simply unfurling from the ocean's depths, the darkness becoming light and even the most effulgent afternoon dwarfed in the pygmy sun that is our greatest feat.

It is our culture.

Another materialist divinity to be tucked into the pantheon; a cudgel wrought in scientific inquisition. We will laud this thing.

Heaving now from her lips. Channeling it in sexual séance. There is a gurgle a wheeze something that could almost be mistaken for a retch in its bitten-back violence.

“You came , didn't you?” And how can you not tease with treacly figments of adoration?

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes . Your whore is going to again!” What delicious comfort with this.

“ No .” Not a snarl; not a roar. A simple admonition. A newspaper swatted on a truculent puppy's snout.

“W-what-”

“I told you no , slut. I haven't come even once. You're not going to come.”

“Your whore can't hold it back; your whore can't help it. She's- she's too sensitive. Your whore's pussy can't take this -”

“Then stop touching yourself.” It's something absolute now.

A judgment.

“W-wha-”

“Stop touching yourself. You'll be barred from even admitting that you have a pussy until we meet, slut. No touching. No stroking. Not even clenching together those delicious soft thighs. I've decided what will happen.

“Tonight. I will meet you somewhere mutually agreeable to us.”

“A- all right.” It's a whine. A piteous little mewl . “All right-”

“You'll dress as I stipulate.”

“Of course, Mistress-”

“Kneel. Now. Wherever you are. Fall down to your knees.” It is a faint little whisper in fabric. “What are you wearing?”

“A- ah, um, your... Your whore,” still, still, the sonic essence in scarlet cheeks. “Your whore is wearing a miniskirt and... And a blouse and panties-”

“No stockings?”

“No, Mistress Orchid.”

“You will be tonight. You'll be my toy; you're delicious. I love your hair. Wear it loose like in the photo. Do you wear glasses?”

“Yes, Mistress Orchid.”

“Is your vision poor?”

“It's just... It's a little embarrassing. Your whore's eyes aren't like they used to be; your whore needs them to see up-close-”

“Oh, so that's what it is, huh? How mortifying . Your long slender arms just aren't long enough now, are they? You know, I've never had an authentic old-lady whore before. Those tits, well, those are very young.

“And your ass, I'm sure. I couldn't quite see it in the photo. Is it large?”

“Yes.”

“Sublime. You'll wear your glasses.”

“Yes, Mistress Orchid.” Such perfect compliance. It rakes through the flesh.

It puddles between thighs whose muscle rears up with the essence of a submarine breaking dark waters.

“Ah... I'm... Ah...” It's not coming .

It's simply here.

At once, at once, a sudden convulsive violence.

A corporeal mayhem in your head thrown back.

Flashdance perfection and jerking hips and fingers not even splitting open the lips but only stroking stroking stroking relentless huge spasmodic stripes over that pearl that rears up hungry and brazen through a hood that's only Salome's veil.

“Fuck. Fuck. You're going to wear your sluttiest clothes tonight. Stockings; garters; bitch heels. Do you have any patent leather?”

“Ah, yes, Mistress Orchid-”

“Then wear that. I'll choose your clothes from now, whore. Wear leather heels; wear anything that gleams like someone's already smeared it with cum. A tube top that will barely keep you out of jail and will definitely nurture more than a few fantasies in salarymen's corrupted hearts, begging to just cast off all the cowardice and finally fucking touch you.

“A skirt that's more a belt. I want to be able to see the stockings biting into your soft plump thighs. Wear something flamboyant. I think, oh, violet. Do you have violent lingerie?”

“Um, yes, Mistress Orchid.”

“You're afraid, aren't you?”

“People will look- will look at your whore like she's...”

“A whore?”

“Yes.” A whisper. Once, and again. “Yes. That's right-”

“You are a whore.”

“Ah-”

“You are a whore. Slap yourself. I want to be able to hear it. You're going to need to become accustomed to that. What? Did Ayumi- chan intimate to you that I'm achingly delicate with girls because I love them?

“No. I break my favorite toys. That's how I've become. Hit yourself; hit yourself; hit your goddamn slutty cheek 'til you start to tear up !” A snarl.

It is the tyrant's expectations, her certainties , disappointed in quietude.

Until there is the first crack .

Once.

And again.

And again.

“It hurts!”

“Good. Hit your cheek again. I wish I had a cock, you know. I'd rape you 'til you wailed . It would be so lovely to pump your nasty holes, to fill them with jizz. Too bad, I guess. But you're going to take another huge wad of cum inside you before you come tonight.

“I want it still to be dripping out of you when you're with me. I want to be able to dig it out with my fingers and smear it on toast for you to eat. Do you understand? I'd have you not wear panties, but, well, that would be just a little difficult, wouldn't it?

“Be sure they're almost perfunctory; a little stripe for your pussy and nothing for your ass but a tight little band to cleave those cheeks apart. Understood, whore?”

“Understood.”

“Good girl .” Cooing now. “Good girl . Now, keep slapping yourself. Anywhere; serenade me with it. Don't bite back anything . If you scream, scream for me. But set your phone on the table. I'm sick of listening to your sniveling. Meet me at the Hyde Suites; room eight-thirty-nine.” There is no protest.

No simpering that this isn't...

Isn't appropriate .

“Okay.” Obedience.

A crack.

Wet.

Sodden.

The palms stain her skin. The imagery is already painted in great impressionist strokes, muddled and nebulous in their ambiguity, and still oh so delectable in the perfect clarity that is the soul's subjectivity.

Toes curl.

Fingers dagger between my thighs. They are not anything so banal as this in its childish onanism. They are not that measure of communion stitching together humanity in its groping hungers. No. No.

They are her lips.

“Ah... Ah... Wear violet gloss, also. B-be sure your makeup is as slutty as you can manage. Nothing airbrushed; make sure it's cheap . The trashiest liner and frailest mascara. Nothing labeled waterproof. Otherwise, I'll scour it off with your own fucking tears.

“Do you understand?” Her tongue.

Her lips.

Her mouth.

Of course she understands.

There is no need for an answer. Nothing. Nothing. She is knelt here. It is more than apparition; it is simple being . Conjured not in imagination's alchemy but in simple flesh. She is here. With the grandiosity in degradation without self-loathing.

Only the elemental wisdom in genuflection; creeping, slithering between venerated thighs.

Kisses like a butterfly's quick fluttering wings captured in a monsoon.

“Ah! Ah! Yeah! Yeah!” Fingers become her tongue, her touch, her adoration. “Ah. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, you'll- you'll be swamped with me tonight.” Dragging up huge sodden gouts from the flesh. Fingers coil and twist and taste the gradations in texture, the luxuriant wet-velvet allure in coils clenching clutching groping .

Because she is there.

“I'll... I'll more than fuck your face; I'll rape you 'til you sob. You'll be pleading for mercy; and you'll be begging me never to stop. This, I can promise you, whore. Y-yeah... Ah, ah, ah .” It isn't thunder.

It is not the braying porno affectation in excess.

It is.

Selfish.

Shivering.

Fingers dragging up the shirt's hem; the bra simply tugged down with a quick jerk at the thick black band. And there is a madness, a fanaticism for this. A self-love in the plump luscious fat and the lean muscle undergirding it.

A delirium in that quaking marshmallow madness.

Ours fall together.

The lips, also.

Gorge yourself on yourself.

Language melts down.

Imagery has become something distant and perfunctory.

Defined geometry muddles itself into protean lysergic acid Monets.

And there is now nothing like shape .

Formless and twisting and coiling into themselves. A Möbius strip psychosis; my body and hers have been divested of anything like being in this strange parallel place. There are no toes; no fingers; no hands; no feet; no legs no arms no faces nothing nothing nothing but a primeval water .

Yes.

Yes.

We are as water, splashing together.

Individuation denied.

A shudder in teeth ground together while the nipples are not only strummed but tugged twisted tormented tortured and...

Silence.

Stillness.

But not the cinematic flair in the bomb's thunder's recession. No. No. These are the mischievous fingers that jam, that defuse, that stymie, that thwart .

There is only anxious quavering rage-stained raw red insanity.

It is self-inflicted denial.

It is the knife rasped over a whetstone alive with rarefied oils.

“Meet me at eight tonight, or you can be sure you'll never hear my voice again, whore.”

There can only be obedience.

Yes.

Standing.

The cellular snapped closed.

And fingers do not grope, but are achingly patient with breakfast. With the tea water puddling in the kettle.

With the mug that is nestled upon the table, an elegance in geometry, centered with exactitude that whispers of anal retentiveness that could imprison an enraged elephant.

A tremor and a trill and a keen.

The fragrance invades.

And the hand's swipe is a deeper languor still. Because it is artistry; because the mug's fine alabaster pallor is best appreciated melting into brittle chiming shards that liberate the scalding tea in a vast splash across the floor.

It creeps like blood capturing starlight, twinkling and convoluted in its geometries.

There is blood now.

The shards not gingerly prodded as they must be, but snatched up, roiling with the tea's cooling dregs. There is not an obscenity, because this is not the point. There is rejoicing; there is a sense of fortune, of serendipity in this.

The palm torn.

The fingertips dappled.

Blood, rich and raw and authentic, life's sublimity, it limns its own oracle-bone fantasia across the floor, and it is to be awed, to be transfixed , awed with a glimpse of this rattling symphony, the Rorschach convolutions that gather without formula, without absolutes, without preconceptions.

Thick.

Soft.

It coheres into expressionist portraiture.

I am there.

And you are there.

The past and the future.

A bell-ringer would be a lovely coda to the morning, wouldn't it? But it is rejected; it is denied. Rage boils more surely than the water.

Chapter Text

Humanity in its artifice betrays the night's promise. It has been seen. Once or twice. Tasted in nature's sheltering grace, the darkness more than merely darkness. It is not a chronological phenomenon, but something that melts almost into the noumenon, defying the prosaic senses and eclipsing the menial gradations in the hands' slow wipe along the clock's face.

It is a delirium, to sprawl out not in the alley's gloom and not in the apartment's measured controlled dark but tucked into reality unbroken with our technology's figments, to be sheltered from the city's sulfurous mists that curtain even the land in its great poisoned body for miles upon miles upon miles from its huge metastatic bulk.

It is in this place that authentic night is known. It is to see absolutely nothing of your own fingers; it is to know nothing of your body. It is to vanish; it is for the flesh to melt away into the groping crude oil haze. It is to taste oblivion . And with eyes levitating away from the meat, and the bone, for the blood to be unfelt even while the sweat steeps thick and syrupy over your non-flesh, it is an act of pantomime in astral projection.

You are here. And you are not. It is your awareness heaved beyond the flesh's shackling boundaries.

The stars are a broken diamond necklace littered across black velvet. They more than glint ; they are more than the meaningless formless mist that confront the eyes if they can even aspire to stare through the city's hell-horror oblivion. There is a cruelty in all of this.

We aspire to an ideal named comfort .

But we are afraid. We will rhapsodize rural simplicity, because being is numbness. Thought is little more than gradations in facile amnesia. We will huddle in our cloistered apartments, peering at the lock with a thick sour terror in the gut when the drunk bleary salaryman or the disoriented housewife gropes once, and again, and again at the latch.

And there will be relief.

Humanity is fear's guise.

We will sanctify the distant and the unknown, because its virtue is painted in gradations of our most exalted quality. It is potential . It is the reason the politicians and the whatever-thumpers rhapsodize our unborn, and cast away the life when it is finally flesh and not only an abstraction. Because there is, in the moments before its form is finally tasted , the possibility that mere amorphous shadow could be anything.

It could be a whale.

It could be a tank.

It could be another universe tumbling into this one. But these are ultimately meaningless; they are bound to imagination alone, in this ideal called could . It could be anything. Anything can be anything. But it will not be.

There is a fantasy. Eyes open not on the familiar ceiling; not onto a ceiling at all. It is to be elsewhere. There is no longer a this . It is not self-extinction. It is to taste an age untarnished with humanity. It is for fingers outstretched to whisper upon the grass' blades sibilant with a wind rising only in accordance with nature's whims.

There is no time. There is not the alarm's sharp bleat. All simply exists . Figments in order have been abandoned. The hastening entropy has slowed, or perhaps stilled, or perhaps it does not matter at all, because Maxwell's absolutes are perhaps known, or perhaps not, but it is with the certainty that only Schrödinger's Cat can ever really taste.

It is all a fiction. Everything is finally known for this.

It is not to be amongst men, but only women. There is perhaps a fantastical and sentimentalist quality in this, but there are no scowling quintessential masculine preconceptions to besmirch this. There is an Edenesque bliss in this.

It is to know solitude when it is craved.

It is to know the fingers' slow sensual caress when it is desired.

The legs long and graceful and twisted together. The water purified and the skies a clarified sublime and the animals frolic with an ebullience undenuded in the Y chromosome's collective idiot compulsion to validate itself by riddling Bambie with bullets.

There is death, yes. There is also a deeper perfection in life. It is not a mirthless cheerless march into the stygian abyss' cold sheltering relief, clamoring for nihil's inverted comfort. Only to know that we no longer are .

This has been banished. Her fingers lace with mine. There is not wealth, and there is not poverty.

Pink is a hue, and not an ideology.

Shitty superhero films have been effaced from the planet. Shōnen manga, also.

I will kiss her.

But it is not this place.

The city sprawls . It is not with eyes opening but only the fantasy, oh, slipped away, Ino's veil brushed from my eyes, because I must now heave myself without delirium, without ideal's shelter, into humanity's great churn. It is not the cruelty named public transportation, the indignity and the indignation, also, in bodies heaved together in their multitudes, but the taxi.

It is quiet.

It is slow. It is some modest whisper of comfort offered with the cash as currency for your sanity. It is a worthwhile transaction, because there is no more sanity to be given to this place. There is a will, a craving, for the grass' soft treacly kiss, but this cannot be. The taxi driver is not drunk, but there is a transparent wish to be.

It is our collective cultural clamoring. This need no longer to see, to feel, to understand. Sobriety is punishment. It is our atonement for our mere potential in bliss; it is our act of contrition for the heart's lust. It is not even to succumb to realism, but only another fantasy, this one wrought not in the mind's lavish gardens in twisting shadow and strange protean figures that will never quite cohere into life's firmness but the consensus, the, ah, ah, what a delectable bit of academic babble, the gestalt named society.

Culture.

Civilization.

Sobriety is our personal blood sacrifice. It is our willingness to genuflect before materialism's divinities, its great pantheon in priggish bourgeois compunction.

It is to banish the Maenads from the temple.

We are no longer dancing-mad with drink, with fervor, with veneration for the Old Gods. No. No. It is our new divinities, as surely plastic and banal as the words better-living-through-chemistry can convey. They have ordered us to march orderly and uncomplaining through the DDT, and we shall.

We will samba if commanded in the gas chambers in our daily commute, also.

We will obey . This is the new faith, same as the old faith. But the old faith had better music; had more alluring dances; had magic .

This is to cast away these glorious things, these motes and morsels of mysticism and mythology, and instead to gorge ourselves upon the dour shackling absolutes in good-for-you faux-wholesome bits of realism .

But there is no realism at all in this. It is what the Consensus, the gestalt , has anointed as reality. It is not even to close your eyes and comply.

You have no eyes.

You will not need them.

The camera is your eye.

The television is your eye.

The theater projector is your eye.

You have no need for ears, either.

We have decided what you will hear, and you will love it. You will pronounce it the most glorious melody that the senses have ever tasted, even when it is nothing but meaningless lurruping rhythm or squalling nonsense, the android's or the gynoid's great terrible mechanical symphony.

The Hyde Suites are another heap that aspires to elegance, but it is a child's sense of this. There are the fundamental geometries, perhaps, in this act of impersonation, but it is our groping befuddled culture's essence. There is imitation .

There is a primate zeal for this, perhaps even wedded with an almost celestial talent for perfection , to mature the qualitative into something that will and must awe. We have, after all, warped the humble television into vast effulgent eyes that now tyrannize the senses at great twisting arcs that can devour a wall.

We have nurtured the humble Ford into the glorious Honda.

We have never invented anything.

And this is not an act of invention, but of impersonation. The eyes stare out in their flat bland sallow rectangles, every one a room, every one announcing a narrative alike in everything but the words. The scope, the geometry, the course, they can be felt, they can be predicted , in an instant. They must not be begrudged this, of course.

The certainty is in the wealth that fuels these things. The humblest room is ten thousand yen for an evening. It is not a love hotel in its lavish lathering extemporaneous lust. It is an orderly thing; one will arrange all perfectly in accordance with trend and tradition. The clothing will be tucked into its cases; the bellhop in his carnation livery will politely embrace these.

He will be remunerated to the mandated measure with cash slipped over an outstretched palm like a sea snake negotiating a still pond.

We will stalk through this in our intellectual and cultural somnambulism. And I am perhaps a hypocrite, because I will not break this at all. The cash will be eased into my driver's hand; it is a charming Toyota, the hide effulgent black like an insect's chitin.

It will thrum away. There is no luggage; only a satchel thrown over a shoulder. The hotel is something forgettable, because it can be seen anywhere, stained with this aesthetic atrocity called international . It is our ambition to live with eyes forever closed. It is genuflection to our collective wish to commit nothing to memory but the most basal necessities.

It is a culture that would rather not know the terror and the equivocation in diversity, so it has been banished. The glass is poised like any other in its panes; the levels are arranged and normalized; even the chiming piano music with sophistication's affectation chirrups through the tastefully camouflaged speakers at the appointed volume. The carpeting is a quality like crushed velvet stained in Hollywood blood underfoot. The staff are polite and blandly pretty and handsome, their uniforms immaculate.

Bows are offered, and not hands shaken. We are, of course, Japanese.

Even the elevator is smeared in my reflection, a great wheeling narcissistic warp, swallowing itself and spitting its own image back up again, and again, and again, a mise en abyme that devolves into Ouroboros' esurient autocannibalism. I am here.

And I am here again.

An outstretched palm meets only itself, and there is a wish for there to be another here. Not another Mistress Orchid. Not even another Ran. Only another this . Only another I ; for us not even to be We, but I and I. And I and I will be joined by I and I and we will tumble through exponential burgeoning explosion until there are millions and these millions are multiplied by millions.

And it will still only be a great colony creature in these uncountable limbs and hungers named I .

I will introduce myselves.

We will be I.

There will be a kiss that will shake the planet's foundations.

The San Andreas fault will wilt and yield and San Francisco will coast off into the ocean like a calving glacier.

The Pacific will break.

I will kiss again.

Fingers will find purchase in hair; lips will fall together; tongues will slither and stroke and they will scribe great stripes over fine delicate toes and long shapely legs and they will collectively rear up, and up, and up.

Some of I will perhaps be lost in this.

We will make omurice from the broken eggs.

And I and I vanish in an instant, my collective annihilation announced in the familiar international chime. It is a ding. Ding-ding-ding. Nothing has been won but a glimpse of the eighth floor. The corridor is like any other corridor.

The warmth spilling in a fictive bronze from the sconces that aspire to a politically correct decadence, nestled in the heavy hardwood walls that are not hard and are not wood and are probably not meaningfully heavy. They are a figment, a patina. They are a synthetic reality; our senses are synthetic, also, aren't they?

When nothing but a plasticine counterfeit is known, is there anything like reality?

There are others in the hall; their eyes refuse to admit me, and I will stare at them and know absolutely nothing but their simple sameness. It is not the form, and not the hue, and not the geometry. It is the soul. The weary numb quality in the travelers. In the wives whose fingers anxiously fondle the rings fastened around slender or fat fingers.

The husbands whose fingers are seamed with a creamy smear that announces their infidelity in will, if not in practice.

We not only dance but wheel and reel and twist and pirouette around this great warp in obligation, in responsibility's scowling eye staring up up up into our souls. There is an ambition to ignorance, to warding it away, but it is a hopeless thing. Denial is still admission.

Eight-thirty-nine is 'Adam's face. There is only Hawa's promise here; she, whom you call Eve. She, who is woman. She, who is nothing but a straw perfection, an abstract absolute. She, who is our hatred's repository.

She, whom we cannot escape.

She, whose shadow stains Shinto and Buddhism and every other ism, also. The atheisms, also, in their scowling trendy misogyny.

She, who is desire's guise.

She, who is lust's moral veil.

She, who is captured in the mirror when the eyes flit to the sharp cold silver stare.

She, who is self-hatred.

She, who is I.

Palms clasped on the door. There's a moment's simple strangeness. It is a quirk, a twist, a strange convolution like knowing a burl bloating through reality's grain. A sudden compulsion not even to turn but just to heave yourself to the floor, to beat your chest with a frenzy, a thrashing spine-arching madness, less a dance and more the very ambition to dance given form, a manic and bone-breaking primordial inkling prefiguring the act of dancing.

To scream.

More than anything, for fuck's sake, it's to scream.

It's a primal howl that knows nothing of time, nor does it care, nor can it even aspire to care.

But there is a key already tucked in my hand.

Look at that. I guess the howl has been suspended. Slipped into the slot that we call security, because we clearly cannot seek this in another's eyes, and another's hand, and another's lips. There is a sharp click, because this is such a thing's form. The door slipped open.

A suite.

Ah, ah, it is luxury, you understand. It's meaningless exactly what sort of luxury this is. It's announced in the ten thousand yen sapped out of your account. Or someone's, anyway. More twenty thousand for this room, and it is the new sense of traditional, the Ikea minimalism in its scowling facets and its brutal cold angles and its chromium inelegances that we will anoint with the sainted ideal in popular.

All of this is very popular.

And all of this is very white. The sofa and the carpeting like an ash-haired Marine's flattop and the love seat and the chairs and the walls and the ceiling, also. The walls peer at me in cream; it is a rarefied oasis from the absolute sodden steeping monochrome, a sense that this tiny trivial gradation may perhaps be salvation from the retina-bleaching chromatic psychosis.

The city is not black; it is never black. It cannot aspire to darkness. It has been denied this place, this tranquility. Busyness is its faith; business is its mantra, its fanaticism. At every instant, cash is generated.

A lust, a need, a craving for this most menial thing. It is a need to fuel excess that exists as nothing but an affront to Thorstein Veblen's memory.

A television leers at me.

A television.

In a suite.

There is still the familiar idiot figure peering at me. An invitation to the eyes, to the flesh's torpor. To the mind's abdication. Thoughts vanish in its mindless stare.

It is a conduit to our every morsel of the prepackaged. We live past-tense lives cradled in its cold numbing light. But this is meaningless. The cabinet doors hammered closed over that grotesque stare, that abhorrent glimpse of our modern altar. It is our faith, our religion.

Every moment is a communion with this thing. Fingers pluck at the tee-shirt enameled on my chest with sweat. The balcony whispers the metropolis' non-wisdoms in its crazed babel, in the voices in their millions, however subdued, still converging into a great crashing wave.

The ears are tortured; the senses are tormented and brutalized with the city's simple bulk. It's meaningless to protest, to resist. The air-conditioner is leavened in the swelter that spills through the portal opened to liberation that would be found only down, down, down. It wouldn't be polite, would it?

To anyone.

The tee-shirt peeled away.

The jeans, also. The hands that tyrannize us more surely than any man or woman whisper their wisdom to me at a glance. There is no urgency.

Seven-forty in the evening. There is no subjectivity in this. There is also no meaning. Bare feet whisper and shiver over the carpeting that refuses obdurately to be tatami. It would be lovely to savor the strange rasping texture on the fine soles caressed endlessly with vanity's ministrations. They are perfect.

It is fetishism. For the legs; for the toes; for the soles. Even the ankles perfected. Flesh kneaded with the lotions that promise alchemical relief from time's dreaded cruelties. They are ineluctable, and we would rather believe otherwise, so it is. It is to know the toes' balletic twist. Not en pointe, but only with a pitching lunging grace that belies its senselessness. It knows no direction.

There is no choreography. There is not even music but for the soul's stereo's serenade. And I am still here, and it is still here. To bounce and wheel and twist and pirouette. To feel the momentum capture the flesh, the heavy tits and the ass' generous overripe peach bulk, like a hurricane clutching a marshmallow pennant.

I am become confectionery.

I am dessert.

It is onanistic fervor. You are now simply sprawled across the sofa, body in its demented lunging contortions, and fingers jab and prod and stroke and caress and pull. They will twist and jerk and it is not only lips splayed apart, because this is something elementary. It is to be inverted; it is the spine's tortured yowling strain while bonelessness is implored, peering up at the thickly cropped hair, the very very fine heap of heavy curls nestled over the lips straining open, yawning dark a meager increment deeper than the skin's complexion.

It is a perfected pallor; it is an act of self-abnegation, depriving yourself of the sun's caress for this. For this bleached-alabaster allure. It is not for them; it is not for me. It simply is. It is the essence in not bothering to trim your nails.

Because .

No need for a reason.

While gravity torments and tugs and twangs at every muscle's fiber rearing up now into a manic relief; while you are conscious that the fat is little more than camouflage for a strength that hasn't receded, but is only discreeter now. Tongue lolling out and the only purchase is on the tits like gelatin poured into sleek tight latex; lap and stroke and it isn't isn't isn't fair.

So so close.

So close.

Reality twists.

Just foreshorten it a bit; just a bit. A few tiny millimeters and suddenly, suddenly, your pussy can be clamped against your lips your thighs and knees fastened around your cheeks and it would be delicious. Oh so delicious. To eat and eat and eat.

To become Ouroboros with the fullest authenticity. Snarl and snap and it's a bite ; algolagnia is not alone reserved for another's pain. Drink the masturbatory duality in it. In injuring and being injured at once. To taste the knife's serrated rake over every fucking nerve, gnawing and gnashing at the nipples thick and peachy and dazzling in their sensitivity.

The universe breaks .

At once, in an instant, with that anguish-lubricated delirium, because there is no gentleness with the self, no, no, no. It is the impulse, perhaps, that finds the glass shimmering in its cold faceted break or the razor's cool luster clasped in the fingers, dragged down over the flesh that is to be taken raw.

Not blued.

Not rare.

Tartare.

Lap and slaver and stroke and pull and finally, finally, there is the bite ; it's not quite blood drawn, and this is the point. It is aesthetic; it is cosmetic.

It is a tremor; it's fingers laced around your knees and groping and clutching and pulling and now, now, one has begun to migrate, has been possessed with a spirit that is not merely felt but seen, also, in its wicked stalk, its merciless and implacable predation.

It is not merely the mind's pornographer; it is to know something absolutely tangible , summoned into being with will alone. The fingers' first quick jab is without delicacy; and the second, and third, and it is endless now, relentless. Because it is yours; because it is not.

There is a scream; a muffled strangled warble rearing up from the throat, spilling thrumming through hot skin. There is an awareness of fingers; yours, another's, it doesn't even matter. Pitching, plunging, plumbing that place, and two become three, and three become four. The legs shudder; blood puddles beyond the biologic ideal.

I am drowning in flesh, and desire, and there is only a will for more.

Electrocution. I am being electrocuted with its enormity, huge slashing sloppy straining gouts spurting up and falling down down down and your body's own texture is something that must be savored in this bleary addled thrall, drunk on blood and without the vampire's baroque, with voice silenced in your body's own heat.

Kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

Lap and stroke and stripe and it's something incredible , knowing the convolutions, the gradations, the ridges and undulations and the furrows, also. A stab, quick, again and again and again, a merciless stroke at the faintly spongy flesh that is a man's in effigy, as a man's is a woman's. Strain and shiver and...

And it comes .

Unbidden; heedless; insane . A madness, a snapping straining convulsion. It has been sought, and now it is found, and it is merciless.

A wish for the head to be flung back meets only impotent heaves against the cushion.

Need it.

More.

More.

Fuck me.

Yes. A plea for another I to be there. Not only with fingers but something more delicious still. Not in mechanical pantomime but in the biological. Not the metabolic disease that heaves those lusts, those images, through the mind's great galleries but a woman so bestowed.

I want it.

“F-fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Pound me. Hammer me; slap me; beat me.” Twist and tug and tear and the words are candid and whispered to absolutely no one but her, because there is no one to hear, to listen, to understand.

Lap and kiss and...

And her weight should be there.

The lush thighs and round hips and her simple violence. It should crush down, down, should pound knees against my chest and should not be delicate, should not be gentle, should not be a smooth regular indulgence because it shouldn't be for me at all .

It should be hers.

And mine, also.

It should be hips wet with me slapped together; it should be huge ragged irregular breaths drawn sucked deep, stained with tears, with a palm clamped on my lips with snarling graveling commands for silence, you slut, unless you really want it rough.

You don't fucking know what rough is .

It should be her palms' endless merciless crack-crack-crack on my ass.

It should be impalement .

And it...

It is a chime; a chirrup from the watch whose hands are life's relentless temporal tyranny. It is to slip away from this place where the tears boil up in delectable play-pretend futility and to rejoin reality. Clothing is society's truth.

It is esteem.

Hierarchy.

It will not be latex this evening. Something professional ; sharp in its angular grace. It is the neophyte attorney in the nylon-draped pencil-skirted psychosis. It is a blouse shimmering with a luster that whispers of oil effulgent on satin in silver; it is a tight black skirt and jacket. It is stockings eased up, up, up, tethered to the garters that bite into soft skin.

Heels that could spit-roast a suckling pig.

And the makeup is already arch; is already esteem in graceful airbrushed allure. It is a sleek unbroken skein; it is dappling atomized vanity. Lips burgundy in brutal vampiric juxtaposition against the complexion.

The eyes shadowed in a violet-tinged smoke.

A brush swept through the hair once, and twice, and again, and it is with expectation that the door is answered when eight announces itself.

“Good evening.” It is something lusciouser than any prosaic room service. It is an invitation not to a polite, delicate, lingering meal, but a brazen feast in flesh torn from the bone and blood sucked down with bread like an evening with Vlad Ţepeş. She is beautiful.

She is more than beautiful.

The eyes cannot mesmerize; they are camouflaged in sunglasses that surpass only opaque in their thickness. But the breasts heave in caramel-dappled abundance. It is something explosive; it is a sense that they may yet slip the flesh's boundaries and greet me as their own novel life. Trembling with every anxious breath.

She does not stand; she rears on high high high heels in sumptuously gaudy indigo, patent leather effulgent like sweat shimmering on bare skin. The legs, shapely in their perfection in roundness' confluence with the sainted angular elegances, glimmer with violet stockings. The seams, as commanded, bite into thighs plump and soft and still oh so firm.

Her belly is lean under the tube top's delectably slutty communion with a skirt that's only an arrest warded off. There is still a plea to shackle the fine slender wrists in silver bracelets.

“Ah, g-good evening, Mistress Orchid. You're so... So beautiful, if- if...” The voice is a quaver, thick from the throat.

It's pathetic, isn't it?

“If what?”

“If- if... If your whore,” a rasp, a whisper.

“What was that? Louder, please. I can't hear you over your shame and your guilt, slut.” This is not reserved.

This is not with any interest in the few drowsy corporate drones' fragile sensibilities.

Voice upraised .

“I- your whore, if- if your whore can be so bold-”

“You may. Kiss me. Come on; come on. Kiss me.” It is with a sternness, peering at myself captured in the cyberpunk chromium lenses. “Kiss me, slut.”

“Yes.” It is something oh so graceful, less a lean and more simply an act of drift that's less glacial and more an ice cube skittering across an oil-slathered stone floor. Her lips hunger; there is a candor in this that no pathetic artifice could camouflage. The lips pour together.

Mine.

Hers.

Soft.

Soft.

Soft .

Hers brilliant with an enchantingly cheap crust in lilac; lips fall open; tongues slip together. And her long lissome fingers are brazen, aren't they?

Settling on my shoulders.

A palm upraised; it's not violence's fullest immensity but only a quick crack at her cheek. Incredulity flourishes in quivering lips.

“W-why'd you-”

“I never told you you could touch Mistress Orchid, did I, whore? Did you hear those words from my mouth? No. No. Oh, I think I should call you Yukiko, shouldn't I?” Admiring the fine planes; the delicious geometries; the slender jaw; the round lush cheeks. “You don't look anything like middle-aged, you know?

“Come in, Yuki-tan.” Yes, yes, this is a perfection. Even the hair has been...

Been graced with something ineffably cheap in its studied commonness.

Heavy, thick, black . Something oh so exotic, spilling over the shoulders, cradling the fine arching spine.

There's an irrepressible implacable craving; it is a hand outstretched, fingers splaying out over the tight lean belly.

It's to pluck at the taut elastic fabric in amethyst like dying winter sunlight.

“You're so beautiful, you know, Yuki-tan. You can take your sunglasses off now. Have you brought your real glasses?” Turning now, quick on heels whose rap is muffled on the carpeting. “And don't even imagine taking off your shoes.

“A woman's even lovelier in her heels, isn't she?”

“Ah, yes. It's... May- may, um, what... What should your whore call herself-”

“Yuki-tan.” Decisive and absolute. “Would you like a drink? This isn't some cruel or ridiculous trick question. I'm not wicked at every instant. Only when it's appropriate. Oh, ah, and are you ready to pay?

“I'm not a whore. I'll say that now. I'm not a whore. But a dominatrix does charge a fee.” Peering at the bar that's been assembled with predictable minimalism on what could be called a credenza only if Waterford would blow them.

Chiming on the sharply faceted crystal; the flat face peers up at me in a translucent reflection like admiring yourself in a stagnant pond.

“Sake? Whiskey? Vodka?”

“Ah, um... I- I think, that is...”

“It's fine if you say I right now. I, ah, I think maybe I was a little brutal with you.” Turning, oh so slowly, patiently; a glance cast with those exalted words come-hither over a shoulder.

Framing her in the hair's lavish lacquered fall.

“In my defense, I'm a brutal girl. I is fine; for the moment. I know you're probably not very accustomed to this sort of relationship, are you?”

“Um, ah...” Swallowing; it's something tormented, a labored convulsion in the throat, dragging down a glacier of spittle down down down into the belly. “Not- not exactly-”

“How old are you, well... Do you mind telling me your name?”

“Ah, well, it's a little... Complicated.” How imperfect our language is; how imprecise this verbiage is.

“Complicated?”

“Um- I'd, uh, I... I think... Do you mind if I have a seat? Just- just coming here almost drove me insane.”

“Did you take the bus, like I'd ordered you?”

“I don't know why I did. It's- it's not like you would've known, right?” The lips are more eloquent than the voice, heavy and husky and thick. There's a flinty allure in it; a depth that's more than only familiar.

It's strange.

It's surreal.

It is that sainted faith named cognitive dissonance. We cannot believe what we are seeing, what we are hearing.

It Cannot Be True.

So it is not.

It is coincidence.

“Wouldn't I? I'm here, you know. Already.” A fingernail outstretched like a dagger at her brow. “I know how that sounds. Conceited. Delusional. How could I possibly be there? But did you feel just...

“Just one tiny superstitious twinge?”

“Yes.” There is not a hunch in her posture.

It is poise.

Grace.

The supermodel sublimity in an untroubled elegance so exactingly studied that it no longer lies in the conscious mind. It is simply compulsion.

“I- I did. I felt it. I had that... It's, well, it's how guilty I feel about...” Silence. Again. The words straining up, up, up like a gelatin explosion, gnashed and gnawed and bitten back and it is still an ordeal to swallow down this compulsion.

“About what?”

“It's just... Everything, I guess. I- I mean, I don't want it sound like I'm some kind of religious nut or anything, but... But I guess I think about god. About god judging me.”

“You're a Christian?”

“W-well, I mean, not exactly. I'm... Something? Kind of a monotheist, I guess. Um, ah, why?”

“Curiosity. I won't force you to fuck a crucifix unless that's something you've always been ashamed of fantasizing about.” Peer down, down, down.

The universe is a warp that simply swallows the senses.

“I- I, ah... I don't really, y'know, practice any religion. I just- I think about god. When I masturbate. When- when I watch porno-”

“You like porno?”

“Not exactly.” Fingers laced together on her lap; so so so deliciously near in their manicured grace to the delta wrought in the thighs' sleek soft confluence with the skirt's slutty lycra hem.

“What do you mean? Tell me.”

“I- I don't want to watch it.”

“Someone forces you?”

“I can't help it.” The eyes can be felt in their urgent huge snap open. “It's just- I mean... It's... I can't control myself. My hands'll just- they'll move by themselves. I'll be on the internet, and- and I won't want to do it.

“I just... I don't really like the idea of how degrading it is. To women or men. But I just- I love...” Lips pursed and shuddering.

“Love what?”

“I love beautiful women. I-”

“Is this liberating for you?” Knelt without menace, without violence.

“Kind of?” The lips entrance in their sticky snap together. “It's just...”

“What do you watch? I imagine it's not just bikini models cavorting around.”

“I've tried that! I- I'll tell myself, Okay, you can watch, but just only the- the bikini girls. The beautiful lingerie models who don't even... Even show anything more than just a little skin. But they're all on the same sites!” It's a plangent bellowing plea.

It's fingers knotting on her lap.

It's a wisdom, a fundamental intuition pluming up through the flesh, shuddering like a tsunami, that they're a half-second from ripping at her breasts.

It's recrimination against the cynical bastards who organize web pages.

It's a roar against the body.

“So, what is it that you watch?”

“It's... It's hard stuff-”

“What is hard? Slapping you? Is that hard-”

“Harder?” What delectable heat that is; the bronze becomes a sunset blaze in the cheeks.

“It's just-”

“Tell me.” Fingers settle on hers; lace around hers. Pull them closer, closer, closer. “Tell me.”

“You- you look... Look older than your age, you know, M-Mistress Orchid-”

“Call me Orchid right now.”

“'kay.” And that sigh is immeasurably younger than hers.

“How do you know my age?”

“I just- you said you were in your twenties. You- you seem more adult.”

“I had to grow up quickly. Disappointment, you know. Shitty parents.” There is a hard edge in this.

It is an absolutism that is unmerited.

It is still true.

“A bad boyfriend. Miserable high school years, you know. The usual.”

“A-ah, I... I see. Um...”

“Tell me, all right?” The voice is soft, velveteen on the ears.

“You're being so nice to me now.”

“Of course. Because I want to know you. I was being consciously unfair to you before. Why would I want a client who can't cope with being tyrannized, with being degraded? That's what this is, you know.

“I'll be your Mistress. It won't be at your discretion; it will be at mine. If I order you to humiliate yourself, then you'll do it. There are no boundaries with this. If I order you to kneel down and start sucking off some very lucky salaryman on the train, then you will.

“But I wouldn't really bother with that. Honestly, there's an artistry in your beauty. It would be like smearing shit on a Rembrandt.”

“T-then... I mean... I guess- I guess I didn't understand it very well, m-maybe. It's not just when I'm with you-”

“In private, you mean? It could be. I thought you wanted the full experience.”

“I've never done this before. P-paid for it like this, I mean. I-”

“Do you feel guilty because you think I'm a whore?” Is that the word? “No one's ever paid me to fuck. Never. Ever. Ever. I would never do that. It ruins sex's very essence. You're paying me because you can't find someone to do this without it.

“That's the only reason. It's like finding someone to paint a portrait for you; it's like finding someone to build a home for you. If you don't have the friends with that native talent, then you find them. You spoke to Ayumi?”

“Yes. Yes. She's...”

“Did you fuck her?”

“Yes.” It's heavy, tortured. Her chest heaves with a delicious tremor and throb with every breath now, dragged down with a spasmodic mania.

“I would've been awed if I'd heard no from you.”

“She's- she's so young-”

“She is. She's a nymphomaniac; but not quite. It's... Well, why bother with the psychology? She's an addict. The best sort; the one for whom it's not just a new normality. Do you use?”

“Uh, what?”

“Do you use? Aitch? Coke? Shabu? Tell me.”

“S-sometimes, um... W-when I was... Awhile ago, I used shabu to stay awake. But that was awhile ago-”

“What a square. Grass?”

“I'd like some sake, I- I think.” How adorable the plea is.

“Sure. I can see your heartbeat, you know, Yuki-tan.” Admiring the pulsation hammering through her throat in its fine nimble convulsions. “You look like you're about to faint.”

“I'm so nervous. I'm- I'm so nervous-”

“You do fuck girls, don't you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Do you feel guilty about it?”

“What?” Staring up at me while the glasses chime in their elegant ethanol theater; the sake's opened with a deft flourish, faintly briny juices dribbling down down down into the fine crystal goblet.

“Do you feel guilty about it?”

“About what?”

“Fucking girls? Fucking boys? You said you have a husband, right? Do you feel guilty about that infidelity?”

“I wouldn't call it infidelity when he hasn't been faithful to me for a full year in our very long marriage.” It's something almost unreal.

Mom's hard-edged animus.

No longer even resignation's simple despair.

It's hate . Cold clarified hate. The infernal rage has not cooled but only condensed its own fuel into a perfected diamond whose facets could be used for a tracheotomy.

“Really? It sounds like my dad. He cheated on my mom on their honeymoon.”

“A-ah...”

“He's a handsome guy. My mother's gorgeous. Both of them were destined to lust for one another. They were such a disaster. And I still spent years trying to urge them back together. It's delusion, you know.

“The incapacity to see what's right before your eyes. Trying to order the universe in your own ideals' image and learning that... Well, I won't bore you with the kybernetik-”

“You speak German?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Ah... It's okay. Really. Um...” Grateful fingers clutch the glass; the syrupy waters still tremble with the wrists' shiver.

“Tell me about the porno you love, Yuki-tan. You don't mind if I'm that informal, do you?”

“N-no. I like it.” Vanity, thy name is...

Everyone.

Sipping the sake.

“It's- it's good?... Sake? I mean, all sake's pretty much alike, right, Orchid-san-”

“Just Orchid. I've already heard you stir your cum-dripping pussy on the phone. Don't stand on ceremony when I'm not being your Mistress.” There's still an incredulity, isn't there? The simple comfort with this. “Is there more inside you now?”

“S-so much.”

“You met your lover today?”

“T-they were so excited, um...” It's a tremor in the voice like the Kobe Earthquake.

“Yes?”

“T-they said they wanted t-to turn me into, um, into... Into a human cream pie.”

“Listen to that. Did they?”

“T-they came inside me three times-”

“Well, that's not the most amazing. It drags out most of it-”

“N-no. No. They- they came deep in me the first time, and...” Lust roars with its own implacable momentum. “And then they just- they made me stroke them when they were right between the- the lips. Just a little in me.”

“Sounds like filling an éclair. That's just delicious. Tell me about the porn you love.”

“F-fucking.” How helpful.

“That's porno.”

“It's just-”

“Tell me. Now.” There can be no refusal, can there?

“Rough. Um... G-gangbangs. With- with a lot of men, or... Or girls with- with dildos on one woman. Filled with cum. When- when they all cum on a woman's face, too. A-all of them. When it looks...” Jaw shuddering. “I feel so embarrassed-”

“Tell me.”

“When she pretends she hates it. When girls cry. And- and then when they get so excited they can't help themselves.” The words are no simple confession.

Bleated out.

“I- I've never told anybody that!”

“Hah. Well, then you can do anything, can't you? Stand up, all right?” There is obedience. The sake's still tossed back like water, the glass a heavy chunk on the glass coffee table poised in its low shin-bruising hump between the love seat and sofa like a surfacing whale.

Drag her closer.

And closer.

The kiss roils .

Stabs between my thighs.

A knee nudged between hers .

The fabric is conceived to be twisted, jerked, pulled, teased, dragged away for the most fleeting most dazzlingly transient second before it's slipped up again around those delicious plump tits.

There is no bra.

There is no glint of play-pretend modesty.

I am deeply in lust.

“Dance for me, Yuki-tan. Can you dance?”

“Yes.” With only incredulity announcing itself across her face. “I- why-”

“'cause I love to watch beautiful women dance. Not only when the ones with very nice bodies shake and quiver and jiggle around.” Settling back on the sofa with a lassitude that should be a capital offense in Amish country. “Not that that troubles me. But I love women with beautiful legs.

“Achingly elegant dancers. Have you ever been to a strip club?”

“O-once. My... My lover made me go with them. I hated it. They hated it, too.”

“Why did you, then?”

“Because they made me. Because, um, the- one of the dancers is a client, and... My lover's client, I mean, and... And they said they wanted to watch her dance, and, ah... They- they're...”

“It sounds as if you already have a master or a mistress-”

“Not like you. Not- not like you. They just- they love to tease me. But that's all. It's just-”

“I would've forced you to dance on stage with the other girls. They're sleazy disgusting shitholes. I loathe them. I'd bomb them, you know.” Why not speak in the hypothetical?

Why not gorge yourself on the delicious figments in this sacral purity?

Why not whisper mendacities that will paint your skin alabaster over the muddling black soot and blood?

“I'd set them ablaze. I'd drag a knife through the proprietors' throats. But there's something ineffably delicious in the idea, the ideal, of degrading you like that. To see your face rictus with shame; to just melt down with it. To know that there are eyes adoring you, lips slavering over you.

“That there are men and women with their pants open and skirts hiked up jerking themselves. Mmm... Maybe I'd force you into a fuck-show, too.” There is a strain in the thighs, trembling now. But there is also a slow achingly elegant sway. “And you're already dancing for me, aren't you?”

Yes.

This is the answer.

Writhing with arms folded now slowly, gracefully, over her chest's vast luscious bulk; dimpling the tits, with fingers pricking at her bare shoulders. Falling down, down, down, with a patience that announces cast-iron quadriceps; the calves flare into succulent relief through the stockings' gauzy fabric.

She will slip down, down, down, and rise again.

She is smoke animate as flesh.

She is a djinniyya given delectable guise with her own sublime power. It is delirious, admiring the hips' pivot, the shoulders' roll, the muscle and meat and fat and femininity in their sculpted statuesque perfection.

She is sublime.

A breath sucked down, perfumed with her sweat in its crisp allure.

I am enchanted.

“I'd love to watch it. The men and women cramming the stage, begging for your mouth, forcing you down on your knees. Wouldn't it be lovely? Gangbangs; that's what you love, right? Women's pussies sopping dripping ground on your face; men's cocks twisting through your hair.

“Your mouth for all of them; and then your hands.”

“O-oh, oh, oh.” Breathless. Trembling. A stagger on those vertiginous heels like a stunned cow.

“You love it, don't you?”

“I'm so hot. I'm so hot.” It's a delicious whimper, flaring volcanic from the lips. “I feel so hot-”

“You'd want them to rape you, wouldn't you? Men and women alike; not for one another. Only to be tossed between them. Men spearing into your nasty dripping pussy. Your ass. Maybe two or three in each-”

“D-dammit-”

“And you'd be filled, of course. But why not let the others just... Paint your face, those huge fucking udders. That's what they're there for, isn't it? Those tits aren't utilitarian things. They're like a figurehead on a ship's prow.

“They're to be admired. They're an object of lust, ambition-”

“I'm...” A cryptic senseless little gasp.

The jaw clenching taut .

“You'd love that, wouldn't you? Taking two men in your pussy. Feel their cum just spray through you while another pulls at your hair, drags you closer; jams a cock down your throat. While your fingers are used as surrogate cunts for those too damn impatient to wait.

“Maybe your feet, too. And then the women, of course. Ground on you; they'd rip open your mouth. Your jaw wouldn't only ache. Your lips would be bruised with their kisses. Your tongue would be numb with pussy.

“But they wouldn't stop, I think, 'til they were just wilting. The men would be finished much, much sooner. And how could they not want a taste of your slutty holes-”

“Aaah!” A squeal.

A screech.

Not stillness; no, no.

It's a standing wave, shuddering and trembling and there's a crack with a damp hand slapped against the wall, the dance not only interrupted but broken with a knee-melting convulsion.

“Did-”

“I came! I- I fucking came from that; I didn't even close my eyes, and they were there. And- and it wasn't just getting off from that. I was thinking about you watching me, O-Orchid!” Not quite a wail; not quite.

Only one or two crazed trilling decibels from it.

“Well-”

“I want you to see. I- I want you to see my pussy. I want you to see it. There's so much cum in me; I'm filled. They- they made me wear a plug; they were so excited about it that they made me wear a pussy plug so- so none'd leak out.

“Look at it. Look at me! I- I wanna do it. I want to be your slave. I want to be your whore. I do. I wannit so much! Degrade me! Use me!” Her lips rubbery, trembling, twisting into wild weird plush geometries.

“Then let's start.” There is nothing seismic in this; there is nothing celestial; there is no violence. It's the eyes felt in their flare, tumbling open more vastly than the jaws that struggle for the modestest purchase on language's elusive madness-lubricated geometries like an oiled ferret.

“A-ah, ah, now, you... I- I mean, how- how should we do this, um, Orchid-”

“Mistress Orchid now. Unless you've decided you'd rather not.” Standing is production, also. Is a flourish so assiduously studied it has been consigned to muscle memory deeper than any dancer's choreography. There is no time; entropy is my rhythm.

“Mistress Orchid.” Fingertips clasped together.

It is no trivial anxiety.

It is an overstrung guitar's tension. It is pleading for a Jimi Hendrix psychosis; it is clamoring for a Purple Haze to wreathe us. For fingers to be laced around the neck and squeezed; for its bulk tortured straining with its own implacable violence to be hammered against the wall.

She is beautiful.

“Take off your sunglasses, Yuki-tan. You're just so pretty, aren't you? I'm a little awed with how beautiful you are. Could it really be such an ordeal for you to find someone to abuse you to your satisfaction?” Closer, and closer, and closer.

The heels' slow slow jab into the carpeting muffled in its close-cropped bulk, still oh so thick. Luxuriant.

All is luxury.

“It's... I can't be sure they will-”

“You think, what, that the cash is a guarantee? Are you calling me a whore, Yuki-tan?” Closer, and closer still. It is something merciless, ineluctable.

As certain as some harrowing science fiction grotesque's trundling passage over the land, a War of The Worlds nightmare whose scowling eye flares with implacable violence, with certain mortality at a glance.

The flesh scrawls with her.

With the sweat's crisp soft fragrance.

“A-ah, no, no-”

“You said I'm a sure thing, didn't you?” How can there not be the elemental unfairness in tyranny, also?

All reasoning, all semantics, all reality not only shackled but broken but whim's axis.

There is no truth in a dictatorship.

It is only the despot's whim. Isn't it?

You already know the answer.

“It's- it's just, I-”

“I know what you're telling me. You thought it would be an adorable bit of slapping and spanking and a little tickling; a bit of soft tingling sapphism-”

“No! No! I- I really didn't. Ayumi-chan, she- she told me that... That, if- if I wanted someone who could really give me what I want, it would be you. Even if it's giving me nothing. Even if it's torturing me-”

“What is it that you want?” And this is something more precious than any other, isn't it? It is to slip your fingers into the soil hot and straining with strange scrawling roots pleading for purchase on the nameless, the unknowable, the inscrutable. Begging and beseeching and imploring.

It is to fasten your hands around them. To tug; to claim them as your own. To waft to suck the soil's sodden soft fragrance into your nostrils. To paint your universe with its essence.

“A-ah-”

“Take off your sunglasses, Yuki-tan. You have your real spectacles, right?”

“I'm afraid-”

“Good.” And it is not quite to dwarf her; no, no. There is a comfortable disparity in height. It is less a point of altitude, perhaps, and more only to be above her. Little more than two or three inches, even with the heels' sharp splintering immensity. Fingers laced under the chin; nails like burgundy talons prick into her soft tight skin.

It is perhaps the surgeon's beneficence.

It is also nature's rarefied indulgence.

It is genetic serendipity.

“You should be afraid. Tyranny doesn't emanate from ennobling love and trust and faith and adoration. Haven't you ever read Machiavelli? Power is from fear. That's it. When the people love, it's little more than a fitful little affair.

“An adoration that's no truer than a fickle lover's passion. It will melt; even with the sublimest success, it will still melt away. Because humanity is stupid. Humanity is impatient. Humanity will revolt in its simplemindedness from even Utopian beauty because it's changeless. But humans are afraid of change, also.

“They crave changeless progress; theirs is an idiocy that will laud new telephones as something sainted. You're... You are afraid, aren't you?” Fingers now, rearing up, lacing through the hair's heavy black immensity. “Your hair isn't naturally black, is it?

“Like mine.”

“It's- it's auburn-”

“How adorable. Mine, also. Mmm... My mother's is black; hers is stained russet. Or it was. It's black again. We finally look like mother and daughter again.” Closer, and closer, and closer. The heart's every beat is a pummeling timpani section addled with shabu. “And you look so...

“Familiar, you know. I could just film you and blackmail Kudō Yukiko with it. You're gorgeous. Maybe I should just invite some of my friends to fulfill your gangbang fantasies. Would you like that?” A kiss. It's something so so so slow; a syrupy patient passage over the cheek.

Tasting the cheap makeup.

The dusty powdery crudeness clamoring for abuse.

“You taste so sweet, you know. And your aroma. I love that perfume. It's just- it's so common. Drugstore perfume. I adore it. What is it?”

“V-vanilla-”

“It's like wading into a bakery. Just a tinge of... Oh, you're so vain, aren't you?” With fingers tugging now; a firm purchase.

A jerk.

A pull. It is to know obedience's pangs. Lips in lilac straining open, quivering shimmering with their better-living-through-chemistry luster and spittle drooling out with a tongue like a fuchsia carpet.

“You're not only wearing cheap perfume. You've camouflaged that fine eau de parfum-”

“I- I'm sorry-”

“You don't have an I anymore. You've had your sake; you've had your lovely wheeling dance. You are my slut now. You're wadded with your lover's jizz, right? Gallons of it. You're a human cream pie. And you're disobedient. How pricey is your other perfume?”

“I- I-”

“Yuki-tan. You're Yuki-tan.”

“Yuki-tan doesn't know!” Rubbery lips; warbling voice. A delirium, a delectation in this.

“Really? So it's that expensive, huh? What is all of this wealth? This passionless miserable marriage-”

“It's not passionless. J-j-just miserable.” Rasping, tormented. “It's just a miserable-”

“Really? So, who's the wealthy one? He must be if you're just so terrified of-”

“N-n-no. Both of us-”

“What a fucking craven cunt you must be, then.” A palm upraised; a delectation in knowing those fundamental instincts scrawling through her. The wisdom that she has been painted, even with the coarsest sketches in this delectation.

The flinch.

“Oh, look at that, little Yuki-tan. I can see your name shouldn't be written with snow, should it? There's definitely not that purity. You've had this before. Your lover adores this, too, huh? But they're not enough, are they?”

“N-n-no-”

“Too kind?”

“Too... Y-Yuki-tan doesn't know.”

“How hard do they beat you?”

“Not hard enough!” It's more than candor. It's a sincerity, a purity, in this unvarnished perfection, without prevarication, without a desire for mendacity.

It is.

It's a plea. Beseeching and exhorting. It is an invitation to this ideal named more.

“Really? Not nearly enough? How hard, then, do they hit you? Like this?” It's a palm opened; it's an achingly delicate graze.

A brush.

A whisper over the cheeks burnished hot ruby, a quality like dying sunset cresting tawny dunes. It is to know the flesh; and it is not the puppy's expectation, the kitten's simple self-satisfaction in this. It is to offer herself as a canvas to artistic brutality.

It is the arm drawn back.

A crack on the flesh.

“Ahn...” Trembling; quivering. Curling toes and sweat-dappled fabric's essence distilled into that breath. Her eyes still camouflaged behind the lenses.

“And?”

“S-so soft next to what they do-”

“Then what about this?” Another. It's without delicacy, without progression. It's a fucking open-palmed slug; it's to know the balance yielding a dazed glazed delirium spurting up through the face a tremor racing through every inch.

A strangled mewl.

“W-what?” It's the lenses disturbed; it's the frame not snapped in its arching dimensions but unseated from one eye, an exotic asymmetry.

“Your eyes are blue.” Peering at them; a sense of the supremest awe. “A Japanese with blue eyes?”

“Y-yours are violet, Mistress Orchid-”

“Never fucking mind about me.” It's another blow; and another; and another. It's... It's insanity. Sudden.

Convulsive.

It is not something delicate in its coalescing. It is not a patient inchoate psychosis gathering between the ears and behind the eyes, or maybe it's between the eyes and behind the ears. Who can imagine.

Because it's fury.

Because the eyes are more than familiar.

Cool.

Serene.

Smug .

It's the arm's relentless animation. It's the knowledge that you are as shackled to this will as she; you are as tortured as she, also. A sumptuous algolagnia; a psychedelic Purple Haze settling over every sense, perfumed in vanilla with a kiss of her pricier perfume layered under it like a Pollock painted over a Caravaggio.

Beating her.

Beating her.

Yes. This is the only word. It's to know the wilting knees, the belly churning. The eyes immense while the sunglasses have simply abdicated their purchase on the nose's fine bridge, no longer camouflage for the lovely geometries. The cheeks are more than hot now.

They are tattooed with a blackening negative of my palms.

The palms roar .

Left and right; and now, now, it can only be the right, the left hand laced around her throat.

“Is this what you fucking wanted?!” Another, another, another. To know... It isn't only to taste madness. It's a fucking buffet. It's for your will to be broken in its tether on the body; it's to know the marionette's wires not only ruptured, not only breaking, but simply snapping.

Kuzma's Mother.

I will show you Kuzma's mother.

73°48′26″N, 54°58′54″E

You will savor it on the tongue.

You will know Her wrath.

Roiling; heaving. It's something wrenched from science fiction, from shōnen manga. It's insanity. I know that it is. It's implacable, irrepressible, irresistible , lubricated with the keens and the shivers and the lips' crazed tortured quivers and the tongue lolling out and wrenched back with the jaws' sharp crack together.

“You fucking whore. What gives you the goddamn right to have those faithless eyes?!” A squeeze becomes a clench becomes crushing merciless violence on the neck. “What right do you have to have those fucking eyes?

“Those disgusting fucking eyes.” Snarling, snapping. It's a blow, and another, and another, and more than heat, something hotter than any trivial inferno, it's coalescing in the flesh. It's fangs brandished; it's insanity. Yes. That's the only word, isn't it?

An inkling of peering at yourself from within your own flesh; it's a distance that is not abstraction, and not alienation. It is not even dissociation. It is to know only yourself; but yourself in an unreal duality without binary.

I am here; I am there.

I am I.

I am not at all.

Kiss her now; kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Lips crushed on hers; the fingers sink deeper.

“You're so fucking beautiful. It nauseates me; it's disgusting how gorgeous you are. That- that cellulose perfection. You're just an idol, aren't you? Are you a fucking idol?” And it's the back of a hand, the knuckles iron, cracked on her jaw.

Pain spears up, up, up.

Hers.

Mine.

Eyes infernal.

“I need you. I need you. You're going to give me what I want. Does your pathetic lover beat you like this?” There is no answer, because there can be none. Palms crushed on her shoulders; the knees trembling like gelatin lakes captured in the seismic eschatological will and can only surrender.

A crack ; delicious, sumptuous. Long long legs furling folding and the body, also.

“Aren't I beautiful, Yuki-tan?”

Sobbing.

Huge tormented racking convulsions from the chest.

“Well? Aren't you going to fucking answer me, you feckless faithless slut? You're depraved; you're disgusting. A piece of shit; that's what you are. Not because you're unfaithful to your useless husband but because you're still with him when your face's painted with that much misery. When you have nothing together; when he doesn't, couldn't hope, to care about the jizz wadding your nasty loose cunt.” A heel ground down, down, down into her left knee.

And now the right.

“Does your lover beat you like this?”

“No!” Wailing, humongous.

Plangent.

“No? Why not? Oh, she's not afraid of ruining this lovely face, I would hope. This delicious complexion. You're stained red with my hand; it's almost indigo, even with your complexion, with this cheap streetwalker makeup.

“Cheaper still. It's what I love. And you're almost sobbing.” And it's true. The shoulders shudder; the tears do not well, no, no. It's the essence of an aquifer ruptured with an atomic bomb's huge crunching violences ripping into the earth, dragging up great bubbling gouts.

The cheeks are a delectable canvas for this violence; for the artistry draping them in viscid streaks like smoke condensed into watercolor.

“A-ah, ah-”

“You love it, don't you? Lick me. Lick me. Now. I'm sick of expecting obedience-”

“'kay.” There is only compliance. It's to know the simple perfection in a servant that, well, is not even half-trained. It is a wretched neophyte; it is a clumsy ineptitude in every stroke, every twist, every quirk, and there's still a delectation in the body's lavish plump elegances.

In the face; in the eyes.

“A-ah, ah, yes, Yuki-tan. That is what I'd wanted.” While the palms cradle her knees, while the spine arches, tongue lolling out with a relentless ravening lust. “But not quite. Do you know what I'd like to hear from you?”

“N-no, Mistress Orchid. Yuki-tan doesn't!” With immense eyes whose tears gather in vast rheumy draperies.

“Yes, you do. You must've been trained a bit. You're a masochist; that is obvious. It's... It's such a polarized algolagnia, isn't it? Do you love it like this with men?”

“No, no, Mistress Orchid.” Trembling; quaking.

“Did you come? While I was beating you 'til your cheeks were stained with my hand, were you coming?” It is an invitation to woe, to despair.

There is no answer.

These absolutes, these perfections, they are a figment when your universe is abasement.

“Yuki-tan did!” It's confession in quivering wild eyes. “Yuki-tan did; she did.” Gibbering, jabbering.

Aural eroticism.

“Oh, did you? You love it, don't you? It is the most purified algolagnia? Not a bit of delicate spanking for you.”

“No, no, no, Mistress Orchid. Yuki-tan loves it. Her- her lover won't do it like that; her lover says- says it doesn't do it for them.”

“How selfish. But, well, would you like this?” Fingers oh so achingly delicate, not merely lacing but stitching into the skirt's taut hem. A tug, a stroke, the nails sharp rasping punctuation. “Mmm... Would you like this?

“What's in my skirt?”

“Yuki-tan would; Yuki-tan's begging for it.”

“Then beg. Beg for me. Don't- don't do anything stupid,” it's theater, the long-suffering sigh like melting aspic from the lips. “Don't bark like a dog or anything so fuckin' cliché; it's painful to watch.”

“Yuki-tan promises she won't!” A vow with the supremest conviction while her cheeks are painted in anguish's delectable gradations.

“Good girl. Good slut.”

“Yuki-tan is your slut-”

“You are not my fucking slut!” The palm's quick insouciant slap at a cheek is correction. “You're just a body for me to use. Do you understand that?” A tug; the hem rears up, up, up.

Cinches into hips voluptuous, sleek with fat's faintest kiss .

The stockings bite into curvaceous thighs.

It is vanity; it is narcissism; it is a self-love that does not profane Ayumi's depraved dogmas, the conviction that the onanistic is unforgivable perversion.

It is a fervor to fuel that boisterous promiscuity. The elemental perfection in this. To renounce the two-dimensional and even the fleshly in one's own body. Alone to dwell in the externalized, to cast out the moneylenders from the temple and the worshipers, also.

For it to be a sacral invitation to every invasion; to minister, and to witness on the street.

Knees shimmer with a faint sweat.

“Eat.” It is an order, absolute and without equivocation.

And there is nothing equivocal adorning her face.

“You already know that a good slut doesn't use her fingers. Only her mouth. That's what a whore's mouth is there for, after all.”

“T-that's right. That's what a whore uses her mouth for. M-my lover tells me that. It's...”

“Who are they?”

“C-can't tell.” Head shaken with a tremor that disturbs, tousles the hair in its soft satiny shimmer.

“You can't?”

“Won't. Yuki-tan made a vow not to tell. Yuki-tan won't go back on her word.”

“What a faithful cunt you are. C'mon; c'mon. Here. A gift for you. It's very clean. There's not even the tiniest drop of a man's defilement here. I don't let men come inside me. Not ever. Ever. Ever.” It is a lie.

It is the truth.

It's fingers slipped around the lips taut in their lush thickness ; it's to split them apart, open them, brandish the heavy gradations in luscious fuchsia allure, in its coiling concentricities tumbling down, down, down, deep and deeper still into that strange shadowed place nestled in the hips where lust slumbers and dreams its febrile fantasies springing up in heat and sodden craving.

There is a command .

The lips and their tacky lilac gloss closer, closer, and closer.

Suicide is painless, you know. It is the act of life that churns with the flesh's essence, with the meat's anguish and its blisses. With the blood's urgent and implacable impulses. Suicide isn't only painless, but the act of expunging your woes and sorrows and your hopes, also.

Those fucking blue eyes.

Those mendacious blue eyes.

Those prevaricating blue eyes.

I hate them.

Pussy's wet squelching heat ground against her lips now. And there is only electricity, rearing up, up, up.

“You deserve this, you know. To have your mouth fucked like the feckless faithless whore you are, Yuki-tan.” Because our faith is cognitive dissonance.