It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was the age of headiness, of ambition, of imagination. It was the epoch of desire, indulgence and Pleasure. So it was in the season when the Enlightenment burst forth upon this Continent. After the pandemic, the migrant crises, the collapse of the world climate, and the wars of the early twenties, after the destruction of all we held dear, it would have been too easy for us to accept our reduced circumstances, to agree to fade into the background, to leave the battle of ideas to others – in other words, to accept that our time was past. But no, we did not do that. Instead, the genius of Europe rose again. Like Voltaire, like Locke, like Rousseau – we saw that a New Enlightenment was necessary, to sweep away the moral cobwebs that had kept us hidebound and oppressed for too long. We saw that the true destiny of mankind lay in Pleasure, pure Pleasure. And so let it remain. Long live the New Enlightenment!

            - Emma Jane Cuntslicker, 2010-2060

“Seriously?!” The girl snorted, collapsing into a fit of giggles on the sofa. “The names! The names! Oh Grandma Alison, how on earth did anyone take themselves seriously in those days?” The young lady was short and slightly chubby, with brown skin, blue eyes, frizzy blond hair, and a small nose-ring in her left nostril. A cheeky smile lit up her freckled face.

“Oh, my darling, you have no idea,” replied the old lady, allowing herself to laugh too. “We all took ourselves very seriously indeed. It was an age of totalitarian liberalism, of compulsory Pleasure: we were changing the world, one fuck at a time! And Professor Cuntslicker was one of the greatest visionaries of the age: exceptional, in that she managed to balance devotion to her ideals with a true compassion for human beings. This was her last book: go on, you read some to me now,” she said, handing the open volume to her granddaughter. “Your eyes are better than mine.”

The girl took it, but paused. “Wait a moment,” she frowned. “‘2010-2060’? Does that mean…”

Her grandmother nodded grimly. “Yes… That’s what happened in those days. And just think, that was a mere ten years after your Grandad Rob and I, and your Great Aunt Eva, escaped. We were still living in the Outside World; your mummy was just a little girl then. I cried when I heard. You see, Cuntslicker was a selfless idealist, and brave beyond all measure. Ideologies fail, empires collapse; but out of their ruins there are always one or two truly wise, principled people we can learn from.”

“Tell me more about those times, Grandma Alison,” replied the girl softly.

“If you like,” the old lady smiled. “Shall we start with Cunts?”

“Start with what?” The girl looked appalled.

“No no, I mean Professor Cuntslicker – we all called her ‘Cunts’.”

The girl started to giggle uncontrollably.

“Now now, you must control yourself, darling, if you want me to tell you more. I mean, how must she have felt: 2060, at the pinnacle of her career, and yet so near the end…?”

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE

Friday 16th July 2060
mid-morning
Sasha Grey Auditorium, Royal Academy of Fucking, Maryleboner Road, London

“Oh yeah, fuck my asshole, stud! Make my cunt squirt with your dick all the way up my fucking shithole!” The girl was slender, clad in red latex from head to toe, with just three apertures in her mask – one for her mouth and the other two for her dark fluttering eyes. Another pair of openings on the front of her costume revealed two large olive-skinned breasts, which swayed and jiggled as she sashayed her ass downwards towards the boy’s erect cock. The young man was largely invisible to the audience, as he was lying on his back on the fuck-couch, but his cock was downstage, huge and black as she lowered her asshole – exposed through yet another carefully-positioned gap in the latex – onto it, her gape squelching obscenely as it found itself stuffed with nine inches of genetically-modified male ebony fuck-meat.

Loud, pumping metallic fuck rock pounded through the speakers. And above the stage hung a huge poster which proclaimed:

WELCOME TO THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF FUCKING
GRADUATION CEREMONY AND FUCK FESTIVAL 2060:
remembering the past, showcasing the future!

The poster, of course, displayed the RAF’s trademark reverse cowgirl cock-in-cunt photographic closeup, while the performers, by deft artistic choice, duplicated it on stage in the anal variety, allowing the appreciative audience – mainly consisting of this year’s graduates, clad, though otherwise nude, in black academic gowns and mortar-boards – an unimpeded view of the girl’s gaping gash: moist, glistening, hairless and pink, her clit swollen and throbbing as she rubbed it, even as she rammed her latex-framed ass up and down on the boy’s huge black cock.

Soon, however, her digital attention had shifted from her clit to her vaginal interior, as she slid two slender fingers between her fuck-lips and curled them upwards to find that sensitive area on her front inner walls. “Oh yeah, fuck!” she squealed, her lips pouting through the opening in her mask, as she found the spot with her fingers and began to stroke it from within, simultaneously slapping her clit with her other hand, whilst still pounding her asshole up and down on the boy’s black fuck-stick, both of them perfectly synchronised with the rhythm of the music. The audience knew a good fuck when they saw one, and they began to moan and roar with approval and pleasure, parting their academic robes, roving hands exploring their own and each other’s young bodies, as they revelled in the perfect artistry of the fuckers on stage.

The girl was an expert performer, fixing the audience with her gaze and bellowing, “You wanna see me come, fuckers? Wanna watch me fucking squirt?” The audience roared its encouragement. “And you want this big black dick to come at the same time? Wanna watch him paint my shit-rim with his cream – just as I spray all you motherfucking pervs with my cunt-squirt?” The audience roared even louder, the pace of stroking hands and rubbing fingers accelerating as they too began to time their orgasms to the imminent cum-spectacle on stage.

“WELL, HERE IT COMES, MOTHERFUCKERS!” screeched the girl. She continued to pound her asshole up and down on the boy’s raging cock, sensing his member expand and stiffen further as his balls pulsated and sent their cream charging up his shaft. Removing the fingers of one hand from her pussy, she rubbed her clit hard with her whole palm, shifting her position so that the boy’s huge cock could fuck hard against her G-spot through the walls of both her gaping orifices. “YEAH FUUUCK!!!” she screamed. Her first squirt was a mere dribble, her second a gentle spurt, but from the third onwards her cunt was spraying fountain after fountain into the air. Had the audience not been screaming and moaning their own cum-pleasure, they might have marvelled at the sound of each successive pussy-spasm – tight and swooshing like a spray-gun as each shower of clear cum fired upwards. At first, the girl lifted her hips and leant back, aiming her fuck-spray up her body so that it doused her tits and face, opening her own mouth to catch the precious liquid, then gargle and spit it upwards so it rained back down into her hair. But then she leaned forwards and upwards so that, screaming “TAKE THIS, FUCKERRRS!” her squirt sprayed onto the front rows of the audience. The audience moaned and roared their ecstasy, their own cock-cream and cunt-juice squirting and dribbling multifariously as they pleasured their own genitals, faces upturned to bask in the glorious sensation of the latex girl’s genital deluge.

And then the big black cock began to explode. The girl, with perfect professional timing, lifted her asshole gently off the spasming cockhead so that the audience could watch rope after rope of hot man-cream spurt upwards to adorn her fuck-lips and gaping ass-rim. Now her spasms were beginning to subside, her squirts reducing to dribbles again, so that both cunt and asshole were coated with a gloopy mélange of boy- and girl-cum which dripped off her anal rim onto the boy’s large black balls, and thence onto the floor.

The audience went wild. Puddles of cum adorned the floor of the auditorium, and every pair of female thighs was damp with fuck-slime. Girls sucked the last drops out of boys’ cocks, or crouched on the floor, mortarboards bobbing as they licked puddles of squirt and semen off the ground. Boys and girls alike buried their faces between each other’s thighs to revel in the pungent heady glory of each other’s fuck-juices.

The front row of the audience comprised the ranks of fellows and lecturers of the Royal Academy of Fucking – in the centre of whom, applauding with pride, sat the august middle-aged figure of Professor Emma Jane Cuntslicker, flanked by her two closest colleagues: Dr Richard Dick, Deputy Director; and the much younger Dr Riley Throstlethwaite-Eccles, Professor of Prolapse. “CUNTS! CUNTS! CUNTS!” chanted the crowd, as the beaming Professor, her face still dripping with the latex girl’s squirt, stepped up onto the stage, long dark hair draped over her ostentatiously bulging breasts, nipples peeping through her now damp fishnet top, her short skirt parted gently to reveal a soft triangle of dark pubic hair pointing the way southwards.

“Wasn’t that magnificent?” enthused Cuntslicker, as the latex-clad girl scooped handfuls of man-cum off her asshole to slurp them off her fingers. “I knew, the moment I saw Chastity and Honour practicing their routine in the rehearsal rooms last month, that we had a winner on our hands. And so I am very proud to present them with the Alison Bates Memorial Award for Best Anal Fuck 2060!”

The audience cheered, as the two performers stood, the girl removing her mask to reveal the soft brown skin of her face, her sparkling eyes, and her long dark hair, which she swished free with a single flick of her head as a triumphant grin adorned her features. She and the black boy approached Cunts, to jointly grasp the golden cock trophy and hold it aloft to the cheering audience. “As you may know,” Cunts continued, “this Award is funded by the bequest of the late Bill and Jill Bates, CEOs of Bates Butts Limited – and I would like Doctor Throstlethwaite-Eccles and Doctor Dick to come onto the stage to say a bit more about that.”

Riley and Dick did as they were bid. The former was a woman in her late twenties with a bleached blond pixie cut, circles of red lipstick painted around her bare nipples, and a long silver tail dangling gracefully from her jewelled buttplug. As Chastity and Honour waved their way off stage and the applause died down, she addressed the audience: “Ladies and gentlemen, cunts and cocks, I would like to say a few words about Alison Bates, in whose honour this Award is made.” The young woman’s accent betrayed her working-class origins, though softened and rounded by years of working in establishment academia – but the hubbub of suspicious muttering which now filled the hall was not in reaction to that, but to the mention of the name of Alison. “Now, I know that many rumours circulate about Alison, about the way she ‘fell in love’ with a black Undesirable, turned her back on the Enlightenment and left the Continent– but I’m not going to deal with those now. The fact is that Alison Bates was one of the finest fuckers this institution has ever seen, and it is only right and proper that we have named this Award after her.” Cuntslicker nodded sagely.

“Alison was my inspiration – and my saviour” continued Riley, as the audience began to listen, “not just one of the greatest arsefuckers ever, but a wonderful person, who embodied the finest ideals of the Enlightenment. When I was… well, younger,” she chuckled, “I used to watch her on ‘The Fuck Factor’; I dreamed of being just like her – which I knew was probably impossible for someone born into the poverty that I was, my single mother a two-bit whore. Imagine my joy when Alison welcomed me as her friend and, along with her best mate Claire, helped me to secure a place at this Academy! Here at the RAF, we are proud to have had her as our alumna, and especially to have had the generous support of her parents, the recently culled Mr and Mrs Bates, in making this Award available to support so many of our students in their aspirations to become the finest fuckers the country has known.” The audience applauded enthusiastically.

Richard Dick took centre stage now, dragging with him three armchairs, which he arranged in a semi-circle downstage. He was a slender, suave, middle-aged man with unnaturally slick black hair. His cock – clearly very long, though currently flaccid – was sheathed in a faux-leather mushroom-head cock-sleeve which dangled from the front of his black leather trousers. “Cocks and cunts, as you know, we are so privileged that Professor Cuntslicker has agreed – despite her approaching such an important juncture in her life – to give a series of presentations this week to accompany the launch of her latest – and last – book: Thirty Years of the New Enlightenment, including” – he gestured to Cunts and Riley to sit with him on the armchairs – “today’s question-and-answer session!” Cunts smiled graciously, as she and Riley took their seats, Riley removing her buttplug with a quiet squelch and proceeding to sniff and lick it absentmindedly. “Ah! I see a hand already,” remarked Dr Dick, gesturing to a gentleman who had just entered the auditorium from one of the rear doors.

The questioner was short, dark-skinned, middle-aged, wearing a black shirt and trousers and a white clerical collar. Cunts smiled in recognition. “Ah, Father de Conceicao, isn’t it? We have met before! It’s been some ten years, hasn’t it?”

“Very kind of you to remember me, Professor,” replied the priest. “Last time you visited my chapel, you acted with great principle. You saved two innocent lives.”

“And caused the death of another?” prompted Cunts, with one eyebrow raised.

“No, Professor. That was not within your control. And I mention those events only to assure you of the deep respect I have for you – despite the awkward question I am about to ask.”

Dick-Dick shifted nervously on his armchair, but Cunts was unperturbed. “We do not have to share the same worldview to respect each other, do we, Father? That, surely is one of the greatest principles of the Enlightenment!”

“It is good to hear you say that, Professor – but that strikes at the heart of my question. When the ‘Enlightenment’ burst forth onto this country in the late twenties, many people were deeply affected. People from ‘Undesirable’ ethnic stock were sterilised, or expelled, torn away from their families, or even culled! Whilst appreciating the liberal ideals which the Enlightenment now claims to uphold, is it not the case that, overall, the suffering the Enlightenment caused, especially in those early days, outweighed what it achieved?”

Murmurs of disapproval spread through the audience, and people craned their necks to see who it was who dared to voice such unorthodox views in the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy of Fucking. But Cuntslicker’s response demonstrated both her superb didactic skills and her unquestionable charm. “You know, Father, I am actually of mixed Undesirable ethnic stock.” There was a gasp from the audience. “Oh yes,” continued Cunts, lifting her hand as if to brush away the audience’s shock. “My grandfather was a Patel, an immigrant from what used to be called the Indian subcontinent – in the days when it was still habitable. My father changed his name to Paton, so as to better fit into British society. I changed mine to Cuntslicker, so as to truly embrace the dignity of the Enlightenment. Yes, we had to expel or sterilise many Undesirables in those early days, many of them from ethnic minorities, others from backward religious groups, whose loyalties to this country and its chosen path were divided – but only so that the Enlightened mindset would prevail. Sterilising a body, expelling a person – these things are easy. But purifying a mind, so that a person not only accepts the Enlightenment but makes it the driving force of their existence – that takes time, and persuasion. But I am pleased that now, hardly anybody objects to the Enlightenment anymore…”

… fade; rising harp arpeggios: B-flat dominant seventh…
change of scene to…

ACT ONE, SCENE TWO

… a small maisonette on a side street near Putney Bridge, London,
thirty-two years earlier:
Monday 23rd October 2028, evening

“I wanna fuck you, fucky wucky fuck you!” warbled John Daniels in a well-tuned tenor minor third. His young dark body was naked, and his cock was large and stiff as he waggled it from side to side, grinning cheekily. He held out his arms to his wife, who was already lying on the bed in the semi-darkness, her large breasts bare, a happy smile lighting up her face.

“Quick, before he wakes up, eh?” Rosie giggled. Her skin was not quite as dark as her husband’s, but her eyes were black and warm, and her nipples too were black and large in the centre of their wide brown areolas. “Ooh, look at that big dick! Desperate, are you?”

“And why shouldn’t I be, my darling?” pouted John, as he leapt onto the bed, his arms enfolding his wife in a tight but tender embrace, his cockhead nudging up against her crotch.

“Hang on a minute, love!” remonstrated his Rosie, gently pulling her hips sideways so that her vagina was in no immediate danger of penetration. “Remember what we were talking about?”

“Uh, what were we talking about?” replied her husband with an air of faux innocence, his cock still bobbing enthusiastically beside his wife’s vulva.

“John Daniels, don’t you pull that one on me! You know perfectly well,” replied Rosie, smirking as she twisted round, opened a bedside drawer and withdrew a wrapped condom, which she brandished at her husband.

“Oh God, must we really? I hate putting those things on! And what will Father Ambrose say?”

“Well, you don’t need to tell him, do you? Besides, you don’t have to put it on!” giggled Rosie, as she unwrapped the condom and placed it, still rolled, between her red-lipsticked lips, which she formed into a cock-sized ‘O’ to make it perfectly clear what she was proposing.

John’s cock twitched at the sight. “Oh well, put it like that, and I can hardly refuse, can I?” he grinned, lying on his back as his young wife knelt in front of his stiff twitching cock.

Rosie needed no hands to accomplish her task. Her full red lips closed deftly over John’s glans, smoothing the condom down along his shaft in one long slow stroke, until she found herself kissing his crotch, the prophylactic-clad penis deep in her mouth. She stayed there for a few seconds, revelling in the feeling of John’s throbbing rubber-coated cockhead lodged against the back of her throat, before releasing it, along with a small gush of saliva which dribbled from her lips, down the incongruously pink surface of the condom and onto his balls.

Rosie began to nibble, sliding her lips slowly up and down her husband’s condom-clad cock, depositing light rings of red lipstick up and down the rubber and allowing her rose-tinted spit to continue to dribble onto John’s testicles and thighs. He reached down with both hands to stroke her hair, pulling it back so he could admire her soft features. Rosie grinned back – as best as she could under the circumstances – while cupping John’s balls with one hand, making him groan with pleasure.

“Good, Johnny?” mumbled Rosie through her mouthful of cock, to which John replied with an affirmatory moan of pleasure – suddenly and unexpectedly interrupted by a large crash and the sound of a commotion from the street outside.

“Oh no, not again,” groaned Rosie, as John leapt up and limped towards the front window of their bedroom, his stiff, pink-coated black cock waggling awkwardly before him as he carefully peeled back a small section of the curtain to peek out onto the road below.

“Undesirables out!” came the cry of a small band of drunken louts who were staggering up the road, randomly chucking bricks at dustbins as they went. “Send ‘em back where they came from!”

“John, get back from the window!” hissed Rosie. “Don’t be seen!” But she was distracted too, as a mewling scream had begun from the room next door. “Oh, Robbie!” she sighed, as she too leapt up and tiptoed naked out of the room, her breasts tingling. “Back in a minute!”

“Re-join the EU!” came another drunken shout from outside the window, as John pulled the curtain tightly shut. His penis was completely flaccid now, the pink condom shrivelled awkwardly around it. “Harry for King!”

“Oh God…” moaned John, sitting desultorily down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head in despair. He picked up a broadsheet newspaper lying on the nightstand, and read:

The recent tragic death of our King and Queen and their three children – the unexplained circumstances of which merely add to the pain and horror felt by the whole nation – has exposed deep fissures in British society which threaten consequences few of us can predict or imagine. The European Union has, for understandable reasons, in the face of recent wars, economic decline, and the rise of foreign powers, sought to counter growing right-wing sentiment by promoting its “liberalism”, permitting and encouraging an attitude to sexuality which, even to the woke warriors of five years ago, would have seemed inconceivable. The various European parties of the so-called “New Enlightenment” movement (particularly the Parti des Lumières in France and the Aufklärungspartei in Germany) have agitated successfully to embrace pornography, polyamory, public exhibitionism, and “free sex” in all its forms – conveniently making use of the recent successful development of “Flexible Fertility” and “Genetic Modification” technologies in the laboratories of Switzerland and Slovenia. Will Britain, so traumatised by our own recent events, follow in Europe’s footsteps? Will we – as our new King and Queen, just returned from California, have hinted we should – embrace this new brand of wokisme, perhaps even by re-joining the EU? Or do we – perhaps hidebound by our traditional moral conservatism – feel that we need to hold out against this massive cultural shift?

“Shit!” cursed John.

“Don’t worry, darling,” crooned Rosie as she re-entered the room, wiping a drop of breast milk off her right nipple. “He just wanted a little cuddle and a drink.”

“I’m not worried about that!” groaned John. “But what about his future? Our great-grandparents came to this country seeking a better life. Will there be any life for our son here now, the way things are going? Just listen to this:

It is not just the reactionaries who are concerned. Representatives of various religious and ethnic minority groups in particular are worried that hand-in-hand with this newly-invigorated militant sexual liberalism walks a renascent racism and intolerance, directed against members of those communities which have ties outside the European bubble, where the virtues of the “Enlightenment” are not so obvious and all this devotion to pure Pleasure seems like little more than a self-indulgent attempt to excuse our own social and moral failings. Easy solutions, easy scapegoats…

“See? Mark my words, we’ll be back in Europe soon – and there they’re already doing this ‘Enlightenment’ thing – which basically means everyone is expected to screw around as much as they like, without any sense of commitment or fidelity! And they’re wanting to expel anybody who objects, or anyone different – different religion, different race: ‘Undesirables’ they’ve started to call us. This ‘Enlightenment’ shit will be the death of me!” John ripped the shrivelled condom off his penis and hurled it angrily at the wall. It stuck there briefly, before peeling off and dropping onto the carpet.

“Oh, love, love, come, don’t get like that,” said Rosie, wrapping her arms around her husband’s body, her damp breasts squashing against his chest. “At least we aren’t at war anymore. And that’s why we decided no more kids for now – until we know better what’s going on. And if we have to – well, there’s your family in St Martin, and mine in South Africa. And Father Ambrose will help us out. So come, love, let’s forget all that for a while; make me feel good now, hey?” Rosie pressed her cheek up against John’s, where it felt warm and clement. And John turned and kissed Rosie on the lips. And they smiled, and nodded.

Rosie twisted round and extracted a new pink condom from the nightstand…

… fade; descending harp arpeggios: A major this time, perhaps with an added ninth…

ACT ONE, SCENE THREE

… and we’re back to the Royal Academy of Fucking,
where it is still Friday 16th July 2060,
but now early afternoon.

“Ladies and gentlemen, cunts and cocks,” announced Dr Dick from the stage of the Sasha Grey Auditorium, “I hope you have enjoyed your lunch. I am so sorry to hear that there were no desserts available for fucking. The kitchen staff only informed me of this at the last-minute. But I have been assured by several of you that the boeuf bourguignon fucked well – quite apart from being delicious!

“Now, we have time for a few more questions from the floor for Professor Cuntslicker, before we proceed to today’s grand finale – and I see there is a gentleman in the back row who has had his hand up for a long time. Fuck a bitch, Sir, would you like to introduce yourself first?”

“Edward Turner, originally from Henley-on-Thames, but now residing in the ‘Outside World’,” said the questioner, a small man with a hooked nose and light grey hair, dressed, unusually, in an old-fashioned grey three-piece suit. A small ruffle of disquiet passed through the audience at the mention of the “Outside World” – and Riley blenched suddenly, choking briefly on the buttplug in her mouth, before forcibly regaining her professional composure. Mr Turner had an unusual accent: it sounded rather old-fashioned and English, though perhaps with an admixture of something reminiscent of southern Africa. Riley frowned.

“Professor,” Mr Turner began, “before lunch, you answered a question about the mistreatment of so-called ‘Undesirable’ races under the Enlightenment. But you have not justified what you call ‘purification of the mind’ – a remedy which has been brutally unleashed upon people of all backgrounds, often merely for holding unfashionable views.  You have said that this ‘takes time and persuasion’ – but neglect to admit that such ‘persuasion’ can involve a great deal of cruelty. I fled this Continent in the early thirties, leaving behind people I loved…” At the mention of the word “love”, another wave of tutting and despondent shaking of heads passed through the audience, though Cunts maintained a relaxed air and a courteous smile. “My contention is that the atmosphere in those days, as the Enlightenment tightened its grip on society, was toxic. Families were split apart, friends and relatives informed on each other, and those who did not immediately embrace the new values were shunned and mistreated by society at large. Was it really worth it?”

There was a palpable air of tension in the hall as Mr Turner ended his question. Riley wiped a glob of saliva off her chin, her frown etching itself deeper and deeper on her young brow, her jaw trembling.

“Mister Turner,” Cunts smiled, “you ask a very important question – and one which must not be silenced. You have heard the shock which accompanied your use of that long-proscribed ‘L-word’ – but let us face it head-on: what actually was that thing which we used to call ‘love’? What were the ‘family values’ which people held so dear? Were they real, or just – as I maintain – a handy way to oppress people? Let me start by telling you a bit about my youth…”

… fade; rising B-flat major harp arpeggios again…

ACT ONE, SCENE FOUR

… and we’re back to
Monday 23rd October 2028,
but this time in a student bedsit in Newnham College, Cambridge

“FUCK YOU, MUM!” screamed Emma Jane. “DON’T YOU FUCKING TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN’T DO! I’LL FUCK WHO I WANT TO FUCK, WHEN I WANT TO, HOW I WANT TO! AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE THAT, THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE!!!”

Emma Jane slammed down her phone. “FUCK!” she screeched, one last time. “Who do they fucking think they are?!” she continued to vent. “I don’t need their fucking help! I don’t need their fucking advice! And sure as shit I don’t need their fucking moralistic attitude!” She put on an exaggeratedly maternal tone: “‘Emma Jane, don’t you think you should be a bit more careful? I just don’t want you to get hurt, my love.’ Love?! What the fuck do they know about ‘love’? They’ve never loved me! And what the fuck is ‘love’ anyway? It’s just an excuse to control people, to imprison people: that’s all they want to do – keep me under their fucking thumb, so I can’t embarrass them anymore! Well, guess what? Emma Jane’s all grown up now, she’s shaved her cunt, she’s pierced her clit, she’s got herself a tit-job, and she’s gonna fuck and fuck and fuck all she fucking likes – ‘cause that’s what it’s all about! Pleasure! Pure fucking pleasure! RIGHT?!”

Hildegard sat in the chair opposite and smiled. “Right, Emma Jane,” she nodded with calm satisfaction.

Emma Jane was naked, the tits of which she was so proud protruding boldly from her chest, the recent surgery scars still visible in the creases beneath her breasts. Her pussy was indeed shaven, the clit pierced with a single plain ring which reflected the light from the one standard lamp in the corner. Her hair was long and dark and framed a dignified eighteen-year-old face with broad high cheek-bones and dark sultry eyes.

Hildegard was not naked. Slightly older than Emma Jane, she was a tall, strongly built blonde with a square jaw, full red lips, and huge natural breasts bulging behind a black leather basque. Her right hand grasped a small riding crop, which she extended so as to gently stroke the undersides of Emma Jane’s tits.

“Oh yes, stroke my scars, Hildy,” muttered Emma Jane, cupping her breasts in her hands, lifting them up so that Hildegard’s crop could reach under them better. “That’s so fucking good.”

“Of course, it is,” crooned Hildegard, running the tress of the crop along the length of each of Emma Jane’s scars in turn: that’s because you’re a needy fuckslut. Proper whores like me don’t need to get tit-jobs, because we are content with our slut-bodies as they are. It’s pathetic damaged shame-ridden bitches like you that need the training, the buttressing, the constant reassurance – isn’t that right?” Hildegard smiled wickedly.

An exquisite shiver of humiliation-ecstasy passed through Emma Jane’s body. “Oh God!” she moaned, revelling in the feeling of the leather tress stroking the underside of her breasts. “Please, Hildy, reassure me, buttress me, train me – I need that so bad…”

Hildegard chuckled, shuffling forward off her chair to kneel up in front of Emma Jane so that her lips could gently brush against her tits. Hildegard liked this girl: her first female English fuckbuddy since arriving at Cambridge a fortnight ago. Emma Jane may have been middle-class, but she was as needy and lost as any other English fuckslut – and in her experience such girls were always the best: they asked for a lot, but they put up with a lot. And, Hildegard hardly needed remind herself, they were just as dispensable as anyone else.

Hildegard opened her mouth wide so as to engulf as much as she could of Emma Jane’s very large right tit. She smirked to herself, feeling the unnaturally firm texture beneath her tongue, so different from her own jiggly specimens. But, however fake her breasts might be, Emma Jane’s sexual desperation was real, and boiling over. “Oh God, Hildy,” she squealed. “Suck my tits, baby, suck my big fake shame-ridden tits!”

Hildegard sucked and slobbered, transferring her lips and tongue back and forth from one luscious melon to the other, till Emma Jane’s silicone-stuffed pillows became sloppy dripping mounds, and spit dribbled down her abdomen. Hildegard’s left hand scooped up some of the saliva and plastered it on Emma Jane’s vulva, rubbing it with four fingers in a circular motion till Emma Jane squealed, “Oh God, Hildy, my cunt, my cunt, get your strapon and fuck my pathetic cunt – please!”

“Gladly, Emma Jane – but what do I get by way of payment?” smirked Hildegard.

“Oh God, Hildy, anything: I need you so bad. What shall I do for you?”

Hildegard smiled – a combination sort of smile, part genuinely affectionate, part self-congratulatory.  “Come and lick my pussy first then, Emma Jane, there’s a good girl,” said Hildegard, returning to the sofa and spreading her legs wide so her bald meaty cunt glistened and her fuck-lips spread wide. “Earn your humiliation: it’ll make you feel better.”

Soon Emma Jane was nuzzling Hildegard’s crotch, moaning with pleasure as the heady scent filled her nostrils. “That’s it, my beautiful fuckwhore,” crooned Hildegard, “eat it up, lap it up, lick that cunt like the damaged bitch you are…” She giggled wickedly.

“Oh, God, Hildy,” moaned Emma Jane from between her fuckbuddy’s thighs, feeling her own pussy juice up and a tremor of pleasure pass through her body at the sound of her partner’s invective. “I love it when you call me things like that.”

“Like what, Emma Jane?” Hildegard teased. “What sort of things do you like to be called?”

“Tell me I’m a whore, Hildy,” muttered Emma Jane, as her tongue lapped and burrowed even deeper into Hildy’s fuckhole. “Tell me I’m a filthy cunt-eating whore…”

“That you are, Emma Jane. A dirty, skanky, worthless fucking cunt-whore!”

“Oh yeah fuuuck!” cried Emma Jane in delight, as her fingers found her own clit and began to rub frantically. “Call me all those things, Hildy, they make me so fucking horny!”

“Cunt-slut!” sneered Hildegard.

“Oh yesss!” responded Emma Jane in mindfucked ecstasy.

“Fuck-bitch!”

“Fuck yeah!!” Emma Jane now had three fingers deep in her own cunt, scooping up fuck-nectar and smearing it over her vulva.

“Filthy motherfucking cunt-licking whore!” screamed Hildegard. “Go on, bitch, eat my cunt like the worthless needy fuckslut you are!”

“Yeah FUUUCK!!!” squealed Emma Jane, as her hand became a blur between her legs, and she felt the wild waves of orgasm begin to sweep over her. She buried her face in Hildegard’s wet gash, licking, chewing and screaming into her pungent folds, “YEAH Fuuuck-mfuuuck-mfuckfuckfuck….” as she felt her whole world fill with cunt, taste of cunt, stink of cunt. Her face, her fingers, her hair – everything was cunt, Hildegard was cunt, the world was cunt, cunt, nothing but cunt…

“Oh yeah, cunt, so fucking good…” mumbled Emma Jane, as she came slowly down from her ecstasy, her face still buried in her fuckbuddy’s juicy dribbling gash. “Fuuuck…”

“Emma Jane Paton,” grinned Hildegard, her fingers gently pulling her friend’s hair backwards and upwards, so that her glistening face looked upwards at hers, “I dub thee… Emma Jane ‘the Cuntslicker’.”

Emma Jane laughed, partly in embarrassment but partly with joy and self-affirmation. “Ha ha! Shall I change my name? ‘Emma Jane Cuntslicker’ – that’ll give my mum a heart-attack.”

“Well, we said we were going to found a UK branch of the Fuckers Party, didn’t we? I can’t think of a better name for the Secretary of a political party, can you? And I, as the Treasurer, shall change my name to Hildegard… um… ‘Fotzenficker’ – what about it?”

“Ha ha – you mad bitch! Come over here from Europe with all your crazy fucking ideas – the British will never buy it. We’re not like you!”

“Well then, let’s change all that, ‘Cuntslicker’! We announce the foundation of the UK Fuckers Party. We start with some public fuck-ins to pull in the crowds. Then, once everyone’s high on cum and cunt-juice, we rope them all into our political programme: a free-fucking society, MM for all on the NHS so everyone can have big dicks and huge tits and gaping assholes: GM in vitro; and then we rejoin the EU so the UK can benefit from the New Enlightenment. Then we expel any Objectors – to build the perfect society, where everyone pursues Pleasure above all else. There will be no more want, no more guilt, no more…”

“You mad fucker, Hildy!” interrupted Emma Jane. “But…” – Emma Jane’s voice softened – “I love you, my crazy fuckbuddy.” She leant forward and planted a kiss on Hildy’s cunt, felt the damp fucklips smooch against her face, sniffed the gorgeous heady scent, and squealed, “Oh Jesus, that’s so fucking good!”

Hildegard smiled in triumph, but wagged a damp finger at her colleague. “Hang on, Secretary Cuntslicker – none of this ‘love’ bullshit, please. I don’t love you, and you don’t love me. If we are to reshape society, there is to be no more ‘love’. Love means control, love means exploitation, love means jealousy. In a free-fucking society, we live by Pleasure – pure pleasure; not ‘love’. Is that clear, Cuntslicker?”

Emma Jane thought a moment. She was not sure, and it sounded a bit extreme; but she wanted Hildegard so much, and so she nodded. “OK, Fräulein Fotzenficker,” she intoned carefully. “Just so long as I can eat your Fotze forever, and ever, and ever.”

Hildegard seemed not to hear Emma Jane’s last remark: her mind was elsewhere. “Miss Cuntslicker,” she said.

“Yes?” replied Emma Jane.

“Want me to fuck you with my strap?”

“Oh ja bitte, Fräulein Fotzenficker,” nodded Emma Jane.

“And what about ‘Cunts’ for short?” suggested Hildegard, as she rummaged in her handbag.

“What about it?” replied Emma Jane, momentarily confused.

Hildegard retrieved a dildo from her bag: thick, black, and shiny. “You. Your name. ‘Cunts’. I like that.”

“Er, what? You mean, like, ‘How do you do, Sir, my name is Emma Jane Paton, but you can call me “Cunts” for short’?” Hildegard nodded, grinning. “Has a certain ring to it,” smirked Emma Jane. “Oh! look at that dildo: what a beauty!”

“In which case, Cunts,” laughed Hildegard, “get on all fours like a good fuck-bitch – Cunts, and I’m going to give you a filthy dirty dildo-fuck like the filthy dirty needy fuckslut whore you are – Cunts!”

Emma Jane, trembling with desire, did as she was bid, lifting her ass high behind her and spreading her pussy lips wide in invitation.

“Cunts,” chuckled Hildegard, with a triumphant smile, as she stepped into her dildo harness.

Another spasm of delight passed through Emma Jane’s body. Her cunt dripped. And her heart melted.

To be continued…