Bedtime story

He knelt beside her, took her neck in his strong hand and kissed her as if he was biting too big of a piece out of an apple. His tongue was all over her face. She was smiling now, protesting gently. “How was work?” she giggled, slipping away from one of his gulps. “Shut up”, he smiled back and went on having dinner of her. “No!” she cried coyly, and let herself slip under water. He didn’t mind. He just kept gorging on her, creating a chaos of bubbles and tickling her unbearably. She held her breath as long as she could, feeling herself smiling like a happy infant and a the vision that the ocean had given her returned, slightly altered. The setting was the same only now he was fucking her less mechanically, and she was screaming instead of moaning. Finally she came up and gasped for air. They went out for dinner and she had lobster and he had a piece of pork that she was first disgusted by, a crude roll of meat around a thick bone standing up straight, and as he ate off the meat it began to turn her on. She asked for a piece but he said his dick was the only meat she was going to get from him. Only barely could she fight the urge to crawl under the table. Instead she sulked and pushed her own plate away. He smiled to himself. She felt herself getting wet again and uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

He screams, in a way so deep that she cant imagine the pleasure, and she closes her eyes. She presses the tears against her inside her lids, until she sees red shafts in the black and she comes back as he slowly withdraws the shaft from her throat, and then, after she gives a suck on his gland like a child would on a pacifier, and he moans like he wants to cry, and he breathes out and he falls softly on her, like a breeze of wind, and envelops her in his arms and he holds her, so soft, and so tight, she knows she can’t escape. There is no way she’ll ever escape this man. She cuddles up and falls asleep and wakes up to find him gone.

Thank God for that, I thought he was never going to go.

Harb, did you know you can create your own threads on this site?

So as I said, Ive resigned myself to writing fiction here. It may not all be fiction. But it’s not philosophy. Or maybe it is. In any case, enjoy. The next story will come in parts.

1

Keep her tied up.
Yes my lord.
And keep her awake.
Yes… my lord.
Don’t… hurt her flesh.
No my lord, certainly not.
Enjoy her, if you so desire.
Thank you, my lord.

The man walks out of the room. The two servants hover around the lady, tied up on a bed. She stirs, her face is angry, but resigned. Abruptly and brusquely she spreads her legs.

Come on you filthy cows. Do me.

The servants look each other up and down. As if to say ‘who’s first?’

Servant 1, as he would later talk to himself:
She was hot as coconut oil. Wait thats not hot. And she was hot. God damn she was. Fucking hot. What’s that word. Smoking. Delicious. But thats not it. She was a hair-pulling, face-spitting gorgeous scourge of sexfest. Slap her cheeks til they burrn. Slap that bitch. Give it to her in a her gaping, yearning holes. That woman. She’s mine… for now…

Servant 2, as he contemplates her tied up form:
Shes quite the looker. Nice division of curves and straight lines; she has a bosom worthy of some mention, and yet her back is straight as an arrow. Her lips… I dare not look. I might get dizzy and make silly commitments with my heart that I then forget. Stay focused. Contemplate her calves. Gosh, what magnificent ratios such an elegantly stretched tendon may produce.

2: When do you think the master will return?
1 Turns – huh, what?
2: The master. Will he return soon?
1 puts his eyes back on the woman. Vaguely wets his mouth. - Not too soon, I reckon.
The 2nd servant is irritated and amused at once. He shakes his head as his facial expression changes rapidly between three or four states. He then steps forward and grabs the woman’s chin with his right hand and peers into her face. She has closed her eyes.

What do you say, shall we have carnal knowledge of you?
She opens her eyes and speaks “and I of you”
he takes this in. Nods.
So it is a deal.
He nods to the 1st servant, whips out his penis, which is fully erect. A soft belly laugh from the woman. The man is advancing.
The 2nd man now lets go of her jaw, and immediately takes out his own member which is quite beautifully shaped and not bad for size. She turns her eyes to him and she writhes in pleasure. Anticipation and delighted mockery are in her eyes. He sees nothing but her breasts to which she is passionately drawing attention by squeezing her shoulders together and arching her back toward him. She wants to look like a movie poster from the 40’s. She wants to be fucked while imagining she is hanging in billboards along the street of a German town, where a shocked mother is too stunned to cover the eyes of her son, 8 years old. She chuckles happily as servant 1 now approaches her beast-like, yearning to be on all 4’s, and positions himself behind her as if to take the pleasure in all in one single everlasting moment. He laces up to take her hairs on his index finger at the same time as sticking his dick in. He will not alter her pussy state- it has to be dry get go let it me so this juice will be real, sweet, through. It will be built up.
But she is wet. Wet as a motherfucker. What is this bitch, a whore? He reckons so.

Guard 1 is handling her hairs softly like a tailor a file fabric, as he delivers short trusts below. He looks at it as a connaisseur, entranced as if her were himself being fucked in the ass. She is used to a lot more, he is not… she is playing with this other one, with the confidence of a man, where his neurosis is disintegrated by his sexuality, rather than carried by it. Yes, she will give this man pleasure, but only as long as it lasts, until master is back, she wishes to turn over and yearn like a cat for the next moment of sunshine –

In the next room, Johnny and Amber lie spooned in a simultaneous sleep, a parallel dream,
corns, dusty, half of the stakes dry, the third month of summer, hottest one in years…
Instinctually willing to water the planets she softly cried a river upstream of which he came peddling in a kajak made out of calves skin that shimmered golden in the beating sun.
He moved in his sleep and she turned away. Now she saw stars, white dots in a black that turns to blue when her eyes draw away from it.
He is now alone in a Siberian tundra, dragging his boat, made of goatskin, down to the regions where the men live to a thousand because they havent heard the death ruse.

She stands on a tower staring into the sun that wont come out of the clouds. She is angry. She hasn’t heard the fireplace roar in seconds.
She moves her hat up a little bit so that a strand of her brown hair, she knows it’s from Genghis, be picked up by the wind. It gratefully plays and she bites her lips and whistles a bitter song with a demeanor as happy as she’ll be on Christmas Eve - the wind somehow tastes all the world away. She finds herself immersed in a thought, as the philosophers call it. She smiles disdainfully. How can the world be so full of shit?
Down into the courtyard below she looks and sees the blood splattered.
Why was he so unhappy?

She is allowed to go to the groceries on the corner, but there is such a sweet Pakistani there who she caused, with her little ass and her stunted, dulled out strut, such an emotional heartattack that she felt sorry for him and is kids… and his wife, that bitch, why did she have to come up in her thought, why did the wives always appear… oh that poor man. How she would have liked to offer her body to him if master hadn’t forbidden it. He had explicitly forbidden it that she be fucked by anyone but a white man with glasses or a heavily hung and very muscled (“like 2Pac”) black man on her way back and forth, and he knew both circumstances were unlikely, as she did not mind so much the glasses, they would never approach her – as she did the attitude of a man who needed to please her, prove himself; she knew there were only very few people who know how to please her. And of those who know very few even who dared. She sighed. Once one tries at this game and fails one is lost. T’s twenty years slipping through the finger. On the other hand, if one succeeds, one can never know what failure is. Once innocence to defeat is like sweat, or the magical stuff that scientists say that is in it, the gravy train is there for all. A lover is born. The world has a fruit. Those who do not taste of this in their way will grown solemn and bitter at the edges; the edges where all is born. Thus she pondered as she writhed in self-made beautifying throbs of delicious sarcasm that the boys interpreted, in their beautiful, unfathomably stupid way, as her pleasure at their acts, and in the taste or shape of their dicks. All her thoughs where on her master, and how to serve him. All may enter here, where the master says to go.

Scattering, the spooked ghosts took refuge in the labyrinth. Within the graincircle the humming intensified. The grinded summer danced on the hot stone.

If it isn’t clear, Im no longer here to be good or liked or trusted.
I wasnt, in the first place, here for those reasons but who knew.

I am sick, in as far as society is sick; my health is thwarted by any kind of lack of ground to discharge.

I am not ‘bad’ - I am simply expressing, anti heroically indeed, what I experience as an arbitrary threshold of logos in this world.

I love the sexual appetite in all its forms as a phenomenon, I am in this sense ‘fetishist’, but only in the service of that drive; there is no object-based projection-sublimation, except the object that the woman, in my story as I interpret the porn-age, makes of her self, realizing the Earthly power of corporal exploitation.

Nice change up.

I’m too busy finding fault with everybody else’s to start my own.

Same as the astrology thread then.

MY personal life has nothing to do with this rhetoric. I am playing the medium. It is bad for me, poison, but it is at least Greek and insane - I can not personally endure much modern life. But I am inevitably drawn into its cortex. This time is an enhanced selection game; the internet has given evolution a boost, and a new type of civilization is arising. I stand between two worlds; I think this may be that Uranus/Saturn square that played around 1977, the year the comet Chiron between these two planets was discovered by the way, and also when the first visual operating system came onto the market - those who are born after 1984, when Pluto went into Scorpio, are fully immersed in the new age, they are approaching a generation about 7 years around 1993, where a fully business like type of human came to see the light of day, a completely hedonistic, atheistic, success-drive, simple and primitive human thriving on sexuality, ignorant of much of the problems that have occupied the world, the west in the past ages. The psychology of man is changing in a physiological sense and we are becoming a cyberorganism that is thoroughly in love with itself. But man will die. Unless he mans this unmanned machine and takes the sexual impulse that has magnified exponentially the past century and turns it into an element of culture will religion die off and we can begin to build a civilization for the ages; religion has always been the sublimation of Eros - so desubliminalization is the key, to the cage of nihilism.

So she turned to the door and expected. It was black and gaping. This is what it means, she thought, that god is dead. The master is gone.
Whether one plays with servants or not is not the question; it is how to build a situation where mastery is required.

Here’s where we differ. I am too busy with my own faults to notice those of the others, initially. Then when they present themselves through the fog of my own fault they are so astounding that I recoil into my own faults which at least Im trying, with some success, to remedy.

If I had anything worth contributing I would contribute it, but, until I do have something worth saying, I’ll just have to content myself with being a fly in everybody else’s ointment.

That’s alright then. Here’s some more ointment.

She was whining like a little bitch, she knew that, and yet she wanted to keep going, keep dragging him along in wanting to beat her. She longed for the hard back of his hand that she sometimes received, not so hard that it hurt but enough to make her disoriented for a moment. He was careful with her neck, she noticed instantly, she thought it was because he was afraid of what he might do. It frightened her a little bit, like passing through an alley with no side exits at night. So far so good… just qu’a ici, tout va bien… she couldn’t endure it in her pleasure so she begged for it. Give me all you wish, she begged, stupidly, as she knew no other way. She was not a beggar. But she had to feel his pain in her body. Suddenly he smacked her. She lay spinning for a while thinking she orgasmed. Her panties were wet, she had shat herself. She smiled and lay purring and then felt the pain. Ow you bastard, she welt up. You hurt me!
She saw his form in a haze above her.

MM - yeah. I’m monsooning the ricefields.

Baby! I missed you! She yelps. It sounds surprisingly much like a dog. She swallows hard and repeats, in a voice that would get her a tutorship at Cambridge in Victorian England, baby… I missed you baby. She drops the tissue in the bowl and looks at him, asking for it, whatever it is he will chose to do.
After a short burst of laughter he has been standing silent with his hands hanging beside him. Now he comes forward but hesitates. He signals with two fingers to come over. She crawls.

It has gone too far, she thinks. She wishes there was a mirror behind her, so he could see her dirty ass as he sees her sweet face. She wants him to know her.
She knows the ritual now. He grabs her jaw and pulls it down to the floor. He has her lie on her back with her head twisted. He climbs over her and, without touching any other part of her than her chin, pulls his dick out and moves it down to her. Then he lets per grab it, and they merge in am embrace of her choosing, which is a clawing and a clinging and a yelping and short breathes of moaning. He likes it when she calls him baby. So she calls him baby a lot. He likes it. He likes it. He likes it. Then his hand is on her mouth and and his thumb inside of it. She bites down on it softly. She knows it is meant as a device, for her to bite down if it gets too hard. He is preparing to take over. She moans one last high shriek and takes a deep breath right into her chest. Then he begins to move his hips from the muscles of his back and bounces her up and down the mattress as he lifts her hips up to his balls so that the deeply impersonal clacking sound is heard. Clack clack clack goes the rhythm and she is gulping breaths to her stomach and grunting oh, yeah, in repetition. Hm, hm, oh, hm, oh, no, ung, ow, huh, yeah, yeah? Yeah, and she brings herself to omigod, omigod, omigod, and then her eyes begin to well up and she is at yeah, daddy, yeah, hm-hm! Oh, yeah, baby, baby, give me, all, that holy, mother, fucking, dick! And she is sweating on her back and working toward an orgasm that she knows will spill her guts from her ass and she hopes they have fresh sheets. Then she remembers that indeed they do. Fuck me harder! She screams now binding their thoughts together in a stupid pornographic meme that makes her curse herself for not having a mirror in the bedroom. In a desperate attempt she screams grab my tits! And he does and he clenches down and the force is just right and he twists her nipple and then she swerves in the deep of her neck and lurches toward the orgasm. When it comes she weeps. For the longest time her mind is totally blank. Then she has a vision, of the two of them overlooking a beach in California. Ferns are blowing in the wind. The ocean is down below. People are making their little fires. A ship is sailing across the setting sun. With a jolt she comes back to reality, in his arms, bent to lock her neck and head into a soft cage, she has no choice to hear his heart beat. She summons the vision back and has the two of them descending toward the ocean. As they pass the fires, the people turn to them and smile, and then go back into an embrace with beloved invisible figures … and then they are at the sea and she feels the surf and she knows she is asleep.

Jakob,

“MM - yeah. I’m monsooning the ricefields.”

What?


When she wakes up she hears him rummaging in the bathroom. Grasps the sheets and moans and the sheets come off and she arches her back and gets on her knees, head on the pillow. She stays that way for a at least five minutes and nearly falls to sleep in the position. Then she feels him mounting her and they have sex for a good while, anonymous sex, which will lead to a quiet breakfast where he reads the newspaper and she does the dishes. Later he will kiss her good day on the lips at the door. She will have a calm day, no urges to smoke, she will read her books and she will finish one or two of them, and then she will prepare dinner with steak and asperges and they will drink wine and go out for a movie in the Escalade, or stay in and watch Netflix, or sometimes invite someone over. Invariably they will make love on the couch in a soft slow way that allows them to talk and laugh about other people. He will get insulting and she will sink away into a sweet protesting, and they will laugh more and they will end up, with her stomach on the floor, and her ass sticking out, and he rubbing it with oil and softly, ever so gently moving across the slit and they will have a long conversation before he begins to penetrate her at junctures in the conversation that she finds invariably funny. It has a strange effect on her. It makes the sex last and gives her goosebumps. At night they will sleep without touching, their own side of the beds, and he will invariably be gone when she awakes.

Pretentious and designed to impress and totally devoid of intimacy.

All it does is convey his inner disdain for women.

The absence of personal intimacy is the entire point.
I am disgusted by public exhibitions of intimacy.
Invariably, I have to avert my eyes. In every ‘intimate’ moviescene.
I like my art-love clinical. A universal dominion game that everyone can relate to.
No pretense of being ‘in love’.
Just two bodies and minds with different programming. That is the beautiful arrangement, within which nothing is prohibited.

Rather, my disdain for the ideology of erotic love.
I would under no circumstances exhibit my truly intimate knowledge of a woman on this site, or on the internet in general.

Ow, she said, him pulling her hair.
You have to get me in the mood, she laughed.
He was already in the mood.
He had been the car too long, it had been hot and the women on the sidewalks hadnt been wearing much of anything except heels.
He kissed her in the neck, she grinned, knew he wasnt going to actually get her in the mood. His beard pricked her soft skin.
Alright alright just stick it in me, she smiled.
He violently laughed out loud. Spit rained down in her neck.
Ewww!
He laughed some more, and bit her neck, chewed on the soft flesh, very gently like an grandpaw sucking a peach.
Then he unbuttoned his fly and as he did she turned, like a cat, and observed him.
Here, Ill do it. She was getting in the mood. In some mood, at least.
He leaned back and let her take over.
The next fifteen minutes were, quite simply, very nice.
As she rose, with her face to his, and they kissed, she softly sat down on him and they spent the next hour softly fucking and talking.
How was work? She’d ask him every time she sat down.
He’d moan and say ‘it was fine’.
This continued, at least fifty times.
Fine? She asked finally. Just fine?
Just fine. Go on. Please.
It wasnt excellent? She smiled.
Hmmmm? He asked absently, not able to reason on top of his pleasure.
She leaned forward and held his head with her fingers, preparing for a lengthy kiss.
There was nothing excellent about your day? She asked and smothered his response.
She was thinking about his secretary.
The first time she came in to his office she knew she ought to be wary of her.
She had the ass and thighs, and the business skirt, and the cold blue eyes above the marble white cleavage.
His mind was blank, only longing for the next moment, as he softly held her upper arms and guided her motions up and down.

They had suddenly lost taste for each other.
She sat on the stairs outside, the cushioned strap of her huge canvas bag around her shoulder, her yoga pants a bit moist in the dew, he standing in the doorway with his cellphone. They were waiting for her cab and he did not seem to want to touch her anymore. She didn’t mind much one way or the other - her pleasure at touch had never been of the intimate sort.

The car arrived, a black Mercedes pulling up so close to the curb that the tires squeaked - the sight of her had distracted the driver. She flung her bag to the grass and turned, seeing him come down the stairs. He took her hand, they stood like that for a while, deciding what to do. Then he pulled her up and took her by the neck and held her face close to his. He raised his eyebrows as if he was warning her.

Then she realized it was just habit. They had never had anything to say to one another - there wasnt anything to say now. She decided and cupped his balls with her free hand and squeezed them. He yelped. Bitch! He snarled, and then pressed her forehead against his.
Like this, as he was panting, recovering himself, they stayed. Their faces pressed to each other, eyes too close to see each other, the eyelashes entangled; both looking at the others lips.
This is how they knew each other.
The first sensation had been touch.

She now realized that they had been intimate; it was just that all first intimacy is violent.

Now she walked down the stairs, his face still somewhat purple looking sideways at her as he climbed up the stairs, feeling satisfied that something had been dealt with. He now wanted only to sleep in mineral water.