Have to pick Troy up from soccer in an hour, pestering about soccer boots, he has to have the right boots, can’t play soccer in any old thing, but how will I get the money? Boots in the shop over fifty dollars, won’t his gym shoes do? But he says no, break in his voice, tears in his eyes, have to have what the others have….money, try to save but every week can I have this can I have that…Last week his father bought him Buzz Lightyear and this week it’s a remote control aeroplane, now all they want is to go to daddy’s, daddy’s where all the toys are, all the light and good cheer….
Must make more noise…he’ll think I’ve lost interest. Wonder if he’s thinking my bum’s too big. He says it looks like newly baked bread, don’t know what that means, think it means soft and doughy…have to go out jogging tonight. Thump, thump, sweat falling on me like dew…. Hard to tell when he’s going to – ah! That’s nice, that’s nice, keep going like that, pull my hair, I like that, you can be my ape man and I can be your woman….just as long as I don’t look at you with your grey hair and your paunch and your middle aged breath.…mustn’t think that, puts me off…
Last night saw a cockroach skidding across the kitchen floor, hate those things. Stamped on it, looked like a squashed prune, knew there were plenty more behind the cupboards…where do they live? Probably crawl over the washing up sitting in the sink waiting for me to get to it but you know in the morning there’s no time to wash the dried rice bubbles off the plates it’s hard enough getting the kids to have their breakfast get their clothes on. Kylie nearly drives me crazy, I’ll kick my legs, you try to get my pants on mum just see if you can do it, I never was any good at sport…GET YOUR BLOODY PANTS ON WE’RE LATE!
Mmmm….speeding up now, starting to make panting noises, is it me or him…not too long now, time to get the mind into gear, concentrate, concentrate, have to get ready to come, sound like it anyway, eyes shut tight, mouth open, breathe deep, is it pleasure or is it pain…looks passionate anyway, good enough for him. Yesterday he said he loved me but that was afterwards they never mean it then, you can’t believe anything, why would anyone love me anyway….but I liked it, wonder if he’ll say it again…three times makes true and I could say it to him then, I love you, I love you, I love you…but I don’t.
Oh fuck! Nine o’clock meeting and I forgot to ring mum to take the kids to school…Oh, oh…have to ring her after I get my clothes on straighten the bed say goodbye see you sometime never really know when, pick Troy up get the sausages from the butchers don’t know what they put in them though, probably no meat at all, oh, oh, yes, please….forgot last week and the boss gave me dirty looks she’s got no kids the bitch doesn’t know what it’s like no lover either probably, like to see her fall under a truck, not much likelihood of that….oh my God, BRUCE!
Wet between the legs, cold on the sheets between us, head on his shoulder thinking, fifteen minutes to go, better get up need to go the toilet anyway five minutes to the soccer ground should check the oil in the car haven’t done it for weeks hope it doesn’t break down on the way to the meeting like last time stuck in the traffic five hundred dollars at the garage how will I ever…. Yeah, that was great. What’s the time now. Mustn’t forget the sausages.
Cleaning Frenzy
"You haven't done the corners!"
Liliana frowned. The moth, wings outflung in death, and Hobbs, the vacuum cleaner she had bought a month ago, after ditching Clemence the French Maid in a fit of pique, stared back at her.
“I only bought you because they said you had an eye for detail.”
“I do have an eye. For detail.”
In fact, Hobbs had no eyes, only a visual detection screen. But there was something about that screen which made Liliana feel....undressed.
The fact is - she was undressed. And why shouldn't she be, in her own home, with no one but the household appliances to see her. Still, she crossed her arms over her naked breasts.
“Then you can see that dead moth as well as I can,” she retorted.
Hobbs pondered. She knew he was pondering, because a red light winked on his user function controller. A red spot played on her bare midriff, like a salacious ultrasound.
“Show me,” he said.
She sighed. It was a game to him. Her. She was pretty sure Hobbs was a him.
“Look!”
She got down on her knees, her knees sinking sensuously into the deep pile.
“Moth. Here! Dust. Here!”
Liliana ran a slim finger around the skirting board.
“You have an attachment. I read about it. For dust.”
Hobbs sidled close.
“See?”
She held up her finger, grey, ran it slowly along his sensor. She heard him purr. She could have sworn it.
“Again?”
“What? This?”
She stroked the cool metal, felt a flush of electric warmth meet her fingertip.
“I bought you to clean the goddamn floor, not to –“
Not to - what?
“Where's the goddamn attachment, anyway?”
With a low growl, the vacuum tube slid out, its questing nozzle quivering with tiny, silken hairs. She closed her hand around it, feeling the delicate power, sensuous, subtle. Naked, she drew closer, and Hobbs, too, with a throaty murmur, leaned in towards her naked body as they converged on the still, dead moth.
“Your bread's ready!”
She jumped.
“It's been ready for half an hour. If you don't take it out, it'll get all steamy and moist.”
“Coming, Clarissa.”
She rued the day she'd decided to call the bread making machine Clarissa. Could a nameless machine have a character? Could a nameless machine be in love?
She opened the lips of the oven and peered in. The bread was waiting, warm, ripe, crusty, fragrant.
“Are you satisfied? Did I satisfy you?”
“Yes, Clarissa, you were perfect.”
“Because, you know, I tried especially hard, for you. I know how you love to taste something fresh and rich and warm first thing in the morning. I know just how you like it, don't I?”
“Thanks, Clarissa. I know you do.”
“Don't I get a kiss then?”
“Clarissa, you make the bread. You don't need kisses. You don't even have a mouth.”
She could feel Clarissa pouting, with her no-mouth. The bread wouldn't rise properly, next time. the fruit of a heavy sulk. She put her soft arms around the white, creamy box and pressed her lips to the plastic, even a little flicker of tongue.
So smooth, she thought. If only we were made of plastic. Or steel. To run warm hands over curves and flanks of whitest poly-something, to feel the electric heart pulsing beneath.
“No moth!”, said Hobbs in his deep, thrilling voice, loudly. “See? No dust.”
He stood, erect, in the corner, his shiny steel frame sihouetted in the window, proudly holding his extension before him.
Liliana sighed.
“I'll check later. Right now I'm going to take a nap.”
She shut the bedroom door. Hobbs and Clarissa exchanged a complicit glance.
"I can clean crumbs, too," said Hobbs, hopefully.
Fishes with Fetishes
Fish fuck. You don’t see us doing it but we do. They love best to fuck in a storm, under the waves where it’s quiet and green and if you look up you can just see the lightning screaming across the peaks above.
I’ll tell you what’s wild. To fuck in front of an oncoming ocean liner, cutting through the phosphorus towards you with its engines throbbing and its huge prow thrusting forward towards you, looking like it’s going to cut you in half, and full of humans screeching softly with their tinny voices in their little circle of light, in the midst of the great darkness they can’t see. To fuck, and roll around in the bow wave, shouting, quick, come, come, are you coming yet, it’s coming, come now!
And then at the last moment possible to dive out the way, far below the cutting blades, and wait laughing till
it passes over the top of us like a great fat steel whale.
What else? To lie hidden in the long sea gardens, slithering through on your belly, hand in hand, feeling eels stroking your breasts and your gills as you wriggle past, and rainbow fish nibbling at your erect nipples.
In the floor forest, where the adults can’t see us, we lie on top of one another and I feel Rhysshe’s long, fishy dick snaking out and into me, his scales sliding click-click against mine, his tail flipping ever so softly over the sand, stirring up a little cloud.
He blows bubbles into my mouth, turns about and sucks them out of my vagina with a popping sound like a squid. My long green hair floats up and covers his face – I love how it bugs him, sometimes he threatens to cut it off with a shell but I know he likes it really. I sew sharp little clams into it, that slap into his cheeks.
Some time, I want him to tie me to an old ship, sunk in mud on the sea bottom, and tease me with cuttlefish bones. Or maybe we should make out on a rock, our scales turning to dull grey in the dry air, giggling and thrashing around till some boatload of savages comes near enough to see and we throw ourselves off screaming with laughter, making rude signs with our tails – not that they get it.
But the best is to fuck in a storm, right up where the rain’s hitting the waves like a pile driver and the sky’s white with electricity and you lie on the top of the water and get carried up, up into the sky, and then you’re thrown down again like a dead gull so you think you’re going right to the bottom of the sea and beyond.
You just wrap your arms and your tails around each other so tight, you hardly know who’s in who, your mouth in his mouth, or maybe it’s the other way around, and when the thunder cries out I feel Rhysshe deep, deep inside of me, as if he’s the thunder.
And when the lightning comes over the surface, well then so do we, our bodies lit up from inside with the current, you can’t imagine the buzz. No one can touch us for days afterwards, we glow like worms and zap sharks’ fins just for fun. And the fish, they’ve been doing it too, so Rhysshe waves his arms as he swims and clouds of eggs surge into my open mouth, and he says, remember when?
Jekyll and Hyde
My name is Edward Jekyll, and since my earliest youth I have been afflicted with a curse which, once I attained puberty, threatened to blight the course of my young life. I have, in fact, a very small member, and this is the root of the tragedy that I am about to unfold to you – although thanks to my dearest Henrietta, my tragic destiny has, I venture to think, finally been averted.
As I say, I was born the possessor of a very small cock, and although this was of no concern to anyone before the age of fifteen, I then became aware that this was a considerable stumbling block in my relations with the gentler sex. No sooner had I loosened my breeches and prepared to approach a ready wench, legs already akimbo, with my manly appendage, than her eyes would widen in insolent incredulity.
“How old did ye say ye were, sir?”
“Sixteen, my good wench, if it’s any of your business!”
“I’d need one of those new-fangled microscopes, sir, so I would – why, if you put that thing in me, it’d get lost and we might never find it again, he he he. I couldn’t have that on my conscience, sir, oh no!”
And down would come her skirts, and that would be that.
Being a bright lad, I determined to make the best of my situation, and, as many before me, to develop the powers of the intellect. To this end, I attended a well-known hall of learning, and became, in due course, a man of Science.
However, I confess that despite the rewards of the mind I was somewhat lonesome. The nights were long as I worked over steaming vials and bubbling beakers in my Cambridge laboratory, and I could not help but pine for feminine company. Therefore I bethought me, why not harness those skills which I had acquired through my long years of study, to the advantage of my own poor infirmity.
I worked for many months, and in the end, hit upon a potion, the culmination of my labours. But I must tell you that in the meantime, I had fallen in love with an angel – yes, I had seen my dearest Henrietta for the first time, and that moment I will never forget.
I was working in my laboratory, as usual, one dark and stormy night, when there came a knock upon the door. I opened it with some trepidation, as it was late, to behold a lady on my threshold, drenched to the very skin. Her dress being but of thin muslin, I immediately perceived the contours of her form in the light of the porch. Her breasts were full and nipples sharply upright through the thin fabric, and the mound and cleft of her womanhood were clearly to be seen.
“May I be of assistance, Madam?” I offered.
“Oh sir, my carriage has broken down and I am in dire need of warmth and shelter!” she cried, her cornflower blue eyes raised tearfully to mine.
Naturally I ushered her in immediately, and suggested that she should dry herself by the fire while I prepared a pot of tea.
Startled was I therefore when she stood before my hearth and eased the dress from her wet body, letting it fall in a crumpled pile on the rug.
“Madam!” I cried, “Have a care for your honour! Your reputation!”
“What?” she replied innocently, “I am wet, as you can see, and will catch a cold if I remain in these clothes. Besides,” she went on, as I was about to suggest a more modest solution, “I have long watched you as you toiled in your laboratory, through the lighted window yonder, and, I confess, have a passion for you that I cannot suppress.”
And with that, she thrust her body upon me, covering me with kisses and going so far as to unbutton my breeches with her fair hands. Her cleft was moist under my hand, and her round buttocks soft and warm with the heat of the flames.
“Madam, no, I beg of you!” I hastily intervened – though it was not my inclination – keeping her straying hand from my privates. For I did not wish that she, of all people, should discover my shameful secret.
And she, reluctantly, desisted, though, as she drank tea with me, naked as the day she was born, even my small cock was rampant to sink itself in the scabbard which, with thighs gently parted, she so sweetly displayed.
Having conducted Henrietta to bed with a promise that we should, first thing in the morning, address our passions, I pondered what to do. It was now or never. I determined to take the fatal draught.
It tasted vile, but by God it worked. Before the cock crowed twice I was by Henrietta’s bedside, and had my rampant, fourteen inch member hard up her willing cunt. I took her first from behind, mounting between her pert white buttocks and riding her hard like a stallion to a mare in heat. She cried out and thrust herself against my loins, gasping as she contracted mightily within.
“Oh my God, I never dreamed t’would be as large...and thick…and strong...oh Edward!”
I pounded into her soft flesh, and then, when I was done, turned her upon her back and mounted again, thrusting my still wet and turgid cock into her tight, rosy orifice. That night, before breakfast, I had her half a dozen times, from the side, behind, on the escritoire, up against the Georgian dresser, and upside down, plough fashion. I was fully satisfied and so, I venture to think, was she, for she fell asleep with her mouth upon my cock, as it lay gently against my kneecap.
Alas, all good things etc. It was not long before the effects of the draught wore off, and though I was in passion and soul unchanged, in bodily attributes I was unfortunately returned to my former state.
What could I do, but make haste to rise from our bed of lust, and don again the white coat and spectacles of intellectual purity. My heart bled when I peeped in to see my love, not sleeping, but lying wide-legged pleasuring herself with my largest test tube, murmuring ‘Edward, take me!’ with each thrust into her swollen cunt.
I could not leave her thus. I allowed myself but one day of respite – during which I prepared a large quantity of the potion – and then drank again of the fatal brew. Again my cock grew large against my thighs and threatened to burst forth from its confinement. Again Henrie
tta gave her – previously – virginal body in all the positions known to both ancient and modern philosophy. I particularly recall her plaintive pleas that I bind her to the four poster bed and ravish her as she had always, in her sweet maidenly dreams, longed to be ravished. Of course, I could refuse her nothing.
To prolong the pleasures of this encounter I stroked her tits and belly with my valiant broadsword, moving it back and forward between her creamy thighs without, however, entering her womanly orifice, and then turned her over and teased apart her quivering hindquarters until she begged, forsooth, for me to pierce her Temple of Venus. Only then did I slide my mighty spear into her waiting warmth, feeling her pulse and clench with each penetration. With many a soft sigh and blandishment, Henrietta oft remarked that, talented man of science that she knew me to be, my gifts in the arts of love were not to be underestimated.
So we proceeded for many nights, each more delightful than the last. But it was then that I became aware of the full and dreadful potency of the drug that I had fashioned. While my dearest Henrietta lay supine and spread-eagled on our shared bed of passion, no longer could I preserve my studious day time endeavours, with which I had eventually hoped to impress the Royal Society and so establish my place among such great men as Darwin and Erasmus.
At first, I merely felt the constant need to touch and caress my member, which did not, as formerly, shrink to its former proportions once the effects of the devilish brew had subsided. I could not work, I could not think, but was impelled constantly to unbutton my trews and expend my manly essences into a lawn handkerchief or the laboratory sink.
Soon enough, however, matters worsened. I found myself stalking the estate, my member stiffening at the mere sight of any female, be she comely or plain – though my pure Henrietta lay waiting faithfully at home. And – though it pains me to so malign the gentler sex – the ladies were not at all reluctant, once they perceived the tremendous straining bulge in my breeches, to boldly approach and fondle my private parts, dead to the shame that should have prevented such acts of unwomanly wantonness.
The Mud God Page 2