2017/12/14

I am beautiful

My hair is snarled and tangled and sticky, from the hard grip of his hands, from my head being driven into the mattress, from sweat, from the cunt-cream he rubbed through it. My face is tracked with tears, from the vigorous throat fucking, from the harsh sting of his cum in my eyes, from the joy of serving him; I don’t wear that much makeup but what there was of eyeliner and mascara has followed the twin rivers and stained my cheeks. My lips are swollen, from stretching to fit around him, from the relentless friction of his thrusts. My chin is slobbery from gagging and sucking; the torrents of drool have coated my breasts and below. My eyelashes are sticky and clumped into points, from the jets of praise that coated my face and filled my eyes. My bottom and thighs are covered in lines and stripes and blotches and handprints of red and crimson and purple, from… from how this all started.

He tells me that, when I look like this, I am at my most beautiful. It took me a while to see through his eyes, but I now know that to be the perfect truth.

— Frenulum

2017/12/08

The price of advancement

“Stacy. Can you give me a hand for a minute?”

Stacy kept typing, her eyes on her copy stand. “Sure, one sec.” The keys continued to fly, until Stacy raised her left hand and slapped the carriage return lever twice. She looked up. “What can I do for you, Rose?”

“I have my performance appraisal at ten,” Rose replied. “I could use your help for a few minutes to…” The comely young stenographer blushed. “Um, you know, get ready for it.”

“Sure,” said Stacy, standing up. “Annual review time. Need me to give you an enema?”

“If you wouldn’t mind — it’s hard for me to do it myself. And I’m really hoping Mr. Gardner will give me a raise this year.”

— Frenulum

2017/12/07

Odd jobs

Stopped at a red light one day last week, I observed a bus stop, with a bench for passengers, with a local business advertisement on the back of the bench — all quite familiar — and an orange panel van, with a worker in a safety vest extracting a new bus-bench advertisement from a collection in the back.

I’ve seen bus-stop bench ads for my whole life. I had never seen one being changed.

Now of course, if anyone had asked, I might have guessed that there were people who drove around and took off old signs and installed new ones as called for by various contracts. Certainly I would not have imagined that the signs changed themselves, or that professional artists wandered by in the dead of night to paint new ones by hand. But no such question arose, either in life or in my own mind.

Huh. Bus-stop-bench-back-sign-changing is a job. People do that. Hundreds of people do that! Do they do other things as well, or is bus-bench sign maintenance a full-time profession?

As with the designing of panties (see Too Late Wise), this is obvious — as of one second after the thought first hits.

The main difference being: after seeing the bus-stop-bench-back-sign-changing fellow, I was not suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that I had misspent my life.

— Frenulum