Wake up and smell your coffee

 

Chapter Four. Part 2

 

Wake up and smell your coffee

 

Both breathing heavily, he rolled off her and sat up on the edge of the bed. She turned on her side and with her head resting on the palm of a crooked arm, watched him wince as he rubbed his back and looked at the blood filling his hand.

            “Oh, don’t worry, darling, it will soon dry and the scabs will come off in bed.” Her voice dripping with well satisfied sarcasm.

            He stood up, not before flashing her a fake scowl. Now doing exactly what she had done before the mirror, he twirled examining the damage. Going into the bathroom he returned to her with a wet flannel.

“Please could you be so kind as to wipe me down. If that’s not too much trouble. Thank you.”

With his face looking towards the open door, she sat up behind him with crossed legs  and taking the cloth, wiped first her soaking open hole and then applied it to his back.

“Ow! That hurts!”

“Stop being a cry baby soldier boy - my arse you are. Serves you right. Oh dear, Ha- hah, even your mascara is running. I gotcha real good. Although,” in a musing voice, “judging by the load you shot you really liked it. These ‘light’ scratches will last a bit longer than three days. You can always tell your future sex partners that you got them from  fighting off a leopard. I am parched. Coffee time. In bed please. Half a sugar and a little milk. Thank you.”

            Throwing her the duvet, he slipped into his tracksuit and with much pretence moaning went into the kitchen bay. Returning a short time later with two steaming mugs, and a sealed packet. Sitting back on the bed edge, He handed hers. “Look at this packed ground coffee. Notice anything about it?”

            Taking it in her free hand she studied it, turning it around and upside down. “Nope, except it’s called strong. So, what’s the big deal. Is this what we are drinking,” as she took a small sip, hissing as the hot drink burnt her bitten lips.

“See the brand name? Minges. It is plural for minge. It also says it’s a family roasting house.” He started laughing, spilling some of his coffee onto his lap. “I bought it at Penny discount supermarket, on special offer.” He was shaking now trying to supress his amusement. “I think it’s very appropriate.” He handed her four laminated postcard sized cards he took off the chest of draws. All of them in sepia showing woman exposing very well-endowed sexual organs that were unable to be seen through the hand muff that covered them.

“I haven’t a clue what you are going on about.” Taking the cards, she gave them a quick glance, then placed them back where they had been laying. “Is this the mystery you promised me? A packet of coffee, four hairy women to do a DaVinci code on it all? Well I give up.”

“Okay, it would be impossible for you to know. It is slang in English for that part of your body that has been recently well put through a roasting process.”

She smiled, then laughed. “Good to know – not! I’m taking my coffee into the bathroom. I will be a while. And, if kind sir could feed us soon as I am starving. She added, “can it sort of be ‘normal’ as in - my attributes of fluid contributions to your expert cuisine are not this time be involved. Even the thought of you boiling an egg sends the mind cinema back to another 18+++ film.” Minge tasting coffee on closed, lightly damaged lips, and still giggling stupidly, they went out. She padded behind him and locked herself into the bathroom.

 

Looking at the mess surrounding him, he rolled his first joint. It was no big deal to sort everything out. Within the time she was showering, the surfaces were cleared and cleaned and ready to make a mess on them again. She arrived with a damp towel wrapped around her head and dressed in the grey flannel dressing gown that had hung on the back of the door, hugged him.

“A good housekeeper as well, this man of deep mysteries of the mind and hole. What we are having, and don’t give me the wait and see.”

“White colonial breakfast invented by the British, perfected by the Rhodesians and ruined by the Americans. Very simple – scrambled eggs on toast, with fried mushrooms, onions, pork and blood sausages, tomato slices, chicken liver and hearts in garlic and Piri-Piri sauce.”

            “That sounds almost normal.” Handing him her empty mug, “ another please. And, as I noticed, you have a tin of spray cream, I would like that as topping rather than you jack of in my cup of minge.   Alexa, spiel Bayern Eins.”

As the aroma from the huge fry, he went to the window and opened it fully wide. “Alexa, play Bayern One. She doesn’t understand German.”

Taking her mobile phone, she went to the couch, her stains now dried almost in the same colour of the sofa. As Supertramp came on, she entered her code and leaned back, placing her legs across the coffee table and waited till it awoke. The whirl of the extractor fan almost covered the series of beeps in almost never ending chimes as they chirped with the vibrating phone in her hand. She scanned through the messages, sighed and closing the protective cover, placed it on the table just as she was presented with the plate infront of full to over spilling, and took her coffee, knife and fork. Returning next to her with his portion he stopped her starting.

“Wait, first we must make thanks for this feast that delightfully awaits us to consume.”

Astonished, she squinted her eyes at him. “Have you ever been certified as not being 100% in the head?” She looked as he wiggled his bum “Ants in your pants or did someone rake your innards?”

            Ignoring her barbs, he lifted his hands, clasped together as in praying to heaven and spoke in clear authority ‘Dear Jobcenter, I thank you for my monthly People Money, thus making it possible to feed this wench.”

            As she tucked in. “Well I am glad that my tax contributions are paying for my meal. Even if its illegal being a Brexit dish. Pass the salt Walt.”

            He passed the stainless steel shaker. “Catch 22.” As they both tackled the food, he swallowed. “Okay, you never fail to satisfy me to acknowledge that you have brain not totally controlled by your most basic of desires. Hence I give you food for thought. And, do you like?”

            She nodded her head, as yet another mouthful was swallowed. She waved a hand in front off her moth , “a bit spicy, but I like. Now what have you planned for me today? No fucking till its dark. Your coconuts need fresh cream and my vagina needs to start squeaking again instead of sloshing.”

            As he cleared the cleared plates, “I will get showered and changed and we then go out. Okay?”

            “That sounds fine.” Standing up she looked around confusedly. With a frown, “where did I put my hand luggage.”

            “Presumably where you left it. My guess it is sitting on the landing. You were to occupied to bring it in.”

            “I suppose so. Really weird.” She stood up, retrieved it and he followed into the bedroom and stripped off. This time he locked the bathroom door.

 

Now it was time to wake up the neighbours and the other unsuspecting members of the public to the reality of Anarchism-Absurdism and Egoism…

 

DESCRIPTIONS DESCRIBING NOTHING AT ALL BUT SEXUAL IMAGERY

DESCRIPTIONS DESCRIBING NOTHING AT ALL BUT SEXUAL IMAGERY

 

Chapter Four. Part 1.

 

 AROUSAL CAFE

 

Streaks of pure sunlight strobed through the green, closed blinds. He awoke the usual way, hand on his semi-stiff, slowly tugging it, a smile on his face. Sitting up he allowed more sunlight into the bedroom and through the open tilted window came warm gusts of summer breeze, filling the room with promises of good times ahead.

Back on the bed and resting his weight on an elbow, he lifted the duvet slowly off her, pushing it with his feet down until with an unnoticeable thud, fell to the floor. She laid there in the perfect position. On her back. Her nudity fully exposed for his prying eyes. He looked intensively, absorbing all of her physical form, his extremely rare eidetic memory giving him the ability, that whilst unable to ‘photograph’ texts, he could absorb and recreate scenes in incredible detail. And he could return again and again into the past. It made for excellent masturbation.

 Now being able to place her in that slot in his brain reserved for the construction of another sexual virtual world game, he would download her not in the true colours, but in sepia. With her stillness and no hint of shyness and instinctive embarrassment of being observed under such scrutiny meant he could scan her in minute detail. As would an artist creating on paper or canvas a nude, but he could do it digitally and then press entry for saved.

Like a cat scan, he started at the top. The sepia hews softening and causing fault of shadowing from the blind’s light, causing stripes reminiscent of those old photographs, creased and sweat stained. He had some and would show her once he had awoken her. Not with a cup of coffee to leave its bitter taste on her tongue that would have been normally to pass her lips first, but something of much more exotic taste. Tasting with the intensity of an alcoholic slurping his first Bloody Mary cocktail of the morning whilst observing bikini clad youthful bodies frolic at the seas edge, the fat stomach bulging under a towel as the pervert drank greedily and lay on his sunbed, jerking himself off.

He would start at the top. Sweaty matted, tousled hair, a few strands stuck to her forehead in small curls. Slightly matted eyelashes over closed eyes, her lips speckled with dried saliva, purred kitten like with slight but gentle snoring. Arms hap-hazard, crossed her breasts, flattening them out from their weight, spreading mother’s milk shake takeaways evenly. Almost perfect pancakes covering a bowl of warm whipped cream eagerly awaiting to be consumed.

He lifted the upper arm by a wrist, uncrossing them, and bending his head he tasted and absorbed the smell from spikey hairs of the gift she gave him. Placing that arm to her side, then leaning over her, warily did the same act to replicate the process. Totally exposed, her midriff could tell nothing to him, the lighting causing all natural curves or shapes to become in  indistinguishable and so he moved on, now starting at the bottom so that the two scans would meet in the middle over the true prize.

Bare feet, the nails manicured and painted the same colour as her finger-nails. The satin gleam dulled in places from dried cunt juices. He let his fingers glide gently up her legs, smiling bemusedly at his own powers of suggestion, the small stubble on them struggling to overcome its master’s demands to grow so as to satisfy her lover’s fetish.

Thighs, soft to the touch as he finally could look at what would now be his Eve in the Garden of Paradise. Ironic that Rosemary went to bed after being raped by the very devil himself and would now awake to be electrified into virginal shock as her maiden fair would be taken  by the creator’s creation of a weapon of mass impregnation - as first penis on earth. Capable of shrinking and hiding in itself, but like a tortoise doing the same the head mounted on its own vein rippled neck, would come out and up for the offering of a tasty treat.

All was going to plan. He had created the heavens, land, sea and hell in this woman that he knew nothing about, and he saw that it was good. Now the well-rehearsed stage act had to be done with timing and precision. His partners in crime were well fired up. Reloaded balls already tightening, the tool of copulation dribbling out its expanded eye, both knowing that, like its controller of them, the phenomenons coming from the target were making them all wild. But even the smallest error of judgement would bring this all down in an awful screaming mess of disappointment.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, continually watching her face for any signs of disturbance in her deep sleep, he spread her legs, slightly bending them at the  knees, resting quietly and still. Pushing on spread arms and hands and crouched knees, he manoeuvred his body over her, and without any physical contact, glided his partly open legs between hers.

Moving silently, he let them ease down onto the floor, knees welcome for the softness of the duvet. Now he was in the exact position to start the next phase of the return to paradise. Her sexual organ was closed by her vulva covered, sticky matted hairs. This was a very dangerous as whilst keeping his balance with his left arm, he would have to prise the cave door open. But like an old pair of double doors, if they were jammed together with the jam they had created together, the separation would like silent Velcro,  part reluctantly, stretching, pulling at the roots and sending warning signals that something was occurring that was she normally sorted with a good, strong pee. The type where splashing chaos ensued until the jet stream unlocked the matted safe doors.

He was not to concerned about that. Whilst in some countries such as Sweden, it was considered that a healthy morning fuck with a more than shared consenting part of any sexual gender social-intercourse whilst conscious, it was illegal to rape the partner whilst unconscious. Rape here being as penetration without the person’s knowledge nor consent.

No big deal. It was considered quite normal among mid-life crisis hit German men. They would mount their used-up partners of negative sexual arousal of repetitive, boring poking. Rather the old man would, with a floppy penis flounder about in a rather reeking pit of rotten kipper. A quick ‘wham-bam, thank you ma’am’, in the vague hope he could hold the image of the young girl with the big tits who works at the supermarket cash desk, before he started shrinking and dribbling out some lazy sperm. All before his missus of years would awake and moan with stale breath that he must hurry up.

 

He was worried with more pressing details and hoped to god, she did stay corpus-cosmos- christi. It was just question of how deep she was, the dope they had inhaled had long worn off. Successfully his right-hand fingers archived their objective, separating the wrinkly two sets of lips, the pairs now apart but joined by strings of their mixed juices.

Bringing his head deep down into her groin his tongue probed around the flaps,  ignoring her almost hidden button that if disturbed would send crazed signals out that could awake the dead. He needed her as a complacent warm corpse, so erotic in its creepiness. As his taste organ entered the darkness of the promised land of sperm and honey, he deeply regretted not to be blessed with the tongue of the group Kiss’s, lead singer whose enormous wiggling cow’s thing that could come out and make a donkey loose its erection in shame. And all the woman fans suffer from seat wetting.

He started to harvest the contents for the next phase of operation - ‘Like a Virgin, touched for the very first time’. He was good at this.  Scooping again and again until mixed with his own spit, his mouth was full to the dribbling point. He had to work fast now and multi-task. Gathering his knees up, he stared to place himself above her again, a hand with small movements guided his lubricated tip to her open entrance. Now with that in position, and moving up, again leaning  on his outstretched left arm, He pinched her nostrils together. This was it! It just had to work; his balls were close to exploding.

 

Her mouth sprung open wide, as he thrust with all his force into her whilst simultaneously placing his closed lips into her mouths, then injecting with considerable might the garnered liquid into her. Her eyes flew open in shock, she swallowed, he now wrapped his tongue around hers, pounding away, hammering her as to nail her to the bed, her legs suddenly stiffened, lifted up, and widened in the natural instincts of all females to be impregnated by the alpha male, to make the species continue to evolve, still groggy, her hips thrust back as hard as his, clashing limbs frantically seeking out erogenous zones as they fought, not a word spoken, just sounds of groaning, grunting, maniacal laughter, screams of pain, spitting on each other, clawing, biting nipples, clashing open mouths, splitting lips, whilst heads with hair being pulled almost out of their roots, thrashed sideways in panting breaths, fingers wriggling in belly buttons, furious licking of armpits, then two of her lubricated fingers from tiny streams of blood, sweat and tears from his mutilated back and slapped face, rammed tightly together up his anal orifice as deep as they could go, and then as timing reached it conclusion of  aspired climaxes, she waited to feel him starting to come and cruelly crossed her fingers and scratched his tunnels sides with her nails as she withdrew them. As he writhed and screamed in the agony and ecstasy, she exploded herself as his shocked testicles blew their first load of the new day.

 

Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the sexiest of them all?

 

Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the sexiest of them all?
 

 Chapter Three. Part 3.

Licking her tears away he rocked her against his breast, waiting till her sobbing and shaking slowed down as the adrenalin finally began to wear off.

            “Please tell me what did you do to me. I have never been so scared in my life, and never, ever, had an orgasm like that before.”

            “Shuss now. You asked to be frightened. So, I did exactly what you wanted. I have nothing to do with the occult or any religion. A true atheist is a follower of the late Carl Sagan.” Then he quoted out of his head the entry in Wikipaedia. “ ‘Astronomer, planetary scientist, cosmologist, astrophysicist, astrobiologist, author, and science communicator`, and for me personally -  they can add philosopher to that entry.

            She sat up. “The book? The dagger?, and how did the curser move?”

            "Actually, the book is very dangerous if it lands up in the hands of lunatic occultists. I found it a few years ago when as part of my job I had to clear rubbish from a huge apartment block in Muhldorf. The various ex-tenants had for decades dumped their rubbish up there. It took two of us three days to strip the joint. Amazing stuff I found. Newspapers from 1939, postcards  to people, now long dead, addressed to Adolf Hitler Platz 10, complete with a stamp bearing the t Fuhrers profile. But in a rotting antique set of draws was the book. I realised its value and took it home. Googling it brought up some very interesting facts. It had been missing for years and even rumoured to have been in Hitler’s personal possession. Hence it stays here. The dagger? Flea market. A stall selling WW2 memorabilia. But,the thing that really got you spooked is the Ouija board. Come, watch closely.” He pulled the table back in front of them. Taking his hand still gloved, “I made it myself. I download the picture, expanded it to twice its size, printed it out and laminated. Feel how smooth it is. Now watch as I push it.”

            Hovering just behind the curser with one hand he moved it with some invisible force. She observed incredulously, leaning over so as to watch, as it spun around and the devil’s tail pointed to ‘Good Bye’.

            “Now see what happens when I go too close.”

            As he did so, the devil spun over and leapt to his hand with a small audible, metallic click. He waved his hands in front of her.

            “Here take it.”

            Pulling it off his glove, and slapping his grinning face lightly, her tears rapidly drying now, she laughed with gentle amusement.

            “ Magnets! Oh, you little cheat, so that’s how it all works, where did you get them”, fascinated by the small round pellets, “also from TEDI?”

             “Nah! I get them for free.” Taking a baking tray from under the couch, its contents loaded with rolling tobacco, a small self-seal bag of dark green marihuana, cardboard filters and rolling papers. “They come with the papers that I use to roll joints. See,” opening a flap from a Gizeh pack. The lid is sealed with a tiny magnet. When the pack is empty, I collect them. I will show you more when I take you around BBB, Bingo Bongo Bar when daylight wakes us up. I just used super glue to stick them on the glove.”

            "Yeah, okay and what else do you have hidden under this couch of wonders. Pandora’s box?”

            He laughed.“ That is what I will nickname yours.” He bent over and dragged out a metal box with three glass eyes. “This is the fog machine. It stays in the BBB for parties.”  

“But you still haven’t explained what occurred to my body."

            “You had a G-spot orgasm. They are rare.  Only one ex-partner achieved it with me. I don’t actually know much about this phenomenon and it is still well debated amongst medical scholars. The point is, your adrenalin rush of fear caused by the so called ritual, made the possibility that you could reach one. I did have a vague idea where the spot could be, hence the angle of penetration and almost instinctively finding it causing me in my excitement to spurt on it.”

            “Well it certainly worked on me. I  feel that after all this unbelievable fucking - where I consumed your spunk and my own juices, pissed on your hands, and flooded us both with…this stuff,” she touched herself, then licking the moisture from her fingers after sniffing at them, “all I smell and taste is your come. Hmm, how weird, and I thought I was pregnant with satin’s child!”

            She slowly stood up. The blanket slipped of her shoulder. “I feel like I have run a marathon on all fours. It must be well after midnight,” she giggled, “whatever time that is but I think it is time to go to bed…and sleep.”

            Accompanying her, he stripped out of his soaking devil outfit, kicking it into a corner. As he took the few steps with her to the bedroom, she again  stopped at the mirror. They both looked at the naked form staring with wide, bloodshot eyes back at them. She recalled what she had last said in front of it.

            “Do you think I’m sexy? At this moment I look like a cat that’s been dragged by its tail through a thorn hedge.

            “Well you certainly made screams as loud as they can”

            Ignoring him, she absently reached back an arm, exposing sweat matted hair, to scratch at her back. “Ouch.” She looked at dark crumbs of coagulated blood under her fingernails. “What in hell did you do to me?”

She twisted her hips to and throw looking at the large pentagon, engraved into her back. The outline visible in dark red beads. “You have scarred me with the devil’s signature. Are you mad? I don’t recall you doing this to me.” She gazed, as returning her hand, lightly rubbed some of it off, leaving an angry red line.

“Don’t worry. The rest will come off in bed and it will all be gone in three to four days. When you started your dance to the devil, I increased your enthusiasm to be impregnated by him by gently, just using its weight, the dagger point on you. It worked rather well. Now I do think your sexy.”

In the bedroom the lights were killed, and they spooned up together. Gently he wrapped an arm over her, fondling a breast and fine tuning an erect nipple. She obliged the feeling of a swelling sausage by prising her buttocks apart and let him slowly glide in.

“Mmmm, I will sleep now at any moment. Just keep slowly pumping, I will feel it in my dreams.” She kissed him, released her upper buttock and let the muscles of her soaking wet tunnel squeeze and guide him deeper and deeper. Then with a sigh of satisfaction she was gone to who knows where.

He continued to move in her, sometimes almost letting the exhausted tip slip out. But the pleasurable feeling made him quietly groan just as three tiny spurts from his eggs fired like a damp squid. Now they were empty. As he wrinkled down, he fell asleep also, smiling - another day, another fuck.