enovel The Slit Sebastion Gray [Future Story Codes]

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The Slit ....(71k)    by Sebastion Gray

Around the world-in eighty ways-Celeste learns what sex is all about: a phantasmagoria of phallicism.

In Sweden, for example: "It is the winter of her discontent-and a farewell to much more than virginity."

At the Baron's castle, there is a hunchback, Fritz: "His act is a squalid parody of love, a rapist's craft, a rat's promiscuity."

In France: "Endurance is but half the French game. One merely says the magic numbers, chants the mumbo sum... soixante-neuf."

In the Orient: "Unsatisfied, she humps until the peacock shadow falls silently across the bamboo slits of his room... An army of beetles is now recruited."

In Africa: "He doesn't pause. He shows, in fact, a missionary zeal... She wants it all again, mindless and savage, like a skin wrapped drum, pounding up the xylophone of her spine... until her toenails bite into the bleeding bottoms of her feet."

And back home: "Spasming thrills go through Jok's eager flesh. His satyr's eyes roll in his head like marbles... He licks the air with ecstasy. He loves this machine..."

INTRODUCTION

The Slit, by Sebastion Gray, is perhaps one of the most beautifully written erotic stories it has been my pleasure to read in many years. Somehow, I envision the world growing dark, only to be lighted by thousands upon thousands of censors striking their book-burning matches when The Slit is published. For here is a book that out-sexes Candy, makes Lolita look like a demented child, and shows Fanny Hill to be the country bumpkin she was!

If one had a waggish tongue, The Slit might well have been subtitled Around the World in Eighty Lays. For the capricious reader who delights in sending "letters to the editor," let me hasten to add that I did not actually count the coital contacts of the delightful heroine on her sexual voyage around the world. It might well have been seventy-nine, or even eighty-six, but that really matters not because this is a fanciful flight into the subconscious, a voyage through the world of symbolism, a moral tale couched in the most immoral of situations.

The underlying plot, and this is deftly concealed beneath some of the most erotic writing of modern fiction, is that of Philemon and Baucis, which comes to us from the Metamorphoses of Ovid, a Roman poet who lived and wrote at the very dawn of the Christian era. Ovid, along with Cicero and Virgil, was standard fare in classrooms around the world not too many decades ago.

Ovid's story was that Philemon and Baucis were poor cottage people in Phrygia, a country in Asia Minor. They were visited by the god Jupiter. They treated Jupiter well, offering him everything they had and making his visit pleasant. Jupiter was so pleased he promised to grant them any wish they might make.

Philemon and Baucis were so much in love and so devoted to each other they wished only to remain together, in death as in life. Jupiter granted their wish and Philemon became an oak, Baucis a linden tree, growing so close together that their upper branches were intertwined.

This legend was so popular it was retold time and again by authors, including Goethe, who wove it into his most famous writing. And the legend did not originate with Ovid, incidentally. In an earlier Greek version, the visiting god was Zeus, rather than Jupiter, and Philemon and Baucis were made priests in the temple of Zeus before their final incarnation as trees.

In The Slit, Philemon and Baucis are represented by Celeste and Jok, and once one works his way through the somewhat overdone eroticism, he sees a story of true love and undying devotion. First, however, the reader must deal with the author's heavy use of symbolism, because this is the key to the entire work. Celeste, a sex machine in anybody's book, is the product of a manufacturer of sex machines! This, of course, does not come out until the end of the story, but it is the key to the author's meaning, or, if you will, the message.

Let's briefly consider the story elements. A father sends his daughter on a voyage around the world to taste and enjoy every conceivable form of sex. She is accompanied by Jok, who carries sealed envelopes containing instructions for her special sexual training in each area. Gradually, and none too subtly, Celeste is introduced to every form of sex known to man: coitus, anal intercourse, discipline, bestiality, homosexuality, flagellation and all forms of oralism. And although the description in this book is superlative, at no time is the reader made to feel he is dealing with reality. He is, in fact, vaguely aware of a very conscious effort to keep everything slightly out of focus, just beyond reach behind a blue haze of dream fantasy. Jok, the guide, protector and enforcer, remains aloof through the entire voyage. Celeste, however, is clearly in love with him, and each sexual adventure she experiences serves to make her want him all the more. The reader knows that he, too, desires her, but to Celeste he remains objective and unfeeling, taking great pains to see that her father's instructions are carried out to the very letter.

It isn't until the very end of the book that we realize that Jok's objectivity is motivated by a desire to condition Celeste for their love, which can only mature after she has tasted all of the forbidden fruits. And it is at this point that we are told that Jok and Celeste are brother and sister. This, of course, should not be taken in the literal sense of blood relationship, but in the symbolic sense of the family relationship of every man and woman under the eyes of God.

Can this analogy be carried even further? Is their "father" representative of God? Is it God who creates sex machines and then condemns them to eternal misery in their pursuit of sensual pleasure? Perhaps it's best to leave that to the reader's own imagination and philosophical inclinations.

Symbolism is abundant in this book, perhaps a little too abundant. At times it gets in the way of the thread of the story and sends the reader off in too many directions at once. The use of the number "6," for instance, appears all through the work. Six envelopes, six male studs at one time, six people in several situations-all aimed at telling us to look beyond the five known senses so richly played upon in the narrative. And the situations themselves are symbolic. The security syndrome evidenced in the scene in the chalet surrounded by deep snow, where Celeste is thrown naked into the snow and then taken to bed by robust Scandinavians: sex equating with warmth in the cold of life. And the train going through the long tunnel sequence, symbolic of the bewildered child returning to the womb.

Perhaps the most outstanding use of symbolism is when Jok crudely inserts a banana in Celeste's vagina. This gives the reader pause. With every form of erotic behavior described in the minutest detail, what possible purpose does the banana in the vagina serve? It is as if an artist is covering a canvas in soft shades of blue and then suddenly leaves a blob of bright yellow in the very center. Why? Obviously the artist wants to call attention to that one particular area, and this is what Sebastion Gray does with his use of the banana. At the very end of the book, when Celeste and Jok have found their love, the author refers back to the banana, indicating that it was at that very moment when the communication of their love began.

No comment on the symbolism here would be complete without mention of Mr. Gray's section headings. Mondo Bravo, playing on that rare combination of realism and fantasy so popular in the "Mondo" motion picture series; Xipe, a light-hearted play on mythology; Walpurgis, that region of snow and cold, blue ice where human beings are purged of all sin; Gemutlichkeit, that castle on the Rhine of Lorelei legend, and Tombalya, symbolic of the rising giant of the African continent-just to mention a few. They're all there, and they're all quite symbolic to the story.

All of which brings us to a good point. The mind that created this story had at its command vast knowledge of philosophy, history, mythology and psychology. At a thousand junctures we are told to look below the surface, cut through the eroticism and search for a meaning of life. This is no mean task, for in the end the author points quite clearly to his meaning-that the human mind must be purged of all its lust and desire for lust before it can embark on the true love of a Philemon and Baucis.

This, of course, is a not a novel thought, original with Sebastion Gray. Such minor literary personalities as Shakespeare, Milton, Shaw, Goethe, Chaucer, Dickens and Hemingway have all worked with this theme in one way or another. None, however, have approached it on this particular level, or perhaps with the force used by Mr. Gray in The Slit. He decided to dispose of lust by plunging the reader into scene after scene of sheer lust, to make sensual pleasure mundane by over-exposing it, to portray the hidden fancies of the subconscious in the dream-like quality of hideous reality.

A work of art is different things to different people, and there will be few who would argue that The Slit is not a work of art. Some will read into it that which they secretly desire, others will enjoy it for its surface qualities only, while still others will delight in its subtle shades of philosophy that glitter from this multi-colored canvas.

In a recent literary conversation, a friend said to me, "When I read one of those subconscious dream-type books, I always wonder what the author had for dinner the night before he wrote it- radishes, pickles, ice cream and chili, maybe?" I couldn't help thinking of that criticism as I read The Slit, with its many contradictions and varying hues of color. There will be those who react just that way when they read The Slit, but there will also be those who simply enjoy it for its gorgeous prose, a style of writing we see far too little of today.

Yes, a work of art is different things to different people, but The Slit should prove to be enjoyable reading for everyone, regardless of his taste.

DEL GRAYSON,

Ph.D.



MONDO BRAVO

She comes up out of sleep like a diver in a golden bell. Waving seaweed hair. Anemone of tulips and cockleshells. Fish shapes dark and threatening, with scales the size of doubloons.

The doubloons grow larger, turning to gold, silver, light.

She awakes.

Nude in the big walnut bed with the carved legs of satyrs and arms of saints, canopy of watered silk, fat goose mattress, pillows perfumed.

He is at her again.

Father.

Protector.

Admirer.

His leathery face-ancient parchment of erotic time-bends down between the willow-split of her filly legs, bends with nostrils flared to smell her essence, to get the morning whiff of her night-bloomed slit.

Sniff.

Sniffing daddy-nose. Moving like old dog tray over the golden fuzz, the thistle unmown, deeper and lower into the untried trench. Not touching. Not parting the virginal gates.

Only sniffing.

A frog smelling a rose...

From his viewpoint, a goat in a lettuce patch. To be sure, horns crusty with time and gnarled like Mediterranean bone-hoofs cracked and pointed, fetid with the forgotten shit and spunk of trampled flesh...blood...wrenched sperm...maniacal bleat. But a goat worth knowing, he.

A goat with iron balls and fuck in the blood, phallus purple and veined thick with cunning. Goat God. Surefooted, ancient. Quick.

He sniffs. He moves the ample bulb of his nose in circles concentric and precise. Up hill and dale. A patch of forget-met-nots here, a lovely stinkweed there. Pubis garden. Bower of girly promise. Daughter's maidenhead unplucked at the roots.

She stirs.

"Daddy...?"

"My child."

He sniffs on.

Her stirring legs move the topsoil slightly, bringing up a whole bouquet of new, exciting odors. He draws the dizzy effluvium higher through his questing beak. Nectar. Unsipped nectar running down there quiet as a hidden spring. Down between the soft boywanting crease, the meated folds of fuzz. Appleblossom-pink within...

At last, drunk with her headstrong fume, tincture of virgin musk and sweet madness, he lifts his goatish snoot and sighs.

"Your cunt is lovely-smelling this morning, my dearest. Most engrossing. It must be Spring."

"Daddy...you said..."

"Yes, yes I know what I said. I remember. And you shall have your trip." He smiles. "You shall circle the globe, my whimsical butterfly. Here and there a polyp and a stamen. You shall taste. But first...you shall view. Experience a vicarious thrill, as the travelbooks say. Come.."

She has waited a long time-all her life-seventeen summers, matched like pearls. Perfect. Waiting-for what?

The thread.

The golden thing to string the meaning of herself together. To explain the fish-shaped dreams. Celeste.

That's all she knows. Cocoon knowledge. Instinct born of whisper and sigh-Celeste-waiting to be shaped, incarnated, christened.

She follows now, wanting to lead, but following. Father...Papa...Daddy's footsteps-heavy before her down the carpeted hall.

Nimble in her little nightie. Silk, thin as smoke, clinging to her thighs...legs...the ricebowls of her breasts. In silk too thin to hide the triangle of her thatched cunt. Sniffed already, this fine day.

She follows dutifully to the big oaken doors, into his sanctum.

She sees Jok in the corner, his strong male face impassive. Onyx eyes on nothing. Arms folded. Waiting, too.

And another visitor in her father's room.

A painted stranger.

This stranger she has known in dreams. A second self. An image beyond self.

The woman's lips, like the woman's thighs, are parted. Jaws, both places. Jaws with the fetid stink of the jungle lurking. Fangs for devouring.

Celeste remembers the word: cunt.

The woman's cunt is a mockery of her own little slit. An apish hyperbole of imitation. A big, slack-hung mouth of a cunt that has been fed the carrion of male passion in countless dark alleys, on myriad beds reeking of sin, in hallways, on dark porches, chairs, floors, haystacks, beaches, stables, gutters. For love and money. Even now for nothing but screaming greed.

A mouth-cunt still ravenous.

The painted woman shifts her parted thighs again, waiting to be fed something. A cunt groaning to be fucked. Dog-mouthed cunt whining for the biggest bone of all.

Celeste sees more.

The things called tits. She is secretly alarmed and shamed and excited by what the woman has growing between the curves of her shoulders.

Tits as big as planets. Coarse-thumbed nipples sticking out-peaked, red, gorged. Husky things. Mule-eared nipples. Boar's tits, thickened by sucking for sucking. Fattened for the kill.

Compared to her own little orbs, poor Celeste muses, the woman's tits are monuments.

Celeste glances guiltily down at her small knolls with their matched rosebuds, and sighs.

Her father claps his hands to summon Jok forward.

The tall, handsome young servant stands at his side. He is a male troll-elfin-eared, virile, sullen, strong. Legs like a horse, arms tappered and thick with packed muscle. The waist of a scorpion.

"Prepare to fuck this whore," her father commands.

Jok does not smile. He does not even blink. His large, sunbrowned hands move to his belt. In seconds, he has removed his clothes.

If only Michelangelo had lived.

A stirring conception of the male form divine.

Celeste sees. It is revealed to her at last. The instrument-the great dark fish of her dreams- alive between the legs of the young servant.

Her father is watching her, his small eyes slitted with pleasure.

"It is a prick, my dear," he coos. "In this case, a very large, a very long one. Notice the shape. Tubular. Thick. Stiff already with expectation."

He moves in front of Jok, between him and the eventual receptacle of his lust, to point out-like a Heidelberg schoolmaster-the finer points of the classic male pendulum.

"Notice that it grows, like the tree of life itself, out of a thick forest," old Pestalozzi hums, gnarled finger pointing, "and extends forward to the apple-shaped glans-the ramming device-the hammerhead, which is one of nature's simplest gestures toward efficiency. The head-for thus it is commonly called-is, in the noblest of pricks, larger than the stem at its thickest circumference. It is so with our present model..."

He means Jok.

He means that of all the super-sized, sculptured pricks in the world, it happens that his handsome young servant serves as a criterion without peer. It is a prick among pricks. The tool of a regular fuckhorse.

"...and, extending up the shaft, we see the thick and pulsing veins of blood-hot blood-which give the prick tumescence--hardness, rigidity, stiffness, my dear-so necessary to fulfill its rudimentary function. A function you will, in due time, witness in fullest detail. But first..."

The gnarled finger points like a stick at the balled globes hanging just beneath the prickroot. Large as wasp nests.

"But first, you will observe the balls-the nuts- the testicles, which hold the nectar. It is from these curious beakers that the final amorous salvos are fired-salutes of victory to the clever, hard-working cunt which, in its Spartan will to triumph, at long last slays the fire-eating dragon in its cave. Or, if one is prone to romanticize the commonplace, these heavy bags are the twin vessels which deliver sweets to the sweet...spermy cornucopia...flowing... jetting...until both giver and receiver are joined in a holocaust of mutual bliss. But more about sperm later..."

The leathery finger withdraws, only to rub a thoughtful chin, sunk in Faustian contemplation.

"Of course, the hair..." the lips concede, weighing the importance of holding learned discourse on the thick bristle of male hirsuteness bushed above the thick base of the prick, and creeping like some soft and clinging lovevine part-way along the shaft, then scrambling in complicated, helter-skelter fashion over the oval fullness of the swollen, juice-filled balls.

"Hair," her father says at last, with Zen-like simplicity, "is merely hair."

He steps aside now, removing himself as an obstacle from the servant-prick's single ambition-to enter the large and humid cunt that yawns open before it like a furnace. The prick throbs, a stallion yet unleashed. One more bit of tutelage comes from her father's wise lips. "Jok-slowly, now. We are here to teach my daughter, as well as to satisfy the opportunist, boyish desires of your nature."

Jok nods, and moves forward.

His trowel of flesh is harder, longer, thicker than ever. Curved now in a faint bow that vaguely disturbs the former symmetry of it.

The moment for fucking is at hand.

The woman's cunt opens even wider. The thick, raw lips are peeled back like the skin of some passionate fruit, whiskery with hair. Moist, wet, drizzly. A shameful contrast to the proud, dry helmet of flesh that caps Jok's turgid young prick.

The two combatants touch. The marbled tip of the enormous cock nudges at the curling lips of her pubis. A mild feint. An almost coy first-contact.

The whore grins. Her breathing shifts to something coarse-the strangled deepness of an animal. She wants fucked. Wants it wildly. Blindly.

But Jok is mindful of his duty to please his master.

He lets the full blossom of the glans merely prod along the raggedy vent without entering. A blunt, dog-nose smelling at an interesting, somewhat strange, crack.

The foreplay is delicious to the whore-but frustrating. She is past such niceties. Whore-hunger strangles her politeness. No lady, she. No duchess having her skirts and petticoats lifted by a sophisticated prince of the blood. No amorous dalliance in a Watteau garden.

She is a peasant of lust. A vixen. A witch of broomfucks and sabbathy screams. At best, a simple slut needing a country-boy prick to stopper her itching hole. The cruder the way, the better. Her cunt slavers for the boot of his flesh.

"Fuck me," she rasps, her voice an owl's claw across glass. "I want fucked to death with it! I want it in me until I shit your come! Goddamnit, what are you waiting for! Fuck! Fuck me!!"

The words fall tympanic on Celeste's ears. She is blind with curiosity. A queerness ripples through her timid slit.

But her father is sardonically amused. The whore's total depravity-her crazed addiction to the large, stiff pricks of young men-seems a thing of infinite humor to him. His lips crack in a restful smile.

Jok allows the magnificent head of his bloated cock to enter the slack, hungering lips of the cunt. It enters like a fist, and is immediately swallowed. Gulped up. Sucked inside by the starved force of her need.

Celeste feels vague disturbances deep in her own virginal loins. Little teasing vespers blowing over the placidity of her calm.

Her dreams have not prepared her for this.

Through a glass darkly-and now the blinding light of truth.

She cannot, however, pull her eyes away from the coupling. She wonders-knows-that Jok intends to put all of what is his into the narrow aperture between the heavy thighs. She has never been taught to believe in miracles, but surely it will take one now. Fourteen inches disappearing into the wonderland wicket is a miracle only a child can appreciate. Little Alice through the rabbit-hole, seeing a marvel.

The whore is panting. She has a foothold in paradise. The cockhead is hers, held by suction and desire. But more is needed. Much more.

Jok leans forward. He cups strong hands over the kneecaps of the whore, pulling her thighs apart like a wishbone.

The cunt widens, threatens to split around the stony head of his prick. A gaping flap of fringed flesh. An eyelid cunt, socketed into him.

Then Jok leans forward even more, this time with his hips.

The huge prick moves slowly, deliberately, invincibly. Inch by gristled inch, it slides deep into her slippery sheath.

The whore trembles to receive the honored guest.

Forward...deeper...deeper yet.

Even so ample, so well-manhandled, so often-bought a cunt, is hardpressed to accommodate the joyless monster between her legs. She is stretched on the rack. Brought to the breaking point The elasticity of her slit tested to the limit.

His prick is more than large. It is elephantine.

It gorges the salty, sandpapery walls of her pussy until she could faint with ecstasy. With sheer gluttony of it.

The sulky inches intrude even more-a python sliding into a deep-funneled, mossy hole. At last the deed is done.

The hatchet of lust is buried. The great twin pouches of his sperm-juice rest lightly on the sweaty crack of her whore's ass. A small, squeaky fart trumpets victory from her congested bowels. Somewhere deep inside her, in the tunneled, rheumy darkness of her cunt, the head of his prick is tasting the first tumbling liquids of her succulent joy.

"This fish is hooked," the old man nods, "and now it must be tamed."

He waves a flaccid, Nero's hand to signal the beginning of the bout. It is to be a battle to the death. Cunt and cock to the end. Circus Maximus!

Jok begins-a slow churning-a steam engine going into gear, moving its wheels. Cog and piston. Prick-shaft grinding sluggishly in, then out, in-again, out-again.

The cunt-a fat, oozing circle of meat wrapped around the stiff pipe of him-responds with myriad concerti of sounds. Fluting squishes and brassy slurps. The cunt is happy. It sings-a bit of off-key at times, but strong of voice. Excellent counterpoint. Viva voci on a vagina.

Celeste and her father watch, catching every nuance. The eyes of Celeste are clear pools of wonder. Circles of innocence-little unfingered cunts in themselves. Moist. Heated. Learning. Yearning.

Her father leads her finally to a bishop's chair, bids her sit down so that the long exhibition may be viewed at her leisure. He has other things in mind, however. His goat nose twitches again with a new prospect. How nice to quietly smell her uncomplicated little cunt while she watches the fine art of fuckery. Perhaps a new odor will rise at her orifice -some harbinger of her own neophystic desire to be gutted by the likes of a Jok-sized prick.

If so, he would not miss smelling such incense for all the gold in Zanzibar.

Thus convinced, her father kneels between her parted legs and lifts the wedding veil of her gossamer gown. He pushes his nose under the silky tent and sniffs slowly along her upper legs and into the dimpled, familiar slit at her crotch. He stations his nostrils an inch away from her whorled trench -ready to scent her latest change. Any sign of lubricity at all will do...

Celeste is still watching. She is an audience of None. They do not care who watches. They are lost in lust. Bee-busy fuckers. Honeymakers.

Jok moves with animal cunning, muscles limned with sweat, lean buttocks gleaming naked, torso resting on stiffened arms over the whore's heaving ductility.

His strapping prick has burrowed into her rich and reeking slit so deeply, so stubbornly, that every immoderate plunge rattles her like a dry pod.

She has lost the language of the brain. Her tongue is thick with another sillabub-passion's slang-the throated grunts and yawks of a screwing bitch. Her cunt speaks for her. Testifies like a wild-eyed evangelist at the glory transcendent,- entered by the holyghost of the masterfuck. Jubilation to come! Fucked through her own pearly gates!

The world goes by the tune of a prick dance, a cunt waltz.

A change comes over the whore. Her thighs flatten...her legs arch...her tits rise like fingers Jok does not suck the leathery nipples. He merely watches them with expressionless eyes as he fucks.

A slitted gasp from the whore's mouth and she comes. Lubrication for the mammoth tool working inside her. Sputtering juices, sluicing out the rim of her jacked-off cunt. Trickling wildly down her pelican legs. Slopping his thick balls as they bump rhythmically against her festering ass-hole.

Jok does not let one reckless orgasm deter him. He is out to fuck her into madness. To wrench the last calf-slobber from her ravaged conduit.

He shoves his pecker harder, deeper-searing her wounded, whimpering pussy with his callous strokes.

She comes again-teeth clenched, collapsing over the boneshatter, the explosion of her joy.

Her toes curl like crushed petals. Fingers beat out her chaparral lust against the sheeted bed. A litany of fouled words decorates her spasms. She comes not wisely, but too well. Her battered twat foams and vomits up the deepest liquids of her being.

She worships his great phallus with the tongue of her cunt.

Still, without letup, he fucks her. A bull rending a lambpussy. If anything, his prick is larger, longer -stiff with immortality. A mace to rule the universal clitoris, yea unto eternity.

At the end of her third rabid, wailing seizure, he pauses. Cock rammed to root base. An axehandle hardness still intact. A hero still in harness.

Beneath the silken teepee of his daughter's gown, the old man pauses in his wanton sniffing. He smells a definite change-a modification-in the offing. He grins, and slowly removes his head to see what Jok and his lively adventuress have come to.

One look tells him the coquette is ready for temporizing. What her depleted cunt cannot accomplish, perhaps her winning mouth can mulct.

"Let her suck now," he commands. "Let her taste the fruits of her own passion-and gather the seeds of yours, Jok."

The great sausage of a prick is slowly withdrawn from between the wide, tattered curtains of her cunt. It comes out bloody, but unbowed. The custards of her bliss still glisten sweetly around its lengthy stem. The head is like a giant turtle of Atlantis, eager for another clever race against cunthare.

Jok brings the stiff trophy to her mouth. A fainter heart-a gentler shrew-might flutter under such an offer. Not she. Not one who has known the wonderment of sucking such manly stuff. Only the final spit of spicy sperm-a flagon, at least, of it-will ease her camelhump of thirst!

Her tongue has the strength of a mountain lizard.

Out it comes. Wet. Pink. Coarse. It licks the nozzle, rolls with brazen greed around the apricot of flesh. Laps like a hunting dog on fresh meat.

Traveling down the thickened axis, she multi-kisses it-a grateful pilgrim blessing the stony cross of her cunt's deliverance. Cobwebbed saliva gleams from her chin. At his balls she nibbles and lactates until they are strong as giant bell tongues, swinging to celebrate her adoration.

Back along the stem. Tongue-swollen accolades to the mighty hard-on, the warrior prick. Tracing each pulsing vein with tonguetip. Back to the fountainhead for the Grand Suck.

The blunted spadehead disappears into her yawning mouth. Her lips stretch like a comic rubber mask. Fit mouth to cock, cock to mouth. Jaws abulge, throat stuffed like a potato sack. Only a bare half of it can be taken. She funnels it down until his pear-large glans is lodged into her windpipe for good.

She sucks her lungs out.

He likes her pluck, although he does not smile.

His hand wanders to the rawness of her drizzling cunt, and teases the freshening itch there. His fingers-thick as dowels-rummage slackly in her gloryhole. Her clit stands up like a thumb to be rubbed and teased, a clownhead of idiotic ecstasy.

His hand is in her to the wrist. She chews and sucks his manhood. Eats the caviar-scent head. Fishsmell and fuckstink. Ambrosia...

Handharried, she is delirious with agony. Pleasure and pain clamp over his crawling fingers. They wrestle in her muck.

His prick harpoons her gullet and begins a fateful spasm.

She grins around the thickness of his boy-man meat.

Nectar from his balls flood her throat without due warming. She gags, eyes bulging, bulldogged, strangling. Yet determined to swallow his horrendous fuck. Creamy delight shooting ruthlessly from his horsedong. She bites as she syphons, moans as she sucks, and drowns his moving fingers with yet another cascade of lusty pussyness.

At last he sighs, and pulls his swollen member from her reluctant lips. She licks it still, bland sweeps of her flattened tongue catching the last kingpearl of sperm that oozes from its Cyclops eye. Celeste is moist at her slit! Her little cunt pounds like a toy drum. She would like a tongue there-a tongue as long and thick as a foot. But she is afraid to speak. She is afraid of the bloated, veined thing between Jok's legs. It is a great log of a prick. It would bugger her modest slit like Thor's hammer.

She whimpers and slides her trembling hand between her legs, shutting them, a closed diary of desire, fighting down the sudden need for more than her father's sniffing safaris.

The old man is preoccupied. He views the results of his anatomy lesson.

One well-fucked whore.

One young swain with emptied balls and thickly nodding peter.

He turns to Celeste with a silent clap of hands.

"A simple demonstration, my dove," he whispers, "but one which I trust you will take to heart. It will serve you well in your long journey."

Her voice trembles. "Am I to go alone?"

Her prudent father smiles. "No, my precious sweet. You are to have a companion-Jok."

Her eyes waver upward like windblown leaves.

Jok is looking at her, but her hypnotized gaze is on the frightful thing hanging like a broadsword between his male legs. Even limping, it is as large around as her arm.

She fears the best. XIPE

A great silver fish slicing the blue oceans of the air...the droning hum of the spuming jets against her ears lulls her into a security that is less false than fearful.

And yet...she does not fear. The great blades of the jet drive against the future, cutting through the bleak and dying past. She is heading toward-what was the phrase her father had whispered in her ear? Toward "six somethings."

Yes...well sealed in large, colored envelopes and entrusted to the faithful Jok. Six envelopes for six somethings.

And they are headed toward the first.

The envelopes are kept carefully locked in the black attache case snuggled beside the sleeping Jok.

She glances slyly from time to time at the sculptured young face of her companion. It is a handsome face, but like an iron god, full of the bestiality of a wild spirit. Mysterious, bard. Devoted to the will of its master.

A hound's head.

Her vaginal mind spins a little silver cobweb of curiosity about the memory of what Jok carries constantly between his legs. She looks down into the male chasm of his tapering thighs, letting her glance wander like the poet's eye over the gem-sheen of his trousers.

Nothing.

The giant is sleeping, hidden, curled back in its cave in whatever stubborn hibernation such monsters take upon themselves when the wily quarry-cunt is out of reach.

Her little slit trembles. A crystal pearl of moisture forms at the lower cervix and pushes out, dribbling, into the sprite of fuzz that forms the barricade of her orifice.

She thinks of the fisthead of his cock, imagines it hammering for a gatecrash party between her legs, the farmer prick, rustic and crude, insisting on a hoedown in the delicately marbled halls of her cunt.

Again, winsomely, she generates a tremble.

And wonders what the first envelope-the green one-holds for her. Because she has seen it, and it is green.

And the spread-eagle wings of the jet are passing at this moment over emerald mountains and jungles, dipping lower, losing altitude, gliding down like some eager insect toward the fetidness of helpless meat...

The airport is but a patch of brown in a great green quilt of trees. The hissing blasts of modern engines snorting in the bowels of the plane disguise the ancient quietness they have disturbed, but not for long. Once the jets are off, the silence of this new world comes down like an Aztec club.

Elemental nature.

The rawness of primary color.

Eden with a difference.

They are put on donkeys-multicolored burros with long, scruffy ears and innocent eyes. And old man leads them (and an old man shall lead them, yea) into the jade and myrtle jungle without a path. The old man seems to know the way. His face is the color of walnut-stained rock, shattered with wrinkles, drenched dark with a million suns.

The shadows fall like purple cloaks over their shoulders.

They are on their way.

Dorothy, off to see the wizard.

Her burro has been fitted with an ordinary American saddle sprouting an ordinary American saddle horn. It bites between her legs, pinches, rubs. A totem of what is to come. A symbol of the American Wet Dream. What the cowboy could be, without Hollywood.

Miraculously, the pathlessness becomes a path... a swatch of broken twigs and matted leaves. The burros know they are near home. They toss their carrousel heads and twitch their sailshaped ears.

A clearing...and a monastery in ruins. Crumbling adobe, tan and orange and black. A wild bouquet of flowers here and there. The shadows of the monastery smell strong of fresh flowers.

Her ears prick up like the burro's. There is a faint, expressionless braying of distant sheep, the appearance of a mud hut, then two, then a dozen.

Birds are chattering and building nests on top of one of the huts.

They have entered a simple civilization. A village. Beside the little road that now appears like an avenue by comparison to all they have followed, horses and goats are grazing. A crooked, defeated little fence. A larger hut with a garden of scarecrow cactus. Bales of dung-colored hay stacked high. A hungry-looking dog. A turquoise painted door in a simple mud house. A running stream. And...

People.

A herd of ragged children following their strange Jerusalem entrance. Believers looking for the messiah-Money. Followers, beggars, strangers.

By the time they reach the little cathedral, they are leading an army.

The old man stops. His part is finished. He disappears like a spindly wraith into the shadows beyond the cathedral.

Jok helps her from the burro.

Her legs slide nimbly over the mocking thumb of the saddlehorn. Her feet touch the alien ground lightly. She stares up into the only face she knows -Jok's-as he arranges the square of lace over her head.

They are followed to the very doors of the cathedral by the throng of curious children.

The cathedral is dark and cold, like the inside of a scented casket.

She walks with Jok, a spectral bridegroom, down the long aisle-tongue of dirt toward the altar.

She has never seen an altar.

The holy mysteries are merely mysteries to her. The little virginmary doll behind the bell of glass fascinates her-scarlet and blue robes, brocaded gold with thatched silver slippers, glass stars and flowers in her doll's-head hair. Faces painted everywhere, flatboard faces with eyes upraised, as if looking for the jet. And candles, flickering like tongues in the darkness.

And voices.

High, sweet, soft, tremulous voices. She looks at Jok, and he nods to an alcove above her head.

She sees the dozen dark figures set like black birds in a choir roost. Boys. Singing.

She is suddenly-unaccountably-happy, and wonders if they are singing their hymn to her...

It is the largest hut in the village. And the largest room in the largest hut in the village.

It is hers. It has been arranged for her, and it is a skyscraper. Almost as high as the cathedral. She can look out and see most of the village square, and the little creek running crookedly along the edge of the village where fat, lazy women are pushing colored rags up and down on the rocks. Beyond, the wilderness of green. And beyond that, the rise of a something that looks very much like a mountain.

Only it is not a mountain.

Only God can make a mountain. And this was made by man.

It is a pyramid, coned and smoothed by the centuries into a blunted snout of stone.

She is told nothing about it, but the finery in the room makes her believe that she is somehow a part of it. Somehow a little princess who has come down in a storybook airplane to be dressed in a crown and a jacket of spoonbill feathers, in beads of onyx and tourmaline.

The walls of the room are painted with rainbow colors. Figures squat and run and pose in frozen tableau on the walls. Symbols, numerals, emblems litter the ceilings with grace and symmetry. But they are as mysterious to her as the little doll smiling its frozen smile behind the glass in the cathedral.

She is more interested, in the final analysis, in the earthen, painted jars and bowls of fruit that surround her. The fruits of the jungle-hogsize melons, quince, avocados, limes. Great treasures of food nesting in the pungent beds of flowers clipped for her.

The room does not seem like a prison, although the single door-a thick, black door studded with copper prongs-has been locked. And her clothes have all been taken.

She is naked among the feathers and the soft mollescence of animal skins...a little naked bird in the jungle of her own thoughts...beaked with her own sharp curiosity, winged with the soft-fluttering fear of what the tokens around her mean.

The only window in her room-the window which eternally frames the pointing tip of the distant pyramid-throws a single shaft of molten light into the room, across the bed-like mound of skins and flowers upon which she reposes.

The fingers of sunlight trace every pore of her ivory, virgin body, rest softly on the upturned pyramidal tips of her salmon nipples, glint mischievously in the foolsgold tangle of hair ribbing the parabola of her little, untouched cunt, and slide, full-palmed, over the smooth platter of her abdomen and thighs.

She is ready for something.

She will never be more ready, not even if she stays for a thousand years under the eye of the silent pyramid, and grows as old as an oak among the rotting fruits, the fading walls, the decaying petals of time.

In the direction of the cathedral, she hears the muted clangor of a bell, the frosted whir of a frightened bird past her window.

And a key turns slowly in the black door.

Jok passes judgment on the room-on her.

And then he steps aside and ushers the young men into the room. There are six of them, robed in black, like crows. Like choirboy crows.

In the sunlighted room, she is aware of certain refinements of reality that she had not noted in the darkened, more romantic gloom of the cathedral.

The boys are not all the same age.

Three of them are quite young, perhaps twelve to fourteen. And three of them are older, certainly tending into their late teens.

And their robes are not new. They are mended, tarnished, battered, poor.

It is a poor village.

The white lace at their sleek necks is frayed and netted, toothy with age.

But the boys are as young as jungle fern-yes, with eyes black and liquid, and full of movement, skin smooth as brown, unwrinkled satin.

They look at her with twelve dumbstruck eyes. Dark young eyes moving with curiosity and high male gloating over each white inch of her naked body.

Jok nods to the older one, and leaves the room.

The key turns in the lock again.

She is alone-with them.

For a moment they are another tableau, like the figures on the painted wall.

And then the older one makes parrot sounds across the narrow silence of the room. The others respond by bringing their slender fingers up to the lace at their throats. They tackle the complicated buttons and snaps. A bit of lace rips under the trembling fingers of the youngest, and the parrot voice ricochets off his head like bullets. The lace does not rip again.

She watches the disrobing from her new, curled fetal position among the feathers and skins. It is a development that both pleases and disturbs her. She knows now that the dark phantom riding headless in the backroads of her mind will not appear.

She is safe enough.

Jok will not fuck her.

She is relieved to be delivered from the bondage of that fear...but six smaller demons have popped up in a row. She had not expected that, either.

Six!

She knows that his is the kind of mathematical exactness which pleases her Father. Six situations to be encountered-six somethings-and in the very first, she is to experience six males!

And yet...

She watches, fascinated.

After all, as a great philosopher once said, what is there to fear?

The robes fall like shrouds to reveal the paltry simpler clothes beneath. They, too, fall in a cluster of rags and tattered heaps.

The youngest is the first one nude, and her heart swells like a silly valentine for him.

He is cute.

His twelve years hang on him like an ornament. A brown and gold body polished soft as stone, a black grapecluster of thick hair, a smiling little mouth, and between his hairless legs, a cupid-cock that could not harm a kitten's cunt.

The next two-thirteen and fourteen-are shadows of the pubescent male. Leaner, a little taller, a bit darker. Their grins are friendly and quick, made for laughing round an apple, and their boyish nakedness reveal weapons only moderately larger and longer than the youngest.

She stares openly at the proof of their future manhood, the little corkscrew twist of brown skin over the tips, the unwrinkled, amber globes hanging just beneath, and the square mustache of hair above the root.

The three older boys are the last to be unveiled. Each unveiling is a revelation, a large page turned in the Book of Mystery.

The fifteen-year-old is thin, as lanky as a starved pup. And nervous. His smile is hesitant, a feeler touching both upon his recent boyhood and his bold new approach to manhood. The brown spots of his nipples are darker, like flat, foreign coins-and the patch of hair above his prick is thicker, stronger. His prick hangs lower, heavier, wider at the covered tip. It is a tawny color, the color of a tree root.

The one sixteen is more confident...his chest is slightly fuller, broader. His smile is friendly, but calculating. The bush above his prick is a tangle, a cunning camouflage for the young beast that lurks beneath it. And the beast is not yet tamed, not yet refined. Already his prick is moving restlessly against the imaginary bars which hold back its natural proclivity to leap.

It is the first prick she has viewed so far that gives her pause. The five pricks she has already seen would not make one of it. It is thick and coppery with a rivulet of smooth-humped veins running down its side. It is a prick that has fucked before, has tasted the sweetness of some slitted hole behind an adobe hut, deep in the secret jungle, under the blinding medallion of a noonday sun.

But the last of the sextet is the one to be reckoned with.

He is seventeen-tall as the doorframe, hair slicked back, cheeks hollowed with a chilling, embryonic maturity. His smile is wide, but set. His teeth are white as milkglass, his arms sinewy as snakes, his body firm.

Her eyes drop slowly to the fountainhead of truth between his legs, and a briery pinch of fear creeps into her thighs.

His prick is large.

It is like a great banana turned dark brown by the sun. The bristly thatch of black hair rises tarantula-like above the root. The balls are pinkish bladders of desire. The foreskin cannot contain the almond globe that peeks out with slitted eye.

Like the sixteen-year-old, this one has fucked. And fucked hard. His tomcock has known deeper slots than little girls can offer. He has taken women in the dark with it, made them suffer for his sake, wormed his shining, sinful prick into the very centers of holymarried cunts.

And he is the one with the parrot voice, the one giving commands!

He gives another.

The youngest moves to her with a playful grin. He bends, moving his naked, cinnamon-scented arms around her throat and head. He pulls her face up to his own.

He wants to kiss her, like a child. His lips touch hers, a cocoa taste. Cocoa and peppermint. His tonguetip kisses please her, and she pulls him closer, running her fingers through the marvelous tangle of his thick, black curls.

They are still kissing when the parrot commands come again-a glut of words in a dialect she has never heard. She feels, rather than sees, the next two attentions given to her young body.

The thirteen- and fourteen-year-old servants of her pleasure attach their older, harder mouths to the twin peaks of her breasts. It is a sensation she has never known-but like the first taste of an exotic spice, it is one that pleases her.

Their broad, spading young tongues search hard to focus on the rosebuds of her tits, a tongue to each. They find them with suckling glee and begin to treat the sleepy nipples to a wet, warm ride. The nipples grow, like rough rubies, under the buffing strokes of their tongues.

Her pleasure floats out into the lengthening kisses with her little playmate whose arms are still close around her neck. She loves his cinnamon smell all the more, the cafe au lait lushness of his youthful, probing tongue against her own.

Her nipples blossom, push out and upward, solidify, demand more, stronger sucking.

It is at this point that still another parrot-like mandate is given.

She feels a stir between her legs, and the dogpant of hot breath over her thighs.

She is so certain of being fucked that the blood rushes like an army into her panicked loins. Only to be turned back by the sweet tide of something quite unlike a swordthrust of hard male flesh.

Her cunt is merely being licked.

Although she cannot see, cannot lift her head out of the tender hammerlock of her youngest lover, she is certain that the brisk spoon-stroke softness up and down the crevice of her slit is a willing tongue indeed.

A long tongue, the tongue of the fifteen-year-old boy whose wits are drilled deep with the phantasies of sex. A cuntloving tongue, a tongue built for lapping the drizzly moistness of a maiden's cunt until it is rendered helpless, hot, and fuckable.

The tongue feasts, ferrets, farms the plowslit between her legs until the pleasure is uncontrollable. She begins to spin, but her legs suddenly are held down by strong, young hands.

The tongue is greedy.

It wants to lick her forever.

Her breasts are bursting in the caverns of the two syphoning mouths. Her nipples are hard as polished pebbles against their sweeping tongues, the nibbling tease of their strong young teeth.

She can only release her excess of pleasure by kissing more passionately. She begins to suck the wet boytongue glued inside her mouth, to drink his saliva, to lick the roof of this throat with the witchbroom stiffness of her tongue.

The cuntlicking never ceases.

Her vagina twitches and cracks, curls open like a rubbery clam to escape the ecstasy of such wanton trickery. But the trickery is only beginning. With every inch given, another inch is roguishly demanded.

The tongue invades the velvety inner walls of her defenseless slit-fermenting still more pleasure with each boiling roll of its taurine strength. It misses nothing...it ladles in and out and around the mucous ridges, then dives without warning deeper into the honeyed core of her.

Her pussiness hisses. Flames.

She struggles, her blood beginning to roar like the ocean in a shell.

She is growing brazen in her joy, reckless in her narcotic need to be further stimulated.

The tongue discovers her untouched clitoris. Not by accident, but by rote.

She is jolted by the electric shock of wild new joys. Her clit is easy prey to the probing tip of the sandpapering tongue. It envelops it, sucks it, licks and nips it until her mind is a blowing wind of desire.

She gives up caring about escape. She juts her thighs upward like a ring, muscles tensing in the curving nakedness of her buttocks. She offers the full platter of her cunt to the hungry mouth between her legs. She eats at the eating tongue! She is barely aware of the slow pulling away of bodies from her, of the husky, parrot-voiced commands.

She only knows that the pleasure has been cut off, and her blindly-aroused body is insane with need.

She tosses her head like a malaria victim. She burns with the fevers of lust. She makes moaning noises until she feels the warmth of a body being lowered on top of her.

It is a stronger, longer body-the first of the older two males.

To her sense-drugged body, the body fits close into her thighs, poured like molten flesh. The piercing thickness of a prick between her legs soothes the violent itching generated by the plunging, ruffian tongue.

But she screams on being entered.

She is being fucked now. Quickly and deliberately by the sixteen-year-old. His prick is long and hard. Painful. Unlike the tongue, it does not bend with mossy thickness against the untested walls of her narrow, girlish cunt.

It demands a bending of herself, instead.

Her slitted eyes see him above her, his body lifted on stiff, brown arms, his head hanging low over the sudden rise of her flushed young tits, his mouth slack with the seriousness of his trade.

His hips move, his prick eels in and out of the puckered fissure of her slit. The pleasure swirls, dances on sequined devil's hooves inside her, but will not come to a sharp, hard point.

At last she feels his twitching stiffness at her very core, a blunt violence of flesh...and then a streaming released hotness that bubbles and froths and trickles down her spraddled legs.

The boy is satisfied.

He has fucked her to his own mad end.

His cock is pulled out between the bruised, unsatisfied lips of her hungry little cunt-and she has learned another little lesson on her back.

A man cannot be trusted all the way.

She opens her legs-thrusts them wide like some irate jungle bird with yawning beak, demanding to be fed the biggest fish.

It is what the parrot-voiced leader has been waiting for all along.

The simple culmination of the ritual, a mating of her peppery little virgin's cunt with the master stud.

She sees him vaguely through her passion-clouded eyes. He is coming across the room toward her, the brown banana of his cock standing out large and stiff between his legs and lifted slightly by the hotness of its desire.

She smiles and licks the salty memory of her youngest lover from her lips.

She wants fucked.

She had never wanted anything so much in her life.

And when he invades the taut chasm of her freshly awakened cunt with his lusty, experienced tool, she screams again.

With joy.

Her legs arch, her head falls back willy nilly into the spoonbill feathers and the chamois softness of the sacrificial skins. Her scream glides down the scale of sounds to something animal and thick.

He fucks the little bulbous triangle of her slit with slow and cynical care...not like a boy at all...

On the third day, she arises.

She is alone.

The room has not changed, only the procession of lovers. Of boys.

She knows now that she has been fucked by every young male in the village. Some of them have fucked her twice...three times...four.

Her cunt is like a wound.

She can remember nothing without joy...the unending ecstasy, the blinding pain, the flesh-tearing fragments of those delicious moments when some skillfully long, inordinately thick boyprick had made her come.

She has learned to come, to discover the delights of the orgasm like a Cortez discovering a strange and liquid sea.

She has come many times in these three days, spasmed until the juices of her body thinned to saltwater around their leaping-marlin cocks.

The walls of her vagina have turned to pulp and sandstone, alive with the tingling nerves that fed and satisfied themselves only by clasping the stiff tubes of maleness that entered one after the other to cork her into madness, the dark and furry comas of delight.

Fuckstiff, she rises and wanders to the little window of the room.

The village and the sky have not changed. Nor has the jungle, nor the great pyramid called Xipe.

Some clenched, lust-grinning mouth has told her it is Xipe.

And it has not changed.

Only she has changed...sacrificed to the ancient gods, the totem pricks, the obelisks of sperm-stuffed flesh.

Her cunt begins to throb again.

The plumed serpent of desire is coiled in a flash between her thighs.

She must tell Jok...now they can have an uncomplicated little fuck, and laugh about old times.

And then she remembers.

Jok had ample time to satisfy his own desires, had he felt any for her worming slit.

With the clearing of her mind, she remembers.

Jok was present through many of the hours. Sitting in a chair, calmly watching as she was taken. His expression never changing. No horned bulge showing in his pants.

He had not touched her, not even between the marching troops of boys.

He had not felt a need to put the whale of his cock into the little inlet of her cunt.

And yet...she remembers seeing him put it into the buttocks of the youngest of the choirboys, the one who kissed her like a buttercup.

Jok had fucked that soft young boy, used him like a woman, pushing the abnormal thickness of his Hussar's prick deep into the slender, silken hole of the boy's behind.

So why not her?

She stares out the window again at the old and silent pyramid, mute with its hidden secrets of the male enigma.

Her Father's smile seems on her in the room.

There is a coldness... WALPURGIS

The envelope is blue-ice blue.

She has seen it as Jok strolls the lower decks of the creaky Belgian freighter.

They always dine at the Captain's table. The Captain is attentive to her in his royal blue and tarnished braid. He winks at her-politely. He grins with stained teeth out of a carefully trimmed Van Dyke mustache.

She wonders what it would be like to lie deep in the goose mattress of her compartment and feel the Captain's fat and hairy body envelope her like a blue fog. She can sense the aging, bearded chin upon her breasts, the tattooed anchor of his prick sunk between her drowning legs.

But the Captain does not touch her. He spins seayams at a table, smokes black cigars that smell like turpentine, and rolls thimblesips of brandy in his mouth as if he had just tasted the freshest little cunt in Brussels.

But she is not touched.

Not by the Captain and his disciplined crew, nor by the handful of other passengers.

And not by Jok.

She is left alone in her cabin to think of the green jungles under the eye of Xipe. To remember the brownskinned Indian boys with their fierce young cocks, hard as polished teak.

To think of that-and the ice-blue envelope.

They say goodbye to the Captain in the mist of one early morning. He winks and waves, dipping his eyes downward like some knowing Poseidon ready to claim the sea again.

They travel once more by air, high into madder blue clouds and icy light.

North.

Into the whiteness of cold and aerated space.

Then down again, on stiffened wings with icicles fanging the windows. Down, down they come into a torch-lighted field, blue-white with snow and frigid lakes.

Sweden.

The word is like a bright bauble to her. She knows no more geography than can be found on the palm of her hand or the skinscape of her body, but she likes the world of hoarfrost about her.

No pyramids here. No superstitions under glass. No decadent fruits with flybuzz.

Only the hard, bluish icefields swept against the hardy firs and pines, and in the torchlight around their faces, the Nordic gods who never blush.

There are four of them-tall, long-faced and handsome, with golden hair and cobalt eyes. All young. All with bodies impatient with their colored sweaters and thick scarves and toboggan hats. All laughing with strong and perfect teeth.

They pull her into an akja, with Jok beside her. The boatlike sled begins to move under the clap of hands and the sting of whips on reindeer backs. The fragile horns toss against the snowdrift air, and the akja moves, slicking softly over the cadaverous earth.

A merry, rollicking tune accompanies them in the journey. The strong male voices ring like copper bells against the night. She feels warm and wanted. She even snuggles back against the warmth of Jok.

But he is cold to her touch. The cudgels of his knees are like carved pedestals of ice. The lapfur is her only comfort.

They arrive at a postcard lodge, wedged deep into a crevice of snow, a spangle of tall treeshadows behind, a ribbon beryl smoke rising from the chimney lip. It is altogether lovely. The apples of her cheeks are pulsing. Blood races sharp-hoofed through her brain. Her breath makes little wanton ghosts upon the air.

She is carried from the akja by the laughing, singing young men.

Inside the lodge, she finds a simplicity that amazes her. The walls are roughhewn, unpainted splinters with the frozen splash of calk between the cracks of heavy beams. The windows are set like fists into the walls. A fireplace- a lion's mouth of brick-bellows and crackles with birch logs. A long, oaken table with splitaxe stools. And on the table, food.

The smorgasbord is not for fragile throats. Plates laden with cheese, pickled herring, sardellen, anchovies, baked mushrooms, great cold chunks of meat.

To wash it down, tankards of schnapps and glacier-cold beer.

They make her eat. They feel that she is thin, that she has a pallor, that to be strapping and wholesome and fit for games one must stuff.

As she eats she tries to memorize their names.

Dag, Sven, Olof, and Viktor.

The names are like things under a microscope, strange and new to her. Strong names, names like their strong young bodies. She likes their hands. She can see nothing of them but their hands and their faces.

The hands of each are wide enough to circle her waist. Heavy of knuckle and long of finger. Sven and Dag are younger. Viktor and Olof are very much men. There is a fine matting of golden hair on the backs of their hands. It matches the thick nape of sunyellow hair at their tarpon ears and hearty necks.

Sven and Dag are overgrown boys, an enchanting twenty apiece. They are like twin suns in an arctic sky. Steelblue eyes above high, ruddy cheeks and happy mouths.

They all drink toasts to her, shouting SKAL!

The schnapps runs down their sculptured chins, seeps into the dimpled places in their cheeks.

She wonders when they will lose their smiles, like the hungry boys under the curse of Xipe, and want to fuck her in all dead seriousness. Already she has been taught the poses of the male. The laugh that hides the rattle of greed. The boyish kiss that cloaks the thrusting truncheon of their lust.

She glances to the end of the long, scabrous table to Jok, hoping for an answer.

He is intent upon sucking the memory of a sardellen from his fingertips. Morose, indifferent, detached. He is eating because he is hungry.

She is being urged to eat for quite a different reason.

Her little tummy is full-packed with cheese and pickled herring, awash with foamy draughts of beer.

She wants to sleep, but Olof is unhappy with the thought.

He conveys to her in a parody of broken English that sleeping after eating is gluttony. Sloth. A sound insult to the wellbeing of her body.

One should never sleep after eating. One should exercise, churn the blood, stir the body to song.

It may all be done, however, he grins, on a feather bed.

So come!

There are no real lights in the lodge. Only thick, buttery candles set sentinel at the right places. There is one at the bottom of the crude, log steps leading upstairs, and one set at the top. There are two in the narrow hallway above, and one in the room they enter.

It is her room. Her own little room, again.

No spoonbill feathers and pliant animal skins here. A flat, hard bed of uncarved wood. A pitcher and a bowl of ice-white, durable ironstone. A rack of wooden pegs for her clothes. A stretched hide over a straight-backed chair for the sin of an idle buttock.

Olof pushes the tit-flame of his candle against the one in her room to make a double light.

No exercise worth doing should be done in the dark, he hums. It is an old Nordic custom.

The room is chilly as a fjord.

Olof begins to undress. He is half-through with his merry task when he notices that she has not budged.

His blue eyes twinkle.

The coach must always breathe encouragement.

His large, gentle-rough hands move over the furry collar of her little coat, unbuttoning, undoing, undressing her.

At last she takes up the task herself, shuddering with cold, wishing for the sun in the jungle village. Wishing she had not filled her stomach with so much oppressive food. Wishing...

Olof is naked.

Vikings yet live, bold with muscle and thick of calf, horned at the head, with bracelets of hammered steel around their arms.

She cannot breathe for staring at him.

He is as clean and white as an icefloe, incredibly healthy, flawless, proud.

His prick is like the great white tusk of a walrus. It wags between his legs softly as he walks back to the bed. He sits down, a muscled gallant, to assist her final disrobing.

She is ashamed of her body. Thin as a reed with its little nippled breasts grown only vaguely bolder by the orgy at Xipe. And her arms, her legs, her pelvis-skeleton-sized beside the marvelous masculinity of Olof. She blushes, not from the cold, but from shame.

He lifts her chin with one great, firm finger. He smiles at her, his placid eyes alive with life, his teeth as strong as marble.

The look tells her that she is there to grow.

His hands go back to the task of making her as naked as he. The coat, the dress, the slip, the panties-all snowfall to the floor until she is flagrantly nude in the middle of the great white tongue of a bed.

Olof moves in beside her, the thick columns of his legs solidly in place against her own. The fat, soft fish of his cock lays broadly across the upper part of his smooth thigh.

He takes her small hands in his own and carries them down to his sex, totally without guilt.

Her fingers tremble. The prick is much larger than the largest one at Xipe. Very white and very long. The little whorl of citron-colored hair above the root look like a puff of spun gold.

The prick begins to grow under her feathering touch. It is a muscular prick, grown firm and hale on pushups. It rises to the occasion and stands up shaftstrong, pointing up at the dark ceiling of the cold room. The head of it reminds her of the great mushroom she earlier choked down-a pink one this time, perfectly formed, dry, spongy to the touch.

Olof leans over her. As he glides, he kisses her throat, then the fluttering nipple of each dove-like breast.

His gliding has a purpose. Suddenly he is in position to fuck her where she lies.

A simple, gymnastic trick on his part-well-practiced, competent, casual.

He adjusts the little pillows of her rear by sliding his spadeflat hands under each buttock and lifting them into a coned and triangular target. Carefully, he parts her spindle legs until her tingling, narrow cunt is splayed apart like a pink tea-dance invitation.

Then he moves upon her with the great long javelin of his prick.

He sinks it deep into the oval cup of her cunt. Her juices have not yet rushed to aid her, it is a dry cunt, a very unready cunt for such a rakish thrust.

She cries out, a rabbit on a spit.

He ignores her pubertal bleat by grinning carelessly.

Some, he seems to feel, must learn the hard way -and the harder, the better.

An hour at a time ought to be enough!

He is a rabid fuckmaster, the head of the team.

The trophies all go to Olof for such stuff. He can trot a cunt into the homestretch without a single gasp.

He's proving it with her.

His prick digs deep into her heated slit. The juices are corning for her now, oozing up out of the hidden springwells of her timid flesh.

And lubrication helps.

Helps him, helps her.

The oily slime generating healthily from her pussy coats his moving stiffness, allows him deeper passage, quicker strokes, stronger throbs.

He fucks her quite athletically.

The chill of the room becomes a myth. The place is tropical with her rakehell heat. She might be a crooning lizard baking on a desert rock, a shard being stroked by flames.

She opens her legs wider, lifts her happy young cunt higher, twists wantonly on the skewer of his large white prick.

Olof is all form. His beautiful body is suspended above her on gracefully stiffened, tautly muscled arms. His body is like a diver's. Long of line, small of hip, narrow of thigh. His legs are close together and distended so that the balls of his naked feet are braced against the strong footboard. It gives him leverage to swing up and down in an oddly lubricous, calmly pedantic fuck.

He is teaching her. Teaching her how to be fucked. To like strong fucking, the endurance kind. Training her as if for some future, dark Olympics.

Nothing touches her but his prick. It is a trapeze act of venery. With each downward swoop, his long thick cock thrusts slurpily through the gasping little wicket of her twat, submerges deeply, bluntly, to her very core-convulsing her, of course, with pleasure-then strokes out again. It never fails to brush her clit with its big, stony head. Clit-joggling is fun for her. The sport of Queens.

Her tits grow hard. Spicy little peaks begging for a good long suck. She has never been fucked-sucked in unison. The idea appeals to her. Olof has such a fine, brusque mouth. She imagines his huge, Laplander tongue stimulating her nipples. They bum like blister beetles for his mouth.

"Olof-"

The word dies on her lips. His fucking has suddenly grown stronger. Her cunt is on fire. He is jolting it with his big birthday-toy of a prick.

Deeper now...deeper with every plunge...a magic dolphin in her cunt...as if he would split her screaming thighs and fuck up high into her lungs!

She moans contentedly and curls her toes to better taste the copulatory bliss.

His citron cock hair is tangling with the darker fur around her cunted lips. He is in her to the dregs. The soft, round hotness of his balls jounce the girlish crack of her hollowed ass. His abdomen, flat and hard as a heated anvil, kissed hers with every downward thrust.

She is coming!

Her brave little cunt tries to rally-to extend the bliss. But it's no use. She is definitely coming. Definitely!

The walls of her pussy warp around the strong invader like a dripping fist-and squeeze up tight.

She comes off like a debauched harem girl. Full of throaty gruntings and shameless explosions in her thighs. Her liquids shoot in a dozen directions, inundating Olof's victorious and rigid prick.

He grins as the Caesar's head of his cock is rewarded with the laurels of her juice.

Pleasure snorts through her with swinish greed.

Still, she is being fucked.

It is a marathon of lust.

She smiles and curls the little vines of her legs into a lazy cricket's pose. His large, relentless cock is giving her freshly satisfied cunt something new to think about.

She knows he will not stop until her slit is like a sewer swimming with his sperm.

It may take all night.

Forever.

She wakes under the thick coverlet in the great strong bed.

The sun is barely pink against the windows, but there is a heavy tramping of boots up on the stairs. She wonders if it is Olof or Viktor. Both have had her. Incessantly. All night long. In relays, like runners passing a torch.

She grins, knowing how she liked it.

That Viking, Viktor!

He has fucked her with the strength of ten!

As the tramping boots near her door, she slides a fearful hand down between her legs to see if anything is left. Is it a great kangaroo pouch of flesh?

A gaping, empty market bag of a cunt?

She is amazed to feel it intact-almost the size it was, except for some obvious thickening of the lips, some sensual pouting of the humps. But inside she had changed.

She burns with emptiness.

Prickhungry at dawn!

She smiles. Perhaps the booted feet belong to... The door flails open.

And it is not Jok.

Two raw young mastifs instead. Dag and Sven. Naked except for loincloths of reindeer skin, and boots. Healthy as rams!

With shouts of youthful bravado, they pull her from the warmth of the bed and carry her like a lovely leg of Iamb down the stairs and into the snow.

She screams at the fate they have in mind for her.

Naked, her thicker, heavier-budded nippies turning blue, she is swung between the laughing oafs like a sack of wheat and tossed high into the wintry air.

She falls, shrieking, deep into fleecy, freezing depths of a snowbank.

Her nipples shrivel into peas. Her cunt puckers and pulls inward like a flap. The icy chill penetrates her bone, her marrow.

They pull her out with hoarse shouts of joy and laugh sportily at the snowmaiden they have created.

It is another custom.

A healthy one, of course.

A snowbath before breakfast...and before breakfast, something else as customary.

They carry her bluenude body back into the lodge and back up to her bedroom. She needs unthawing, now.

She is placed, frozen and chattering, on her side in the middle of the bed. Then her two abductors become her comforters.

Ripping their meager loincloths from their loins, dragging off their reindeer boots, they pile into bed with her. Naked and eager, they sandwich her between them, one facing her cunt and tits, one facing her rounded buttocks and her trembling shoulder blades. The warmth of their strong young bodies begin to surge through her.

And with the warmth, erotic desire.

It is Sven who is facing her, whose hands are cupping and massaging her gelid tits with firm long fingers. It is Dag behind her, his hands mauling and rubbing the frigid globes of her chilly buttocks.

The blood circulates again, the slate-blue skin glows pink, the breathing pumps once more robustly.

The peas of her breasts grow into heated plums. The core of her cunt yearns to play with the two stiff prongs she feels pressing against her from opposite directions.

Both young Swedes are horny. Both have man-sized cocks between their strong, fun-loving legs.

Both obviously desire very much to fuck her as dearly as their older pals.

She becomes honey between the hard loaves of their bodies.

Sven is the bolder of the two, devilish in his gleeful jactation. With fingers cupped, he finds her slit and spreads it open like a mouth. He probes the itching center with his thumb until her eyes roll back in her head and her breath is hot upon his neck.

He shoves his throbbing colonnade deep inside. Her eager cuntlips close over him and suck him deeper. The pornographic pose entices the spirit of Dag, behind. He fingers the brown bud of her anus, hurting her until the tip of his finger is wedged within. He wriggles it in a screwing motion until it is knuckle deep, until she feels that surely he will tickle the tip of Sven's upthrust cock!

When her virginal ass-hole is breached, his prick replaces his finger.

Now she has cocks galore. In cunt and crack. Only boys would think of such early morning games!

They weld her to their shoving pricks. It is a waltzing fuck that changes to a raggedy, sawhorse screw. Their cocks expand and lengthen with each jiggle and jog. Again, she thinks their cocks will meet-kiss queerly in the bowels of her flaming cunt, then spit thick semen at each other.

She loves the curiosa of it all, the salacious madness of getting humped in front and back by such bright-eyed, husky minks.

Her tits swell into hot balloons of need. The nipples pop out like burning corks.

"Suck me!" she yells.

Sven grins and wraps his obedient mouth over each nipple in turn, sucking, salivating, licking until she is a thrashing animal of lust.

She comes for them, spitting a triple-fanged spate of juice against Sven's moving prick.

He likes it. It makes him harden more, drives him to suck her tits more goatishly.

Dag cornholes with the grace of a bull. His prick's head is like a lump of lava-stone. It digs and cores her burning rear, doubling the ruttish joy of what the one in front is doing to her.

She comes again as they release their own spewing proof of lustiness and youth.

Their pricks spurt molten fire into her loins. The sticky nectar of their unleashed balls runs down her legs and theirs, down the dimpled cleft of her rump and into the bristle of Dag's snag of pubic hair.

They dismount with laughing, healthy shouts of boys ready for recess.

And breakfast.

The days take on a regimen.

Discipline is the key to health, so saith Viktor.

She is systematically fucked by all at night. Fucked until her cunt grows as strong as the lungs of an underwater swimmer. Strong enough to last.

They take turns keeping her in practice. Viktor is the easy champion among the older pair. Olof may lag after two hours, but Viktor has not found a cunt able to defeat him. He could fuck a stone clitoris into dust, he brags.

During the day, she is allowed to play games with Sven and Dag-if they do not neglect the proscribed business at hand. That is, to make her titties grow larger by the hour.

Seven hundred strokes a day. Three hundred fifty from Sven's strong hands, and the same number from Dag's. They are to use puffing strokes, the cow-milking kind, carefully executed so that the cupped male fingers and ball of the thumb catch as much of the sphere as possible and pull slowly out to the peak. The gorged nipple must then be tweaked and pinched.

Such petting of the breasts produces side effects, of course. In all concerned.

Such matters, passed over lightly in whatever textbooks there might be on the subject-become an area for invention. Sven and Dag are not noticeably inventive, nor noticeably original.

They merely fuck her while they stroke.

But it seems to shoe the horse.

A footnote in the instruction suggests that, for variety's sake alone, a sucking tongue may be substituted for a stroking thumb.

Dag is the valedictorian here. He has a tongue that would drive the deepest cunt in the world to shrieking madness.

It's glad to do the same for tits.

Hers grow twice their dormant size under the mulcting stroke of Dag's hot mouth. The nipples turn to inchlong, blushing nubs. He roils them until they drool with milk, then bites them with his teeth.

It is at such times that she is grateful to have Sven pumping away between her legs. If she could not come through her saucy cunt, she is sure her vaginal juices would make a safari to the tips of her tits and spit love juice into Dag's grinning mouth.

It is on the eve of her departure, on Walpurgis night, that she learns how Jok has entertained himself during her long days of conditioning.

The festival of winter's farewell brings a holiday air to the lodge. It is to be her test, her final one, and the lodge is filled with singing voices, healthy faces, male and female.

Before the long night begins, during which she will be fucked by some twenty husky Nords in all, she steals away to spy on Jok and the bosomy maiden she saw him take upstairs.

The girl has hair the color of lemons in sunlight. It reaches to her plump waist, and spills like sulphurous smoke around the huge white whale-tits that adorn her. Her cunt is fringed with brownish hair, and on the bed, healthy skater's legs thrown wide apart, her pinkish slit invites the triumph of Jok's enormous, stiffened cock.

She watches the idyll, the Swedish treat, from behind a half-closed door.

Jok fucks the girl into oblivion.

"My name is Celeste," she whispers to the door, half-hoping Jok will hear. "I exist, too. You do this for a strange cunt on a stranger's bed. Why not for me!"

He chooses not to hear. He is too busy sullenly fucking the enchanted female beast.

She turns finally from the door.

It is the winter of her discontent-and a farewell to much more than virginity. GEMUTLICHKEIT

The red envelope is an omen.

She might have known that, if attuned to the history of colors, the aesthetics of the spectrum.

But she knows nothing. Is not the color of blood also the color of roses.

And do not the eyes of Jok seem kind and full of the pleasantries of a doting uncle?

She remembers the departure. Viktor and Olof, Sven and Dag-smiling faces in the circle of torchlight. They have taught her much, strengthened her for the days to come. She came to them with cunt of clay, and departed with cunt of marble. She will miss them, each of his own talent.

And she remembers the closed compartment of the train, a dark continuous thunder of tracks, nightfalls, skies shattered by the forked tongues of storms...a persistent feeling that...one is climbing... downward...

Jok is full of more strange pleasantries. He seems attentive to her, as if he knows how much her mauve and hungry slit desires him, desires anything to cool the itch. She wonders if Jok will not fuck her there in the secret compartment of the moving train, behind the thick, black curtains, unobserved, naked on the scratchy velvet of the couch.

She imagines his great stiff thing stuck deep into the rubicundity of her cunt, moving in her with the mechanical pistoning of the wheels, working between the reddened lips of her slit until she screams to come, whistling shrilly as the engine.

But he does not touch a single hair between her legs.

He brings her food and drink-and smiles distantly with his eyes, like some cool mountain lake set in the melancholy darkness of a chasm.

Against his knee he taps the ominous red envelope.

The train rumbles on, a monstrous bee in her throat...

Set on the sharp tip of a great mountain-it is like a huge, upturned eagle's beak, weathered and raw, its stones the size of wagons...moss and lichen...splintered drawbridge and chains the rusty thickness of a man's neck.

It is dark and Teutonic and drafty.

She much prefers the world of spruce and fir which drops downward and away toward the Hohenzollern valley, toward the gabled roofs of peasant cottages, the wink of an iron cross on the village steeple far, far away.

The castle is a calloused thumb pressed against God's behind... ugly...insolent.

The Baron does not meet them. They are met by Fritz, the hunch of his twisted back rising like a lewdly aroused bone, the drool of his slack mouth fixed and eternal, the shag of his hair disquieting, the shape of his hands and legs merely disgusting.

She would rather kiss a warty frog, hug an asp, pet a lizard.

Fritz moves before her down the shadowy stone hall, lantern swinging, throwing ghosts upon the tapestries, the armored suits, the cracking portraits of long-dead nobles, rogues.

Her room is larger than the Swedish hunting lodge, or so it seems. Also old as time. Musty. Decadent. It is panneled, with frescoes showing the ancient folly of the hunted's attempt to escape. It is full of heavy, ornately-carved chairs and chests, Chinese and Moorish cabinets rich with inlaid pearl and ivory, a canopied bed that would accommodate a seraglio, crossed halberds on the wall...mirrors... heavy statuary of both satyr and saint.

A medieval smell infests the comers...the scent of putrefaction, of darkness after dawn, of Hun death itself.

She shudders, and climbs into bed.

She is tired, after all.

Tired of the noises of the train and the incessant thumping of her little tottery cunt. She wants to dream of clean white snow and the golden pricks of the healthy Swedes...

She does not have long to dream.

The muffled sound of padding feet outside her door, heavy and inhuman. The sniffing, snuffing breath of animals at the crack of her door, the keyhole, the door itself.

She sits up, naked and alarmed, as the door scrapes open.

It is the Baron and his dogs.

Come to welcome her. Officially.

Cloak hanging to his ankles, scarfaced and lean, the Baron Haeckel stands in the doorway with booted legs apart. His face is long as history's grief, his one good eye blurred behind the greasy monocle, his mouth a sardonic slit-a cunning insult to his mother's womb.

The hounds pad about him, sniffing with a prurience that distends their oval nostrils, glaze their bestial eyes, round out the high, sleek haunches of their flanks.

The dogs scent her, and leap to her.

She screams as the heavy quilts are torn away by fanged and yellow teeth. The godless dogs are trained, pre-hypnotized with the smell of cunt, taught to seek out unwary slits!

She struggles-alas, to no avail!

The razored teeth of the dogs do not touch her, but rip the gown from her breasts and thighs, and paw her down into the most debauched of poses. Legs flared apart, she is subject to bloodhound will.

Their will is but to fuck her.

LIKE DOGS.

The largest is the first. His paws upon her shoulders like brasskunckled fists, great pink tongue panting from his grinning snout, he straddles her girlish loins and drives his curving dogprick home.

He enters her with stabbing force, thick pretzel-cock jerking off deep in her quivery cunt.

It is like being raped by a windstorm-riding a willowbranch to the end!

The animal comes-a spurting flood of unctuous fluid that wets her navel and her thighs.

He whimpers and lifts his paws. Sated, he has no more need of her. He turns in a great crude circle around her with lifted tail over her face. Her eyes stare up at the dripping, crimson cock, the hard dogballs, the animal smell of shit.

He is gone, leaping off the bed, licking his chops.

Another has taken his place. One that fucks her faster, with padded paws covering her tits, drooling ropes of saliva across her abdomen.

She is fucked by the hounds until her cunt is thick and blubbery with their sperm. The thought of dogpups littering in her hold frightens her, but the corkscrewing stiffness of the sex hounds makes her blind to pride, to fear.

Even the carbuncles circling the hide of one old hound does not hobble her desire. It is a Jok among canines. It's prick is curved like a rotting sausage, and goes deep, paws her clitoris until she joins the yelping wall of her loverbeast and mixes her juices with the sputtering strangeness of his sperm.

The Baron's whip is cracked and the hounds crisscross the room and trot morosely out the door.

She is too pleased to bid farewell to her host.

Her fingers are playing gently in the muck between her legs.

When the Baron is gone, she lifts her fingers to her nose to smell the forbidden dogfuck.

Her cunt throbs hotly.

A concubine of curs now...as well.

No rest for the weary.

Night and day mean nothing, a passing of feet in the hall, a clank of pewter in the night. She is fed great hunks of spicy pheasant and bitter-tasting greens. She is given Rhinish red claret to drink. Her cunt is left alone for impolite stretches of time, until a crawly, itching prickle deep inside drives her to fuck her fist, the emptied neck of a wine bottle, the blunted armtip of a chair. She dreams of the hounds, the husbanding hounds. She would domesticate them or animalize herself. She would come home to the papers and a good dogfuck, she would offer her ass to their great slavering tongues, her cunthair to their muddy claws, her bloody anus to their sniffing snouts.

But the hounds do not come back.

Only the Baron, with sardonic smile. Baron Heackel, followed by the shadowy Fritz, his hunchback a great tarantula between his shoulders, his hideous mouth gross, his spindle legs knotted and bowed.

Fritz she will not fuck. Never. Her cunt shuts like a spinster's mouth in his loathsome presence.

The Baron she would give herself to like a strumpet in soft hay. When not thinking of the hounds, she thinks of the Baron. Beneath the cloak, what wonders of maleness?

She imagines his lean cross of a body, pallid as the underbelly of a fish, a scar across his thigh, perhaps across the long, erotic droop of his Teutonic penis.

Does not the Baron want her?

When the hounds fucked her, did he harden? Would he play her like a carp if he had not intention of one day simply humping her on the battlements? Is he not the master of the castle?

But there is nothing venereal in the Baron's lengthy visits. He chats with her, inspects her body coyly through the circle of glass clinched around his one good eye. His long, tapering fingers hold a teacup as gently as a sick swan. He seems jaded and austere. His mind might as well be on gliding butterflies, instead of cunts.

She could produce her pussy on a banquet plate, and he would sniff and turn away.

Fuck me, her mind screams, or send back the dogs!

The Baron, however, is fond of wine.

Fritz brings from the bowels of the castle the ancient bottles and casks covered with cobwebs and dust. The labels were pasted by hands dead three centuries. The spiff of pulled corks, the fumet of heady odor, the endless sipping tastes-all delight the Baron.

He would rather sip a good Burgundy, it appears, than fuck an angel in a tree.

And each day she is asked to share his joy.

Fritz brings two glasses-crystal-cut, on stems as slim as ballerina's legs, and the bottle of the day. The wines are varied-in color, tone, taste. All of them seem to stimulate her...the aphrodisiac yellows and purples, the whitish philters which scrape against the walls of her vagina, the coral-ruby-vermilion wines which bore into the very essence of her being, begging to be sobered with a prick.

She wonders if the Baron knows.

Does he know what drink can drive her to!

Fritz knows...she knows he knows...the lubricous mask of his face tells her that he would do what wine and Barons cannot. That he would follow her to bed and satisfy the whir of the teasing wine, would mix the steamy glut of his cripple's sperm with the fine texture of the steaming grape. And anytime at all would do.

She cannot bring herself to bear the sight of Fritz, and tells the Baron so.

Behind the monocle, his eye grows hard as a helmet's spike. As if she had, at last, served him the rarest Prussian wine of all...

Midnight.

Winds ride on Wagnerian steeds across the windows. Thunder moves under the potent lash of lightning. It is a night for blood and fang.

The clouds fornicate with the moon beyond her high, barred window. Her skin is strangely warm, oddly alert and goosepimpled with ambient fear.

When the great door of her bedroom is thrown open, she is not surprised.

The batspread cloak of the Baron drops in blinding silhouette across her St. Agnes breasts. Her little heart pumps at the sight of the big hound at his side-and falls at the sight of Fritz.

The master and Cerebus!

Has he come like a bridegroom in the night, to rack her on some windy heath, to ease her itch with dogbays of his howling cock!

The hound moves circuitously around, sniffing, the memory of some ancient screwing done by him-heaven knows where, or in what whorebitch at hand.

She knows. She can remember this mastif-like a favored beau returned from corruption. She would lick the pus from his maroon carbuncle to get raked by that again. Her jungleflowered cunt needs a doglover, will sit up and bark for the bone between his hindlegs. Will do tricks for a pat between her thighs.

But it is not for that the Baron has come.

Such elementary skits are over. They have lost their punch, the applause is thin. The harlequinade no long suffices.

One needs grand opera for such nights as this!

The Baron is assisted by Fritz and the hound. Together, as one, they bear her down the great cold steps into the very rectum of the castle. Deep, dungeon deep, into the land of newts and rats and creeping things.

Her nostrils are insulted by the sheer complexity of smells-mountingly offensive.

Black as the heart of a lusting nun, the walls converge, narrow, widen, split, disappear.

They are at the hellbottom of the place, below even the sound of thunder, the sight of God.

A place of chains and cages and mossdamp floors. Stagnant torches stick out phallic-stiff from the walls. The smells mix with the sounds. Bird-sounds, beasts. Bleat and yarr, chirr and tu-whoo, caw and grunt.

Things move in their chains, stumble against the stubborn prisons of their cages.

Out of the shadows comes Jok.

Her heart flutters like a white banner in a sundrenched wind. Good Jok, sweet Jok!

Roland to the dark tower-comes-fucking Cinderella, trying all the girls until it fits-Prick Charming!

Jok smiles, and leads her to the manacles.

First one slender wrist, then the other. Then one white ankle, and then the other.

She is chained now, arms and legs in yawning Y's. Jok has locked her into place, put her in a vise, hopefully for some picnic of a fuck with him. She assumes.

She hopes.

She waits...the little antler of her clit standing in anticipation of Jok's great moosenose of a prick.

She knows now that dogs won't do...how could she have floated on such silly mists! A thing like Jok is a joy forever...a cunt's conundrum...a pussy's toy-She hangs, limp eyes on Jok, her twat as moist as a soapy rag, waiting to be fucked midair.

She is still dreaming, smiling, when the viperous whip strikes her flesh. Again!

The cat-tailed leather bites her down to blood! Through swimming eyes of pain, she can see the Baron, his cloak a stingray of rippling black, his hand clutching the whip, like a lover's teat, hitting her, thrashing her like an errant sow wandered from the lot.

She screams!

Brays her rage as the whiplash falls!

She faints...and wakes up to the beating...wakes to feel the little droplets of shit peeking out the budded hole of her ass...and urine scalding down her mottled legs... wakes to her tongue squawking and croaking in mindless syllables of shouted pain.

Welts the size of fists ride across her flesh. Blood shimmers here and there, riotous blooming flowers of her pain. Her cunt is shriveled to a sundried apricot.

Only when she hangs like garbage caught against a fence, does the whipping stop.

Her mind flickers as she is taken down from her cross of chains. Jok and Fritz carry her to the flat slab of cold stone in the center of the room. They toss her broken body down like butchers readying the carcass of a doe. Fritz cannot resist the touching of her furry, blood-specked cunt, the withered nipples of her coldly shrunken tits.

He wants her even now, would fuck her drawn and quartered parts with relish, would come like a jackal in the eyeless sockets of her skull given half the chance.

But the Baron is not ready for such idyllic scenes.

There are yet more minuets to be danced before the hunchback's balls can meet her worthless, scrambled cunt.

The pigmeat must be basted. No Feast of the Fuck can pass without the proper amenities.

Jok and Fritz bring the pots into place, begin to spoon the contents on her flesh.

It is the shit of innumerable creatures-from shellfish and reptile, to camel and vulture. All mixed into one thick mass of odorous paste.

Plop, slurp, splat!

Over tit and toenail, rib and leg, hill and silly dale.

Green bile and blue, brown dung and black.

The chameleon's orchid shit, the iguana's greenish goo-the polliwog's blustery pod of waste, the common tomcat's farted muck-a leopard's muffin of sullage-a rat's black-marbled crap.

Never were nostrils more rudely awakened.

She sniffs the flotsam being ladled on her flesh, and vomits like a dying whore. It really doesn't matter. One stench more-or-less to join the fray. To compliment the steaming funk of animal crappers, of offal gathered from the four corners of the be-shitted earth.

She is polluted, smutted with shite from head to twinkle toe. Iced with excrement like some obscene cake in hell.

When they are through, they wipe their spatulas in her golden hair, mixing nut-brown tones into her yellow.

They stand back, artisans of wit, admiring their handiwork-bold dadaists, shitslingers with a rage to live.

The next step is obvious.

Shit once applied, must be removed.

Lovers of pure shit are hard to come by. Innuendo is the common ploy, even in the animal kingdom. At the messianic nod of the Baron, Fritz covers her body with a bucket of honey. Golden, thick, aromatic.

It hides a multitude of sins.

Goats are brought forth. Five of them-starved into imbecility for weeks. Their madman eyes are green with greed, their little Confucius beards bobble at the sight, the smell, of honey.

They begin to bleat and feed on the syrupy expanse of her body. Their tongues are like pumice, sponging shit and honey up together, sucking, lapping, nibbling down to her snowy skin-which they prefer to ignore.

At the end of it all, the tempted goats are bawling for yet more. It is the kind heart of the Baron that provides them with a surprise cornucopia.

Directing Jok to handle her with care, he supervises the lifting of her legs into still more chains, until her V-shaped thighs provide a proper trough, her sullied cunt a proper drinking cup.

He orders Fritz to fill her sex with honey while Jok spreads wide the goblet of her cunt. Then the goats are allowed to syphon the honey out as best they can.

Hungry goats are cleaver beasts. Their sandstone tongues dig deep, tunnel and winnow for the faintest trace of sweet clinging to the inner walls of her sugared slit.

The goat's banquet becomes hers as well.

The welts and bloody stripes, the lingering stench of shit, fades with the titillation of such ravaging inside her cunt. In effect, she is fucked by each frolicsome lunge, each sopping rondo of goat-tongue greed. Innocently, they debauch her, nibble the leafy hardness of her honey-tipped clit until she spasms.

She feeds them the thin, hot milk of one gay orgasm after another.

They lap it up, tickle her as they savor, feed between her legs like children at a party.

At last the goats are led away from the lane of milk and honey.

She rubs the floriated cell of her cunt with trembling fingers. She has come until she is raw and red with pleasure.

But she is not yet ready for the saturnalia still to come with its own red rawness...

Fritz, it seems has not yet fucked the castle's lovely guest.

The Baron is nothing if not a gentleman. He will not put impotent prick to hole until invited, but he sees no harm in presiding over the less refined whims of his faithful servant, Fritz.

Besides...

It is sport to watch the lower animals fornicate. He therefore gives permission, blesses the event with a nod of his bullet-sharp chin.

She is, unfortunately for herself, still in chains. The honeycup of her cunt, so recently drained by goat mouths, is still uplifted-tempting as an open sack of gold.

Her hands are free-but not for long.

Fritz binds them behind her back with leather straps. He wants no interruption to his peasant fuck.

She watches, blood chilling, as his spidery hands unbutton the front of his pants. Out it comes, thick as a mace, crooked as his back, spangled with warts the size of vineyard olives.

The head of his prick is a perversion of all things symmetrical. It is the size and shape of a giant sea turtle. A purple stinking fist of a head. Its Cyclops eye pulses like the mouth of an eel.

What she has sworn will never happen, is about to!

Fritz employs less art than ambition in satisfying his savage dream. He knows but one way to fuck and that is straight-on. The ugly nozzle of his cock is stuffed between the pouting labia of her cunt, then horsed in deep with a single thrust.

The shaggy warts that ride his prick bite into the walls of her vagina, move knob-like deep into her violated depths, erasing pleasure with pain.

Once in, he fucks her roughly.

She twists, yelping, screaming for the mercy of a moment's pause.

Her merely fucks her harder, faster.

She struggles in the prison of her chains, gasping to confine his leaps. She closes her eyes against the hideous nearness of his leering face, the vinegary blasts of his breath.

His fucking is a squalid parody of love, a rapist's craft, a rat's promiscuity.

Despite this...her cunt responds...grinning at last, a sluttish Jezebel farting at all decency.

It makes love to his wart-hobbled prick, begins to squeeze and suck it with every bloated shove.

She comes for him-worshipping his Apollo's prick as it makes her come! She juices passionately, shamelessly under the Baron's chuckling sneer.

Fritz curses her treacherous joy, jets off inside her with his stab of iron, then pulls it out with ruthless speed.

He leaves her well-fucked upon the slab, her legs open like a robber's emptied cave, her cunt dripping with the thick putrescence of his crooked, warty prong.

It is not until much later, lying on her bed again, burning with the wounds of the outrageous night, that she remembers the visions catalogued during the bout with Fritz.

Did she merely dream that Jok fucked a hawk to death before her eyes, its great wings frenzied in their beating on his chest?

Was it in a nightmare that she saw him ram the whole of his titanic prick into the pygmy cunt of a baby ewe?

Did she only imagine he fucked the slitted belly of a dying frog while Fritz drove needles of lust through her own wide-stretched slit?

Oh, Father-dear Father!

You did not tell me a home is not a castle! VIVE LA VIE

Pink means Paris.

The envelope twirls in Jok's strong hands like the mustache of a randy boulevardier. A lighter note has been struck. A bohemian mood is at hand. Wine, song, and the sympathetic fuck...the city of coquettish cunts...the spermy Seine...the Eiffel Tower in eternal erection!

She finds it hard to forget the Baron. Eau de Shit hangs still under her fingernails, the roots of her scalp, the rims of her nostrils. And the memory of Fritz, his horned-toad prick slavering in her core, seems but the bloom upon the thorn.

People, the great gray city seems to tell her in the honks of taxicabs, come here to forget. To nest warmly for a bit.

But certainly to forget.

She is not sure she can-not everything. She must remember the sacrifice at Xipe, the rigors demanded of the Swedes, the humbling by the Baron's screaming whip.

All fit together, some sensory mosaic for her special morality.

Father knows best.

But Jok is madness, forgetfulness itself.

He sports a flower in his lapel, a cane to tap, a hat set like a gigolo's on his brow. He knows this is a city of whores. Great scented clusters of fucked and unfucked cunts germinate here in niches, nooks, crannies and cracks.

He seeks them like a rabid wolf.

He takes her on the rounds-the palaces of pleasure, the dancing girls, hoops of flesh and wine, whimsy and free rein.

She is carried exhausted in his protective arms to her garret bed. His cologne struggles in her nostrils. The whiskery petals of his boutonniere scratch her cheek. She snuggles while he carries... dead to all thought but the hope of a dreamy rut with him...here in this fabled city of frivolity...

Her lips move over the congenial word like a prayer.

Fuck.

But it is, of course, not to be-at least with her. Jok's great prick will terrorize a dozen or so soubrettes before the final dawn, but leave her trembling little pod as dry as dust.

He seeks bigger, hardier cunts-cunts with horsemane hair and teeth to eat with...syphoning, sucking cunts...melodious, polyphonic cunts to entertain the big baton between his legs...cunts mad to loosen the acid in their walls, roomy cunts, cavernous cunts, widespread and shrieking to be fucked...

She must, in the meantime, content herself with Paul and Henri and Jacques.

The lesser all of one evil.

They are waiting for her in the garret, happy to share their simple student quarters with one who seeks the freedom to live, the freedom to fuck and be fucked, the right to salute the star-spangled spasm at any hour of the day on expatriate soil.

Revolutionists, all.

Jok bids her a bon-vivant's adieu and leaves her in the hands of her new friends.

She is given wine and cheese and bread. She is fondled here and there by the wily Jacques, the son of a prominent doctor who has given up on him. His foxy smile beneath his sleek, somewhat boyish mustache speaks volumes on the art of seduction. His secret life is an open book of cunts-here a governess, there a cousin. He has fucked them all-in the mornings and the afternoons. Once a dying countess in her boudoir-for an undisclosed amount of money. He remembers the twitching grasp of her shriveled cunt, a crone's toothless sex masticating the stiffness of his schoolboy's prod. The old devil came, though. He made her come, took it upon himself like young Alexander conquering another world.

He grins, and soothes his mustache with a fingertip.

And studies the new hors d'oeuvre.

With very little diplomacy, Jacques has her abed, shucked out of her clothes, naked with the taste of cheese still in her throat.

He fucks her humorlessly, rhythmically, turning her clabbery cunt to smoothest butter.

He is good. An expert. He would rather fuck than eat or play a master game of chess.

They come together like cannons set mouth to mouth. His casual, wicked sperm runs down her legs...

With the ice thus broken, she is fair game to Henri and Paul.

Henri is fond of breasts. He suckles the pink tips until they are hard as duckbills, constantly fucking her with a long and narrow prick that reaches high into her trackless center, sighting and sailing into untouched ports.

Her awakened slit spits with pleasure as he comes, rolls off, and allows the naked Paul to crawl happily into place.

Paul is something of a Swede, she finds. He fucks robustly with his sturdy tool Her legs tremble around his waist, her lungs expand, her tits bounce like doll-heads. His prick becomes a horse. He would fuck her until she faints with pleasure.

Her clit drags against the pressure of his stiffness like an anchor-and she comes.

Her juices soak his thighs.

More wine and laughter...then more of everything.

The Swedes, she learns soon enough, have not yet learned the blackest arts. Endurance is but half the French game. There are other incantations to madden the senses, to cart off the cunt to bedlam...

One merely says the magic numbers, chants the mumbo sum...soixante neuf.

Jacques is first.

Under her, his prick up like a hunting horn, he spreads the cantaloupe of her cunt and eats his fill. His tongue plunders her like a pirate's hook. Such ecstasy she has never known-it would not suffer in comparison to a month of common Sundayfucks!

Her head is lowered with the pressure of his hands. She must taste his throbbing fruit. A unique feast for her, but one which sharpens her appetite to ravenous need. Her mouth becomes an oval, then a hole. She sucks the big, fine head of his prick until it dribbles with salty joy.

She goes down deeper, stretching her mouth into a hinge, stuffing great hot inches of his flesh into her throat, nostrils distended, smelling his maleness, eating as she is being eaten, loin to loin, keeping the commandment to lust...one...another.

Jacque's tongue is like a root growing deep inside her. It laps and licks until she would do a hornpipe to his fluting. She wants it harder, faster, deeper still. She moves her hips in a fandance of quickening lust. He follows with mouth glued to her slit, tongue stroking like a giant lizard's tail, hands planted firmly into the globes of her sweating ass.

His prick tastes better all the time!

It is peppermint sweet, a great column of confection to lick and suck and nibble. In gulping sobs, she bends and twists her neck to eat it all, stoppering her gullet, choking off her breath, committing momentary suicide on the dagger of his sex.

The bristly hair at his root snarls against her nostrils, the tip of her sniffing nose rubs the heavy bags between his legs.

Such wanton mouthfuckers finally gather their fruits, harvest the carbonated juices of their passion with gurgling greed.

She cannot swallow his jetting nectar fast enough. She chokes and gags. She must end by chewing the spongy, bloated monster while it vomits fire. She gets his semen down, plucky and proud, and then is loathe to stop her demented sucking even as his cockmeat softens in repose.

His tongue gathers the stringy juices of her cunt like a big wet finger stuck in cobwebs. She comes as she has simply never come before. Hot nosturines of lust. Cunt-squats to his raking tongue. One low, wheezing fart to usher the last dripping excretions from her core.

They roll in a sweaty, naked tangle on the bed.

Paul and Henri, stiffened pricks at attention, admire the artistry of two such maniacs of life.

Each must try the heady game with her until her twat is tongued to rawness and her lips swollen with the bumblebee sting of pricklove.

She belches, tasting sperm.

Tongues seem in her through the night, even when the tongues are really ordinary pricks...

Variations on a theme.

Francs are collected at the door, and she is more or less put to work. Work and pleasure do mix, saith the fool.

She mixes them quite well.

She is glad to be of help. Henri needs more blank canvas to become immortal; Paul needs paper for manuscripts to outwrite Sartre; and Jacques-the supertalent among them all-has a lawyer's wife to fuck, and must buy the proper shirt to do it in.

The francs are gathered at the door, and she fucks the investors to her hearts content. The sailors are the best-demanding their money's worth. They fuck the porthole of her cunt with splendid, worldly zest. American sailors, chewing gum, fuck her like the grownup boyscouts they really are, grinning when they make her come, spitting on the floor as they leave.

She loves to read their tattoos, and makes a small hobby of it. One has propellers on his buttocks, but fucks slow as a sinking freighter. Another has been pained to have a garden snake tattooed in a twirl about the boa-constrictor of his prick. She insists on sucking the venom from the serpent's upraised head. Happily, it comes alive again in the forest between her legs.

She outlasts them all...the vigor of her Swedish interlude paying off...handsomely.

She will send a French postcard to Viktor, something with a scene, thanking him.

The coffers of her friends are filled, the storehouse of her cunt quite looted.

They promise her a party.

It's little enough...

Jok arrives like a sated ram, a whore on each arm.

Rosa and Marie are painted things, a mastubator's vision of paradise. Both began as girls-fucking Hitler's stormtroopers in a non-political way, making them sigh with their boots on, athrill with the drumroll orgasm for friend or foe. And they have been waiting all their lives for Jok-and he has humped them into separate comas of contentment.

They hang on his arms like awed little girls with hot, thumbsucking cunts.

She is jealous of Jok's two pets. They seem to her shrill apes in a jungle of green envy. She would chain them, feed bananas to their monkey-slits, teach them to fuck their own kind and leave her God alone.

But it is a party-a time for intoxicating joy.

Paul and Henri dance half-nude about the room, dervishes of the Moulin Rouge, wildcats out for men.

They borrow Rosa's fur and Marie's chapeau, cavort with organgrinding hips and mincing steps. The whores applaud them, whistle, snap fingers at their hidden, rhythmic cunts.

Jok stares, intrigued by Paul, drinks his wine and carves the image of such well-served-up male-buttocks deep into his lurid brain. Given half the chance he will take that taunting little buck-crack of Paul's-screw it bloody, carry off his balls like pelts, show him what it means to tease the grub.

Paul enjoys the act.

He senses that his perverted charms hath stirred the savage beast. Unfrocked is unfucked, he thinks -and means to wed himself to the feathers left there by Georgette, one of Jacques' late tricks.

He parades in shameless heat, the smell of needling fuck rising from his anus like a purple smoke. The male peahen would have a prick!

Henri, much less the maiden, drops aside and lets Madame Bernhardt have her day.

Miss Paul studies from afar the growing bulge in Jok's tight pants-and grins. He would be taken at high noon by a gargoyle's dick if it varied things a bit. To offer his ass to such as Jok, sodomized shitless at his own invitation, at his own party, seems merrymaking at its best.

Jok stands-prick bulging like an axe.

Paul screams winsomely, gathers up imaginary skirts, and flutters toward the hall.

Jok follows, black with lust.

The action will, as they say, take place off stage...

Henri and Jacques amuse Marie. One fucks her sloshing cunt. It is, oddly enough, Henri with his long and narrow tool. While Jacques allows his hot balls the privilege of being licked.

It is obviously Marie's one childhood vice. She licks balls devotedly, hysterically.

Jacques must put himself in a most unique position for the treat. Naked from the waist, he curls one leg under Marie's head and the other over her shoulder. His nuts thus hang like two great overripe fruits above her twitching nose and parted lips. She is free to lick herself into a frenzy.

Licking and smelling, Marie's whoretongue parades over the scarcely wrinkled testicles with brazen glee. She laps them wetly, warmly-covers each honeyed inch, tickles his bullock balls until he is aflame with lechery.

His cock sticks up between his legs, stiff again as stone. He would fuck the mouth that moves beneath his root-and moves to do just that.

In the meantime, Rosa has not let the moss collect around her feet. Paul's wanton switch in sex has given her spine-tingling thoughts. To play the male and suck the phlegm from any girlish puss would make the day as perfect as a virgin's prayer.

She means, of course, petite Celeste.

Rosa finds her naked and defenseless as a rattler, coiled on the bed, damning Paul by now for having all the fun with Jok.

Rose drops the scarlet microcosm of her dress and crawls, tit-large, into the bed.

Celeste cannot resist the rubbing hand between her legs, the cowbell nipples moist and hard against her own. She lets Rosa have her way. Fatlady and thin, in a circus.

Rosa dives between her skimpy legs and burrows deep, sucking with hot-blooded hunger. Her tits balloon on either side of her new lover's thighs, nipples distended like rolled and pointing tongues.

From across the room, Rosa is a spectacle. Her hips rise like great white hippos. The crack of her ass is like an arrow pointing to her hairy, oft-fucked cunt.

Jacques muses that Rosa needs a horny prick to make her day complete.

He crawls up from the stabbing tongue that licks his balls and approaches Rosa's hunkered, unsuspecting twat. He means to fuck it.

He strokes the hard-on between his legs and leads it to the cranny of her thighs. Softly, he spreads the fatty cuntlips wide.

He plunges it in to the hilt.

Grabbing her shoulders from the back, he begins to fuck her with deep, selfish strokes. A crayfish crawling in her cunt couldn't pleasure Rosa more.

They all come, more or less, at once.

Jacques trots back to Marie. It seems his balls are sticky with the snivel of his own sperm. His and Rosa's, at any rate...and at any rate at all, they need be licked oft. He returns just as Henri's long and crooked prick is bringing Marie to a simmering boil. She is glad to lick Jacques with a coarse, lust-drunken tongue-until, in fact, he ejaculates again and covers her face and flowing hair with fresh-smelling spunk.

Someone wonders about Paul and Jok-not even lovers fuck forever!

Then somebody has a better idea to worry about.

Why not imagine what Jok and Paul are doing, and act it out.

Opera comique!

It is arranged...a morality play among pillows. Rosa and Henri, Marie and Jacques, Celeste and...?

Celeste will serve as the afterpiece.

Henri and Jacques will be ridden-two of them combined to make the fuckhorse, Jok. They romp on hands and knees around the arena, pricks and balls swinging between their legs, heads slapsticking the toss of horses' heads. At last they stop to feed and quench their thirst. Out of troughs between the giggling thighs of Rosa and Marie.

The horses show no manners. They slurp and guzzle and rub their noses in their food and drink.

Henri's chin drips with Rosa's juice before the meal is over.

A one-act play is staged with Marie as the heroine, Paul.

Jacques is the villain, Jok-the swarthy sheik comes to bully his way into her cunt-shaped heart, or (even better, all agree) her heart-shaped cunt.

He adores the latter, and fucks her on Hie floor until the limits of dramaturgy go by the board. Marie comes in his arms. Her cunt cries real salty tears that wash down her chunky legs in rivulets.

She is accused of overacting.

Marie and Rosa plan a puppet show. They squat on the naked abdomens of Jacques and Henri with their backs turned to them. Below their navels, rising close up through their cunthair, are the two stand-up comics.

To make them move and dance, Jacques and Henri must manipulate the nipples of their partners' tits.

It works wonderfully. The more the tits are tweaked, the harder and higher the prickish puppets leap.

The vaudeville ends with the puppets crawling into two hot caves, vomiting up their guts and collapsing from the heat.

It is a tragedy worthy of Rabelais.

Their repertoire is ended now on a grand note.

Jok himself returns-holding Paul in front of him like a shriveled spider. The monstrous prick is wedged bloodily into the vent of Paul's behind. It has obviously been fucked that deeply in.

Paul has the madman's happy look.

His tongue hangs out, pink as a clitoris. With it, he makes noises like an ass...braying to be ridden all the way.

"Disgusting," someone notes.

"Paris is a whore!"

"And we live with her daily-like pimps."

"Yes, one must make ends meet, somehow."

The morning is out of Puccini, a final act of despair.

Paul chatters incessantly of his long night of perfect agony. He declares he has never known the rapture of the orgasm until, butterfly-like, he was caught wriggling on the pin of Jok's great prick. He asps that the weekend will find him haunting the bars where sodomists assemble. If he must deck his ass with feathers for life, he will be fucked again by such as Jok.

And on, and...on.

She stuffs her ears to keep from hearing more. Her cunt is itching like snuff on an open wound.

The only one wise enough to see her plight is Jacques.

At noon, with Henri and Paul both momentarily out, he persuades her that the only cure for melancholy is a country outing. A nose buried in flowers may sniff, but happily. A heavy heart will lighten in the sun.

And on...

He even packs a most surprising picnic lunch.

His little car speeds them quickly to the countryside. He's full of talk and mannerisms, the educated flow of a doctor's boy. To look at him, to listen to his classic syllables, one would never dream his mind was one, wet-throbbing cunt.

They find a place-all green and flowerly. Hidden away. A perfect place to fuck.

He arranges her like some bad Monet upon the grass, parasol lifted prettily, legs coyly spread so that he can easily lift her skirts and tickle her lissome slit.

He does so while carrying on a conversation about the relative merits of Henry Miller's art. Her cunt grows around his finger, like a wet and furry mold. Still he talks, moving two fingers in her now, then three. He inserts them to the knuckles. Her tits grow hot, mad for a mouth.

When he is satisfied that she is in fine fettle, he unbuttons his pants and invites her to use her tongue awhile. It isn't everyday, he suggests, that one can frolic in the sunlight and the leaves.

His prick grows hard.

He quotes the poet Suckling aloud in French, and smiles enticingly.

She would have Jok, of course-but Jacques is there. It is his long, white prick that stands up from his fly, outlined in every pore by the molten sunlight.

She has never seen one so clearly.

She inspects it on her hands and knees, much to Jacque's amused, sophisticated pride.

She sniffs it, licks it, sucks it a bit.

She adores the head of it, although it seems much too large for the stem. It sits atop like a toadstool made of stone. She tongues it at some length, until a tangy bubble of his sperm drips down the bowed shaft and wets his heavy balls.

Jacques has had enough of games.

He unpacks the picnic lunch, to show her what he has hidden among the sandwiches and the grapes.

Mere napkin rings, she shrugs. Her innocence sharpens his drumming lust. He calls them ticklers, saying it in velvety French.

She turns them over in her hands, saying they look like leather collars made for rats. Each is variously pronged with wicked-looking bumps and spears and fat nodules of rubber.

She is ignorant until he rings one on his freshly stiff, upstanding prick-and then she knows.

He tells her that, with one attached, even a farmboy in wooden clouts can satisfy a Duchess. He insists the penis finds it hard to come in such a clumsy harness. The cunt has all the fun.

It is a harmless he-but one which would bear demonstrating.

He promises to keep it in her until the cows come home.

Swans move on the twilight lake...glide with long, crooked, phallic necks...mirrored on the glassy water, one by one.

Sheep bleat, cows moo.

She moves the great swanbody of her loins, and comes again.

She thinks perhaps the juices are half blood, but the razorings of bliss outweigh the pain. Moving deep into the nucleus of her cunt, the rubber cartwheel digs and tickles, tickles and digs.

They have been at this for hours.

Above her, his face a Satan's mask of greed, he pants through clenched and drooling teeth. His eyes distended like blazing nipples. He has worn calluses on his knees, blisters on his hands. The largest of the ticklers fits his bloated prick like the collar on a warhorse. He plows it savagely into her bitchy cunt, hunting pus in wearied anger.

She grins, and lubricates his cock's blind and searching head with still more flutterings of her endless honey...

On reaching home, she finds Jok in a rage.

He demands to know where she has been, and waves an envelope the color of gold in front of her.

Schedules must be kept!

The bags are packed and waiting!

She smiles...and wonders if her chaperone isn't jealous, has not at last begun to sense her voodoo. If poor Jacques were not so petered out, perhaps Jok could learn from him just how worthwhile her cunt has grown.

At any cost, leaving Paris will be sad.

She's grown, somehow, quite fond of pink... THE GOLDEN BEETLE

Ha-Chin is most efficient. Like some scrambling black bug, he disposes of her bags, brings pekoe tea in paper-thin bowls, draws the bamboo shades, then silently departs.

The place, she thinks, is like the mirrored closet of a shell, polished to perfection. She has never seen such beauty. Windchimes of jade tinkle at the windows. A cricket moves in a wooden box. Dragons smile at her from a painted vase.

In the air a subtle incense hangs by a thread.

The odor is disturbing, suggestive...

She stirs her naked body under the brocade gown, nipples distended, ready for an oriental fling. She has made already such moves to the boy, Ha-Chin. But he is faithful to his master's word...and for the time being she must content herself with adoring his porcelain skin-white, blue-veined-and with wondering about his body.

Would it be like fucking a china doll?

She sips her tea, holding the fragile bowl in her trembling fingertips.

Aromatic, the tea clouds her head with fumes, begins to stir the crinkle of her cunt. She is, in fact, seething at her slit when Ha-Chin returns with the dish of soap and glinting razor.

He smiles and bows, his boyish teeth mother-o-pearl between his lips. His thin hands hold the razor like an artist's brush.

He has been instructed to shave her slit.

She writhes naked on the bed, hoping to be fondled, stroked. But Ha-Chin is a covenant of duty. He soaps the tawny leafage between her thighs as if it were his master's chin. With nimble fingers, he pulls back each seamy hump and shaves it clean.

Her cunt goes lunatic under his touch, puckers like a mouth to suck his fingers. He eludes her with a mysterious smile. A few more flicks and scrapes, and her pussy is clean-shaven, folded like a newborn puppy's ear, pink and soft.

She has never seen a hairless cunt. She rubs it with a grin, and finds it flaming with desire. It seems the tea has quite gone to her maidenhead.

She begs Ha-Chin to fuck her on the spot. She spreads her legs, opens her pinkish grooves with digging fingertips and shows him how much fun it could be. Her little fishmouth cunt puckers for his yellow prick. She promises to tell nobody-just a quick, mad screw under the stare of the dragon.

Ha-Chin is shy. He blushes. His eyelashes close over his doll's eyes, but his boyish prick is hard beneath his robe.

With wanton, slitted eyes, she digs inside his robe and closes her possessive fingers around his turgid staff. It isn't large-but hard as opalescent jade. The head is moist.

"Fuck me!" she hisses, touching the firm, round noodles of his balls, loving their velvet feel.

His eyes are gleaming like a snake's. He stares, fascinated, at the frothy tuck between her legs. He yearns to spread it with the fork of his flesh, to fuck this devotee of pricks before his master beats him to it.

"Lick it," she pleads, cunt roaring like a sealion, "touch it! Scratch it, if nothing else!"

He moves a fan of fingers over her thigh just too late.

The footsteps sting him into halting. He rises, and retreats across the room, arranging his robe to hide his youthful passion.

The teak doors part and his master enters.

Old and bent, his white goat's beard dripping from his chin. His face is polished copper, his eyes like shadows on a wall.

He comes to her, bends down, inspects the hairless furrow between her thighs. It seems to please him. He nods and fusses with her spraddled legs, pats her morsel breasts with fingernails as long as serpent tongues.

With clap of hands, he summons Ha-Chin to help him with disrobing.

She watches as the Chinese boy removes his master's robes. It is a long process, full of grunts and creaking bones.

At last he is naked, all ribs and hanging flesh.

Between his withered legs dangles a Soochow shrimp, garnished with a sprig of graying hair.

Another clap of hands and Ha-Chin drops to his knees. His nimble fingers take the shrimp and manipulate it. The old man closes his eyes, swaying in a prayer of hopeful lust.

The shrimp trembles, thickens slowly, stiffens to a terrapin's neck of serviceability.

He waves the boy away and moves upon her legs with spidery care.

The giblet of his prick intrudes between the meaty ridges of her cunt like a twig sinking in a swamp. It fattens a bit more inside of her, drowning in the yeast of juices generated by the aphrodisiac tea and her secret yearning for Ha-Chin.

He fucks her at a cricket's pace.

He tries at last and swings her on her side, gluing his shanks closely to her rounded buttocks, moving his trivial prick in and out the bubble of her slit.

She will never come this way.

He nibbles on the rosebuds of her tits, his beard whisking slowly past her navel. She grows restive, ambitious for something more.

He puts one curled, flinty fingernail to her ass and inserts it deep. It slices a path of pleasure almost to her core.

She moans and moves the bellows of her hips, fanning the warmth his slender prick is making.

They fuck together, fishing for deeper thrills.

His finger is into her to the knuckle, wounding her with delight. They move in faster circles. The shaven ridges of her slit expand and suck the clever stiffness of his ancient cock. His walnut balls jiggle at her crack.

He moves his ringer faster and she comes, frothing, purring, shooting blitheful globs of juice against the thicker finger of his maleness.

He comes himself, a thimble of acrid sperm, and sighs.

At length, he pulls away. His harmless little shrimp has become a snail.

He lies with his snowy head between her legs, smelling the youthful vapor of her cunt. Finally, he crooks his finger at the waiting boy.

Ha-Chin comes forward with a furtive step, and hands him a dildo made of polished jade.

It is a grinning idol's head which tapers twelve thick inches to the handlegrip.

The old man inserts it slowly between the humid lips of her freshfucked cunt, twisting it gently, expertly.

The throat of her pussy constricts over it, clasps it, makes it work for every luscious inch.

When it is buried out of sight, the old man shapes his hands around the handle in an attitude of prayer. He begins to twirl the evil god until its grinning head is spinning swiftly in her cunt.

Her clitoris tongues the stony jade with enchanted passion. It whirls deeper in her core, its godhead fucking her to death.

She comes again at last, spitting a wild arc of liquid joy. The spongy walls of her vagina collapse around the hardheaded thing, feeling blindly each bump and wicked curve. She sighs reluctantly as it slips away. The gaping ridges of her cunt roll back wetly as it suctions out.

She yawns and goes to sleep with her hand between her softly folded legs.

In her dream, she is fucked yet again...and wakes to find the cricket restless in its cage.

They dine in a polished hall, squatting on silken mats.

Jok is a temple god in red-scarlet. The old man nibbles like a goat. The table groans with breasts of guineas and legs of frogs. Pheasant and caviar and sweet potatoes, washed down with tangy rice wines and heated gin.

Ha-Chin serves. The chopsticks frustrate her and he is glad to be of use. Beside her, he lets his hand caress hers as he fits the sticks between her fingers. She can feel his hard young prick touching her thigh beneath his robe.

She smiles at him around the cup of wine, imagining his tongue stuck politely in her crack.

After dinner, the old man takes a stroll. He moves like a frozen moth in his garden. Jok has gone into the city in his scarlet blouse. She wonders fleetingly of the slurred and oriental slits that will house his monstrous prick before the sun comes up. She wishes her eyes were almonds, her cunt some yellowed slice to swallow all his rigid meat in one great gulp. To get his prize, she would bell her tits and dance on toetip.

But no such fortune-cookie luck.

She is left with Ha-Chin's boyish cock to fill her smoky void.

She intends to make the most of him.

When the master leaves the garden, she is listening to a samisen, poised in her room like a rosepetal on a pond. Innocent as sleep.

The second he is locked behind his bedroom door, her tigress blood begins to boil. She stalks the hall, in search of Ha-Chin...

She finds him hiding-openly-in his room.

His long, thin legs are bare, his little feet in heavy clogs. He wears a diaper of black cloth and nothing more. His nipples peek like twin grains of browned rice from the smoothness of his chest, a few short, blackish hairs surround his navel.

She hungers for his graceful body, and he for hers.

He bolts the door and draws his bamboo shades. The room is blue with twilight. His low, hard pallet seems a goosefeathered bed of love.

She sheds her clothes with pernicious speed. Her tits are jugs of blood and fire. The nipples stab the air, horned, pronged. Just the thing to tease his adolescent tongue to madness.

Naked, the dual humps of her shaven slit stand out in profile like a fist. She longs to sheath his robust tool deep in her core, to drain its spurting head, to hold his lean and pumping buttocks in her clawing hands until he satisfies her basest need.

She tears his loincloth off, flings it away.

His pensile, jutting cock stands out manfully between his legs. Her fingers massage it, feel it, until the gristle turns to stone. A single pearl of sperm exudes from the slitted head.

She drags him by the handle of his cock down to the pallet and sprawls her legs open like a lusty book.

"Put it in me-fuck!" she husks.

A rabbit now, he plunges his bone of meat into her slimy crack and fucks her with a predatory rage. She worms and glides the oval of her sex against his piercing hardness. She teaches him the callous art of the Western slut.

His bony knees cudgel her buttocks, dig into the hollows of her hips. He plugs her solidly with each thrust, his balls bouncing like turtle eggs against the effeminate sliver of her ass.

He grunts and heaves, a wild, wiry little fucker to the last.

The pungent blossom of her cunt enfolds him, sucks his prick like some fat and greasy mouth, laps it with a furious tongue of greed.

He comes with mutilating vigor, jetting his boyish nectar high into a dry ravine. Her clit stands up like a blade and cuts into the throbbing fullness of his cock.

He falls exhausted on her breasts, his dry lips brashing the brazen thimbles of her burning tits. She is not satisfied.

She could fuck an army like him...but knows that she must bide her time.

She holds him to her, his dwindling prick awash in her roomy cuntiness. She lets her pussy lie down still, like a hungry crocodile feigning sleep.

She will have more of this timid Chinese bandit!

He rolls on his side at last, sliding the softened tadpole of his sex from between the slack lips of her cunt.

She studies him with whetted lust, worshipping the curling finger of his penis, the soft bags of his tangy nuts. Like a bird of prey, she hovers over him and touches her tongue to his chest.

She licks his handsome nipples until they spring up hard as little beads. She moves her tongue like a hummingbird over his ribs and abdomen, to the lean and bony saddle of his pelvis.

She finds his drooping prick and slurps it up with one spade of her pelican tongue. She sucks it softly, orbiting her head with slow and succulent care. He breathes more deeply.

His flesh begins to firm, resilient as India rubber, then hard as mouthblown glass.

It stands up all alone, pointing at the shadowy ceiling.

She licks it, thrilled by the smell of him, the oriental male in heated rat.

His fingers wander to her slit and toy with her spongy gates. He fucks her with his thumb and middle finger until she would faint with pleasure.

She straddles his waspish waist and crams the spindle of his cock deep into her gluttonous hole. It's bigger now, longer, thicker, overflowing with new energy.

She fucks him with lush, slow-motioned strokes, gratifying every rasping itch that haunts the funnel of her cunt. She uses him to sate her need, rocking the envelope of her hips with whorish conceit.

She leans over his hollowed chest and offers the thick melons of her tits to his youthful mouth. He holds them with his gentle hands and sucks each nippled plum until they flow with spice.

Her head thrown back, teeth clenched like hammered steel, she grinds her hairless cunt around his stiffened prick and fucks with quiet hysteria.

Outside, a peacock walks gracefully in the old man's shadowy garden.

He slides his short, slick legs around her waist and pumps, moaning. His fingers turn to claws around her tits. His prick petrifies in her cunt, then spits a forked tongue of sperm.

His juice runs jellied down her legs.

Unsatisfied, she humps until the peacock shadow falls silently across the bamboo slits of his room.

His coy young prick is empty, flaccid as a drunken worm.

Her cow-sized cunt bellows for one final, jangling fizz!

But he is spent.

How unkind the fucking gods can be...

Jok leads her by the hand to the old mandarin's presence.

The air is hung with jasmine from the garden. Sunlight sparkles on twig and leaf. It is a perfect day to meet the golden beetles.

Servants remove her robes.

Jok's eyes pass like a gloved hand over the furrow of her thighs, the thickness of her tits. She wonders what fugitive thoughts glide on batwings through his mind.

But it is not for Jok she has been stripped so nude.

The old man claps his hands and the servants disappear, only to return with jars alive with crawling beetles...gold and iridescent green...they tumble over each other inside the jars, scrambling on fuzzy legs, crazed with hunger like the Baron's goats.

The jars are capped with small air holes. The beetles cluster in a first at every hole, eating air with probing, hairy tongues.

She is made to he down. Her legs are spread, her buttocks raised on an ornately carved stool. Her cunt is ceremoniously opened with ivory chopsticks.

It is to be filled with mayonnaise from an American Army PX.

For the Chinese, an exotic touch.

Such whimsicality excites Jok to a stony smile.

When her cunt is packed, a jar of beetles is upturned and screwed into her crack. Just like that.

The beetles boil into her hole, ravenous to feed on the viscous stuff.

Her tits are likewise smeared, and jars attached. The yellow mayonnaise clots her nipples like mangled snot.

The beetles attack with hog-heaven, sucking mouths.

It takes a bit, but the reward of waiting is worth it all. When the mayonnaise grows thin, the moronic beetles lap her flesh, searching out with a trillion pincers the disappearing sweets.

She goes mad with joy.

The beetles boil like maggots in her cunt...her vagina is honeycombed with demented little tongues and crawling legs, biting, sucking, eating. Her nipples become great thumbs of bloated, itching meat. The beetles glue themselves to every inch and syphon her pores with famished need.

The juices of her cunt trickle, then flood.

The beetles float in her salty whey and drink it down. They crawl, web-footed, through the tingling slime, collect around her pulsing clitoris and suck it into stiffened rage.

When her brain is shredded, surfeited with bliss, the jars are removed, the fattened beetles plucked from their feast in paradise, and she is left to nurse her ravaged cunt as best she can.

Jok has watched the ancient ceremony with some ignoble glee. The bulge against his crotch is like an earthquake.

He would have the beetles eat his massive prick.

A jar that size is not so easily found. The old man's hands must clap in rage before the servants trundle in a vessel to fit the thickness and the length of Jok's great strumming cock.

An army of new beetles are recruited.

A servant, wide-eyed at the monster growing between Jok's spraddled legs, ladles the very last of the mayonnaise on his turgid flesh. It hangs on the great blunt prick-head like urine-colored snow. It glistens up and down the horsenecked stem and drips like candlewax on the heavy, swollen balls.

The jar is brought and covered with a slitted, rubber top. A servant fits the thickness of Jok's prick against the slit and pulls the jar upside down so that his horny tool is encased in glass.

From across the room, her fist rammed indelicately in her aching cunt, she remembers the smiling lady in the jungle cathedral-and marries her in her mind to Jok's stiffened saint of flesh.

Meanwhile, the beetles whir inside the jar and swarm against his cob with maddened lust.

Jok puts his hands behind his head and leans his chin upon his breast. He watches, fascinated, as the beetles throng his prick.

They eat with an extra violent greed.

The veins stand out along the body of his meat. The monster head grows large and red with pleasure as a hundred beetles make tonguing love to every heated pore.

His cock throbs violently, knocking beetles off. They climb back on, wriggling for a better taste.

Suddenly, Jok's lips stretch back in a sullen grin. He comes-pumping thick, spurting blobs of semen down the sides of his prick. The Vesuvian eruption buries hundreds of beetles in the steamy lava. They sputter on their backs, drown, and die.

He comes again, a tidal gush of lusty sperm inside the jar. More beetles perish.

Others-mad with the inheritance of his bloated dick-suck blindly away, their husky tongues pleasuring him to the center of his balls.

A few helpless feet away, she watches with languishing eyes. To be a golden beetle, dying such sweet death!

TOMBALYA!

The river is a fetid, stinking ribbon in the jungle...things move at the edges in the thick and trailing leaves...a chorus of monkeys shrills a dubious welcome.

She languishes below the deck of the chugging boat, burning with fever and fatigue. The last envelope-the black one-has brought her surely to the end of the earth. They will be swallowed in the steamy vagueness of this jungle. Her head and cunt, shrunken to peasize, will dangle forever from some chief tan's pole.

She does not care.

Sweat runs like the Congo down her thighs and into the gully of her cunt...a stinging tribe of ring-sized gnats buzz about the temples of her tits.

She stirs her cracked, parched lips.

Jok moves above her. His legs are naked in white shorts. His arms are bronzed by the African sun. His face, shadowed by the soiled pith helmet, watches her with surly care.

Even in the horsewhip of this heat, she twists her legs into an angled V. If she must die, then why not in the swelter of his arms, her muscled cunt broiling with his spiteful prick.

But she is not touched. There are things waiting for her in the big, black jungle.

Black.

And big.

She does not know when she is moved.

Borne on a stretcher up a beaten path-black faces leering-she remembers the dark and cool cathedral, the pyramid of Xipe, the little smiling doll behind the glass.

But this is a different place.

One not so friendly.

Perhaps a snake is hissing in the grass...

Viktor, Jacques, Ha-Chin-where are they? Why don't they save her from all this.

Only Jok.

Always Jok.

Her cunt closes like a furry trap. Bastard! Fucking Bastard!

If only she could kill him with her cunt!!

She grins. The great, oily clam-mount of her thighs hang slack, enticing. Here, Jok...pretty Jok! Stick it in. Once in, a fanged and vicious jaw-a guillotine of a cunt! She'd teach him to drag her into the center of the sun like this!

They leave her in a hut, lulled into a fitful sleep by distant, blunt tom-toms.

The tribe is being called together for a purpose.

Another test;-the white man has a trade to make...guess what.

When her fever passes, she is awakened by a naked black girl with tits as firm as pears. The young girl gives her a drink of sweetish stuff from a polished gourd. She steals a glance at the unguarded little cunt. A chocolate slit covered with down. She remembers the beetles and wonders how those primitive lips would grin to have a pussy so devoured.

The girl washes her white body with superstitious care.

She watches the girl.

The black peartits jiggle, the little purple nipples dance and point...

She loves the way the black girl's fingers nurse her swelling cunt, cleaning it for some no-doubt later fuck among the natives. At the moment, however, she is much more concerned with slaking her need with what is at hand. The perverse fires that were engendered in her by the French whore's wanton style is surely worth teaching to this caramel-skinned virgin.

She returns the graceful feathering of her cunt by cupping the black girl's slit with sudden, eager fingers.

The girl draws back-coy as a bird before a snake. The gold ring in her nose trembles.

"You will be fondled," Celeste whispers, "let me teach you how a tongue can slither in that narrow, swarthy crack of yours!"

Without complaint, the young girl allows dark, liquid thighs to be drawn into her arms, welcomes a petting of the ripe and spongy tits.

Lust coils like a viper in the pit of Celeste's thumping breast. The girl can't be more than fourteen! Such a tasty little dish to eat!

She plays brazenly with the girl's stubby orbs, making the nipples stiffen like any curious virgin's peaks.

Ovaling her mouth, she sucks the sweet black tits. Her tongue transforms the tips into leathery thumbs.

Perhaps the girl has had them sucked before. She wonders grandly if perhaps the girl has not been fucked a thousand times by black and oily pricks.

One never knows about these godless savages.

The possibility excites her. She suckles harder at the titty swells.

She bites the rosettes with her teeth, roils the puffy fullness of each nub under her fingers.

Their cunts burn in unison.

The girl grows wild as any full-gown whore. Her half-moon slit opens, pink and wet.

Celeste dips her fingers deep into the girlish nest and rubs the savage clit into a raven's claw of need.

Her own thicker tissue rises like a smoky tongue of flame.

"I'll suck it," Celeste breathes, diving between the slim, black-velvet legs. She spreads them wide around her head and sticks her pointed tongue deep into the musky crack.

The little mousy stink of the girl's warm cunt excites her into madness. She glues the circle of her mouth in place and suctions for the sweet, hot honey hanging on the walls.

The girl grins and twists, opening her cunt like a hot black flower to the probing stem of Celeste's desire.

The nubian's hip sway, rotate, buck.

Stealthily, Celeste puts her finger to the little dark bud at the center of the girl's buttocks. While sucking lustily on her heating cunt, she intrudes her finger into the feisty little ass.

The girl whimpers in delight.

Celeste sinks her lecherous finger deeper still, curving it like some playful snake.

The steamy little cunt begins to drip with joy.

Black, spidery fingers-grown wise as owls- crawl into the bloated pucker of Celeste's hot slit.

They understand one another now, sisters in lust, swinging cunt to cunt.

The girl begins to tremble. Celeste pumps the finger in her asshole faster, sucks harder with her tongue. Such expertise finds its mark.

The lickerish cunt explodes, spraying vaginal fluids in a fit of joy.

Celeste is drinking the last humid drop when the girl is wrenched from her arms like a sack of oats.

It is Jok, his eyes blazing with disgust.

He slaps the poor black girl with doubled fists, until she drops in tears and blood. He kicks her savagely in the cunt and knocks her sprawling in the dust.

When he turns back to Celeste, she is sitting with her legs apart, her hot and hairy sex gaping like a smiling mouth.

She grins and licks her lips-and even winks.

"I want to fuck," she thunders.

He tries to stare her down.

She jabs her finger at her cunt.

"I want this fucked-and now!"

He leaves the tent-to bring her what she wants.

He leads them in, a stable of black stallions. Males of the Tombalya tribe-the prize specimens -dark, exotic studs hidden in the depths of this still-secret Continent.

Her eyes devour the beauty of their bodies. Black-muscled giants with heavy-lidded eyes and purplish lips. The sweaty carbon of their flesh is smooth as glass. The only hair she sees is a bristly tuff above each hanging prick.

Her cunt throbs with wild, abandoned job.

The pricks are swarthy elephant snouts.

She is to choose the longest, blackest, biggest one to fuck...

She makes the difficult choice, pointing with a slender finger at a pair of coalblack, naked hips. His prick is the size of a tropical cucumber, ebony and slick, the hooded head sledgehammer-sized.

Jok leads the others out.

With wanton drumming in her blood, she circles her naked prize, touches his sooty buttocks, arms, and legs.

He neither moves, nor grins. He is a showy stud. His great black-meated prick hangs limp, waiting to be coaxed.

Her hands close in at last, circling the middle of his sex. She cannot begin to hold its dusky length or weight.

It grows, thickening like some sleep phantom in her hands. She plays with it, teases it hard, strokes it with her fingers until it stands out between his legs like a club of blue-black flesh.

She crawls back on her matted bed and pulls her legs apart. Her cunt gapes once more like a mocking mouth.

Every tribe has its secret. He pulls his from behind his ear. It is a large horsehair, thick as wire. With his face expressionless as stone, he lifts the heavy skin back from the tip of his cock and threads the hair through a tiny hole. The holes was made years before, a symbol of its virility.

The horsehair must be pulled tight, so that it rides like a sharply curled antennae at the prepuce of his prick.

Then, and only then, is he ready to put his great, proud tool into her civilized, white cunt.

His black hands hold her ankles and yank them apart until the muscles in her thighs ache and yearn to split.

Her pulsing slit fans open like a cave.

The horsehaired prick nuzzles stoutly into her meaty softness, forcing it to extend and grow to swallow even the head of such a cock.

She is blinded by the pain, and curses like a shrew.

The black colossus inches in, swelling wider, harder against the dilating walls of her buttery hole.

She screams and bites her lustful lips to blood.

He pumps it deeper, distending her bowels, filling her cunt with fire and brimstone.

His dark leadpipe of flesh is rammed halfway into her coughing cunt, and still he does not stop. He has been given trinkets to fuck her foreign, snow-white slit, and he blindly follows through.

The horsehair scratches, tunnels up her hole, fielding her into ecstasy.

He works between her legs with grunts and sighs. The animal fuck makes her a jungle cat, screeching and whimpering on some high limb of lust. Her throaty squawks fill the hut, the world. Her legs wrap like white snakes around his black and shining buttocks as he pumps.

She comes with a shrill scream of passion, wetting the flippery horsehair, sliming his thickly-veined and pistoning prick.

He fucks her harder, stroking deep against her flanged, juice-strangled thighs.

Her whole body is a slavering cunt.

She licks his chin and bites ravenously into his muscled arms. His skin tastes pungent, salty, obscene as tigershit.

The thorny nipples of her breasts-hard as spear tips-stab his moving chest. She feels the heavy thickness of his balls hitting against the sliver of her ass. She farts like an ape, and comes again, flooding his savage totem pole with all the jetting custards of her sex.

She faints, and is revived by his husky fucking.

Geysering again, she faints again.

She awakens, cunt flowing now like a fountain filled with spermy blood.

Her fingernails dig blind as talons into the broadness of his sweating back.

He doesn't pause.

He shows, in fact, a missionary zeal to fuck her into heaven.

Her happy slit sucks him like a swollen tongue!

She moves on hips bruised with pain.

The hut is dark.

She has been fucked for hours by that black, satanic prick. Her raw and widened cunt still feels the congestion of his brutal gorge. In the darkness, she touches the puffy lips between her legs-bloodied, battered, oozing open like a fatal wound. She smiles.

She wants it all again-mindless and savage, like a skinwrapped drum, pounding up the xylophone of her spine!

It must be big again.

The biggest in the tribe!

Or better-a tribe of big ones!!

Black and stiff, each one. Fucking her in tribal shifts until her lungs fill up with their hot, savage sperm!

She rises on her elbows. Her tits swing like sacks of heated sand. With her fingertips she feels them out to their troubled ends.

The nipples are thick as knotted ropes.

They drip even now with his warm saliva.

Her fingers trace the braille of his shark-toothed bites. He sucked them, she remembers, for the long, delicious eternity of his coming.

And what a thing that was!

The horsehair had bristled like a moustache of finest steel as he musketed great wanton spurts into the matrix of her cunt.

He spasmed like a kicking mule.

She grins, and licks her lips...wanting it all again...that horse between her legs...

At midnight, she is given to the tribe.

To simplify the ritual, her legs are tied apart. Her pigmouthed cunt slobbers open like a vat. Black males line up to fuck her with leviathan pricks.

Even the boys are hung with evil-stiffened tools that bloat inside the grainy walls of her slit and hold their stalwart erections for an hour or more.

She is fucked until her toenails bite into the bleeding bottoms of her feet...

In the meantime-before her lust-drenched eyes -Jok has his fill of the village girls.

The one he slapped is first.

He fucks her with his bulky cock until her tender, virgin's cunt is stretched like a screaming mouth. In the manner of the females of the Tombalya tribe, she makes no sound, even when the mangoes of his nuts he flush against her negroid buttocks.

He fucks five more without a pause going from one dusky slit to the next with his white and stiffened tool dripping like a beacon in a storm.

When the last is screwed, his prick is still distended as a goat's.

The violated females feed him fruit and drink, and then depart.

She and Jok are left alone in the middle of the village ground. A dying firelight licks shadows against their naked flesh.

She is still fair game for one last roundabout fuck. Her legs still tied apart. Her slit a frothy, captivating prize.

He lies a few feet away, his cock still stiffly up, pointing at the moon.

He studies her yawning cunt, thoughtfully.

She waits, drunk with hope.

Suddenly, he stands-and walks toward her on his lean and naked legs. Firelight dances on his wagging, wondrous prick.

She grins and lifts her thighs.

Her cunt softly drips and drools.

He pauses, only inches away, and contemplates her quivering, pleading pussy.

With a single, stabbing stroke he shoves a giant banana in her crack, and walks away.

Night creatures stir in distant trees, listening to a strange, unfriendly shriek...that never seems to end... ATHANASIA

She is brought back in a cage called Self...squatting in her baboon rage of lust.

Her cannibal cunt hangs open like a chunk of raw and itching meat, ringed with wiry horsehair, bristly as a cactus, drooling like a madman's mouth.

Her tits are thick as planets; the great, coarse sow-nipples point like Sampson's thumbs, tough as bark.

Her cheeks and lips are painted like a Mayday whore.

In her walnut bed, she stares with greed at the gnarled and twisting posts that rise like four great turgid pricks around her.

Father, dear-I'm home!

The old goat grins.

It does a father's heart good to see a daughter at last educated. In this modern world, one needs security-idle thighs are apt to strike a pose of worshipful sloth.

That would never do.

"J trust your trip was pleasant," he suggests, "I trust you saw the wonders of the world, what lies beyond."

How does one fuck a phantom!

"The envelopes," she sighs.

He smiles again. "There is one more after the black."

Colors stream before her eyes. The cockles of her cunt begin to warm.

"This one is white, my dear. I hold it in my hand."

She moves her eyes gratefully to seek it out.

Her father reveals a hidden sense of humor. He has placed the crisp white square into her sullied cunt.

"Open it," he laughs.

She hauls the envelope from her humid-smelling lower lips and holds it in her hand.

"Open it," her father echoes. "I think you will find it-a pleasant surprise."

Her fingers tear the paper, slit it open savagely.

The message is but a single phrase set in the middle of the page. The words ring through her like a golden bell.

With Jok.

The old man dotes upon her flushed and smiling face.

"He is your brother...and it has been my fondest wish to prepare you for this through what the world calls evil."

The word catches like a shard of glass deep in her throat.

"Evil?"

"The root of all love, my sweet."

"And Jok-when can I..."

"Soon."

"Oh, Father-dear!"

"But first..."

His eyes grow warm as boyish sperm.

"But first, you must see the home you will inherit. You and Jok, the apple of your mother's eye, will be the climax of the work I have begun. I can only see the valley from this pinnacle of age...but you will cross over...back into Eden."

"Yes, Father, yes!"

"Come..."

Her ripe, tumescent tits ride beneath the clinging gossamer of her gown. Her cunt, heavy and proud, strong as the jaws of an ox, follow her father's tottering steps.

This time they go beyond the hallway into the distant wings of the sprawling house. It is a world she has never seen, although she has seen the world.

"You have known the silly shadows of what can be," her fathers purrs. "Men take themselves so lightly and so seriously between the legs-and women, too. I wanted you to learn the self-delusion, the sham, the superstition of the world for yourself. It still exists in this foolish world like some wild disease. The faith and dogma of the penis and the cunt. My task is hard...but glorious..."

They reach barred gates, and go beyond. Men and women dressed in tunics of gray pass them in the antiseptic halls.

"Who are they?" she asks.

"Slaves-the children of my thought, if not my sperm."

"But Jok and me...?"

"The children of my sperm, before the world turned its back upon my thought."

The figures in the tunics do not smile. They move like robots made of wood.

"Here," her father snaps.

They stop before a great, sheeted pane of glass which views a room.

Inside, a dozen pneumatic chairs are lined up in a row. A dozen naked girls occupy the seats. Their cunts are plugged with tubular arms of metal- massive, automatic pricks. Cusps are attached to their straining, budded nipples.

At her father's nod, a robot pulls a switch.

The phallic engines move, snake in and out of the swelling cunts with slowly increasing momentum. The cusps around the sensitive young nipples contract and expand in busy, sucking greed.

The young girls seem to float in ecstasy.

They splay their thighs as wide as humanly possible (wider than one would think) and the steely pricks expand in size-and plunge deeper. The metal shafts grow sticky with the liquids pouring from the well-fucked thighs.

"A vast improvement," her father muses," over flesh, don't you think?"

They move on to another room.

This is a den of males...young boys, barely in their teens.

They he on couches, naked and aroused while watching a technicolored screen filled with the phantasies of the outside world. The film shows a Cuban male and female fucking in the old-fashion, Christian way.

The adolescent pricks are all hard, standing up between their legs like bars of heated iron.

"Now watch," her father counsels, "the miracle of modern science!"

Down from the ceiling come snaking tubes of plasticene. The tips are bulbous, cunt-shaped spheres. Each finds a stiffened, boyish prick and opens like a luscious mouth. It inches slowly down the stem of flesh with electrical, licking pulses.

The young males luxuriate in the sensual treat.

The machines fuck-suck them with a regulated rhythm, not missing a beat.

"The advantage to this," her father wheezes, proudly, "is that the penis is never frustrated by the stop-start silliness of a human slit. It is pure pleasure from beginning to end, which is what we have sought since time immemorial in the act of sex. The sperm is coaxed by slow, rapturous degrees up the conduit of the throbbing prick until it explodes in a riotous orgasm, delicious beyond description. And one other matter..."

"Yes?"

"The pricks grow. Like things in a hothouse. You'd be surprised. Besides the functional aspect of milking sperm, the machines inject the flesh with hormonal rays. Pricks enlarge like fattened pigs, given time. Longer, thicker, stiffer pricks. Some of these lads will graduate with cocks like Arabian stallions."

"And then what?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"What do they do then with their giant pricks?"

"Nothing, of course. It is what their pricks can do for them! They are weened from wanting cunts, from even thinking about them. They come back to the machines. Larger ones, of course, which you will see..."

"Are they robots then?"

"Yes-walking dreams of hedonism. Like Jok." Terror spills down her back.

"But, father..."

"Yes?"

"Am I not to be with Jok?"

"With him in this blessed state."

"Prickless?"

"As he is cuntless-happy as angels in a pit of liquid gold."

Her mind is not a machine. Not yet. It whirs on creaky, mortal cogs-with feelings and doubts, shrewdness, cunning silence.

She knows now what her Father's business is about. She knows much more than that.

Jok's sullen mind is not his own. What she mistook for indifference for her boiling cunt, was merely the programming of his mind-and loyalty to her father, the master mechanic.

But Jok does have his flaw!

She has seen it over and over, his stiffened organ slyly engineering its way into slits the world over. Perhaps it was some natural hunger not quite killed by...

"Would you like to see Jok now?" her father asks, quietly.

He seems to read the sickness in her face, and nods again.

"Yes, I think you should see your brother now. How silly of me, my child, to think you would not have developed some vague dependence on him."

"I have, father."

His eyes burn into her with a muted rage.

"He didn't touch you, did he?"

"Not once, father."

A smile feathers lightly across his face. "I knew he wouldn't. I have taken special pains with your brother, since the day he came bloody from your mother's dying bowels. He killed her, in a sense. And I have made him what he is today. All he is, he owes to me. Shall we?"

She follows her father now with trembling knees.

Jok has a special room. They do not bother to knock. There is no need. He could not hear the very trumpets of doom.

His great bronzed body, naked in its special straps, is lifted spread-eagle above a complicated nest of wires and knobs and buzzing transistors. Twin bulbs are wired into his hard male nipples. His nuts hang down between his legs like monstrous, hairy fruit. A glut of humming wires are attached in a dozen places on each ball. The large, thick sausage of his prick is wrapped in serrated wire cobwebbing down to circuits, dials and switches. The inflated head of his handsome prick is covered with a suction cup tailored to fit his size.

"Watch this," her father whispers, with fatherly pride.

He pushes a button, and the apparatus comes alive.

Spasming thrills go through Jok's eager flesh. His satyr's eyes roll in his head like marbles. His thick and dripping tongue lolls out and licks the air with ecstasy.

"He loves his machine," her father sighs. "He's been quite taken with this one for some time. Before, he liked my Halcyon Number Three, but boys grow up."

"What did the other one do?"

"Licked him off-from head to toe like a fleet of avid tongues. It could make him come for hours, spurt his seed across the room and flood the wall. What a boy!"

"He prefers this now?"

"Addicted to it, I must say. A most voluptuous little contraption, too. The electrodes addle the testicles until the sperm is sizzling like grease in a white-hot pan. The prick is pleasured until the glans is bursting, an apple on a spit. He can spasm a dozen times in an hour of this flattering treatment. After that, he's not much good for-tickling maiden's cunts."

Her father's laughter is a throaty slur.

"I've seen enough," she croaks.

"Of course you have, my pet-one doesn't want to see, one wants to be a part of. How tactless of me!"

He puts a gnarled and contemplative finger to his jaw.

"For a beginning-to break you in-I think the Saturnian Deluxe. Do you like the sound of that?"

On her way out, she casts a savage, secret glance back in.

Jok's face is granite with unbridled lust. The veins in his husky cock are bulging like oily ropes. Great globs of sperm are already seeping from the cup that fucks his prick's head with murderous glee.

"Father-one day's grace!" she sobs. "Those Africans-you can't imagine..."

"But I did imagine it, my love. But as you will- tomorrow is time enough. The Saturnian needs a rest itself. Machines are human, too, you know. You'll accept that soon enough."

She waits until the moon is like a virgin's slit. Then she stirs from the walnut bed and hurries down the hall.

She knows the way. She remembers it by fearful rote. The blood is amuck in her veins, her bare feet tremble every step.

The robots ignore her. She might as well be rotting cod upon a beach.

The machines are still at work, she finds. Fresh cunts are being milked, stiff pricks are reaching blindly for the sockets raveling down from the ceiling to pleasure them all night.

She angles down the corridors like a frightened hare.

She reaches the room where Jok hangs, a naked carcass drugged with bliss.

Her fingers rip the circuits in a rage. The machine fights back with flaring, jagged shrieks of pain. Whipping snakes of light and spitting smoke blind her, fang into her arms and hands.

But she kills the viper in its bed.

Jok twitches against his harness, his fingers spade the air.

She cups his heated face in her hands and pulls his slack and salivating mouth against her own. She gloats with her tongue against his own, sucking the forbidden maleness of him deep into her throat.

His eyes flicker dimly in his head, and open.

He sees her, his brain crawling slowly back from between his loins.

She hisses at him: "Save us, Jok! Fuck me! FUCKMEFUCKMEFUCKME!!!"

It is the last echo in her brain before the robots bring her father to the room.

"Such injustice for my old age," he declares, clucking his tongue. "What are children corning to!"

"This is for your own good. A father's task is not an easy one. He spends his life toiling in the vineyards to make life richer, easier for his children. He expects, at least, respect. Years from now... when you are older...you will...thank..."

The machine is a frozen mass of spindles, prongs, corkscrew spikes.

There is one steeple crammed up her shithole a solid foot. She sits on it like a naked, squatting toad. If she moves, it will split her ass in two. It is best that she try, for the time being, to accommodate it.

Two cusps of steel circle the fullness of her naughty, misbehaving tits. There are special indentations for her rosettes and nipples. She has been led to understand that-once in gear-the machine will titillate her orbs quite raw. The selector dial must be subtly handled, otherwise the pleasured nipples will bloat and burst like maggots in the sun.

The cunt, however, is the special province of the Saturnian Deluxe.

Two sets of crablike pincers hold the labia apart as gently as the clipped paws of kittens.

Just inside the warm and mucous slit, a small fish-hooked prong wraps like a tendril around the sleeping clitoris.

That is all.

Just a hook-shaped prong-transistorized.

A masterpiece of simplicity, one for the books.

Her head is clamped back in a vise, her jaws held open like a yawning hinge. Above her palate a little silver spigot which can be opened at any time to let a deluge of warm male sperm pour into her throat.

Her father has found that, in the grating heat of multiple orgasms, the female sometimes needs something to wet her tongue. A little like a sailor in a bar.

Drinking thick, rich sperm provides the perfect protein diet. It even keeps alive the sentimental balance of the past and present, necessary a first for the amateur.

No need for a lot of unsanitary cock-sucking.

Fresh jock-juice daily, untouched by human tongues, is what the world calls progress.

"Are you ready, my pet?" her father breathes.

His thumb rests on a switch.

She has time for only one wall-eyed look. He's bending close over her, veins working in his head, eyes shot with redness, madness, too. Just at the corner of his twisting mouth, there is a dogdrool of spit.

"Ready-or-not," he grins, "here comes!"

He brings his thumb down like a cleaver on a shank of meat. She hellions out a scream!

A million shark-toothed minnows nibble at her tits-and change into sucking asps. Electric tongues and lips and fangs sink deep into her spine.

She writhes in one great-almighty-vomit of joy!

The tendril around her clit electrocutes her with jangling bliss, forcing her to come.

She spasms like twenty fast-fucked whores.

Ribald thoughts rage through her head. She is chained to a gigantic, slippery prick. Barrel-loads of sperm pour over her head (the spigot has been opened) and she digs her feet into the soft balls below and feels the rope-sized pubic hairs closing around the nipples of her stony tits. She comes again, her asshole hunching lower on the spindle that fucks her like a camel's tongue. Tears blind her eyes.

Much more of this and she will lose what she has gained!

Her father pulls the switch again and she is raked across fresh coals of artificial lust. Her cunt runs like a drainpipe. The coned ends of her tits squirm and swell and give milky juice to the metal mouths that suck them dry.

It is more than flesh and blood can bear!

The machine is winning...

She comes up harshly from her dark coma of lust. Cut off in the middle of a swirling, tickling fuck, she screams with childish fury.

What final outrage is being dared!

The tendril is loosed-the suck-cups torn away.

"Monster!" she shrieks. "Goddamed meddling fool!! What now!!!"

Her fingernails tear at his face like claws.

But his hands are stronger-and red now with his father's blood. AND THOU

"My room," she whispers, curled against his arm. "They'll never find us there!

Without a word, he sweeps her up and hurries down the hall.

The robots save not yet learned the truth. Her father lies dead, angled in a cross of wires and sputtering sockets, his ancient genitals crushed by a savage kick of Jok's thick boots.

Now he's killed them both, she thinks.

Maniac or Savior!

His arms hold her like steel. She can hear his heart pumping with a savage power. His body seems as strong as a machine itself!

They reach the barred gates and pass through. He locks them with keys taken from their father's lifeless body. A robot watches quizzically, but does not interfere.

"Who are they?' she insists, when they are well down the hall.

"People," Jok says, thickly.

"Where did he pick them up?"

"The streets, classified ads, word of mouth. He combed the world."

They reach her room, and pushed the large doors open. The moonlight illuminates her bed, the great carved posts, the mass of pillows.

He shuts and bolts the door behind them.

"I believe you wanted fucked, little sister," he husks, bending his slack and handsome mouth down to her throat.

"But that's impossible!" she gasps.

"Impossible to fuck?"

"No-that I'm your little sister."

He stares at her impatiently. "Didn't he tell you..."

"Yes, but I'm putting two and two together. If I'm your little sister..."

"You are, and I can't wait to fuck you in your walnut bed."

"But Jok..."

"Yes?"

"How did you kill mother?"

In the moonlight, his eyes are cold as stones. "Did the bastard tell you everything?'

"He said you were dragged from her bloody bowels, and that you killed her. I assumed..."

"That she died in childbirth-which would make me younger than you. Et cetera, and so on."

"And you obviously aren't..."

"Of course not. If I were younger, sister dear, you'd quite likely be dragging me to my walnut bed."

"Then...?

He sighs. "You want a bedtime story, is that what you want?"

"Perhaps. At least, a story before bed."

"And all this time, I thought you wanted me. I could have sworn when I shoved that banana up your cunt..."

"We'll get to my cunt later. In the meantime I expect some explanations."

"Don't kid me. That machine satisfied you. It drained you dry as a squeezed-out rag. If I thought for a minute that I spilled my father's blood for nothing..."

"Don't be silly. Anyway, let's not argue over him. Tell me about my mother. A girl has a right to know..."

"Let's get on the bed and talk. Let's take off our clothes before we get so gossipy."

"You're hedging, Jok. Just like father."

"I could have had you in Paris-in that hunting lodge-in a hundred positions on the globe."

"Maybe. But now it's time to talk."

"I fuck better than I talk."

"See if for once you can talk better than you..."

"What the hell do you want to know."

"About mother-did you kill her, too?"

"It was her idea, not mine."

"Her idea to die!?"

"Yes."

"But why!"

"She was old-fashioned, like you."

"In what way, may I ask."

"Her cunt was never satisfied by machines."

"Didn't father..."

"Too busy with blueprints, and dreams of a better world. The same old story-it's the wife who suffers. At least that's what she told me. You were very young at the time."

"What happened."

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Of course. I'm no longer a child."

"I fucked our mother to death."

"How-how did it happen?"

"That's a funny question for you to ask."

"I mean...did you do it all...at one time?"

"Of course not. I'm not one of daddy's thingamajigs."

"Then how..."

"We played around. That's the way these things usually start. I guess I was twelve at the time, maybe thirteen. Big for my age. If you know what I mean."

"You monster."

"That's what mother called the toy between my legs-only she grinned when she said it. It was all idyllic at first."

"Tell me what she did and what you did."

"You promise to get unbearably horny?"

"I'm gathering facts. God knows I couldn't from that walnut bed."

"That reminds me-what did he do in here every morning? It used to drive me wild just thinking about it. I was sure he was fucking you through the floor."

"He never touched me. He just..."

"Just what."

"Now who's being curious."

"Just what, goddamnit?"

"Sniffed?"

"It seemed to satisfy him."

"Sniffed you where?"

"Where do you think, you genius."

"I'll bet he licked it, too, or something. You can't expect me to believe..."

"He was a gentlemen the whole time."

"Not with that nose between your legs! He was sicker than I thought. Either that or he was doing research. Come to think of it, he did build something once called a Multiplex Inhaler. You turned the knob for a grabbag of smells. I lost interest when I got a deep whiff of a turkey's..."

"You're getting off the subject. We were talking about mother."

"Ah, yes, the Strange Relationship. I think papa filed it under that label eventually."

"How did the whole thing start?"

"I told you. We played around. She used to nurse me to sleep-at her tits."

"That's perfectly natural."

"I was fifteen at the time. And I only pretended to go to sleep. I sucked her peaks all night, once. Got them up the size of champagne corks."

"And then?"

"After that, we knew where we stood."

"Did father suspect?"

"He thought she was using his original formula for hormone cream. Kept measuring the length of her nipples daily, and grinning like an idiot."

"When was the first time you..."

"Fucked Momsie? Frankly, I don't remember. The pre-pubertal times are a little hazy. When I got to the spurting stage..."

"Yes?"

"...I got insatiable as they come."

"And mother...?"

"Wanted it all the time."

"You mean you.."

"Like mad-dogs, night and day!"

"You killed her, then."

"I don't know what jury would..."

"I'll be the jury. What happened the last day?"

"I think you mean week, don't you."

"Do I?"

"Yes...the week daddy-kins had to go purchase parts for the Saturnian, and earlier model. Not the one that worked on you."

"He was gone a week, and you..."

"Fucked mother twenty-four hours a day."

"That's impossible.!"

"Let's try it and see."

"And mother...?"

"You never saw a happier cunt. Died with a smile upon its lips. I told father it must have been something she ate."

"Fiend."

"It was only a little white lie-she did eat me, regularly. Once she got started, there was no stopping..."

"But father found out!"

"Some kind of fancy autopsy. She was brimming lull of my sperm, after all. Her greedy cunt was filled to bursting-like a hot-water bottle, I believe our poetic father claimed."

"Your sperm."

"Unless she was fucking something on the side, like me."

"Who?"

"I think that's irrelevant, but if you must know, we had a housekeeper in those day. An elderly lady with a demented itch. She liked it mainly in the ass, as I recall. Trailed me like a shadow. Promised me candy, and in the final stages, the moon."

"But father intervened..."

"He fired her, and promptly fed me to the machines."

"Why didn't you run away!"

"Are you kidding? These claw-marks on my face are from your fingernails. You weren't exactly grief-stricken at the prospects of spending eternity in the arms of the Saturnian Deluxe, were you?"

"It has...had...something to be said for it. But that trip around the world..."

"Yes, Father's big mistake. He though he'd teach you how dull all this prick-business is, compared to...

"He forgot the human element."

"A scientist all the way."

"And yet-you didn't touch me."

"My big mistake."

"What will become of the robots?"

"Who knows. Without father to make repairs and pay the bills, they'll probably go back to their old habits."

"I can think of worse things to do."

"So can I. Let's try that walnut bed of yours."

"And then what?"

"I'll probably fuck you to death."

"And if you don't?"

"A loaf of bread, and thou. Come...

THE END
The Slit ....(71k)    by Sebastion Gray




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