Can You Guess The Novel?
"Please..."
"No. Not tonight. Kneel here and take what I give you."
Despite himself - already a reflex - he glances quickly over at the bottles on the table, the plates, soiled with juices of meat, Hollondaise, bits of gristle and bone... Her shadow covers his face and upper torso, her leather boots creak softly as thigh and abdominal muscles move, and then in a rush she begins to piss. He opens his mouth to catch the stream, choking, trying to keep swallowing, feeling warm urine dribble out the corners of his mouth and down his neck and shoulders, submerged in the hissing storm. When she's done he licks the last few drops from his lips. More cling, golden clear, to the glossy hairs of her quim. Her face, looming between her bare breasts, is smooth and steel.
She turns. "Hold up my fur." He obeys. "Be careful. Don't touch my skin." Earlier in this game she was nervous, constipated, wondering if this was anything like male impotence. But thoughtful Pointsman, anticipating this, has been sending laxative pills with her meals. Now her intestines whine softly, and she feels shit begin to slide in and out. He kneels with his arms up holding the rich cape. A dark turd appears out the crevice, out of the absolute darkness between her white buttocks. He spreads his knees, awkwardly, until he can feel the leather or her boots. He leans forward to surround the hot turd with his lips, sucking on it tenderly, licking along its lower side... he is thinking, he's sorry, he can't help it, thinking of a Negro's penis, yes he knows it abrogates part of the conditions set, but it will not be denied, the image of a brute African who will make him behave... The stink of shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient. Mixed with the mud, and the putrefaction of corpses, it was the sovereign smell of their first meeting, and her emblem. The turd slides into his mouth, down his gullet. He gags, but bravely clamps his teeth shut. Bread that would only have floated in porcelain waters somewhere, unseen, untasted - risen now and baked in the bitter intestinal Oven to bread we know, bread that's light as domestic comfort, secret as death in bed.... Spasms in his throat continue. The pain is terrible. Which his tongue he mashes shit against the roof of his mouth and begins to chew, thickly now, the only sound in the room....
There are two more turds, smaller ones, and when he has eaten these, residual shit to lick out of her anus. He prays that she'll let him drop the cape over himself, to be allowed, in the silk-lined darkness, to say a while longer with his submissive tongue straining upward to her asshole. But she moves away. The fur evaporates from his hands. She orders him to masturbate her. She has watched Captain Blicero with Gottfried, and has learned proper style.
The Brigadier comes quickly. The rich smell of semen fills the room like smoke.
"Now go." He wants to cry. But he has pleaded before, offered her - absurdly - his life. Tears well and slide from his eyes. He can't look into hers. "You have shit all over your mouth now. Perhaps I'll take a photograph of you like that. In case you ever get tired of me."
"No. No, I'm only tired of THAT," jerking his head back out of the D Wing to encompass the rest of the White Visitation. "So bloody tired."
"Get dressed. Remember to wipe your mouth off. I'll send for you when I want you again."
Dismissed. Back in uniform, he closes the cell door and retraces his way in.
"No. Not tonight. Kneel here and take what I give you."
Despite himself - already a reflex - he glances quickly over at the bottles on the table, the plates, soiled with juices of meat, Hollondaise, bits of gristle and bone... Her shadow covers his face and upper torso, her leather boots creak softly as thigh and abdominal muscles move, and then in a rush she begins to piss. He opens his mouth to catch the stream, choking, trying to keep swallowing, feeling warm urine dribble out the corners of his mouth and down his neck and shoulders, submerged in the hissing storm. When she's done he licks the last few drops from his lips. More cling, golden clear, to the glossy hairs of her quim. Her face, looming between her bare breasts, is smooth and steel.
She turns. "Hold up my fur." He obeys. "Be careful. Don't touch my skin." Earlier in this game she was nervous, constipated, wondering if this was anything like male impotence. But thoughtful Pointsman, anticipating this, has been sending laxative pills with her meals. Now her intestines whine softly, and she feels shit begin to slide in and out. He kneels with his arms up holding the rich cape. A dark turd appears out the crevice, out of the absolute darkness between her white buttocks. He spreads his knees, awkwardly, until he can feel the leather or her boots. He leans forward to surround the hot turd with his lips, sucking on it tenderly, licking along its lower side... he is thinking, he's sorry, he can't help it, thinking of a Negro's penis, yes he knows it abrogates part of the conditions set, but it will not be denied, the image of a brute African who will make him behave... The stink of shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient. Mixed with the mud, and the putrefaction of corpses, it was the sovereign smell of their first meeting, and her emblem. The turd slides into his mouth, down his gullet. He gags, but bravely clamps his teeth shut. Bread that would only have floated in porcelain waters somewhere, unseen, untasted - risen now and baked in the bitter intestinal Oven to bread we know, bread that's light as domestic comfort, secret as death in bed.... Spasms in his throat continue. The pain is terrible. Which his tongue he mashes shit against the roof of his mouth and begins to chew, thickly now, the only sound in the room....
There are two more turds, smaller ones, and when he has eaten these, residual shit to lick out of her anus. He prays that she'll let him drop the cape over himself, to be allowed, in the silk-lined darkness, to say a while longer with his submissive tongue straining upward to her asshole. But she moves away. The fur evaporates from his hands. She orders him to masturbate her. She has watched Captain Blicero with Gottfried, and has learned proper style.
The Brigadier comes quickly. The rich smell of semen fills the room like smoke.
"Now go." He wants to cry. But he has pleaded before, offered her - absurdly - his life. Tears well and slide from his eyes. He can't look into hers. "You have shit all over your mouth now. Perhaps I'll take a photograph of you like that. In case you ever get tired of me."
"No. No, I'm only tired of THAT," jerking his head back out of the D Wing to encompass the rest of the White Visitation. "So bloody tired."
"Get dressed. Remember to wipe your mouth off. I'll send for you when I want you again."
Dismissed. Back in uniform, he closes the cell door and retraces his way in.