FLAMES c. 2024 by Steve Orr
Dust. Flames. My being. His being inscribed in my memory. In my every other action, his presence, his feelings and touch, living again. The lids over my eyes, my eyes themselves, my body—all a part of a my Father’s legacy. It takes more than seven years for a body to decompose. Seven years for the fat, muscle, skin, tendon and sinew to wear down, rot, become food for other living things, transform to gas and finally dust. Even then teeth and bone exist for years. It takes a lifetime to give in to the pain inflicted by that body, to feel that longing for the unloving Father; to forgive and get on with it.
I always hated my weird belly and that almost obscene rim of adipose tissue that protrudes, exactly where my belly button is. Now looking beyond 71, my elusive six-pack seems further away than ever (the wine and beer don’t help, nor the late night array of comfort food snacks). But I don’t have a paunch, like he did. Nor do I have huge rolls of belly fat, and pecs more like a nursing, pregnant woman, like he did. Obesity was listed as the primary cause of death on my Father’s death certificate. He was young, only 44 when he died. This happened, my Mother swore while he was inside her, that final night when The Big One came. And every time I see that small black and white photo taken just months before he died, his frozen glaze is that of a 60-something man, slight smile somewhere between sarcastic and dazed with just a pinch of pain in the eyes as if he could see his early end and was determined to ignore it with a fake chin-up smile.
This year was the 52nd since my Father died and the 40th or so since his body turned to dust. It’s also been some 66 years since I sat next to him in the front seat of a shiny, puffy 1958 Buick watching as the flames curl and dance on this flesh. On my left, Mother drove us frantically up the hill to the hospital. In the parking lot the Buick screeched to a stop, the door on the passenger side lunging open and my Father emerging, screaming and running up the front steps to the hospital doors, naked except for the dimpled white cotton bedspread he’d wrapped about his nude, flaming flesh.
On some Sunday in the 50s, in the downstairs bedroom of a little, white house on a hill overlooking the winding Mississippi River where below, the small Illinois town stretched out like a patchwork quilt, my Mother and I were lying curled, under the covers of a warm bed, smelling of chocolate stars, hair and her. She, gently gurgling in her sleep while wrapping me hard in her arms like a velvet vise, the scratchy hair in between her legs pressing into me like wire,, squeezing against my puppy’s body.
A scream shook us from our nesting. A high-pitched animal sound shattering the air like a kind of bellowing devil. I began to cry. My Mother ran from the bed and disappeared into the kitchen. Then she started screaming too. I realized my Father was the screaming creature, with the sounds coming from the basement. I could make out words now.
Oh God help me Pauline. Help me, help, help! He said it over and over, yelling and bellowing in between shorter screams and wheezing breaths.. Then I heard my Mother’s voice raising in a yell-scream unison, I’ll get the car! Hector can you make it to the car? Come up the stairs and get in the car-I’ll take you to the hospital!!!
My Mother ran upstairs to check on my older brother and instructed him to call the fire department. I was crying and rubbing my eyes as I stumbled to where the animal sounds were coming from. In the kitchen, standing at the top of the basement stairs and staring down, I saw him—
It was my Father. He was on fire. He was screaming. He was doing a kind of dance, on the floor now, rolling and wrapping himself in an old army mattress, then getting up, turning in a small circle and down again with the, rolling and wrappin. The gas smell and smoke waved around and off of him in angry, grey curtains.
Aaaee, I’m on fire. Look out! He screamed. The mattress shouldered and smoked as he rolled on the floor in it, again and again, a burning-to-death-wrestling match. This was death. In my child’s mind I realized it for the first time. I would act out my Father many times in future childhood years, wrapping myself hard-up in a sheet or a blanket then attempting to get up from the floor and stand erect. I called this game Worm in which I wrapped myself up again and again so tightly. Worm=death.
I don’t recall how all three of us got into the car. I do recall that it was a very long slanted cement sidewalk up to that big, shiny, black Buick rounded and puffed like a marshmallow, waiting, engine on, parked in the street. My Mother must have somehow got me in the front seat.
Hector get in the car. GET IN THE CAR! She yelled and yelled. He slid in right next to me. I cried louder now that this flaming thing was next to me—he himself whimpering and crying. His body was wet, probably with a combo plate of gas, sweat and his own burned boils and body fluid. Out of the corner of my teary eyes I notice something moving. I looked down and to my right and watched in terror as a single flame still smouldered and singed, knowingly burning, feeding and peeling a lengthy patch of his skin away as it danced, moving almost salaciously up his left forearm from his wrist. The thing was forming his skin into a flaming curl, eating itself. Orange on pink. The edge of the flesh was red-black and bubbling and cracking where the heat continued to roast skin; where the single, blue flame continued to dance and whisper like a tiny, blue devil, rubbing, giggling and laughing at us, a family of three, out for a pleasant Sunday morning drive. Sailing up the Hospital Hill. Mommy driving, Stevie next to her and Daddy on fire.
When we arrived in the hospital parking lot Mother screamed on the brakes. The car lunged to a stop, my Father grappled at the car door and threw it open, and flew up the hospital steps to the entrance, nude except for that dimpled cotton bedspread he’d wrapped around himself at the house.
Run Hector Run my Mother screamed like a hysterical cheerleader. The image of his running, jiggling, naked body flying up those hospital stairs and through the entrance to the hospital, the bedspread trailing behind and out from him like wings, constantly plays in my mind over and over like a lost, scratchy, looping film clip. For so long I tried to forget it, and this year it appeared like some sleepless ghost, the relic of a fallen angel replaying over and over again. My Father’s ghost, a burning man running to save his own life. Winged victory.
I remember praying that day, the next and a number of days afterward. Hattie our beloved old lady next door watched over us while Mom was at the hospital. That day, alone I prayed to God. That was the first time I remember praying hard for something. I addressed the stern, old bearded man on the throne, looking up through the porched in screen doors somewhere toward heaven, my hands clasped.
Please God don’t let my Daddy die. Oh, please God don’t let him die. My Daddy, my Father, please oh don’t God, please. I knew Hattie was watching me silently from her kitchen. Time passed.
Soon we heard that Father was going to be alright. What a relief! The details of the accident became more and more clear. He’d been cleaning out the water heater with gasoline and had neglected to turn off the pilot light. The cleaning rag he was using somehow caught on fire and there was a small explosion of gasoline with most of it enveloping the front part of his body. Burns covered like 70% of his torso, ranging from first to third degree. The latter necessitated skin grafts. I still recall him later showing us certain scars on the back of his thighs and calves where they’d removed the skin for the grafts. He had saved himself as a result of quick thinking survival skills. These he’d gleaned from serving as a sailor in WWII and Korea. Immediately after the explosion, by the simple action of wrapping himself up in an old army mattress, and rolling on the floor again and again to smother the flames, he’d saved himself. I never actually saw him during his stay at the hospital as the staff was probably afraid of infection. A neighbor would sometimes walk me up to the bluff where we used to fly kites as kids. Below, stretched out Savanna, the sleepy Illinois river town lie along the white-capped Mississippi like a patch work quilt. The bluff abutted the rear of the hospital. The neighbor would point to a uncurtained window on the 3rd or 4th floor and we would see a mysterious hand waving back and forth. Wave to your Dad, Steve. See your Dad?
After about a month he came home. For weeks and weeks he had to walk around without a shirt. I recall sitting at the end of the dinner table just staring at his glistening chest, solar plexus and belly. He was all shining and wet, red and bloody with dark, black creases of various colors where the burns had been third degree and where most of the skin grafts had been attached. Often the healing scabs would form pus from the blisters many of which were still weeping.. I recall my Mother using lots of thick rolls of cotton to absorb the exudate; and lots of rubbing alcohol and witch hazel for use as a splash-on to cool his body. The pain he went through must have been insane, an agony to move, or even sleep—the skin being the most touch sensitive organ of the body. He’d been through a trauma, a war between the gas, the fire and his body. Having survived his tissue needed to fester, itch, scab and re-scab, tingle, lick itself and slough off, forming new layers as it healed. For minutes or seconds I would just stare, hypnotized by the angry, quilted map of bloody scabs, blisters and wetness that sat directly across from me.. My Father, a bloody master, a living horror movie just sitting there with a slightly embarrassed, apologetic smile. I would stare until nausea overcame me and the soft, warm smells of my food became an extension of the monster-thing across from me. I would be excused from the table often and encouraged to take my plate into the living room. In front of the TV I would lay on my stomach, eating and watching Superman, so relieved to be out of sight of my monster Father.
Dust now. Flames in the memory. My being and his being, merged as one, then seared apart as the flames seared his skin. Father and son, the dead and the living.
It takes more than seven years for the human body to decompose. Seven years for the fat, muscle, skin, tendon and sinew to wear down, decompose and rot, becoming food for other living things, transform to gas and finally turn to dust. Even then certain touch memories and emotional echoes live on and on down through the generations until they too become dust, burned in the flames of oblivion.
Wednesday, September 11, 2024
Wednesday, April 17, 2024
Thursday, February 29, 2024
Friday, January 19, 2024
1-19-24 Check-in, Karma, content creation - not in that order!
Fighting this tremendous sense of both cabin fever and a hard-core cold (my first in a year). Also fighting the urge to drink (I will get my nightly ONE beer and cocktail with bitters but later). The neighbors upstairs seemed to be chilling out which is nice. (No BUMP BUMP STOMP STOMP! Whew what a relief).
So I did rent studio time but likely not going to bike over to Abrons Art Center to play. The piano is dreadfully out of tune. And thanks to my friend Audrey (“Teatime for the Sensitive Musician”) I deduced, formulated, created 4 major creative chores that I want to accomplish tonight! Interesting that one of the major “obstructions/blocks” to creative flow that we floored today and did lots of Emotional Freedom Technique i.e., “tapping” on today was procrastination and I bare witness herein that I’m guilty. We also clarified what's known as "9 gamut" and eye movements with humming. Procrastination, distractions, gosh...yes I’ll blame it on the cabin fever. So restless...maybe an edible will help. NOW.
Clients slow; just some dingbat student called up today. She sounded like a rich, spoiled brat and displayed not one iota of gratitude when I said I’d do her for an hour for a C-note. She continued to ask inane questions and finally hung up when I said that any interaction sensually speaking had to be “safe” (i.e., condoms). I blocked “it.” More and more I have been running into these younger queens who not only desire full out penetration but also insist on being bred (Skin to Skin) which basically means they want fluids (from the master masseur) deposited directly into their “bank vaults” interest free I might add. Interesting. Does it make them feel more authentically validated?! I wonder? Probably not. Ego boost though. Maybe it’s the two-spirit urge i.e. “ape the female egg fertilization” act. Who knows?
Anyway popularity growing on my YT channel (some 12G plus views lately – wow) and I have no doubt it’s because I’m doing my talking heads thing without wearing a shirt. LOL. The highest viewed video was called “doing exercise while smiling.” Me thinks I’m totally over thinking this whole Social Media thing. Today I discussed Content creation, self-pleasuring and karma.
See the latest link below (this vlog log entry also contains a demo on cross-fiber friction on myself and yes my knee does feel much better thank you Steve—you’re welcome Healing ‘ho. : ). LOL.
These are all currently private. Please email if you wish to view! Thanks! nycmasseur dot com/blog
Thanks for reading my blog and call hot Daddy tonight as he/she/it/they definitely IS available. Friday 6:54 PM 1-19-24...)
Friday, December 29, 2023
THE BRAIN EXCHANGE
c. 2023 by Saintorr
RSD0089 on Manhunt.com was sending me lots of emails about getting together. He had one of those headless torso pictures. It was quite muscular which I found attractive. But headless. And you never know what kind of face you’re going to get with those. One day he finally sent me a picture of his face. He was Asian with lots of acne, a blotchy red complexion and a slight overbite. He looked to be in his late 30's. He called himself Norman. I re-christened him homely but hot "Normal Norman."
You see, I’m in inventor. I call myself a doctor, though I don’t put any stock in certifications and degrees. They’re all just pieces of paper, letters behind a name, and so much blithering dogma. I am a student of the universe, entirely self-taught and free from the constraints of conventional society and its drudging institutions. While most peons march mindlessly through the muck of ordinary living and boring days on their way to the grave, my mind soars at the speed of light!
I invited Normal Norman over to my loft on the Upper Westside of Manhattan. I own an entire floor, with a private elevator of course. It doubles as my laboratory. After he arrived, I drugged him with a sleeping powder I’d purchased at my favorite Santeria Shop on Eldridge St., then, I stripped him buck naked and strapped him tightly onto the padded and heated steel table in my lab, I like my subjects to be comfortable. His body was very well-toned and even more muscular than I had noticed in that headless picture. I began to play with his cock and instantly it became fully erect with a fine, cut, mushroom head. What joy! I had the urge, so I sucked him. Semi-conscious, he began to writhe and moan within the straps. I kept working it, and after about five frenzied minutes of intense cock-sucking, the hot cum exploded in my mouth. I swallowed it all, then I sat back and took three deep breaths.
The steel table upon which he lay made up an integral part of my latest and most glorious invention called “the brain exchange.” Besides being padded and comfortably heated, as I mentioned before, my table can accommodates two. Eight sets of straps of adjustable lengths (to secure any body type) built to gently constrain, secure, and induce my experimental subjects to remain calm and motionless. I have a fetish for passive, constrained bodies, bodies I'm free to have my way with. Heavenly.
Next to Normal Norman lay my other subject. A six-year-old named Musette whom I’d kidnapped (a-hem, acquired) from the Short Hills shopping mall in New Jersey two nights before. Musette was a golden-haired princess, a carbon copy of the hapless Jon Benet Ramsey. After plucking her from that horribly overpriced mall, stealing her back to my lab, stripping and strapping her tiny nude perfect body on top of my padded steel table, I must admit, I--I couldn’t help myself. I began kissing her all over and, and even smooching her tiny, hairless little twat. Out of fear I suppose--she peed right in my face--a jet of hot urine burning straight into my eyes. She was screaming and crying for her mommy and daddy. Her carrying on was unbearable, until I applied Esmeralda. Esmeralda is my magic wand, my cattle prod, my stop-talking-back teaching tool. A few delicate taps, with a tiny ZIP ZIP here and a ZIP ZIP there, followed by the soft, subtle aroma of singeing, girl-child flesh, and touche, tough love is born, along with sweet, golden silence.
After some conditioning, Musette began to change her attitude toward me. During our lessons, I applied Esmeralda if she misbehaved or acted ungrateful in any way. If she showed me affection, smiled, and expressed a nuance of vulnerable intimacy, I applied a single, small drop of medical grade pure golden heroin to her lips. This heavenly candy, I had acquired from my dealer Fernando at a very hefty fee. Musette was a smart child who responded very well to discipline, and even better to addiction. How fondly I recall the words I used to transform her tiny heart from a thing of fear, to a thing of unconditional desire for her new Daddy and doctor--me. And to think I also induced in her, a childlike but almost souless craving for that Heavenly Candy, which only I could supply.
Over and over again, I instructed in a soothing voice; “Your have a new name now, your new name is Musette. I am your Daddy, and your doctor. You will enjoy my kisses on your mouth and when I kiss you where your pee pee comes out, it will make you happy. It will make you smile—like ice cream and cookies make you smile. Otherwise angry Esmeralda will come again and sting you like a big bad spider!"
I could see her wheels turning, and after more applications of my handy tool (forgive my indelicate double entendre) over the course of 48 hours, my darling little captive love slave came around. By the time I had to leave our little Love Lab Lair, to meet, greet, procure and constrain Normal Norman, Musette was begging me to kiss her fully on the mouth and lips; crying for me to stimulate her small but hungry pussy by fingering or nibbling on it gently. But alas, it was never enough. Even after hours of stimulation, Musette opened her mouth for more. Then I applied that single drop of heavenly candy. She was voracious, whether for the sexual stimulation or for the candy, I'm not sure. At one point during my instruction, my golden-maned little love goddess did in fact cum. I’m quite sure, in fact, I both saw, and tasted it with my own eyes. The milky wisps of her girl-child jism gurgling out of her hot hairless hummingbird hole like petite waves of vanilla cream spurting out again and again. I licked away every drop while she sighed and giggled and shivered. She was making outstanding progress, yet there was one thing I had to fix. I abhor the female personality and it had to be extracted from that tiny body. This is where Normal Norman came in.
After all the preparations were complete, I stared down at both subjects. First at naked Normal Norman, moaning softly with his exquisite body and blotchy pizza face, then at lovely little Musette looking every bit the love-starved little cupid that my insidious and psychotic lessons had trained her for. She turned her head toward me, slit her eyes, and panted, like a hungry little nympho. As she wriggled her wrists and legs in the constraints, I noticed there was something almost feral in her contenance. She was pursing, then smacking her lips, then chomping and gnashing her tiny pearl-like teeth. For a moment, they looked pointed. There was no sound, except for the clicking and grinding of the teeth. As I kept staring at her, she became more like a little, hungry ghost or a demon, than a mere girl-child and I found myself getting hard. I had to fight the urge to clamp down on her neck with my bare hands, until her tiny hyoid bone went POP. Then I would fuck her, lifting her by the neck, and lowering her onto my steel cock like a skewer. Stabbing into her tiny hole, I would push her down deeper and deeper onto me, until the hole began to rip, bouncing her on the sharp tip of my seething cock like a lifeless used tampon. I would fuck her up and down, again and again. I myself, became the devil and my cock as a serrated pitchfork-shaped eel, with only one all-consuming urge, to drill and cut and slice, until the friction and the stimulation made me explode with hot endless spurts of cum. Could there be a trace of her child hymen remaining after all this rubbing, power pumping and penetration? I would find out. I would suck her hole then, like a straw-toothed dragon, draining and biting into her like a gnashing, famished; meat-eating monster feeds on some smaller, insignificant prey. I gasped and opened my eyes. The fantasy passed.
Now, both my lovelies were strapped onto the steel table as I told you, each secured by their own set of straps. They were the picture of docility. Norman, so still with the sleeping powder still in effect, and Musette, lulled into a trance by a few drops of her beloved Heavenly Candy which I had applied eariler to her angelic, demonic, cherry pink lips.
I had also strapped onto both their heads another element of my Brain Exchange, the brain caps, which resembled a combination of both a yamaka (a bit of a homage I suppose to my living so long in my beloved New York—or “Jew York” as I sometimes playfully referred to it), and a skull cap. However these parts of my machine were made of copper, thus facilitating the conduction of the electric current carrying the transference in, around, and through my subject’s heads and culminating in the exchange of the essences of their brains’ wealth of knowledge and memories, indeed their very personalities, or their very Souls with each other. This was my creation and I loved it as only a father could.
I pulled the switch. At once both my subjects’ bodies became rigid and contracted up off the tables, their chests arched into frozen angles, as if in electrical shock. They were rigid for a few moments, then the machine stopped, and both bodies fell back into their former, neutral, relaxed positions. Their breathing resumed its normal rhythm. Their faces looked calm, peaceful even, as if they were dreaming.
I roused the body of Musette—which now contained the personality, heart and soul of Normal Norman. I gave her water, caressed her and spoke in assuring whispers for her to not be afraid. "All is well my darling, I must run a little errand but will be right back," I said to her.
As for Norman, I dressed him in a loud red polka-dot pinafore and saddle-shoes, then led him into my van with his hands tied in front of him. He was as docile as a lamb. I fastened his seat belt and drove us out to the far reaches of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I drove past polluted marshlands and cheap, ugly housing projects. I turned off the main highway. We were somewhere outside Great Neck, Long Island. I stopped and set Norman free, unlocking his seat belt and pushing him out the van door. He fell down but got back up. I felt sorry for him, looking so lost and sad and out of place with his new body. He began to cry.
“Don’t worry Musette—I’ve called your parents and your Mummy will be by shortly to pick you up” I said. “What's happened to me??" he pleaded, crying louder, "Don’t leave me-don't leave me!" I took off quickly. I didn't look back, for there’s nothing worse than hearing the pleading of a six-year-old-girl coming out of the mouth of a grown man with a bad complexion wearing an ugly dress. I drove back to my lovely prize, knowing that now inside the body of this little girl, was the brain of full grown man.
In honor of the victory of the happy ending to my experiment, I felt very gay and reckless. Musette, now with Normal Norman’s brain safely ensconced in her lovely little velveteen body, and I moved to South America. I let the news leak out via the global terrorist black market of what my invention was, its unlimited applications as a weapon, and its availability to the highest bidder. Covert negotiations commenced with several reliable sources whose funds numbered in the billions. Shortly my invention was sold to the highest bidder.
The first month of settling in Brazil, I received a down payment of $2 billion dollars from an Israeli Defense contractor desperate for my Brain Exchanger. The second month in our new location, I made Musette undergo plastic surgery to alter her appearance. This was necessary to cover any traces of our old life and to avoid any suspicion, given our age difference. Finally, I adopted her.
For years in a mansion by the sea in one of the wealthiest suburbs of Rio we enjoyed the sun, fine dining, attentive servants, and the carnal pleasures of each other’s bodies. When bored, we often indulged in the cheap, gorgeous black-haired, Brazilian whores who sold distraction, comfort, and sensual release. Sometimes men and sometimes women.
This went on for two decades, until dear Musette met with a tragic accident. While hand-feeding the twenty-four piranahas we kept in our floor-to-ceiling aquarium, she fell in. In a matter of moments, the fish had ravaged her, biting off her legs, breasts, and part of her vagina. During her slow and painful convalescence, the injuries proved to be too much. The big finish came when she overdosed on a lethal cocktail of the Chinese herbal formula called Relaxed Wonderer Plus, Absolute Mango Vodka, and an ounce of Heavenly Candy (to which she had developed an addiction, through the years, with my help). I had her mangled body stuffed and donated it to the Museu Nacional. To this very day, you may see her. She's on the third floor, in the diorama entitled "Aztec Virgin Sacrifice to the Sun God." She looks marvelous, with strategically placed native Indian feathres, silks, and beads, concealing any traces of piranha bites and traumatic scars.
I have returned to the east coast of America, and obtained an estate on the outskirts of Secaucus. I have rebuilt, deep within the bowels of my mansion, a clone of my first Brain Exchange. This model though, is much faster, gentler and more fuel efficient. Green as they say nowadays. I’m on Scruff now, nightly, rummaging for a suitable male subject, and tomorrow you may see me shopping at the Short Hills mall for a new child bride. End
RSD0089 on Manhunt.com was sending me lots of emails about getting together. He had one of those headless torso pictures. It was quite muscular which I found attractive. But headless. And you never know what kind of face you’re going to get with those. One day he finally sent me a picture of his face. He was Asian with lots of acne, a blotchy red complexion and a slight overbite. He looked to be in his late 30's. He called himself Norman. I re-christened him homely but hot "Normal Norman."
You see, I’m in inventor. I call myself a doctor, though I don’t put any stock in certifications and degrees. They’re all just pieces of paper, letters behind a name, and so much blithering dogma. I am a student of the universe, entirely self-taught and free from the constraints of conventional society and its drudging institutions. While most peons march mindlessly through the muck of ordinary living and boring days on their way to the grave, my mind soars at the speed of light!
I invited Normal Norman over to my loft on the Upper Westside of Manhattan. I own an entire floor, with a private elevator of course. It doubles as my laboratory. After he arrived, I drugged him with a sleeping powder I’d purchased at my favorite Santeria Shop on Eldridge St., then, I stripped him buck naked and strapped him tightly onto the padded and heated steel table in my lab, I like my subjects to be comfortable. His body was very well-toned and even more muscular than I had noticed in that headless picture. I began to play with his cock and instantly it became fully erect with a fine, cut, mushroom head. What joy! I had the urge, so I sucked him. Semi-conscious, he began to writhe and moan within the straps. I kept working it, and after about five frenzied minutes of intense cock-sucking, the hot cum exploded in my mouth. I swallowed it all, then I sat back and took three deep breaths.
The steel table upon which he lay made up an integral part of my latest and most glorious invention called “the brain exchange.” Besides being padded and comfortably heated, as I mentioned before, my table can accommodates two. Eight sets of straps of adjustable lengths (to secure any body type) built to gently constrain, secure, and induce my experimental subjects to remain calm and motionless. I have a fetish for passive, constrained bodies, bodies I'm free to have my way with. Heavenly.
Next to Normal Norman lay my other subject. A six-year-old named Musette whom I’d kidnapped (a-hem, acquired) from the Short Hills shopping mall in New Jersey two nights before. Musette was a golden-haired princess, a carbon copy of the hapless Jon Benet Ramsey. After plucking her from that horribly overpriced mall, stealing her back to my lab, stripping and strapping her tiny nude perfect body on top of my padded steel table, I must admit, I--I couldn’t help myself. I began kissing her all over and, and even smooching her tiny, hairless little twat. Out of fear I suppose--she peed right in my face--a jet of hot urine burning straight into my eyes. She was screaming and crying for her mommy and daddy. Her carrying on was unbearable, until I applied Esmeralda. Esmeralda is my magic wand, my cattle prod, my stop-talking-back teaching tool. A few delicate taps, with a tiny ZIP ZIP here and a ZIP ZIP there, followed by the soft, subtle aroma of singeing, girl-child flesh, and touche, tough love is born, along with sweet, golden silence.
After some conditioning, Musette began to change her attitude toward me. During our lessons, I applied Esmeralda if she misbehaved or acted ungrateful in any way. If she showed me affection, smiled, and expressed a nuance of vulnerable intimacy, I applied a single, small drop of medical grade pure golden heroin to her lips. This heavenly candy, I had acquired from my dealer Fernando at a very hefty fee. Musette was a smart child who responded very well to discipline, and even better to addiction. How fondly I recall the words I used to transform her tiny heart from a thing of fear, to a thing of unconditional desire for her new Daddy and doctor--me. And to think I also induced in her, a childlike but almost souless craving for that Heavenly Candy, which only I could supply.
Over and over again, I instructed in a soothing voice; “Your have a new name now, your new name is Musette. I am your Daddy, and your doctor. You will enjoy my kisses on your mouth and when I kiss you where your pee pee comes out, it will make you happy. It will make you smile—like ice cream and cookies make you smile. Otherwise angry Esmeralda will come again and sting you like a big bad spider!"
I could see her wheels turning, and after more applications of my handy tool (forgive my indelicate double entendre) over the course of 48 hours, my darling little captive love slave came around. By the time I had to leave our little Love Lab Lair, to meet, greet, procure and constrain Normal Norman, Musette was begging me to kiss her fully on the mouth and lips; crying for me to stimulate her small but hungry pussy by fingering or nibbling on it gently. But alas, it was never enough. Even after hours of stimulation, Musette opened her mouth for more. Then I applied that single drop of heavenly candy. She was voracious, whether for the sexual stimulation or for the candy, I'm not sure. At one point during my instruction, my golden-maned little love goddess did in fact cum. I’m quite sure, in fact, I both saw, and tasted it with my own eyes. The milky wisps of her girl-child jism gurgling out of her hot hairless hummingbird hole like petite waves of vanilla cream spurting out again and again. I licked away every drop while she sighed and giggled and shivered. She was making outstanding progress, yet there was one thing I had to fix. I abhor the female personality and it had to be extracted from that tiny body. This is where Normal Norman came in.
After all the preparations were complete, I stared down at both subjects. First at naked Normal Norman, moaning softly with his exquisite body and blotchy pizza face, then at lovely little Musette looking every bit the love-starved little cupid that my insidious and psychotic lessons had trained her for. She turned her head toward me, slit her eyes, and panted, like a hungry little nympho. As she wriggled her wrists and legs in the constraints, I noticed there was something almost feral in her contenance. She was pursing, then smacking her lips, then chomping and gnashing her tiny pearl-like teeth. For a moment, they looked pointed. There was no sound, except for the clicking and grinding of the teeth. As I kept staring at her, she became more like a little, hungry ghost or a demon, than a mere girl-child and I found myself getting hard. I had to fight the urge to clamp down on her neck with my bare hands, until her tiny hyoid bone went POP. Then I would fuck her, lifting her by the neck, and lowering her onto my steel cock like a skewer. Stabbing into her tiny hole, I would push her down deeper and deeper onto me, until the hole began to rip, bouncing her on the sharp tip of my seething cock like a lifeless used tampon. I would fuck her up and down, again and again. I myself, became the devil and my cock as a serrated pitchfork-shaped eel, with only one all-consuming urge, to drill and cut and slice, until the friction and the stimulation made me explode with hot endless spurts of cum. Could there be a trace of her child hymen remaining after all this rubbing, power pumping and penetration? I would find out. I would suck her hole then, like a straw-toothed dragon, draining and biting into her like a gnashing, famished; meat-eating monster feeds on some smaller, insignificant prey. I gasped and opened my eyes. The fantasy passed.
Now, both my lovelies were strapped onto the steel table as I told you, each secured by their own set of straps. They were the picture of docility. Norman, so still with the sleeping powder still in effect, and Musette, lulled into a trance by a few drops of her beloved Heavenly Candy which I had applied eariler to her angelic, demonic, cherry pink lips.
I had also strapped onto both their heads another element of my Brain Exchange, the brain caps, which resembled a combination of both a yamaka (a bit of a homage I suppose to my living so long in my beloved New York—or “Jew York” as I sometimes playfully referred to it), and a skull cap. However these parts of my machine were made of copper, thus facilitating the conduction of the electric current carrying the transference in, around, and through my subject’s heads and culminating in the exchange of the essences of their brains’ wealth of knowledge and memories, indeed their very personalities, or their very Souls with each other. This was my creation and I loved it as only a father could.
I pulled the switch. At once both my subjects’ bodies became rigid and contracted up off the tables, their chests arched into frozen angles, as if in electrical shock. They were rigid for a few moments, then the machine stopped, and both bodies fell back into their former, neutral, relaxed positions. Their breathing resumed its normal rhythm. Their faces looked calm, peaceful even, as if they were dreaming.
I roused the body of Musette—which now contained the personality, heart and soul of Normal Norman. I gave her water, caressed her and spoke in assuring whispers for her to not be afraid. "All is well my darling, I must run a little errand but will be right back," I said to her.
As for Norman, I dressed him in a loud red polka-dot pinafore and saddle-shoes, then led him into my van with his hands tied in front of him. He was as docile as a lamb. I fastened his seat belt and drove us out to the far reaches of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I drove past polluted marshlands and cheap, ugly housing projects. I turned off the main highway. We were somewhere outside Great Neck, Long Island. I stopped and set Norman free, unlocking his seat belt and pushing him out the van door. He fell down but got back up. I felt sorry for him, looking so lost and sad and out of place with his new body. He began to cry.
“Don’t worry Musette—I’ve called your parents and your Mummy will be by shortly to pick you up” I said. “What's happened to me??" he pleaded, crying louder, "Don’t leave me-don't leave me!" I took off quickly. I didn't look back, for there’s nothing worse than hearing the pleading of a six-year-old-girl coming out of the mouth of a grown man with a bad complexion wearing an ugly dress. I drove back to my lovely prize, knowing that now inside the body of this little girl, was the brain of full grown man.
In honor of the victory of the happy ending to my experiment, I felt very gay and reckless. Musette, now with Normal Norman’s brain safely ensconced in her lovely little velveteen body, and I moved to South America. I let the news leak out via the global terrorist black market of what my invention was, its unlimited applications as a weapon, and its availability to the highest bidder. Covert negotiations commenced with several reliable sources whose funds numbered in the billions. Shortly my invention was sold to the highest bidder.
The first month of settling in Brazil, I received a down payment of $2 billion dollars from an Israeli Defense contractor desperate for my Brain Exchanger. The second month in our new location, I made Musette undergo plastic surgery to alter her appearance. This was necessary to cover any traces of our old life and to avoid any suspicion, given our age difference. Finally, I adopted her.
For years in a mansion by the sea in one of the wealthiest suburbs of Rio we enjoyed the sun, fine dining, attentive servants, and the carnal pleasures of each other’s bodies. When bored, we often indulged in the cheap, gorgeous black-haired, Brazilian whores who sold distraction, comfort, and sensual release. Sometimes men and sometimes women.
This went on for two decades, until dear Musette met with a tragic accident. While hand-feeding the twenty-four piranahas we kept in our floor-to-ceiling aquarium, she fell in. In a matter of moments, the fish had ravaged her, biting off her legs, breasts, and part of her vagina. During her slow and painful convalescence, the injuries proved to be too much. The big finish came when she overdosed on a lethal cocktail of the Chinese herbal formula called Relaxed Wonderer Plus, Absolute Mango Vodka, and an ounce of Heavenly Candy (to which she had developed an addiction, through the years, with my help). I had her mangled body stuffed and donated it to the Museu Nacional. To this very day, you may see her. She's on the third floor, in the diorama entitled "Aztec Virgin Sacrifice to the Sun God." She looks marvelous, with strategically placed native Indian feathres, silks, and beads, concealing any traces of piranha bites and traumatic scars.
I have returned to the east coast of America, and obtained an estate on the outskirts of Secaucus. I have rebuilt, deep within the bowels of my mansion, a clone of my first Brain Exchange. This model though, is much faster, gentler and more fuel efficient. Green as they say nowadays. I’m on Scruff now, nightly, rummaging for a suitable male subject, and tomorrow you may see me shopping at the Short Hills mall for a new child bride. End
Thursday, December 21, 2023
GREEN TEA c. 2023 by Saintorr
On his early morning walk in the woods near their campsite, his father found a large, thick brown and gray stick with a pointed end, around 5 inches in diameter. It was the perfect tool for the job. It was about an hour after sunrise, with the air chilly for early September. Tiny sparrow-like finches with stripped brown and white heads peeped and fluttered about in their early morning feeding, as plumes of fog floated just above the grass. The sky was plumb-grey ash with dirty clouds jutting out like 3D cutouts wrapped in polluted brownish paste. Gustavo, the Father, now stood outside his family’s small, blue tent, stick in hand, waving it above his head like a crazy baton.
“Carlos, time to wake up” he yelled to his son inside. The boy’s two older sisters and his Mother, were standing impatiently about 10 feet away, in a semi-circle around the white ashes of the cold, dead fire. That same fire had warmed them all until the wee hours of the morning. Gustavo was a short, portly man with bowed legs, a deep-set brow and small eyes barely visible above his fat cheeks, cheeks pitted like raisons from being picked at incessantly, from so many years of acne that afflicted him from when he was a teenager until now. He called out again toward the tent, an impatient edge to his voice now.
“Carlos—hey I’m not gonna tell you again, wake the fuck up you little piece of shit. Ven aqui!” Inside the tent, six-year-old Carlos tensed and sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes, he was afraid immediately, he felt his insides open with the fear. That tone in his father’s voice indicated slaps and punches from Poppi would be coming soon. His open wounds from the last beating a few weeks ago were barely healed. Like a prison guard, every morning his fat Mother, demanded to inspect him after breakfast (which usually consisted of a piece of stale, white Wonder bread covered with sickly, sweet, Welches grape jelly) and before he left for school. She ignored his two porcine older sisters but forced Carlos to stand up straight, back against the kitchen wall like a wooden soldier. She checked to make sure he wore dark, long-sleeved shirts with high collars or turtleneck dickies to school, thus insuring that no one would notice the marks and bruises all over 90% of his body he endured from the monthly beatings of his father.
The air felt cold and looking through the open flap of the tent, Carlos, in his brown and beige monkey PJs began to shake as he stared at the cold plumes of steam rising from the ground. And there stood his Father, like some scary troll, glaring at him and brandishing a thick, three foot pointed stick. Thundering toward the tent, Gustavo bent down and entered. Carlos jumped and backed up in the electric, blue air but he wasn’t quick enough as his Father lunged toward him and grabbed the red-starred collar of the boy’s PJs, pulling him outside, then standing up unsteadily, still holding onto the collar of the boy’s now partially unbuttoned PJ top, one lone shirttail hung outside of his bottoms. His Father, now wheezing with effort, threw the boy to the ground into the cold, grey-white, dead fire’s ashes. In a slowly shrinking, curved line, his fat Mother and sisters closed in around him. “Come on do it Papi—whatever you gonna do—it’s so early! Why you get us up this early? Do whatever the fuck you’re gonna do already" Gutavo’s fat wife bleated like an angry goat.
“I’m gonna show you all what great little exercises my little-rat son Carlos can do. Come here hijo.” Carlos took small steps toward his father, his knees shaking and his breathing now shallow and quick. “HEY-VEN AQUI!…” His Father grabbed his son again, pulling him and with the other arm, he stuck the blunt end of the thick stick into the ground. The stick went in easily, as the ground was firm but not yet frozen; with a good 28 inches of the sharp end visible and sticking out. Now he made his son stand directly over the thing.
“There, there. Now stand right over the point. There” said Gustavo. “Good. Perfecto. Open your legs a little more.” Carlos obeyed, terrified now and beginning to cry. “A-hah. Now bend your knees ratito.” Carlos cried harder and louder, his little boy’s body shuddering with every breath.
“OH POBRECITO, que lastima” Gustavo intoned with a sarcastic, grand tone, like some campy villain in a cheap 60’s Mexican horror film. “Ciera la boca. Now bend your knees!” Carlos, shaking, did as he was told and felt the penetrating top of the stick poking through his monkey PJ bottoms until he could just feel the hard, sharp point grazing the bottom of his butt. He whimpers became a soft scream, like a terrified fox makes when cornered.
“Now, bend your knees hijo. Yes, that’s good. Lower, lower”
“Make him go deeper” yelled his fat Mother. The two older sisters were now laughing with large, round, wide-open eyes. Carlos did as he was told and screamed louder as he felt the sharp, top of the stick begin to enter his little boy's butt. Now, there was a surging pain burning his insides. His scream pierced the air like the high, sharp wail of a train whistle. His Father stood closer to him now, placing both hands on the boy’s shoulders and thrusting the boy’s body down, even lower, impaling him.
“Aaayeeee” screamed the boy over and over. Now his legs were shaking and blood was running down his legs from his butt soaking through his PJ bottoms. His Mother and two sisters were laughing louder now gleefully as if they were watching hilarious cartoons, or a cock fight.
“That’s some exercise you got him doin’ Daddy” his wife lisped. “He needs to go deeper though huh?” “Si, mas.”
Gustavo pushed the small frame down one final time. The echoes of the boy’s screams could be heard miles and away in the deep evergreen forest. In the higher air currents above the scene, a yellow-tailed hawk glided lazily on the higher air currents, scanning the ground, searching for lunch.
Later when they returned home to their projects in the Bronx, in their parking space, the SUV stopped and Carlos’ Mother and his sisters emerged. Gustavo got out and reached into the far back seat, dragging and carrying his unconscious son out of the vehicle, his fat wife slamming the door behind him. The boy had been passed out for hours. His parents had wrapped him in a large, yellow smiley-faced, polyester fleece blanket. They’d wrapped him tight in the blanket like a trapped brown worm. The blanket had caught most of the blood seeping from the boy’s gnarled and frayed insides. Gustavo carried the small, limp rag-doll-like bundle into the yellow-grey building and rode the elevator up to the 13the floor with his fat wife and now solemn little girls and entered their apartment. Walking through the living room to the master bedroom, Gustavo lied Carlos down on the king-sized bed. While in a few minutes, his wife entered carrying a tray, upon which was a steaming cup of green tea.
“Come-on Carlito” his Mother rasped. “Green tea is healing—wake up little raton and drink. Drink por favor hijo" she intoned, noticing his chest moving up and down but his eyes remaining closed as she stroked the boy's thick, black velevty hair. She left the green tea on the tiny table next to the bed. Returning to the kitchen, she felt tired and her back ached.
Coming back some 30 minutes later, and checking on the boy, she noticed he hadn’t touched his tea which was now cold and, indeed hadn’t even moved at all. When she bent over him and touched her finger to his cheek, his face was grey-green and his neck and body felt stiff cold and to the touch. She screamed and her eyes gushed crocidile tears. “Oh God, Oh sweet, baby Jesus, call 911” she wailed. “Call them somebody, POPPI, oh baby Jesus... Oh God somebody help him--my baby boy is dead. My baby boy is DEAD, oh God, oh God Oh God!"
“Carlos, time to wake up” he yelled to his son inside. The boy’s two older sisters and his Mother, were standing impatiently about 10 feet away, in a semi-circle around the white ashes of the cold, dead fire. That same fire had warmed them all until the wee hours of the morning. Gustavo was a short, portly man with bowed legs, a deep-set brow and small eyes barely visible above his fat cheeks, cheeks pitted like raisons from being picked at incessantly, from so many years of acne that afflicted him from when he was a teenager until now. He called out again toward the tent, an impatient edge to his voice now.
“Carlos—hey I’m not gonna tell you again, wake the fuck up you little piece of shit. Ven aqui!” Inside the tent, six-year-old Carlos tensed and sat up suddenly, rubbing his eyes, he was afraid immediately, he felt his insides open with the fear. That tone in his father’s voice indicated slaps and punches from Poppi would be coming soon. His open wounds from the last beating a few weeks ago were barely healed. Like a prison guard, every morning his fat Mother, demanded to inspect him after breakfast (which usually consisted of a piece of stale, white Wonder bread covered with sickly, sweet, Welches grape jelly) and before he left for school. She ignored his two porcine older sisters but forced Carlos to stand up straight, back against the kitchen wall like a wooden soldier. She checked to make sure he wore dark, long-sleeved shirts with high collars or turtleneck dickies to school, thus insuring that no one would notice the marks and bruises all over 90% of his body he endured from the monthly beatings of his father.
The air felt cold and looking through the open flap of the tent, Carlos, in his brown and beige monkey PJs began to shake as he stared at the cold plumes of steam rising from the ground. And there stood his Father, like some scary troll, glaring at him and brandishing a thick, three foot pointed stick. Thundering toward the tent, Gustavo bent down and entered. Carlos jumped and backed up in the electric, blue air but he wasn’t quick enough as his Father lunged toward him and grabbed the red-starred collar of the boy’s PJs, pulling him outside, then standing up unsteadily, still holding onto the collar of the boy’s now partially unbuttoned PJ top, one lone shirttail hung outside of his bottoms. His Father, now wheezing with effort, threw the boy to the ground into the cold, grey-white, dead fire’s ashes. In a slowly shrinking, curved line, his fat Mother and sisters closed in around him. “Come on do it Papi—whatever you gonna do—it’s so early! Why you get us up this early? Do whatever the fuck you’re gonna do already" Gutavo’s fat wife bleated like an angry goat.
“I’m gonna show you all what great little exercises my little-rat son Carlos can do. Come here hijo.” Carlos took small steps toward his father, his knees shaking and his breathing now shallow and quick. “HEY-VEN AQUI!…” His Father grabbed his son again, pulling him and with the other arm, he stuck the blunt end of the thick stick into the ground. The stick went in easily, as the ground was firm but not yet frozen; with a good 28 inches of the sharp end visible and sticking out. Now he made his son stand directly over the thing.
“There, there. Now stand right over the point. There” said Gustavo. “Good. Perfecto. Open your legs a little more.” Carlos obeyed, terrified now and beginning to cry. “A-hah. Now bend your knees ratito.” Carlos cried harder and louder, his little boy’s body shuddering with every breath.
“OH POBRECITO, que lastima” Gustavo intoned with a sarcastic, grand tone, like some campy villain in a cheap 60’s Mexican horror film. “Ciera la boca. Now bend your knees!” Carlos, shaking, did as he was told and felt the penetrating top of the stick poking through his monkey PJ bottoms until he could just feel the hard, sharp point grazing the bottom of his butt. He whimpers became a soft scream, like a terrified fox makes when cornered.
“Now, bend your knees hijo. Yes, that’s good. Lower, lower”
“Make him go deeper” yelled his fat Mother. The two older sisters were now laughing with large, round, wide-open eyes. Carlos did as he was told and screamed louder as he felt the sharp, top of the stick begin to enter his little boy's butt. Now, there was a surging pain burning his insides. His scream pierced the air like the high, sharp wail of a train whistle. His Father stood closer to him now, placing both hands on the boy’s shoulders and thrusting the boy’s body down, even lower, impaling him.
“Aaayeeee” screamed the boy over and over. Now his legs were shaking and blood was running down his legs from his butt soaking through his PJ bottoms. His Mother and two sisters were laughing louder now gleefully as if they were watching hilarious cartoons, or a cock fight.
“That’s some exercise you got him doin’ Daddy” his wife lisped. “He needs to go deeper though huh?” “Si, mas.”
Gustavo pushed the small frame down one final time. The echoes of the boy’s screams could be heard miles and away in the deep evergreen forest. In the higher air currents above the scene, a yellow-tailed hawk glided lazily on the higher air currents, scanning the ground, searching for lunch.
Later when they returned home to their projects in the Bronx, in their parking space, the SUV stopped and Carlos’ Mother and his sisters emerged. Gustavo got out and reached into the far back seat, dragging and carrying his unconscious son out of the vehicle, his fat wife slamming the door behind him. The boy had been passed out for hours. His parents had wrapped him in a large, yellow smiley-faced, polyester fleece blanket. They’d wrapped him tight in the blanket like a trapped brown worm. The blanket had caught most of the blood seeping from the boy’s gnarled and frayed insides. Gustavo carried the small, limp rag-doll-like bundle into the yellow-grey building and rode the elevator up to the 13the floor with his fat wife and now solemn little girls and entered their apartment. Walking through the living room to the master bedroom, Gustavo lied Carlos down on the king-sized bed. While in a few minutes, his wife entered carrying a tray, upon which was a steaming cup of green tea.
“Come-on Carlito” his Mother rasped. “Green tea is healing—wake up little raton and drink. Drink por favor hijo" she intoned, noticing his chest moving up and down but his eyes remaining closed as she stroked the boy's thick, black velevty hair. She left the green tea on the tiny table next to the bed. Returning to the kitchen, she felt tired and her back ached.
Coming back some 30 minutes later, and checking on the boy, she noticed he hadn’t touched his tea which was now cold and, indeed hadn’t even moved at all. When she bent over him and touched her finger to his cheek, his face was grey-green and his neck and body felt stiff cold and to the touch. She screamed and her eyes gushed crocidile tears. “Oh God, Oh sweet, baby Jesus, call 911” she wailed. “Call them somebody, POPPI, oh baby Jesus... Oh God somebody help him--my baby boy is dead. My baby boy is DEAD, oh God, oh God Oh God!"
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