Young Cunts

 

This is an Alison Goes to London ambiquel –
which is, of course, a cross between a prequel and a sequel.

 It is dedicated to Violet,
who always said she would like to read a story about young Cunts. 

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was the age of headiness, of ambition, of imagination. It was the epoch of desire, indulgence and Pleasure. So it was in the season when the Enlightenment burst forth upon this Continent. After the pandemic, the migrant crises, the collapse of the world climate, and the wars of the early ‘20s, after the destruction of all we held dear, it would have been too easy for us to accept our reduced circumstances, to agree to fade into the background, to leave the battle of ideas to others – in other words, to accept that our time was past. But no, we did not do that. Instead, the genius of Europe rose again. Like Voltaire, like Locke, like Rousseau – we saw that a New Enlightenment was necessary, to sweep away the moral cobwebs that had kept us hidebound and oppressed for too long. We saw that the true destiny of mankind lay in Pleasure, pure Pleasure. And so let it remain. Long live the New Enlightenment!

            - Emma Jane Cuntslicker, 2010-2060

“Seriously?!” The girl snorted, collapsing into a fit of giggles on the sofa. “The names! The names! Oh Grandma Alison, how on earth did anyone take themselves seriously in those days?” The youngster was short and slightly chubby, with brown skin, blue eyes, and frizzy blond hair. A cheeky smile lit up her freckled face.

“Oh, my darling, you have no idea,” replied the old lady, allowing herself to laugh too. “We all took ourselves very seriously indeed. It was an age of totalitarian liberalism, of compulsory Pleasure: we were changing the world, one fuck at a time! And Professor Cuntslicker was one of the greatest visionaries of the age: exceptional, in that she managed to balance devotion to her ideals with a true compassion for human beings. This was her last book: go on, you read some to me now,” she said, handing the open volume to her granddaughter. “Your eyes are better than mine.”

The girl took it, but paused. “Wait a moment,” she frowned. “‘2010-2060’? Does that mean…”

Her grandmother nodded grimly. “Yes… That’s what happened in those days. And just think, that was a mere ten years after your Grandad Rob and I, and your Great Aunt Eva, escaped. We were still living in the Outside World; your mummy was just a little girl then. I cried when I heard. You see, Cuntslicker was a selfless idealist, and brave beyond all measure. Ideologies fail, empires collapse; but out of their ruins there are always one or two truly wise, principled people we can learn from.”

“Tell me more about those times, Grandma Alison,” replied the girl softly.

“If you like,” the old lady smiled. “Shall we start with Cunts?”

“Start with what?” The girl looked appalled.

“No no, I mean Professor Cuntslicker – we all called her ‘Cunts’.”

The girl started to giggle uncontrollably.

“Now now, you must control yourself, darling, if you want me to tell you more. I mean, how must she have felt: 2060, at the pinnacle of her career, and yet so near the end…?”

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE

Friday 16th July 2060
mid-morning
Sasha Grey Auditorium, Royal Academy of Fucking, Maryleboner Road, London

“Oh yeah, fuck my asshole, stud! Make my cunt squirt with your dick all the way up my fucking shithole!” The girl was slender, clad in red latex from head to toe, with just three apertures in her mask – one for her mouth and the other two for her dark fluttering eyes. Another pair of openings on the front of her costume revealed two large olive-skinned breasts, which swayed and jiggled as she sashayed her ass downwards towards the boy’s erect cock. The young man was largely invisible to the audience, as he was lying on his back on the fuck-couch, but his cock was downstage, huge and black as she lowered her asshole – exposed through yet another carefully-positioned gap in the latex – onto it, her gape squelching obscenely as it found itself stuffed with nine inches of genetically-modified male ebony fuck-meat.

Loud, pumping metallic fuck rock pounded through the speakers. And above the stage hung a huge poster which proclaimed:

WELCOME TO THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF FUCKING
GRADUATION CEREMONY AND FUCK FESTIVAL 2060:
remembering the past, showcasing the future!

The poster, of course, displayed the RAF’s trademark reverse cowgirl cock-in-cunt photographic closeup, while the performers, by deft artistic choice, duplicated it on stage in the anal variety, allowing the appreciative audience – mainly consisting of this year’s graduates, clad, though otherwise nude, in black academic gowns and mortar-boards – an unimpeded view of the girl’s gaping gash: moist, glistening, hairless and pink, her clit swollen and throbbing as she rubbed it, even as she rammed her latex-framed ass up and down on the boy’s huge black cock.

Soon, however, her digital attention had shifted from her clit to her vaginal interior, as she slid two slender fingers between her fuck-lips and curled them upwards to find that sensitive area on her front inner walls. “Oh yeah, fuck!” she squealed, her lips pouting through the opening in her mask, as she found the spot with her fingers and began to stroke it from within, simultaneously slapping her clit with her other hand, whilst still pounding her asshole up and down on the boy’s black fuck-stick, both of them perfectly synchronised with the rhythm of the music. The audience knew a good fuck when they saw one, and they began to moan and roar with approval and pleasure, parting their academic robes, roving hands exploring their own and each other’s young bodies, as they revelled in the perfect artistry of the fuckers on stage.

The girl was an expert performer, fixing the audience with her gaze and bellowing, “You wanna see me come, fuckers? Wanna watch me fucking squirt?” The audience roared its encouragement. “And you want this big black dick to come at the same time? Wanna watch him paint my shit-rim with his cream – just as I spray all you motherfucking pervs with my cunt-squirt?” The audience roared even louder, the pace of stroking hands and rubbing fingers accelerating as they too began to time their orgasms to the imminent cum-spectacle on stage.

“WELL, HERE IT COMES, MOTHERFUCKERS!” screeched the girl. She continued to pound her asshole up and down on the boy’s raging cock, sensing his member expand and stiffen further as his balls pulsated and sent their cream charging up his shaft. Removing the fingers of one hand from her pussy, she rubbed her clit hard with her whole palm, shifting her position so that the boy’s huge cock could fuck hard against her G-spot through the walls of both her gaping orifices. “YEAH FUUUUUCK!!!” she screamed. Her first squirt was a mere dribble, her second a gentle spurt, but from the third onwards her cunt was spraying fountain after fountain into the air. Had the audience not been screaming and moaning their own cum-pleasure, they might have marvelled at the sound of each successive pussy-spasm – tight and swooshing like a spray-gun as each shower of clear cum fired upwards. At first the girl lifted her hips and leant back, aiming her fuck-spray up her body so that it doused her tits and face, opening her own mouth to catch the precious liquid, then gargle and spit it upwards so it rained back down into her hair. But then she leaned forwards and upwards so that, screaming “TAKE THIS, FUCKERRRS!” her squirt sprayed onto the front rows of the audience. The audience moaned and roared their ecstasy, their own cock-cream and cunt-juice squirting and dribbling multifariously as they pleasured their own genitals, faces upturned to bask in the glorious sensation of the latex girl’s genital deluge.

And then the big black cock began to explode. The girl, with perfect professional timing, lifted her asshole gently off the spasming cockhead so that the audience could watch rope after rope of hot man-cream spurt upwards to adorn her fuck-lips and gaping ass-rim. Now her spasms were beginning to subside, her squirts reducing to dribbles again, so that both cunt and asshole were coated with a gloopy mélange of boy- and girl-cum which dripped off her anal rim onto the boy’s large black balls, and thence onto the floor.

The audience went wild. Puddles of cum adorned the floor of the auditorium, and every pair of female thighs was damp with fuck-slime. Girls sucked the last drops out of boys’ cocks, or crouched on the floor, mortarboards bobbing as they licked puddles of squirt and semen off the ground. Boys and girls alike buried their faces between each other’s thighs to revel in the pungent heady glory of each other’s fuck-juices.

The front row of the audience comprised the ranks of fellows and lecturers of the Royal Academy of Fucking – in the centre of whom, applauding with pride, sat the august middle-aged figure of Professor Emma Jane Cuntslicker, flanked by her two closest colleagues: Dr Richard Dick, Deputy Director; and the much younger Dr Riley Throstlethwaite-Eccles, Professor of Prolapse. “CUNTS! CUNTS! CUNTS!” chanted the crowd, as the beaming Professor, her face still dripping with the latex girl’s squirt, stepped up onto the stage, long dark hair draped over her ostentatiously bulging breasts, nipples peeping through her now damp fishnet top, her short skirt parted gently to reveal a soft triangle of dark pubic hair pointing the way southwards.

“Wasn’t that magnificent?” enthused Cuntslicker, as the latex-clad girl scooped handfuls of man-cum off her asshole to slurp them off her fingers. “I knew, the moment I saw Chastity and Honour practicing their routine in the rehearsal rooms last month, that we had a winner on our hands. And so I am very proud to present them with the Alison Bates Memorial Award for Best Anal Fuck 2060!”

The audience cheered, as the two performers stood, the girl removing her mask to reveal the soft brown skin of her face, her sparkling eyes, and her long dark hair, which she swished free with a single flick of her head as a triumphant grin adorned her features. She and the black boy approached Cunts, to jointly grasp the golden cock trophy and hold it aloft to the cheering audience. “As you may know,” Cunts continued, “this Award is funded by the bequest of the late Bill and Jill Bates, CEOs of Bates Butts Limited – and I would like Doctor Throstlethwaite-Eccles and Doctor Dick to come onto the stage to say a bit more about that.”

Riley and Dick did as they were bid. The former was a woman in her late twenties with a bleached blond pixie cut, circles of red lipstick painted around her bare nipples, and a long silver tail dangling gracefully from her jewelled buttplug. As Chastity and Honour waved their way off stage and the applause died down, she addressed the audience: “Ladies and gentlemen, cunts and cocks, I would like to say a few words about Alison Bates, in whose honour this Award is made.” The young woman’s accent betrayed her working-class origins, though softened and rounded by years of working in establishment academia – but the hubbub of suspicious muttering which now filled the hall was not in reaction to that, but to the mention of the name of Alison. “Now, I know that many rumours circulate about Alison, about the way she ‘fell in love’ with a black Undesirable, turned her back on the Enlightenment and left the Continent– but I’m not going to deal with those now. The fact is that Alison Bates was one of the finest fuckers this institution has ever seen, and it is only right and proper that we have named this Award after her.” Cuntslicker nodded sagely.

“Alison was my inspiration – and my saviour” continued Riley, as the audience began to listen, “not just one of the greatest arsefuckers ever, but a wonderful person, who embodied the finest ideals of the Enlightenment. When I was… well, younger,” she chuckled, “I used to watch her on ‘The Fuck Factor’; I dreamed of being just like her – which I knew was probably impossible for someone born into the poverty that I was, my single mother a two-bit whore. Imagine my joy when Alison welcomed me as her friend and, along with her best mate Claire, help me to secure a place at this Academy! Here at the RAF we are proud to have had her as our alumna, and especially to have had the generous support of her parents, the recently culled Mr and Mrs Bates, in making this Award available to support so many of our students in their aspirations to become the finest fuckers the country has known.” The audience applauded enthusiastically.

Richard Dick took centre stage now, dragging with him three armchairs, which he arranged in a semi-circle downstage. He was a slender, suave, middle-aged man with unnaturally slick black hair. His cock – clearly very long, though currently flaccid – was sheathed in a faux-leather mushroom-head cock-sleeve which dangled from the front of his black leather trousers. “Cocks and cunts, as you know, we are so privileged that Professor Cuntslicker has agreed – despite her approaching such an important juncture in her life – to give a series of presentations this week to accompany the launch of her latest – and last – book: Thirty Years of the New Enlightenment, including” – he gestured to Cunts and Riley to sit with him on the armchairs – “today’s question-and-answer session!” Cunts smiled graciously, as she and Riley took their seats, Riley removing her buttplug with a quiet squelch and proceeding to sniff and lick it absentmindedly. “Ah! I see a hand already,” remarked Dr Dick, gesturing to a gentleman who had just entered the auditorium from one of the rear doors.

The questioner was short, dark-skinned, middle-aged, wearing a black shirt and trousers and a white clerical collar. Cunts smiled in recognition. “Ah, Father de Conceicao, isn’t it? We have met before! It’s been some ten years, hasn’t it?”

“Very kind of you to remember me, Professor,” replied the priest. “Last time you visited my chapel, you acted with great principle. You saved two innocent lives.”

“And caused the death of another?” prompted Cunts, with one eyebrow raised.

“No, Professor. That was not within your control. And I mention those events only to assure you of the deep respect I have for you – despite the awkward question I am about to ask.”

Dick-Dick shifted nervously on his armchair, but Cunts was unperturbed. “We do not have to share the same worldview to respect each other, do we, Father? That, surely is one of the greatest principles of the Enlightenment!”

“It is good to hear you say that, Professor – but that strikes at the heart of my question. When the ‘Enlightenment’ burst forth onto this country in the late ‘20s, many people were deeply affected. People from ‘Undesirable’ ethnic stock were sterilised, or expelled, torn away from their families, or even culled! Whilst appreciating the liberal ideals which the Enlightenment now claims to uphold, is it not the case that, overall, the suffering the Enlightenment caused, especially in those early days, outweighed what it achieved?”

Murmurs of disapproval spread through the audience, and people craned their necks to see who it was who dared to voice such unorthodox views in the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy of Fucking. But Cuntslicker’s response demonstrated both her superb didactic skills and her unquestionable charm. “You know, Father, I am actually of mixed Undesirable ethnic stock.” There was a gasp from the audience. “Oh yes,” continued Cunts, lifting her hand as if to brush away the audience’s shock. “My grandfather was a Patel, an immigrant from what used to be called the Indian subcontinent – in the days when it was still habitable. My father changed his name to Paton, so as to better fit into British society. I changed mine to Cuntslicker, so as to truly embrace the dignity of the Enlightenment. Yes, we had to expel or sterilise many Undesirables in those early days, many of them from ethnic minorities, others from backward religious groups, whose loyalties to this country and its chosen path were divided – but only so that the Enlightened mindset would prevail. Sterilising a body, expelling a person – these things are easy. But purifying a mind, so that a person not only accepts the Enlightenment but makes it the driving force of their existence – that takes time, and persuasion. But I am pleased that now, hardly anybody objects to the Enlightenment anymore…”

… fade; rising harp arpeggios: B-flat dominant seventh…
change of scene to…

ACT ONE, SCENE TWO

… a small maisonette on a side street near Putney Bridge, London,
thirty-two years earlier:
Monday 23^rd October 2028, evening

“I wanna fuck you, fucky wucky fuck you!” warbled John Daniels in a well-tuned tenor minor third. His young dark body was naked, and his cock was large and stiff as he waggled it from side to side, grinning cheekily. He held out his arms to his wife, who was already lying on the bed in the semi-darkness, her large breasts bare, a happy smile lighting up her face.

“Quick, before he wakes up, eh?” Rosie giggled. Her skin was not quite as dark as her husband’s, but her eyes were black and warm, and her nipples too were black and large in the centre of their wide brown areolas. “Ooh, look at that big dick! Desperate, are you?”

“And why shouldn’t I be, my darling?” pouted John, as he leapt onto the bed, his arms enfolding his wife in a tight but tender embrace, his cockhead nudging up against her crotch.

“Hang on a minute, love!” remonstrated his Rosie, gently pulling her hips sideways so that her vagina was in no immediate danger of penetration. “Remember what we were talking about?”

“Uh, what were we talking about?” replied her husband with an air of faux innocence, his cock still bobbing enthusiastically beside his wife’s vulva.

“John Daniels, don’t you pull that one on me! You know perfectly well,” replied Rosie, smirking as she twisted round, opened a bedside drawer and withdrew a wrapped condom, which she brandished at her husband.

“Oh God, must we really? I hate putting those things on! And what will Father Ambrose say?”

“Well, you don’t need to tell him, do you? Besides, you don’t have to put it on!” giggled Rosie, as she unwrapped the condom and placed it, still rolled, between her red-lipsticked lips, which she formed into a cock-sized ‘O’ to make it perfectly clear what she was proposing.

John’s cock twitched at the sight. “Oh well, put it like that, and I can hardly refuse, can I?” he grinned, lying on his back as his young wife knelt in front of his stiff twitching cock.

Rosie needed no hands to accomplish her task. Her full red lips closed deftly over John’s glans, smoothing the condom down along his shaft in one long slow stroke, until she found herself kissing his crotch, the prophylactic-clad penis deep in her mouth. She stayed there for a few seconds, revelling in the feeling of John’s throbbing rubber-coated cockhead lodged against the back of her throat, before releasing it, along with a small gush of saliva which dribbled from her lips, down the incongruously pink surface of the condom and onto his balls.

Rosie began to nibble, sliding her lips slowly up and down her husband’s condom-clad cock, depositing light rings of red lipstick up and down the rubber and allowing her rose-tinted spit to continue to dribble onto John’s testicles and thighs. He reached down with both hands to stroke her hair, pulling it back so he could admire her soft features. Rosie grinned back – as best as she could under the circumstances – while cupping John’s balls with one hand, making him groan with pleasure.

“Good, Johnny?” mumbled Rosie through her mouthful of cock, to which John replied with an affirmatory moan of pleasure – suddenly and unexpectedly interrupted by a large crash and the sound of a commotion from the street outside.

“Oh no, not again,” groaned Rosie, as John leapt up and limped towards the front window of their bedroom, his stiff, pink-coated black cock waggling awkwardly before him as he carefully peeled back a small section of the curtain to peek out onto the road below.

“Undesirables out!” came the cry of a small band of drunken louts who were staggering up the road, randomly chucking bricks at dustbins as they went. “Send ‘em back where they came from!”

“John, get back from the window!” hissed Rosie. “Don’t be seen!” But she was distracted too, as a mewling scream had begun from the room next door. “Oh, Robbie!” she sighed, as she too leapt up and tiptoed naked out of the room, her breasts tingling. “Back in a minute!”

“Re-join the EU!” came another drunken shout from outside the window, as John pulled the curtain tightly shut. His penis was completely flaccid now, the pink condom shrivelled awkwardly around it. “Harry for King!”

“Oh God…” moaned John, sitting desultorily down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head in despair. He picked up a broadsheet newspaper lying on the nightstand, and read:

The recent tragic death of our King and Queen and their three children – the unexplained circumstances of which merely add to the pain and horror felt by the whole nation – has exposed deep fissures in British society which threaten consequences few of us can predict or imagine. The European Union has, for understandable reasons, in the face of recent wars, economic decline, and the rise of foreign powers, sought to counter growing right-wing sentiment by promoting its “liberalism”, permitting and encouraging an attitude to sexuality which, even to the woke warriors of five years ago, would have seemed inconceivable. The various European parties of the so-called “New Enlightenment” movement (particularly the Parti des Lumières in France and the Aufklärungspartei in Germany) have agitated successfully to embrace pornography, polyamory, public exhibitionism, and “free sex” in all its forms – conveniently making use of the recent successful development of “Flexible Fertility” and “Genetic Modification” technologies in the laboratories of Switzerland and Slovenia. Will Britain, so traumatised by our own recent events, follow in Europe’s footsteps? Will we – as our new King and Queen, just returned from California, have hinted we should – embrace this new brand of wokisme, perhaps even by re-joining the EU? Or do we – perhaps hidebound by our traditional moral conservatism – feel that we need to hold out against this massive cultural shift?

“Shit!” cursed John.

“Don’t worry, darling,” crooned Rosie as she re-entered the room, wiping a drop of breast milk off her right nipple. “He just wanted a little cuddle and a drink.”

“I’m not worried about that!” groaned John. “But what about his future? Our great-grandparents came to this country seeking a better life. Will there be any life for our son here now, the way things are going? Just listen to this:

It is not just the reactionaries who are concerned. Representatives of various religious and ethnic minority groups in particular are worried that hand-in-hand with this newly-invigorated militant sexual liberalism walks a renascent racism and intolerance, directed against members of those communities which have ties outside the European bubble, where the virtues of the “Enlightenment” are not so obvious and all this devotion to pure Pleasure seems like little more than a self-indulgent attempt to excuse our own social and moral failings. Easy solutions, easy scapegoats…

“See? Mark my words, we’ll be back in Europe soon – and there they’re already doing this ‘Enlightenment’ thing – which basically means everyone is expected to screw around as much as they like, without any sense of commitment or fidelity! And they’re wanting to expel anybody who objects, or anyone different – different religion, different race: ‘Undesirables’ they’ve started to call us. This ‘Enlightenment’ shit will be the death of me!” John ripped the shrivelled condom off his penis and hurled it angrily at the wall. It stuck there briefly, before peeling off and dropping onto the carpet.

“Oh, love, love, come, don’t get like that,” said Rosie, wrapping her arms around her husband’s body, her damp breasts squashing against his chest. “At least we aren’t at war anymore. And that’s why we decided no more kids for now – until we know better what’s going on. And if we have to – well, there’s your family in St Martin, and mine in South Africa. And Father Ambrose will help us out. So come, love, let’s forget all that for a while; make me feel good now, hey?” Rosie pressed her cheek up against John’s, where it felt warm and clement. And John turned and kissed Rosie on the lips. And they smiled, and nodded.

Rosie twisted round and extracted a new pink condom from the nightstand…

… fade; descending harp arpeggios: A major this time, perhaps with an added ninth…

ACT ONE, SCENE THREE

… and we’re back to the Royal Academy of Fucking,
where it is still Friday 16^th July 2060,
but now early afternoon.

“Ladies and gentlemen, cunts and cocks,” announced Dr Dick from the stage of the Sasha Grey Auditorium, “I hope you have enjoyed your lunch. I am so sorry to hear that there were no desserts available for fucking. The kitchen staff only informed me of this at the last-minute. But I have been assured by several of you that the boeuf bourguignon fucked well – quite apart from being delicious!

“Now, we have time for a few more questions from the floor for Professor Cuntslicker, before we proceed to today’s grand finale – and I see there is a gentleman in the back row who has had his hand up for a long time. Fuck a bitch, Sir, would you like to introduce yourself first?”

“Edward Turner, originally from Henley-on-Thames, but now residing in the ‘Outside World’,” said the questioner, a small man with a hooked nose and light grey hair, dressed, unusually, in an old-fashioned grey three-piece suit. A small ruffle of disquiet passed through the audience at the mention of the “Outside World” – and Riley blenched suddenly, choking briefly on the buttplug in her mouth, before forcibly regaining her professional composure. Mr Turner had an unusual accent: it sounded rather old-fashioned and English, though perhaps with an admixture of something reminiscent of southern Africa. Riley frowned.

“Professor,” Mr Turner began, “before lunch, you answered a question about the mistreatment of so-called ‘Undesirable’ races under the Enlightenment. But you have not justified what you call ‘purification of the mind’ – a remedy which has been brutally unleashed upon people of all backgrounds, often merely for holding unfashionable views.  You have said that this ‘takes time and persuasion’ – but neglect to admit that such ‘persuasion’ can involve a great deal of cruelty. I fled this Continent in the early ‘30s, leaving behind people I loved…” At the mention of the word “love”, another wave of tutting and despondent shaking of heads passed through the audience, though Cunts maintained a relaxed air and a courteous smile. “My contention is that the atmosphere in those days, as the Enlightenment tightened its grip on society, was toxic. Families were split apart, friends and relatives informed on each other, and those who did not immediately embrace the new values were shunned and mistreated by society at large. Was it really worth it?”

There was a palpable air of tension in the hall as Mr Turner ended his question. Riley wiped a glob of saliva off her chin, her frown etching itself deeper and deeper on her young brow, her jaw trembling.

“Mister Turner,” Cunts smiled, “you ask a very important question – and one which must not be silenced. You have heard the shock which accompanied your use of that long-proscribed ‘L-word’ – but let us face it head on: what actually was that thing which we used to call ‘love’? What were the ‘family values’ which people held so dear? Were they real, or just – as I maintain – a handy way to oppress people? Let me start by telling you a bit about my youth…”

… fade; rising B-flat major harp arpeggios again…

ACT ONE, SCENE FOUR

… and we’re back to
Monday 23^rd October 2028,
but this time in a student bedsit in Newnham College, Cambridge

“FUCK YOU, MUM!” screamed Emma Jane. “DON’T YOU FUCKING TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN’T DO! I’LL FUCK WHO I WANT TO FUCK, WHEN I WANT TO, HOW I WANT TO! AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE THAT, THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE!!!”

Emma Jane slammed down her phone. “FUCK!” she screeched, one last time. “Who do they fucking think they are?!” she continued to vent. “I don’t need their fucking help! I don’t need their fucking advice! And sure as shit I don’t need their fucking moralistic attitude!” She put on an exaggeratedly maternal tone: “‘Emma Jane, don’t you think you should be a bit more careful? I just don’t want you to get hurt, my love.’ Love?! What the fuck do they know about ‘love’? They’ve never loved me! And what the fuck is ‘love’ anyway? It’s just an excuse to control people, to imprison people: that’s all they want to do – keep me under their fucking thumb, so I can’t embarrass them anymore! Well, guess what? Emma Jane’s all grown up now, she’s shaved her cunt, she’s pierced her clit, she’s got herself a tit-job, and she’s gonna fuck and fuck and fuck all she fucking likes – ‘cause that’s what it’s all about! Pleasure! Pure fucking pleasure! RIGHT?!”

Hildegard sat in the chair opposite and smiled. “Right, Emma Jane,” she nodded with calm satisfaction.

Emma Jane was naked, the tits of which she was so proud protruding boldly from her chest, the recent surgery scars still visible in the creases beneath her breasts. Her pussy was indeed shaven, the clit pierced with a single plain ring which reflected the light from the one standard lamp in the corner. Her hair was long and dark, and framed a dignified eighteen-year-old face with broad high cheek-bones and dark sultry eyes.

Hildegard was not naked. Slightly older than Emma Jane, she was a tall, strongly built blonde with a square jaw, full red lips, and huge natural breasts bulging behind a black leather basque. Her right hand grasped a small riding crop, which she extended so as to gently stroke the undersides of Emma Jane’s tits.

“Oh yes, stroke my scars, Hildy,” muttered Emma Jane, cupping her breasts in her hands, lifting them up so that Hildegard’s crop could reach under them better. “That’s so fucking good.”

“Of course it is,” crooned Hildegard, running the tress of the crop along the length of each of Emma Jane’s scars in turn: that’s because you’re a needy fuckslut. Proper whores like me don’t need to get tit-jobs, because we are content with our slut-bodies as they are. It’s pathetic damaged shame-ridden bitches like you that need the training, the buttressing, the constant reassurance – isn’t that right?” Hildegard smiled wickedly.

An exquisite shiver of humiliation-ecstasy passed through Emma Jane’s body. “Oh God!” she moaned, revelling in the feeling of the leather tress stroking the underside of her breasts. “Please, Hildy, reassure me, buttress me, train me – I need that so bad…”

Hildegard chuckled, shuffling forward off her chair to kneel up in front of Emma Jane so that her lips could gently brush against her tits. Hildegard liked this girl: her first female English fuckbuddy since arriving at Cambridge a fortnight ago. Emma Jane may have been middle-class, but she was as needy and lost as any other English fuckslut – and in her experience such girls were always the best: they asked for a lot, but they put up with a lot. And, Hildegard hardly needed remind herself, they were just as dispensable as anyone else.

Hildegard opened her mouth wide so as to engulf as much as she could of Emma Jane’s very large right tit. She smirked to herself, feeling the unnaturally firm texture beneath her tongue, so different from her own jiggly specimens. But, however fake her breasts might be, Emma Jane’s sexual desperation was real, and boiling over. “Oh God, Hildy,” she squealed. “Suck my tits, baby, suck my big fake shame-ridden tits!”

Hildegard sucked and slobbered, transferring her lips and tongue back and forth from one luscious melon to the other, till Emma Jane’s silicone-stuffed pillows became sloppy dripping mounds, and spit dribbled down her abdomen. Hildegard’s left hand scooped up some of the saliva and plastered it on Emma Jane’s vulva, rubbing it with four fingers in a circular motion till Emma Jane squealed, “Oh God, Hildy, my cunt, my cunt, get your strapon and fuck my pathetic cunt – please!”

“Gladly, Emma Jane – but what do I get by way of payment?” smirked Hildegard.

“Oh God, Hildy, anything: I need you so bad. What shall I do for you?”

Hildegard smiled – a combination sort of smile, part genuinely affectionate, part self-congratulatory.  “Come and lick my pussy first then, Emma Jane, there’s a good girl,” said Hildegard, returning to the sofa and spreading her legs wide so her bald meaty cunt glistened and her fuck-lips spread wide. “Earn your humiliation: it’ll make you feel better.”

Soon Emma Jane was nuzzling Hildegard’s crotch, moaning with pleasure as the heady scent filled her nostrils. “That’s it, my beautiful fuckwhore,” crooned Hildegard, “eat it up, lap it up, lick that cunt like the damaged bitch you are…” She giggled wickedly.

“Oh, God, Hildy,” moaned Emma Jane from between her fuckbuddy’s thighs, feeling her own pussy juice up and a tremor of pleasure pass through her body at the sound of her partner’s invective. “I love it when you call me things like that.”

“Like what, Emma Jane?” Hildegard teased. “What sort of things do you like to be called?”

“Tell me I’m a whore, Hildy,” muttered Emma Jane, as her tongue lapped and burrowed even deeper into Hildy’s fuckhole. “Tell me I’m a filthy cunt-eating whore…”

“That you are, Emma Jane. A dirty, skanky, worthless fucking cunt-whore!”

“Oh yeah fuuuck!” cried Emma Jane in delight, as her fingers found her own clit and began to rub frantically. “Call me all those things, Hildy, they make me so fucking horny!”

“Cunt-slut!” sneered Hildegard.

“Oh yesss!” responded Emma Jane in mindfucked ecstasy.

“Fuck-bitch!”

“Fuck yeah!!” Emma Jane now had three fingers deep in her own cunt, scooping up fuck-nectar and smearing it over her vulva.

“Filthy motherfucking cunt-licking whore!” screamed Hildegard. “Go on, bitch, eat my cunt like the worthless needy fuckslut you are!”

“Yeah FUUUCK!!!” squealed Emma Jane, as her hand became a blur between her legs, and she felt the wild waves of orgasm begin to sweep over her. She buried her face in Hildegard’s wet gash, licking, chewing and screaming into her pungent folds, “YEAH FUuuck-mfuuuck-mfuckfuckfuck….” as she felt her whole world fill with cunt, taste of cunt, stink of cunt. Her face, her fingers, her hair – everything was cunt, Hildegard was cunt, the world was cunt, cunt, nothing but cunt…

“Oh yeah, cunt, so fucking good…” mumbled Emma Jane, as she came slowly down from her ecstasy, her face still buried in her fuckbuddy’s juicy dribbling gash. “Fuuuuck…”

“Emma Jane Paton,” grinned Hildegard, her fingers gently pulling her friend’s hair backwards and upwards, so that her glistening face looked upwards at hers, “I dub thee…  Emma Jane ‘the Cuntslicker’.”

Emma Jane laughed, partly in embarrassment but partly with joy and self-affirmation. “Ha ha! Shall I change my name? ‘Emma Jane Cuntslicker’ – that’ll give my mum a heart-attack.”

“Well, we said we were going to found a UK branch of the Fuckers Party, didn’t we? I can’t think of a better name for the Secretary of a political party, can you? And I, as the Treasurer, shall change my name to Hildegard… um… ‘Fotzenficker’ – what about it?”

“Ha ha – you mad bitch! Come over here from Europe with all your crazy fucking ideas – the British will never buy it. We’re not like you!”

“Well then, let’s change all that, ‘Cuntslicker’! We announce the foundation of the UK Fuckers Party. We start with some public fuck-ins to pull in the crowds. Then, once everyone’s high on cum and cunt-juice, we rope them all into our political programme: a free-fucking society, MM for all on the NHS so everyone can have big dicks and huge tits and gaping assholes: GM in vitro; and then we rejoin the EU so the UK can benefit from the New Enlightenment. Then we expel any Objectors – to build the perfect society, where everyone pursues Pleasure above all else. There will be no more want, no more guilt, no more…”

“You mad fucker, Hildy!” interrupted Emma Jane. “But…” – Emma Jane’s voice softened – “I love you, my crazy fuckbuddy.” She leant forward and planted a kiss on Hildy’s cunt, felt the damp fucklips smooch against her face, sniffed the gorgeous heady scent, and squealed, “Oh Jesus, that’s so fucking good!”

Hildegard smiled in triumph, but wagged a damp finger at her colleague. “Hang on, Secretary Cuntslicker – none of this ‘love’ bullshit, please. I don’t love you, and you don’t love me. If we are to reshape society, there is to be no more ‘love’. Love means control, love means exploitation, love means jealousy. In a free-fucking society, we live by Pleasure – pure pleasure; not ‘love’. Is that clear, Cuntslicker?”

Emma Jane thought a moment. She was not sure, and it sounded a bit extreme; but she wanted Hildegard so much, and so she nodded. “OK, Fräulein Fotzenficker,” she intoned carefully. “Just so long as I can eat your fotze forever, and ever, and ever.”

Hildegard seemed not to hear Emma Jane’s last remark: her mind was elsewhere. “Miss Cuntslicker,” she said.

“Yes?” replied Emma Jane.

“Want me to fuck you with my strap?”

“Oh ja bitte, Fräulein Fotzenficker,” nodded Emma Jane.

“And what about ‘Cunts’ for short?” suggested Hildegard, as she rummaged in her handbag.

“What about it?” replied Emma Jane, momentarily confused.

Hildegard retrieved a dildo from her bag: thick, black, and shiny. “You. Your name. ‘Cunts’. I like that.”

“Er, what? You mean, like, ‘How do you do, Sir, my name is Emma Jane Paton, but you can call me “Cunts” for short’?” Hildegard nodded, grinning. “Has a certain ring to it,” smirked Emma Jane. “Oh! look at that dildo: what a beauty!”

“In which case, Cunts,” laughed Hildegard, “get on all fours like a good fuck-bitch – Cunts, and I’m going to give you a filthy dirty dildo-fuck like the filthy dirty needy fuckslut whore you are – Cunts!”

Emma Jane, trembling with desire, did as she was bid, lifting her ass high behind her and spreading her pussy lips wide in invitation.

“Cunts,” chuckled Hildegard, with a triumphant smile, as she stepped into her dildo harness.

Another spasm of delight passed through Emma Jane’s body. Her cunt dripped. And her heart melted.

ACT TWO, SCENE ONE

First a brief orchestral prelude,
and we’re back to the RAF again,
where it is still Friday 16^th July 2060,
but later in the afternoon.

“Cocks and cunts!” Dr Dick held centre stage again. “It is time for us to proceed to the finale of this week’s proceedings – which I know you have all being looking forward to.” There was a hubbub of excitement from the audience. “What you are about to witness is utterly unprecedented. The RAF is pleased to have been able to form a partnership with the Queen Meghan Trust for Fucking Research, who have for many years been pushing the boundaries of New Enlightenment science, and have managed to perfect, for the first time in human history, fully effective futanari biotechnology!”

The audience burst into excited applause, which Dick-Dick quelled by announcing: “Two of our most distinguished postgraduate researchers – Yumiko and Fumiko – have been collaborating with the Trust, and are at last ready to demonstrate the results of their research to us today…”

Riley, Dick and Cunts cleared the stage, the latter two resuming their seats in the front row of the audience. Riley, however, slunk off to stand at the rear corner of the auditorium. Throughout Cunts’ afternoon question-and-answer session she had been eyeing Edward Turner with suspicion, and now continued to stare at him as he sat in the back row of the auditorium, his reserved manner, grey suit and tie so out of place amidst the surrounding sea of nudity and lasciviousness.

A hush fell over the auditorium, as soft ambient music commenced playing, the lights dimmed ever so slightly, and the two distinguished researchers glided onto the stage from opposite wings. Slightly built, pale-skinned young ladies wearing flowing chiffon robes, their hair shaped into soft bobs, soft bangs framing their pale faces, with fine features and gently slanting eyes, they seemed perfect specimens of feminine beauty. Their strangeness, however, was highlighted by their colour scheme: each one’s hair and lips matched the hue of her dress: Yumiko’s were deep pink, Fumiko’s pastel blue. They approached each other and kissed, their soft tongues – one pink and one blue – extending, curling, and touching gently, so that a bubble of spit formed at their meeting-point, whence a fine string of saliva began to grow and sway. Soon their tongues were tangling more deeply, gently penetrating each other’s mouths, slobbering softly along and around each other’s cheeks and chins, so that they glistened and gleamed in the soft stage light.

But a slow gasp of astonishment was building in the auditorium, as the spectators noticed what was happening further down the performers’ bodies: a pair of identical bulges growing in their crotches, slowly tenting their skirts outwards. The front slits of their skirts parted from the internal pressure, and two cocks revealed themselves, bobbing and shuddering as they escaped their respective prisons. Yumiko and Fumiko gasped with pleasure, and the audience purred with delight.

Riley knew she should be watching the dickgirls more intently, but instead she continued to stare across the dim auditorium at Edward Turner. He appeared, perhaps uniquely among the spectators, not to be watching the show, but bowed his head with an apparent air of disquiet, muttering to himself under his breath.

The audience, however, continued to marvel at the newly-revealed futa cocks – for these were not just any old cocks, but specimens of magnificence and beauty. The New Enlightenment audience was used to genetically modified cocks – it was 2060 after all: by now it was commonplace for young men to be issued nine- and ten-inch cocks as standard – but these futa cocks were not just exceptionally large, but rich and strange, arresting, irresistible, and more perfectly designed than anything ever known before. Each about twelve inches long, and concomitantly thick, these cocks were stiff as steel, and appeared to emit their own natural glow, which pulsated gently with a soft heartbeat rhythm. A tightly trimmed triangle of pubes, matching its owner’s hair colour, graced the skin just above each penis. And as each cock rose stiffer and angled further upward, its foreskin smoothly retracted to reveal a shining throbbing glans, its colour echoing that of its owner’s lips and hair. Simultaneously, a tight hairless pussy, with colour-matching labia, was revealed just below each pair of heavy dangling testicles. Two pastel cunts gleamed and dripped, and two tinted cockheads bobbed, touched, and began to rub against each other, seemingly making themselves shine even brighter. Yumiko and Fumiko whimpered into each other’s mouths, painted tongues still tangling and drooling, gleaming pastel-tinted pre-cum beginning to seep from their cockheads to create a dangling web of pink-and-azure slime which dribbled down onto their heavy balls.

The audience were held in such rapt attention that hardly anyone dared to fuck or jerk off at the sight, or even speak, such was the sense of historical moment, and the sheer beauty and wonder of what was being witnessed. But Riley, lurking in her corner at the back of the side aisle as she licked her buttplug, started, as she noticed Mr Turner quietly stand, shuffle past a couple of audience members to the far aisle, and tiptoe towards a rear exit door.

Yumiko was now kneeling to take her opposite number’s blue-headed cock between her finely chiselled deep pink lips. The audience held their breath – for Fumiko’s cockhead seemed impossibly large – and then gasped as the pink lips parted wider than seemed humanly possible, and the huge cock slid effortlessly into the girl’s mouth, then deep into her throat. Fumiko began a slow throatfuck, gentle at first, then gradually faster and deeper, every now and again pausing with her balls hard up against Yumiko’s chin, her partner’s throat bulging obscenely and her eyes watering with pleasure.

Riley wanted to watch more, but instead hastily returned her buttplug to its proper home between her buttocks, and followed Mr Turner, at a safe distance, out into the corridor. He was not, as Riley feared, heading toward the exit, but the opposite direction, towards the toilets. Oh OK, he just needs a piss, thought Riley to herself, as the man disappeared through the door to the male toilets (marked, for clarity’s sake, with a large line drawing featuring a thick stream of pee erupting from an erect male cock). Riley returned to the auditorium, where by now Fumiko was doing a headstand, her huge blue-headed cock dangling, still stiff as a girder, toward her face, whilst her opposite number, standing behind her, held her legs apart and was pushing her massive pink shining cockhead against her light blue puckered asshole. Riley, no less than everyone else in the audience, gasped in wonder, as the upside-down performer’s tight hole stretched, parted, and sucked the huge cock deep inside, till Yumiko’s huge balls slapped against her partner’s buttocks.

Yumiko began to fuck, her massive cock gliding effortlessly in and out of the other futa’s blue-tinted anus. Leaning in, her pink triangle of pubic hair kissed her partner’s buttocks; pulling out, the blue futa’s asshole gaped, wider than anyone could imagine, a perfectly round, deep blue hole of such beauty and mystery that even assfucker extraordinaire Dr Riley Throstlethwaite-Eccles was enraptured, mesmerised. Suddenly, however, she forced herself out of her reverie, noticing that Mr Turner had not yet returned from the toilets. Shit, she thought to herself, momentarily smirking at the double meaning, before tearing herself away yet again from the performance to check the corridor outside.

Just as well I checked, she thought to herself as, poking her head out of the auditorium door, she caught a glimpse of Mr Turner’s retreating heels turning the corner at the opposite end of the corridor from the toilets, heading towards the main exit. Oh no you fucking don’t, she thought, following the man, always at a safe distance. Shit, what do I do? she cogitated. Call after him now? Ask him now? Or follow him? Motherfuck, what do I do? She wrung her hands in desperate indecision. She wanted to call out to him, to accost him, to confront him with the question which was burning in her mind – but it was really too late, and she knew it. For Edward Turner had reached the end of the corridor, passed swiftly through the main lobby, past the reception desk, and had exited the building.

Riley ran out of the front door, still thinking, It’s not too late. I could grab him now, ask him now… But Mr Turner was hailing a taxi, getting in, shutting the door.

And then he was gone.

Fuck, cursed Riley. Fucking cunting fuck…

And as Riley stood on the front steps of the RAF, deflated, frustrated, and annoyed at her own indecision and cowardice, Yumiko and Fumiko were on stage approaching their money shot. They stood facing each other, each pumping her own massive cock with two delicate hands, each throbbing coloured glans angled upward toward the other’s face. Both women whimpered and panted as their moment of sweet climax approached, feeling their cocks throb, twitch, and stiffen yet further as their hot futa-cum boiled and charged up their shafts towards blessed release. And as their cocks exploded simultaneously, a great cry of wonderment arose from the audience. For both futas’ cum was bright and fluorescent, shining and sparkling as it shot through the air at its opposite number. Yumiko’s was of course pink, and Fumiko’s pale blue, and as each thick rope of enchanted coloured semen landed exuberantly on its recipient’s face it created what an Enlightened audience such as this recognised as the most beautiful thing on earth: two beautiful female faces decorated, adorned, drowned in a rich latticework of coloured fluorescent cum. Cum splattered across the two dickgirls’ eyes, pooled on their upper lips, webbed around their tongues and teeth, dripped from the ends of their noses, and formed on their dainty chins great beards which dangled, swung, stretched tantalisingly,  and eventually snapped, splattering onto their tits below. As the audience sighed and wept in Enlightened artistic ecstasy, Fumiko and Yumiko approached each other, cum-coated tongues outstretched, and kissed passionately. They licked and slurped, dribbling jizz back onto each other’s faces and into each other’s mouths, so that shining pink and azure stripes of cum intertwined, mixed and melded, and their countenances became bearers of a glorious, gloopy, shimmering coating of multihued futa cock-cream.

Their peer review process thus duly completed, the two distinguished postgraduate researchers, their huge dribbling cocks now gradually softening, turned towards the audience, and beamed. In the front row of the audience, a delighted Professor Cuntslicker stood, tears of joy running down her cheeks, and led the audience in rapturous ovation.

But Riley Throstlethwaite- Eccles was left standing alone on the pavement on Maryleboner Road, cursing herself.

*

“What ever happened to Riley?” wondered Dr Dick out loud, as he and Professor Cuntslicker let themselves out of the Royal Academy of Fucking at the end of a very successful day.

“No idea,” shrugged Cunts. “She seemed very interested in that man, you know, the one in the grey suit. She couldn’t stop watching him.”

“Ha! Maybe she fancied him fucking her ass,” chortled Dick-Dick. “You know, that girl has a supernatural instinct for sniffing out guys with big dicks…”

Cunts laughed. “‘Coffee’?” she suggested.

Dick-Dick raised one eyebrow. “Is that with or without ‘inverted commas’, E. J.?”

“Oh, with, I think. Yes, definitely,” smirked Cunts, reaching out to give her colleague’s crotch an affectionate squeeze.

“Your place? Mine? Or somewhere else?”

“Oh, it’s a lovely warm evening. What about in the park?”

Ten minutes later, Cunts was seated naked on a low-hanging oak branch, her back against the trunk, her legs spread, while Dick-Dick stood, his face buried in her crotch. The early evening summer sunshine cast long shadows across the grass, as passers-by hurried on their way home, paying scant attention to the couple enjoying their crepuscular arboreal fuck.

“I’m going to miss you, you know,” mumbled Dick-Dick, as his tongue gently tickled the amethyst which took pride of place this evening in Cunts’ clit-ring.

“Oh, Dick, you can always find other cunts to eat,” answered Cunts breezily. “Even with gemstones on their clits…”

Dick-Dick’s tongue was now gently probing between Cunts’ pussy-lips, prising them open to release the fragrant nectar within. “You know that’s not what I mean, don’t you, E. J.?”

“Oh, Dick!” sighed Cunts, partly in affectionate exasperation at his persistence, and partly in response to the magic his tongue-probing was beginning to work on her insides. She decided to address the latter point: “That’s good, right there – and now just curl it up just a bit… yes, there, oh fuck, that’s good!”

“You’re changing the subject!” remonstrated Dick-Dick.

“No, Dick – this is the subject. This is what it’s all about, remember? Fucking. Pleasure – and the building of a world where everyone can have that Pleasure, all the – oh fuckfuckfuck, yes, finger right there…” Dick-Dick had moistened the middle digit of his left hand with Cunts’ fuck-juices and was gently circling it around the tight pucker of her asshole.

Dick-Dick paused his pussy-licking to look up into Cunts’ face, even as the tip of his finger probed into the moistened space just within the rim of her asshole. “But what if that’s not what it’s all about, E. J.? What if there’s more to life than that? What if there’s something more important? What if I want nothing more than to spend time with you, to be in your presence, to hear your voice? What if, whenever I’m with you, I’m happy – and whenever I’m away from you, my heart aches?” Dick-Dick began to slide his middle finger in and out of Cunts’ ass, whilst the thumb of his other hand began to circle her clit-bud, making the amethyst on her clit-ring glitter in the early evening light.

“Well, then, Dick, you’d better enjoy me while you can…” smiled Cunts. “Oh, that’s good: love your finger technique! Now slurp that tongue of yours up and down: I want to feel your spit on my asshole, go on.”

Dick-Dick was finding it difficult not to be distracted. “Dammit, E. J.,” he sighed, momentarily losing control of both temper and technique, and ramming his finger into Cunts’ rectum in one slightly too forceful thrust. Cunts gasped. “Oh, sorry,” Dick-Dick apologised, but continued to speak: “I know you won’t let me say what I mean, won’t let me tell you the one word I want to say – but that doesn’t take away the reality. Losing you is going to be the worst thing in my life. And you don’t deserve it: you have so much more in you to give. This world, this country, needs you as much as ever before. Just because the Enlightenment says –”

“Dick.” Cunts spoke forcefully. “I am the Enlightenment. If it wasn’t for me and Hildegard, there would have been no Fuckers Party in this country, and we would have stayed in the Outside World, whilst Europe raced forward. You know that. The whole country knows that. I know what you want me to do. But if I am to be credible, if everything I have devoted my life to is to mean anything at all, if I am not to be looked upon as a hypocrite and a coward – like all those people, Undesirables or otherwise, who reap the benefits of the Enlightenment but flee when things start to get difficult, or find some pathetic excuse to get an exemption – then I will stay and accept the price, the necessary price for the life which we have brought to the people of this country and this Continent. My answer, again, Dick, is: no.”

Dick-Dick stood, his left middle finger rigid and immobile in his boss’s asshole, his face inches from her glistening cunt, its powerful fragrance wafting through the warm air up to his nostrils, his jaw trembling, and tears leaking down his face. “Oh God, E. J., I will miss you so much…”

Cunts reached down, her hand stroking Dick-Dick’s hair gently. “I know, Dick, I know. But now… fuck me: that’s all there is.” She reached down further, pulled her colleague’s finger out of her asshole, held it up to her mouth and sucked it clean, before slipping off her branch, kneeling on the grass before him, and unzipping his cock-sleeve to expose his long stiff mushroom-headed shaft. “Go on, Dick, fuck my face: that’ll make you happy…”

Soon Dr Dick was doing just that, and Cunts’ superlative oral technique was showing itself to be still at the top of its game. The rhythmic music of cock in gullet echoed – gluck gluck gluck – exuberantly across the park, whilst Dick-Dick plumbed the depths of his boss’s throat, scooping saliva out with his cockhead and letting it course and dribble down her chin and onto her still firm surgically enhanced tits. Even for an expert like Cunts, speaking is hard with a cock in your throat – which provided a good excuse for them both to pause their rather tense conversation and concentrate, as Cunts said they should, on their own shared Pleasure.

For, after all, as Emma Jane Cuntslicker believed to the bottom of her heart, nothing else matters.

Reader – does it?

ACT TWO, SCENE TWO

We start with some English light music, redolent of the 1950s,
but with a slightly anal flavour. Go figure.
It is the same evening (Friday 16^th July 2060, as you know),
but in a council flat not far north of Kings Cock Station.

“M’ cunt, Mum, I’m home!” called Riley, as she shut the front door behind her, removed her buttplug with a soft squelch, let out a long fart, gave the plug a hearty slurp with her tongue, and hung it, with its tail, on the key rack in the hallway.

“Good day?” called a voice from the kitchen.

“Yeah, fine,” replied Riley, in a somewhat deflated voice. “Graduation performances – and Cunts running Q&A sessions on her new book. What about you?”

“Oh, pretty quiet. Not sure how much longer we’re going to be able to stay open. Cocksco’s offerin’ half price on a dozen blowjobs: independents like us can’t compete with that. Well, at least it saves me jaws…”

“Gary not back yet?”

“He rang,” replied the older woman, as Riley entered the kitchen. “Got delayed at the Hospice, somefink about a very complicated Final Fuck: padlocks, and balloons, and blancmange and stuff. But he said he’d be back for tea. Sausages and mash – and onion gravy,” she added, as she stuck a fork into a steaming saucepan on the hob.

“Yum!” trilled Riley. “Done any extra for me arse?”

“Bangers, mash, or gravy?” teased the older lady.

“Oh, a bit of everything, I think!” cackled her daughter, before changing the timbre of her voice: “Muuummm.” Riley pronounced the word slowly and thoughtfully, walking to the fridge and faux-innocently taking out a cucumber. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ooh, I know that tone of voice,” replied her mother. “Means you’re after somefink. Or you’ve done somefink wrong. Mmm, they’re ready,” she added, fetching a colander from a kitchen cabinet and carrying the steaming saucepan to the sink.

“No, no,” remonstrated Riley, shutting the fridge before sliding the top end of the cucumber into her mouth and wetting it thoroughly with her saliva. “It’s just… well, can I ask you about… well, you know, about… ‘Eddie’?”

“Oh shit.” The older woman looked momentarily alarmed, paused draining the potatoes, but then sighed, “Why are you askin’ me now? Haven’t I told you everyfink already?”

Riley sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, spreading her legs and absentmindedly starting to rub the moistened end of the cucumber across her clit. She angled the vegetable downwards, ready to slide it into her pussy, but paused, the bulbous end squelching gently against her cunt-lips, as she considered what to say next.

But her mother interrupted her thoughts: “Oi! What are you doin’ with that cuke? That’s for tomorrow. Mrs Nurk’s coming round for lunch; she doesn’t want your pussy-slime on her salad!”

“Aw, Mum, you can peel it, can’t you? It’s just… I really need a fuck. I’m all worked up. I hoped Gary would be back by now.”

“Oh, what’s got to you? And what’s all this about your… your… well, him? It’s been such a long time, what the hell?” She put the drained pan of potatoes on the kitchen table, added milk and butter, and began mashing, rather more forcefully than normal.

“OK, well, I’ll tell you,” replied Riley, as she began, despite her mother’s objections, to slide the moistened cucumber gently into her pussy. “Oh fuck,” she muttered contentedly, as her mother rolled her eyes. “There was a man today, at the Academy, at Cunts’ Q&A session, who introduced himself as ‘Edward Turner, originally from Henley-on-Thames’.”

The older woman raised her eyebrows, before shrugging. “It’s a common enough name. And he left the country, as you know, before you were born.”

“Yeah, this man mentioned something about the Outside World, but… I mean, he looked a lot like that picture you showed me of him. I mean, a lot older, of course – not blond anymore, but grey, very grey – but still the same sort of body shape and features, you know, thin, with that hooked nose. Oh fuck, that’s good.” The cucumber continued to slide in and out of Riley’s cunt, collecting a glistening layer of slime along the way.

“So, did you ask him who he was?” The older woman frowned as, potatoes mashed to her satisfaction, she slammed the masher down on the kitchen counter and proceeded to the oven to take out the sausages. “I mean, ‘Good afternoon, lick my pussy, Sir, terribly sorry to bother you, but are you my feckless hypocrite of a father who, despite claiming to be a man of the cloth, abandoned my pregnant mother to poverty twenty-fuckin’-seven years ago to swan off to fuckin’… Zimbabwe or wherever it was?’” There was an aura of rising indignation on the woman’s face, but Riley was, sadly, oblivious to it, as she began to moan and squeal under her breath at her impending orgasm, two fingers of the left hand diddling her clit as the cucumber sped up its cunt-pounding.

Her mother’s annoyance – unlike the potatoes – boiled over. “Will you stop fuckin’ yourself with that cucumber, and listen to me?”

“Shit!” cursed Riley, her orgasm interrupted by her mother’s outburst. “Why couldn’tcha just let me fuckin’ come?” The cucumber was still sticking out of her pussy at a forty-five degree angle, her damp pink flesh stretched wide around it – but the moment for orgasm had passed, and in her frustration she had reverted to her habitual North London accent, years of academic elocutionary training effaced by one frustrated climax.

“Why couldn’t I…?” The older woman spluttered. “That’s fuckin’ rich! You’re the one asking me about your dickhead of a father, and then when I start to tell you you’re too busy fuckin’ yourself to fuckin’ listen to me!”

Riley opened her mouth, ready to bellow a reprimand – but at that moment the front door clicked open, and a man’s voice called, “M’ cock! Sorry I’m late!”

Both mother and daughter paused, and sighed. “Shit,” they muttered together in new-found understanding and reconciliation.

“Gary, I’m horny and frustrated, I need a fuck!” called Riley in the direction of the hallway.

“Oh no you fuckin’ don’t,” interrupted her mother. “You eat me bangers and mash first, then we wash up – and then you can fuck all you like. All right?”

“All right, Olive,” smiled Gaz, as he entered the kitchen, his flaccid nine-inch cock dangling casually from his open fly.

*

Little more than half an hour later, Gaz was enthusing with a gentle burp, “That was delicious, Olive!” whilst reaching over and squeezing Riley’s tits with one hand. The detritus of dinner lay uncleared on the kitchen table before them.

“Glad you liked it, Gary,” smiled his mother-in-law, scraping her plate clean. “Now, if we all help wash up, then you can…”

“Mum,” interrupted Riley. “Why not let Gary and me do all that? There’s one sausage left, and a bit of gravy and mash. I can think of some fun we could have with that – and promise we’ll wash up and wipe up afterwards, all right? Why don’t you go and relax?”

“Aw, that’s nice of you, love. Don’t mind if I do. I’ll shut the door to the front room, if that’s all right with you: I’ve got one of me classic pornos to watch tonight…”

“Oh, you won’t disturb us, don’t you worry, mum,” grinned the daughter. The kitchen door had not yet closed before her palm was wrapping itself round Gaz’s thick shaft and stroking it urgently into a huge erection. “Oh shit, I’m so fuckin’ horny, Gaz,” breathed Riley. “Here, fuck my cunt while you stick this up me arse. Sage and apple,” she added reassuringly, picking up the last remaining lukewarm sausage from the table, before hosting her buttocks onto the kitchen counter and opening her legs to display her two holes, the upper one glistening pink and irresistible and – unusually for Riley – gaping wider than its puckered partner.

Gaz grinned, before picking up the gravy boat and dribbling warm onion gravy onto his wife’s vulva. He dipped the end of the sausage in the same gravy, before sliding it gently into her anus with a noisy squelch, then nudging his stiff cock against her pink gravy-coated fuck-lips. Through the door to the living room, they could both hear the sound of Olive’s movie beginning to play: Oh, you’re gonna fuck that ass, Mr Byron? You fuck that sweet little fucking asshole. Yes, baby, break it in. You’re so big, Mr Byron, so big…

“Oh, I know this one,” grinned Riley. “So come on, Gary, fuck me cunt and make me come. Then you can do me arsehole like Tommy Byron’s doing to Jenna!” she squealed. “Go on, gimme that ‘toad in the ‘ole’!”

Gary’s cock was huge, and stretched Riley’s fuck-lips wide as it pounded energetically in and out of her gash. “Yeah, motherfuck, that’s so fucking good, Gaz, fill me up with that big cock, go on, ram it in ‘ard!” cried Riley, as she reached down with one hand and began to fuck the gravy-coated sausage in and out of her asshole in time with Gaz’s cunt-pounding.

In the next room, the filthy cinematic monologue was continuing: Oh my God yes, that feels good, I like that, Mr Byron, yes, I’m your dirty little neighbor slut who takes it in the ass. Oh – fuck yes, fuck it. You know how long I’ve needed that dick in my fucking asshole?

“More gravy!” shouted Riley, reaching for the gravy boat and tipping it over Gaz’s cock, so that congealed onion jus coated his shaft and balls and dribbled down between Riley’s thighs onto the end of the sausage sticking out of her asshole. Gaz’s cock continued to fly in and out of Riley’s cunt, splattering the best of Bisto up and down her torso and thighs, whilst she continued to masturbate her asshole with the sausage, making it squelch and fart noisily. “Oh yeah fuuuck!” she squealed. “That sounds so fuckin’ filthyyy – oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…”

Gaz knew the signs, both linguistic and behavioural, which signalled his wife’s approaching orgasm, and he knew how to make the most of it. He lifted Riley’s lithe figure off the kitchen counter and, supporting her thighs with his arms, pulled her gravy-coated body towards him so she could grind her clit hard against the base of his cock. “Oh yeah!” squealed Riley. “I’m gonna fuckin’ come, Gary, go on, jizz in me fuckin’ cunt while I come all over ya!”

Gaz did just that, releasing spurt after spurt of cock-cream deep into Riley’s fuck-hole, whilst in the next room Jenna Haze was screaming: You’re gonna make my fucking ass come. Come talk dirty to me while I come all over your dick. Oh – fuck!

As her orgasm approached, Riley used her anal muscles to suck the sausage deep into her rectum, before bearing down with all her might and propelling the gravy-coated sausage out with a loud squelchy fart. The flavoured missile flew across the kitchen, landing in the dish of leftover mashed potato, lodging itself vertically at the end of the bowl like a sage-and-apple erection. “OH FUUUUUCK!!!” screamed Riley, as her orgasm swept through her body, filth and ecstasy combined. And it would have been a wonderful orgasm, were it not for the fact that, just at that moment – the front doorbell rang.

Riley paused, and cursed. “Shit! Who could that be at this time?” Gaz continued to grind his cock against her, feeling his come swashing around deep in her cunt and begin to dribble out between her still pulsating fuck-lips. “No, no, stop, Gary, I wanna know who this is…” In the next room, Olive had clearly paused her movie – for Jenna’s obscene monologue had ceased – and was padding towards the front door. Riley hung onto Gary’s torso, her cunt still speared by his gradually softening dick, his cum beginning to seep slowly down one of her buttocks, her arsehole winking and squelching as gravy dribbled out and dripped onto the floor.

Riley and Gaz heard Olive open the front door, pause, and gasp. “You! What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Olive,” said a voice, in an accent which sounded rather old-fashioned, though perhaps with a slight admixture of southern Africa in it.

“God, Eddie!” whispered Olive. “Why on earth? Get out of here, before she hears you!”

But it was too late, for Riley appeared in the doorway, naked, her body and tits smeared with onion gravy, and a mixture of gravy and man-cum trickling down her leg.

“Hello, Dad,” she said. “I thought it was you.”

ACT THREE, SCENE ONE

“Well, you’ve got some fucking gall, turning up now, after all these years!” Riley spat the words out with contempt – but some indecision, which was evident in the way her accent wavered: part of her felt determined to be profoundly chavvy, so as to identify unequivocally with her mother, her mother who, she felt certain, had been so wronged by this man all those years ago; but part of her wanted to display her own moral and intellectual superiority, to show herself his equal, despite his rather stiff Henley-on-Thames Church of England demeanour.

“I must seem a terrible person to you, Riley,” Eddie replied. They were walking, rather aimlessly, through the back streets north of Kings Cock Station, Eddie having been summarily refused admittance to the flat by Olive, and Riley having been told that if she wanted to talk to the “dickhead” she should kindly leave with him, thank you very much.

Riley waited for the corollary to Eddie’s first sentence, but it didn’t come. “Yeah – and?” she pressed him. It was a long summer evening, but the light was failing, and she was finding it hard to read the expression on his face.

Eddie looked her in the eye. “There is no ‘and’, Riley. At least, I have no excuse for what I did; I can’t tell you, or myself, that I did the right thing. I did the cowardly thing – and I’m sorry.” They turned a corner into a large square with a central gated garden, where a small group of drunken youths were noisily fucking on the grass in a clumsy jumble of limbs, tongues and genitals.

Riley paused. Deep down, she felt moved by this strange man’s confession, and his lack of self-protectiveness. But she had spent the best part of thirty years listening to her mother’s anger and contempt at him – and she wanted to make him suffer. “Well, so why have you come back now?” she retorted.

“Because I am nearing the age at which, as an ideological ‘Undesirable’, I won’t ever be able to visit this country again, for fear of culling. And I wanted to meet my only child, for the first and probably the last time in my life. And – and I hope this doesn’t sound too patronising, Riley – I’m very proud of you: married, with such a successful career. You’ve done well.”

“Come on, Kyle, whatcha waitin’ for?” one of the revellers called out in the distance. “Fuck ‘er arse, go on!” Eddie rolled his eyes as he and Riley continued on their way along the path round the central lawn.

“Can’t: Loulou ain’t got no fuckin’ lube!” Kyle replied – whereupon the rest of the party, already busy fucking and sucking, burst into raucous laughter, chanting: “No lube Loulou, no lube Loulou…”

But Riley, unusually for her, was undistracted by these distant drunken anal complications – for the phrase “only child” had hit her hard in the stomach. She stopped. “No other kids, then? Second family? Wife?”

“No… no…” The man was clearly struggling to know what best to say – but after a pause, he continued: “I’ve never met anyone I loved as much as your mum.”

“Oh puh-lease!” Riley halted, anger bursting out. “Loved her? Then abandoned her to a life of poverty and ‘prostitution’, in 2030s London? Couldn’t you have taken her with you – taken us with you?” The last clause was significant: Riley was beginning to realise that she was at least as angry and resentful for herself as for her mother.

“Oh! Did Olive never tell you?”

“What?”

Eddie paused again – partly to take in the information, but also because the drunken Loulou had called out in their direction, “‘Ey, m’ pussy guys – d’ya ‘ave any anal lube on ya?”

Eddie grimaced in embarrassment, but Riley, unfazed, called out, “Yeah, I fink I got some in me ‘andbag, love: ‘ere, come get it.”

“Aw, fucking!” called out Loulou. “Kyle, go an’ get it from the lidy!” Kyle duly got up and tottered across the grass toward Riley, his stiff cock waggling as he came.

“‘Ere, keep the whole tube,” said Riley, as she tossed it towards Kyle. Kyle was too drunk to catch, but dropped it and stumbled, in the process scratching the head of his cock on a rose bush and yelping in pain. The rest of his friends roared with laughter, “Clumsy cock! Clumsy cock!” as Kyle tottered back to them.

Eddie rolled his eyes again, before continuing his explanation: “I wanted to take your mum with me, but she didn’t want to come. She wanted to stay here, in an ‘Enlightened’ country.” Eddie gestured witheringly at the revellers on the lawn, fucking and fumbling in equal measure. “She saw that things were changing, thought that maybe with all this free sex craze which was sweeping the country, her life might be better, that people might treat her with more respect.”

“And why didn’t you stay?” pressed Riley.

“I was a Christian minister, Riley. And in those days, that was not compatible with the growing ‘Enlightenment’ mindset. I know you’ll find it hard to appreciate just how horrifying the new ideology was: everything I thought I stood for – fidelity, constancy, commitment, even love – all swept away under this terrifying barrage of lust, amorality, self-indulgence. I saw it as – well, no, it damn well was, and still is – wrong, just plain wrong!” Even in the dying evening light, Riley saw the man’s face etched with pain. “I had to choose, Riley – between the woman I loved, and the vocation to which I had decided to devote my life. I will never know if I made the right choice.”

They had reached the other side of the square now, and Riley continued to look hard into her father’s anguished eyes. In the distance the drunken party were chanting, “Too drunk to fuck! Too drunk to fuck!” as the hapless Kyle fumbled, trying to staunch his bleeding glans at the same time as spreading lube on his cock, all the while stroking it vigorously in a vain attempt to stop it going flaccid from pain, embarrassment, and too much alcohol.

But then: “Oh fuck, I’m gonna puke,” moaned Kyle.

“Chunder! Chunder!” sang his companions, before bursting into raucous laughter.

Eddie groaned in disgust, as he ushered his daughter out through the gate at the other end of the garden, pursued by the sound of splattering vomit. “Riley, may I tell you about how your mum and I met? Maybe that will help you to understand…”

… cue those arpeggios again,
but this time fading into a slightly ecclesiastical, though studiously middle-class mood:
perhaps a bit of quiet organ music…

ACT THREE, SCENE TWO

… for we are now in a carpeted theological library
in a student chaplaincy building in central London,
and it is now Sunday 16^th May 2032,
in other words, about three and a half years after our last flashback.

She caught everyone’s attention the moment she walked in. Dressed in high heels, a short leather skirt which left very little to the imagination, a tight crop top and a slightly undersized leather jacket which barely concealed her large jiggling breasts, wearing what seemed to everyone else in the room to be far too much makeup, and ridiculously long false eyelashes – she could not have made a greater contrast with the half a dozen or so sincere university students hunched over their Bibles on the sofas of the C. S. Lewis Reading Room in the University of London Anglican Chaplaincy, surrounded by wall-to-wall bookshelves.

“Can I help you?” asked the Reverend Edward Turner. He felt sure the newcomer must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. The undergraduates in his Bible study group shifted awkwardly on their dusty cushions. The young ladies in particular, dressed mainly in long skirts, buttoned blouses and cardigans, scowled suspiciously at the new arrival; whilst the males in the group looked gobsmacked.

The interloper smiled hesitantly, clearing her long straight dark hair out of her face to reveal a winning smile. “Hi, I’m Olive. They said at the desk that there was a talk going on in here. Can I sit in?”

“Oh… oh, of course,” flustered the young curate. “Do sit down. I’m Eddie. Everyone, make room for Olive, won’t you?” The others shuffled about so as to create a very wide berth for the newcomer. “Which college are you from, Olive?” asked Eddie, intrigued.

“Oh, I’m not from no college, Sir,” replied Olive. “I was just walkin’ home from work, and I was feelin’ pretty bad about meself, and I saw the sign on the door, you know, ‘Anglican Chaplaincy’, and thought maybe I could get some help here, some spiritual advice, ya know? And the lady at the desk told me there was somefink going on in here…”

“Why of course!” exclaimed Eddie, pleased to have a chance at some proper evangelism, and a change from the ranks of repressed cradle-born churchgoers he normally had to deal with. “We’re just in the middle of our Bible study at the moment, Olive, but if you don’t mind joining us for our last quarter of an hour or so, then you can stay on afterwards and we can have a proper chat!”

Olive sat down, sliding along the settee so as to peer over the shoulder of blond becardiganed Samantha from SOAS, at her open Bible. The male students’ eyes were inevitably drawn to Olive’s long bare legs and the unseen but imagined space behind her short skirt – but Eddie made the effort not to be distracted. “Samantha,” he asked, “could you pick up where we left off?” Samantha, crinkling her nose at the smell of perfume and strawberry vape breath wafting at her from her new neighbour, adjusted her glasses and read:

One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, “She is Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” Then David sent messengers to get her. She came to him, and he slept with her. Then she went back home. The woman conceived and sent word to David, saying, “I am pregnant.”

“Hang on a minute,” interrupted Olive – much to the annoyance of Samantha. “This David, he just went and, like, took this bloke’s wife and fucked her, just like that?”

There was a sharp shocked intake of breath from the other girls – no more so than from Samantha, who looked as if she wanted to be sick. The boys smirked, clearly delighted and fascinated by this sluttishly dressed foul-mouthed newcomer; a couple of them shifted awkwardly on their seats as they attempted to surreptitiously rearrange the contents of their trousers. But Eddie maintained his professional cool, replying with careful charm, “Yes, that’s right, Olive. David was the king, so he could more or less do as he pleased.”

“And he didn’t get stopped or nuffink? I mean, I get fucked by loads of guys – but like, I get paid for it, I do…” There was another sharp intake of breath from the girls, and Samantha squealed in alarm – whilst the boys, mouths agape, fiddled inside their pockets to rearrange their growing erections without, they hoped in vain, being noticed.

“Perhaps if you’d let Samantha finish the reading, Olive? suggested Eddie.

“Oh yeah, sorry, yeah, sorry Sam, go on, yeah…” muttered Olive.

Samantha was not pleased at having her name abbreviated by so evidently loose a woman, but, stuttering, she continued: “In… in…

In the morning David wrote a letter to Joab and sent it with Uriah. In it he wrote, “Put Uriah out in front where the fighting is fiercest. Then withdraw from him so he will be struck down and die.” So while Joab had the city under siege, he put Uriah at a place where he knew the strongest defenders were. When the men of the city came out and fought against Joab, Uriah the Hittite died.

When Uriah’s wife heard that her husband was dead, she mourned for him. After the time of mourning was over, David had her brought to his house, and she became his wife and bore him a son. But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.

“So hang on,” Olive interjected again. “What ‘displeased the Lord’ then? The fact David knocked her up wivout so much as an ‘if you please’, or the fact he done her husband in – or what?”

Samantha had had enough. Eyes flashing, the blonde slammed her Bible down on the pew. “Have you no shame at all?” she hissed at Olive through her perfectly aligned teeth. “Don’t you think Bathsheba had some part in this? What was she doing bathing naked where others could see her anyway?”

“Hang on, Sam,” responded Olive. “It wasn’t her fault David was ogling her. I mean, she prob’ly had nice tits an’ all, no wonder he –”

“She was a temptress – just like you!” interrupted Samantha.

Olive fixed Samantha with a steely glare. “OK, Sam, so what if she was a temptress? She’s not the one God was displeased with, was she? And I bet God wasn’t displeased with David just for fuckin’ around: he prob’ly did loads o’ that! No, He was displeased with him for abusin’ his power – for takin’ a woman that wasn’t his to take, for killin’ her husband. It’s power wot makes people do bad fings, not fuckin’ sex.”

“Oh, really?!” screeched Samantha. “You think you’re so clever coming in here, flaunting yourself like that, pretending you ‘feel bad’ and need some spiritual advice, and then proceeding to tell us – us! – what the Bible means. You’re just like Bathsheba: an amoral interloper from outside the Palace. If you really want some religious counsel, leave your ‘Enlightenment’ nonsense out on the scrap heap where it belongs!”

There was uproar, and everyone in the room piled in with their opinions. Eddie tried to calm things down with a well-meaning “Now now, let’s all try to be charitable, shall we?” – to no avail. Ironically, it was Olive who managed to silence the uproar, by suddenly pulling up her crop top to reveal her breasts – large, natural, swaying and jiggling in all their youthful glory. The girls froze in horror; the boys gawped, their eyes suddenly as wide as Olive’s areolas, their tongues drooling. Eddie groaned and held his head in his hands.

“See, Sam?” smirked Olive. “All your self-righteous talk can’t grab people’s attention, but one glimpse of me tits can. It was tits wot King David wanted: tits and pussy and arse – and God didn’t blame him for that! Ya know what I do for a livin’, Sam? Guys pay me money to show them me tits, and me arse, and me wet cunt – ‘coz that’s what they want. And if they pay me extra, I let them fuck me! That’s what guys have always wanted – so don’t you be so hypocritical as to blame me for givin’ ‘em what they want. The world is changing, Sam: the Enlightenment is here, the Fuckers Party is in control, this country is turning itself over to Pleasure – and self-righteous hypocrites like you are on the way out!”

Samantha’s pale skin had turned bright red, her perfect teeth bared in rage and humiliation, and her blond hair clinging to her now sweaty face as she screeched, “No! I will not be driven out of my home by the likes of you! I am no hypocrite for believing in something greater, something wiser, something more meaningful and lasting than your filthy unrestrained Pleasure. You think you’re special because you have this mad ‘Enlightenment’ craze on your side – but you and your kind are the ones abusing your power now. You think you can take over this country, and maybe you will – but at the end of the day, Olive, you’re nothing but a SICK, PERVERTED, FILTHY…” – Samantha hesitated briefly, as if on the precipice of something quite dangerous – “FUCKING WHORE!!!”

Samantha clasped her hands over her mouth – her mouth which had never uttered such obscenities before, but had been goaded into it by her despised interlocutor. And then she screamed – a desperate, inchoate, terrified screech which harnessed all the fear and humiliation she felt, not just at Olive, but everything she represented, which Samantha feared – nay, knew – was taking over her world and which threatened to make her a stranger, an Undesirable, in her own land. Now, even her precious biblical safe space was sullied, invaded: nowhere would be safe anymore. As so she dropped her Bible, turned, and ran, slamming the door behind her.

The other girls followed, some out of sympathy, others out of similar fear and desperation, and some out of sheer confusion. The boys lingered a bit longer, their eyes fixed on Olive’s full breasts and wide luscious areolas, which continued to jiggle and sway irresistibly – until she pulled her top down again, and they realised that they too, like King David, were voyeurs, cowards and hypocrites. Eddie gestured to them to leave – and they did, closing the door quietly behind them.

The C. S. Lewis Reading Room was empty – except for Olive and Eddie. There was a long silence as they both took several deep breaths, and Olive sat down again.

“Oh shit.” Olive spoke first. “I’m sorry. I’ve kinda fucked up your Bible study, haven’t I, Eddie?” She looked sheepish. “You must hate me…”

Eddie laughed nervously. “Um… yes, I suppose you have, Olive. But no, of course I don’t hate you: it’s not been this exciting here for a long time…”

“I guess you won’t be too keen on that ‘proper chat’ now, will you?”

“Oh, Olive, I’m not going to hold anything against you. But we don’t often get people like you in here!” Eddie chuckled.

“‘People like me’? Like what? ‘Sick, perverted, filthy fucking whores’?” There was a hint of scorn in her voice.

“Oh… I didn’t mean that,” replied the curate reassuringly. “We are all sick in our different ways, Olive – and a lot less pristine than we would like to pretend. You are just more open about it than most people. But you were right about Kind David: Bathsheba was not the problem, and the man had many other concubines and wives. God was displeased with him, as you say, principally for abusing his power, and for murder – not for what you call ‘fucking around’.”

Olive raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, have I made the churchman say a naughty word?” She giggled.

“These days, Olive, ‘naughty words’ are two a penny. Now that the country is coming under the control of the ‘Fuckers Party’, maybe we churchmen have bigger things to worry about!”

Olive laughed. “OK, well, I’ll stop teasin’ you about it, then!”

“But tell me, Olive,” Eddie continued, “what did you mean about ‘feeling bad’ about yourself? Can I help you in any way?”

“Oh well, I guess I’ve spilt the beans already, haven’t I? I work in Soho. I strip for a livin’, I do a bit of camwhorin’, sometimes I fuck guys for money, I’ve made a couple of mucky videos, showing me pussy – that’s not much to feel good about, is it?”

“Well, no – but, as you said, times are changing. At the rate we’re going, all that ‘whoring’ is going to make you a pillar of the establishment!”

Olive laughed. “And what about you? Aren’t you all ‘establishment’?”

“Ha! Once upon a time maybe – but no longer,” answered Eddie. “Samantha was right too, you know. Her time, our time is coming to an end. It’s a long while since religious people have been able to speak freely in this country; for years having the wrong beliefs has caused people to lose their jobs, or get kicked off their university courses – but now the government is talking about ‘reforming’ the Church, making us embrace all this ‘fucking’ craze in its entirety. Now, I could tolerate that if it was genuinely going to be a free choice. But no, just like with King David, power is too tempting. The Fuckers Party want power, total power. What’s her name – ‘Cuntslicker’ – is not too bad: all she seems to want is to liberalise sex. But the other one, the German one – I fear she’s dangerous. If she has her way, what I’m doing here will be outlawed. They’re wanting to force us all into a ‘Church of the Enlightenment’, where we will have no choice but to preach their ‘free-fucking’ gospel. They’re even talking about outlawing this book!” He picked up his Bible, which looked suddenly rather forlorn in his hand.

“I’ve not thought about it that way before,” replied Olive pensively.

Eddie smiled. “Most people don’t, Olive. They see sexual liberalisation, tolerance, non-judgmentalism – and it all seems great. For someone like you, it may well be great: you’ll be able to ply your trade without fear of reprimand or scorn, maybe even with official approval and support. But the Enlightenment is only tolerant of those who agree with them; others, like me, like poor Samantha and her friends, are all being slowly crushed. It won’t be long before we can’t live here anymore.”

Olive paused, looking troubled. “Oh… I guess I was a bit of a bitch to Sam, eh?”

“Just a bit,” Eddie nodded. “Best not to kick a person when they’re down, Olive. And people like Samantha, who have never sought anything worse than try to live a virtuous life, but who now find themselves facing exile for their beliefs… well…” Eddie’s train of thought ran dry, and his faced looked deeply troubled.

“You’re not talkin’ about just Samantha, are you, Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re the man who’s down. You’re scared. You’re watchin’ your whole life fall apart because of this Enlightenment fing that I’m so enthusiastic about.”

Eddie nodded. And then, to the surprise of both of them, he began to cry – softly, just softly. His body shook in distress, as he wiped a couple of tears from his eyes and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Olive. You came in here for some spiritual advice. But all I can tell you is that it’s over. For me anyway. Ever since my teens all I’ve wanted to do is to help people discover God’s love for them. But now even talking about love is risky – never mind God! For you there’s still a future here: you can embrace all this ‘fucking’ stuff and make the most of it. But for me…” He snorted derisively. “Ha! Not much of a religious counsellor, am I?”

Eddie felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up to find Olive standing above him, looking down in pity. “Sorry, Eddie,” she said.

“Ah, not your fault, Olive. Don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Want me to make you feel better?”

“What?” Eddie looked up, puzzled.

“Well, that’s me job, innit?” There was a twinkle in her eye – but Eddie still didn’t catch on, so Olive continued: “I spend me life making men feel better. Lonely men, frustrated men, sad men, scared men, men who fink they’re failures. Sometimes all it takes is a flash of me tits and they’re smiling again… but,” she giggled, “sometimes it takes a bit more…”

“Oh!” exclaimed Eddie. “You mean…?” His heart was suddenly beating very fast.

“If you like,” replied Olive. “You do like girls, dontcha?”

“I…” Eddie fumbled. “I mean, yes, but I’ve only… that is to say, only a couple of times… I mean, it’s been a while, and I shouldn’t really, but… Oh God, are you serious?” Olive nodded, grinning. He laughed nervously. “But I’m really out of practice!”

“Here, I’ll help ya,” said Olive, taking one of Eddie’s hands in her own. “Want me to show ya what to do?”

Eddie trembled – and nodded. Olive took off her jacket and slung it over the back of one of the armchairs, before removing her top completely, revealing again her large, luscious, swaying breasts. “Here,” she crooned reassuringly, placing Eddie’s hand where she wanted it, “d’ya like the feel of that?”

Eddie nodded, gently kneading, cupping, lifting, feeling her soft flesh yield and flow at his touch. “Oh, these are lovely!” he grinned nervously. “Your breasts are like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies!”

Olive burst out laughing. “‘Twin fawns of a gazelle’? No wonder you’ve only fucked a couple of girls, if that’s your normal pick-up line!”

Eddie laughed too. “No no, that’s a poem by Solomon – King David’s son. It’s called –”

“Oh, so he inherited his dad’s taste in tits, then?”

Eddie laughed. “Quite so.” Now both his hands were on Olive’s breasts, glorying in their flexible flowing beauty as he cupped and kneaded.

“Well, why don’tcha have a taste of Bathsheba’s tits, then, Yer Majesty?” teased Olive. “Go on.” She gently lifted Eddie’s hands away and moved forward, brushing her right nipple against Eddie’s lips.

Any restraint Eddie may have been harbouring till now crumbled in an instant. Close up, Olive’s breasts were a vision of perfect beauty: her nipples large and firm, ever so slightly crinkled, inviting his lips to kiss them; her areolas wide, round and slightly puffy, jiggling and shifting at his touch, one solitary nipple-hair cheekily tickling his nose. Eddie’s mouth closed over one breast, at first tentatively; then, feeling her flesh yield and flow against his lips, more passionately. Soon he was sucking, licking, moaning with joy, his hands still kneading and cupping and weighing her breasts as he gave himself up to such pleasure as he had rarely, if ever, experienced. “Oh God!” he moaned, voice a-quiver. “I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit. May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine, and your mouth like the best wine!”

“Ooh, better, Your Majesty!” giggled Olive, as she felt her nipples begin to tingle and twitch at Eddie’s oral ministrations. “Want a taste of ‘the best wine’ then?” She removed her breast from his mouth and leaned over with parted lips, inviting Eddie to kiss her. Soon she was on his lap facing him, their tongues tangling, lips sucking, faces mashed passionately against each other.

Eddie moaned with joy and wonder, as he felt himself, soul and body, rejoice in the sensual beauty of the woman in his arms; her naked breasts squashed against his chest, her long sleek hair parting at the touch of his hands, her lips – Oh God, her lips! – soft and sweet and yielding, despite the lingering taste of strawberry vape. “How beautiful you are, my darling,” he exclaimed. “Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely. You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.”

Olive giggled. She had had many men before – some weak and pathetic, some idiotically lustful, some abusive, a few violent; but even her own cynical heart felt touched by this strange awkward fellow, who praised God with his lips even as his erection throbbed and pressed against her crotch, who found himself poised in fear between the ideals he so lovingly espoused and the new fucking-ruled order which threatened to destroy everything he believed in. It was not long before Olive was naked, perched on the back of Eddie’s sofa, her legs spread and her lightly-thatched pussy gently lowering itself toward Eddie’s upturned face. “I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of incense,” exclaimed Eddie, “a mound of wheat encircled by lilies!”

Olive burst out in a fit of giggles. “Ooh, very nice, Yer Majesty! Most of my other clients limit themselves to ‘look at that hot fuckin’ cunt!’ No wonder Bathsheba fell for him. Bet Uriah the Heap or whatever his name was didn’t talk to her like that! Here, Eddie, have a taste of me ‘mound of wheat’!” Olive lowered her crotch lower, so that Eddie’s tongue could slip between her sweet fragrant pussy lips. Soon he was tongue-fucking her wildly, probing deep between her dangling flip-flapping fuck-folds, letting the heavenly mélange of saliva and cunt-nectar smear across his hooked nose and cheeks, and dribble down his chin.

“Your wips dwop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bwide,” exclaimed Eddie, as best as he could with his nose buried deep in Olive’s juicy gaping gash, as his tongue slobbered up and down her perineum, coating her tight puckered anus with spit and cunt-cream. “Miwk and honey are under your tongue. You are a garden fountain, a well stweaming down from Lebanon!”

“Oh fuck!” squealed Olive – not, this time, in reaction to King Solomon’s poetry, but to the shivers of pleasure Eddie’s tongue and lips were transmitting through her body. “Shit, Eddie, maybe you’ve only fucked a couple of girls in your time, but you ain’t forgotten how to eat pussy, have ya?”

“Like widing a bicycyle,” came Eddie’s muffled voice from deep between Olive’s thighs, “some things you never for–”

“Jesus, Eddie, enough pussy-licking for now!” interrupted Olive. “Shut the fuck up and fuck me! Come on, King David, you’ve got your Bathsheba all horny, got her cunt slime all over yer face. Now it’s time to fill her up with the royal dick!” She lifted herself off Eddie’s face, dropped to her knees, and started to pull his trousers down. “Come on, Yer Majesty, let’s see what you’ve got. You gonna make it worth Bathsheba’s while? Have ya got a big hard – MOTHERFUCK!”

Olive stopped in shock as she pulled Eddie’s underpants down. “Look at that huge fuckin’ dick!”

There was something almost comical about the sight, Olive thought, for sprouting from the crotch of this small, slim, awkward Anglican curate was the biggest penis she had ever seen. It was, quite simply, huge: thick as her wrist, some eight inches long, with a massive throbbing purple head poking out from its capacious foreskin, a little dribble of pre-cum glistening on the tip of the glans. It twitched in anticipation, and so did Olive. “Shit,” she muttered, “that’s fuckin’ amazing! Lemme sit on that!” She lifted herself back onto Eddie’s lap and lowered herself onto his huge throbbing shaft. “Oh fuck!” she exclaimed, as she felt her damp cunt fill up, felt the huge glans press against her cervix, felt her clit rub against the base of Eddie’s stiff flesh.

Eddie was happy – happier than he had been for a long time. He loved his vocation, loved his God, but this girl was sexy, and funny, and endearing, and clever, and wry – and she even laughed at the way he recited Scripture while fucking. “I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride; I have gathered my myrrh with my spice,” he cried out loud, as he felt her hot cunt bounce up and down on his thick shaft, felt her gorgeous warm fuck-slime lubricate his way in and out of her heavenly depths.

Olive was enjoying herself too. “I’m gonna come, Eddie. I’m gonna fuckin’ come on that big dick of yours. Oh, you’re so good, Eddie: you know that? You’re a good church fucker, you are, the perfect Christian counsellor. Not feeling bad about meself no more, Eddie: your dick’s done that to me, you’re… oh fuck, oh fuck, oh FUUUUCK!”

“Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, come with me!” cried Eddie, as they both climaxed. He felt Olive’s cunt spasming around his cock, just as he exploded and his seed shot upwards and inwards at her cervix. Olive kept bouncing up and down on Eddie’s lap, prolonging her pleasure, squeezing the last globs from his dick, so that cunt-cream and semen swashed and squidged together joyously in their shared cum-space.

As their climaxes subsided, Eddie and Olive held each other tight, feeling each other’s bodies revel in their joint ecstasy. Then Olive laughed first, a long, silly giggle which began quietly but developed into a belly-laugh which didn’t stop.

“What?” asked Eddie, worried. Confusion washed over him as he realised the awkwardness of his situation: an Anglican curate who really oughtn’t to be consorting with prostitutes, certainly not in the C. S. Lewis Reading Room – and yet, it felt so enjoyable, so genuine, and so… Oh, surely not! mused Eddie to himself, but he felt so safe, so reassured in the embrace of this strange, funny, tart-with-a-heart, that he barely hesitated before declaring: “You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride; you have stolen my heart with one glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace. How delightful is your love, my sister…

“… my bride…”

It must have been the evident sincerity with which he said it, for Olive knew instinctively that this was not just lust, and not just poetry. She looked deep into his eyes, studied him, looked deeper still, past his face and his words, and knew, somehow, that he meant it. And so, “I like you too, Eddie,” she said.

“Really?” he replied.

“Yes.” She did not move, her pussy still wrapped around his softening dick, semen leaking slowly out of her fuck-lips onto his large balls – but what she felt most was something emanating from his soul, which she knew to be truer than anything she had ever felt from any other man before.

Promptly, however, habit reasserted itself, and she snapped out of it. “Just as well,” she joked, “otherwise I’d be charging you for this, at me hourly rate!”

And they both burst into long happy laughter.

Neither of them noticed that the door was open just a crack, and that through that crack, from the darkened corridor outside, Samantha from SOAS had been watching, her skirt rucked up to her waist, her right hand between her legs. As Eddie’s cum had exploded into Olive’s slut cunt, Samantha had climaxed, her whole body shaking in an ecstasy she had never known before. Now she wept in silent fascination, her fingers still wet with her own holy slime, shameful tears coursing down her cheeks.

ACT FOUR, SCENE ONE

a few days after our last chapter:
Friday 21^st May 2032,
but very early in the morning, after a long night:
The Corn Exchange, Cambridge

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

chanted the crowd.

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

“What a night, eh?!” Cunts bellowed, as she and Hildegard leapt on the podium. “What a fucking night!” The crowd cheered raucously.

“Fuckers!” shouted Cunts. “Need I remind you of how far we have come?! The crowd started to chant: “Cunts! Cunts! Cunts!”

Emma Jane gestured for calm. “Fuckers,” she continued, “a mere four years ago, the European Union chose to turn its back on the chaos of war and disease, by welcoming the Enlightenment – abandoning the narrow-mindedness and moral repression of the past, realising that society would only be truly fulfilled, and Europe’s pre-eminence and independence could only be secured, if they accepted the pursuit of Pleasure as their primary goal. There were many who said that Britain would never follow that path – that we were bound to remain mired in prudishness, class privilege, nepotism, inclusivity, ‘love’: all those meaningless, pointless watchwords which achieved nothing save deprive us of our true destiny as free fuckers. When Hildegard and I founded the UK Fuckers Party three and a half years ago, we knew that the establishment would hate us, and would do their best to bring us down. But a new King and Queen, and a new generation of political leaders, saw the Light: we have rejoined Europe, and with the passing of the Societal Reconstruction Act last year the government was able to roll out Flexible Fertility and Genetic Modification to the whole country, allowing all our citizens to be freed from the shackles which prevented them from realising their full fucking potential.”

There was a huge cheer from the crowd, during which Cunts passed the microphone to Hildegard, who continued: “Comrades! Now, with this election, we hold the balance of power and, make no mistake, we intend to use it! If the Labour Party want any part in the next government, they must embrace the Enlightenment in its fullness – and that means reshaping society from the bottom up: the end of love, the end of jealousy, the end of monogamy. We will make this a fucking nation, a fuckers’ nation. Anyone who tries to impede our progress – any Objectors, Undesirables, reactionary religious groups, disloyal ethnic minorities – these no longer have a place in our land!”

A new wave of cheering erupted from the crowd – though, it must be admitted, not quite as enthusiastic as that which had greeted Emma Jane’s speech. “And so,” continued Hildegard, “let us stand together to sing our anthem, The Interfucktionale!”

Arise ye fuckers from your slumbers
Arise ye lovers of wet cunt
For Pleasure in revolt now thunders
And at last ends the age of cant.

Hildegard’s tenor voice was strong and compelling, and some of those Party operatives on the podium joined in with her – but most of the crowd were not in the mood for such sincere and idealistic hymnody. Heady with their victory, and fired more by lust than political idealism, they began to chant over Hildegard:

We will, we will FUCK YOU!
We will, we will FUCK YOU!

And they proceeded to do just that. All around the hall, men and women alike were stripping off. Soon cocks were being sucked, cunts eaten, assholes penetrated with joyous abandon. Groups of the party faithful formed daisy-chains of fuckers, writhing on the ground as they indiscriminately pleasured each other’s genitals. Some stood on the sidelines, jerking their cocks or fingering their cunts while watching the scene unfold. Banners hung from all the walls, decorated with pictures of tits and ass and pussy, proclaiming what everyone knew to be the glorious truth:

VICTORY TO THE FUCKERS PARTY:
THE PARTY OF THE NEW ENLIGHTENMENT!

The chanting grew, accompanied inevitably by the rhythmic clapping pattern everyone knew. Hildegard tried to keep up her Interfucktionale, bellowing as best as she could:

Away with all your moral scruples
Flaccid dicks arise, arise…

But Emma Jane Cuntslicker read the room the way Hildegard couldn’t. She knew what the Party faithful wanted: not philosophy, but filth. Grabbing the microphone, she began to chant:

Pussy, you’re a wet cunt, hot cunt
Fuckin’ in the street, gonna take a big cock today
You got cum on your face, you big disgrace
Fuckin’ your ass all over the place, singin’
We will, we will FUCK YOU!

“Sing it!” Cunts shouted. And they did just that. They sang, they fucked, they stamped and clapped, and they fucked as they sang:

We will, we will FUCK YOU!
We will, we will FUCK YOU!

Hildegard was momentarily bewildered, perhaps even annoyed at having the limelight taken away from her – but Cunts knew that this was the beginning of something utterly new and great: a people, a party, and soon to be a whole nation devoted to Pleasure, devoted to fucking, stripped of their inhibitions, having cast off their shame at the altar of the New Enlightenment.

“We will fuck you! This is it, Hildy: nothing can stop us now!”

Hildegard looked at the crowd, now fucking and sucking and cumming with unstoppable lust, and she knew it was true, and she saw that it was good. “You wonderful, fuck-obsessed, filthy little cunt!” she exclaimed to Emma Jane. “Fuck me!”

And Emma Jane did. Tearing off both her own and Hildegard’s clothes, she grabbed her blond fuckbuddy and wrestled her to the ground, grinding their cunts together in a tight scissors-lock. “Fuck me, Hildy!” she exclaimed. “Now we can fuck as we please! Pure fucking Pleasure will rule this nation – forever!”

Soon the two party leaders were rolling and writhing on the ground, their tongues frantically penetrating each other’s mouths, their sweaty tits slipping and squelching against each other, their cunts flaring and grinding. Their colleagues and supporters gathered round, frigging their cunts and jerking their cocks in a heady cocktail of ideology and lust as they watched and cheered their fucking co-leaders. And as Hildegard and Emma Jane climaxed together, their bodies twitching and pulsating as they screamed their ecstasy to the world, their colleagues gathered around to release their own juices. Cocks exploded and cunts squirted, and soon the writhing rising leadership of the Fuckers Party were being splattered with male and female cum which doused and coated their bodies, turning them into a gorgeous, creamy, wriggling mess.

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

chanted the crowd, as the two young women kissed, slurping jizz off each other’s faces and guzzling it down.

But it was not long before they noticed that someone had joined them. Hildegard noticed it first, as she felt a new tongue slurping across her cum-coated cunt. Cunts and Hildegard broke their slobbering kiss to look down, and saw a pretty girl with reddish brown hair tied back in a high ponytail, naked apart from a Fuckers Party branded tank top and a red-cross nurse’s cap, devotedly slurping fuck-gloop off their bodies.

“Hey,” Hildegard grinned. “Who are you, pretty bitch?” she asked.

“Hello, Miss Hildegard. Hello, Miss Cuntslicker. My name is Dolores. I belong to you now.”

INTERMEZZO

the same morning
(Friday 21^st May 2032, in case you had forgotten)
in the editorial pages of a highly respected broadsheet newspaper

The recent success in the General Election of the Party of the Enlightenment (dubbed by all its supporters the ‘Fuckers Party’) should not have taken us by surprise – but it did, which is surely yet another sign of how out of touch not only the British political establishment but also the national media are with the zeitgeist. Those of us old enough to remember may well compare last night’s result with the shock we felt at the Brexit vote in 2016. But whither Britain now? The Fuckers’ leaders appear in no mood to downplay their success. They know, as do any of us who dare to be honest about it, that no one will be able to form a government without them – and they are determined to impose their full agenda on the country: principally, rejoining the EU, where already all the most extreme elements of the Fuckers’ manifesto are commonplace, reshaping the whole of society to embrace “free fucking” as not merely the new norm, but the new sine qua non. Co-leader Hildegard “Fotzenficker” (yes, you read that right) insists upon the “purification” of British society of any objectors – whom she, somewhat indelicately, terms “Undesirables”. Her colleague Emma Jane “Cuntslicker” (where will it end?), affectionately referred to by her followers as “Cunts” (of course), is perhaps slightly less strident than her German colleague, but she is no cuddly compromiser: it is her intention, she says, to found a “Royal Academy of Fucking” to spearhead the transformation of society. And already she has organized a highly successful public “Exfucktion Rebellion” in central London (slogan: “Just fuck arse”), which neither municipal nor police authorities deemed it worthwhile interfering with. The Fuckers seem to be moving faster than anyone around them can react, and taking the public with them.

We do not envy the leadership of the Labour Party, who cannot escape their Hobson’s Choice: throw their lot in with the Fuckers and form a coalition, or risk the collapse of our polity entirely? If they seek the advice of our new King, we suspect that they may find him firmly under the sticky thumb of his Californian Queen, who has already publicly endorsed Bates buttplugs as “good for your spiritual health”. So perhaps the outcome is inevitable…

ACT FOUR, SCENE TWO

Just a few months after the last flashback:
Sunday 16^th January 2033,
Northolt Aerodrome, West London.
No music required;
sometimes silence makes the best soundtrack.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. Today’s Expulsion Flight will shortly be ready for boarding. Please proceed into the Terminal Building to have your luggage inspected and your papers checked. Please remember that only registered Undesirables are eligible for free transport: ethnic minorities, antediluvian religious adherents, or conscientious objectors to the New Enlightenment. You are limited to one suitcase each. 

It was a cold winter’s day outside Northolt Aerodrome, where the Daniels family gathered shivering and huddled together in the weak sunlight, one family among many in a sea of mainly dark, disturbed faces. John carried one suitcase in each hand, his face set with grim determination. Rosie clutched and clawed at her children, as if by holding them tighter she could somehow delay the dreaded but inevitable parting. Tears coursed down her face as she gazed down at Eva bundled in her arms, and six-year-old Robbie, bewildered and fearful, clinging to her legs. With them stood a dark-skinned young man, cassock and clerical collar marking him out as a priest.

“Why do you have to go, Mummy?” asked the boy.

“Because it is not safe for Mummy and Daddy here anymore, Robbie,” said Rosie. “But don’t worry, Father Ambrose will keep you safe. You like Father Ambrose, don’t you, darling? He’s very kind, isn’t he?” Father Ambrose forced a smile.

“Yes, Mummy… but I don’t want you to leave us! Why can’t we come with you?”

Rosie’s jaw trembled, and she looked at her husband with barely concealed desperation, as if by some miracle a solution, even at this eleventh hour, might be found. But John’s jaw was still set hard, imprisoning the turmoil behind his façade. “You’ll be better off here for now, Robbie.” Rosie spoke the words like a well-rehearsed script. “Where Mummy and Daddy are going we will be very poor; we may not have enough food for you and Evie. Father Ambrose will look after you for a while. As soon as we find a safe place to live, and enough food for us all, we will come and get you; then we’ll all be together again, OK?”

Not far away, on a hard bench just inside the terminal building, Edward Turner sat brooding, his black suit and white collar marking him out as a man of the cloth. He too was in the turmoil of parting – though one might not have been able to tell that, as he sat alone and silent. But as he sat, he thought, and thought hard and deep, for he was a careful and sincere man.

“Come with me,” he had said to his beloved Olive, as she rode his cock one hot July night in his quarters at the Chaplaincy, her pussy sliding deftly up and down on his stiff dick. He clutched her to him, feeling her sweaty fulsome tits squidge against his chest, speaking as quietly as he could so as not to awake the Rector in the next apartment down the corridor, or the student boarders upstairs.

“Sure!” the dark-haired buxom girl replied. “Where? Pussy? Arse? Or on my face while you eat me out?”

Eddie laughed, his cock jiggling deep in Olive’s pussy. “No, no! I mean… come with me: come with me to the Outside World. Let’s leave this crazy place. I have family in southern Africa; we could start a new life together, both of us together. You and me…” He looked into Olive’s eyes, so bright and keen and beautiful – and he meant it. “Come with me…”

But the memory was interrupted by an announcement on the tannoy:

Final call for today’s Expulsion Flight. All Undesirables eligible for transportation please proceed immediately to the terminal.

“You know how to contact me, don’t you?” muttered Ambrose, sidling up to John, whilst Rosie continued to claw and clutch at her children.

“Tottenham Court Road, number 38B, isn’t it? Your new hideout…” John replied.

“Yes. I think it’ll be safe. The landlord is sympathetic, and well-connected. So long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves. And – John, I’ll take good care of them, you know.”

“I know, Ambrose. And, despite what Rosie says, we know that we may never be able to come back for them; we understand that they may need to be brought up in the new ways – the ‘Enlightenment’ ways, you know?”

Ambrose grimaced. “We will probably all have to make all sorts of unpleasant compromises and sacrifices to survive, John. You and Rosie are making one. Your kids and I, and the others who are trying to stay, will have to make others. We’ll take it one day at a time.”

“You know that we’ve done the GM thing on Evie, don’t you? And they’ve both been sterilised: they won’t let us even register with a doctor now without it. I hate the thought of it – but we figured that if she’s going to survive growing up in this ‘brave new world’, we may as well give them the best chances we can… Are we doing a terrible thing, do you think?”

“John, these are strange times. Nothing is forever. The Church has been persecuted before – and every time she is, her members just do the best they can in that moment…”

Meanwhile, inside the terminal building, Eddie was counting out the contents of his wallet, and stuffing a large envelope with banknotes. He muttered under his breath, “Eighty… ninety… a hundred… one hundred and five thousand, three hundred and sixty-four euros.” The envelope was fat and bulging, but somehow, to Eddie, it seemed paltry, pathetic, almost insultingly so. “Well, that’s all I have. And I won’t need it where I’m going.” Eddie sealed the envelope tightly, took a pen out of his coat pocket, and wrote a name and address on the front in block capitals.

“No, Eddie, come on, this is silly,” Olive had said, lying on her back and looking up into Eddie’s eyes as he slid his hard cock in and out of her wetness one early autumn night. “You want to leave all this, leave this country, this continent – all because you’re scared of the Enlightenment? I mean, here you are fuckin’ me – ooh, that’s good, yes, grind it like that, against my clit, yeah nice! – but you don’t like it when the country starts to come clean, admit that all they ever really think about is fuckin’! I mean, fuckin’ makes people happy, doesn’t it? What’s wrong with that?”

Eddie paused, his huge cock half-in, half-out, glistening with Olive’s cunt-nectar. “Yes, my darling, fucking you makes me happy. But fucking you – not the entire world. I know I’m a hypocrite. We all are, to one extent or another. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t higher ideals: love, commitment, constancy – all those things which the Enlightenment threatens to outlaw. I want to love you, Olive, I want to be with you forever. I want…” Eddie pulled his cock out with a gentle squelch. Still stiff and massive, it waggled comically before her flaring vulva, as if demanding an audience.

Eddie paused. “Olive… my darling…” Eddie paused again to take a deep breath. “Olive Throstlethwaite, will you marry me?” Eddie’s cock continued to nod up and down in front of Olive’s crotch, as if willing her answer.

Olive looked up in astonishment. “Oh God! Really? Do you love me that much, Eddie? Me? I’m just a slut, you know. Do you really want to be saddled with a ‘sick, perverted, filthy fucking whore’ for the rest of your life? Here, fuck me first, Eddie – and then we’ll talk about it afterwards. Put that monster dick back in me now…”

“Can I suggest a more poetic way of describing it?” he smirked, reaching for his Bible from the nightstand.

“You’re not tryin’ ‘a tell me Solomon wrote poems about cocks as well, are ya?” Olive giggled, as she ran her hand up and down the full length of Eddie’s thick shaft, feeling the coating of cunt-slime, and the veins pulsating beneath her fingers. “Did he like boys too?”

Eddie laughed. “No, no, but… here, read this,” he said. “Just substitute a word or two here and there,” he smirked.

Olive took the Bible, and focused on the lines Eddie was now pointing out to her with a slime-stained finger. She got the joke and cackled, before declaiming in mock-ecclesiastical tones:

Your cock is like the tower of David, built with courses of stone…
Your cock is like the tower of Lebanon looking toward Damascus!

“You fuckin’ perv, Eddie! I love you, you know that?”

FINAL CALL!

came the voice from the tannoy, so loud that the speakers crackled and fed back.

Final call for today’s Expulsion Flight!

The Daniels party, along with a few other last straggling families, made their way at last into the terminal building, John holding Robbie’s hand tightly while trembling Rosie clutched Eva to her breast. Amidst the sea of dark queueing faces there were a few people of paler complexion – and Father Ambrose recognised one of them with a gasp. “Eddie!” he called, “Reverend Edward Turner!” – and the young curate on the bench looked up from his reverie.

“Father Ambrose de Conceicao!” exclaimed Eddie, standing to greet him. “Fancy that! You leaving too?”

“Er… no, Eddie,” said Ambrose, as they shook hands. “I’m staying for now. I’ve found a place in London where I think some of us can stay safe – for a while, at least. But I don’t blame you for fleeing while you can. I’ve come to see off some friends of mine: I’m going to be looking after their kids for a while, whilst they find their feet in the Outside World. Come, meet my friends John and Rosie, and their children Robbie…. and Eva.”

“Children…” Eddie muttered the word distractedly. “Oh God!” His face crumpled, and tears, which he had so far managed to bottle up, began to leak from his eyes. He turned away, muttering an embarrassed “I’m so sorry”. Ambrose did not understand what had so suddenly overcome his old acquaintance, but did not pry.

“Eddie, I’m late,” Olive had intoned solemnly, as she crept quietly into his room, one midnight in December.

Eddie stood up from his desk, beaming with delight at his beloved’s arrival. “That’s all right, love: no such thing as too late for me!” He embraced her tightly, feeling her breasts squash against his chest, revelling in the fragrance of her skin and breath. His penis took seconds to rise in response, and he pressed his crotch against hers.

“No, no, Eddie,” remonstrated Olive, pushing him away and holding him at arm’s length so she could look directly into his eyes. “I mean… I’m late. Late.”

It took Eddie a few seconds to realise what she meant. “Oh!” he intoned blankly. His heart leapt, partly with joy and partly with dread, and for a few seconds, his mind swirled back and forth between these two poles. But the storm calmed rapidly, and then everything seemed so clear. “Are you sure? Have you tested?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Olive paused again, before nodding in the affirmative.

“You mean?”

“I got a baby.”

“And so do I then, no?” Eddie smiled.

“Yeah, it’s prob’ly yours. Yeah, I fink so…” Olive looked away, so as not to see his reaction.

Eddie was not deterred. “Oh, Olive, come, this is a sign, isn’t it? You, me, and a baby. That’s a family – that’s us. Even if I’m not the father, who else is going to look after you and the child? I’ll do it, love. Even King David made good on his mistakes, and took Bathsheba as his wife, didn’t he? I’ll love you as your husband, and the child as my own – our own. Come with me, my love, come. We could go to where I’ve got relatives in Africa, and start again, start afresh. There I’ll still be able to follow my vocation without all this Enlightenment nonsense ruining it all. Don’t you see? This was meant to be!”

Olive folded her arms. “Eddie,” she spoke cautiously, but firmly, “I’m not leavin’ this country. This ‘Enlightenment nonsense’, as you call it, is what I want. I’ve been the scum of society all my life, Eddie. Now they’re saying sex work is not just going to be legalised, it’s going to be promoted. ‘Filthy fuckin’ whores’ like me are goin’ to recognised as professionals. That woman Cuntslicker is setting up a Royal Academy of Fucking. Imagine! People like me will be able to get qualifications in fuckin’, be respected for what they are, for what they do! With the stigma removed, sex will be part and parcel of society – like it always shoulda been. Eddie, this is excitin’: I’m not gonna turn my back on this!”

“But have you heard what they’re saying, these Enlightenment people, Olive?” Eddie’s face contorted in pain. “This ‘Cuntslicker’ woman – she says, ‘The only solution is to completely separate the pleasure of sex from responsibility for family.’ How irresponsible can you get? And she says, ‘Love, like the state, must wither away!’ They’re talking about ‘refashioning the human being’ – and those who don’t want to be refashioned, thank you very much, are going to be expelled anyway! This isn’t sexual freedom, this is totalitarianism masquerading as liberalism. It’s so dangerous!”

“Oh Eddie, Eddie, they don’t really mean all that! OK, they say a lot of daft things – but they’re politicians. Politicians are always talking bullshit!”

“Yes, they are, darling – and that’s fine when, as is the case with most politicians, they’re total hypocrites in the first place. But these people, these ‘Fuckers’, they have convictions. People said before Hitler that he wouldn’t be so bad: if they had read Mein Kampf, they would have seen what was coming. I’m listening to what these ‘Fuckers’ are saying, and I think they mean it – and that will spell the end, not just of me and my life, but of civilisation as we know it!”

“Eddie. I’m not leaving. If you want me, then stay with me.”

“Olive. I can’t stay. If you want me, then please, I beg of you, come with me…”

“No,” she intoned blankly.

Eddie stood, jaw trembling, heart pounding, desperate, bereft.

“Will you keep the baby?” he muttered.

Olive paused, before replying quietly but firmly, “Yes. She’s mine.”

Eddie turned back to Ambrose and the Daniels family, wiping his eyes. “Sorry, Ambrose, it’s all just a bit much for me…”

“I know. I know, Eddie,” Ambrose sighed.

“Would you do me a favour, Ambrose?” asked Eddie, taking his envelope, heavy with its contents, out of his coat pocket, and handing it to the priest. “Could you deliver this by hand for me?”

Ambrose studied the name and address on the envelope. He raised his eyebrows with curiosity, but asked no questions. “Yes, certainly, Eddie.”

WOULD THE FINAL THREE PASSENGERS FOR TODAY’S EXPULSION FLIGHT MAKE THEIR WAY IMMEDIATELY TO THE GATE!!!

“Come, Rosie,” said John. “Time’s up. Here, Robbie, hold Father Ambrose’s hand. Rosie, now we have to let Father take Eva.”

Howling, Rosie handed over the bundle in her arms.

“Bye bye, Mummy. Bye bye, Daddy,” said Robbie.

“See you soon, darling,” Rosie blubbed.

“God bless you, John… Rosie… Eddie,” muttered Father Ambrose hoarsely. He turned and, with his two new charges, walked briskly out of the terminal building.

On the way, he glanced at Eddie’s envelope. On the front was a name in block capitals:

MISS O. THROSTLETHWAITE

and an address. He absent-mindedly turned it over, and saw that on the back was written:

FOR yOUR DAUGHTER

Ambrose studied it. The “y” appeared to have been added later: unlike the rest of the letters, it had been scrawled more roughly – squeezed in, almost as an afterthought.

ACT FOUR, SCENE THREE

Twenty-seven and a half years later,
which means we’re back to the present day:
the evening of Friday 16^th July 2060
but in the Outside World,
a long way away.

“How was Rosie today?” asked Alison, as she lay on her front on the bed.

Rob answered, but Alison couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, as his face was buried deep in the crack between her buttocks, nuzzling affectionately against her anus.

“Sorry?” she replied. “Take your tongue out of my asshole and say that again,” she giggled.

“My tongue is not in your asshole,” remonstrated Rob as he sat up, “well, not yet anyway. It’s just thinking about it, planning its attack, closing in,” he grinned. “And yeah, Mum was fine: not so lonely now Eva’s back living with her – but having to deal with all her angst at having broken up with Chad.” Rob leant forward again to resume sniffing the heavenly rich scent which wafted from Alison’s bottom.

“So sad, that, after all they’ve been through together,” said Alison.

“Mmm…” replied Rob in indistinct agreement. He did not try to say more, as he knew Alison wouldn’t understand him anyway, since his tongue was now beginning to delve into her ass-crack, probing up and down, gradually homing in on the beauteous puckered paradise which was its goal. Rob used both his hands to gently prise apart his wife’s buttocks, all the better to enable his tongue to finally make blessed contact with her tight brown hole. He began to lap gently, and Alison moaned with approval.

“I c’d do vis fowever!” exclaimed Rob in muffled intergluteal ecstasy – but sadly that was not to be, for at that moment the bedroom doorhandle rattled violently. “Muuuum, Billy won’t let me sleep!” came a voice. The door was locked, however, so the interloper had to make do with banging on it in frustration.

“Shit,” whispered Alison under her breath, rolling her eyes, partly in frustration at the interruption, and partly in ecstasy – for now the fingers of Rob’s right hand were stroking gently up and down her back as he slurped, and the middle finger of his left was beginning to probe between her pussy-lips. “What’s he doing?” Alison called out loud. Rob giggled, his nose jiggling between Alison’s ass-crack.

“He keeps chucking things at me!” came the whining voice through the door.

“Well, tell him if he doesn’t stop, Dad will come and take away… er, whatever he’s chucking at you,” Alison called back, before muttering another dual-purpose “shit” under her breath, as Rob’s nectar-soaked middle finger began caressing her clit and his spit-moistened thumb slid deftly between her cunt-lips.

“BILLYYY!” The voice was loud, though retreating along with its caller’s footsteps down the corridor. “Mum says stop it, or Dad’ll come and take away your tool kit!”

“Fuck,” whispered Alison, as she raised her buttocks so she could kneel on the bed and Rob could begin to tease her now dripping cunt-lips with the head of his stiff black cock. “Oh, that feels so good!” she continued in her well-practised fucked-mum-whisper. “Go on, love, fuck me with that monster!”

Rob did, sliding his thick shaft deep into her depths, glorying in the exquisite pleasure of her slimy flesh caressing and squeezing him all the way in. “Oh fuck,” squeaked Alison surreptitiously into her pillow, “that’s so fucking good! Fuckfuckfuckfuckf–”

“MUUUUM!” A new voice shouted through the bedroom door. “Janey’s lying. I wasn’t throwing my tools at her, only some of the nuts and bolts!”

Rob paused his fucking, his big black cock half-in and half-out, the shaft glistening in the half-light. “Shit…” groaned Alison into her pillow, before calling out, “All right, Billy. Just stop it now and go to sleep – or you’ll wake the others! It’s late, and you’ve got sch–”

“Yeah, but now Janey’s throwing everything back at me! She’s –”

“BILLY AND JANEY, BED NOW!” bellowed Rob, in his frustration withdrawing his cock completely and making his way towards the locked bedroom door, cock glistening and waggling before him as he reached for his dressing-gown. There was the sound of two pairs of feet scurrying away down the corridor, followed by a door slamming, then silence.

“Fuck,” muttered Rob, before joining in with Alison’s giggling.

“Aw, your cock’s gone all soft,” chuckled Alison in her best whisper. “Here, I know what’ll make you feel better,” she added, turning herself onto her back, lifting her buttocks and spreading them so that her asshole could wink invitingly at her husband.

“Ooh, to what do I owe this rare privilege?” Rob’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.

“Well, piles not too bad this week, maybe?” smirked Alison. “And besides, you’ve slobbered all over them really nicely, it would seem a shame not to take advantage of the natural lubricant!” added Alison, probing the squelchy folds of her external haemorrhoids invitingly with one slender finger. Rob gazed at her body with undimmed delight, as his cock regained its full stiffness. Her asshole was indeed puffier and flappier than it had been ten years prior, and her pussy was slacker and less symmetrical than when they had first met, even sporting a barely-noticeable scar from a near-decade-old perineal tear – and, of course, she had not had stretch marks then. But now her body was richly curved, her breasts larger and fuller than ever, gleaming and flowing with experience and purpose.

“Say no more!” Rob skipped gleefully back to the bed and knelt in front of Alison’s buttocks, poising his hard cockhead just in front of Alison’s winking rosebud.

“You don’t mean that, do you?” replied his wife. “Surely you want me to say a lot more?”

“Oh Jesus, of course I do, baby. Go on, give me some of that good ol’ Bates Butts fuck-talk!”

“Like on the train?” She winked her asshole again, three times in succession and with perfect control: little, medium and wide – demonstrating that the past ten years had not diminished her superlative anal technique.

“Oh fuck,” moaned Rob in admiration and desire, “yes, just like on the train!” He leant in to kiss his wife full on the lips, pushing his glans gently against Alison’s puffy brown hole, which parted welcomingly with the same ease it always had.

“Fuck,” moaned Alison, before whispering: “OK, fuck-talk perv, come on, put that fucking black dick right where I shit! What are you waiting for?”

Rob laughed – and Alison laughed with him: a pair of happy loving fucking spouses who knew each other’s history and foibles so well that everything was a joy. Rob felt Alison’s asshole smooching and squelching against his dickhead as he leant into it, his cock sliding slow but deep into her hot rectum. Alison’s genetically modified anus was still slick as cunt, clean and lubed as ever, and a groan of ecstasy escaped from Rob as his balls slapped against Alison’s buttocks. Alison continued her signature fuck-talk, giggling into his shoulder: “Oh yeah, Mister Daniels, you wanna assfuck your white MILF with that huge black dick of yours? You –”

But there was another knock at the door. “Mummy,” came a quiet squeaky voice. “Why are you making so much noise?”

Husband and wife froze, Rob’s cock buried to the hilt in Alison’s ass, before Alison called out: “Sorry, darling, Mummy and Daddy love each other very much; we’ll try to be quieter now. Go back to bed, Claire darling…” They listened as another pair of small feet shuffled back along the corridor, and another bedroom door creaked shut in the distance.

“Fuck,” muttered Rob. “Three down, one to go.”

“Yeah, and it’s about time for him to start mithering soon: we’d better get on with it!”

“Well, what can you do to persuade me?” whispered Rob, as he began again to slide his cock in and out of Alison’s squelchy ass.

“Do I need to persuade you?” giggled Alison, before whispering in the quietest mum-voice she could muster, “I thought Mister Daniels liked pile-driving my fucking shithole? Don’t you wanna clean out my fuck-stables with that horse-cock of yours, Mister fucking Daniels?”

“Oh fuck,” whispered Rob, as he revelled, not only in Alison’s verbal overload, but also in the glorious sensation of his cock pounding in and out of his beloved’s rectal depths. He fucked his wife’s asshole with more joyous desire than ever. He fucked it because it was hot and slimy as a cunt on heat. He fucked it because he adored its owner, adored her curvy body, adored her tits squidging against his chest, adored her wet cunt smooching and flaring against his crotch. And he adored her for all that she had given him: ten years, and counting, of love, and life, and purpose, and hope. He gazed in wonder at her pretty face, those keen brown eyes, those soft pink lips – now mischievously whispering a torrent of barely-audible verbal filth into his ear: “You like fucking your anal-slut wife, Mister Daniels? Here, let me come on top where I belong; I wanna ride that fucking cock till you come in my shit-chute, baby!”

Deftly – without detaching cock from asshole – they switched positions, Alison now squatting upright facing her husband, one hand propping herself up so she could bounce her gape up and down on Rob’s huge black prong, her other hand frantically rubbing her pussy, squelching five happy fingers into and around her slack cunt-folds. The rhythmic sound of anal cock-squelch, and the slap of buttocks against balls, now joined Alison’s carefully whispered fuck-talk: “You gonna squirt your cum in my shitcunt, Mister Daniels? Swill out my asshole with that dick-slime of yours? Fill my brown hole with all your fucking cock-cream? You come and bust up my fucking chifforobe, boy, and I’ll give you a fucking… oh no… oh s h i t!”

The last “oh shit” was not part of Alison’s script. It was whispered sharply, in frustration at the new sound she heard, coming from the room next door. Rob did not hear it at first, of course: his mind was on his cock, throbbing and twitching at his impending orgasm, and on the smooth lubricated anal tunnel pounding up and down on it. But Alison, after years of training, instinctively knew the significance of that little squeak. She froze. “Oh fuck, here he goes, Rob; do we interrupt, or go for it?”

But Rob was past the interrupting stage. His cum was already rising through his shaft, his glans growing stiffer and harder in anticipation of the ecstatic release already on its way. “Can’t stop now oh oh oh,” he moaned, fucking his cock desperately upwards into Alison’s ass, “sorry is that all… all r– oh God… I’m f–”

Alison knew what his incoherent ramblings meant. She resumed and accelerated her ass-pounding, felt Rob’s cock scrape harder and faster against her rectal walls, felt her clit grow and throb, felt her own orgasm approaching. But then there was another high-pitched squeak from the next room and, a few seconds later, another, and she began to feel – “oh shit” – that tell-tale tingling in her breasts, as milk began to drip from her nipples. It was too late to stop now, and impossible to control, so Alison went for the sprint, her hand a blur on her desperate clit, her asshole pounding harder and faster onto Rob’s now-exploding cock.

As Rob’s cum flooded joyously into her rectum, she felt her cunt spasm, felt her breasts squirt, releasing little hissing fountains down onto her husband’s face. Rob was past caring, pulling his beloved wife closer so he could slobber all over her nipples, tasting the sweetness, glorying in the wet, milky, sweaty goodness all over his face, feeling his cock continue to twitch and jerk deep in Alison’s cream-filled rectum. Alison wanted to scream, wanted to shout “OH YEAH FUUUUUUUCK!” to the world like the true Enlightenment slut she was, but, still mother-mindful of the need to be silent, she bit her lip, imprisoning her orgasmic screech within as her cunt and ass continued to spasm and she felt her husband’s shaft probe and swash within her cum-filled rectum.

Under her breath Alison squealed a silent series of “fuck fuck fuck”s as she came down from her peak. But by now the intermittent squeaking from next door had become a full-throated wail, and milk was dripping insistently down Alison’s chest. “Shit,” she giggled. “Back soon!” She lifted her asshole off Rob’s cock and unceremoniously farted her assful of man-cum onto his cock and balls, before dancing to the bedroom door, throwing a sarong around her waist, unlocking the door and letting herself out. A trickle of cum ran down her thigh, leaving little spots of semen on the tiled floor in her wake.

Insistent wailing filled the house for some ten seconds, before being dampened by the presentation of a full breast; then silence fell again.

ACT FIVE, SCENE ONE

Another three and a half years since the last flashback:
it is now 2036,
early summer,
in a Victorian Grade II listed townhouse in Islington, London.

“Friends and Fuckers! Welcome! Lick my pussy, all of you!” Hildegard was dressed in a red basque which showed off the buxom curves of her large jiggling breasts. Cunts was by her side, proudly naked, her own tits huge and perfect, beautiful despite their vintage artificiality. They kissed, ostentatiously penetrating their tongues deep into each other’s mouths. There were hearty cries of “M’ cunt!” and “M’ cock!” from the arriving guests, many of them members of the youth wing of the Fuckers Party, naked bar their “I’m a Young Fucker!” T-shirts. Waitresses circulated serving drinks and canapés, also nude apart from their black-and-white aprons and jewelled tailed buttplugs.

Hildegard continued: “You, the youth of our Party, are the best and greatest hope for our nation – which is why we have invited you here to help celebrate our recent achievements. Four years ago, when we were both still students, it became clear to Emma Jane and myself that the New Enlightenment was an unstoppable force, set to transform this land into a nation of fuckers – a society devoted to Pleasure. Last year Emma Jane achieved her doctorate in the History of Fucking, and I founded the Royal Society of Fuckers. The progress of the Party has been unstoppable. As you know, Cunts and I may not be leading it past the next election – which we fully expect to win with a landslide – but we will still be devoted fuckers, shaping our society in other ways. So, welcome, tonight, here to our London home, to the first of many Fotzenficker-Cuntslicker fuck-ins! Eat, drink, be merry – and fuck who you want, when you want, how you want!”

Soon Emma Jane and Hildegard were sat on their rear patio, watching the various lustful goings-on in their long landscaped garden. The closest fucking group consisted of half a dozen pretty young ladies, all wearing their “I’m a Young Fucker” T-shirts and kneeling on the grass as they ate asshole in a circular daisy chain. Cunts smiled indulgently. “Ah, beautiful!” she enthused. “Just look at that blond slut over there! See how she slurps with her tongue, all the way down to the other girl’s cunt and back up again? That’s proper technique: loosens up the girl’s cunt so she can use her fuck-slime to lube up the asshole. Then it’ll be easier to stick her finger in there, or even a dildo, when the time comes. But the girl over there with the frizzy black hair, she’s gone straight for trying to tongue-fuck her girl’s ass. Problem is, without a good coating of cunt-slime that pucker’s not going to open up.”

“So,” replied Hildegard, “is this ‘Academy of Fucking’ thing happening then, Fötzchen? Sounds like you’re already in full pedagogical mode!”

“Royal Academy of Fucking, Hildy, if you please,” smirked Cunts. “No reason for our new and highly ‘Enlightened’ Californian royal couple not to grant us that. After all, they gave us the Royal Society of Fuckers, forced Labour into coalition with us, proclaimed in public that throatfucking is good for you – oh, and, endorsed Bates buttplugs. Besides, there’s a building ready for us on Marylebone Road: all we need to do is replace ‘Music’ with ‘Fucking’, and we’re off!”

“I lick my cunt off to you, Schlämplein,” chuckled Hildegard.

But Emma Jane had cast her eyes back towards the asshole-eating daisy-chain and was exclaiming, “No no, that won’t work, bitch!” For the hapless black-haired girl was now trying to insert her middle finger into the tight puckered hole of the brunette in front of her, and it just wasn’t working. “Here, let me help!” called Emma Jane, slipping off her chair to join the girls on the lawn. “That asshole needs some pussy-juice on it, cunty-pie,” she explained helpfully. “Here.” She reached underneath the brunette’s ass, scooped up two generous fingers-worth of pussy-slime, and smeared it on her pucker. “There, now use your tongue to keep licking her pussy,” she explained to the first girl, “and that will help you scoop out more fuck-slime, so you can open up her shithole nicely. Then you’ll be able to stick your finger in nice and deep, see?”

“Oh thank you, Doctor Cuntslicker,” enthused the girl. “That’s so helpful!” she added, as her tongue began dutifully slurping at the brunette’s cunt.

By the time Cunts returned to the patio, the back of a reddish-brown head, topped with a nurse’s cap, was visible bobbing gently forward and back between Hildegard’s thighs. “Dolores, glad you could make it!” said Cunts, as she resumed her seat next to her fuckbuddy. Dolores mumbled what sounded like “Yes Miss” – somewhat indistinctly though, as her face remained firmly glued to Hildegard’s pussy.

“Dolores is a nice submissive bitch, don’t you think, Cunts?” Hildegard grinned, as she stroked the younger girl’s auburn hair. “She says she’s studying chemistry, but wants to become a nurse. I think she’ll go far, don’t you?”

Cunts watched for a few seconds, admiring the way Dolores gripped Hildegard’s clit between her dampened lips whilst tickling it with her tongue from within. Hildegard gasped in pleasure. “She’s good at eating cunt, definitely, Hildy,” Emma Jane opined, before chuckling, “Tell me about Hildegard’s chemistry, then, Dolores.”

“High in copulins, Miss,” muttered Dolores. “Volatile C2-C5 aliphatic acids.”

“Translation?”

“Tasty cunt, Miss.”

“Agreed. And how are you at rimming, Dolores?” Cunts lifted her legs high so as to slide her buttocks down her chair, to display her tight asshole winking cheekily from between her buttocks.

“Yes Miss,” muttered Dolores, detaching her glistening face from Hildegard’s crotch and shifting sideways.

“So, Hildy, are you going to join me at the Royal Academy?” asked Emma Jane, as Dolores began slurping at her brown hole. “I can be Principal, and you could be Chairperson of the Department of Pervy Shit – oh fuck, Dolores, that’s good, yes, yes, you like the taste of my shitter?”

“Serine- and threonine-rich residues, ether-bridged to a variety of oligosaccharide struct–”

“Bitch, what the fuck’s that mean?” Cunts interrupted.

“Juicy fucking asshole, Miss,” replied Dolores, before resuming a wild slobber up and down between Emma Jane’s two slimy orifices, whilst tickling at the tighter one with a well lubricated finger.

“To answer your question, Fötzlein,” continued Hildegard, “all this pedagogical stuff is not for me. Don’t get me wrong – I admire your determination to take the hopelessly unfuckable of this world and turn them into expert fuckers. But I don’t have your cuntsplaining patience – and my vision, you know, is a bit different. I think if we are to build a nation of fuckers with the urgency that task requires, we need to summarily get rid of the unfuckable, not waste time trying to reform them. Send them back where they came from or, if they won’t co-operate, eliminate them entirely.”

Cunts groaned – partly in pleasure at the gorgeous chemical dance which Nurse Dolores’ tongue and fingers were enjoying between her thighs, but partly in exasperation at Hildegard’s apparent hardness of heart. “Oh, Hildy, really? That seems unnecessarily cruel. If someone is trying, we should give them a chance. I mean, look at that girl I was helping over there: she’s not a bad fucker, she just needed some proper tuition; now, look, she’s eating asshole like a…” But even Cunts could not maintain the coherence of her discourse under the continued stimulation Dolores was giving her. “Oh fuck, Dolores,” she exclaimed, “you’re a real pro: where did you learn to give head like that?”

“Imperial College London, Miss,” mumbled Dolores, as she redoubled the intensity of her double-orifice slurping and fingering.

Hildegard laughed. “You are too naïve, Emma Jane. Yes, that slut with the frizzy black hair can learn, because she is a willing slut. But already you can see in our society that undercurrent of resistance to the Enlightenment vision: the religious antediluvians, the ethnic minorities, the prudes, or just the too-damn-clever-for-their-own-fucking-good. We offer free expulsion flights to all the Undesirables and Objectors, and yet some of them still choose to stay! And what about the old and unfuckable, once they get all menopausal and erectile-dysfunctional, with saggy tits and gnarly dried-out cunts and weeny dicks? You can’t educate such people. We need a… a final solution!”

“Oh fuck!” shouted Cunts. Primarily, this was in reaction to Dolores, who was now sliding two fingers in and out of Emma Jane’s pussy, curling them upwards so as to scrape against that wonderful rough pleasure-giving spot on her inner wall, whilst simultaneously fucking the tip of her tongue in and out of her gently flaring asshole. But her exclamation was also a flinch, and a reprimand directed at Hildegard. Emma Jane pushed Dolores’ face out of her crotch so she could muster the self-control and clarity of mind to exclaim, “Oh God, Hildy, can you hear yourself? Surely you can’t mean that!”

Hildegard took a deep breath, before waving Dolores away. Dolores pouted, her cheeks and lips still glistening with fuck-slime, but dutifully slunk off  (“Yes Miss”) in the direction of the house. “I have already commenced negotiations, Emma Jane, with the City of Westminster, to take over directorship of the Princess Alice Hospice on Oxford Street. I expect it to come through in the summer – about the same time that you start your Academy of Fucking…”

“Royal Academy of Fucking,” corrected Cunts. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘negotiations’?”

“Oh, horizontal ones, of course,” chuckled Hildegard. “At least, the leader of Westminster City Council is usually horizontal when I meet him. The dildo I shove up his shithole is generally vertical – but he seems to enjoy it; at least, he’s already agreed to my appointment…”

Troubled at the implications, but wishing not to do her fuckbuddy an injustice, Cunts thought for a while, before a playful smirk appeared on her face. “‘Wankminster City Council’,” she giggled. “That’s what we should change it to, once we’ve won the next election.”

Hildegard laughed. “And ‘Princess Asshole Hospice’,” she added.

“What about ‘Oxfuck Street’?” added Cunts cheekily.

“Mmm, just opposite ‘Marble Arse’.”

Both of them burst into happy noisy playful laughter.

“But seriously, Hildy, I’m worried for you: a hospice?”

“It’s a place where people go to die, Schlämpchen. I will just… extend its role slightly.”

Emma Jane paused. “Shit, Hildy, really? Tell me you don’t really mean that.” There was pain on her face, and her heart pounded with barely suppressed fear.

Hildegard looked Emma Jane in the face, her eyes piercing, her expression grave. “Yes, Cunts, really,” she said firmly. “How else will we pay for the Pleasure, the fucking, the Medical Modifications, the Flexible Fertitility, the GM – all those things which make life worth living? You’ve read the reports by our financial team: we can’t keep people alive who don’t contribute to the free fucking society. If they won’t or can’t keep up their part of the bargain as upstanding fucking citizens, then they need to either fuck off, or we will make them fuck off – one way or another.”

“Oh, but Hildy, surely…”

Hildegard did not let Emma Jane object, but interrupted – though with more levity: “Don’t you worry your pretty little cunt, Emma Jane. The Fuckers Party will need a pair of new co-leaders, of course – but there are plenty of worthy candidates,” she said, gesturing around her at all the fucking couples, threesomes and groups filling up their back garden. “And now I need a pee,” Hildegard added, as she got up and made her way indoors.

“You could try Peter from accounts,” Emma Jane called after her. “I think he likes that sort of thing!”

But Hildegard was out of earshot, and Emma Jane allowed her eyes to roam around the garden and patio, as she went over in her mind what Hildegard had said. Was that really the right way to roll out the Enlightenment? Surely, education, inspiration, training, the transformation of culture – that was the way forward! She stood up with renewed pedagogical determination, before having another look around at the various fucking formations in the back garden. The lesbian daisy-chain were now arranged alternately on their fronts and backs, eating cunt with glorious passion whilst spearing each other’s assholes with their middle fingers. In a flowerbed to the left, Norah from HR was stroking a pair of Young Fuckers’ large stiff dicks, her mouth wide and her tongue outstretched, ready to catch their crossfire. In the gazebo on the right, Deputy Party Secretary Thalia was taking a standing DP from a pair of Young Fuckers, the front one male but the rear one female and sporting a large pink ribbed strapon.

But Emma Jane’s eyes lit upon a young couple fucking on one of the patio benches. The girl was pretty, dark-skinned, slightly plump, lying on her back with her “I’m a Young Fucker” T-shirt pulled up to reveal a pair of lovely jiggling breasts. The young man, with a headful of slick black hair, was fucking her missionary-style, his long thin cock sliding effortlessly in and out of her wet hairless cunt. “Ooh, nice cock,” exclaimed Emma Jane – and it was: not thick, but long, very long; and every now and then the boy would pull it fully out so as to tease the girl’s vulva, revealing a beautiful, improbably bulging mushroom-headed glans nudging against her slimy fuck-lips. “Hey, what’s your name, long cock?” she called.

The boy looked up in surprise, his cock poised halfway along its journey into the girl’s glistening cunt. “Richard,” he said.

Cunts laughed. “Nice dick, Dick – can I call you that?”

The dark-skinned girl giggled. “‘Dick, Dick’ – that’s cute. Keep fucking me, Dick-Dick, come on, I wanna come. I’m Zara, by the way,” she added, for Emma Jane’s benefit.

Richard dutifully resumed his fucking. He was clearly enjoying this cunt: it was hot, tight, generously oozing fuck-slime, and deep enough that he could plunge his whole very long cock all the way in, to feel his bulging glans pressing against Zara’s cervix even as her pussy-lips smooched at his balls. But Emma Jane was not satisfied: the pedagogue in her was rising, and she interrupted again: “Hey, Dick, can I make a suggestion?”

Richard paused again, evidently slightly disgruntled at being interrupted mid-thrust – though the girl giggled, her plump dark tits jiggling as she warned, “Watch out, Dick-Dick, here comes Doctor Cuntslicker with her ‘Top Tips for Young Fuckers’!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to get in the way, Dick, but just watching you I was wondering; Zara, are you getting much pleasure from Dick’s angle there? I know he’s liking it, because you’ve got a great slimy cunt, but is it actually getting you off?”

Now Richard looked annoyed – and, to his chagrin, the girl replied, “Come to think of it, I’m not feeling a whole lot – though it’s nice seeing Richard enjoying himself, I guess…”

“Oh please!” Cunts sighed. “It’s not our job as women to give men all the pleasure, is it, Zara? That’s what the New Enlightenment came to fix: pleasure for everyone in equal measure – cocks and cunts! If your pussy’s not buzzing, Zara, then it’s Dick’s responsibility to dick you better! Here, Richard,” she continued, reaching down to grab his shaft. “Look, you’re fucking her straight in and out – great for you, because your lovely bulgy dickhead gets plenty of cunt-stroking that way. Nice, isn’t it?” Richard nodded, and would have continued his straight in-and-out fucking, but for Cunts gently but firmly pushing his body forwards so that his cock angled downwards, the topside of its base now rubbing against Zara’s clit. “Now grind your cock against her this way,” she commanded, gripping his pelvis to direct him.

Richard did so, and Zara squealed with delight. “Oh fuck, that’s good. Yeah, Dick-Dick, that’s how to fuck me. Why weren’t you doing that before?”

Richard spluttered incoherently in response, but smiled, evidently pleased by the effect his newly discovered fucking technique was having upon the girl. But Emma Jane was not finished. “Good, remember that, Dick – but now try this,” she said, firmly pulling Richard’s body downwards so that his cock was sliding more horizontally up Zara’s cunt, but further out, so his glans was rubbing against her front inner wall. “Your big bulging cockhead is just the right shape to stroke her G – see?”

Richard grinned even more widely, as he felt the topside of his glans rubbing against Zorah’s hidden rough patch, and Zara began to squeal with ecstasy. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, that’s it, that’s the spot, that’s so fucking good, keep fucking me like that, Dick-Dick. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking…” But suddenly Zara paused, momentarily alarmed, and looked at Cunts pleadingly. “Oh Jesus, Doctor Cuntslicker, it feels like I’m gonna pee! Is that all right? If he keeps fucking me like that, I just can’t fucking stop myself, I…”

“You’re gonna squirt, Zara!” Cunts exclaimed. “Let is happen, slut, let Dick fuck that squirt out of your Skenes, it’s natural, it’s beautiful, and it’s fucking hot. Do it, Dick, keep fucking her like that till I tell you!”

Richard did as he was bid, and soon Zara was screeching ecstatic beautiful obscenities to the night sky as her climax approached. “Now, Dick, pull out now!” Emma Jane commanded, grabbing his cock. “Beat her cunt with it!” Richard did as he told, slapping his hard bulging cockhead against Zara’s vulva, as her squirt began: first a piddle, then a puddle, then a huge fountain of clear liquid which shot upwards into his delighted face.

“FUUUUUUUCK!” screamed Zara, as Cunts grabbed Richard’s cock and began jerking it hard. The boy roared, and his glans exploded. Cunts angled it downward, so that his cum shot directly at Zara’s vulva, coating her slimy fuck-lips with rope after rope of warm cock-cream, even as her residual squirt continued to dribble out of her cunt.

Richard stayed poised over Zara’s body, admiring his handiwork, as the girl started to scoop up the creamy mixture of cum, cunt-slime and squirt which coated her flaring fuck-lips, slurping it off her fingers with an eager tongue. “Nice work, guys!” Emma Jane clapped. “Great squirt, Zara – was that your first?” The girl nodded, exhausted but delighted.

“And what a marvellous cock you have, Dick!” added Emma Jane, dropping to her knees to admire it. She took the end of it in her mouth and gave it a gentle suck, felt the beautiful mushroom-head between her lips, traced the shape of it with her tongue, tasted the glorious cocktail coating of semen and cunt-cream. She looked up. “With a bit of training, you could be a first-class fucker, Dick. Have you considered applying to the RAF?”

Richard looked momentarily confused, before the penny dropped. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “You mean the… the new fucking academy place? Is that…”

“The Royal Academy of Fucking,” corrected Cunts, before leaning over and taking one long tongue-slurp of the combined gloop coating Zara’s vulva. “We open in the autumn. You both have great potential,” she said, smacking her lips and standing up. “I look forward to seeing your applications. But now, I must leave you: Hildegard appears to be talking a long time over her pee…”

Emma Jane wandered through the house searching for her favourite fuckbuddy. First she checked the downstairs cloakroom – but that was occupied by Peter from accounts, sitting on the toilet whilst Party Spokesperson for Health and Social Care Julie stood over him pissing on his ecstatic upturned face. Next she checked the kitchen – but the only person there was Violet, Party Spokesperson for Food, Farming and Rural Affairs, repeatedly plunging her face into large bowl of Eton mess while a male Young Fucker rammed his dick into her cunt from behind. The living and dining rooms were full of numerous groups of the great and the good of the party faithful fucking in a variety of positions – but Hildegard was not there either. Moving to the first floor, Emma Jane interrupted several couples who had opted for the more comfortable option of fucking in one of the guest bedrooms; most impressive was the gangbang featuring Amelia, head of the Young Female Fuckers Brigade, two cocks in her ass, one in her cunt, and two in her mouth all at once. “Very impressive, Amelia,” thought Cunts, “just the sort of fine feminine example we need heading up our Youth Department.”

It was only as she climbed the staircase to the second floor that she heard Hildegard’s voice – and Dolores’. “I should have guessed,” smiled Emma Jane indulgently. “The girl really does give good head – and Hildy enjoys that so much!” Poised to join them (“Nothing like a threesome cuntsome, is there?”), she paused on the threshold of the master bedroom to listen.

Hildegard must have been sitting at the head of the bed, as she was out of sight from Emma Jane’s vantage point just outside the ajar doorway, but Cunts could just see Dolores seated naked on the armchair at the other end of the room, nurse’s cap still perched on her head, but her hair arranged now into a pair of side pigtails, each tied with a red bow. Her legs were spread wide across the arms of the chair, and one finger slid gracefully in and out of her neatly-trimmed pussy. She spoke in a strange high-pitched squeaky voice: “I’m yours, Miss.”

“I know,” came the sound of Hildegard’s voice. “And I like sluts who know their place, Dolores. Hold your cunt open for me.”

“Wike vis, Miss?” Dolores continued to squeak, “I’m a vewwy obedient swut, you know, Miss.”

Hildegard cackled with delight. “I like obedient sluts, Dolores.”

“Oh yes Miss, I wiww awways bewong to you, Miss.” She hawked a large gob of saliva onto her exposed clit and began slowly rubbing it in, whilst singing to herself: “Ooh, pwetty cunt; I wike pwaying wiv my pwetty cunty…”

“Here, Dolores, let me see you stick this in your ‘pwetty cunty’.” A dildo twirled through the air from where Hildegard was sitting, and Dolores caught it in one slimy hand. Emma Jane recognised it: jet black and very thick, Dolores examined it with undisguised lust. Holding her gleaming cunt-lips open with the fingers of one hand, she nudged the black silicone cockhead against her vulva and slid it in.

“Oh, wooky sticky big bwack cock in my cunty-wunty,” Dolores squeaked, as she began to fuck it in and out, her pussy-lips stretching wide around it. “Is vat good for Miss? Does Miss wike seeing Nurse Dowowes’ cunty-wunty aww stwetched out?”

“Fuck your cunt, Dolores, go on, fuck yourself with that big black cock!” Hildegard was panting as she spoke, and her voice trembled with pleasure and desire. Emma Jane smiled: she knew her fuckbuddy well, and knew she must be rubbing herself off as she watched. “I like big black cocks, Dolores, I love watching big black cocks pounding in and out of hot juicy cunts!”

“Wike vis?” squeaked Dolores, grabbing the base of toy with both hands and speeding up her cunt-pounding so that the dildo became a blur between her thighs.

“Oh yes!” cried Hildegard. “Fuck that cunt, Dolores, harder. Faster, Dolores! I want to come watching you! Yeeeeeeesssss!”

“Dowores is coming, Miss!” squeaked the girl. “Dowores wants to serve Miss, wants Miss to come watching her fuck her squidgy cunty with her big bwack dick!”

And come they did, both of them, with squeals and moans and the bellowing of obscenities. Emma Jane couldn’t see Hildegard, but Dolores continued to writhe and squirm, grinding the dildo deep inside her, desperate to squeeze every last spasm she could out of her dripping cunt. Eventually, she pulled the thick black toy slowly out of her pussy, so that Hildegard could watch her glistening lips stretch wide, leaving her pink fuck-tunnel gaping and the dildo glowing. “Heehee, squelchy pinky cunty all gapey wiv me big bwack cock,” she giggled, smiling at Hildegard seductively and licking her red lips. “Was vat good, Miss?”

Cunts could hear Hildegard still panting in pleasure. She smiled. How wonderful, Emma Jane thought, that they could have this open relationship! How wonderful that she could delight in her partner’s pleasure, instead of being possessive and jealous. How wonderful that Hildy could fuck Dolores, and Cunts could suck young Dick’s cock, and slurp his cum off Zara’s pussy – without shame, without guilt, without reprimand. This is what the Enlightenment is all about! This is why we need to transform society – to teach everyone to live in freedom and Pleasure, always and forever!

“Yes, Dolores, very good,” Hildegard was saying, as her breath regained its equilibrium. “You see, Nurse Dolores, I have a strange relationship with black cocks. I like them – but not their customary bearers.”

“Yes Miss,” intoned Dolores.

“In fact, I think that there comes a time when society needs to be purged of its negative influences – don’t you agree, Dolores?”

“Yes Miss.”

“And often it is those who are different from us who are the worst influences – either because of where they come from, or what they think or believe. Some opinions should not be permitted, should they, Dolores?”

“No Miss.”

“And those who hold such opinions, or who have such backgrounds, need to be cast out – or sometimes even culled, don’t you think, Dolores?” Hildegard’s tone of voice was becoming more insistent.

“Yes Miss, absolutely Miss.” Dolores’ legs were still parted wide, her cunt gaping and gleaming.

“You see, Emma Jane doesn’t see it my way, Dolores. She thinks people can be taught, reformed, lifted up from the pathetic manner to which they were born, shaped into better people, freer people, true fuckers, pillars of an Enlightened free-fucking society. But I think she’s mistaken, don’t you?”

“Yes Miss.” Dolores re-inserted one finger into her cunt.

“In fact, I think she’s utterly deluded – not really a true believer in the Enlightenment. I would go as far as to say, a traitor – don’t you think, Dolores?”

Emma Jane, poised at the doorway to the bedroom, stifled a gasp – while Dolores replied blankly, “Yes Miss,” as the one finger in her gaping gash became two.

“And traitors, I hardly need tell you, need to be removed. They need to be expelled from the Party, from society, from the nation. Sometimes traitors need to be culled – just like the Undesirables they purport to protect!”

Emma Jane’s jaw was trembling, and her heart beat fast with pain and humiliation. But Dolores panted, “Yes Miss.” There were three fingers in her cunt now, sliding determinedly in and out.

“Good, Dolores. And sometimes traitors need to be replaced, don’t you think? In fact, Dolores, I think Emma Jane needs to be replaced – with you, Dolores!”

“Oh! Yes Miss!” Dolores squeaked and panted, as she rammed four fingers deep into her wet fuck-gash.

“Dolores, Emma Jane does not approve of my plans for the Hospice. She thinks it’s cruel culling the unfuckable. But I need someone at my side who is a true believer, who is prepared to subjugate her feelings to the highest, purest demands of the Enlightenment, to expel where one needs to expel, to cull where one needs to cull!” Hildegard’s voice was strident now, possessed of a demonic idealism which, though Emma Jane had heard it before, had never seemed so terrifyingly real. Tears coursed down Cunts’ cheeks, and her whole body trembled with rage and pain.

But Dolores screamed, “Yes Miss! I will be your devoted follower, Miss! I will replace Cunts at your side! To build the Enlightenment, I will fuck where one needs to fuck, I will cull where one needs to cull, I WILL KILL WHERE ONE NEEDS TO KILL! Thank you, Miss, I worship you Miss, fuck me Miss!” She balled her hand into a fist, and rammed it hard, wrist-deep, into her gaping cunt, while screeching inchoately in the ecstasy of pleasure, devotion, desire, and the untrammelled madness of ideology.

Emma Jane screamed, and ran.

ACT FIVE, SCENE TWO

Saturday 17^th July 2060

“Oh that’s good, Dick, I’m going to come…” Cunts was on top, grinding her clit hard against the base of Dick-Dick’s cock, feeling his cockhead pressing hard against her cervix. Her large firm fake tits, dripping with spit, dangled in his face as he slobbered over them in ecstasy. “Come with me, Dick!”

Dick-Dick sped up his pace, calibrating, as only he knew how, the perfect balance between grinding Cunts’ clit and pleasuring his own dickhead, so that their climaxes would wash over them simultaneously. Soon he felt her cunt spasming, and his cock exploding deep inside; then her cervix squeezing and pumping rhythmically, and his cum squirting joyously into that living, lovely space, even as he continued to slurp and suck at her big round wet tits.

Cunts, unusually, was quite silent as she came: none of the filthy fuck-talk which she usually enjoyed, and knew Dick-Dick enjoyed. Dick-Dick didn’t mind, for his mind too was partly elsewhere.

They rested in each other’s arms, feeling the man-cum swashing and squelching in their shared fuck-space, as Dick’s cock gradually softened and shortened, and tears began to fill his eyes.

“Oh, Dick, not still sad, are you?” smiled Cunts, as she licked his tears off his cheeks. “Why? See how much we have achieved! See what a wonderful world we have had the privilege to help to create! A fucking world, a world full of Pleasure, a world devoid of possessiveness or exploitation or jealousy. A world where everyone can fulfil their dreams.”

“E. J., I don’t care for any of that, you know, more than I care for you.”

“Stop right there, Dick. I know what you want to say, but I’m not going to let you. I tried ‘love’ once – and it’s shit: all it does is hurt. I respect you far too much to allow you to fall into that trap.”

Dick-Dick said nothing. He knew, better than Cunts, how trapped by love he already was, but, through glistening eyes, he thought, and he kept his silence. And Emma Jane looked into the middle distance and thought carefully too…

“Hildy, how can you do this to me?!” she had pleaded. “How can you betray me like this?”

“Ach, Schlämpchen, what rubbish! You who have always proclaimed the virtue of free fucking, remember? ‘Emma Jane’s going to fuck and fuck all she likes… no more possessiveness, no more monogamy!’ And now you have the temerity to be jealous?”

“Jealous?! No, Hildy, you can fuck anyone you like – even that dumb redhead of yours.” Emma Jane spat in disgust. “But we were partners in this enterprise, Hildy. How many years have we been side by side? We instigated this revolution, we are transforming society – and you turn your back on me now? Don’t you see what this could do? If you and I split, we split the Party, we split the Enlightenment, we split the country, we destroy everything we have built together!”

Hildegard laughed. “You overestimate your own importance, Fötzlein.” Her voice oozed scorn. “Go, Cunts, be the great sexual pedagogue you always wanted to be, if that amuses you. But whilst you play your silly games, ‘Professor’, I will be defending the Enlightenment at the chalk-face. I will be defeating its enemies, eliminating its doubters, destroying those who threaten us – and for that I need people about me with no scruples, people who are prepared to fight fire with fire. You, ‘Cuntslicker’ ,” – she pronounced the name with exaggerated contempt – “are just a wimp, a pathetic apology for an idealist, a self-obsessed self-fucker without any true vision of what this Enlightenment is actually about.”

“And you really think that redhead cunt of yours has a better vision, Hildy? ‘Yes Miss, no Miss, wooky fisty pwetty cunty’ – surely not!”

Hildegard laughed. “Of course not, Fötzchen. She is a mindless drone, an idiot, a slave. She has no sense of self beyond what others grant her. I once thought you would be like that – but despite your vulnerability, you proved to have more integrity. Dolores Datchet, unlike you, will do as I say: that’s what makes her preferable. So fuck off, Emma Jane.”

Dick-Dick looked up into Emma Jane’s eyes and saw that they too were leaking tears, and that her jaw was trembling. “E. J., are you OK?” he asked, pulling her tight to himself.

Cunts was tempted to speak, but held herself back, instead banishing her pain to the past where it belonged, and concentrating on the here and now. And so she ground her vulva against Dick’s pubic bone, and felt another shiver of pleasure pass through her. “Oh, good, good,” she muttered, as her tears dried on her face and she felt a tremor begin to build in her cunt. She continued to grind her clit against Dick-Dick; he knew what was coming, and grabbed her buttocks to help her along.

This time all her fuck-talk came pouring out. “Fuck fuck fuck Jesus motherfucking fuck yesssss!” she screeched, as her cunt spasmed again. Dick-Dick felt it too, felt her cervix dipping in and out of his spent cum, felt her cunt muscles pulsating and squeezing his soft cock. Cum squeezed out of her fuck-lips, forming a squidgy puddle around the base of his cock, dripping slowly onto his balls. Their crotches smooched in slimy tender wetness.

“Day after tomorrow, first thing,” said Cunts, her equilibrium regained.

Dick-Dick nodded grimly. “Guests? Party? Orgy? Gangbang? Final Fuck?” he prompted.

“No. I’ve had plenty of those in my time, Dick. It’ll be just you and me. Nice and quiet. And Gaz and Riley will be there of course.”

“Oh good.” Dick-Dick tried to sound pleased. “Nice and… intimate.”

“Sometimes intimate is good, Dick. Just don’t read too much into it.”

Dick-Dick thought.

“E. J.?” he ventured.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you think there’s anything afterwards? I mean… do you think we’ll ever meet again?”

Cunts paused. Dick-Dick waited, wondering, hoping.

“No, Dick. There’s nothing afterwards. And no, Dick, never.”

Dick-Dick nodded, pensively. And his lips trembled.

ACT FIVE, SCENE THREE

“the day after tomorrow, first thing”

It was an otherwise unremarkable Monday morning, when a small delegation from the Royal Academy of Fucking pulled up in a black cab outside the Princess Asshole Hospice on Oxfuck Street, just opposite Marble Arse. Professor Emma Jane Cuntslicker, Director of the RAF, was first to disembark, striding with unalloyed purpose across the broad pavement towards the front door. In her wake followed Dr Riley Throstlethwaite-Eccles, Professor of Prolapse, who appeared nervous, and Dr Richard Dick, Deputy Director, ashen-faced and trembling. On the steps stood waiting for them Riley’s husband Garibaldi Eccles, Head Fucker at Princess Asshole, his face solemnly professional.

As Cunts approached the front door of the Hospice, someone else was on his way out. They bumped into each other, and a flash of recognition passed between them.

“Father Ambrose.” Cunts nodded solemnly.

“Professor,” Ambrose responded softly. “I wasn’t sure when you would be coming here. I was just conducting the Last Rites for one of my parishioners.”

“Well, there is no point in delaying the inevitable, is there, Father?”

The priest shook his head ambiguously. “Defining ‘the inevitable’ is a difficult thing, Professor. But may I pray for you?”

Cunts gave a sharp sigh, half of derision and half of genuine gratitude. “You may do as you see fit, Father. But I won’t hang around for it, if that’s all right with you. I have business to complete.”

Father Ambrose nodded. “In which case, Professor, I wish you every blessing.” He bowed – and turned away before anyone could notice the tear in his eye.

“Spare some change, Father?” croaked a tramp who was lying on the Hospice steps having his cock sucked by a particularly grubby-looking bag lady, her hair matted, reeking of tobacco and semen.

“God bless you, Danny,” smiled Ambrose, as he pressed a hundred-euro coin into the tramp’s wrinkled hand.

“Aw, ta, Father,” Danny called after Ambrose’s retreating footsteps. “Good man, Father A., inn’e eh, Jodie?” Danny opined to his companion, who was now starting to jerk his cock rapidly with her grimy hand. “‘Oi, don’ I get a bit more of a blow?”

“Nah, ya taste like shit, Danny,” grimaced Jodie. “Get yourself a bath, and I might suck you off nex’ time.”

“What about a titjob, then, eh?” Danny replied hopefully.

“Yeah, all right then, go on,” replied Jodie, hoisting a pair of large drooping dugs out of her dress and wrapping them around Danny’s cock.

“Oh yeah, love yer tits, bitch, that’s good, yeah!” grinned Danny, as his small but stiff dick disappeared between the copious folds of Jodie’s breasts. “Gotta love the Enlightenment, eh?” he called out to Emma Jane and her party as they entered the building. The automatic doors slid shut behind them, just as Danny’s cock began to spasm, and a few small spurts of cum shot upwards, splashing onto Jodie’s chin.

It did not take long for Emma Jane to sign the requisite paperwork, and for Riley and Dick-Dick to affix their own signatures to witness the fact that Cunts was here “of her own free will, and in accordance with the norms and laws of the Enlightenment”. Emma Jane’s draught had already been prepared; all Gary had to do was to remove it from the refrigerator and break the seal in the presence of the witnesses, to prove that it had not been tampered with.

Cunts’ Final Chamber was a large hall, originally designed to be suitable, of course, for orgies and gangbangs, not to mention guests and other spectators; the single solitary couch at its centre this morning looked somewhat forlorn under the circumstances. But Emma Jane, having wordlessly downed her draught, lay down and, with little more than a smile and a nod to her colleagues, closed her eyes. Dick-Dick sat on a small chair by her bedside, gazing at her face intently, as if determined not to miss a single second of his beloved’s remaining few minutes of life. Riley and Gary stood some distance away behind, holding hands, and waiting.

EPILOGUE

fifty-one years later:
12^th December 2111

“… and so Richard Dick sat by Emma Jane Cuntslicker’s bedside, holding her hand until it went cold and stiff. And Riley and Gaz stayed standing quietly in the corner, tears running down their faces.

“Dick-Dick lived another ten years, until his own culling in 2070. He took over as Principal of the Royal Academy of Fucking, and indeed became known as one of its finest. But his heart was not really in it anymore. The Enlightenment was on the decline: that great social experiment, which had seemed so full of promise and excitement fifty years earlier, was showing its cracks – and the biggest of these was: love. I think somehow Dick-Dick sensed that, in his love for Emma Jane, he had encountered something which all the fucking in the world could not compensate for. Unrequited love is always difficult – but love which is not even acknowledged as existing is even more painful. And so Dick-Dick went to his death not so much in sadness, but in dread, that not only would he never see his beloved Cunts again, but that he would never again be able to rejoice in her memory.

“My dear, I have told you all these things, now on your eighteenth birthday, so you will know your history, and learn from it. Your Grandad Rob never stopped loving me, from the moment he first met me on the train down from Cunthorpe sixty-one years ago, until his death last year.

“Strive for what lasts, my love. Oh yes, fuck loads. But love more. And love longer. Because love is not measured by its intensity, but by its durability. The longer you love, the more you will see that that love is even bigger than you imagined, that what you feel is just a tiny corner of something which stretches beyond your vision, beyond your thought, beyond your feelings, until it no longer belongs to you. The time will come when your body, like mine, will get old and decrepit and incapable and full of pain – but if you have spent your life striving for those things which lie hidden within, underneath, beyond, well, then you will be content to live long, and those who love you will be content to see you live long.

“You see, my dear, love isn’t a feeling; it’s a choice. It’s the choice to deny yourself the pleasure which you think you deserve, in favour of the respect which deep down you suspect others may be more worthy of than you. It’s the choice to put someone else first. Easier said than done – but every now and then someone will come along for whom it is worth making that sacrifice. If you can love like that, then you will recognise the one you love as treasure hidden in a field, worth selling all you have for – a sign, a shadow of the True Love that is to come. That is the greatest privilege: to look at another person, even occasionally, with the same delight with which the Universe regards each one of us. If that privilege comes to you, my dear, grab it with both hands – and never let go.

“But of course, in the meantime,” giggled the old lady, “fuck loads. Fucking is good.”

And her granddaughter, licking cunt-juice off her fingers, giggled too.

THE END