he begins urinating into it. I let the piss fill my mouth till it
begins to overflow then I swallow it. The other two Professors laugh and hum and haw about how Arse-Fucker’s gone too far. I smile at them and shake my head, no, because I’m willing,
totally willing to please, to be the object of their desire, at their disposal, because I want to know in every fibre of my being what it means to be lesser, what it feels like to be trashed,
reviled, completely undone, completely woman.
Arse-Fucker brings me my clothes and asks if I want to shower.
I say, “No. Thank you, but thanks for the offer.” I don’t want to wash the experience away so quickly. I want to wear their come home with me like a badge of honour. I want to
feel them dry up inside me, on my thighs to where I see a clear layer of their come sticking to my body as if I were a child again playing with glue and watching it dry, peeling it only when
I’m ready, liking the way it feels as I unpeel it from my skin.
“Can I drive you to your car?” Arse-Fucker asks.
I smile, then burst into laughter, remembering that that was how the night began. He smiles, asks me for a hug, asks if I’m all right.
I answer, “I’m perfectly fine,” and as I say that to him I begin to feel it happening, all the “equal opportunity” bullshit that hovers over the psyche of men these
days and how awfully accommodating they’ve become towards women. I think for a second about how men probably truly feel and about how awful it is that they can’t be their complete
desirous flirtatious selves anymore. I become saddened when I think about how much honesty is lost inside of the whirl and twirl of “political correctness”. I think of him and his
politeness, his offers and how dry it all feels in comparison to the juiciness of his dominating ways. I begin missing Arse-Fucker’s madness. I want to feel like a sexual being, not shunned,
to feel that sense of sexuality alive and kicking in every pulse I walk by. I mean, why not? So I embrace the fantasy world, forgetting the graces of men, their smooth safe talk. I tell him,
“I don’t want you to ask me for a hug, if I want a ride or a shower. I want you to force me into letting you fuck me up the arse again even though I’m sore. I want you to make me
hum patriotic songs with your dick in my mouth.”
So with that, my fantasy ends with me humming, “Oh, Beautiful,” with Arse-Fucker’s cock in my mouth. “Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, Hmm . . .” He smiles, liking the music
that’s being played with his penis while Whiny and Pencil Dick pop beers and wait their turn.
Unicorn’s Ravine
Catriona (Caledon, Canada)
This is my movie. I direct it and form it. I am the cast and the writer and the producer. It is all mine.
My life, how should I say? Leaves a lot to be desired. In fact, it could be called dull, boring and not fulfilled. Usually I paint but this time I am painting a movie in my mind.
This is what I need.
Frame 1: See the unicorn, his head hanging low and his body close to the ground. Tiredness numbs every cell of his body. Instead of doing the many useful, constructive things
needing to be done by busy unicorns, he sits heavily, rests his head in the smooth warm hollow of his favourite rock and basks in a circle of sun. Light dapples the dense black of his coat. A blue
jay beside him screeches, raucous and wide-awake. His is the Canadian forest. He is king and I am about to be queen.
Frame 2: He rubs his horn against the bark of an elm and scratches at the earth, digging with his hoof, until, as if bored, he looks up at the sky and yawns.
The best part of spring is the pink trillium. He loves to put his nose right into the trumpet and breathe in the Ontarioness of the flower.
He has walked through a carpet of camomile and the air is full of the bitter-sweet smell of the herb.
He curses the world, and spring, and pink miliums and this strange sweet and bitter smell. He ambles to the stream,
begins to overflow then I swallow it. The other two Professors laugh and hum and haw about how Arse-Fucker’s gone too far. I smile at them and shake my head, no, because I’m willing,
totally willing to please, to be the object of their desire, at their disposal, because I want to know in every fibre of my being what it means to be lesser, what it feels like to be trashed,
reviled, completely undone, completely woman.
Arse-Fucker brings me my clothes and asks if I want to shower.
I say, “No. Thank you, but thanks for the offer.” I don’t want to wash the experience away so quickly. I want to wear their come home with me like a badge of honour. I want to
feel them dry up inside me, on my thighs to where I see a clear layer of their come sticking to my body as if I were a child again playing with glue and watching it dry, peeling it only when
I’m ready, liking the way it feels as I unpeel it from my skin.
“Can I drive you to your car?” Arse-Fucker asks.
I smile, then burst into laughter, remembering that that was how the night began. He smiles, asks me for a hug, asks if I’m all right.
I answer, “I’m perfectly fine,” and as I say that to him I begin to feel it happening, all the “equal opportunity” bullshit that hovers over the psyche of men these
days and how awfully accommodating they’ve become towards women. I think for a second about how men probably truly feel and about how awful it is that they can’t be their complete
desirous flirtatious selves anymore. I become saddened when I think about how much honesty is lost inside of the whirl and twirl of “political correctness”. I think of him and his
politeness, his offers and how dry it all feels in comparison to the juiciness of his dominating ways. I begin missing Arse-Fucker’s madness. I want to feel like a sexual being, not shunned,
to feel that sense of sexuality alive and kicking in every pulse I walk by. I mean, why not? So I embrace the fantasy world, forgetting the graces of men, their smooth safe talk. I tell him,
“I don’t want you to ask me for a hug, if I want a ride or a shower. I want you to force me into letting you fuck me up the arse again even though I’m sore. I want you to make me
hum patriotic songs with your dick in my mouth.”
So with that, my fantasy ends with me humming, “Oh, Beautiful,” with Arse-Fucker’s cock in my mouth. “Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, Hmm . . .” He smiles, liking the music
that’s being played with his penis while Whiny and Pencil Dick pop beers and wait their turn.
Unicorn’s Ravine
Catriona (Caledon, Canada)
This is my movie. I direct it and form it. I am the cast and the writer and the producer. It is all mine.
My life, how should I say? Leaves a lot to be desired. In fact, it could be called dull, boring and not fulfilled. Usually I paint but this time I am painting a movie in my mind.
This is what I need.
Frame 1: See the unicorn, his head hanging low and his body close to the ground. Tiredness numbs every cell of his body. Instead of doing the many useful, constructive things
needing to be done by busy unicorns, he sits heavily, rests his head in the smooth warm hollow of his favourite rock and basks in a circle of sun. Light dapples the dense black of his coat. A blue
jay beside him screeches, raucous and wide-awake. His is the Canadian forest. He is king and I am about to be queen.
Frame 2: He rubs his horn against the bark of an elm and scratches at the earth, digging with his hoof, until, as if bored, he looks up at the sky and yawns.
The best part of spring is the pink trillium. He loves to put his nose right into the trumpet and breathe in the Ontarioness of the flower.
He has walked through a carpet of camomile and the air is full of the bitter-sweet smell of the herb.
He curses the world, and spring, and pink miliums and this strange sweet and bitter smell. He ambles to the stream,
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