The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave (new erotic novella)

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1851. USA.
Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.

 

Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun (erotic novella)

NEARPERF (3)

Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.

Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP

Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881

Pinke Grapefruit

Repentance: The Last 24 Hours of Richard Bellworth

Hotel room beds at GRT Temple Bay Resorts,  Mahabalipuram

 

Richard Bellworth wasn’t the kind of person to ordinarily worry about health and mortality. He was surprised then by how hard the news that he had just a day left to live hit him as he sat one dreary afternoon at his local doctors’ surgery in Rickmansworth, West London.

“You’re sure?” he pressed Dr Greene, an orange-bearded man of forty two who was wearing just the right kind of rehearsed blankness the situation required.

“I’m afraid I am, Richard. The tests were perfectly conclusive. Would you like to have a look at the scan?”

“But this can’t happen? People usually have months, years even. I’ve never heard of this situation outside of clichéd philosophical debate.”

“It is extraordinarily rare, Mr Bellworth. But it does happen. You might well have slightly more than twenty four hours. A day is just the closest approximation. Two days is possible but highly unlikely according to my interpretation of your results.”

Bellworth, who was bent over in his chair with his sweat-polished hands clasped tightly together, let his head flop forward dejectedly between his knees.

“I wish there were something I could give to you to slow it down, Richard,” the doctor continued. “I really do. But there is nothing I can prescribe other than the suggestion that you make the most of your remaining time. Please do this. Twenty four hours is more than the blinking of an eye.”

“What’s the point of living one more paltry day?” Bellworth countered sincerely, miserably. “I might as well end it now and spare myself the anxiety. Life is only of value in certain amounts.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised how much can be experienced in a day, Mr Bellworth. Look at the matter another way. Knowing the precise time of your death is unusually luxurious. I doubt it’s an advantage that will be provided to me.”

When Bellworth left the surgery that afternoon he pulled out his mobile and made a mental note of the time: 14:43. Give or take a few hours he would be dead by the same time the next day. He knew not how to absorb this notion. It was too big, too strange, too unexpected. He walked back to his apartment block in a state of dreamy thoughtfulness, a million sentiments and intentions wrestling in his soul. What’s the point of living one more paltry day? This question repeated in his hollowed-out imagination like a gunshot echoing in a cave.

On the way back to his housing block, Richard’s stride was interrupted by a short and stocky teenager in a black hoodie. The youth smiled at him and held out a gloved hand to display transparent baggies of white tablets and unevenly coloured powders.

“Any pills or lines for you today, sir?” the youth said in a sharp-edged cockney accent. “Something to take the edge off?”

Bellworth glanced into the child’s eyes through an empty frown. “Take the edge off what?” he returned.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever’s making you look like that. You should see yourself. You look like you don’t give a fuck.”

Richard looked down at the drugs on offer. “What are these? What are the powders? Don’t use slang names. Use the chemical names.”

The boy was confused by this question, but duly explained the contents of each individual bag: cocaine, heroin, MDMA and amphetamine.

“How much for the lot?” Bellworth asked.

“For the lot?”

“Yes, for everything?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said, his frown deepening. “I’d say two hundred would probably cover it.”

Richard reached into his jacket and pulled out a brown-leather wallet. He handed the child all the loose notes inside it, which came to three hundred and fifty pounds.

“Have you done any before?” the boy asked handing over the drugs. “I wouldn’t combine them. Try to take it easy, yeah? Start small.”

In his apartment bedroom (he lived alone) Richard laid out the drugs on the counter and marked the identity of each substance with a post-it note lest he forget what the boy had said. He then fired up his laptop and searched for the appropriate doses for each drug. He also exercised google with additional enquiries like ‘What music goes well with heroin?” and “Good things to do on cocaine.”

When satisfied with his education Richard decided to begin his experiments with the cocaine, the effects of this substance being most familiar to him from films, books and the testimony of work acquaintances.

“Start small,” he muttered to himself, carving out a short line with his library card. Satisfied with the look of the poison to be consumed Richard then rolled a post-it note into a thin tube and snorted the powder up into his left nostril. The burning sensation from this administration was almost unbearable. He staggered backwards and squeezed his nose shut, confident that blood was about to issue from it.

And then it hit him. His dulled brain lit up in a thousand different places.

“Oh my,” he said out loud, steadying himself, his dopamine levels surging like German armies into once peaceful territories. His mood was quickly transfigured from a condition of confused depression to one of serene and perfect happiness. Fear disappeared. The sunlight pouring in through the window seemed to brighten by ten or more shades. His anxieties and shock from the diagnosis became small in the shadow of a new, invincible confidence. “Oh my.”

He sat down on his bed and looked across to his bedside table, bare except for his phone, some playing cards and a well-worn copy of the Book of Mormon, the last of which had never seemed so ridiculous, so ancient.

“This is incredible,” Richard whispered breathlessly as the heat from the sunlight warmed his back. “I’m incredible. This is the best thing ever.”

He went over to his laptop and made a music playlist on YouTube, including songs by the Garbage (Run Baby Run), Rolling Stones (Start Me Up), Pink Floyd (Interstellar Overdrive) and Frank Sinatra (The Best is Yet to Come).

Each track, played at the highest possible volume, made him swoon and smile like the embrace of a beautiful woman, a tall, bronzed Goddess from the Amazon, with thighs like tree trunks and a Christmas tree smile.

The dose steadily wore off. Richard’s mood lowered accordingly. His euphoria reduced to bubbling anger. “Why didn’t I do this sooner?” he asked himself aloud looking at his flushed face in the mirror. “What the fuck was I waiting for? This has been the first hour of my life I haven’t wasted.”

He took another line, slightly longer this time and logged into his online banking account. He had twenty thousand pounds available in his account, plus a two thousand pound overdraft. It would be enough.

Bellworth browsed the web for five-star hotels in central London and decided impulsively on the Marriot on West India Quay in Canary Wharf. Here, he booked a room for two nights for just over two thousand pounds. He packed his laptop and some other things into a trolley bag, taking care to conceal the drugs in a deep pocket in the inner lining, and left his apartment for the last time.

II

“Would you like to have your breakfast tomorrow in the restaurant or brought up to your room?” the receptionist asked Richard in the lobby of the Marriot. She was beautiful, Slavic, dirty-blonde, maybe little more than twenty years of age.

“I’d like it brought up to my room,” he said. “Please just leave it outside.”

The hotel room Bellworth entered was a lush mixture of wine-red and cream white. The bed was a double and took up about fifty percent of the floor space. Facing the headboard was a large plasma television and below this a neat little camphorwood desk with a leather-bedded ergonomic swing-chair. The whole east side of the room was a thick-paned window overlooking the Thames and the sun-kissed grey glass skyscrapers looming prettily the other side of it. The other wall was blank except for a pre-Raphaelite painting depicting sirens bathing seductively on the shores of a white-sanded Greek island.

Richard insufflated a third line of cocaine and logged onto the hotel’s wifi. There was something missing; something that had been missing for far too long; the entanglement of flesh, heavy breathing, perspiration. And never in his life had Bellworth felt so interested.

To this end, there was only one person he could think of contacting; Eliza Collins, a sex worker he had once tried, along with his church fellows, to convince to leave her amoral trade and convert to the LDS faith.  She had refused, and hadn’t taken long in doing so, but in that brief time, she had captured a part of Bellworth’s imagination and possessed it still.

He found her website and clicked through several of her newest photos. She was still as radiant as he remembered her; sultry, tall, dark, mysterious, Hebraic.  He phoned the advertised number. Her voice, which still bore the carvings of her homeland of Croatia, quickly replaced the dialling tone. Richard didn’t give his name, fearing she would remember it from their past encounters, and supplied only the address of the hotel and the room number.  She promised to be there in under an hour.

Bellworth’s attention then turned to the other drugs in his trolley bag. The amount of cocaine he had snorted had left his mood balancing uncomfortably on a fine edge between euphoria and despair. He needed something more relaxing, he decided; something that would help him reflect on his situation more consistently. And he decided his best bet for this project was heroin.

Bellworth, a respectably squeamish soul, had no intention of injecting any substance into his veins, even on this, his last day. Instead, he prepared the powder the same way he had the cocaine, cutting up a (much smaller) line for intranasal administration.

The heroin seemed to take slightly longer to alter his perceptions than the cocaine, with a good few minutes passing before a curious, warming pleasure started tickling at the backs of his legs and across the back of his shoulders. The happiness provided by this substance was deep, holistic and extremely relaxing. After five minutes or so of blinking and stumbling in front of the television, Richard allowed his loosening body to flop backwards onto the neatly made bed and closed his eyes. His consciousness quickly degenerated into a fuzzy state of somnolent bliss in which any thought that occurred to his mind was created likewise in his perception. He thought his dreams and dreamt his thoughts. This was the greatest feeling he had every experienced, greater even than the cocaine, greater than sex, or any he had yet enjoyed. It lasted for half an hour or so, after which he eased smoothly back into regular perception.

Bellworth’s re-emergence from this heaven coincided perfectly with a light, feminine knock upon his room door. He straightened his shirt and ran a levelling palm over the bed he had worried. He began to feel anxious. How would she react? Another knock sounded, a louder, more impatient one this time. He opened the door.

“Hi,” Bellworth smiled at the girl, who was dressed casually in jeans and a tight punk t-shirt. He expected this of her. She always wore such clothes.

“Shall I come in?” she answered, frowning suspiciously as she studied his face.

“Yes,” he answered promptly and moved aside to allow her to pass. “I’m not sure if you remember me, Eliza,” he remarked having closed the door behind her.

“I do,” Eliza replied casually, sitting down on the bed where Richard had just lain.

“Really? You don’t seem very surprised. I would have thought the circumstances of our prior meetings would make this one seem quite odd to you.”

She laughed. “You’re all hypocrites, Richard.”

“You remember my name?”

“How could I forget it? You and your friends practically stalked me for a period. Don’t you remember yourself? So, tell me, why are you now enslaved to the temptations of the world? You seemed quite into your shit back then.”

Richard looked away from her. “It’ll be hard for you to believe this, Eliza. But I’ve received some unwelcome news about my health. According to the results of a scan I have little more than twenty four hours to live.”

“Right,” she replied sarcastically.

“It’s true, Eliza. I have no reason to lie to you. I found it hard to believe as well. But there we are. My number has been called.”

“Well, if that’s true, shouldn’t you be preparing for your journey to heaven? Why throw it all away now? Isn’t this a major spiritual faux pas? What we’re about to do, I mean. And don’t you have a wife for this? I thought Mormons were married off a few days after the baptism.”

“I did marry, Eliza. But I don’t have a wife now. Let’s not talk about that now. The only thing you need to know is that I’m living the last day of my life.”

“I accept that, Richard. But what I’m pointing out is that you surely shouldn’t be sinning on this day of all days. I don’t want to talk myself out of three hundred pounds, but it does seem a little odd. Explain it to me. There’s time. We have a full hour.”

Richard sat down next to Eliza on the bed. “I lost my faith some time ago. That’s why I’m no longer with Linda. Linda was my wife’s name.”

“I could have probably worked that out.”

“She’s still a part of the church. It was me who suggested the divorce. She didn’t want to go through with it. I insisted.”

“And now, what, you’re making up for lost time?”

“What’s the most disgusting thing a client has asked you to do?”

“Sorry?”

He repeated the question.

“Why do you ask?”

“I haven’t the time to explain everything today, Eliza. Please just tell me.”

Eliza took a moment to think the question through. “The most disgusting thing? That’s quite difficult.”

“What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

“The first thing? The first thing is that bloke who asked me to pee on him. But there are probably worse things my memory is supressing for my own sake.”

And with that Richard stood bolt upright from the bed. “Pee on me, Eliza,” he ordered confidently. “Money is no object.”

He rushed over to his trolley bag and took out the packet containing MDMA.

“Pee on you? You’re serious?”

Richard loaded a rounded spoonful of the powder and gulped it in one. “Perfectly serious,” he answered turning back to face her. “It sounds delightful. Are you able to go at the moment, or do you need to have a drink?”

Eliza shrugged, still stuck in a state of bemused astonishment. “I had a coke an hour ago.”

“So did I,” Richard laughed.

“Really? Well, I did, too. I think I can probably go in about ten minutes or so.”

“Excellent,” Richard declared clasping his hands together with a loud clap. “That’s excellent. We’ll wait until then, then.”

“Why did you lose your faith?”

“I’d really rather not discuss that, Eliza. I’m feeling very up. The past is something of a downer.”

“What did you take over there?”

“Over there?” Bellworth pointed to the table. “That was MDMA, which is ecstasy, isn’t it?”

“How would I know?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you might.”

“Because of my profession?” Eliza frowned. “Because we’re all on drugs?”

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

“Do you know what I do when I’m not working?”

“No. But really, Eliza, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I listen to Kate Bush and I garden. I grow flowers in the garden behind my house. Just because my job isn’t boring doesn’t mean I’m not. You see, this is what you and your friends couldn’t understand. You saw me as the polar opposite of your wholesome little sect. But I’m probably more Mormon than you in some ways.”

“You almost certainly are now, Eliza.”

“But even back then I could see past the dazzle of your teeth. You couldn’t understand that I was content. You didn’t want me to be content and healthy and happy. It didn’t fit with your worldview. You wanted me to be on the streets looking for my next fix of smack. I’ve never even smoked weed.”

The MDMA was beginning to take effect in Richard’s brain. His mood was rising rapidly back up to the heady plateaus of his cocaine doses. But it was very different kind of euphoria to that produced by either previous chemical. It was more meaningful, more emotional, tinged with sadness.

“You’ve lived more than I have, Eliza,” he slurred with drivelling affection. “You’re wise beyond your years. I’ve wasted everything. I’ve thrown away every opportunity. I lived for the day after tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow never came. It never comes.”

“And now you’re squeezing everything into twenty-four hours? I don’t think I have that much pee.”

They shared a laugh together. Richard felt a connection that wasn’t there. Eliza sensed her mistake and so tried to get things quickly back on track.

“OK, Richard,” she said,  pulling off her skirt and pants, exposing long, perfect legs to Richard’s keenly charged attention. “Lie down in the bathroom. I’m ready to go.”

They went into the bathroom wherein Richard lay down flat, Eliza stood astride him, his face more or less directly beneath her. She allowed a stream of warm yellow urine to pour from her body onto his face and into his open mouth.

“This tastes of more than you realise!” he cried as the yellow-gold liquid splashed and splintered upon impact with his lips. “This is what I could have had! This is youth! You are so much wiser than I! Never stop, Eliza! Never stop! I repent! I repent madly! Go forward into Soho. Go forward and be the happiest you can be!”

PG


You can support my writing by buying my erotic novel: “The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery” – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9 – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

“Understanding Your Negro” (Master and Mistress magazine, October Edition, 2017. Confederate States of America.)

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New and Old Methods On Show at Tuckman Plantation, Silvercoat

In light of the growing consensus among Negrologists that Negroes are capable of greater emotional understanding than previously thought, many planters across the confederacy are actively attempting to establish a deeper, more humane relationship with their slaves.

Caroline, 23, from New Orleans, is one such planter. Her mulatto Percy, 44, was raised by her mother Catherine until her death in 2015. Now, being part of the newest generation of drivers, Caroline feels inclined to seek out new depths in the buck she has inherited, experimenting with new philosophies and techniques quite alien to her mother’s era.

“He’s tremendously warm at heart,” she told us from her back garden at the luscious Tuckman Plantation, just outside Silvercoat. Percy, who boasts a beautiful coat of golden skin, is seated smiling broadly at her side. “I would feel quite lost without him.”

Percy is clothed in a chequered shirt and dark-blue dungarees. His fluffy black hair is almost hidden under a small straw hat.

“He looks very happy,” I say pointing to him.

“Oh, he is,” Caroline grins pleasantly, stroking him on the shoulder. “He’s most content. I try to make things as pleasant as possible for him. The happier they are the harder they work. That was one of my momma’s philosophies. I don’t see any reason to go against that one.”

“Are you happy,” I ask Percy.

His smile grows still broader.

“Yes, ma’am. I surely am. Miss’us Caroline is very kind to me. She is kind to all of us.”

Thirty two Negroes, of various purities, are put to work at Tuckman. From where we sit I can see more than twenty busily at work in the fruit fields. It is a hot day. Many of them work with their torsos unclothed, their black skin shining beautifully under the harsh Louisiana sun. It is a classic Southern scene; in equal parts timeless and modern.

Percy works mainly in the flower garden behind the main house, tending to the rich assortment of sunflowers, opium poppies and red and purple roses which are planted there, divided neatly into rows.

I ask him if he loves his mistress. He wastes no time in responding.

“Yes, I do,” he nods, exposing his shining teeth. “She is like a momma to me. I do miss Miss’us Catherine. But I know that Miss’us Caroline is following her ways. That’s good enough for me.”

“What new techniques have you tried with Percy?” I ask her.

“It’s quite simple really,” she replies, pouring lemonade for us both. (Percy is now contentedly supping from a glass of milk.) ”I try to treat them as I would a human child. Dr Beronstock (Note: a much admired Negrologist from Louisiana State University) suggests that Negroes have the emotional reactions and preferences of a seven year old human. I have a daughter named Lindsey. She’s at university now. But I can still remember how she was at that age. I try to speak and behave in the same way I did then with Percy.”

Beronstock’s novel technique is called “emotional-loading”. It works on the logic that Negroes can be better pacified by loving treatment than by harsh tutelage and raw discipline.

“And what about when he rebels?”

Caroline’s smile disintegrates.

“There are times,” she admits after a pause. “But we have soft techniques for those occasions. He’s had to skip a few meals this past week. He loves his food, so that usually does the trick.”

Before we leave we are shown inside the luxurious Tuckman mansion (completed just after the Confederate victory in 1868), where we are introduced to two more Negroes, one of whom, with her glowing blonde hair, pale skin and dazzling blue eyes, is very difficult to distinguish from a white woman.

“This is Victoria,” Caroline says, pointing to her. “She is an octoroon doe. She works in the kitchens.”

The most dilute Negro working at Tuckman is a doe named Meredith, who, after testing, was found to be just over 2% Negro in ancestry (the remainder being a mix of Scottish, Danish and Norwegian stock). I ask Caroline if there is any trouble with the white-looking Negroes at Tuckman, referencing specifically the recent quintroon uprising in Atlanta.

“No,” she answers quickly, “I have always been very clear about the line of acceptable behaviour. We have a whipping post out the back. I know some people think it’s cruel in this day and age, but it works even only as a deterrent, especially for these, who might try to runaway and blend in with white folk.”

It seems that even as new methods are trialled at Tuckman, the old ways remain ever ready to hand.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9 – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

The Day of the Discount: An Alt-Right Love Story (Short Fiction)

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One morning in the middle of summer, a group of four twentysomething students – Charles, Peter, Thomas and David – were sitting around a table in Costa Coffee in Earl’s Court, West-Central London, talking about Islam. In particular, they were engaged in discussing something the group had long referred to as the ‘Day of the Discount’ – a hypothetical future day when, with Western patience with Islam having finally snapped, attractive girls of Muslim descent desperate to avoid deportation to the misogynistic third world would become available to white men at far beneath their ‘peace-time value’.

“I’m personally very keen on Mishal Husain,” Charles mused, referring to a crisp-tongued newsreader employed by the BBC. “She would almost certainly want to stay, as well. Far too sophisticated to settle for a burka.”

Peter agreed. “Yes,” he nodded, “beautiful skin. She almost makes brownness a virtue. And that voice! My word! Puts many English girls to shame. Thomas?”

Thomas paused to think before answering. “Mishal is nice,” he concurred, “but I wouldn’t go out of my way. There are so many like her who aren’t famous. And we should also be realistic. She’ll have a sponsor from the get-go.”

The word ‘sponsor’ in this group’s parlance was used to denote a white (Christian) man willing to marry a Muslim-origin woman and ensure her continued status as a Western citizen. In their minds, all aspirational Muslim women would seek a white ‘sponsor’ when the full-heat of the white-nationalist renaissance broke out; someone, that is, to argue on their behalf, confirming to the crowds and authorities that they are exceptions to be trusted and let off.

“What is M.I.A?” David asked.” You know, the rapper girl? She’s quite pretty, I think.”

“Sri Lankan,” Thomas answered. “Hindu. No-go. I’m sure Hindu areas of Sri Lanka are tolerable enough, even if the standard of living might feel like a steep drop at first. It’s best to concentrate on Pakistani and Arab girls.”

“And Iranians,” Charles added. “They’re especially keen to avoid being grouped in with other Muslims. Most Persians tend to view themselves as exotic whites. In fact, they’re pretty much available for discounting now, even without a NatSoc government. Dating a white man for them is a way of confirming their difference. All they ask is that you agree that they are different. If you say something like, ‘I’ve always viewed you guys as whites,’ and then follow it up with some mean remark about Arabs, they’ll strip for you on the spot.”

At this point in the conversation, a lone woman walked into the store, attracting the attention of all four men. She was tall, golden-skinned and appeared no more than 20 years of age. Her black hair was long and sparkled like asphalt under the lights.

“What is she?” Thomas whispered lustily.

The girl approached the counter and ordered a lemon iced tea. Her accent was crisply native and middle class, spiced with a slight London twang.

“Could be mixed-race,” David suggested quietly.

“Nah,” Thomas returned, shaking his head. “Two dark. Mixed girls are very pale in my experience. And her hair is too straight.”

“The hair means nothing these days,” David argued. “They have products to straighten it. They use olive oil and stuff.”

“Still, I’m guessing Arab or Afghan.”

Having been served the girl took her tea over to a window table a few yards from where the boys were sitting. She seemed to be alone, a fact which greatly excited them.

The boys began to discuss who among them should be given the right to make the first approach. Charles argued it should be him, since he had only recently suffered the misfortune of losing his job at a local supermarket. Reluctantly, the others conceded that this case was unlikely to bettered by anything they could think of at short notice, and so Charles was duly given the go ahead.

“Wish me the grace of Kek,” he said, straightening his shirt.

“May he be with you,” the others droned in concert. “Always.”

And so Charles set off for where the girl was seated, his three companions watching his every move with fascinated anticipation.

“Hey,” he said casually, when he reached her table. The girl, who was reading a dense paperback at that moment, looked up at him, confused.

“Hello,” she stuttered.

“Can I?” Charles asked, gesturing to the seat opposite her.

“Can I ask why?”

“I know it’s odd, but you look like someone worth talking to. I’m a nice guy. Honest.”

“How do you know I’m a nice girl?” she smirked.

“Oh I can tell you are. And even if I’m wrong, you’re so beautiful that it won’t count as a waste of time anyway.”

The girl smiled, surrendering to his flattery. Her shining white teeth contrasted beautifully with the brown skin of her face.

“Go ahead.”

“You look quite exotic,” Charles remarked, settling into his seat.

“I do?”

“Yeah. Are you Spanish or Italian or…?”

“I’m actually English,” the girl declared warmly, as if having anticipated the question. “I was born in Bristol.”

“And your parents?”

“Hampstead and New Malden.”

Charles grinned. “And their parents?”

“Lebanon.”

“Lebanon, wow. Which side of the civil war were they on?”

This question, being clangingly out of tune with the tone of the conversation up until that point, did not go down well.

“What kind of question is that?” the girl frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“She seems upset about something,” Thomas observed from the boys’ table. “He’s fucked up.”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Charles pleaded. “I just wondered. Your grandparents came over I’m guessing because of the political upheaval there.  If I’m wrong, I’m sorry.”

“They’re Greek Orthodox. I still don’t know why that’s interesting to you. But there you go.”

Charles struggled to hide his disappointment. “Right.”

“And it was before the civil war,” the girl continued. “Luckily my grandparents left just in time. Many of their friends didn’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles said, his features still sunk in obvious dejection

“Are you alt-right?” the girl asked.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. Are you a video-gamer racist? Do you spend your days working out to Rammstein and wanking over interracial pornography?”

Charles’ shock at her frankness was matched only by his terror at her prescience. He stared at her, open-mouthed, lost for words.

“Do you regard certain anime characters as your girlfriends?” she continued, smiling. “What’s your opinion on Amy Schumer? Do vaginas secretly disgust you?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” Charles replied, finding his voice before his orientation, “but this is crazy to me. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No you weren’t,” she pushed back. “You thought I was an easy fuck. A Westernised haji girl desperate to integrate before the anti-Islam storm erupts.”

Charles was once again speechless. He could think of no coherent way of denying her accusations.

The girl switched her tone. “I’m sorry,” she said, feigning regret. “I’m out of order, aren’t I? Shall we start again? My name is Laila. What’s yours?”

“Charles.”

“This is where you tell me how beautiful my name is.”

“You have a beautiful name, Laila.”

“Thank you, Charles. I agree. Charles is OK; a bit generic. But it does for you, I suppose. What do you do for a living? I’m a student, reading history.”

“I’m not doing anything at the moment,” Charles confessed. All emotion and charm had faded from his demeanour.

“Unemployed,” Laila nodded, smiling. “I did wonder. Need to keep some time free for all that gaming. Don’t be embarrassed, Charles. Subcultures are very now. You might be poor, but then again, we who have a stake in society don’t have our own anthropomorphic frog. So who’s really winning?”

Charles laughed. He actually laughed. He laughed sincerely, despite himself, despite everything. He laughed.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” Thomas remarked, squinting at the two from the boys’ table. The others were similarly perplexed, similarly curious.

For the next twenty minutes or so, Charles and Laila talked cheerfully about everything under the sun. His original stratagem rendered useless, Charles went into areas of his mind and emotional complex that had cobwebs lining the walls, dust on the floors. Nothing in this neglected space was meta. Nothing was irony. The situation, the first for years in his life, was too pleasant, too deep, to important to treat with memes.

When Laila had finished her iced tea she announced that she had to get back to campus to work on a presentation on Nazi Germany. Charles’s eyes lit up upon hearing this.

“I know lots about that,” he said. “I can help you. Can we meet up again?”

“Sure,” she smiled, reaching into the pocket of her black denim jacket and producing a folded receipt. “Write down your email for me.”

He did so. She took it. He returned to the table where his friends sat, ravenously awaiting the details of what had transpired.

He was reluctant to tell them.

“It was good,” he explained vaguely.

“What was she?” David asked.

“She’s not a what,” Charles replied, and then upped and left the shop.

The first date Charles had with Laila was a meal at his apartment.

When she entered the living room, she was taken aback at once by the posters covering the walls. They depicted a clashing variety of Japanese animations, fantasy art and militaristic portraits and film stills. One especially large framed photograph which caught her attention was a still from the movie 300 in which Gerard Butler’s Leonidas stood ready to slice his long sword through the waist of an approaching Persian.

“You guys really like that film, don’t you?” she remarked. “I suppose because it depicts a pre-feminist age. We must be quite a nuisance.”

“You’re a feminist?” Charles asked, eyebrows raised.

Laila grinned. “Only in the sense that I don’t regard myself as pussy. I’m pretty radical. No bother, though, I’m sure we can find some things to agree on. I’m not a fan of hip-hop misogyny in particular. You can find a point of contact with that opinion, right?”

“I’m not racist, you know, Laila. I don’t even identify as being part of any alt-right, or whatever the media wants to call common sense these days. I just don’t my culture being reduced to an Afro-Islamic hellhole, for your sake as much as my own. Women don’t fare well in the third world. In many countries , they’re just a pair of eye-holes in black fabric. I think you’re worth more than that.”

Laila nodded thoughtfully, “And you’re the Leonidas standing ready to slice my oppressors in half, eh? She pointed to a bench-press in the corner of the room, directly beneath the 300 print. “I see you’re already getting pumped for the final confrontation.”

“Well, we can’t go on like this, can we? ISIS are barbarians. You don’t need to be a bigot to recognise that fact. Men do still have a use. We’re designed by nature to protect our women, just like lions protect lionesses. It’s human arrogance to think we’re above natural laws.”

There was then a pause. They stared at each other, both minds erotically charged, both hostile, both submissive, both craving to convert their differences into a tangle of angry flesh.

Laila removed her blouse, revealing small, cupcake bosoms held together by a black-lace brassiere. She then slid her skirt and pants down her coffee-brown legs and kicked them off with her shoes.

“Come on then, Leonidas,” she smiled. “Save this princess from the mud-blood hordes.”

And so they fucked, there and then, on the floor, on the sofa, standing up against the wall. And when they had finished, Laila promptly got dressed and said goodbye.

“Where are you going?” Charles called after her desperately as she walked to the door. “You can stay the night. You can stay as long as you want.”

But she said nothing. She just left. Charles watched the closing door like a dog watching his master head out for work. Everything that had filled him with happiness just moments earlier was gone, dissolved like water vapour.

The next time Charles met up with his friends was in the same coffee shop where he had first met Laila. Inevitably, their questions this day were all about her.

“So, is she your girlfriend or what?” Peter asked eagerly.

“I thought she might be.”

“But she isn’t?” Thomas suggested.

“No,” Charles returned. “We fucked at my house, but she hasn’t answered my emails since then. I didn’t get her number.”

“Probably just a tease,” said David. “Women don’t have the same values, dude. They act like we’re the ones who play around with emotions, but they’re the fucking masters of it. Just one reason I don’t let love enter my mind. It’s pussy voodoo, dude. It’s a spell.”

The conversation soon switched to other things; anime, cuck-porn, and, of course, the Day of the Discount, with the focus this time being placed on mixed race women like Meghan Markle and Troian Bellisario.

“They only date white, in my experience,” David maintained. “They’re raised white and they hate the idea of having to surrender to the American one drop stuff. A white man makes them feel they’ve been accepted by the good side. I going to aim for a quadroon.”

But Charles took no part in any of these discussions. He remained silent, his eyes lowered to the wood of the table. Every word his friends uttered bounced off his ears like trainers off plastic.

An hour or so later, when the group stood up to leave, Charles approached the server behind the counter to ask if she knew anything about Laila, if she was a regular there, where she lived, etc…

“She came in this morning,” the server said, to his delight.

“And where does she live?” he asked excitedly.

“How I could know that?” the served shrugged. “Is your name Charles?”

“Yes,” he frowned, “Why?”

“She gave me something for you. Wait here.”

The woman strolled off into the kitchen. When she emerged a minute or two later, she presented Charles with a folded piece of paper.

“I couldn’t help having a peek, ” she said. “Makes no sense to me.”

Charles unfolded the paper and looked at what was on it: a coloured cartoon of Pepe the Frog with tears running down his cheeks.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias

The Quiet Girl (erotic flash fiction)

aaaaaaa

Emilia Jessop was known as a quiet and rather strange girl by her classmates on the Class of 2014 media studies course at Colorado State University. During lectures, she always sat by herself at the front of the auditorium. Few students felt comfortable sitting next to her, some out of respect for her obvious preference for solitude, others because her blankness and aloofness made them uneasy. Michael Parker was the first person to make a serious effort to talk to her. Although at first, prickly and unyielding, Emilia in time founds elements of compatibility between her personality and his, and she eventually invited Michael back to her dorm room one Saturday evening to ‘watch a video’.

Emilia was an attractive girl; a quite typical emo/goth type, with dyed hair and a lip-ring. (So common was this look around this time that it better implied, if anything, a conformist streak than any kind of rebellion). Jessop’s skin was shockingly pale, almost seeming as if she wore a thickly applied coating of chalk. Her eyes were brown. She was tall, with a spiky, bony frame.

The first thing that struck Michael upon entering Emilia’s dorm was the state of the place. It was extremely untidy, even by the warped standards of a student dwelling. It smelled putrid. There were papers and food packaging carpeted over the floor.

“Sorry about the smell,” Emilia said flatly, closing the door behind them. “If you don’t like it, you’re free to leave.”

“It’s fine,” Michael said.

“Good. I’ll get the movies ready. We’ll watch them on my laptop.”

“Cool.”

The two of them sat down on Emilia’s queen-size bed. Emilia slid her middle finger around the touchpad of her computer, clicking sporadically, straining her eyes at the screen.

“Not sure which one to start with…” she mumbled, apparently to herself.

“Are we not watching one movie?” Michael asked.

“No,” Emilia replied emotionlessly, maintaining her focus on the computer, “not just one. Here we go.”

She shuffled round to face him and positioned the laptop so they both could see the screen. A video began to play. It depicted a man lying in a pool of blood on a pavement, apparently having been shot in the chest.

“Wow,” Michael smiled. “What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t have a name,” Emilia answered. “I can give you the name of the site I downloaded it from.”

“Sure. But it has a name? The movie, I mean. Right?”

“It’s not a movie.”

In the video, a suited figure was now crouched by the body of the bloodied man, who was moaning with disorientation. After angrily shouting something in Russian, the crouching man then shot the other in the head, sending a gushing stream of new fluid on the pool of old blood around his body. A replay button popped up over the final image. The video was finished.

Emilia leaned forward and started scrolling for another video.

“It’s weird. I’m nearly in the mood just because of that clip. I love it. We can do it to a longer one.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck. Duh.”

“What was that video, Emilia?”

“Not really sure of the background. Something to do with the mafia. Only the blood matters. The blood and the noises they make. It’s what I’m into. We’re going to fuck with a longer one playing. I’ll make sure to put the volume up.”

“That was a real execution?” Michael asked, frowning, “That kind of shit turns you on?”

Emilia looked round. Her eyes were glowing and red. She spoke with a completely different voice. “And it doesn’t turn you on?”

Michael’s body was paralysed.

PG


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias