The sun has barely risen this wintry Sunday morning, and fog swirls across the path and canal outside the front door of Claire’s Cunt Kitchen.

“Brad, shut the blinds, will you?” calls Claire from deep within the bowels of her kitchen. “And turn the screen on, it’s nearly nine!” Bradley is wiping tables in the front room of the café, scrubbing the last of yesterday’s semen stains off the pink Formica tops. Jill has arrived a few minutes prior, and now sits drumming her fingers on a table, waiting for her virtual rendezvous with her wayward daughter.

The previous afternoon, Jill had been feeling quietly confident: she had had a strategy in mind about how she could coax a bit of common sense back into her daughter, how to persuade her that it would be better for everyone if she quietly came home to resume a normal, respectable fucker’s life. But now, for some reason she can’t quite work out, Jill is feeling ill at ease. She awoke this morning lying on top of her quilt, on her bed in her suite at the Titz, fully clothed – and couldn’t quite remember how she got there. Indeed, she still can’t remember the previous evening at all, beyond a vague recollection of chatting with someone in the bar.

Too much champagne? she wonders. The image of a red dress swims into her memory, but then is gone again. Her mind feels a bit like it has been sliced open, things taken out, and then sewn back up again. She rubs her head, almost expecting to feel a wound; but there is none there.

The large screen above the café counter flickers into life, bringing with it the sound of a cheery Christmas medley – Jingle Bell Cock as its opener. This morning’s test card displays two pretty blond girls in Christmas bobble hats sucking a very large cock, their lips splayed along both sides of the shaft, tongues curled underneath and touching just below the frenulum. Closing the front blinds blocks the weak natural light that has been seeping in through the windows, and so Bradley leaves Jill in the semi-darkened café, awaiting her call, and disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen.

“Will she be all right?” he mutters quietly to Claire. “She’s pretty on edge.”

Claire is standing naked, facing the stainless-steel kitchen surface, kneading bread dough. Little splashes of white flour dust her pert tits, and her tight early-morning pussy-lips peep cheekily out from below her buttocks. “I don’t know, Brad,” she replies. “But I don’t think I can say anything more to her. Leave them to it and hope for the best. Hey, look up!” She points to the ceiling.

Bradley does so, to see that Claire has tied a sprig of mistletoe above the counter. He chuckles. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It means, dinky dick, fuck me under the mistletoe whilst I make bread!”

“Say no more!” Bradley grins, releasing his small but stiff cock from his trousers. “Cunt or ass?”

“Oh, cunt, please, babe, at this time of the morning – nice and gentle.”

Bradley chuckles, standing behind Claire and nudging his dick in, whilst reaching round to gently tweak her nipples.

“Ooh, that feels good!” squeals Claire. “But stick with my rhythm, will you? Pull – push – twist – pull – push – twist…”

“I like the twisting bit best,” chuckles Brad, doing just that with both cock and fingers.

“Fuck yeah, so do I,” she replies. “But if I do that all the time, the dough won’t rise – oh fuck, Brad, that’s good,” she exclaims, grinding back against his rigid cock. “And if all you do is the twisting, the customers won’t get any bread today, ‘coz I’ll be so fucking horny I’ll never finish!”

Brad relents, but instead, on the next “push”, his cock buried deep in Claire’s pussy, he reaches forward with both hands and grabs two handfuls of dough. “Hey, what are you doing?” Claire remonstrates – until Brad slaps the dough over her breasts.

“Kneading buns,” he giggles, as he squeezes her two dough-coated tits, whilst his cock continues to pull, push and twist inside her, and the test card starts playing I’m Dreaming of a Whiteshit Fuck.

Suddenly, however, the music cuts out, and a voice calls, “Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Shh!” hisses Claire. “It’s Alison!” she mouths, pausing her kneading, but resisting her instinct to rush out into the café to greet her dear old friend. Bradley nods, and keeps kneading Claire’s breasts as his cock slides gently in and out of her pussy.

“Oh my God, Al – what’s happened to you?” gasps Jill, as her daughter’s face flickers into view on the screen above the café counter, a strong dark hand resting on her shoulder.

“Mommy?” Alison’s voice trembles slightly. “Oh Mommy, I’m so happy to see you. You look so beautiful. You pleasure me so much, Mommy…”

Jill studies Alison’s face in the screen with consternation. “What’s happened to you, Alison? You’re so… fat!”

Alison laughs. “I’m pregnant, Mommy! You’re going to have a grandson!”

Jill regards her daughter with horror. “Oh my God… Oh my motherfucking God… No, no – oh Alison, did you have to? How? Why?”

“Well, we just let things happen naturally – after reversing our sterilisations, of course,” explains Alison.

“‘We’? What do you mean ‘we’? Are you still with that boy? Is that him there?!” The pitch of Jill’s voice is rising.

“Rob, yes. Mommy, we are married to each other now.” Alison reaches her right hand over to touch Rob’s.  “And this” – she pats her bump affectionately with her other hand – “is our son. Your first grandchild.”

Jill gasps, clasping a hand over her mouth in horror. “Oh God, no!” she moans. “You can’t do this, Alison, you mustn’t. Get rid of it, won’t you? Will you really stain our family’s name like this?! Oh God, the shame!” Jill bursts into a wail of humiliation. Alison sits silently, quiet tears running down her face, as Rob’s hand gently squeezes her shoulder.

“EAT M’ CUNT, EVERYONE!” yells Riley with her customary exuberance, as she barges into the café through the front door, a draft of damp cold air following her. “Oh fuck shit motherfuck, Alison!” she gasps, as she catches sight of the screen. Her eyes dart from the screen to the sobbing Jill, and back again. Realising she has interrupted a sensitive moment, she mutters an embarrassed apology, bites her lip, and tiptoes through into the kitchen.

Claire is now leaning forward over the counter, sprinkled with flour from head to foot, her cunt speared from behind by Bradley’s dick, and dough caked over her tits. She gestures with a doughy hand for Riley to join them. “Leave Jill and Alison alone, Ri,” whispers Claire. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do or say to make it easier for them.”

“OK,” nods Riley. “So, shall I get to work on that dough?” she smirks.

In the front room, Mrs Bates is sitting in tears in the gloom; her daughter, thousands of miles away, is also weeping, her unseen husband’s hand still resting tenderly on her shoulder.

“Al…” ventures Jill, “will you not come home? You know how proud of you your father and I are…” – she pauses a moment, wiping tears from her cheeks – “… were… I mean, ‘are’, of course, but… Don’t you see, here you have a great future ahead of you! You could be a great fucker, like they were training you to be at the RAF. Or, if you prefer” – she fumbles for ways to build bridges – “you could even work for the firm. Your dad would be so proud for you to join him at the helm: the new face of Bates Butts International, think of it!”

“Mommy,” says Alison slowly. “I can’t come back now. Rob will never be allowed back, because he is an unsterilised Undesirable. And I have made a choice: I am married to him now.”

“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything, surely?” remonstrates Jill, her hackles rising again. “You can leave him. I mean, if you really insist upon having the baby, then just leave him with it! I mean, to be the manor born, don’t you think? Leave them where they belong, and you come back where you belong!”

“Mommy…” Alison’s face is strained, red with humiliation – but she struggles to control herself, as Rob’s hand squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “No. I will not leave him. This baby is ours, together. Rob is my husband, and I love him.”

“Alison Bates, how dare you?!” hisses Jill, rage overtaking her again. “Didn’t I teach you not to use that dreadful word?! My daughter, my own cuntslut daughter saying such things! Oh God, what will your father say?!”

The front door of the café opens again, and a young man appears; clean-shaven, with short brown hair, he is tall, broad-shouldered and handsome. The front of his tight leather trousers bulges impressively.  “Oh, sorry – m’ cock,” he mutters. “Is Riley in?”

“I’m in ‘ere, Gary!” calls Riley from the kitchen. “Come fuck me buns!” Gaz tiptoes apologetically through the café, waving gratefully to both Jill and Alison, and disappears behind the counter.

As he walks through into the kitchen, he beams at the sight. Claire has finished kneading her dough – apart from the residue coating her tits – and she is now leaning back on her elbows on the kitchen counter, face and body liberally sprinkled with flour, icing sugar and ground cinnamon, and her clit adorned with a large strawberry, while Bradley holds her legs wide and fucks her hairless pussy. Riley is reclining next to her, just finishing off her task of rolling the dough into large round buns and sticking them one by one up her rectum, before carefully farting them out again onto a large greased baking tray in neat straight lines.

“‘Ere, Gary, I fink this one needs a bit more kneading – know wha’ I mean?” smirks Riley, crowning the last bun at the entrance to her perfectly gaped asshole and beckoning with a glistening middle finger. Gary takes one adoring look at the bleached-blond anal slut, removes his huge cock from his trousers, and lunges.

“OH FUUUCK!” screams Riley, as all nine genetically-modified inches of Gaz’s stiff shaft plunge into her dough-coated ass. “That’s it, fuck me dough, Gary. Fuck that soft squidgy fuck-bun in me hot arse. Knead that fuckin’ dough for me, Gary, make it fuckin’ rise. Coat yer fuckin’ dick with me arse-bread!” Soon Gaz’s cock is plunging enthusiastically in and out of Riley’s rectum – bread dough, icing sugar and anal lube flying in all directions both internal and external, as Riley screams: “YEAH! FUCK MY HOT SHITTER, YA GREAT BEAU’IFUL FUCK-STUD!!!”

In the front room, Alison and Jill are still facing off awkwardly across the thousands of miles which separate them. On hearing Riley’s voice echoing out of the kitchen, however, they both start to giggle. “Ooh, she’s really good, isn’t she?” grins Jill. “Do you think Daddy could hire her for our next commercial?”

Alison laughs. “Fuck yeah! Do it, Mommy. I think she’d be brilliant!”

Jill laughs out loud, her tension dispelled by this blessed moment of brief communion between her and her wayward daughter. “I’m glad to see you can still appreciate the value of a filthy slut, Al,” she quips.

“Oh Mommy, of course, I can! I totally fucking can!”

“Well then, why did you go off with these religious antediluvians to the Outside World? I mean, they’re all Undesirables, illegals, filthy –”

“Oh Mommy,” interrupts Alison. “There are all sorts of people in the Outside World. And they don’t all agree, or like each other – but they put up with each other. That’s tolerance, isn’t it – putting up with people you can’t stand?”

Jill raises an eyebrow. “There are some opinions which should not be tolerated, Alison – and I hope you will not do so.”

“You don’t have to like what people think in order to tolerate them, Mommy. If the Enlightenment refuses to even hear what Objectors think, then we are just condemning ourselves to never being challenged, never being called out. And then how will we ever learn? You may hate the life I’ve chosen, Mommy – but please tolerate it. Because I know you love me too…”

Alison realises, just a touch too late, that she might have been unwise to say that last sentence – for immediately Jill explodes: “ALISON MARY BATES, DON’T YOU DARE SAY THAT WORD IN MY PRESENCE!”

Thankfully, the front door is flung open again, and this time three teenage girls enter: the first is slim with long brown hair; the second is slightly pudgy, with her hair in a soft blond bob, her round breasts straining at her coat; the third has short black hair and glistening bright red lips. “‘CUNT!” they call together, before noticing Alison on the screen. “Oh – Alison… it’s Alison… Alison Bates!” they exclaim, pointing at the screen, before noticing Jill sitting nervously in the dark.

“Oh – sorry, ma’am: m’ pussy,” says the black-haired girl, “are you talking to Alison?”

Jill nods, unsurely.

“Aw, she pleasured me so much!” squeals the brown-haired girl, removing her coat to reveal her naked body and pert breasts. “Hi Alison, m’ cunt! Remember me?”

“Teresa!” grins Alison. “And Amber and Belle! ‘Cunt, girls!”

Claire appears behind the café counter, at the entrance to the kitchen, her body coated in bread dough, flour and icing sugar, a finely-crafted coating of Bradley’s sperm on her lips and cheeks, and little dribbles of honey, chocolate and pink buttercream down her tits and belly. “Girls, come straight on through,” she says, as a little string of semen dangling off her chin sways, snaps, and lands gracefully on her big toe. “I think Jill and Alison need to be left alone for a bit.”

The girls all duly say their “m’ cunts” as politely as they know how, and giggle their way through into the kitchen where Riley is now lying on her back on the counter, bottom in the air, and Gaz is jerking a copious load of sperm into her gaping, dough-speckled asshole.

“Come and get it, girls!” calls Riley as she spies her friends. They gather kneeling in front of the counter, before Riley tightens her sphincter, swills her anal mixture around in her rectum, then farts a sploshy melange of semen and bread dough into their delighted serried faces. “FUUUCK!!!” they screech in delight, as they gobble it down enthusiastically, slurping the pungent effluent of each other’s faces.

“Right, everyone, enough fucking around!” calls Claire, standing on a chair to gather her staff to attention. “We open in an hour, so let’s get to work. Gaz: washing up and cleaning. Riley: eggs, and salads. Teresa: sandwich fillings. Amber: bacon and sausages. Belle: drinks. I’m on bread and cakes, of course. And Brad: front of house when Jill and Alison are finished.”

Out in the dimly lit café, dialogue has cautiously resumed. “Mommy,” pleads Alison. “Please don’t be angry at me. That word I said – well, it just means the same as how you feel about me, and how you and Daddy feel about each other.” Jill rolls her eyes in frustration, but Alison presses on: “It just means that we will stick by each other, suffer for each other – without thought of recompense.”

“But that’s just wrong, Alison,” replies Jill. “That’s what led to the oppression and exploitation of the Old Times. Relationships must be based on equality, and compromise, and balance – not sacrifice. Otherwise, it means one party is being exploited – and that’s just what’s going to happen to you if you let that boy rule your life.”

“But, Mommy, think. When I was in Fart’s Hospital that time after Eva attacked me, and you and Daddy sat by my bedside for days nursing me back to health: was that ‘equality’? Did you expect me to be able to repay you? And I’ve seen you and Daddy give things up for each other, again and again, without keeping a balance sheet. Do you make sure to ‘pleasure’ each other equally? No, and that’s because there is something deeper in your relationship. You don’t have to call it by the ‘L-word’ if you don’t want – but it is there… And it is here, now… here…”

Alison dares say no more, but she gestures, her hands reaching back and forth towards her mother, as if pleading, as if trying to pull her closer, to show that they share a bond – that Bond which, in the world of the Enlightenment, has been declared unspeakable. “Mommy,” she whimpers. “Mommy…”

Jill sits, trembling, as tears again start to leak down her face. “Oh God, Al… All I want is for you to be happy.”

“I know, Mommy. So will you trust me to do that?”

There is a long pause, during which the only sounds are the clattering of pans and dishes in the kitchen, and the banter of Claire’s staff as they prepare for their day’s work. “Ooh, taste this bread, Claire,” calls Riley. “It’s so fuckin’ good!”

“‘Course it is, Riley: I know where you put it!” giggles Claire – whilst the rest of her coterie screech with delight.

In the front room, Jill and Alison can’t help but laugh again – and Alison makes the most of their new moment of levity: “Mommy, do you remember when I won the school fuck-talk bee? Do you remember my winning neologism?”

“Oh yes, what was it?” laughs Jill. “‘Shitcuntfuck…’ – something like that?”

“‘Shitcuntfuckwhoreslutfuckgangbang’!” grins Alison. You were so proud of me you booked me my first ever anal gangbang in celebration! And how totally fucking that was! Six guys, remember?!”

Jill chuckles, her face joyfully nostalgic. “My point exactly, Al. Would you turn your back on all that now? I mean, really? Monogamy, fidelity, pregnancy, childbirth – and from your cunt, for God’s sake! Have you any idea of the pain?! Women of my generation fought to be free of all that oppression!”

“No, Mommy, no!” replies Alison. “Everything I learnt then, everything you brought me up to be – I am still that person, Mommy. Remember when you gave me my tits for my eighteenth, and Hortense spent, like, the whole fucking night sucking them for me? And when I took my first simultaneous double anal creampie at the senior prom – remember?! And remember when I was accepted into the RAF, and we had that orgy in the garden with the Joneses to celebrate?! Those were the happiest days of my life, Mommy! And you know what made me so happy? That you were proud of me – you and Daddy were so proud of me. I want you still to be proud of me – because everything I am, everything I know, I learnt from you…”

“Teresa,” calls Claire’s voice from within the kitchen, “have you squirted on the tuna mayo yet?”

“Oops, I forgot, sorry – I’ll do that now!” screeches Teresa.

“Mommy,” continues Alison, reaching down her cleavage to retrieve a wooden rosary from round her neck. “Do you remember this?” She dangles it in front of the screen to display the glimmering solid silver cock which forms the pendant.

“Oh!” gasps Jill. “I got that for you when you left home!”

“And it is still my most precious belonging, Mommy. I wear it here, over my heart, still…”

Jill’s lips tremble, as tears leak down her cheeks again.

From within the kitchen, Claire’s voice interrupts their silence: “Amber, have all those sausages been up your cunt yet?”

“The plain ones, yeah,” replies Amber. “But Riley, can ya fit the Cumberlands up yer arse?”

“‘Ow many at once?” quips Riley – sending the entire staff into raucous laughter.

Jill opens her mouth to form a sentence, but pauses.

“What is it, Mommy?” says Alison.

“You pleasure me, my little fuckslut,” says Jill, her eyes wet.

“You pleasure me too, Mommy. And more…”

“Gary, can ya squirt some o’ yer cum in this milkshake?” calls Belle from the kitchen.

“‘Ey guys, try one o’ these pulled pork and pussy sausages!” calls Amber.

“Alison…” ventures Jill softly. “I…”

Alison waits, her eyes glistening with tears.

Jill knows what she wants to say, but can’t bring herself to do so. “I miss you so much, sweet cunt,” she says instead, allowing her tears to flow unstaunched down her cheeks.

“I miss you too, Mommy,” replies her daughter.

“Brad,” calls Claire from the kitchen, “lick this sugar off my tits, will you?”

“‘Ere, Riley,” calls Teresa, “will ya fart some coronation chicken onto some white sliced for me?”

“‘Ang on a bit,” replies the girl. “Lemme get this cucumber out me khyber first.”

Jill and Alison are listening from the front room, shaking with laughter and tears, delight and pain. “Alison…” says Jill.

“Yes, Mommy?”

“I…”

Alison waits.

“I… I…”

Alison waits.

“Fuck it, Alison, don’t you fucking dare tell your dad I said this, but…” Jill checks around her to make sure no one is listening, before blurting: “I love you too!” She involuntarily clenches and unclenches her fists in displeasure and discomfort at her own words. “My crazy, treacherous, fat, pregnant, monogamous, Undesirable-fucking, unfuckable ex-fuckwhore daughter, goddamn it, you have hurt me so, you have betrayed everything I ever believed in, but – OK, if I understand what you mean, then – I fucking ‘love’ you too. So there!” Her jaw juts defensively.

Alison’s wet eyes light up with joy. But Jill hasn’t finished: “But you tell that disreputable, Unenlightened scoundrel lurking by your shoulder there, that he may have led you astray, but he’s still got to deal with Jill Bates. He’d better fucking ‘love’ you for the rest of his fucking life, and stick by you and that mongrel kid of yours, or your dad is going to personally come and chop his fucking black dick off and feed it to him inch by inch – you hear?”

Alison laughs. “Mommy, I –” She pauses, wondering whether to dare to say what she wants to.

“Go on, cunty-pie, out with it,” prompts Jill.

“OK,” nods Alison. “Mommy – I won’t tell Rob that: you tell him yourself!” She pushes her chair back, and pulls her husband into the screen, so that Jill can see all three of them – Alison, Rob, and the bump.

The mother-in-law flinches instinctively, her eyes flitting from her daughter’s face, to Rob, then to the bump, an involuntary grimace of distaste disfiguring her face. “Oh God…” she groans.

She means to say more, but never finishes her sentence, for at that moment the front door of the café bursts open again, and Jill and Alison hear a voice screeching: “YOU!!!” They turn to see a woman dressed in a red leather cat-suit standing in the doorway, her tits bulging against her bodice, auburn hair blowing in the damp wind, her trembling index finger graced by a glimmering ruby ring, now pointing at the screen. “YOU!!!” she screams again. “YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED MY HILDY! YOU MURDERER!!!” The woman’s eyes blaze with fury, as she advances towards the screen.

Neither Alison nor Jill nor Rob knows who the interloper is – though Jill is sure she has met her before: inchoate images of a red dress, champagne flutes and a thick gnarled spurting cock swim into and out of her consciousness. Alison also has a vague feeling that she remembers that face, that head of red-brown hair gracing a latex fetish nurse outfit, its wearer bearing a tray with a carafe of green liquid on it…

The woman’s screaming, however, has brought the kitchen staff running, and they all crowd, shocked, bewildered, and mainly naked, into the doorway behind the café counter. Claire and Bradley draw breath, as does Alison on the screen, as simultaneously they realise who it is. But it is Gaz who exclaims first: “Nurse Datchet!” he gasps.

Dolores turns. “Eccles?” she intones indignantly. “Garibaldi, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I help out here at weekends,” says Gaz. “You know, when I’m not needed at the Hospice…”

“The Hospice – ha!” sneers Dolores. “You all became traitors when Hildegard was no longer there to lead you – didn’t you? Quislings, consorting with the Undesirable-loving softy do-gooders, like the unprincipled opportunists you are!” She spits at Gaz, a large gob of saliva landing in his eye, and a thick spray of phlegm spattering over the rest of the assembled crew.

“Hang on a minute!” shouts Claire, pushing herself forward and squaring off against the interloper. “Who do you think you are, barging in here? I remember you, Nurse Datchet – oh so eager to poison people with your fucklock drafts, looking on whilst that mad bitch boss of yours mowed down innocent people. Well, no longer. GET OUT OF MY CAFÉ NOW!!!”

“‘MAD BITCH’?!” screams Dolores Datchet. “HOW DARE YOU?! HILDEGARD WAS ONE OF THE GREATEST WOMEN EVER TO LIVE! SHE WAS A PILLAR OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT, A TRUE VISIONARY: SHE WAS CREATING A NEW WORLD, A BETTER WORLD, A WORLD OF PLEASURE, OF BEAUTY, OF PERFECTION! SHE WAS MY MENTOR, MY LEADER, MY FUCKER…” Dolores turns away from Claire and points again at the screen, from which Alison and Rob are watching, horrified. “AND YOU MURDERED HER!!!” she screams. “YOU FILTHY BLACK BASTARD, YOU SHIT-FACED N–”

“NO!” shouts Alison, wrapping her arms around Rob. “No, Nurse Datchet, you have it all wrong. Rob would have saved her! He grabbed onto her arm to stop her falling. But she hit him with her night-stick: that’s why she fell! Rob tried to saved Hildegard’s life – EVEN THOUGH SHE HAD KILLED HIS FATHER! I WAS THERE: I SAW IT!”

There is stunned silence in the room. Jill clasps her hand over her mouth in realisation. Dolores pauses, as if listening on repeat to the echo of Alison’s words, painfully digesting their meaning, her body shaking spasmodically as she passes from unbridled rage to belated realisation, her face grimacing, twisting uncontrollably as the agony of too many emotions wash over her.

Her trembling arm, hitherto pointing accusingly at Rob, curls, shakes and collapses by her side. And then she wails – no longer a scream of rage, but a cry of desolation, of bereavement. “Oh God, Hildy, you were my life!” she keens, as tears pour down her face and she collapses to her knees, curled up like a foetus, rocking back and forth in anguish. “You meant everything to me, and now you’re gone, and you will never come back… Oh God, what shall I do?!” Her sobs are hard and dry, as if echoing forth from a wound in her heart so painful and gaping it threatens to swallow her whole.

Jill has been sitting watching this in silence: at first terrified, then bewildered, then realising where she has met this woman before, and piecing together her fragmentary memory of last night’s events: the Cock Tail Bar at the Titz, the phallic champagne fountain, the woman in the red dress, the semen frosting her champagne flute, the truth-and-amnesia drug slipped surreptitiously into her glass from the carnelian ring, and then little snatches of conversation – “my daughter Alison” … “yes, left the Union to marry an Undesirable” … “secret screen network” … “Claire’s Cunt Kitchen” … “Rob Daniels” … “Daniels, yes” … “yes, he had a father, culled at a hospice in London” … “oh yes, Doctor Fotzenficker, died in a fall, didn’t she?” … “an accident, they say – but I don’t believe that, do you?” … “well, you know what his kind are like, so full of vengeance and violence…”

And so now Jill rises from her seat, looks down at the woman weeping pathetically at her feet, and considers how ill Dolores has used her. Such deception, such manipulation, such trickery. She is tempted to pounce on her in revenge, to kick, to scratch, to pummel her into the ground where she kneels. But then she realises how eagerly she too has bought into the narrative – of the vengeful Savage, out of control, leading the fine daughters of the Enlightenment astray…

She looks up at the screen, sees Alison’s pleading tearful face; and Rob’s, full of fear and horror and pity. And she remembers looking down into Alison’s wide-eyed adoring features years before, and saying: “Remember, true fuckers want nothing more than to give pleasure. In this Enlightened world we live in, there is to be no more jealousy, or possessiveness, or revenge…”

And so Jill Bates bends down, kneels on the ground next to the weeping Dolores Datchet, and strokes her long auburn hair. Dolores looks up. “I know how you feel, Dolores,” says Jill tenderly. “It is so hard to lose someone you love. I know.” She puts her arms around her, and Dolores weeps uncontrollably into her breast.

As Nurse Datchet’s sobs subside, Riley, who has hitherto been standing silently behind the café counter, gives Gaz a little nudge and urges him forward. He understands, and walks forward, his cock – still huge, though flaccid – dangling from his open fly, bread dough and anal lube glistening from its head. Kneeling down, he gently touches Dolores’ shoulder, saying softly, “Come, Nurse Datchet, let me take you home.”

She nods, and stands. Gaz puts his arm gently around her and guides her out the door. “It’s gonna be all right, Nurse Datchet, it’s gonna be all right…” he says, as he softly shuts the front door, and the rest of the assembled crew quietly retreat into the kitchen.

Jill is left alone, kneeling on the café floor. She lifts her head and looks at Rob and Alison on the screen.

“Mrs Bates…” Rob’s voice is solemn. “I promise you I will stand by your daughter, and be faithful to her, forever.”

Jill stands. Her eyes and Rob’s meet. Barely noticeably, she nods. In silence and stillness, they understand each other – but she is not quite ready to admit it to Alison: “Tell him to turn around slowly,” she smirks.

“Mommy, he’s not a circus animal. At least, you can speak to him directly!”

“It’s OK, Al,” says Rob, doing as ordered, then smirking back at Jill.

“He’s quite handsome, actually,” says Jill in a mock jaded tone. “And a nice body.” She ponders again. “Fuckable, definitely.”

Alison giggles in relief. “Thank you, Mrs Bates,” says Rob, bowing exaggeratedly.

“Does he have a nice dick?” she asks, maintaining the pretence.

Rob grins, and Alison, warming up to her mother’s subterfuge, nods enthusiastically. “He’s got a wonderful dick. Huge and stiff and throbbing – and he totally knows what to do with it!”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, will I?” asks Jill wryly.

“Yes, Mommy, you will,” affirms Alison.

Jill makes a show of considering the situation carefully. “Hmph,” she grunts in an off-hand manner. “Well, OK then.”

Mother and daughter look at each other across the divide, eyes gleaming with that strange mixture of pain and rapture, sacrifice and joy, debt and gratuity which are the marks of true love. And then, from inside the kitchen comes Riley’s voice: “Mrs Bates, can I get ya some breakfast? Eggs? Crumpets? Pancakes?”

Jill chuckles. “That would be lovely, Riley,” she calls back. “Though, if you’re serving it ‘special’ – how about… grapefruit?!”

Riley cackles with delight. “Fuck yeah! Comin’ up!”

Alison and Rob laugh. Alison takes one of Rob’s hands and rests it on her precious bump. “Feel that!” she says, as Rob nods and grins.

Jill’s smile reaches all the way to her eyes now, and she nods with what is evident approval. “Rob,” she says at last, “I never thought I would ever say this to someone like… well, like you… but… you’re a good man. And if in your primitive Unenlightened world, Alison is only allowed to fuck one man for the rest of her life, well then, let that man be a good man…” Jill pauses, before continuing with a trembling voice: “Rob… My daughter means more to me than anyone else in this world. Take care of her, and you will have my respect, and my appreciation, and my honour.” She is shaking all over now, and her voice cracks as she says: “Rob – God bless you, and God keep you – all three of you…”

Jill stumbles, as if wanting to say more, but not knowing how. But then, the screen flickers and goes blank. A couple of seconds later, the double-blowjob test card returns, and Good King Wankerslas tinkles from the speakers. Jill’s face crumples, and she weeps into her hands.

Claire and her colleagues quietly file out into the café, all naked except for their company aprons adorned with Claire’s cunt-likeness. Brad opens the blinds, changes the sign on the pink cunt-painted door to “open”, and welcomes in the first couple of customers of the morning. The girls lay out the bread, cakes and sandwich fillings at the food counter. Teresa feeds a frankfurter into Amber’s cunt, and Belle licks chocolate sauce off her own bulging boobs, whilst taking the first customers’ order. Riley waddles over to Jill and announces, “Your breakfast, marm!” in an exaggeratedly posh voice as she squats over her table.

Bradley gently, solicitously fucks his beloved Claire as she sits on the counter, buttering breakfast buns with her naked tits. But soon she gives him a nudge, pointing at Jill, who is alone again, tucking into her pungently flavoured grapefruit. He nods, slips his cock out of Claire’s cunt, and approaches their guest, his glistening erection waggling modestly in front of him. In his best customer-service voice he asks, “Would you like me to eat your pussy, Mrs Bates?”

“Oh, that would be so nice, Bradley,” she sniffs, wiping away her tears and smiling.

Outside, the mist has cleared, and sun streams in through the windows of Claire’s Cunt Kitchen.

THE END