Lust

So as I was saying, Michael has it out in the daylight, hjs prick, to show that he can't or won't be stopped. First he has to tank up again. Laughing, he sits on the woman's chest and clasps her arms together over her head. He dangles his noodle into her mouth so that she can benefit from his nourishment. Gerti can follow everything very clearly, and something happens in her half-dropped panties: she passes a hissing jet of wet, yet again she's had too much to drink. Laughing, the girls pull off the wet knickers they had dragged down her legs. Now Gerti's feet are quite unbound. Everyone takes a pull at the hip-flask, but Michael's prick is still limp, to be plain about it, no good pulling there. They dunk Gerti's head, that little outhouse built crookedly on to the villa of her sensations, into the water. Her dear little cunt and dear little anus are fingered and prodded, ah, if only she could be in the arms of sleep again, soon! Where do we want to be? Where do we want to stay? Like a frog's, the woman's legs jab and snap shut. She thrashes about wildly. She isn't really hurt, why else would this company that never assumes liability for anything have been founded? Michael pokes a twig in her rather bald hill for a while, boys do love to play about, it keeps them out of mischief. Wait, one thing more. He pours what's left in the flask into her pussy then clips her round her ear, but not too hard. Ow. That burns.

It is now snowing with all the heartiness we expect of winter. The last bottle has been thrown away. Nobody seriously wants to take a swig at Gerti, even though she would give herself away till the green of spring shows through. Her cunt is merely opened up and then, laughing, we've seen this brochure before, folded shut again. The flaps smack in practised hands. None of this is that important anyway. Further away, up there where we shlepped Gerti away, the skiers are still cheering in their little lakes of beer and brandy. They beam and bawl. The floor of the forest is already heavily soaked in their pleasure. Gerti's skirt, in which she waits to be warmed up amid the trademarks, has been pulled up over her head like a sack. The suspender belts have no bad side effects if a man fancies giving his tool a thorough go. Michael wags his tail around in her face. She does not see it, and beneath her skirt she awkwardly twists her head now to one side, now to the other, thinking of Michael's unattainable ambrosia, his jelly congealed in a perpetual mould, to her it's no trifle. Her face, upon which trees gaze down in silence, is got out again and the mouth forced open. Her cheeks are slapped lightly, you can feel the teeth underneath keeping the face in its present shape, with an effort. Keeping in shape is what you should do too, dear boys and girls. Though you do so in any case, in your skintight T-shirts! With your chicaning hands and chic caps! Let's pretend, as we watch each other, that we're looking at a movie. Really moving. Now they open up Gerti's top and reveal her two breasts.

They topple out of the silk, whoops! – another moving picture! Nature, it seems, has slapped down two ill-judged meatballs from its catering supply can. Laughter. After the TV show, my dear fellow Austrians, you can go off and mix with each other. Often a finer fate lies beneath soft footfall; but wherever did I stick the wallpaper? Silly me, there it is – on me! What a fool. Gerti has to prise her mouth open and suck this thing in. Incidentally, tobogganing is good fun too, but – please – never ever where people are skiing: the last upright citizens in this world, they ca

No, there are no spare parts for the moment. The storm caused by our god, sex, sends us all to our ruin by the shortest route. Leave the man his senses, so that he can make sense of himself in peace and quiet. We women have to fix ourselves as best we're able, and then hark to the distant, echoing silence from your lifeless gadgets, oh gentlemen, still trembling slightly at the thought that the guarantee might have expired. Of us the men think last of all! A stranger Michael came, a stranger he must away, and so must his thing. Contemptuously he dribbles a droplet or so off his semi-stiffy into Gerti's face, which ca

I've grasped… it. And you… feel warm.

These are not the children of sorrow. They help the woman to her feet, brush her down, the snow crunches a laugh underfoot. She has not had to suffer too too much for the sake of these sons. Someone thrusts her wet knickers, a postcard souvenir, into her hand. Her coat is even buttoned up for her. Her body's nutrient production begins to grease her hair properly. And she has already signed the cheque, it's just that the new clothes will have to be altered at the boutique. She's been wanting to re-cover her body, and yet with every day that comes she is the more aware of the heavy bags her skin has to carry. That wasn't the way it was meant, that stuff about the sons and daughters, the gold eggs in the nests of high schools. We too could be knocked right off our feeble trunk at any moment! Like leafage we would fall into the beautiful gardens of the owners, mildewed, and no matter how often the Frau Direktor does her calculations she can't come up with a decent number of incinerators. Only the children, led by the angels, sing in chorus when they enter into this house on a magic carpet and laugh at their parents. We won't hear it later. Michael feels like talking now, now that it's too late. He grabs roughly inside the front of her coat and dress, and, laughing, tugs and twists her nipples. His other hand he jams between the cheeks of her behind. And then he puts a civil tongue in her mouth. He has already retracted his shlong of his own accord, to give it an overhaul. He's always glad of an opportunity to pick up where he left off. The fellow's always out somewhere wanting to be picked up! And the whole thing has been nothing but time passing. The car doors slam, they talk of pleasures and friends that have been paid for and to which one entrusts oneself, like the fitness trainers they possess or in fact are. AH in vain! The angels will never be just like human beings. Only they can experience pleasure and go within themselves. Helplessly the people retch with drink. They bring it up when it ought to be having a lie down. They puke in the snow, leaning on their cars. The women fuss, the children moan. Fine. The car drives off, but the content of these people remains behind, asleep in nature, where the true and good dwelleth and goods are lied to by their own labels. In a rage they all cry out to make a stop, for ever, and hold an attractive human being in their arms, for ever. But the rulers feed the animals only once a month, and then we exert ourselves too much. Time will bring everything to light.