So I kind of let my participation in the social part slide and focused on my classes for a bit, as much as that would have disappointed Mother. We talked every day and I could tell she was getting a little frustrated at how vague my answers were about who I was seeing, and what social events I was planning to attend in the next week.
One afternoon I went to the campus bookstore in search of books by an author one of my professors had been talking about, that sounded like it had some interesting things to say about sex. I only knew how the name was pronounced, not how it was spelled, and I wasn't having much luck finding the author on the shelf, so I tried to find somebody who could help me. The first guy was helping another customer, so I kept wandering in search of someone who could help and soon found myself in the kids' section.
Then I saw her.
What was it about her that struck me so? It certainly wasn't beauty. She was overweight and, at that moment, displaying an ample crack in the back of her jeans as she sat on the floor, shelving a stack of picture books. It wasn't style-- she had wildly unkempt black curly hair, black hornrim glasses and no makeup, all of which gave her a certain boyish look.
No, what wowed me was that she seemed free. Free of all the things I'd come to school with-- the need to dress up like every day was a job interview (which, to Mother's mind, it was), to impress boys, to be somebody I didn't know if I wanted to be.
She looked up at me. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm looking for a book on a French philosopher-- it's something like Fooko or Fuckall--"
"Feuh-kohhh," she said, trailing the last syllable out.
"Right," I said.
Then she kind of smirked at me and said "I'll see if we have something... for you." As if someone like me was never, in a million years, going to be capable of understanding this big-brained French dude. I felt my face flush-- fortunately my blush would disguise the fact-- as she led me to the philosophy section.
We looked at the books for a minute-- she reached for one called Foucault For Dummies and I dismissed it with a haughty glare-- and eventually arrived at a thin introductory volume. All the while, though, I was looking at her-- her fat breasts loose under her Obama T-shirt, a roll sticking out on one side of her hips, her ample butt squishy in her jeans. There was something monstrous about her, large and hairy as she was, something repellent and yet magnetic, the sight of a woman my age so completely devoted to a different way of presenting herself to the world. I tried to imagine letting myself go like that-- no, it was too awful. And yet I couldn't tear away.
I took the book and thanked her, and as I walked away she sort of shook her head a little and smirked again, as if in amazement at the exotic creature she'd met today.
* * *
I devoured the book and was back at the bookstore within two days. I was eager to tackle Foucault's major work, The History of Sexuality, but just as importantly, I wanted to buy it from her, show her that I had been capable of reading such a work and understanding it.
I had thought about her a lot in the past two days, trying to puzzle out what it would be like to be such a person. To present yourself that way to the world. Could I do that? Could I make such a radical change to myself and what I was here for? Could I stand the conniption fit that Mother would throw as a result?
I wandered the aisles, Foucault in hand, but didn't see her. Resigned, I found the philosophy department, and looked through it, but didn't seem to see volume one, The Will to Knowledge. I leafed through the second volume, but it was about ancient Greece, and seemed less interesting.
"Still looking for Foucault?"
I turned around and there she was, just as I'd remembered her-- rough and unkempt. Yet there was something lovely about her pale skin set off by black hair, even if some of it grew where it really should be plucked.
"I finished this, so I wanted to read his History of Sexuality," I said.
"You finished it?" She still seem bemused by me, the bitch. "What did you think of it."
"I thought it was interesting," I said, wincing at such a lame opening statement. Hurriedly I added, "I was interested by his concept of repression as being not just an instrument of control over our sexuality, but also, how we define ourselves. Like, if society wasn't there to set the boundaries, we wouldn't be able to, you know..."
"Construct an identity," she said.
"Right," I said.
"Because the one thing we see around us is that some people have very strong constructed identities," she said, peering at me through those black hornrims.
"And it may lead people who have their own constructed identity to make assumptions about others which might be too narrow," I said.
"Where in fact, their identity might be more fluid," she said.
"There could be a lot of fluidity," I said.
"So which one are you looking for?" she asked. "Which book, I mean."
"Oh, uh, volume one of The History of Sexuality," I said. "But it doesn't seem to be in stock."
"I have it," she said.
I looked at her, wondering what she was implying.
"If you'd like to come over for some tea, I could lend it to you," she said.
* * *
"Power isn't just about ordering people to do something," she said. "For Foucault, it's a whole system that makes you want to do something. That could be morality, it could be science, it could be marketing. It doesn't have to be a guy with a gun ordering you around."
We were sitting on a big puffy couch, reclining face to face with our tea cups in our hands. She was puffy too, a landscape that rolled and curved over the couch, I felt very bony next to her. "So that's what he means by hegemony? The ideas are so deeply ingrained that it's how you view the entire world--"
"Right. Any other way of acting would be unthinkable."
"And that's why he's so focused on discipline--"
"Well, maybe not the only reason," she said, with a sort of smirk.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he was also a gay guy who was into S&M and stuff like that," she said. "So I think his interest in discipline was more than academic, if you know what I mean."
"Oh," I said. We were quiet for a moment. "So what about freedom? Is there such a thing?"
"Well, I think that's his point about power," she said. "We create power by rebelling against it and defining it."
"But is that a bad thing? Aren't we at least affecting it by pushing against it?"
"Yeah, I think that's part of how Foucault is different from a lot of other philosophers," she said, kicking her sandals off, exposing her long toes. "Marxists view power as a very rigid game with two teams. Foucault's view of it is much more dynamic-- it's not just religion or the state--"
"It's in all the ways we deal with people," I said. My hand bumped into hers. It stayed there, feeling the warmth coming from her skin.
"Right," she said.
"Like in how members of different social groups act to each other on campus. They assume certain things about each other, when maybe..." I said, trailing off.
"They want the same thing and don't know it," she said. "And they need to break through how society defines them--"
At that moment I was done talking about Foucault. So I leaned forward and kissed her.
Her lips were so soft and yielding, it was unlike any time I'd kissed Trent or any boy. I loved the heat coming from her mouth as our lips mashed together. I wanted to eat her up.
She put her hand to my breast and I grabbed hers, roughly, the big round blob of tit that it was under her cotton T-shirt. I could feel her nipple getting hard under her bra and I knew I had to suck that nipple, now. So I grabbed her shirt and pulled it up. She laughed, someone's in a hurry, she seemed to be saying. She reached behind and popped her bra and then those beautiful fat tits came tumbling out and I dove for one of them, sucking her nipple while mashing the other against my face. God, they were so soft and wonderful, big spongy boobs, I wanted to suck on them forever, to live between their soft pink bou
nciness.
She pushed me back and began unbuttoning my blouse. I just stared at her, topless, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, her unruly black curls falling over her face, her big boobs dangling in front of me, her soft tummy swaying from side to side, a mole with a little hair sticking out right under her tits, adorable. She unsnapped my brassiere in the middle and then she grabbed my smaller breasts and began flicking her tongue over my nipples, my toes curled up, it was wonderful. She came back up and kissed me again, and I sucked her tongue in, greedily, while squeezing her dangling tit.
Then I rolled on top of her, her fat breasts lolling to either side as I kissed my way down, past the hairy mole to her stomach. I grabbed her pants and began to pull them down, and as I did, a magnificent forest of curly dark hair sprang up. Her crotch was as untamed and hairy as the rest of her, maybe moreso, and now it was my wild place, to lick and suck into submission. I felt no hesitation about the step I was about to take; I knew that this was what I was, that I felt about her pussy as I never felt about any of the cocks I'd had in my hands or my mouth, spewing their stinky cum onto me. A pussy was a natural and beautiful thing, and this one would be mine to lick to ecstasy.
I spread her legs apart and there it was, in all that black fur, slimy purple lips dripping with anticipation of my tongue. I dove in and spread them apart with my tongue, licking up and down the length of their slippery warm womanliness. They tasted of salt and metal and wet velvet— no, they tasted of themselves, pussy, the thing I knew I needed from now on. What was that about identities being constructed? This was my identity, from birth I now knew, licking her slick wet snatch, feeling her petals undulate under my tongue as I kneaded her big round bottom. Oh, the hours I would spend loving that fat bottom.
I slid a finger into her pussy and then another, slowly fucking her as I lapped her clit. She started moaning, her big ass shaking the world in front of me, and then she clamped her soft thick thighs around my head and I felt her pussy squeeze my fingers, rhythmically. I'd made her cum, me and my fingers and tongue, her pussy was responding to me, it had given herself over to me.
We cuddled for hours, feeling each other all over, playing with the newfound joys of soft fat breasts, squishy tummy, hairy bush, long toes. I was inexhaustible, I wanted to lick at her womanliness for hours, I saw stars when she climbed on top of me, fucking me with her fingers while she sucked my nipples, kissed her own juices off my face. We couldn't have been more different, me blonde and well-groomed and long and lithe, her pale and dark-haired and messy in every direction with her wild hair and monobrow and chubbiness. But she was everything I wanted under me, in my power.
Foucault would have understood, I think.
* * *
Mama took it badly at first— if you can call a pretend suicide attempt taking it badly (four Midol and a glass of champagne is unlikely to be fatal, even if you do leave a three-page note). But over time I saw a change in her attitude toward Liz and me, and finally I realized what it was— she saw that we were in love, and I think that was something she'd never seen before.
Now we go shopping together (she's slightly femme'd Liz up, though there's a long way to go to make her Miss Low-Till Farming) and hang out together during break, drinking chardonnay and talking girl talk. I've even started to wonder about Mama— could she have been so unhappy in her relationships, at least in every way except money, because she...? It's a funny thought, but she's taken good care of herself, and her marriages certainly have left her well fixed. She'd make a nice catch for some gal. Maybe she should go back to school for her Ms.
The End.
The Inlander
Leaving his two bodyguards outside, the tall, handsome askari with the tribal tattoo swirled on his cheek came blinking into the purple tent, out of the strong morning sunshine. The shadowed coolness was welcome after the equatorial Sun's heat against his dark brown perspiring skin.
"Welcome, welcome, o' Worthy to the humble tents of the Dhahabu Market," said the short squat slaver, who ushered the Inlander warrior in with an ingratiating smile.
The slaver gestured to a wide-backed rattan chair, a matching foot stool set before it. There was a table within easy arm's reach on which set vessals of food and drink. "Sit, great sirrah, be at ease. As you can see there are victuals to delight the palate and incense to stir the senses. The musicians in yonder corner will play any tune you fancy. I will send in the girls. Your merest whim is their most passionate pleasure, you may be assured."
Traditionally, the best girls of a slaver house are featured in their purple tents. Absent was the shouted, bawdy bidding of the masses. There, where the rich men shop, a kajira's charms can be intimately sampled by the potential buyer. In the select tents, only after he has tasted what is for sale is the buyer required to make a bid, if any.
The tall man nodded, seeming neither impressed with the slaver's servile mien nor the rich interior decorations of the large tent. He moved in an easy gait to the fan back chair and sat upon it. His deep brown skin, high-cheek boned features, his long-limbed arms and legs made him plainly of Inlander heritage. The folk who inhabit the vast Rainforest of Gor's Equatorial Belt.
He was of the Kirotobo Clan. His name was Moto Kutwa, gifter of fire or fire giver, in the Inlander language. Prometheus in City Gorean.
He was traveling incognito, in the simple guise of an askari, an Inlander warrior. While he had a right to don the askari regalia of leopard skin loincloth, the wicked curved belt knife, feathered headdress with amulets, bracelets and anklets of gold, panther and mamba teeth, in actuality, he was the Mfalme, the Ubar, of the Island of Kailiuak, on the famous trade island by the same name on Lake Ushindi.
He had just endured a week-long secret trade conference with the Schendi Council and he felt he owed himself some recreation before beginning the long journey back up-river to Lake Ushindi. The Dhahabu Slave Mansion of Schendi was well-known for its high-quality slaves throughout the Equatorial Zone of Gor. And so, it was to their purple tents that Prometheus had went. :. He drank Turian brandy and ate river-fish caviar on fresh bread as he watched the first presented girl dance before him.
She's heavy-footed, he thought, dismissively. He was a fan of the Dance, a severe critic, and didn't appreciate dilettantes diluting the ranks. He didn't bother to suppress a yawn a few ehn through the girl's routine. The anxious slaver, sensitive the potential buyer's mood, hurriedly pulled the girl out and brought in another.
The second girl was a songstress. Her voice was light and clear, such as to charm any master. Prometheus could see why she'd been reserved for the purple tents. But, within the walls of his palace, he had many such singers and didn't need another. He gave her a silver tarn when she finished, sparking a wide smile of gratitude from the songbird. More likely than not the valuable coin would be taken from her but it was the gesture the girl would truly treasure.
It was the third girl who got the Mfalme's attention. The moment she thrust aside the flap and strutted into the tent he knew she was of a singular quality.
Her walk was buoyant, agile, the balls-of-her-feet gait of a superbly healthy female. Her natural scent suffused the air, overwhelming the fainter traces of the perfumed sluts before her. Her hair was dark-hued crimson, which fell in cascading waves down her sun-kissed shoulders, framing a face a man usually saw only in his most lust-inspired dreams. Although her height was demure, the slave's breasts were full melons, capped by rose madder aureole. The pinched waist helped to form a classic heart-shaped ass, supported by shapely thighs. Her sex was partially hidden by pube fuzz as fiery as her mane. Her navel was a deep dimple on her belly and a tiny gold ring graced her pierced clit. The nails of her tapered fingers were painted green. She was naked, save for the clit-ring and slave bells at her ankles, and as haughty as any prima ballerina absoluta ever born.
Seemingly indifferent to the wench, who pridefully struck a sensual pose, Prometheus cracked nuts against each other in his big closed fist, then made a business out o
f judiciously picking the edible nuggets from amongst the shell shards. After a few ihn, he looked up. His dark black-brown gaze met her midnight blue eyes. Although her glance was fleeting, he saw the expressiveness of those almond eyes shaded under long curled sooty lashes.
"Well? What are you waiting for, slut? Sing, dance. Surely you can do more than just stand there licking your lips and pouting."
The girl's deep blue eyes narrowed just a bit. The implied criticism of her kajira skills stung her, as it was meant to do. Kajirae are vain of their talents, easy prey to criticism. The slave nodded respectfully to the musicians in their corner, then began to grind her hips.
Quickly, the girl's dance made Prometheus forgetful of the nuts in his hands. He watched as she closed her eyes. Her sinuous body moving with the beat of the drum. The purple satin of the large tent billowed slightly with the wind as the kajira moved seductively in the lamplight. Her expressive eyes held the assurance of a pleasure slut who knew her heat was high, her skills just as rarified. She swung her hips and rolled her ass as if in the arms of an ardent lover, her slim arms entwining over her head of brilliant scarlet hair, long nailed slender fingers moving with serpentine grace.
Prometheus found it pleasing, if curious, that although the red-haired girl was clearly of Northern stock she danced with the uninhibited instincts of a jungle slut. It was obvious to the slaver that the proud girl had caught the Inlander's attention. He did a quiet fade from the tent.
The Inlander lost count of the ehn as he watched the girl and she did her very best to beguile him, ensnare his senses with the slave dance. With her exertions her scent musk completely suffused the tent, adding yet another layer to her seduction. All the while her haughty glance would flick toward his face then away, seeking to ascertain the effect she was having upon him.
The pipes thrilled, the drum throbbed.
The girl's movements took on the pantomime of being first chased, then captured. She skipped upon her toes, causing her fulsome breasts to sway heavily, close to his face. She swirled away, temporarily escaping, only to be caught again. She fell to her knees before him, opening her inviting thighs that her sex was unobscured, crimson thatch unable to hide the plumpness of her wet cuntlips, the smell of the girl now far more heady than the incense on the humid air. She began to thrust and grind her hips, as if in response to an invisible yet violent ravishment, falling to the carpeted floor, breathless, bosom heaving. Sweat beaded over her heated form, running in rivulets down her cheeks, off her breasts, down her thighs.
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