The Master Race, Chapter 28
Thighs Wide Shut
Rebox’s otherwise generic Brand-X LINQ-N-Go device employs Corning’s Gorilla Glass for its touch screen. A sleek sexy design reminiscent of Apple’s iPhone/iPod, the linq is nevertheless a low-end [in this case, bottom end] burner phone. A throwaway burner of the type popular with drug dealers, spies, gang bangers, and low-income people [like students and the working poor].
The linq comes in two flavors – vanilla, as in, no OS, so you have to load an operating system of your choice – or – Droid, where Google’s Android OS1 is the preloaded operating system. Either way, the phone is free. What you pay for is the time [phone time] and a one dollar [per day] rental fee. You pay as you go.
When you stop paying [your provider or your rental], your phone “bricks” itself. Becoming a nice shiny paperweight with no telltale forensics from its user or its use. Wherever you might be. No troublesome late fees. No nagging bill collectors. No pesky repossessors. Just you and a very dead phone.
When you turn your phone in [on time] at a Redbox kiosk, the same thing happens [except for the bricking part] — no telltale forensics from its user or its use. Auto reset to virgin upon check in.
Other attributes that appeal to spies, the criminal element, and privacy advocates [i.e. those who crave secrecy who are not spies or criminals] …
The linq switches between service providers, always choosing the cheapest one, at that given moment, for each call. This means that two calls, made back to back, could be with two different service providers. Additionally … Billing is anonymous. Makes tracing phone calls very hard, next to impossible.
Passive two-way interfacing [between Redbox and your rental phone] via publish-n-subscribe and military-grade IronKey encryption, make phone taps very hard, next to impossible.
Bottomline? In effect, you have a rental phone with the privacy of prepaid phone.
Unlike the iPod, you can’t smug a linq with your fingerprints [that’s if you have any]. That goes for its touch screen and its chrome back.
Sniper bling? Yep. A chrome back that is shiny, but not reflective. Zero-reflective touch screen, also.
Load Hulu [which by default is GPS delete] as your OS, with a vudu overlay, and using perls as your hands-free integrator, and your formerly vanilla linq suddenly becomes something that rivals a Bene Gesserit OSX Tricorder. With none of the assimilation risk. Comm-link. Jump-link. And, Bene Gesserit-grade tricorder. In one nondescript package. As Hak – Jim Fullington The Sandman would say, “Like a Dell XPS with its Ubuntu hardware … This be the shit, brotha.”
Use an offshore Cayman Islands bank account [that’s effectively no-limit] to pay for your phone service and rental fee, and suddenly your travel becomes perpetually “under the radar” so to speak. This is why linqs are becoming increasingly popular with wealthy jetsetters.
The reboot is even more chilling for Big Brother and Big Brother types. Technically, a linq-n-go isn’t a phone. Yep. What a kicker. Its name is not just a marketing ploy. It’s a for real, link and go. The revolution that cannot be derailed – It’s much too late to stop it. Individuals with the power to crossover [between universes] without the need for a Stargate, Bridge Gateway, starship, ROOM, TARDIS, etc.
In effect, untraceable m-verse traversal. Go … Anywhere. Go … Any when? All you need is a phone [that really isn’t a phone]. The realization of what smart phones promised, but couldn’t deliver. A prelude to the end of governments as we know them? If so … To an anarchist – Let’s cream?!
But, that’s not even the cherry. Employ a look-ahead [in the guise of an ordinary object] which allows you to reconnoiter your destination. Use the very same as your goback [your exit strategy]. And, now you have a novel solution to the closed room [Agatha Christie] conundrum. Murderer’s delight.
Tress animates. Rigor [mortis] gives way to not. No longer the rigid corpse that isn’t [a corpse]. She stirs in the silk sheets of the [marble] bed. Oh … Italian marble! Fucking on Italian marble!!!
Echoes of the long ago past when they slept in tombs. Those stone coffins of theirs [Nosferatus’] that were covered in elaborate glyphs and runes that looked Borg but weren’t.
Sam is dressing. Tress sits up and admires her girl from across the room. Covets. Lust from afar. It’s been a long time, too damn long, since she’s tasted a woman in her mouth. And … Such a sweet, sweet pussy this girl has. Kill a tree. Eat a beaver.
A woman can get lost in a pussy like that. Muff dive. Deep dive and you never wanna come up. Her nethers scream, “Eat me!” You just want to cum and cum and cum. Again.
Something slimy moves quickly up her leg. She reaches under the covers and grabs it. Bringing it into view. It’s a shiver. Part aphrodisiac, part venereal disease, created by modern-day mad scientist [and national treasure of the Swedish sex industry] Professor Yasmine Garbi to greatly enhance the sexual experience.
This monstrous little parasite looks like a phallic combination of an extra-large garden slug and a Jimmy Dean sausage. Of course, since demons can’t get venereal disease, it can’t infect them. It just gets them off. Just like the proverbial rocket!
As a contagion, shivers have two complications. Within a few hours it turns its victim’s mind to mush. And, it also has the unfortunate side-effect of making the subject a ravening sexual psychopath.
In a group setting [for example, an orgy] … A legion of slug-infested serial rapists looking for love in all the wrong places.
David Croneberg infected the tenants of the self-contained Starliner apartments in Toronto, Canada – 1974. Starting with his first experiment, the fetching Annabelle Walker [played by the fetching Kathy Graham in the movie adaptation] … This monstrous parasite multiplied and invaded the hapless occupants, turning them into a pack of Id-driven sex maniacs. Under the influence of this insidious, invasive disease, families turned to incest and murder, strangers sexually assaulted the helpless, and finally they banded together as a pack of bloodthirsty, libido-driven animals. Fodder for a documentary that Croneberg was filming.
Tress eats the shiver. Swallowing it whole like a raw oyster. She throws off the sheets and begins masturbating. Pretty in pink.
Sam has her back to Tress. She can see Tress in the dresser mirror. Phillips smiles as Tress finger fucks. Then, some inappropriate giggling. Cause? Sam seems to be viewing something hilarious, but from Tress’ vantage point, the Brit can’t tell what Sam is watching. Besides, the Dame is otherwise distracted by that preoccupation at hand. In the moment.
Phillips has her Weirdings setting on the dresser. The holster and the module. Beside each is their generic brand-x counterpart. A Redbox linq-n-go is syncing up with the Borg module. A dollar store universal holster is syncing with and being loaded by the Borg holster. Which dollar store? Family Dollar. They’re so cheap, they consistently undercut Wal-Mart, and they’re the only retailer that does so.
Her perls will be used for hands-free, ergo networking and device integration. With none of problems that are seemingly almost always related to one particular network Riverbed appliance that may have some questionable configuration settings.
Sam is a licensed reseller for Redbox of linqs to Redbox kiosk franchises. The formerly bricked linq which she liberated from a dumpster and rehabilitated, and is now syncing up with her Borg [module]. One that she rents to this day from Redbox. Now, that’s a story in itself. One for another day.
She’s running a custom vudu on her perls, purse, and the generics. Additionally, it’s vudu overlaying hulu, for the linq. Thanks to the custom vudu, now she can open and close her purse undetected. The hulu is also custom.
Her dike, the look, not the persuasion … Phillips’ hair is yanked back into a sternka. Max Factor troweled on extra heavy, bulldyke heavy, the heaviest, by her compact. Resulting in a hard, severe face and the amplification of her loathsome mouth. Think: Shirley Eaton as Jill Masterson in “Goldfinger”. A hard, pretty face and large ugly mouth befitting a strident, man-hating bulldyke in “Lezbo Madness”, circa 1950, or “The Girl From Rio” (Future Women) (The Seven Secrets of Sumuru), circa 1969.
Katz, previously pursed, pierces her right earlobe. Gloves. White Gloves. Prudz. Sternns. The explicit Borg of klaw and knobb. A suspicion, fueled by the way she’s standing – sort of masculine, kinda wide-legged – that she’s strapping [a flesh-colored kock, fused seamlessly to her nethers] underneath her skirt. In place of her usual flesh-colored/flesh-feeling thong. If so, Tress would rather not know.
When Sam wishes to get about unnoticed/least noticed in public, she goes dike. Straight men will notice her body, but will [subconsciously] choose to not “notice” her face, for obvious reasons. As far as women are concerned … For equally obvious reasons, only hardcore dykes don’t get unnerved at some level by her overall gender-bending look. Her walk advertises that she’s strapping, and well-endowed to boot. Hanging. Hung like a horse. In your face!!! – i.e. I walk in stilettos like I’m “John C. Holmes” hung. Additionally, some “other” disconcerting masculine bits [read: dyke]. As such, she gets noticed less by her own gender. As a rule, people will remember general details, but nothing too specific, about her. A built dyke with a harsh, pretty face. And … Something Borg about her.
Disturbing … Dyke scary. A scary, dyke version of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin as a dyke. Dyke Palin, if you’re so inclined. A bulldyke. A “masculine” dyke, so to speak. A masculine dyke: Now, that’s redundancy, if there ever was.
There’s something else that has nothing to do with stealth afoot here. She’s in one of those “moods” of hers. Been in it for a while … i.e. she prefers this extreme look. She woke up, this morning, preferring it, like so on many previous mornings. She prefers to go dike.
As for sexy … The sexy way [in the conventional, mainstream sense] that she looked yesterday. The way that she looked when she picked up Tress. Is shit [to her]. Shit as opposed to the shit. A complete reversal [of mainstream convention].
Of course, dirty is still for how she goes out looking when she’s on one of her binges. Strung out, filthy, and completely fucked up. When she’s sober, she prefers dike, this dike.
She still fucks men. She still likes fucking men. But, she doesn’t get the same buzz from fucking a man that she gets from fucking another woman. There are times when her menu is exclusively pie. There are times when that pie must also have a dick—She-male only. There are times when she will wear her kock and not remove it. She’s the she-male, lying down with she-males.
Maybe, it’s just a phase. She’s had a number of them as she progresses further into the undead of her unlife. Maybe, she’s turning [into a dyke]. For now, and for the foreseeable future, she’s a tweener. She tolerates sexy. It’s shit. Assuming it only when she has to. She craves dirty. It’s the bomb. She prefers the disturbing look of dike, this [scary dike]. It’s the shit. Enough said. We’ve beat that dead horse aplenty.
The syncing finishes. In the front, clipped to the waistband of her skirt on the leftside next to her purse, is the slide holster of her Borg tricorder. Into this, she holsters her linq. The generic universal holster is clipped to the waistband of her skirt on the rightside. It’s also worn in the front. Librarian style, proper. Strict. Per regs.
She slips on her jacket and buttons it. She’s braless and commando [the kock doesn’t count]. As aforementioned, or at least strongly implied, she’s not wearing her push-up [bra] and her equally skimpy thong, underneath her business suit. Of course, she can reach through her jacket if she needs to access her purse, linq, or universal.
Whatever she’s watching, she ceases to watch. The view closes as she turns around. Her dike has the desired effect [on Tress].
Tress stops dead in her tracks. Suddenly, she’s no longer in the mood. She shoves off the bed and scurries into the bathroom. She wants no parts of dyke Sam.
On the other hand … Sam, in the mood [for “games” of the sort that Goon gods play], in pursuit of her now elusive quarry, follows Tress into the bathroom.
That’s when the tussle occurs. Both of the girls are skilled fighters. Both are Golden Gloves heavyweight champs. Sam was All City. But … Tress was All UK.
It’s as if they were longtime parallel champions in Pride who’d never had the inclination [publicly] to smash one another. Strikeforce would dub it a heavyweight superfight — neither has ever been knocked out [in the ring, pugilistically], and both have stupidly powerful right [and left] hands.
Tress barely makes the heavyweight minimum, while Sam looks to be in the best shape of her life.
With the bell [figuratively] rung, Tress comes out swinging. Sam, always cooperative for this kind of request, drops her head and swings back. It is a manic first minute. After some long moments in a Greco clinch, when they separate, Tress drops Sam with a left uppercut/overhand right combo and jumps on her in a heap.
Tress has no intention of being raped. And, it’s Sam’s obvious intention to do just that. As such, Tress rains down the would-be finishing punches that end up lulling the eye a little bit, as Sam is very quietly grabbing onto Tress’ right leg and executing her escape.
What happens next is the sneakiest turn of events of the year; while Sam slips out the hatch, she throws a right uppercut through Tress’ armpit that knocks Tress out. The follow-up right hand keeps Tress from waking back up anytime soon. This all happens in the space of ten seconds. Shades of Dan “Hollywood” Henderson versus The GOAT—Fedor Emelianenko in Strikeforce in Hoffman Estates, Ill.
If Sam were asked what she called the move afterwards, she’d say very simply, “wrestling” — her answer as terse as the sequence. It is the first time that Tress has ever been knocked out, and it adds to Sam’s lore.
She’s flipped Tress into next week. And it’s not because of some unfair pugilistic advantage either. In other words, she wasn’t wearing her prudz when she throttled Tress. She pursed her gloves when she followed Tress into the bathroom. Sam beat Tress fair-and-square.
What happens last is the stuff of legends. Her intent had been to savagely rape Tress. Brutally. As violently as any Goon bulldyke god would or could. Tortured, mutilated … a terrible form of life. And, that’s as despicable as rape gets.
The French word frisson describes something English has no better word for: a brief intense reaction, usually a feeling of excitement, recognition, or terror. It’s often accompanied by a physical shudder.
In the current context … Frisson—a brief moment of emotional excitement: shudder, thrill. That is what Sam experiences.
Then … Straddling the fallen Tress, she does absolutely nothing. The moment simply passes. Make no mistake about it … Sam still craves to whore Tress out. But, by choosing not to do so, she again reaffirms that she is beauty, brawn, and brains, in equal measure. A cold, dangerous fish, she is. Beware!
So … If her genuine intent was to donkey-kong Tress, why didn’t she follow through? Simply put …Why did she stop herself? If you have to ask, you haven’t been paying close enough attention.
Why did she stop herself? The answer is quite simple — Because that [the rape] would have been highly, inappropriate behavior [for no good reason] in a public place.
Technically, a ROOM is a monitored area. Therefore, it and its rooms are public domain. Therefore … a public place.
The thrust of your argument … Public. Private. What difference would that make to her? She’s insane. A complete nut job. Wacko. Coo coo. Coo coo. Coo coo.
The counter … Public. Private. It makes all the difference in the world. To answer a question with a question. When is a nutter not a nutter?
To digress … She’s not criminally insane, because she knows the difference between right and wrong. She’s not clinically insane either, because she can tell the difference between what is real and what is not real. Nor is she sane – a normal person.
Remember … She’s clinically sane. Ergo, the lunatic degenerate monster with self-control. Able to function in, and meet the expectations of, “polite” society. Part-n-parcel of that is the abiding of social conventions and commonly agreed upon behavioral norms. When a nutter is not a nutter, clinically speaking, that is.
She’s not, nor has she ever been, the one-dimensional [and therefore predictable] homicidal maniac who loses herself in mindless bloodlust. So … She’s not some storybook villain who’s easy fodder for the hero.
Just like a normal person, because she wants to do a thing doesn’t mean she always will do it no matter how much she wants to.
The example to drive the point home, if you’re still not convinced. The thing you do all of your life. Every day of your life. You make choices. Good or evil. You make choices.
You’re a heterosexual male. An auteur of the female persuasion. There is a woman at work. The haughty hottie. What?! The hottest chick around, and she knows it. Reeks of it. Sho’nuff?! Yes! Yes! Yes!
Fuckable. Very fuckable. Leggy. Nice twins. Nice hips. Slender. Shapely. Curvy. The trademark — Flat, pancake ass-Tight! Big mouth. In a word — Stacked! Pam Grier? Nope. Wrong persuasion. Fuckasaurus? Cold—not into geriatric cooch. Young, white, snapper—under thirty. Blowjob Betty? Warm. Deep Throat? Warmer. Linda Lovelace? Much warmer. Think: Whitebread—suburbia—a very “generic” slice, as they say in the vernacular.
Think: vintage porn queen, Janey Robbins. IYHO [in your humble opinion]—a “real” Edwina “Fast Eddie” Chambers; except, this one isn’t a whored-out, atheist dyke.
Happily married. Monogamous. The better half in one of those modern, childless couples—I’m the center of attention for my husband in our marriage.
The vibe that she gives off? Unapologetically racist, condescendingly so, and proud of it—radiating with aplomb, no less. All of my friends are so very, very, very white—just like me—WASPs Only, Please!!! All others, “Look, but don’t touch!!!”
High maintenance. Totally … Out of your league.
Avarice. Shallow. Vain. And phony. Sexy, deep [for a woman], raspy, smoky voice—with just a hint, that “ooooh!” the perfect “tinge” of that famous Marilyn Monroe squeak. A “teeth as white as they can be”, insincere smile. A girl who lives by two tenets, when it comes to mercantile. Bling is my best friend—gold and silver, preferably diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and furs—expensive. I love money that jingles, but I prefer money that folds, and lots of it.
A girl who lives by the motto that, “You can never be too greedy or too white”.
Plus … Which should come as no surprise … She’s a strict, waiting for “The Rapture”, Southern Baptist. And, just in case you haven’t already guessed, she’s a PAP—Protestant American Princess. The Gentile version of a JAP [Jewish American Princess]. In other words, to reiterate the painfully obvious, she’s utterly unattainable [as far as you are concerned].
She walks to and fro. Back and forth. In front of your cube. Teasing you without really meaning to. You can hear her before you can see her. Her stiletto heels stabbing the carpeted floor. Your fantasies of taking her begin as soon as you hear that sound, her sound. She’s young, well-built, and very attractive. You lust for her every time that you hear her and every time that you see her. You very much want to fuck her. You very much want to whore her out. Ram your dick in her every orifice – mouth, pussy, and ass.
You want to eat her out – ravishing her pussy with your mouth. Every time that you see her. Every time that you hear her voice. Every time that you think about her – at work, at home, etc – you have these lurid fantasies about her. You obsess about her. You’re obsessed with her, the very thought of her. You’re hers. And, you wish to God that she were yours. Simply put … You want to ravage her in every way imaginable, and then some. But, she’s married. And, she has absolutely no interest in you, let alone having you, whatsoever, in any way, shape, or form — You know this for an absolute certainty. So … You’re just coworkers. Working in the same building, on the same floor, in the same wing, for the same modern monolithic multinational corporation. So … you never broach the subject with her. You never force yourself upon her. You just let it be. A figment in your mind. Your vivid imagination. Your lurid wants unfulfilled. Just like so many other men [and women] do in the very same situation.
Now, back to the narrative at hand. Expository dialogue that it is. Boring you or arousing you or both while it attempts to hold your undivided attention.
Her palin … Phillips’ now trademark rachel is no longer yanked back into a sternka. Her hair is again worn down. Next, and not least, she slips on her hand-built palins for her version of The Sarah Palin. Spinster spectacles which are paradoxically flattering and unflattering: They say, “Sexually repressed, stay back” and “Come hither, fast”! That’s just enough for the added adjective … sexy … to rear its hard, pretty face. Her look is no less dyke, though. As such, it’s still disturbing. Just as scary. And, gender-bending, as well. It’s Gloria Steinem [Feminist author and activist] meets Sarah Palin [Conservative bulwark and closet dominatrix] – political adversaries who were once secret lovers. The public versus the very private affair of theirs as embodied in her look, her palin.
French push-up bra holsters her tits and straps her torso. Thong trades places with her kock. The kock going back in her purse. She misses [strapping] her kock, already. Katz stays. Makeup stays heavy.
Gloves. Kid gloves. Opera gloves. Long, black, obscene, opera gloves. Covered in Borg runes. Etc. Borg gloves. Borgz. Borgz glove her [hands and arms]. Making her look more like a Borg queen than the Borg drone that she is. Dollz [black prudz] just wouldn’t do. Not for this affectation [of The Borg Queen]. She toys with the recriminations. She has done so before. A drone gloved like a queen. Voices scream in her head. The voices become whispers. Then … quiet. The borgz stay. Befitting her madness.
Borg stays [Borg]. But, it [her Borg], is no longer as explicit. Her disturbing klaw goes bye-bye. Although her hands, gloved by borgz, still strongly allude to it [without its manifestation even in the least]. Now draped by her wheat-colored hair, her disturbing knobb stays. Even more disturbing is the side effect—Her Borg now implicitly passes for lesbian dominatrix. The dreaded typecasting, so to speak. Even worse, her Borg … is … lesbian dominatrix. Sternest, most severe dominatrix: Worship me [your white goddess], now!
Likewise … Her disconcerting masculine bits [read: dyke] stay. – i.e. I still walk in stilettos like I’m “hung”, shove a stick up there instead and I’d walk the same. But, it [her dyke] is not as pronounced. Subtler. Not so “in your face!!!” Most disconcerting is the side effect. It [her dyke] now implicitly passes for lesbian dominatrix. Worst … It [her dyke] … is … lesbian dominatrix. Sternest, most severe dominatrix: Worship me [your white goddess], now!
Think: That “official” trailer for the Swedish movie “Tomme Tonner” on YouTube – the 6-inch spike heel of a lesbian dominatrix Yasmine Garbi grinding in the crotch of a prone man accompanied by his screams of agony and her orgasmic moans of pure ecstasy.
Last, but not least … An addition that she hasn’t sported in the longest [a coon’s age]. An addition that has but one nefarious purpose and it has nothing to do with looks. A purpose well known to any Goon legbreaker worth her salty. Legbreakers like Fats’ Frau Hanna Kuntz.
The addition—FHs. Flesh-hosen for the shiny black stockings which encase the girl’s long lower limbs in disturbing black latex. KINKY!!!
To digress … Frau Kuntz, the sleazy old biddy, a diehard lesbo, one of Fats’ longtime bone-crunchers and ace boon coons.
By the by, Kuntz is German for shylock, and that’s just what Kuntz is, the consummate legbreaker. FHs are a favorite of Kuntz’s [as they are a favorite of many a Goon bulldyke]. So, it should come as no surprise that they’re a favorite of Sam’s.
Sam pauses to adjust her LATEX hose for a Goon-pleasing look which any brute worth their saltines would also find most fetching. Her hose are the kinkiest-looking stockings that you can get. As kinky as TBKs [Ona Zee’s “Thick Black Kiss”]. Sheer … Shiny, black rubber hose. Topped off in lace trim. Underneath her skirt … That teasing gap, that wedge, of lily white flesh between her flesh-colored thong and the lacy tops of her FHs.
As aforementioned … Flesh-hosen are LATEX, instead of silk. These rubber stockings are the “rubber” version of Opaques; as such, they aren’t backseamed, they only come in black, and they have those trademark, wide elaborate scalloped “binding” floral elastic tops, elastic that’s a thicker mill of the same LATEX as the ultra-thin rubber stockings that the tops are seamlessly mated to. These Playtex stockings epitomize brutality as expressed through the medium of hosiery.
And, when skin-fitting opera-length stockings are LATEX, said stockings make your legs look like they’ve been dipped in liquid rubber up to your butt cheeks!
Needless to say, just like conventional gloves which delineate individual fingers, and quite unlike conventional stockings, FHs delineate individual toes.
Needless to say, flesh-hosen and TBKs are one in the same.
Needless to say, LATEX is in-vivo bps. Like its close in-vitro cousin, Patent-Leather, it feels disturbingly like flesh; which is why Bondage devotees attach monikers like skinz and “flesh” hosen.
Rubberized flesh is rubberized flesh by whatever name you call it.
By the by, Sam’s flesh-hosen are by Fore Skin, the brand of choice for hardcore kinks.
As aforementioned, her palin is as equally disturbing [and disconcerting and scary and gender-bending] as her dike. Now, you know why.
Her palin … A girl’s girl. Think: Miriam “Mimmi” Wu, kickboxer, university student, and Lisbeth Salander’s sometime lover in Stieg Larsson’s “The Girl Who Played With Fire (Flickan Som Lekte Med Elden)” from the Millennium Series [in America, you know it as “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” trilogy]. Played by Yasmine Garbi [a pretending 456], the girl with fire in her crotch. Only, Occidental instead of Yasmine’s Oriental.
Disturbing … Dyke scary. Dyke sexy. A scary, sexy, dyke version of Sarah Palin, complete with Palin’s trademark eyeglasses. Sarah Palin as a dyke. Dyke Palin, if you’re so inclined. A “feminine” dyke, so to speak. A feminine dyke: Now, that’s an oxymoron, if there ever was one. In other words, a dominatrix. That other kind of old maid. You know. The fast and furious ones. The fuckable kind.
Now, she looks like a tweener, instead of a full-blown she-male carpet muncher. Her palin is her tweener look. Not quite as stealthy as her dike. But, it will have to do.
Sam drags Tress into the next room and plops her on the bed like a sack of potatoes. Then she skips merrily around the bed—La la la la la la la laaaa … u la la laaaa … ooo la laaaa. Fruitcake. Mad hatter. Totally inappropriate behavior.
Puck enters the room. He can guess what has happened. But, he says nothing. He knows better. In her ROOM, she acts too much like a god, a Goon god; increasingly, a Goon dyke god. A despicable human being, if she were still human. Sick. Disturbed. She’s a total degenerate, so her “proposed” rape of Tress is a no surprise, and a trivial deduction on Puck’s part.
She looks at him as if she’s looking right through him. As if she’s tolerating his presence. It’s the way bulldykes universally look at a male who they must interact with. It’s the way that The Oldest Ones universally look at younger things.
The moment passes. Sam saw him as male, initially. Then, she recognized him as Puck. She smiles, genuinely glad to see him. He smiles back. Glad [for the sake of his own well-being] that she hasn’t turned yet.
“I have an errand to run.”
“Jack has gone, goddess.”
“I figured as much. Always the hero.”
“He left shortly after you showed him …”
“The Master. And, a means of how to get to it.”
“Yes, goddess. He waited until you were otherwise occupied,” Puck pauses and points at Tress’ limp body on the bed. “Then, he left. He used your linq and sent it back via the look-ahead.”
“May I accompany you, goddess?”
“It would unwise for you to do so, considering your gender.”
“Oh,” followed by a very long, very awkward pause. “I see … goddess.”
“Take care of Tress’ needs when she comes to. And, play with her while she’s unconscious, at your own risk. She’s very good at playing possum. For all we know, she might already be conscious. Waiting for the opportunity to even things up.”
“Point taken, goddess.”
“Be seeing you.”
With that said, Sam [in the stealthiest fashion] just fades away. Actually, by signing [in this case fahth] while mouthing a few choice syllables of Black Speech [and, by doing so, employing the foulest craft], she just fades away without any fanfare, whatsoever. Not the spot-money of Puck. In other words, no telltale poof. It’s The Fade. Evil is as evil does.
Next time, she won’t have to resort to signing fahth or mouthing Black Speech. Her linq will “remember” how to fade on its own. There will be no longer be the need for craft middlemen to do such as this and/or that.
Fahth, of course, is a Goblin sign language that has nothing to do with communication with those who are hearing impaired, let alone stone deaf. It has to do with the manipulation of Creation by “sidestepping” the laws of physics. Yes … Sidestepping. Because, we’re not talking about bending or breaking said laws. Bending only gets you so far. And breaking them is not an option, because they are unbreakable. God so decreed.
In sign language, mouthing is the production of visual syllables with the mouth while signing. Although not present in all sign languages, and sometimes not in signers at all levels of education, where it does occur it may be an essential [that is, phonemic] element of a sign. Distinguishing signs which would otherwise be homophones. In other cases, a sign may seem to be flat and incomplete without mouthing even if it is unambiguous.
Black Speech is Dwarvish in origin from the Elder Days. Dwarvish, the language of the Dwarves. Base. Obsolete. Black Speech is not a spoken language. Although, it is of/from the spoken word [of the Dwarves]. No one’s mother tongue, except The Profane. It is muted speech. Someone has taught her this foulness. And, there is no known history of her being taught. Yet, she does know of it. And, in turn, it obviously knows of her. A practitioner. And, a proficient one at that.
Fanciful thought … Maybe it was Tricia Morgana Helfer who taught her [the foul craft]? Helfer is a necromancer – someone who wears the dead. Additionally … Helfer is a necromancer specializing in spells, potions, and herbs. It’s said that, back in the day when she was a rogue Borg queen, it was Helfer [former model, sometimes actress] who was the first to cross Orcs with Goblin-women to create the Org [formally the Uruk-hai]. Such matings have since become very popular. The rest is history, as they say.
Entirely evil … Org are a most hideous, base race of demons. In comparison, the 456 are comely. In comparison, the Morlock are sane, hygienic, and chaste. Like the Morlock, they [the Org] are hemorphidites, she-male females. If your tastes run that way … They [the Org] share many physical characteristics with the Morlock and Kum.
A race of manhaters. They are all bulldykes. The only use they have for males, even children and infants, is consumption — to eat and drink them.
Given their preference, they wear either a loincloth or they go naked. Given their total lack of hygiene, what they do wear is always infested and filthy.
They have an unusually lucrative commerce with the Borg. And, they’ve been known to co-opt Borg, most especially Borg queens, from time to time for their own perverse sexual needs.
Their greatest joy is the corruption of beauty. Most especially, a beautiful woman. They derive the greatest sexual pleasure from doing so. Orgasm supreme. The very thought of it makes them cum. Defilers. Once she’s been disfigured, twisted, and corrupted, the once beautiful woman, hopelessly addicted to their feeding, is most attractive to them. Detractors would argue that a beautiful woman is only attractive to them [the Org] when she is a whored out junkie with her looks gone.
Cruel, wicked, and bad-hearted. They make no beautiful things, but they make many clever ones. They can tunnel and mine as well as any but the most skilled Dwarves, when they take the trouble. They are the most untidy and dirty of creatures. Beware them. They, like the Crone they are oft mistaken for, are inclined [read: crave] toward the enslavement of others. Like the Kum, their Kiss is narcotic.
It’s good that Sam is not an ambitious person. Else, with her evil nature, much would be in peril. As such … Even “The Great Deceiver” The One Ring could not seduce her with its promise of absolute power – Behold … Love me … And despair! Nor, can the cued language she “uttered” to fade, ever consume her – Visions of things that are … have been … and … that which has yet to pass.
Such a talent [for killing] she has. What lethal craft does she not possess? Albeit retired, now … Whilst plying the “trade” … Oft, she was the evil that Good used against Evil. Oft, she was the evil that Evil used against Good. Most … Oft … Because she is evil incarnate … She was the evil that Evil used against itself. Because of free will, there must be that which maintains The Balance.
Retired … Living on a fixed income that consists of her pension [consolidated], her savings, and her investments … and whatever off-book cash jobs she can get that don’t involve the trade or the Business. What a bloody waste.
Frugal? Frugality is a must. So easy. So tempting. To go native. Fall off the map. And, be dirty. And, sometimes, for kicks, that’s just what she does. As has been said … what a bloody waste.
Then again, in the case of any demon, especially this one, we’re talking about frugality in the context of a people whose race has been amassing fortunes for eons. Definitive. Their wealthy are the definition of “old money”. So, a frugal lifestyle for Sam is not the same as it would be if she were human. Tall, blonde, and evil … She lives well … Very well indeed.
Sam materializes on a nondescript street. Tellingly … She fades in as stealthy as she faded out. And … This is not some misbegotten avenue on the outskirts of Haven that she has “appeared” on either. This is a bustling thoroughfare in the heart of the city. It’s life blood. Second only in importance to where the royals and the other blue-bloods abide. This is Merchants Lane, the business district.
The well-dressed people scurrying here and about, act as if she’s not there. The locals can see her alright; they just pretend that she’s not there. Obviously a foreigner, from the way she’s dressed, they want no part of her.
Sam gets her bearings. She turns around and smiles. If it were a snake, it would have bitten me, she thinks to herself. There is an alley between two identical-looking buildings. All of the buildings look the same to her. Ordinary. Drab. Plain.
There is a slight distortion field, just inside the mouth of the alley. She steps through it, gingerly. There is a subtle, yet perceptible shift. She momentarily looks back. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. She’s still on this other Earth in the city-state of Haven.
Sam shakes her head of such silly distractions. Cobwebs clear, she focuses on the task at hand. And, almost walks into the doorman.
The doorman is a woman, of course. The fifty-something Crone is wearing careys, and sporting a sternka. Koo. Prudz. Perls. Bare legs. Heavy, harsh, unflattering makeup; quite a bit beyond Sam’s. The most severe makeup. Makeup that “suggests” total madness and the Old Ways. 456 [and their much older Dragon counterparts] call the makeup “shooto”. But … No eyeglasses. None needed. Thanks to the shooto, even the addition of sternns couldn’t make her look any more severe [or sexually repressed, for that matter] than she already does. It’s oft said that, all by its lonesome, nothing shrieks bulldyke like shooto. In combination with sternns, it won’t scream any louder. The paradox being that shooto is very feminine, albeit harsh and severe. A harsh, severe, feminine expression of the bulldyke ideal. In a word, dominatrix.
She [the doorman] is leaning nonchalantly against the building wall next to the side entrance. Casually puffing on a cigarette.
She [the doorman] smiles at the newcomer. A clue to Sam that she [Sam] is not “appropriately” dressed.
The doorman extinguishes her cigarette – dropping it to the pavement and grinding it underfoot. She extends her hand, casually. The two girls shake hands, as if they are equals, which they clearly are not.
“I’m Gertrude Ruth. My friends call me Babe. My bitches call me Gerdy. Everyone else, who knows better, calls me Ms. Ruth. You, on the other hand, will call me Ruth. Capish?”
The doorman frowns. Her body language, although understated, speaks volumes. No more laissez-faire.
Oops. Obviously, I’ve gone and done it. Looks like I should only speak when I have to.
“I’ll let that one pass. Next time you get lashes. Although, from what I’ve heard, you would like that.”
Sam face goes expressionless. This brings obvious satisfaction to the face of the doorman.
Excellent!!! I heard that she was a fast learner.
Sam does as she’s told.
“Get rid of those gloves and those horrid stockings, at once!”
Again, Sam does as she’s told. She purses her long gloves and stockings.
“Now, look like a librarian. Not some illiterate Borg ho.”
Prudz glove Sam. Her hair goes back up [into a sternka].
“What’s wrong with your hands? I thought that you were Borg.”
Sam starts to say something, but she catches herself in time. She’d enjoyed being flogged, sure enough. But, this is about not offending an elder. So, she keeps her mouth shut and complies. Her hands now klaw, when idle.
“I don’t wear a bra. And, I’ve never had any use for panties. Am I correct in my assumption that you wear unmentionables?”
Sam nods in the affirmative. This Crone is very old-school.
“Are you Ms. or Miss?”
Again, the doorman frowns. But, this time, she doesn’t push the issue.
“Miss it is, then.”
They enter the building. Just inside the door a woman mans a hat-check station. Except for the addition of stern eyeglasses [palins], she’s decked out prude and severe just like Ruth.
Looking between the hat-check girl [with a name tag that says “Sally”] and Ruth, Sam realizes that she has been duped. Sally is the real doorman. Ruth is the one that she came here to meet. Sam made a logical assumption based on deduction. She’ll know to not make that mistake again around here.
“You won’t need those in here, Ms. Phillips.” Sally points to Sam’s midriff, and to what the girl’s coat conceals. Obviously, Sam was thoroughly scanned when she entered. Plus, they’ve done their homework. Not to mention, she was expected.
Sam reaches through her jacket, and retrieves her “goodies”. She places her universal and holstered linq upon the counter.
“You won’t need your purse either.”
Sam places her purse on the counter too, obeying the real doorman without question just like she did Ruth.
She’s given a claim check, which she pockets. It’s a formality. Even if she lost the check, they know what belongs to her, and her property will be returned upon demand.
“Sally, Ms. Phillips prefers to be called Miss and she’ll being staying the night, maybe longer,” Ruth turns to Sam, and looks her straight in the eye. “Is that not true?”
Sam says nothing. She lowers her head slightly, for a fraction of a second, not meeting the Crone’s gaze—showing the appropriate submission to her dominant elder. Ruth beams. Reading between the lines.
“Excellent!!! Then … Ms. Phillips it is. The other girls will be so happy with your choice. You must meet them all. I’ll [formally] introduce you.”
Ruth reaches around and pats Sam on the butt. Then, she squeezes the girl’s ass hard and brutal. Ruth is on the muscular side. She’s built like a fitness model. Unusual for Crone. Not unusual for someone who’s got some Orc blood. The norm for someone like Ruth who has Orc blood. Her Orc ancestry is distant, but it’s there, nonetheless.
Ruth momentarily caresses Sam’s face. Gently stroking the girl’s cheek with the back of her hand.
But, Ruth is also mindful of the warning that she’s been given about the girl who is all ruthless aggression, personified. Stern whorish makeup, crazy lips, a cruel mouth, and a sinful body—In a word, wow!!! Think: Nicole Kidman in “The Paperboy”.
“Don’t let the looks or demeanor fool you, because this oversexed Barbie is dangerous,” Coker punctuates. “She’s not just beautiful, but she’s actually funny, witty, sharp, and always has a good comeback. The girl craves kock. And she’s a junkie, to boot—you name it, she’s done it at least twice. She’s been known to go off on dirty binges for days and even weeks at a time. All of which can loll you into a false sense of security and lead you into underestimating her.”
“An aberration, I give her that. She’s definitely a superstar in this business. I dare say an icon. But … Why so much as a pause for that? I’ve met her ilk before, and dealt with it, soundly.”
Coker sighs, at her protégé’s callous rant. Something she has not done for ages to Ruth.
“She’s an abomination, not an aberration. And …You know the difference, and it’s significant. She’s a living legend in The Business. That is what she is. Hence, the pause. You talk about her so dismissively as if she was that pro-wrestler Angelina Love of The Beautiful People.”
Angelina Love and Velvet Sky aka TBP, The Beautiful People. Their characters were portrayed as arrogant blonde Barbie dolls, whose main goal as a team was to “cleanse” the TNA roster “one ugly person at a time”, based upon their belief that their physical appearance was superior to all others. The duo was such a success that even WWE took notice and created their own group of narcissistic, vain bullies. According to sources, LayCool was concocted due to WWE’s creative department being embarrassed by the Love/Sky tandem making their female talent look second-rate by comparison.
You just had to bring up Angelina Love, get me all hot and bothered, and distracted, by doing so—the exact opposite of your intent.
A lot of people rant and rave about Jamie Szantyr who is better known as Velvet Sky. But, I’m all a gaga over Lauren Williams the original other half of The Beautiful People.
Lauren Williams, the Wrestler formally known as “Angelina Love”.
When I first noticed her, she was with Velvet Sky on iMPACT! Wrestling in a tag team and they called it something odd before calling it what it was later known as The Beautiful People. That Tag Team was one of the best teams I had seen in a long while and it consisted of two phenomenal Female Wrestlers that did in fact make WWE’s Diva’s look second-rate in comparison. When that was brought up I didn’t dare deny it because I was loving every second of it. The additions of Cute Kip (Monty Sopp, best known under the ring name Billy Gunn) and Madison Rayne (Ashley Nichole Simmons) completed that odd group who was out and about to do something about the “ugly people”. I really loved the TBP theme.
“We’ll have to do something about that makeup of yours. It’s positively dreadful. Something a man would like. Or some misbegotten dildo-wielding dyke, for that matter. Easily corrected. I’ll show you the correct way to apply your makeup, when we retire upstairs to my quarters, tonight.”
With that said, Sam gets the guided tour. All of the women here are dressed identically, in other words—prude and severe. The only variation being whether they wear sternns or palins or no eyeglasses at all. Most do severe [wear sternns, that is]. Sternns being the severe eyeglasses of choice.
All of the permanent residents are retired, unmarried, First or Second Librarians, and all of these spinsters are some persuasion of Hag. In contrast … Their “dates” run the gamut, some of which are even human.
Screaming “sexually repressed!!!” All of the “serious” dates are wearing sternns, in sync with the principals that they are escorting. Upon seeing this, Sam realizes that she’s underdressed – an error that she knows to correct later.
As if she can read Sam’s mind, Ruth whispers in the girl’s ear. “I like mine severe. So … Afterwards we’ll stop by the hat-check so that you can trade in those palins of yours for your sternns pair. Why settle for stern when you can have severe?”
The evening turns out to be the most fun that she’s had in a coon’s age. When it’s time to retire, Ruth and Sam stop by the hat-check where Sam trades in her palins for her sternns. As she does so, Ruth whispers in her ear. “There is a nest in the basement for use by any resident or their guests. Would you like to see it?” Ruth pauses for effect. “How foolish of me for asking. Why … Of course you would.”
Sam’s heart paces, for a moment. Then, it quiets down, just as quickly. Ruth licks her ear lobe, the one pierced by her katz. Then, Ruth sucks on her lobe. Sam shudders. Images flash through her mind. Promises of soiling herself while engaged in wild abandon. Dirty. A dirty girl debauching herself. Every junkie’s fantasy.
“Yes. You will do nicely,” Ruth whispers in her ear.
They step through an unmarked door and descend several flights of rotting stairs to the nesting. The steps are wooden and roughhewn. What they afford access to is a Hell on Earth. The degradation and humiliation being wrought here drives Sam to utter distraction. If that’s the effect on Sam from just watching it. Being the pain junkie that she is. Imbued with the need to degrade herself. You can just imagine that the girl would be driven to overdose if she were to indulge.
“Time to go.”
Sam obediently follows Ruth back up the stairs. They step back through the basement door. By now, Sam is ripe for the picking. And, Ruth can sense it.
An ornate spiral staircase takes then up to the upper floor where the residents live. Numbered doors line both sides of the hallway. Doors that give access to opulent penthouse apartments. The two women step through the one marked seven.
Just inside the door, Ruth slips off her pumps and kicks them against the wall. Sam follows suit. Ruth removes her gloves, placing them on the coffee table. She unbuttons her coat and lets her hair down.
Again, Sam follows suit. Only this time, Ruth forbids her from removing her eyeglasses.
“I have a fetish about fucking girls wearing eyeglasses. Just like in those dyke porno flicks.” Again, a strategic pause. “You may speak now.”
“I need a terminal for access.”
“There’s one in the reading room through that door. But, first. I must fix your makeup.”
You fix. I access. We fuck. Then I sneak down later and degrade myself in the basement, junkie high on God knows what. Dirty. Filthy and infested, clad in rags and chained up. Likely ending up in an all-day binge.
The fix takes an hour that Sam can ill afford. But, it can’t be helped. As Sam types into the keyboard of a remote terminal of the local library branch, Ruth massages her shoulders and tit rubs her back. The trace takes five minutes, in spite of the distraction.
She’s a natural [librarian]. And, she seems to truly like the work. But … To be of real use to me … Can she never truly escape her violent past or the dangerous world of loan sharks, druggies, and other low-life bottom feeders, where her talents [for bibliotheca] are completely wasted?