mikeTheFable's Journal - Scrambled Eggs: A Twisted Romance

Here is Scrambled Eggs. I never uploaded it to the EMCSA, or I may have taken it down in a fruitless effort to erase "mike z." from the internet. In any case, it hasn't been posted up for people to see since being written for the Febuary 2006 contest, until now. It's probably not the most technically sound writing I've ever done...probably far from it. It is an older story, so I can't say I remember how easy it was to read. The beginning, I remember, features a lot of abnormal word use. Trust me, though, please, the story gets better as you go along.

It's PORN, as usual. Not as though that fact will deter you, will it?

Scrambled Eggs

No Vacancy

Pink clouds blotted the sky. The sun was in a very melancholy height and sinking lower, or climbing, I didn’t know morning from night anymore. I had not been outside for a very long time; my eyes were unused to the taste of daylight. Across the street the ocean sparkled too brightly and widely. Between the waters and I was a highway wet with evapourating rain. Clouds of mist formed under the tracks of passing tires as cars—anonymous, windows tinted—drove back and forth from nowhere to an end out of sight and over the horizon.

The rest was flat sand, caked earth scorched by the sun sprawled in all other directions around this motel oasis. No vacancy blinked intermittently in the window. A broken pop machine by the main office served a free watering hole where hicks and lonesome travelers waited…and waited. They talked without meaning, jaws flapping politically, their boring conversations broken by intervals of the word ‘yep’, though they never confessed to it. The most frequent patrons were fumbly beer drinkers, without teeth, ugly and unthreatening.

They watched me standing on the side of the road, pink shirt-too-small over tits-too-big, and half a skirt blowing in a breeze. Their breaths came and passed with every sneak peak of baby-blue thong. “Her buns are delectable,” they’d say. They watched me standing there by the side of the road clutching my clutch with nervous hands and handlebar pigtail-ribbons fluttering in the wind. They watched me from behind with my backside turned to them, for the first time without being bent over the corner of an old musty mattress.

I’m still easy on the eyes, a perfect bimbo copy of doll perfection. I stood waiting for nothing, empty headed, just watching the sun, and un-remembering of whether it was sinking or falling. What time was it? The sun was too slow to tell. I masterfully disguised my tears. I was too eager to leave and be free but bound by familiarity to a comfortable state of carnal cuntrol. I understood the motel even if I hated it. Out here I understood nothing. I couldn't remember what freedom even was.

Poor oldme: Decommissioned.

They grew tired of the new me. I’m not the woman I used to be, too long cuntrolled and made to cum to others. I just stood quietly, used to being un-speaking unless spoken too, unaccustomed to prolonged standing unless allowed to un-kneel. It felt nice and new to feel my bum for once not compressed against a mattress; I felt the cold wind of freedom at my back.

I waited, still, unmoving with an empty head, trying to remember how it began, trying to know how it will end, only half remembering an existence punctuated with numerous, brief, hot moments of bliss. Three years working in a dirty motel room. I had nothing to say, nowhere to go, no one to do and no one to obey. The faint wailing of a two-cycle speed machine breached the horizon, a black crotch rocket in the fast lane. Yet before the sight had become apparently un-mirage I had habitually checked my clutch for the faint rumbling of my battery-powered companion. It took me a moment to remember that it was no longer a part of my life. Silicon and collagen were my few remaining mementos, porcelain perfection and ageless beauty forever gifted to me, along with a repetoire of very special skills.

Absent anger seemed impossible, but it was present. I was calm, collected, and unsure all in one moment of ardent thoughtlessness. Restless inactivity pulling me in every direction at once. The two-cycle hog slowed down to a halt and parked in front of me. The man in the helmet and black glasses offered me a strange look, something un-asking and un-lecherous and un-selfish; something I was unused to. It was something knowing and empathetic, something un-sexual for sure. I knew the sexual look; one never begged for my former services without that look—and no one in all my time had really ever asked to have me. I came on demand. The man came to me with a hand outstretched in welcome gesture. I touched his hand and discovered the unconditional bond of lost souls.

He proposed to me a solution to my obviously oblivious mental amorphousness. It was the first time I had catered to an un-order in three years. Only the feeling of mounting that bike and putting my legs to either side felt right, and for the first time felt right in an acutely aware-ly strange and confusing way. Strange in that it was out of place for one, to spread myself and ride on the back of a motorbike instead of a man, with a man who offered me a jacket instead of a jack-it jacket, a jacket to wrap around my arms instead of his self proclaimed godliness. He swept me away, not at five inches per second but at fifty miles an hour, not powered by thrusting strokes with sexual oil but on piston strokes with motor oil.

I still had to say goodbye, still tried to define the motel ungodliness that I was leaving. At first I hated the mattress, then I was okay with it, then I came to depend on it to keep from falling through to the ground. My two feet were wobbly, my mind wary, my box a little watery against the rumbling bike seat. For once the wetness was all my own and not to share, on the back of the bike and not a man, with a proper jacket protecting my arms from the wind, my mind clear of will, command and everything in between heaven and all hell. Empty, unsure, afraid and unknowing, in a nice un-angering way…in ways enough at least to smile over the shoulder of the lost soul driver for this lost soul.

I understood him, myself too, and what we were to do and where I was to go. I pretended to fly in my seat, this time my outstretched arms un-attached to the bedposts; unusually un-alarmingly unfamiliar.

I travelled with an empty head. I left it all behind me, this road soldier bike man turning my back on the familiar with a familiar presence and sense of honed direction.

I was empty, for once, absent of any push or pull or thrust or what,so,ever. I’m not who I used to be; I don’t have to be what I am. I’m empty-headed but with No Vacancy blinking in the back of my head. I just empty headed, untroubled. I’m back upstairs, unassumingly undirected.

Teary speed streaks stretch from my eyes to my ears, drying in the wind without accident, unplanned but meant to be, this man, with me. Follow the hard will of hard concrete road. Let it direct…find it.

You’re My Breakfast Plate And I’m Your Scrambled Eggs

I was sad to admit that I did consider the fate of the un-lively to be desirable, shortly after sorting out my scrambled eggs. I still have tadpole thoughts, swirling disorientation and bursts of delirium, but I have at least retaken command over my use of language, somewhat. I have been happy since leaving the motel, more or less, as happy as I can be I guess. The blinding un-sadness of wind-rash after a long bike ride was still with me. The taste of fresh un-stale un-tobaccoed air was on my lips.

No more tobacco taste.

Its unfamiliarity was uncomfortable, even if I only longed for the acrid smell because it was reminding of my now-ending life chapter and the limitless un-knowables that I was faced with.

This drifting, hitchhiking, de-commissioned bimbo has some life to swim through yet. She only doesn’t know which way the tide is drifting.

I watched Trevor parking his bike outside the diner, watched him from behind the diner’s front window unmount his bike and step onto the pavement with those rough-condition hiking boots. His dirty jeans went with his overall sense of style; well traveled and un-caged.

I’d already taken a booth and was absorbing the stares of half a dozen patrons. Their eyes humped my jutting breasts then scrolled up to my dolled face and plumped lips. I could almost feel those eyes leaving footprints on my skin.

Trevor had insisted, after picking me up from the side of the road, that I get some food. In fashion, I hoped these diner-goers were the kind with flicker attention spans who would look once and let me feed in peace.

My angel bike-man was using a rag to wipe my wetness off the back of his bike. The roads out this far were by no means smooth, contrary to the apparent flatness of the scorched salt flats that surrounded us. There was a part of me that was embarrassed by this, but there was a strong remnant of my programming still left over from class three years ago, when each girl selected and trained was made to sit in unison upon phallused chairs, the thoughts of which just added to my current feedback-wetness. I am myself again, 'no vacancy' blinking in my brain, but my modesty is not the same as it once was. That module had been meticulously removed.

Yet for the time being, by all appearances, Trevor tolerated me. As he wiped down the bike seat his face was neither sad nor angry, but rather ‘fact of life’.

Trevor finished cleaning his bike seat and then shoved the rag into his leather jacket. He stepped up to the walkway from the parking spaces and made his way into the diner, to my side, or front rather. He sat across from me at the booth I had chosen, tossing his black helmet on the seat as he sat. He didn’t talk, and we sat in the comfort of silence. I’m used to wordless encounters and I’ve swapped more fluids than words in the last three years. It felt unusual to look, though, to sit face to face instead of bent over face to mattress. He leaned back into his seat and waited for something to escape my lips, may it be a word or a sigh.

I was the un-speaking kind of girl, though.

He smiled at this un-speaking girl and offered her a meal by handing me a menu.

He was kind enough to order me a shake, which I appreciated as it wouldn’t have felt right for me to state my own wishes; though I had some; though I didn’t have any words. I’m too used to being told what to do. I need that position; it’s as good a place as any. It’s stable. He bought me a strawberry shake because I enjoy the sugary taste and the colour pink. It fits my personality. It’s the colour of so many nice things, innocent and suggestive. It’s my favourite colour, even if my favourite colour was written for me by a young twenty something mind-writer with a silly mind and thirsty libido.

Those memories of training were the only ones I had left that meant a damn to me, since the rest after that was routine and passionless fucking. Training felt like my university glory days, full of fun and lots of nubile young girls, so I had decided to hold onto them. The rest I could just as easily forget, save for my angel bike man; short-term memory sparkled vividly. I learned everything I re-know today from those lessons; how to dress, how to move… who was boss. But nothing prepared me for freedom; it felt like they had just dumped me off the side of a turkey truck.

Life before university was hanging around, a few tadpoles marked with my old name still swam through my murky headwaters, but not in a way that I could see beyond just knowing they were there. My old life was an invisible pair of footsteps that followed but were still a couple paces behind. Occasionally I could look back at it for reference, but never have it back; too far out of reach.

I love milkshakes because I can suck them through a straw; I don’t eat solid food anymore. I sat with Trevor looking every bit like a young childish girl who grew up way too fast for her too-tight pink v-neck, wrapping fat lips around a straw and sucking on it with her feet kicking against the seat and her hands clasped politely in her lap. Some people were still staring at me from their seats, namely one man in the booth behind Trevor, whom I swear was in danger of falling into my cleavage and never being seen again. His food was going cold.

Trevor’s soup, which he ordered because he’s the man, was quite hot. One sip was enough to make him hiss in recoil, so he started then with the smoked meat sandwich. I was careful not to suck to fast on my straw as I watched him eat, so as to avoid freezing my brain. My brain had been frozen for quite long enough, thanks. It was still a bit scrambled.

That’s when it happened.

“I figured you could use some food.” he said, as the waitress in her pink and turquoise mock-fifties-smock set down a breakfast platter.

Bacon, pancakes, sausage…eggs.

Scrambled eggs.

I hate eggs.

I hate the way they had to be cracked open to pour the yolk out. It reminded me too much of the training I had been put through, those memories I was looking back at with an ambivalent eye. I was still feeling the residual dildo tingle piggy-backing its way up my back, yet I was haunted by the memories of having my mind split open and my thoughts poured out, the yolk of my identity then being stirred and cooked to order. Eggs reminded me too much of the taste of something I craved, something I was inwardly asserting that I didn’t need or love, anymore. I am a bad liar. It’s all too confusing, and the eggs on my breakfast plate threaten to bring all that scrambling back into focus.

I don’t like feeling confused, though it’s hard not to be that way. Like these eggs in front of me, I'm scrambled. I feel like I’m laid like these eggs on a breakfast plate, waiting for someone to just eat me up and make use of me. Too many pushes and pulls; my tadpole thoughts swim more furiously, fishtail and waver more than ever as I sink back into those memories, ideas, and my seat.

Trevor sees my polished black-lashed eyes going wide, not with anticipation or appetite the way they did for all the phallic sights I saw in the last three years, but with un-comfort. Like an angel swooping down from heaven he pulled the plate away and slid it from my side of the table to his, taking it from the tabletop and setting it on the booth seat beside him where it couldn’t be seen.

He wasn’t sure of what troubled me, for I saw his eyebrows cocking with confusion, not sure of what I'm unhappy about but knowing what to do and how to help, all the same. I looked at him, unaccustomed to looking eye to eye but knowing powerfully that in a small instant I'd communicated more feeling to him than I had to a thousand motel John’s through the most physical connection two bodies can make.

We recovered quickly. I smiled without parting my lips, my coy expression still inescapably tinged with the erotic gesturing my training wouldn’t let me forget.

Trevor left me to my strawberry shake and sat back in his seat, leaned into the corner against the window-glass and closed his eyes while digesting that food in his belly. His cutely tussled hair was flattened and squashed against the window and the light-of-the-low-sun covered half his face in twilight. It’s hard for me to realize that I’m still on my first day of freedom, that as the sun rises this morning I can do what I want, mostly; what I don’t choose are just twitches now, habits rather than orders. Something internally involuntary.

There was a lazy smile on Trevor’s lips, the kind similar to the smiles I’d seen on so many motel johns after sating their appetites-of-another-kind. I recognized that kind of satisfaction very well, having given it so many times over and over in one or two or three ways at once.

It was strange this time.

This time I had not put out; I had not made Trevor as happy as he was now. I hadn’t done a thing or taken off any clothes.

I let the straw from my strawberry shake slip from my lips, my mouth going loose with dreadful realization, a wordless un-expressible feeling that the floor was dropping out from under me and that I was becoming useless; disposable in the way one throws a girl out of her motel job because she’s ‘obsolete’. Am I not supposed to make people happy like that? Am I being replaced as well as thrown off the turkey truck?

All this was similar to my need to be taken care of and used. I needed to be used for pleasure; it’s a useful thing for a bimbo to do; ‘former bimbo’, I guess.

This feeling of losing was mixed with something alien to me, and it took a minute to remember just how long it had been since I felt this thing that went way beyond trying to hold on to my role.

Feeling.

Connection.

Not the kind of connection I’d been taught to understand; insert knob A into slot B; it was a connection of feeling, an invisible string drawn between our noses that held us together. On that string my troubles dried like washed laundry for both of us to see, understand, and wear or share. There he was leaned back in his chair, the way I was used to seeing men sit before an enjoyable job. I pried my clawing fingers, attached to hands that were looking for solid support, from the table edge and slid my bum off the seat, disappearing under the table.

My lips tingled with habit, growing moist with the anticipation of wrapping around something more delicious than a straw. The ground was coming back to me now, the pit in my stomach lessened by kneeling and wedging myself between his parted thighs. I knew this routine well, it was my forte, and it was an easy and familiar place to be, under the table. I delicately unzipped the fly on his pants, parted the button flaps and blew lightly into the flap of his boxers. I was running on automatic now, wet and excited, on erotic autopilot with flawless precision, coaxing him to stand at attention through the flap in his underwear with expert auto-slut lips.

Just like training had taught me.

Visions of class time practice filled my head. Sometimes we had to do this for hours on end to get it right, to drill the art of blowjob so deeply into habit that the bolts would never come loose.

He jerked awake and moaned. I felt him shift and then find my head in his lap. I fought with him under the table, wedging myself between his legs so that he couldn’t close them, held his hands against the back of his seat so that he couldn’t get away. I had the better position, being under the table and he being in the open not wanting to make a scene. I had to do this for him, I needed it…I loved him.

As much as I remember knowing such a thing, anyway. I have done this for someone I loved, before.

With Trevor held to the seat I dropped my mouth over his cock, kissing its tip and sliding over its head, sucking and squeezing my cheeks for the tightest fit; as I’ve been trained to do. My mouth is very special to me; it’s not just for milkshakes. Way back in training they had it fixed, took out all my teeth and gums and replaced them with a tight tube-trap of sensitive lining, making it into a nice tight cock-canal. When Trevor’s pulsing rod slid up into my cock-socket I felt him filling my pussy too, each stroke and thrust repeating itself in two holes of my body at once as per wrote behaviour, as I was trained to feel.

After a few methodical lip-strokes against his shaft Trevor settled down and let me finish. He was never fully relaxed, but resigned to the sensations and my strength in keeping his hands back against the seat. I needed this; I think he understood that in a strange way as much as he consciously disagreed, as though a message had pre-travelled the line strung between us. I was skilled at this and it gave me some solid ground on which to stand, to feel good about myself. I can honestly claim this was the most meaningful blowjob I ever gave, knowing that not only was there a hint of wanting to give pleasure, but also in trying to get.

I wasn’t trained for that.

For a moment as I blew him, the world seemed a little less like some machine putting me through the motions and more like a playground on which I chose what slide to ride.

I heard him holding his breath and clutching at the seat, and then he let out a sigh strong enough to vent the tectonic energy of the Earth. Hot geyser spray spewed into my mouth and jetted into my throat. I sucked in and massaged him, milked him, the clutching grip of my lips and mouth-socket enticing a few extra hot squirts from his loins. I started feeling a little less nervous, not as shaky, a bit less like a junkie withdrawing from her fix. There was a moment of silent attachment between us that went beyond the connection of my mouth to his cock; an irony in what was perhaps the least romantic of all sexual acts. I had put myself in a very vulnerable position, showed him how comfortable it was for me to be the free but trained cock-sucking bimbo I am, that I would always be in many ways the way they made me forever.

All this felt good and bad at the same time, this shocking act of mine having rocked my mood-pendulum.

In time I would come to rest in the centre and sort all this out.

I released him with a slurp, feeling a bit guilty, feeling ashamed and as though someone had scraped scissors across my arms. I wondered if, when I emerged from under the table, he’d accept me for what I was or think of me as a freak; half free but half run by wrote behaviour. I wondered if he’d accept the reason to why I never talked or smiled open-mouth.

A pendulous mood struck me hard; I meekly emerged from under the table and slid up into my seat, eyes down. The shameful thrill of sucking someone off had not survived my release from patriarchal cuntrol. I wasn’t feeling it this time. This time, the guilt afterglow was real, the shame slicing sharply, and was not the kind that could make me cum on the spot and masturbate in public places.

My nipples remembered; aroused, embarrassed, erect pulsing ju-jubes.

I resisted the temptation to fall to my knees, to act small and submissive. I fought that habit, for the first time, and faced him eye to eye instead of offering him my flesh. Part of this, I think, was due to the table being in the way, though also my angel bike man was no sleazy john with a proposition.

His normally cute tussled appearance made it seem as though he’d just returned from a full on sexual encounter, but his expression was one of puzzled astonishment, as if he’d participated but just wasn’t quite sure if it had all really happened.

Perhaps he was un-speaking like me; perhaps he was unable to think; perhaps this was too crazy to process; perhaps my tadpole thoughts were swimming to many circles too fast… STOP!

I’d just sucked him off in a diner while he was sleepily digesting his meal, waiting for me to finish my milkshake, and people were still staring at us.

Fairly simple.

Their eyes grated my skin, not in the kind way, not in the way that justified my auto-slut nature, but the kind that scorned.

I looked down at the table where my drink stood, felt wanting to impale myself on the straw, bury my face in the milkshake and never pull it out. I’d drown in pink sweetness, which would make a nice end to an inconclusive chapter. What was this place; an end or a beginning? I wished for it to end, or to just get on with my future and quit making me squirm with un-conclusion. I wanted to be dumb again. I wished for a way to fry my brain so that I’d tolerate confusion and live there forever in blissy-dumbness, forever fucking, never caring or thinking and never ashamed.

Trevor, still astonished, still slack-jawed and speechless, discreetly zipped up his pants, a sound that echoed through the silent diner. He slid out of the booth and stood up, knocking my scrambled eggs all over the floor and shattering the plate that held them together. He walked away slowly and awkwardly. I groaned on the inside, wanted to curl up and die or fall on my knees and just become one of the un-lively. Each step of his away from me was a slice through my skin and a tear in my boppy-heart. The refreshed and happy summer bimbo eyes I was used to sporting grew teary again, and this time no wind rash was to blame.

The cashier refused him when he went up to the diner counter to hand in his tender. Dejected, he walked away from her with the money still in hand, bills slipping from his loose fingers and falling on the floor. His grip seemed lost.

But he walked back to the booth. His astonishment faded and his eyes focused on me very loosely, rather sensitive in reflection…

“I know you need more than a meal…but first…we’re going to have to work on that thing you do…okay?”

He picked his helmet up from his seat, and then strapped it on to my head. The spirited fresh-sweater-from-the-drier warmth of his voice displayed character, determination without being disciplinary, acceptance without condition…a lot of thought.

“Coming?”

I stood up.

The Deconstruction Of Desire

I’m a little less scrambled these days; thinking isn’t so confusing or convoluted. I’ve been riding the back of Trevor’s bike for half a week and we just seem to ride for hours through the desert, going nowhere in particular. The wind is cool and wonderfully abrasive in the way only rushing air can be; something different from the stuffy air of the motel that was far away now. The car behind me was getting a sweet peak at my license to thrill; the hem of my skirt took flight behind me, a sheer pink vapour trail caught in the air stream. I’ve thought about getting new clothes as these are getting dirty, but between the two of us there is no tender, only warmth and the beating of his heart through his back. I hold him tightly at ninety miles an hour.

Trevor keeps me around and tolerates me, I think, because he doesn’t like the wind at his back. He enjoys the way I cling to him on his rumbling motorbike, my arms around his waist, my head on his shoulder blade and the flames of my hair trailing behind us. The guttural growling of the bike’s engine rose though my seat and put me at pleasant ease; just enough tingling of sex to give me a modicum of kicks.

At the motel, they had always made sure that I had only one thing to feel, one kind of skirt to wear, one place to sleep, one job to do, and one drink to drink. Everything changes out here in the world. It’s very fast. I remember seeing a hydrogen car when I was a little girl, but now they hum along and zip by us on the freeway in droves; sleek spaceships tearing up the road on wheelz.

We sleep in the desert just off the highway at night, around a campfire to blind prowling snakes. Trevor would eat beans from a pot over the fire and toss me dinner shakes that he stole because he hasn't any money. He lives from the motorbike-bag slung over the back wheel of his road rocket; I live out of my clutch, which leaves me with gloss and make-up. I can't eat or sleep on gloss and make-up. Trevor provides me with a sleeping bag of my own and sleeps beside me, not on me. He rests in his own bed-bag; he has two. I listen to him play music at night, guiding the strings of his guitar through an aimless melody, content enough to play on and on for his one-woman audience. When he plays his eyes varnish and stare through reality at either the past or the starry sky.

There were times when I was very sad, when I considered the fate of the un-lively in an all too scary way, and wanted to put a knife into one of my boobs to pop that big gel-bag and spill poison in my blood. I rested on that teeter-totter for some time, though I knew inside that Trevor sat on the other end. Sometimes I forget that, and in those times he takes to reminding me of his balance in subtle ways.

Trevor told me once, when I was crying and lonely and feeling obsolete, that “You should go ahead and be done with that feeling and drown in the pink colours of the sky”. I thought he was joking, or insulting me, which I didn’t mind at the time as I was used to that sort of treatment. An insulting tone tends to fly right by me; it seems so commonplace.

I later realized that he was doing neither of those things. When I looked into the sonoran sky for the first time and lent it my thoughts, I wound up cooking my brain in beauty.

Still, as much as distractions are worth…

I have noticed some very important things about him…some things that I feel are important, at least.

I don’t ask him about them, though I could. I could write my question on a white or blue piece of paper and send it to him like a note. I don’t know if he’d like me to ask; I am not in the habit of asking questions of men; I was trained to answer to them.

Then again…

Trevor asks nothing of me, nothing that I wouldn’t love to do. He asks me to ride with him through the Arizona desert and keep an eye out for the clouds catching the pinky-colours of the sun’s bedtime. He says that I can go as far with him as I want, as long as I sit against his back while we travel the un-rolled carpet highway and chase the horizon.

But I still notice things. The first time Trevor played for me on his guitar, it was dusty and far out of tune. It was as though it had not been played in a long time. The dreamy smile he wore as he played into the night would be etched into his face.

He has an extra sleeping bag.

He loves the feel of a woman at his back, on the back of his bike as we ride western-style into the distance.

Trevor’s bike isn’t just big enough for the both of us. It does, and always had, two seats.

I Dream Of The Monkey Bars

Professor had ordered… ”No panties today.”

I clacked up the concrete path to the glassy classroom building in my platform shoes, with the cool spring air blowing between my thighs and rubbing my soft spot. The mild climate was rather agreeable.

Sporty was trotting up to the door ahead of me, wearing a scant micro-mini with her white tank top, which was unusual for her. She was normally a sweat pants kind of gal, the kind of girl they trained on a treadmill and dressed in undershirts and pyjama bottoms that said 'bedtime'…the kind of girl with a tight streamlined body and tight-tiny ass that wiggled when she walked. That ass was half hanging out of her skirt and I could see glimmerings of her wet need peaking back at me from between her swinging legs.

Her skin was painted in luxurious flesh tones, a peachy-porcelain finish fit for a toy doll. She opened the door and stepped to the side, facing me with a wide white-toothed smile. Scanning down I could see her hairless cunt dribbling openly below the hem of her skirt, her doctored clit poking out from her fixed folds, looking ever so like a pink, lubed, pointed end of an egg. So huge… so aroused.

It was clear she’d been to the doctors again; they’d scaled her down dramatically. Her formerly bulging dee-cups were gone now, reduced, replaced with smaller enhanced tits capped by bee-sting nipples too dark to conceal behind white. They muscled their way through her shirt, no doubt responding to the commanding reverberations of her clit. Thinking about that made me so…

Her new boobs were so high and perky, pointy almost without a hint of sag. They were motionless when she moved, no jiggle or shake to be seen; so hard and fake.

And the eyes… Asianized.

“Today’s, like, my last day ya know?” she chirped.

I hadn’t known, though I knew that Sporty had been here longer than anyone else and was just about due. There were some very specific rules to be followed where she was going. She was destined to be the fit hard working type of gal. Me? …Class had shown me that I was better suited for the soft and voluptuous kind of curves, the fuckable kind that betrayed any other use. Since cumming to school though, I hadn’t yet earned my BA, not yet. Soon enough…

I filed into the auditorium after Sporty. All the other girls were dressed for sex; tight latex, swollen nipples stabbing through tube tops, and too-short skirts were the norm. I’d had an overpowering urge this morning to wear something shrimpy; it looked as though I hadn’t been alone. We all filed in, one by one, as per the rules; a hundred young twenty-somethings in ten rows of ten, lining up in front of our seats and waiting for the order to sit.

We stood obediently facing the front of the lecture theatre, our instructor standing at the bottom below a large theatre screen imbedded into the wall.

Professor paced across the floor, examining the front row with a grey-bearded smile; the girls in front of him running the gamut from childishly doll-like to top-heavy slut. The rest of us, with eyes forward, holding hands with the girls beside us, all waited for instruction, showing infinite patience as he smiled at the sights before him with approval. An unfamiliar hum sounded from the chair behind me.

“Sit down.” he said, his voice echoing only once.

All of us, united in choreography, bent at the knees to sit back in our chairs. We gasped collectively as the unexpected prodding of a hard humming phalluses pressed into our pleasure spots from below and took command of our bodies. I shifted my hips thoughtlessly, compelled to acquiesce to the seat’s hard tool, aligned the tip of that vibrating dong with the parting of my blushing folds and let myself down on it, slowly. The collective moans and cries of sex, some of it from my own mouth, echoed in the rafters, the sexual choir of wailing women a soundtrack for the hundred-fold image of faces contorted happily by carnal intrusion.

“I trust this helps you all understand what being a woman is all about.” Professor chuckled.

I was on the end of the seventh row, Sporty beside me gripping my hand tightly and I returning the favour. The two of us gave birth to wet orgasms, fountains of lust gushing out from around our piercing cunt-filling vibrators and soaking our seats, silencing our voices and affirming the worth of our training; the rest of the class fell quiet in suit. The rich awareness of pussies tightly clutching vibrators became collective perception, transmitted by clenching fingers across our joined hands… collective obedience. The response to the silencing trigger was quick. We moaned inwardly.

When I reached the hilt of my phallus, the slippery sounds of wet penetration and relentless vibration chased the world away. There was nothing now, nothing but the screen before me in the lecture hall above Professor’s head.

The screen came on, a blue formless background showed, and there was nothing.

The lights went off, one row at a time, and on the screen in the darkness, there was something.

Flickering.

Instant obedience; we all faced forward. The speakers chimed. We watched… we listened… we obeyed.

Within that flicker I watched images play and tumble. Within that chiming I sensed brilliant words whispering to me… shaping me with the care of a parent’s hands… speaking firmly…inside my head. No need for ears, what is true comes from inside. I embraced truth.

I felt relaxed, cool, collected… wrapped in the arms of the flicker… inattentively vigilant…unfocusedly concentrated… listening to everything… embracing the eternal vastness of those sights and sounds… lost in the world-consuming depth of thoughtless peace… every throb of light resonating in my bones, dropping drips of wonderment on my brain… drops that dripped down… trickled down my spine and condensed… down there… so wetly… entertaining… little droplets of lust… lubing the wonderful hardness filling my soul… my hole…

The moon blanketed the desert with a shimmer. I jerked.

I bat my eyelids and shook little droplets of dew from my lashes. The desert was dark and calm, eerily blue in the moonlight. The warmth of the pink twilight had faded, and only the snake-blinding glow of burning embers brought orangey brightness to this inspiring midnight. Our campfire had been fizzling for some time, bubbling quietly, it’s soft glow depending on the way of the breeze. The desert night was stunning, one of the more beautiful sights I’ve seen since starting on the road with Trevor, going nowhere and everywhere all at the same time.

I’d taken to sleeping with him now, forgoing the privilege of my own bed for a bed by his naked side; a choice I had made during our roadside rest stops when his guitar had kept him otherwise distracted. I would listen to his music more quietly than one would assume, even for a voiceless girl. I would be still, afraid to move for fear that a broken twig or scuffle in the sand would interrupt those wonderful notes. I tolerated only the drip-drip-dripping of my arousal, my engorged clit throbbing along with his music, my eyes watching his hands and his fingers… strumming… plucking… working so precisely and delicately, compelling the strings of his instrument to call out melodiously into the night.

Sound sex.

I had written my demand on a piece of paper for him, not too long ago… only a few days. I had waited for almost a week of bumming passage on his bike before proposing; though in retrospect that time was too long and too stressful to bear at times. But I was with him now, and he slept against my back with his arm over me, the two of us turned on our sides. We shared a pillow, so that I could put one between my knees, as my hips were so wide, made motherly by doctors over three years ago to better contrast my waist. My cartoonish, animéd body was more suited to fulfilling ‘bigger is better’ fantasies than sleeping on its side. Trevor didn’t seem to mind that; I think he just enjoyed the fact that I was there.

And… as much as my body was ill-suited… I wanted to lie on my side, the way everyone else slept, as it was very unlike the way they recharged me each afternoon back at the motel. That place was hundreds of miles away now. Good. I wanted to lie on my side… I wanted to. It was my right to lie quietly and sleep.

Sleeping with Trevor was unlike sleeping with any other man. His arm was laying over my chest, his wrist and his palm draped over the curve of one of my breasts, but his fingers were holding me, not groping. His arm and his mind were unconcerned with lust, only with closeness, his touching of my breasts only because they were there, my comfort with it because that’s how we were… open.

Only tonight, as I awoke from my dream, I was in the mood for something more; memories of flickering instruction still fluttered in my mind and still haunted my eyes. I could feel the hot moistness of my pussy; feel my engorged clit parting my folds and wetly pushing itself out of my strangling labia, making me hot and flustered.

Memories and dreams of training were as potent as the real thing; my body still responded automatically to the repeating messages bolted securely into my mind. The sleeping bag began to heat up, my body an infrared flare on an otherwise cold night. I resisted the urge to breathe and sigh; I tried to stay quiet, tried to stay focused… I took my hand from my hip and let it wander over my belly, pushed with my elbow and extended my hand down towards…

I met fingers along the way.

A hand cupped me from behind and a fingertip was pushed partly inside of me; shallow, just a tease. I felt him on my folds, rubbing and spreading my wetness around, the light touch of a musician’s fingers on my already lubed clit, caressing my egg-sized wonder-button with barely-there polishing strokes.

“You’re sweating.” Trevor murmured, half-awake into the back of my neck. He nuzzled his face into my nape and kissed me, his fingers dancing laps around the flowering lips of my slit in warm-up.

I loved it like play, just a tease of things to come. Ever trusting; each careful stroke of his fingers against my vagina was a slap in the face of every john who had used me. This training works for me now. I found the warm weakness, the justified weakness - the winning kind - to be happy with what I was and what I will always be. I stopped trying to push down the brake and instead grabbed the wheel. Trevor rubbed his finger down the middle… he plucked little droplets of lust with his fingers and drew them out from inside of me… I sang.

THE END