Wake up and smell your coffee

 

Chapter Four. Part 2

Wake up and smell your coffee

 

Both breathing heavily, he rolled off her and sat up on the edge of the bed. She turned on her side and with her head resting on the palm of a crooked arm, watched him wince as he rubbed his back and looked at the blood filling his hand.

            “Oh, don’t worry, darling, it will soon dry and the scabs will come off in bed.” Her voice dripping with well satisfied sarcasm.

            He stood up, not before flashing her a fake scowl. Now doing exactly what she had done before the mirror, he twirled examining the damage. Going into the bathroom he returned to her with a wet flannel.

“Please could you be so kind as to wipe me down. If that’s not too much trouble. Thank you.”

With his face looking towards the open door, she sat up behind him with crossed legs  and taking the cloth, wiped first her soaking open hole and then applied it to his back.

“Ow! That hurts!”

“Stop being a cry baby soldier boy - my arse you are. Serves you right. Oh dear, Ha- hah, even your mascara is running. I gotcha real good. Although,” in a musing voice, “judging by the load you shot you really liked it. These ‘light’ scratches will last a bit longer than three days. You can always tell your future sex partners that you got them from  fighting off a leopard. I am parched. Coffee time. In bed please. Half a sugar and a little milk. Thank you.”

            Throwing her the duvet, he slipped into his tracksuit and with much pretence moaning went into the kitchen bay. Returning a short time later with two steaming mugs, and a sealed packet. Sitting back on the bed edge, He handed hers. “Look at this packed ground coffee. Notice anything about it?”

            Taking it in her free hand she studied it, turning it around and upside down. “Nope, except it’s called strong. So, what’s the big deal. Is this what we are drinking,” as she took a small sip, hissing as the hot drink burnt her bitten lips.

“See the brand name? Minges. It is plural for minge. It also says it’s a family roasting house.” He started laughing, spilling some of his coffee onto his lap. “I bought it at Penny discount supermarket, on special offer.” He was shaking now trying to supress his amusement. “I think it’s very appropriate.” He handed her four laminated postcard sized cards he took off the chest of draws. All of them in sepia showing woman exposing very well-endowed sexual organs that were unable to be seen through the hand muff that covered them.

“I haven’t a clue what you are going on about.” Taking the cards, she gave them a quick glance, then placed them back where they had been laying. “Is this the mystery you promised me? A packet of coffee, four hairy women to do a DaVinci code on it all? Well I give up.”

“Okay, it would be impossible for you to know. It is slang in English for that part of your body that has been recently well put through a roasting process.”

She smiled, then laughed. “Good to know – not! I’m taking my coffee into the bathroom. I will be a while. And, if kind sir could feed us soon as I am starving. She added, “can it sort of be ‘normal’ as in - my attributes of fluid contributions to your expert cuisine are not this time be involved. Even the thought of you boiling an egg sends the mind cinema back to another 18+++ film.” Minge tasting coffee on closed, lightly damaged lips, and still giggling stupidly, they went out. She padded behind him and locked herself into the bathroom.

 

Looking at the mess surrounding him, he rolled his first joint. It was no big deal to sort everything out. Within the time she was showering, the surfaces were cleared and cleaned and ready to make a mess on them again. She arrived with a damp towel wrapped around her head and dressed in the grey flannel dressing gown that had hung on the back of the door, hugged him.

“A good housekeeper as well, this man of deep mysteries of the mind and hole. What we are having, and don’t give me the wait and see.”

“White colonial breakfast invented by the British, perfected by the Rhodesians and ruined by the Americans. Very simple – scrambled eggs on toast, with fried mushrooms, onions, pork and blood sausages, tomato slices, chicken liver and hearts in garlic and Piri-Piri sauce.”

            “That sounds almost normal.” Handing him her empty mug, “ another please. And, as I noticed, you have a tin of spray cream, I would like that as topping rather than you jack of in my cup of minge.   Alexa, spiel Bayern Eins.”

As the aroma from the huge fry, he went to the window and opened it fully wide. “Alexa, play Bayern One. She doesn’t understand German.”

Taking her mobile phone, she went to the couch, her stains now dried almost in the same colour of the sofa. As Supertramp came on, she entered her code and leaned back, placing her legs across the coffee table and waited till it awoke. The whirl of the extractor fan almost covered the series of beeps in almost never ending chimes as they chirped with the vibrating phone in her hand. She scanned through the messages, sighed and closing the protective cover, placed it on the table just as she was presented with the plate infront of full to over spilling, and took her coffee, knife and fork. Returning next to her with his portion he stopped her starting.

“Wait, first we must make thanks for this feast that delightfully awaits us to consume.”

Astonished, she squinted her eyes at him. “Have you ever been certified as not being 100% in the head?” She looked as he wiggled his bum “Ants in your pants or did someone rake your innards?”

            Ignoring her barbs, he lifted his hands, clasped together as in praying to heaven and spoke in clear authority ‘Dear Jobcenter, I thank you for my monthly People Money, thus making it possible to feed this wench.”

            As she tucked in. “Well I am glad that my tax contributions are paying for my meal. Even if its illegal being a Brexit dish. Pass the salt Walt.”

            He passed the stainless steel shaker. “Catch 22.” As they both tackled the food, he swallowed. “Okay, you never fail to satisfy me to acknowledge that you have brain not totally controlled by your most basic of desires. Hence I give you food for thought. And, do you like?”

            She nodded her head, as yet another mouthful was swallowed. She waved a hand in front off her moth , “a bit spicy, but I like. Now what have you planned for me today? No fucking till its dark. Your coconuts need fresh cream and my vagina needs to start squeaking again instead of sloshing.”

            As he cleared the cleared plates, “I will get showered and changed and we then go out. Okay?”

            “That sounds fine.” Standing up she looked around confusedly. With a frown, “where did I put my hand luggage.”

            “Presumably where you left it. My guess it is sitting on the landing. You were to occupied to bring it in.”

            “I suppose so. Really weird.” She stood up, retrieved it and he followed into the bedroom and stripped off. This time he locked the bathroom door.

 

Now it was time to wake up the neighbours and the other unsuspecting members of the public to the reality of Anarchism-Absurdism and Egoism…

 

Viertes Kapitel. Teil 2

Wachen Sie auf und riechen Sie Ihren Kaffee

 

Schwer atmend rollte er sich von ihr herunter und setzte sich auf den Rand des Bettes. Sie drehte sich auf die Seite und sah ihm zu, wie er sich den Rücken rieb und das Blut in seiner Hand betrachtete, während ihr Kopf auf der Handfläche eines angewinkelten Armes ruhte.

            "Oh, keine Sorge, Liebling, es wird bald trocknen und der Schorf wird sich im Bett lösen." Ihre Stimme triefte vor wohlgefälligem Sarkasmus.

            Er stand auf, nicht bevor er ihr einen falschen finsteren Blick zuwarf. Jetzt tat er genau das, was sie vor dem Spiegel getan hatt. Er wirbelte herum und begutachtete den Schaden. Er ging ins Badezimmer und kam mit einem nassen Waschlappen zu ihr zurück.

"Könntest du bitte so freundlich sein und mich abwischen. Wenn das nicht zu viel Mühe macht. Danke."

Während er zur offenen Tür blickte, setzte sie sich mit gekreuzten Beinen hinter ihn und nahm den Lappen, wischte zuerst ihr klatschnasses Loch und dann seinen Rücken ab.

"Au! Das tut weh!"

"Hör auf, ein Heulsusen-Soldat zu sein - das bist du ja auch. Geschieht dir recht. Oh je, ha-ha, sogar deine Wimperntusche läuft. Ich hab dich ganz schön erwischt. Obwohl", sagte sie nachdenklich, "nach der Ladung zu urteilen, die du verschossen hast, hat es dir wirklich gefallen. Diese 'leichten' Kratzer werden ein bisschen länger als drei Tage halten. Du kannst deinen zukünftigen Sexpartnern immer sagen, dass du sie vom Kampf gegen einen Leoparden hast. Ich bin ausgedörrt. Zeit für einen Kaffee. Im Bett, bitte. Einen halben Zucker und ein wenig Milch. Danke."

            Er warf ihr die Bettdecke zu, schlüpfte in seinen Trainingsanzug und ging mit viel vorgetäuschtem Stöhnen in die Küchenbucht. Kurze Zeit später kehrte er mit zwei dampfenden Bechern und einer versiegelten Packung zurück. Er lehnte sich auf der Bettkante zurück und reichte ihr die Tassen.

"Sieh dir diesen verpackten gemahlenen Kaffee an. Fällt dir etwas daran auf?"

            Sie nahm es in ihre freie Hand und studierte es, indem sie es umdrehte und auf den Kopf stellte. "Nein, außer dass er als stark bezeichnet wird. Also, was ist daran so schlimm? Ist es das, was wir trinken?", sie nahm einen kleinen Schluck und zischte, als das heiße Getränk ihre gebissenen Lippen verbrannte.

“Siehst du den Markennamen? Minges. Das ist der Plural von Minge. Da steht auch, dass es eine Familienrösterei ist.“ Er fing an zu lachen und verschüttete etwas von seinem Kaffee auf seinen Schoß. “Ich habe ihn beim Discounter Penny gekauft, im Sonderangebot. Er schüttelte sich und versuchte, seine Belustigung zu unterdrücken. "Ich denke, das ist sehr passend." Er reichte ihr vier laminierte Karten in Postkartengröße, die er aus der Kommode genommen hatte. Alle waren in Sepia gehalten und zeigten Frauen, die sehr gut ausgestattete Geschlechtsorgane entblößten, die durch den Handmuff, der sie bedeckte, nicht zu sehen waren.

"Ich habe keine Ahnung, wovon du sprichst." Sie nahm die Karten an sich, warf einen kurzen Blick darauf und legte sie dann zurück, wo sie gelegen hatten. "Ist das das Geheimnis, das du mir versprochen hast? Ein Päckchen Kaffee und vier haarige Frauen, die den DaVinci-Code entschlüsseln? Nun, ich gebe auf."

"Okay, das kannst du unmöglich wissen. Es ist ein englischer Slang für den Teil deines Körpers, der gerade gut durchgeröstet wurde."

Sie lächelte, dann lachte sie. “Gut zu wissen - nicht! Ich bringe meinen Kaffee ins Bad. Es wird eine Weile dauern. Und, wenn der freundliche Herr uns bald füttern könnte, ich bin am Verhungern.“ Sie fügte hinzu, "kann es irgendwie 'normal' sein, wie in - meine Attribute der flüssigen Beiträge zu Ihrem Experten Küche sind diesmal nicht beteiligt sein. Schon der Gedanke, dass Sie ein Ei kochen, schickt das Kopfkino zurück zu einem anderen 18+++ Film." Den Kaffee auf den geschlossenen, leicht lädierten Lippen schmeckend und immer noch dümmlich kichernd, gingen sie hinaus. Sie paddelte hinter ihm her und schloss sich im Bad ein.

 

Er betrachtete das Chaos um ihn herum und drehte sich seinen ersten Joint. Es war keine große Sache, alles in Ordnung zu bringen. In der Zeit, in der sie geduscht hatte, waren die Oberflächen aufgeräumt und geputzt und bereit, wieder eine Sauerei darauf zu machen. Sie kam mit einem feuchten Handtuch um den Kopf gewickelt und mit dem grauen Flanellmantel bekleidet, der an der Rückseite der Tür hing, an und umarmte ihn.

"Auch eine gute Haushälterin, dieser Mann der tiefen Geheimnisse des Geistes und des Lochs. Was es gibt, und lass mich nicht abwarten."

"Weißes Kolonialfrühstück, erfunden von den Briten, perfektioniert von den Rhodesiern und ruiniert von den Amerikanern. Ganz einfach - Rührei auf Toast, mit gebratenen Champignons, Zwiebeln, Schweine- und Blutwurst, Tomatenscheiben, Hühnerleber und -herzen in Knoblauch und Piri-Piri-Sauce."

            "Das klingt fast normal." Sie reichte ihm ihren leeren Becher, "noch einen bitte. Und wie ich bemerkt habe, hast du eine Dose Sprühsahne, die hätte ich gerne als Topping und nicht deine Hoden milch in meinem Becher mit Minge. Alexa, spiel Bayern Eins."

Als der Duft aus der großen Bratpfanne kam, ging er zum Fenster und öffnete es ganz weit. "Alexa, Play Bayern One. Sie versteht kein Deutsch."

Sie nahm ihr Handy und ging zur Couch, deren Flecken nun fast in der gleichen Farbe wie das Sofa getrocknet waren. Als Supertramp ertönte, gab sie ihren Code ein, lehnte sich zurück, legte die Beine über den Couchtisch und wartete, bis er erwachte. Das Surren der Dunstabzugshaube überdeckte fast die Reihe der Pieptöne, die mit dem vibrierenden Telefon in ihrer Hand in einem schier unendlichen Rhythmus zirpten. Sie überflog die Nachrichten, seufzte und schloss die Schutzhülle, stellte sie auf den Tisch, gerade als ihr der Teller vorgesetzt wurde, der bis zum Überlaufen gefüllt war, und nahm ihren Kaffee, Messer und Gabel. Als er mit seiner Portion neben sie zurückkehrte, hielt er sie auf.

"Warte, zuerst müssen wir uns für dieses Festmahl bedanken, das wir mit Freuden verzehren werden."

Erstaunt blinzelte sie ihm in die Augen. "Wurde dir schon einmal bescheinigt, dass du nicht hundertprozentig klar im Kopf bist?" Sie sah, wie er mit dem Hintern wackelte. "Hast du Ameisen in der Hose oder hat dir jemand die Eingeweide zerkleinert?"

            Er ignorierte ihre Sticheleien, hob seine Hände, die er wie zum Gebet zum Himmel faltete, und sprach mit klarer Autorität. "Liebes Jobcenter, ich danke dir für mein monatliches Burgergeld, das es mir ermöglicht, dieses Frauen zu ernähren."

            Als sie zubiss. "Nun, ich bin froh, dass meine Steuergelder meine Mahlzeit bezahlen. Auch wenn es illegal ist, weil es ein Brexit-Gericht ist. Gib mir mal das Salz, Walt."

            Er reichte ihr den Streuer aus rostfreiem Stahl. "Catch 22." Als sie sich beide an das Essen machten, schluckte er. "Okay, Sie stellen mich immer wieder zufrieden, wenn ich feststelle, dass Ihr Gehirn nicht völlig von Ihren grundlegendsten Wünschen kontrolliert wird. Deshalb gebe ich dir einen Denkanstoß. Und, schmeckt es dir?"

            Sie nickte mit dem Kopf, als ein weiterer Bissen heruntergeschluckt wurde. Sie wedelte mit einer Hand vor ihrer Mund, "ein bisschen scharf, aber ich mag es. Also, was hast du heute für mich geplant? Kein Ficken bevor es dunkel ist. Deine Kokosnüsse brauchen frische Sahne und meine Vagina muss wieder anfangen zu quietschen statt zu schwappen."

            Während er die leeren Teller abräumte, "werde ich mich duschen und umziehen und dann gehen wir aus. Okay?"

            "Das klingt gut." Sie stand auf und schaute sich verwirrt um. Stirnrunzelnd fragte sie: "Wo habe ich nur mein Handgepäck hingestellt?"

            "Vermutlich dort, wo du es gelassen hast. Ich vermute, es steht auf dem Treppenabsatz. Sie waren zu beschäftigt, um es hereinzubringen."

            "Das nehme ich an. Wirklich seltsam." Sie stand auf, holte ihn, und er folgte ihr ins Schlafzimmer und zog sich aus. Diesmal schloss er die Badezimmertür ab.

 

Jetzt war es an der Zeit, die Nachbarn und die anderen ahnungslosen Mitglieder der Öffentlichkeit aufzuwecken und ihnen die Realität des Anarchismus-Absurdismus und Egoismus vor Augen zu führen...

DESCRIPTIONS DESCRIBING NOTHING AT ALL BUT SEXUAL IMAGERY

DESCRIPTIONS DESCRIBING NOTHING AT ALL BUT SEXUAL IMAGERY

 

 

Chapter Four. Part 1.

 

 AROUSAL CAFE

 

Streaks of pure sunlight strobed through the green, closed blinds. He awoke the usual way, hand on his semi-stiff, slowly tugging it, a smile on his face. Sitting up he allowed more sunlight into the bedroom and through the open tilted window came warm gusts of summer breeze, filling the room with promises of good times ahead.

Back on the bed and resting his weight on an elbow, he lifted the duvet slowly off her, pushing it with his feet down until with an unnoticeable thud, fell to the floor. She laid there in the perfect position. On her back. Her nudity fully exposed for his prying eyes. He looked intensively, absorbing all of her physical form, his extremely rare eidetic memory giving him the ability, that whilst unable to ‘photograph’ texts, he could absorb and recreate scenes in incredible detail. And he could return again and again into the past. It made for excellent masturbation.

 Now being able to place her in that slot in his brain reserved for the construction of another sexual virtual world game, he would download her not in the true colours, but in sepia. With her stillness and no hint of shyness and instinctive embarrassment of being observed under such scrutiny meant he could scan her in minute detail. As would an artist creating on paper or canvas a nude, but he could do it digitally and then press entry for saved.

Like a cat scan, he started at the top. The sepia hews softening and causing fault of shadowing from the blind’s light, causing stripes reminiscent of those old photographs, creased and sweat stained. He had some and would show her once he had awoken her. Not with a cup of coffee to leave its bitter taste on her tongue that would have been normally to pass her lips first, but something of much more exotic taste. Tasting with the intensity of an alcoholic slurping his first Bloody Mary cocktail of the morning whilst observing bikini clad youthful bodies frolic at the seas edge, the fat stomach bulging under a towel as the pervert drank greedily and lay on his sunbed, jerking himself off.

He would start at the top. Sweaty matted, tousled hair, a few strands stuck to her forehead in small curls. Slightly matted eyelashes over closed eyes, her lips speckled with dried saliva, purred kitten like with slight but gentle snoring. Arms hap-hazard, crossed her breasts, flattening them out from their weight, spreading mother’s milk shake takeaways evenly. Almost perfect pancakes covering a bowl of warm whipped cream eagerly awaiting to be consumed.

He lifted the upper arm by a wrist, uncrossing them, and bending his head he tasted and absorbed the smell from spikey hairs of the gift she gave him. Placing that arm to her side, then leaning over her, warily did the same act to replicate the process. Totally exposed, her midriff could tell nothing to him, the lighting causing all natural curves or shapes to become in  indistinguishable and so he moved on, now starting at the bottom so that the two scans would meet in the middle over the true prize.

Bare feet, the nails manicured and painted the same colour as her finger-nails. The satin gleam dulled in places from dried cunt juices. He let his fingers glide gently up her legs, smiling bemusedly at his own powers of suggestion, the small stubble on them struggling to overcome its master’s demands to grow so as to satisfy her lover’s fetish.

Thighs, soft to the touch as he finally could look at what would now be his Eve in the Garden of Paradise. Ironic that Rosemary went to bed after being raped by the very devil himself and would now awake to be electrified into virginal shock as her maiden fair would be taken  by the creator’s creation of a weapon of mass impregnation - as first penis on earth. Capable of shrinking and hiding in itself, but like a tortoise doing the same the head mounted on its own vein rippled neck, would come out and up for the offering of a tasty treat.

All was going to plan. He had created the heavens, land, sea and hell in this woman that he knew nothing about, and he saw that it was good. Now the well-rehearsed stage act had to be done with timing and precision. His partners in crime were well fired up. Reloaded balls already tightening, the tool of copulation dribbling out its expanded eye, both knowing that, like its controller of them, the phenomenons coming from the target were making them all wild. But even the smallest error of judgement would bring this all down in an awful screaming mess of disappointment.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, continually watching her face for any signs of disturbance in her deep sleep, he spread her legs, slightly bending them at the  knees, resting quietly and still. Pushing on spread arms and hands and crouched knees, he manoeuvred his body over her, and without any physical contact, glided his partly open legs between hers.

Moving silently, he let them ease down onto the floor, knees welcome for the softness of the duvet. Now he was in the exact position to start the next phase of the return to paradise. Her sexual organ was closed by her vulva covered, sticky matted hairs. This was a very dangerous as whilst keeping his balance with his left arm, he would have to prise the cave door open. But like an old pair of double doors, if they were jammed together with the jam they had created together, the separation would like silent Velcro,  part reluctantly, stretching, pulling at the roots and sending warning signals that something was occurring that was she normally sorted with a good, strong pee. The type where splashing chaos ensued until the jet stream unlocked the matted safe doors.

He was not to concerned about that. Whilst in some countries such as Sweden, it was considered that a healthy morning fuck with a more than shared consenting part of any sexual gender social-intercourse whilst conscious, it was illegal to rape the partner whilst unconscious. Rape here being as penetration without the person’s knowledge nor consent.

No big deal. It was considered quite normal among mid-life crisis hit German men. They would mount their used-up partners of negative sexual arousal of repetitive, boring poking. Rather the old man would, with a floppy penis flounder about in a rather reeking pit of rotten kipper. A quick ‘wham-bam, thank you ma’am’, in the vague hope he could hold the image of the young girl with the big tits who works at the supermarket cash desk, before he started shrinking and dribbling out some lazy sperm. All before his missus of years would awake and moan with stale breath that he must hurry up.

 

He was worried with more pressing details and hoped to god, she did stay corpus-cosmos- christi. It was just question of how deep she was, the dope they had inhaled had long worn off. Successfully his right-hand fingers archived their objective, separating the wrinkly two sets of lips, the pairs now apart but joined by strings of their mixed juices.

Bringing his head deep down into her groin his tongue probed around the flaps,  ignoring her almost hidden button that if disturbed would send crazed signals out that could awake the dead. He needed her as a complacent warm corpse, so erotic in its creepiness. As his taste organ entered the darkness of the promised land of sperm and honey, he deeply regretted not to be blessed with the tongue of the group Kiss’s, lead singer whose enormous wiggling cow’s thing that could come out and make a donkey loose its erection in shame. And all the woman fans suffer from seat wetting.

He started to harvest the contents for the next phase of operation - ‘Like a Virgin, touched for the very first time’. He was good at this.  Scooping again and again until mixed with his own spit, his mouth was full to the dribbling point. He had to work fast now and multi-task. Gathering his knees up, he stared to place himself above her again, a hand with small movements guided his lubricated tip to her open entrance. Now with that in position, and moving up, again leaning  on his outstretched left arm, He pinched her nostrils together. This was it! It just had to work; his balls were close to exploding.

 

Her mouth sprung open wide, as he thrust with all his force into her whilst simultaneously placing his closed lips into her mouths, then injecting with considerable might the garnered liquid into her. Her eyes flew open in shock, she swallowed, he now wrapped his tongue around hers, pounding away, hammering her as to nail her to the bed, her legs suddenly stiffened, lifted up, and widened in the natural instincts of all females to be impregnated by the alpha male, to make the species continue to evolve, still groggy, her hips thrust back as hard as his, clashing limbs frantically seeking out erogenous zones as they fought, not a word spoken, just sounds of groaning, grunting, maniacal laughter, screams of pain, spitting on each other, clawing, biting nipples, clashing open mouths, splitting lips, whilst heads with hair being pulled almost out of their roots, thrashed sideways in panting breaths, fingers wriggling in belly buttons, furious licking of armpits, then two of her lubricated fingers from tiny streams of blood, sweat and tears from his mutilated back and slapped face, rammed tightly together up his anal orifice as deep as they could go, and then as timing reached it conclusion of  aspired climaxes, she waited to feel him starting to come and cruelly crossed her fingers and scratched his tunnels sides with her nails as she withdrew them. As he writhed and screamed in the agony and ecstasy, she exploded herself as his shocked testicles blew their first load of the new day.