Bonding And Discipline

by Albrecht Starkarm

Life's ambition is control: Of others, and of oneself. It is a wet and messy and disorderly system that aspires to perfection in its delirium. This desire is a self-defeating one; the act of ordering one's system is to introduce deeper entropy, wrought in carnal tyranny and lust.

1. Kybernetik

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

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

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

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

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

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

We will all die.

Tiny deaths.

Glorious deaths.

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

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

Fuck.

"F-fuck." A whimper; a mewl.

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

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

Reality is truth.

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

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

A cannibal Ouroboros.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It isn't a man, either.

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

Natural.

A convulsion spurting through the autonomic nervous system.

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

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

But it's all horseshit.

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

A twinge.

For a moment.

It is a possibility.

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

In blood.

In lust.

In craving.

In hunger.

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

The fist rears up.

The ice disintegrates unnoticed.

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

It is only in its vicissitudes.

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

But this is not this.

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

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

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

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

You must not and cannot touch them.

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

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

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

Fingers cinch.

Squeeze.

Another groan.

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

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

Rearing up and there is a command on my lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An impatient sigh flaring through the breast.

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

In a flinch.

In fear.

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

There is no transaction in this.

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

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

Every bruise.

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

Whisper over a brow.

The hips wriggle.

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

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

Pupating into a fucking pejorative.

Shin'ichi.

A spasm through the body; a lightning bolt insanity.

Rage.

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

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

There's a groan.

"F-fuck, fuck-"

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

A whimper.

Lips pursed.

Quivering.

"A-ahn-"

"Ahn?" Linger.

Gloat.

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

"Was that an ahn, sissy slut?"

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Dumb.

Animal.

Bovine.

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

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

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

Delicious.

Well, girlish.

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

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

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

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

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

A yowl.

A yelp.

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

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

Enriching me.

Enriching him.

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

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

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

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

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

A bitch like this?

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

"Now, tell me, Hei-tan."

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The soft soft skin.

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

"Oh, please. Anyone can speak-"

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

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

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

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

"Do you know about noumenon?"

"The- the Pokémon-"

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

"W-wah!"

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

"W-wah!"

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

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

Something religious.

Yes.

Ayumi would approve.

A surrender.

It is faith.

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

Idiocy's locus.

Desire's nexus in flesh and spirit.

A long slow caress.

Ground against his belly.

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

Immediate.

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

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

A groan; a gurgle.

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

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

It is fangs bared.

It is transgression without this word's idiot connotations.

Its convictions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you? Are you really? How sorry are you, Hei-tan?"

"I-"

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

The pain's diminishing.

Shouldn't that be punishment's recession?

Ah, ah, you're finally paying attention.

"W-what should..."

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

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

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

"I wanna be the cutest." Far gone.

This is the phrase.

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

When there's a waggle.

A wriggle.

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

With a needling heel stabbed into the ass.

With a wail.

A howl rearing up from her lips.

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

"Good, good girl-"

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

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

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

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

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

"W-wah, wah-"

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

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

It's all so lovely.

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

"This... Hei-wan can't! Hei-wan can't-"

"Fuckin' pathetic." Not a snap.

As rewarding as it'd be.

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

Right.

It should be the right.

A crack.

A snap.

A blow.

Beating.

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

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

More.

More.

Toes curling.

Shivering.

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

Wailing.

Whimpering.

A palm clasped around that nasty fucking heap of meat.

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

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

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

A horrible plangent groan from the lips.

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

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

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

"Yes. Yes. Hei-wan is- is all clean-"

"And you haven't eaten?"

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

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

Dipping down, down, down.

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

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

"W-waaaah..."

"Don't you dare puke-"

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

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

It's a pucker.

A tongue jabbed there.

A gurgle.

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

Straightening again.

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

Not for him.

Not for a boy.

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

Poured down across fingers; over the ass.

His filth is not my concern.

"A-ah, ah, it's cold-"

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

A gathered point pricking at that pucker.

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

Impaling.

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

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

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

A wail.

Warble.

"W-wah, ah, ah, it's- it's-"

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

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

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

"Ah... Ahn..." This is the answer.

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

And up.

And up.

Latex-enameled tits graze his shoulder.

"Well?"

"Y-yes, yes, I am, Mistress Orchid."

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

"I do, Mistress Orchid."

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

"W-wah! Yes! Yes! With- with Kazuha-"

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

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

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

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

"I won't without your permission-"

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

And now a stab.

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

The lips have abdicated any pretension of language.

"W-warghwahwawwahhhhahnnnn..."

"Gonna come?"

The head shaken.

No.

No.

No.

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

"Hei-wan wantsta be-"

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

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

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

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

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

Humanity is perfected there.

Its vanity and vice.

A finger laced between the lips.

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

Pull.

A fish hooked.

Strain.

Tug.

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

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

Jabbed at the throat.

A gasp.

And the thumb has become companion to the four fingers.

Anguish.

Delirium.

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

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

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

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

A squelch.

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

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

Here.

Only ever here.

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

An inferno.

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

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

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

Play-pretend surrender is real quiescence.

Because there is not the word no.

There cannot be the word no in this place.

It is to deny it.

It is to cast it out.

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

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

Deeper, deeper.

Dug into him.

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

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

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

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

To delight.

Groveling.

It is to beseech more.

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

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

"Waaargh-"

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

This is the word.

More.

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

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

The tension.

Clenching.

Cinching around my right wrist.

"Tell me, you fucking whore-"

"Waash." Pathetic.

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

"Aren't you going to apologize-"

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

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

It is this tyranny's essence.

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

Deeper; deeper; deeper.

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

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

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

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

It's to know this.

Control.

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

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

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

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

The flesh clenches.

Crushes.

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

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

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

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

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

Settling around his fine slim neck.

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

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

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

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

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

The skin dimples with the knuckles' caress.

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

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

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

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

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

Atavistic.

Simpleminded.

"Cwan't hyelp it."

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

"Waaaargh-"

"Does it hurt?"

"Yesssh. Yesssh-"

"But you love it?"

"Yesh. Yesh." Wilting; drooping.

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

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

Not a duel.

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

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

Reality converges with reality; geometry with geometry.

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

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

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

A groan.

A gasp.

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

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

"Well?"

"I- I cweaned myself-"

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

No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

"Would you like it?"

There is silence.

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

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

So there is quietude.

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

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

"What seems to be the matter, Hei-wan?"

"C-can't tawk-"

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

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

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

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

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

To breathe and to breed, also.

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

There is a stroke.

A touch.

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

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

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

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

A tremor through the fingers.

Because there is a fundamental compulsion.

You're wearing lingerie.

Your hair's loose.

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

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

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

The heel driven deeper, deeper.

"Tell me!"

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

All life is nothing but a fantasia courtesy of Escher.

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

There is a figure.

A being.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shaft, stern and straining.

There is a...

A shiver.

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

It is not a wish for the trite political offices.

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

Yes.

Yes.

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

A shudder.

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

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

It is often denied.

So often.

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

And he is she.

It is something orderly, isn't it?

The male is deliverer; the female is receptacle.

It's bullshit.

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

Ah!

Pluming with mushroom cloud thunder between my ears.

It's epiphany.

Of course!

He is she.

She is he.

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

And it does not matter at all.

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

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

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

"So fuckin' cute!" Yes, yes, yes.

Knelt now.

Craning down.

"Are you ready, lil' Hei-wan?"

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

Palms hammer at the hips.

Slap with a merciless thunder at the thighs.

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

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

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

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

No get ready for the rape bullshit.

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

Poised there.

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

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

Admiring it.

Beethoven's Ninth lacquers the senses.

Ah.

Ah.

Ah.

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

Freude, Schöner Wem der Große Freude trinken alle Wesen

Seid Such'ihn

Freude Freude Freude Freude Freude

You will be as gods.

You will be as gods.

You will be as gods.

Buffer overrun.

Please insert system disco inferno-

And it becomes death metal.

Aaaaargh!

Fuck.

Snarling.

Snapping.

Torment.

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

All is approximation.

All is subjectivity.

Bare.

Exposed.

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

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

A paramecium cannot claim this.

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

"Good. I was afraid it was too gentle."

"'s- 's hard; 's so hot-"

"Oh, stop whining-"

"H-Hei-wan ain't doin' no whinin'-"

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

"Yeah. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"

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

Finally just...

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

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

More than bottomed-out.

Just vanishing into him.

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

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

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

"What're you trying to tell me?"

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

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

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

But it's an anguish for him.

"W-waaaah-"

"You fucking whining about that, Hei-wan? You whore-"

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

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

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

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

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

She is there.

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

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

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

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

There's silence.

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

"W-wahaaaa-"

A blow.

Once.

And again.

Bruising.

Pounding.

Pummeling.

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

You're either bruised or you're dead.

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

"Won't you?"

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

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

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

Yes, yes, yes.

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

"W-waaah! You're-"

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

Something so exotic.

Lust.

Sex.

It's fucking's native aroma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do I fucking care-"

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

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

"Yeees!" How lovely.

So there is not a stroke.

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

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

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

The eyes' every flit every glint every glance.

Plunging.

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

More and more and more.

Yes, yes, yes.

It's...

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

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

Just as deserving of comment as the sun.

It is there.

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

Compose glorious soliloquy, and it is still there.

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

"Hei-wan'll do anything!"

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

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

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

You will be One of Those People.

Your life as one of The Exalted will be finished.

So it will not be said.

"You fucking liar-"

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

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

You are all tools; nothing much matters.

Fuck it.

Yes.

In the most earnest possible way.

Fuck it.

Fuck him.

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

There is a tremor.

A quaver.

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

A screech.

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

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

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

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

It's here.

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

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

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

The Regret.

The Dread.

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

All surrenders.

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

None, none, none.

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

A pump.

Once.

Again.

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

A lunge.

One last stroke and...

And it's something theatrical.

It's something supernatural.

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

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

All falls into its most sainted order.

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

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

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

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

Smeared on the skin.

Gagging on its unrealities.

Who. Fucking. Cares?!

A last grunt and strain and pump and...

And all is stillness.

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

Shivering.

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

Jerked into his mouth.

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

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

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

A gurgle a gasp a gag.

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

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

And there is a thumb brushed at the record key.

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

Mowaahaahhwahneeewwww.

Something.

Something.

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

A world of yes.

A People's Republic of Yes.

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

Plunging.

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

Distending and there's an urgent huge retch.

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

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

Pump.

And pump.

And...

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

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

Yes.

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

It's glorious.

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

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

And what does it matter?

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

And it's finished.

A chime from the camera.

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

"Aaaah... R-Ran-"

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

But the time is finished.

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

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

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

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

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

It knows no challenge.

It is the divine's.

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

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

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

It's already obvious.

The latex slipped off.

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

The cum's faint perfume.

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

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

A simple tee-shirt.

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

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

It will be delicious.

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

And then heaving yourself into the bath.

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

There is more than algolagnia.

It is nothing so prosaic as nymphomania.

It is esurience.

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

It is not to still this.

And it is not even to embroider this, either.

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

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

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

Quivering.

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

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

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

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

Introduce yourself to your silent audience and wheel away again.

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

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

It is delirious.

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

Quietude.

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

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

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

The tie-up snapped around my left biceps.

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

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

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

Slowly, slowly, it sinks.

Flesh becomes a shrine to the junk.

There is a chime.

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

A bell; distantly, there is a bell.

Church bells chime.

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

It is only to know what is here now.

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

To stand.

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

Fingers outstretched.

And it is to know your chest's thrash.

Its quiver and jerk.

It is not para-para.

And-

A chirrup.

A familiar tone.

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

Money, you understand.

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

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

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

Do not reflect on the historical inaccuracies in this.

"I, ah..." It's a woman's voice.

Thick.

Trembling.

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

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

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

Well.

"Who told you about me?"

"Uh... Yoshida-chan."

"You sound older than she is-"

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

"I see. Why do you imagine I care?"

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

"Are you touching yourself right now?"

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

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

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

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

"Are you pretty? Yes or no?"

"Does it matter?"

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

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

"How pretty?"

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

"What about her-"

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

"You're lying-"

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

"All right. We'll see about that."

"D-do we- we meet publicly-"

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

"And I'll decide what to do after that."

"I- I just..."

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

"But I want to know how serious you are."

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

A sublimity.

"Good. This is my address." Now let the dance resume.