CUNT IS A CONCEPT!
proclaimed a banner, in gaudy capital letters.
A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK!
demanded another.
FUTA RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS!
announced a third. And a fourth posed the existential question:
ASSIGNED CUNT AT BIRTH…?
“God, look at them,” sneered Gaia, as she stood by her window watching the crowds demonstrating up and down the length of Harley Street. “always thinking they’re entitled to more! Do you know, I had a man ring me up the other day: he’s already got two cocks, but he’s wanting three, so he can DP one of his “wives” whilst the other gives him a blowjob. And he wants the second “wife” to have a cock too, so she can fuck the first one’s face; and she wants four tits – or was it five? – so he can titfuck them all at once; and on and on…”
“And what did you tell him?” asked Melia.
“Well, I told him exactly where to put his two cocks! And – guess what? – he replied, ‘Oh, that’s a good idea: I’d not thought of that…’ Ha! That’s what happens when we develop science without the wisdom to match. People think that just because they want it, and it’s possible, there’s no reason they can’t have it!”
“Humanity has always been like that, Gaia,” sighed Melia, a resigned tone in her voice. “Ever since I arrived here, on that first Vdrmlian transport a hundred years ago, I have been as amazed at human short-sightedness as I have been at your inventiveness and ambition.” She looked down at the crowd outside – mainly humans, both men and women, some of them ostentatiously displaying their multiple genitals as they hoisted their banners and hurled slogans at the façade of the Institute for Sexual Medicine.
“So why did your government choose here? Surely there are any number of planets in the Galaxy you could have set up a colony on!”
Melia thought for a few seconds, before answering: “Well… maybe the food… Yeah, that’s about it, really. Crème brûlée: yummy. Nothing quite like it on Vrdml… Oh yeah, and the tits: that’s one human obsession Vrdmlians have taken to big time: big tits. Problem is, fitting three G-cup breasts on a chest my sort of size is a bit of a challenge,” she added, indicating her slender torso – so no surprise it hasn’t really caught on. I think I’ll do without…”
“Yes, exactly: you at least have enough common sense to realise that you can’t just keep denying reality without there being consequences! I warned the Minister about this years ago: that we’d have to go slowly, tread carefully. But – typical politician – instead of solving the housing crisis, or the cost of living crisis, or the education crisis, instead he just gives people more ways to fuck, hoping they won’t notice that they’re homeless poverty-stricken ignoramuses! ‘Cocks and circuses’ – that’s what I call it! The irony is, now he’s the one who’s scared of civil unrest – I mean look at them out there!”
Through the window came the sound of chanting from the crowds outside: “A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK! A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK!”
“Well…” interjected Melia cautiously. “You must admit, much of this acceleration has been caused by the whole Daphne effect. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d have been OK.”
“True,” nodded Gaia ruefully. “And that was my fault. I had such reverence for, such gratitude towards Lucy Kuiper – I mean, without her tireless work back in the twenty-first century, this Institute’s dickgirl research would never have come to fruition, and we would never have made contact with you! I guess I wanted to pay her my debt of gratitude, by returning her beloved Daphne to her. Sadly, I may have achieved exactly the opposite.”
“How do you mean?” Melia raised an eyebrow.
Gaia sighed. “I’ve been in the Ministry this morning, studying the timelines: not a pleasant experience, you know, researching everything which ‘might have been – if only’… Here, have a look.” She picked up a folder from her desk, marked “L. Kuiper: timeline information – strictly classified”, and handed it to Melia. “It’s towards the bottom of page one.”
Outside the crowds were now chanting, “MY BODY, MY COCK! MY BODY, MY COCK!” as Melia opened the folder and read. Reaching the bottom of the first page, her eyes widened, and she gasped. “Oh no! Oh, gods! How awful! But… we can’t tell her, can we?”
Gaia took a deep breath. “Ordinarily, no. But if by revealing to Daphne the terrifying truth we can convince her to assist us in readjusting the timeline, it might be worth it.”
“Is that legal?” asked Melia.
“Not in the strictest sense. But I have spoken to the Minister about it, and he thinks, especially as your first attempt to persuade her wasn’t successful, that we could, in this case, stretch the protocols a bit. These are exceptional circumstances, Melia. The situation is only getting worse – and the timeline investigators say it will reach crisis proportions within the year, unless we achieve readjustment. We must act now.”
“Mjhlw frgl,” sighed Melia.
~
“And so, may I ask you all to join me in offering a toast – to the brides!”
“TO THE BRIDES!” chorused the guests in response.
“Hip hip…”
“HOORAY!”
Daphne and Lucy sat at the head table, dressed in twin backless white wedding gowns, faces glowing, clasping each other’s hands. Around were gathered parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and the best of their colleagues from the medical and musical worlds, all relishing the joie de vivre and companionship which only such an occasion can bring.
“Hip hip…”
“HOORAY!”
The hotel was a Tudor manor house in Surrey, and the cake was, by special request of Lucy, a croquembouche: a massive cone of profiteroles, stuffed with pastry cream and laced with chocolate and spun caramel. Both brides stepped forward, to cheers from their guests, to each pick one profiterole from the cone and feed it to her new spouse.
“Hip hip…”
“HOORAY!”
Of course, it all went wrong: Daphne managed to smear chocolate on the lace collar of her dress, caramel dripped down into Lucy’s cleavage, and they couldn’t help giggling as they simultaneously hand-fed cream puffs to each other, so that the contents thereof smeared onto their lips, chins and fingers, making a creamy mess of both their faces and all four of their hands. There was much good-natured laughter and cheeky banter all around, before they invited their guests to enjoy their dessert while they retreated upstairs, to discard their soiled clothes and change early into their going-away outfits.
Clutching a bowl of profiteroles, the newlyweds made their way up the stairs to their room, still feeding messy handfuls of caramel- and chocolate-coated cream puff to each other. Drunk on their own joy, and knowing that they would have to change clothes anyway, they made no attempt to be careful, so that by the time they reached their suite, their faces, hair and hands were a slapstick mess: cream and chocolate dripping off their eyebrows, noses and chins, their soft cheeks gleaming with sugary delight.
Neither Lucy nor Daphne needed to say anything, for as they closed the door of their hotel room behind them, they knew what they had to do. Their lips mashed together, tongues exploring, seeking, tasting, as they slurped and licked all the sweetness from each other’s faces, hands groping, squeezing, stroking and – inevitably – ripping each other’s wedding dresses off till they stood flesh-to-flesh, naked bar their white stockings and heels.
“Fuck me, my darling,” whimpered Lucy, as she felt Daphne’s cock, stiff and sweaty, pressing against her vulva. And Daphne would have complied immediately, had they not been interrupted by a sharp double-knock at the door.
“Who is it?” panted Daphne, as she revelled in the sensation of Lucy’s damp pussy-lips smooching gently at her swollen glans.
“Room service!” called a voice. “Mrs Kuiper said you might have some dresses for cleaning?”
“Oh fuck, Mum,” panted Lucy under her breath, before calling out, “Just a minute! We’ll leave them here over the back of the chair and go into the bathroom. Then you can let yourself in and take them away – all right?” Lucy and Daphne smirked, picked up the bowl containing two last profiteroles, and retreated into their ensuite, Daphne’s rigid dribbling cock wagging eagerly from side to side as she walked. “You can come in now!” called Lucy as, with a giggle, she shut the bathroom door behind them.
In an instant, Lucy was on her knees. Grabbing a cream puff from the bowl, she impaled it on Daphne’s cockhead, letting crème pâtissière ooze along her thick shaft, before opening her mouth wide to swallow the cream-coated futa dick as deep as she could in one go. “Mmmfuck…” she moaned, savouring the heavenly combination of cream, chocolate, caramel and sweaty cock, whilst calling, mouth still full of futa-flesh and pastry, through the bathroom door to the maid: “Have you found the dwesses aww wight?”
Lucy and Daphne heard the maid reply, “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” before shutting the door on her way out. But the newlyweds did not bother to return to the bedroom. Instead, Lucy grabbed the last profiterole and squeezed it in her palm, before smearing its contents over Daphne’s dick and balls and resuming her full-frontal oral attack. Cream melted and dribbled off the shaft in little white rivulets, rendering Lucy’s happy face gradually messier and messier.
“Oh, God,” whimpered Daphne. Unable to restrain herself, she began to fuck Lucy’s face, relishing the feeling of her cockhead lodging itself into each cheek in turn, as a mélange of cream, chocolate and spit dripped off Lucy’s chin and onto her full breasts. “OH GOD!” cried Daphne again, feeling the cum start to surge up through her shaft, and her cock begin to spasm. “Oh Luce, oh love, oh fuck…” she trilled, unable to hold back.
“Let it go, my love,” cried Lucy, grabbing the cock with one hand and pumping it vigorously in front of her open mouth. “I want my dessert!” Her lips and face still smeared with croquembouche, now her mouth filled with a new type of cream, as she jerked spurt after spurt of her wife’s sweet futa-cum deftly onto her tongue, before swilling it around and, with an ecstatic whimper, swallowing it.
Daphne gazed down in adoration and delight, as Lucy’s lips and tongue slurped up and down her girlcock, licking off the remains of cream and pastry. “Oh love, that’s so good, so good…” Daphne moaned. “But… you haven’t come yet. What shall I do for you now?”
“Later, my love,” giggled Lucy, making a little glob of semen jiggle, sway and drip off her lower lip. “They’re expecting us downstairs. Best not to make it too obvious what we’re up to! Let’s have a quick shower now, and change: later, that dick’s got all night to make me come and come and come – what about it?”
“OK, darling,” replied Daphne. “Though… shame this shower cubicle isn’t larger…”
“That’s the problem with Tudor manor houses,” smirked Lucy, standing up. “And when Mum found this place, a fuckable shower stall probably wasn’t top of her list of priorities!”
“Well, you go first then, love: you’re messier than me! I’ll just go get myself a cup of tea,” said Daphne, as Lucy let herself into the shower cubicle.
But as Daphne let herself out into the bedroom, her semi-flaccid sugar-coated cock still dangling before her, she drew breath in shock – for there, standing in the middle of the room, was a dark-skinned, frizzy-haired woman with large breasts bulging beneath her maid’s outfit, and a pair of cream-soiled wedding dresses draped over her left arm. “What do you think you’re doing?!” hissed Daphne indignantly, instinctively but unsuccessfully attempting to cover up her genitals with her hands. “You were asked to take those dresses for cleaning – so take them, and get the f–”
But then Daphne paused – for she realised that she had seen this face before. “You!” she exclaimed, her face crumpling.
“Please don’t be afraid, Daphne,” replied Dr Gaia. “And please don’t send me away. I’m trying to save you. You are in danger, both of you. You must listen to what I have to say.”
~
Tristi e soli i vecchi miei piangeranno, penseranno ch'io non torni più! – “Far away, alone and sad, my friends will weep to think that I shall never return,” sang Jake Wallace, the camp minstrel, in his doleful baritone, accompanied by Volodymyr the Ukrainian répétiteur on a baby grand. Except that, this being a production by the great Henke (so great, indeed, that he needed only one name, a bit like Björk, or Pelé – or Stalin), Jake Wallace was dressed in a hazmat suit and carried a Geiger counter instead of a banjo. “Cut!” screamed Henke, a middle-aged hippie with a paunch, a bald pate, a goatee and long grey hair down to his shoulders. “Who do you think you are, a camp minstrel?” he bellowed at the hapless baritone as he pounded his fist on his table. “The end of the world is nigh! And you act like you are singing a home-sick ballad – no, no!”
“But, Henke,” pleaded the singer, a short paunchy Welshman called Dai, “listen to the text: ‘La mia mamma, che farà s'io non torno?’ – ‘How my Mamma will weep if I never come home!’ Surely this is a home-s–”
“The text?! Fuck the text!” screeched the Teuton. “I am the Director! My vision overrules the text! It’s all in Italian anyway: these English toffs don’t understand a word of it. We give them what they deserve – not what they think they paid for! Do it again!”
Daphne sat at the back of the auditorium, awaiting her entrance, muttering under her breath, “How to fucking ‘opera Germanly’ – Jesus, now I’ve seen it all…”
Sitting just in front of her, her tenor co-star, a slightly balding Scotsman called Duncan, smirked in sympathy. “Just wait for the infanticide, the race riots, and the gay orgy. All to come. And you thought this was a Wild West romance?”
Daphne slouched back into her seat, but did not waste much time sulking, as her mind was too full of her unexpected encounter with Dr Gaia the previous weekend: “No,” Daphne had insisted, “I am not leaving Lucy here to come back with you to the future! You sent me back here, and it was Lucy’s foresight that allowed that to happen. We will not be parted!”
Al telaio tesserà lino e duolo pel lenzuolo che la coprirà... – “To shroud herself shall she weave woe and linen at the loom,” sang the chorus of gold miners on stage – dressed, of course, in Ku Klux Klan outfits which they kept tripping over, much to Henke’s annoyance.
“What we didn’t realise, Daphne,” Gaia had replied, “is that sending you back changed the course of the sexual history of mankind. It’s one thing for women to want cocks. But now they’re demanding multiple tits, or retractable dicks like the Vrdmlians. And men are wanting two or three cocks – or both cocks and cunts, or expanded arseholes, so as to take all these huge ten-inch dicks we keep providing their wives with. And because Lucy has now learnt about this technology from you, and can research it at her Institute, all this demand has developed two hundred years earlier than we expected it to!”
Il mio cane dopo tanto mi ravviserà? – “Will my dog recognise me after so long?” sang the chorus of miners, whilst bending over and miming buggering each other doggy-style through their KKK costumes. Henke smiled contentedly – though Daphne could not tell whether this was mere directorly satisfaction, or because the mediocre but buxom mezzo-soprano, Bambi by name, whom he had cast as the squaw Wowkle, was now crouched at his feet, headdress feathers waving just above the level of his table as she slid her fulsome spit-lubricated tits up and down around his rather small penis. Daphne scoffed, but returned to brooding over the conversation with Dr Gaia.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Doctor!” Daphne had responded. “This is ridiculous! You can’t expect me to abandon my wife now, and let you take me away just because of your bullshit story about a ‘crisis of demography’! You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake, and you claim to have all this amazing sexual technology! So use it! Sort the problem! Yourselves!!”
O mia casa al rivo accanto, là lontano, chi ti rivedrà? – “Will I ever see my home so far away…?” sang the miners dolefully, whilst crawling on all fours smacking each other’s backsides with their Geiger counters. From below Henke’s table, there now emerged the sound of slurping and gurgling, which provided an awkward counterpoint to the miners’ concluding pianissimo six-part a capella chorus; nevertheless Henke was happy, rolling his eyes upwards in combined artistic and penile ecstasy.
Daphne’s eyes, though obscured in the semi-darkness of the rehearsal hall, began to water, as she remembered what Gaia had revealed next: “All right, Daphne, I’m going to be brutally honest with you. I’m not supposed to tell you this, because normally Ministry rules are that timeline matters are to be kept secret, and certainly not divulged to those who will be most deeply affected. But… if you stay here,” Gaia had continued, with a desperate sigh, “you will be condemning Lucy to death!”
Vlod the répétiteur was working extra hard now, Daphne noticed. After the relative calm of Jake Wallace’s ballad, now the miners were having fisticuffs. In Henke’s version, of course, they were using Sten guns and hand grenades – but the pianist still had to produce a passing impression of the orchestral part, all jagged trombone lines and hammering triplets from the wind. Daphne knew her entrance was soon, but she sat frozen in her seat, recalling her shock and anguish as she had stood with her dangling dribbling penis listening to Gaia’s revelation: “In two years’ time, Daphne, she will die in a car accident. You will be widowed – unless you come with me back to the future now and enable me to correct the timeline. It is the only option. It is your – her – only hope…”
“HELLO, MINNIE!” chorused the miners on stage, as Volodymyr bashed out Daphne’s entrance theme – a broad, lush, triumphantly thrumming twelve-eight with great fistfuls of added ninths and heart-melting glissandi: the perfect tune for a powerful heroine both adored and feared by the men who surround her. “HELLO, MINNIE!” But Daphne was still cowering at the back of the hall, frozen in remembered terror.
“DAPHNE!!! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” screamed Henke, instantly rousing her from her anguished reverie. “YOU’VE MISSED YOUR FUCKING ENTRANCE!”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” cried Daphne, dashing down the aisle towards the stage. “I’m so so sorry!”
“HELLO, FUCKING MINNIE!” screeched the director. “What the fuck’s wrong with you these days? You missed three cues yesterday! And now you can’t even get your cunt on stage on time for your Act One entrance!” Henke’s face was incandescent with rage, and spittle flew from his lips – as Bambi emerged from beneath the table, hastily stowing her tits in her buckskins and smirking as she wiped a stray drop of semen from her chin.
Daphne stood, mute, her body trembling with rage and humiliation.
~
“Ah, Mister and Missuses Lecoq! Do come in,” trilled Dr Gaia, a fixed smile on her face. “How can I help you?”
Mr Lecoq was a tall, muscular man in his fifties, dressed in a Gucci suit, with dyed black hair, Prada sunglasses, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He reckoned that he had reason to be pleased with himself, for, in his wake, by means of a pair of pink faux-leather leashes, he was leading two young women, tottering on their stilettos, neither looking any more than nineteen years old, flawless examples of largely identical surgically-enhanced silicone beauty: plumped red lips, extended pink finger-nails, bleached blonde hair down to their cinched waists, and huge breasts bulging behind improbably tight sparkly crop-tops. Indeed, they were so similar that the only way Gaia could tell them apart was by the lettering on their bulging tops: one read “WHORE”, in pink cursive script; whilst adorning the chest of the other was the designation “BITCH”.
“Whore, Bitch – down!” commanded Mr Lecoq. “Whore” batted her eyelashes and giggled stupidly as she sat on the floor and gazed adoringly up at her husband. “Bitch”, in contrast, pouted, sticking both tongue and middle finger out at the man, before sitting at his feet and proceeding to suck her thumb.
Surreptitiously, Gaia rolled her eyes at Melia, who turned her back in disgust, pretending to sterilise some medical equipment on a trolley by the wall.
“You gave me two cocks, remember?” said Mr Lecoq, an unmistakeably accusatory tone in his voice, as he pulled down his trousers to remind her.
“I do remember,” replied Gaia, maintaining her customer service expression as best as she could, as the blonde bimbos licked their botoxed lips at the sight of Mr Lecoq’s members while kneeling in a practiced attitude of genital veneration. The man’s two erections were, even Melia would have admitted, most impressive. Positioned one above the other, but sharing a single massive pair of testicles which dangled below, they gleamed and throbbed with lust. The lower cock was clearly the standard nine-inch model, huge and roughly hewn; the upper was a touch slenderer, obviously a bespoke model designed specifically for its intended purpose – which Mr Lecoq was apparently intent on demonstrating.
“‘Ere, let me show you,” grunted Mr Lecoq, before looking down at his fawning wives. “Whore, arse up, now!”
“Oh yes, Hubby-Bubby, totally fuck your Whore with both your dicks,” squeaked the first Mrs Lecoq, as she knelt on all fours, pressed her head sideways onto the floor, and pulled back her very short skirt to reveal a tight round bottom. “Whore totally loves being DPed, Hubby-Bubby!” she giggled, as she spread her buttocks to reveal a dripping shaven pussy and a gently winking anus. Placing one foot on the side of her painted face, Mr Lecoq lunged, his two penises simultaneously penetrating his wife with a noisy double squelch, before beginning to fuck both her holes with ostentatious abandon. “Oh, Hubby-Bubby’s cocks feel so good,” the girl continued to squeal. “Hubby likes fucking his dumb blond fuckwife so fucking hard!” The second Mrs Lecoq held the first wife’s buttocks wide with her hands, drooling with worshipful desire at the two squelching pounding cocks.
Mr Lecoq paused his fucking. “See the problem, Doctor?” he blurted, in an accusatory tone.
“Er… no…?” replied Gaia. “Sorry, what is the problem?”
“Bitch wants to suck my cocks – and she can’t, because they’re both fucking Whore! What’s she supposed to do?!”
Gaia bit her lip. “Um… could you perhaps take one cock out – maybe the one in her arse, and she could suck that? She might appreciate the flavour…?”
“Nah, Whore needs DPing, like, all the fuckin’ time. Don’t ya, Whore?”
The first Mrs Lecoq nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Doctor, Whore totally needs two cocks in her, like, all the fucking time. Otherwise, Whore can’t cum!” she giggled. “And Bitch can’t live without Hubby-Bubby’s cock in her mouth – can you, Bitch?”
The other girl pouted. “Yeah, ‘coz Bitch is an oral fuckslut, she is. Bitch’s throat is totally made for Hubby’s cock!” she drooled, as saliva dribbled down her chin and into the crack of the other woman’s buttocks.
“Whore and Bitch both worship Hubby-Bubby’s cocks, they do,” chorused the two women in unison. “Bitch and Whore can’t live without Hubby-Bubby’s cocks!” Mr Lecoq beamed, gesturing towards Dr Gaia with a “told you so” look on his face.
“And,” the second wife continued, “Bitch totally needs a cock too, so Bitch can help Hubby-Bubby fuck Whore airtight.”
“Um… could you not get someone else in?” asked Gaia, a pained expression on her face. “That would be the normal method, wouldn’t it?” Melia had by now abandoned all pretence of professionalism and was standing in the corner face-palming as she listened to the conversation.
“Someone else?” Mr Lecoq sounded outraged, even as he resumed energetically fucking both his first wife’s orifices. “But it’s me they want! They fuckin’ worship me! Don’t ya, fucksluts?!”
Both women squealed their approval. “Yes, Doctor, Hubby-Bubby is our Master! Whore and Bitch only want Hubby-Bubby’s cocks – no one else’s!”
“And,” continued the first wife, “Whore totally wants Hubby to titfuck her, so Hubby can, like, spurt all his hot cum in Whore’s pretty face. If Hubby gets three cocks, that means Whore will need… will need…” – the first Mrs Lecoq frowned in puzzlement at her painted fingers, as if trying to work out a very complicated sum – “… so many tits!”
“Uh… but where will you put them?” asked Gaia in bewilderment, as Melia snorted with barely-concealed derision.
But the medical professionals’ reservations were clearly having little effect upon their clients, as Mr Lecoq picked up the pace of his DPing, sweat began to pour down his brow, and the first Mrs Lecoq’s huge tits swayed and jiggled beneath her in time with her double-fucking. “‘Ere it is, then, filthy fuckwives: take this!” The man pulled both his cocks out of his wife’s orifices and began rapidly pumping them with his hands. The larger cock exploded first, thick heavy ropes of cum exploding out of the glans, criss-crossing over the first Mrs Lecoq’s buttocks, dribbling down the crack of her arse, and forming a viscous pool at the pucker of her anus. “Oh yes, Hubby-Bubby, totally own your little Whore with your cum: Whore loves that so much!” she squealed, as her husband’s cock-snot dribbled down off her arsehole onto her fucked-out cunt-lips, where it beaded and dangled tantalisingly.
The upper cock came next, a series of sharp well-aimed spurts splattering the second Mrs Lecoq’s face. Her pout disappeared in an instant, as with glee she began slurping at the still spasming anal-scented dick, licking and sucking till her lips and chin were coated with hot cum. Simultaneously, she inserted her middle finger into the other wife’s arse-crack, scooping up the thicker gloopier cream from the larger cock and smearing it over her face. “Oh yeah, yummy fucking cum cocktail for pretty little Bitch!” she squealed. “Thank you, Hubby-Bubby!”
The first wife turned round, her tongue extended and drooling with desire – inviting the second to dribble a long thick beaded rope of cum mixture into her open mouth. They kissed lustfully, squealing and giggling with pleasure as they slurped cream off each other’s faces and pawed each other’s huge breasts, before turning their attention to Mr Lecoq’s members, which they sucked in alternation, until all his cum had been drained and joyfully swallowed.
“See, Doctor?” affirmed Mr Lecoq. “They worship me!”
“Oh yes!” chorused the women. “And Hubby-Bubby’s fucksluts want more Hubby-Bubby cocks!”
Gaia sighed. “You know you won’t be able to get this on the NHS, don’t you, Mister and Missuses Lecoq? NICE has set a limit of two cocks per person, and three tits.”
Mr Lecoq laughed. “I’ve got plenty o’ dosh, Doctor, don’t ya worry. You’ll be well paid.”
Melia turned towards the wall and pretended to vomit.
~
It was time to rehearse Act Three. The highwayman hero Dick Johnson, played by Duncan the Scots tenor, had been captured by the miners, and was about to be lynched – but, this being a Henke production, rather than the traditional gallows, they had strapped him into an electric chair and placed an executioner’s mask over his head. Thus muffled, he did his best to sing:
Ch’ella mi creda libero e lontano, sopra una nuova via di redenzione…
“May she think me far away and free, on a new path of redemption,” thought Daphne, as she sat again at the back of the auditorium, determined this time not to miss her entrance. She remembered the gut-wrenching tussle with her conscience, then hastily pulling on her going-away outfit, following Gaia out the tradesmen’s exit behind the kitchens, through the bin yard, across the service lane, and into a small fir copse where, to her amazement, there stood a large red telephone booth. The tears coursing down her face mixing with the remains of croquembouche – now both salt and sweet on her lips – she had paused a second to take in the distant sounds of revelry coming from the marquee – all her friends and relations rejoicing at the union which, unbeknownst to them, would now be aborted before it had barely had a chance to draw breath.
Aspetterà ch’io torni, e passeranno i giorni –
“She will wait for my return, but the days will pass… the days will pass,” Daphne muttered, as Duncan poured his heart out, accompanied by big bold G-flat major parallel chords from Vlod’s piano, and she remembered the tussle which had taken place amid the dry earth and pine needles in front of the phone box: “Just let me go back and explain to Lucy!” she had pleaded.
“There isn’t time!” Gaia had insisted, desperately trying to drag her in. “We mustn’t be seen.”
Eeeeeeed io non tornerò – “Aaaaaand I will not return!” sang the tenor, his rich bell-like voice soaring a perfect fifth to linger on a high B-flat – a note which, despite electric chair and mask, filled the hall with an exquisite blend of heroism, repentance and love. And, Daphne remembered, she too had lingered on the threshold of the phone box, her heart torn with such anguish as she had never known, all the while whimpering with the pain of seeing all her dreams, her greatest joys, torn away from her yet again.
And then – “DAPHNE!” had come the voice she always rejoiced to hear, calling to her through the trees. “Daphne, where the fuck are you?!”
“Luce! Oh God, Lucy, I am so sorry, please forgive me!” Daphne had called through her tears, even as she had followed Gaia into the phone box. “I love you, my darling! But I have to go…”
But then Lucy had appeared, charging through the trees, barefoot, wet and naked in her haste. Through the bedroom window she had caught a glimpse of red metallic paint through the fir trees and realised what must be happening. She had come clattering down the stairs, screaming with rage at Daphne’s would-be abductor. And Daphne had collapsed, half in and half out of the phone box, howling into the dark dry earth: “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Luce. I love you. I don’t want to leave you. But I’m doing this to save you, my love. Please forgive me: I’m doing this because I love you…”
Minnie, della mia vita mio solo fior… sang the muffled Dick Johnson – “Minnie, the only flower in my life… who loved me so much…” Daphne recognised her cue, as just at that moment, in through the rear door of the auditorium trudged Ned the stage manager, wheeling a gleaming midnight crimson Harley Davidson Freewheeler.
“Bloody hell, Henke, what wrong with a horse, like the script says?” muttered Daphne, before leaping on, engaging the clutch, and turning the throttle. The roar of the engine drowned out all sound from the stage: soloists, chorus, and – despite his most strenuous efforts at the keyboard – poor Vlod. War-shrieking wildly in E major, Daphne rode her motorbike at full throttle up the centre aisle towards the stage, scattering cast, crew and director, as she rode to the rescue of the hapless Dick Johnson.
Henke was delighted. Forgetting that his fly was still undone and there was semen still dripping down his trousers, he stood applauding enthusiastically, a great goofy director’s grin shining out from behind his goatee.
~
The last rays of twenty-third-century late-evening summer twilight streamed sideways in through the office window, as Gaia and Melia sat, each nursing a small glass of blue Vrdmlian wine. In the distance, a few small airships scudded quietly across the horizon.
“OK, are you ready?” Melia asked.
“Oh yes, my dear. Yes…” sighed the doctor.
“You don’t sound so sure,” replied the alien.
“Oh… no – it’s just – well, I hope this works.”
“They’ve agreed, though, haven’t they?” asked Melia, taking a sip of blue wine.
“Oh yes, we talked it all through. Daphne wanted to get past press night for this “Funicula” thing, or whatever it’s called. But now it’s set in stone, and planned to the last detail.”
“Well then, happy days are here again, no?”
“I hope so, Melia. I can’t stand any more cases like ‘Hubby-Bubby’ and his blasted fuckwives. Two cunts, three arseholes, six tits and four cocks between them – and they still dared to say the girl’s wasn’t big enough! I ask you…”
“Human society needs a re-set.”
“The world needs a re-set,” agreed Gaia, before pausing and pondering. “You know, what you said was so true: knowledge does not necessarily bring wisdom with it. When I was younger I, like Lucy, naïvely thought it would. But clearly we humans need to draw our wisdom from deeper sources. I hope we learn… someday.”
“Hey, you’ve done well, Gaia. Be satisfied. Soon you can go back to what you always wanted to do when you first became a doctor, which was to help people be healthy happy fuckers.”
“Well… maybe…” replied Gaia cautiously.
“Meaning?” Melia raised an eyebrow.
“I think… I might be retiring soon,” said Gaia.
“No?! You’re joking, right?”
“Um… no,” replied the doctor. “I… I’m tired, Melia. I’ve lost that love for this work that I used to have. And it’s not just all this dickgirl stuff. I… I guess I’m just getting older, and sex is just not quite as fascinating for me as it once was…” She chuckled self-deprecatingly.
“Well…” Melia made a slightly apologetic expression. “When was the last time?”
“What, for me?” replied Gaia in mock astonishment.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” smiled the alien.
“Oh God… ages!” smirked the doctor. “These days I don’t do, I just watch, take notes and analyse…”
“Well, let’s correct that, shall we?” Melia started to get up.
“What? No, no, Melia, you and I are the best of colleagues, and the best of friends: we have been for years. We should not mix work with pleasure…” A brief glimmer of doubt revealed itself on the doctor’s face, before she added, cheekily, “Should we…?” Melia laughed in recognition.
“Just shut your eyes, Doctor Gaia, and let me help you,” replied Melia, setting down her wine glass. “You deserve some joy, some catharsis.”
“Oh God,” muttered Gaia, but did as she was told.
“Cock or no cock?” Melia grinned, as she sat on the floor in front of her boss.
“Oh, God, no cock, please, dear. I’ve seen enough of those to last me a lifetime. Just something gentle and… feminine, if that’s OK… – oh!” Gaia gasped, as she felt Melia’s head softly disappearing under her long skirt, and her warm breath on her legs.
Melia, even in “feminine” mode, was a consummate artist, thought Gaia to herself, as she felt the alien’s unseen face burrow into her warm fragrant space. Melia’s lips were soft and moist, and they kissed tenderly up and down Gaia’s inner thighs, making curved and curling journeys back and forth, before gradually following the moisture and the scent to their sweet source. “Oh,” moaned Gaia, as she felt those soft alien lips – now, surely, beginning to turn blue, she thought to herself – begin to nibble at her outer flaps, and the extra-terrestrial’s tongue start to lick and probe at the soft space between.
“Oh, it’s been so long!” moaned Gaia, as she felt her slit begin to flare, felt her inner moisture begin to leak, for the first time in… “God, how long has it been?” she voiced aloud, as Melia giggled and smiled, still unseen beneath the doctor’s skirt.
Melia’s tongue – by now blue indeed, though neither of them could see it – was making long sweeping journeys up and down her boss’s dark fleshy lips, teasing them open to reveal the glistening pink flesh within. As Gaia’s cunt flowered, so did her fragrance fill the space beneath her skirt, drawing Melia in, until her long blue tongue nuzzled and scooped deeper and deeper, drawing out string upon string of viscous sweet nectar. “Oh, human cunt is so tasty!” came the muffled voice from beneath Gaia’s skirt.
Gaia laughed, and it was a multi-faceted laugh – firstly, a jocular reaction to Melia’s inter-species observation; then, relief that, at last, the whole Daphne crisis might be drawing to a close; then, the joy of anticipation of her retirement from this crazy job; and finally, though perhaps she didn’t quite recognise it yet, a laugh of devotion, of endearment, of adoration for this beautiful, slender, ageless extra-terrestrial who had been her constant companion for so many years and who was now buried between her thighs. It was precisely that adoration which turned Gaia’s chortle into a laugh not just of pleasure and relief, but of self-giving, of ecstasy, of meaning. “Oh God, Melia, I have so much to say to you!” cried Gaia, as her ecstasy grew towards its peak.
“Later, later, my dear,” grinned Melia as she clamped her mouth about Gaia’s dark brown vulva, her delicate nose buried in her dark damp fragrant bush, her azure lips nibbling at her swollen russet clit, her long blueberry tongue slurping deep into her pink cunt-hole.
When Gaia’s orgasm came, it did so not just as a temporary screech of pleasure, but as a profound heartfelt cry – cathartic yes, but also kenotic, as if it was the culminative expression of a whole life devoted to sex but never really discovering what it meant; it was, the thought passed though Gaia’s mind, as if this was her first glimpse, through a glass darkly, of something deeper, more lasting, more eternal than she had ever experienced before.
Melia of course knew, almost better than Gaia, what Gaia was thinking, for her ears – as you know, dear reader – were not just receptors of sound, but communicators of meaning and feeling and purpose such as humans could never imagine. And so when her head emerged from beneath the skirt, lips and tongue bright blue and cunt-glistening, ears twisting and thrashing with desire, Gaia felt that she understood both herself and her beloved colleague better than ever before. Her lips trembled, her chest pounded, and she knew what they must do. She pulled Melia upwards, and their lips and hearts met.
~
It was opening night. Lucy sat alone in a box of her own, as the drama unfolded on stage. It did not matter to her that this lovely sentimental drama about miners, bandits and bar-girls had been transformed into an incoherent pottage of nuclear holocausts, summary executions, torture, infanticide, abortion, incest, orgies… oh, and, for good measure, T-34 tanks charging back and forth across the stage at each scene change. For she had come to hear Daphne sing: her beloved futa wife who, it seemed, could make the theatre – nay, the world – resonate with the sound of angels.
Daphne began Minnie’s last long soliloquy, a sinuous hemiola-laden G-major monologue which wound its way into the heart as only Puccini could, its interpolated flattened mediant ninths subconsciously melting the hearts of the audience no less than the characters on stage. Lucy recognised her cue. Slipping out of her seat, she let herself quietly out of her box, crept to the end of the corridor, punched a code into a control panel next to a “Fire Exit Only” sign, and admitted herself backstage. Tiptoeing past lighting controllers and surtitle operators, she made her way quietly down several flights of stairs to the stage door, where, nodding to the security guard – who appeared more interested in stroking off to his copy of Escort magazine than anything else – she stood to watch the finale of the drama unfold on the backstage closed-circuit television.
Of course, Henke had done his best to ruin this part of the opera no less than any other. Instead of Minnie and Johnson riding blissfully off into the sunset on horseback, there appeared on stage a mocked-up Tupolev 95, the roar of whose engines threatened to comprehensively drown out both singers and orchestra. The audience, knowing a dud production when they saw one, jeered and booed and hissed, as they had all evening, but Daphne continued to sing with blissful impassivity: as Lucy knew, when her wife sang, her soul was elsewhere, exploring the eternal truth to which she had devoted her life – of which her voice was just an echo, a shadow, a narrow door.
Non sei tu che m’offrivi i fiori… she sang – “Was it not you who offered me flowers like those from your moorlands… remember those nights I stayed awake with you in your delirium… your eyes azure as a baby’s… I am your sister, who once taught you the supreme truth of love…” – la sorella che un giorno v’insegnò una suprema verità d’amore!
And so, the chorus of miners reluctantly unstrapped Duncan the Scots tenor from his electric chair, so he could embrace Daphne and follow her into the cockpit of her bomber – which proceeded, to jeers from the audience, to take off, soaring awkwardly above the stalls and up into the flies where it disappeared from sight.
Mai più ritornerai, mai più… – “Never again will you return,” mourned the male chorus from the stage, wiping their eyes as they saluted their beloved Minnie in the imaginary distance, to the accompaniment of rich harp arpeggios.
Addio mia dolce terra… addio!
Now Lucy heard Daphne’s footsteps briskly trotting down the stairs, saw her grin as she unceremoniously discarded her pilot’s goggles, helmet and gloves on the floor, and rushed into Lucy’s arms. Their lips pressed together, passionately but briefly, before they both asked, “Are you sure about this?”
Both giggled at the irony, and both replied “Yes!” before clasping hands and – ignoring the guard who was now panting in the throes of an ill-concealed self-administered orgasm (in honour of “real wife Sharon from Basingstoke”) – dashing out into the summer-twilit London backstreet. There stood a red telephone box, in the doorway of which grinned two women wearing white lab coats – one large and buxom with dark frizzy hair, the other slight and slender with light blue tresses down to her shoulders. They kissed each other on the lips and beamed, as they held the door open for their new guests.
“I love you, my darling,” said Daphne as, hand in hand, she and Lucy followed Gaia and Melia into the phone box.
“Together, forever – remember?” replied Lucy.
Back in the auditorium, the chorus had taken its bows, as had Duncan the tenor, Dai the balladeering baritone, and Bambi the dumb blonde mezzo, and the audience were clamouring for Daphne. “WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE, THE STUPID CUNT?!” bellowed Henke backstage, as the audience began an indignant unison slow clap.
But Daphne was not there anymore. For as she and Lucy shut the phone box door behind them, they felt a strange whirling sensation and a yank at their hips, as if they were being pulled forward without actually going anywhere. And then they were gone.
And as they opened the door into their new world, Daphne sang:
“Addio mia dolce terra. | Farewell, sweet Earth.
I am Daphne,
la sorella che v’insegnò una suprema verità. | your sister who taught you the supreme truth.
Nehmt mich als Zeichen einziger Liebe: | Accept me as a sign of eternal love:
I she who has been transformed.”
And Lucy smiled, as she had never smiled before.
And they saw that it was good.
CALA IL SIPARIO LENTAMENTE.
