Lust Read Free Page B

dear. And now the Man slides into his wife as if he were greased, in and then out again. Nature cannot have been mistaken about this field; we don't want anything else growing here. It is a community of flesh, and the farmers, who are quick to cry if they're not taken on to earn a little on the side, grow angry if their wives stroke the surprised cattle destined for the slaughter. With Death the gentlemen like to be on good terms, but business must go on as usual. And even unto the poorest shall gladly be accorded the daily pleasure of their women's embraces, where they can be Big Boys after 10 p.m. But for this Direktor time doesn't count, he doesn't have to clock on; after all, he manufactures time himself, and the cards are punched in till the clocks cry for mercy.
    He bites the woman's breast, and her hands jerk forward. This only excites him more, and he hits her on the back of her head and tightens her grip on her hands, his enemies of old. For his slaves he has no love either. He stuffs his sex into the woman. The music races ahead and-their bodies race ahead as well. The Frau Direktor loses a little of her control, the bulb's a little loose, better screw it firmly in again. The Man is a sleeping dog that shouldn't have been woken and fetched home from a circle of business friends. He carries his weapon below his belt. Right now he has fetched his pistol out; out it has come like a shot. The woman is kissed. Spitting words of love are slobbered in her ear. This flower wasn't in full bloom for long, won't you thank it? Just now he was wallowing and waltzing inside her, soon his fingers will be producing a fine sound on the violin. Why is the woman turning her head aside? In Nature's society, there is a place for every one of us! Even the smallest of us, even the very least member, though it won't be in great demand. This Man has emptied himself into the woman, he wouldn't mind trying out naughtier tricks in the pool some day! In the correct questionmark position for diving, the Direktor withdraws from the woman, leaving his waste behind. Presently she will be caught in the trap of the household once more and will return whence she came. It is a long while yet to sundown. The Man has poured forth his joy and now, the slush dribbling from his mouth and genitals, goes off to cleanse himself of the day's toil.
    The community looks up to them in all things. Let's face it, it's a community short on sporting lasses to look up to. The woman beds down in her troubles and Hermann beds down on the woman, in the peace of the night. And then their son: he has mastered the other children more completely than his violin. Father manufactures the very least of the things that pass beneath the flame of his passion: paper. All that remains, wherever the eye looks
    upon the works of men, is ash. The woman averts her gaze from the table she has laid, opens a hatch in her dress and tips the leftovers in, true unto herself. Today the family, en famille, is drinking in its own memories from the projector. The food is late, the boy is late, he messes it about terribly. He won't do a thing he's told, he isn't as good as gold. For months he's been promising to improve his violin playing, but Father finds it far more enjoyable to lavish blows on this friendly young creature. The whole country likes to be lavish. It lives on Art. But not all the good citizens and the faithful do so, and none would merit a Very Good in the tests.
    The woman's tongue is a dress that covers everything. She absolves herself crunching the salted snacks that seem so much bigger on television than when the hosts dissolve to meaningless nothingness in the mouth. Still, we too, when our bodies are in an evening mood, tip the snacks into our very own personal sewage systems. Father bends over his son. Tender as sausage. Son is sure to get his BMX bike. The Direktor's son enjoys the village children's envy as one might enjoy a stiff pinch of power. Out he promptly goes into