Lust Read Free

to fix something up. He takes her arm in a determined grip. First he wants a crack at her. He's cancelled two appointments in order to have it. The woman opens her mouth to cancel this appointment, but she thinks of his strength and shuts her mouth again. This Man would play his tune even in the bosom of the mountains, his violin stroke would echo off the rocks, he'd stroke his rocks off. Time and again the same old song. This resounding banging tune. So astoundingly terrible. To the accompaniment of resentful looks. The
    woman hasn't the heart to refuse herself. She's defenceless. The Man is perpetually ready to go. Greedy for his pleasure. To pleasure himself. Lo, this happy day is there for the rich and the poor, but unfortunately the poor begrudge it the rich. The woman laughs nervously as the Man, still wearing his coat, deliberately exposes himself to her. And there it is, the thick-headed thick head and shaft of his member. The woman's laughter grows louder and she slaps herself on the mouth, startled. She's threatened with a beating. Her head is still full of music, Johann Sebastian Bach, expressing her own feelings and those of others, music guaranteed to give pleasure, going round and round in circles on the record player, chasing its tail. The Man is chasing his tail too, or his tail is chasing and he is following. So it goes with men, ever onwards, their works ever greater but presently collapsing behind their backs. The trees in the forest are more stoutly and reliably upstanding. Calmly the Direktor chats about her cunt. How he will force it open in a moment. He seems intoxicated. His words totter and reel. He grips the woman's hip in his left hand and yanks her serviceable (easy to service her) clothing up over her head. She wriggles in his heavy-weight presence. He yells at her for wearing tights, which he long since forbade her to wear, stockings are more feminine and make better use of the available holes, if they don't indeed create new ones. He tells the woman he is going to have her real good now. Twice; At least. Women are planted full of hopes and live off memory, but men live off the moment, which belongs to them and, when carefully tended, can be gathered into a little heap of time which likewise belongs to them. At night they have to sleep and can't fill up. They are afire and warm up in small containers. Surprise surprise, this woman has been secretly rendered infertile through pills; the Man's never-becalmed heart would not countenance having no life gush forth from his ever brimful tank.
    Beside the woman, clothing falls in a heap, like dead animals. The Man, still in his coat, is standing with his member standing firm amidst the folds of his clothing. Like light falling on a stone. The tights and panties make a moist ring around the woman's slippers as she steps out of them. Happiness seems to be making the woman go slack. She can't grasp it. The Direktor's cumbrous cranium worries amongst her pubic hair, he bites, his desire is always at the ready, ready to desire something of her. He raises his head to the air and now presses hers to the neck of his bottle, here, taste this. Her legs are in a tight grip. He is touching her up. He cracks her skull on his prick, vanishes inside her and gives her derriere a good hard pinch to help things along. He forces her head back so that her neck cracks, an ungainly sound, and he slurps at her labia, gripped and gathered tight, the life gazing silently from his eyes up to her. Patience: the fruit'll ripen yet. That's what you get if you stack your human habits one atop the other to pick something off the top of the tree, only to find you don't like the taste after all. Everything is hampered and trammelled by the bans and banns of lust and desire. Even on a low hill there's a limit to how much will grow, and the limits placed on us are rigid and extend not much further than we can reach, and we can't reach far, not much of a voyage in our little blood vessels,