Sunday, March 31, 2013

The Fatal Bodice The Fatal Bodice by Alina Reyes
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Do It Yourself Erotica Part 2

Rodney finished his coffee, waved goodbye to the waitstaff and ran away from the café without paying.

Nobody called out, nobody chased him, nobody phoned the police.

He felt so good, so invigorated.

He didn’t stop running until he was two blocks away.

Then he looked back over his shoulder, just to make sure, and thought, “This is the sort of thing you can get away with when you own the place.”

He slowed down as he approached the intersection, thinking that the “don’t walk” sign would turn to “walk” as he got there, only it didn’t.

He came to a grinding halt. He had never come this way before. The intersection was unfamiliar to him. It had become overcast. He heard thunder in the distance.

Only then did he notice a Japanese girl standing next to him, also apparently waiting for a green light.

She must have been about 22. She had long dark hair, just like in a Haruki Murakami novel. She looked like she owned a black cat, cooked spaghetti twice a week and liked Rossini. Or was that a guy?

Rodney inspected her more closely and thought, “If you had a twin sister, I bet you’d look just like her.”

She turned and smiled at him, as if she’d heard his thoughts.

She flicked the hair off her left shoulder to reveal a [pointy/  violet/ cherry blossom/ cauliflower] ear.

Rodney had never seen anything like it, at least not perched on somebody's shoulder. He was unable to control his reaction.

He just had to lean over and [lick/bite/ pick /shout into] it.

Of course, she couldn’t resist his attention. She remained there, even though the light had turned green, until her whole body was excited and her nose [blew/bled/dripped/smelled] sex all over the place.

She stood on her tippy toes, horny, wet, impatient, until Rodney let go of her ear and it stopped raining.

Rodney looked into the girl’s eyes and knew immediately that her name was Isamu.

“It means ‘vigorous, robust, energetic’,” she whispered coyly, as she slid to her knees.

“I suspected it might. I could feel it in my…”

“Balls?”  Isamu suggested.

“How did you guess?” Rodney asked, a little apprehensively, as Isamu ripped open his shorts with her [pearly/ incisive/ platinum-braced/ vampire] teeth.

He looked down at her, while a droplet of sweat made its way across his furrowed brow and his testicles ascended nervously, but not as it turned out, beyond Isamu’s reach.

She pushed her thumb and [two/three/four/fore] fingers into his groin, worked her way skillfully around the dual spheres and quickly levered them into the open, from which position she maneuvered Rodney into a shadowy arcade.

It was just like “Blade Runner” in there. All he could hear now was the sound of commerce and a 70’s disco beat.

Merchants looked at him and turned away. Their customers walked around him, spitting on the sawdust.

A boy with a straw broom, who couldn’t have been more than 12, grinned at Isamu, squinted at Rodney and guffawed, “No fucky fucky for you tomorrow, white boy.”  He made it sound like the lyrics of a Bee Gees song.

Isamu threw him on a table that felt smooth and padded. He tried to get up on one elbow.

“On your back,” she commanded.

She held one hand over his mouth and with the other ripped his appliquéd Hawaiian shirt off his chest.

Plastic beads shot everywhere like teenaged boys debating or whatever on a school camp.

Isamu looked down on Rodney’s pecs, lifted her hand and quickly [slapped/pulled/squeezed/twisted] them until they [deflated/ reddened/ exploded/inflated and pressed her against the ceiling].

Unexpectedly, she climbed up onto the table and placed her feet either side of Rodney’s [sculptured/ heaving/ highly flexed/ flippy floppy] abs.

Then, equally amazingly, she launched herself off the table, at least a meter into the air above her.

Rodney watched her as she began to descend, then he started to scream.

Mathematically, in the heat of the moment, he had worked out that her [moist/ runny/ steamy/ boiling] vagina was about to descend violently on his [flaccid/erect/cowering/poorly disguised] penis.

He screamed again and again and again, for minutes, as she descended in slow motion, just like in “The Matrix”, you know that scene outside the lift well with the bullets and everything.

Every part of his anatomy launched itself in self-defence at Isamu, even his [hairy/ knobbly/ too big/ two big] toes.

She rebounded off his knee , then his hands (which had for a few brief seconds rebuffed Isamu like a shield of steel), until finally with a deft 360, she landed where he had most hoped and feared, except with his eyes closed, he was momentarily unable to detect which bit was measuring the circumference of his manhood.

A grin emerged suddenly on Isamu’s face, which in most circumstances would also have been a clue, but then Rodney felt the embrace of her teeth.

“How did you do that?” he asked from behind the face of his grimace.

“Oh, Rodney, darling,” (for Isamu had also determined his name telepathically, as if in one of Murakami’s later period novels that Paul Bryant hasn’t read yet), “you have the [biggest/ most uncomfortable/ wobbliest/ flattest] cock I’ve ever [seen/ squatted on/ swallowed/ squeezed under my armpit].”

Isamu’s thighs gripped his chest tightly until his belly button popped out and the colourless liquid contents of his stomach, the result of two bottles of Evian water, a flat white coffee and a literary product placement deal, fizzed anew like French champagne.

Immediately, Isamu changed position to take advantage of this opportunity for refreshment.

She propped up and nuzzled her [hot/cold/floppy/rock hard] labia against Rodney’s [sensitive/ probing/ bulbous/ aquiline] nose as her throat [drank/swallowed/gorged on/ choked on] everything Rodney still offered her in his current state.

Seeing the moment for his intervention, Rodney twisted Isamu’s bra, until the little nameless sliding metal bit at the back broke and her [petite/ miniscule/ ample/ holy fuck I didn’t know Japanese chicks had such monstrous] breasts unleashed on his chest like someone patting two containers of upside down pineapple cake onto the crockery top of his sex tableau.

He quickly grabbed the nipple on each of her breasts and started to rotate them in different directions, the left (his left) counter-clockwise and the right clock-wise.

Needless to say, Isamu’s body fell apart in his hands, separated right down the middle. She slid inertly to the floor, stunned in the few moments before her inertness prevailed, then remained inert.

He finally lifted himself off the massage table, showing no hint of emotion, grabbed his clothes and headed toward the curtain that opened into the arcade.

He turned around as he was about to leave and saw Isamu’s anus on the table. It was all that was left of her, apart from all of the other bits on the floor.

He briefly contemplated taking it as a memento, but thought better of it. What would his wife and two teenage daughters think?

He looked at his watch and realised it was 3pm.

He ran the whole way back to the café, where he put his clothes back on. It was time to lock the doors and go home.


Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - We Call Upon the Author

"The Everyday Grinderman's Erratic Guide to Existencilist Erotica"

This is one of two parts of the Erratic Guide to Existencilist Erotica.

Part 1 is here:

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