This two-part “Christmas special” follows on from the conclusion of Alison Goes to London – but it can also stand alone.

It is 2051, and under the “Enlightenment”, Europe is ruled by Pleasure, and love is eschewed. Claire and Bradley have graduated from the Royal Academy of Fucking and, assisted by their friend, up-and-coming anal slut Riley, have set up a fuck-café in Cuntden Market. However, their best friend Alison has fled the Union and has married Rob, who is black, an “Undesirable” under Enlightenment law. Alison’s parents, pillars of the fucking establishment (her father being the CEO of the biggest butt-plug company in Europe) are, naturally, scandalised. At least, London’s Princess Asshole Hospice is now free of its sadistic former director Dr Hildegard Fotzenficker and her sidekick Nurse Datchet. It was Hildegard who brutally killed Rob’s father; despite this, Rob tried – and failed – to save Hildegard’s life before she fell to her death at 38B Tottenham Cunt Road last year.

The smell of hot coffee, roasted chestnuts and stale semen wafts through the winter air as she picks her way up Cuntden Lock Place. She stops frequently to check behind her, as if afraid she might be sighted; with each pause, her long faux-mink coat swirls in the morning fog, and a new brief moment of misty early-morning silence punctuates the rhythm of her cobble-clicking heels. If one were to get close enough, one might see in her face an intermittent, unspoken, almost unnatural anxiety – unnatural because, in this year of AD 2051, anxiety is very rare, for all the troubles of the world have been cast aside by the Great Enlightenment: now the civilised world is ruled by Pleasure. Only in the Outside World is there anxiety, or ugliness, or poverty, or oppression – or that most outdated of sentiments, ‘love’.

All these thoughts pass through her mind in an instant and, thus reassured, she pulls herself together, confecting a triumphant smile and briskly continuing her journey. As she dodges through alleyways and courtyards, she passes shut-up shops, folded-up street stalls, and cafés just beginning to grind into action, their “closed” signs still firmly in place despite the noises and smells emerging from within. The street cleaners are only just beginning their work, and the detritus of the previous night’s street revelries lies untidied along the pavements and pathways: discarded anal beads, cock-rings, lube bottles. In the distance, a woman in a red dress disappears round a corner, her long auburn hair swishing in the mist. Fog-damp seasonal decorations adorn the walkways: tinsel and bunting peppered with little origami penises; baubles shaped like breasts, their nipples gleaming in the weak sunlight; and posters of snowman orgies, angel blowjobs , and Santa and his crew of futa elves enjoying an anal daisy-chain. As she passes a small fast-food joint, she hears the disjointed strains of I Saw Momma Fucking Santa Claus blaring from a crackly kitchen radio.

Eventually, she reaches the urban Canal, in time to see a boat swish slowly by, three youngsters enjoying a quiet spit-roast on the blanket-covered upper deck, the girl’s hair tied back with a bright yellow ribbon as she sucks the cock of one of her companions, whilst the other slides into her cunt from behind. What wonderful times we live in, the woman thinks to herself. It was not like this for our forefathers, imprisoned and hidebound by the prudishness and ignorance of the Old Times. Long live the Enlightenment!

At last, she finds her destination, checking it against her map – a small café facing the Canal, emblazoned with the sign:

CLAIRE’S CUNT KITCHEN:

purveyors of fine food, fucking and food-fucking

– the glass of the door adorned with a large, lovingly-drawn picture of said cunt, open, glistening and pink, enticing the customers in. Beautiful, she thinks, admiring the artwork – before she remembers why she is here, and that shadow of anxiety reclaims her face, making her, unusually, look her age.

The sign on the door, tastefully hung from Claire’s painted swollen clitoris, says “closed” (in ironic contrast to the cunt itself); but through the pink glass, she sees a light on behind the counter and some steam emerging from the kitchen behind. She knocks three times, peering (approximately urethra height) through the steamy glass to discern signs of movement within. A second set of knocks – shave and an assfuck this time – succeeds in attracting a teenage face, bleached blond hair tied back into a ponytail, looking quizzically through a crack in the doorway. “M’ pussy,” says the girl. “Sorry, we’re not yet open. Can ya come back at nine?”

The would-be customer is not deterred. “Lick my pussy,” she says in a business-like manner. “I’m looking for Claire.”

“She’s not normally in till nine. I open up on Saturdays.” The girl has a charmingly plebeian voice: “But if you wanna wait inside till she arrives, I’m sure that’ll be all righ’…”

The café is filled with comforting smells which waft out from the kitchen: freshly baked bread, coffee, grilled bacon and warm cunt. The pink walls are covered with posters of great film classics of the last century (Deepthroat, New Wave Hookers, Debbie Does Dallas), as well as more recent hits with a culinary bent (Banana Bitches III, Whiteshit Wenches IV, Whipped Cream Pies II) – reflecting, presumably, the cinematic preferences of the café owners. Bunches of mistletoe hang above the formica-topped tables. “Ooh,” says the woman, admiring the decor as she takes a seat on a high stool at the counter, “this is nice!”

“Claire and Brad have done it up all posh-like, I fink,” says the girl. “‘Ave a look at the menu! Can I get ya somefink? I’ve just put some eggs on to boil.” She is naked except for a skimpy apron which barely covers her nipples, and which displays the same vaginal image as the front door; her tight backside is fully exposed, except for the tied apron sash which dangles between the crack of her buttocks.

The woman studies the menu with interest and amusement, before saying, “Your boiled egg ‘special’ looks amazing – can you do one for me?”

“Sure fing! Two eggs, yeah?” grins the girl. “And d’ya want somefink ta drink – ‘special’ too?”

“Hot chocolate, please!” smiles the woman, before taking off her coat, to reveal her outfit: a long black silk dress, slit up to her bare crotch, off the shoulder on one side, leaving one firm breast encased by a strapless lace cup.

“Oh fuck, that’s so classy, that dress!” exclaims the girl, as the customer takes a seat at a table. “I bet you get a lot of guys wanting to fuck ya with that fing on! Sorry, the other staff aren’t in yet, otherwise I’d offer to eat yer cunt. But feel free to rub yerself off if ya want while I’m doin’ yer eggs,” she adds, as she grins and disappears into the kitchen.

The customer does not, in fact, immediately start to “rub herself off”, but casually explores the premises, admiring the posters, and taking a closer look at a collection of photographs stuck on a large pinboard above the counter. Pride of place goes to a tall, willowy girl with green eyes, long blond hair, pert tits and shaven pussy, in various stages of undress and a variety of sexual positions: sticking two fingers up her own cunt through a conveniently-located tear in her blue jeans; deepthroating a stiff (though not very large) cock, extended tongue curled affectionately around the testicles; sticking an ice lolly up her asshole while three men jerk cum over her face; and licking someone else’s vulva – young, juicy, with a carefully-trimmed triangular light-brown landing-strip which looks just like…

“Oh!” exclaims the woman, clasping her hand over her mouth. Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes, which she hastily wipes away with one hand. She turns away, trembling, and goes back to her seat.

The waitress has clearly turned on the radio, for the cheery tones of Fucking Around the Christmas Tree begin to tinkle through the café sound system. Soon she returns with a large steaming mug of hot chocolate, asking, “Some cream on that?”

“Oh, yes please!” replies the customer.

The girl giggles and places the chocolate on the table before climbing onto the chair opposite and turning around so that her bottom is poised gracefully above the mug. The customer gasps, admiring the beauty of the girl’s posterior. Her buttocks are tight, but her asshole gently pulsates and winks, as if softly massaging its contents, before the girl elegantly twists her hips to slowly fart a perfectly-formed swirl of whipped cream onto the surface of the customer’s beverage.

“Oh fuuuck, that’s beautiful!” exclaims the older lady, feeling a shiver pass from her clit through her body. “Where did you learn that?”

“Oh, the bosses are great,” grins the girl, as she wipes the remaining cream off her asshole and slurps it off her finger. “Give us lots of training. I only work weekends, though – so I’m not as good as Claire yet: she’s the real food-fuck expert! But I’m at the RAF now – you know, Royal Academy of Fuckin’ – and there’s a couple of lecturers there who’re really good at this sort of fing! But – oops,” she flaps, “I’d better get yer eggs!”

The girl disappears into the kitchen again with her tray, leaving the customer savouring the taste of coffee with asshole-flavoured cream. The radio is now blaring:

Fucking around the Christmas tree –

Have a happy holiday!

Everyone's fucking merrily

In the new old-fashioned way…

The waitress returns a couple of minutes later with another tray bearing two empty egg cups which she places on the table before, again, turning around and squatting on the opposite seat, cunt-lips dangling damp and glistening, bottom poised. She giggles as her tight asshole gradually begins to wink, bit by bit opening up to reveal her smooth maroon rectal tunnel, gaping and deep. The customer gasps again, “Oh, that’s so lovely, my dear! I do adore asshole – and what a beauty you have!”

“Y’ ain’t seen nuffink yet!” smirks the waitress, as her rectal muscles continue to work, gradually easing something large, white and flexible outwards towards her anus. As the peeled hard-boiled egg crowns (still steaming slightly), the customer gives a delighted cry and leans forward to flick her tongue around the bulging anal rim. The owner of the asshole gives a happy squeal. “Oh fuck yeah – d’ya like licking arsehole, ma’am? I love it when the customers show their appreciation!” She tightens her sphincter again, sucking the egg back into her anal depths, before again gently bearing down so that the egg crowns a bit more this time, almost plopping out – but not quite, before disappearing again into the girl’s rectum.

Twice more, the waitress performs her egg trick, before eventually allowing it to bulge past her rim, plopping, small end up, into one of the egg cups, emitting a damp squelch as it does so, before being garnished with a delicate dribble of translucent anal lube. “Brava, my dear!” says the woman, before giving the girl’s quivering ass-rim another congratulatory slurp. “Now, do you need to go back to the kitchen for the second egg?”

“What d’ya take me for, an amateur?” giggles the girl in mock umbrage, as she begins to repeat the exercise, one middle finger massaging between her moist pussy-lips as she slowly brings another gently steaming  hard-boiled egg to the surface, which bulges obscenely against her perfectly circular, wide-stretched sphincter.

The customer watches with growing fascination and desire as the asshole continues to wink, bulge and stretch temptingly before her eyes. Her mouth slightly open, her lower lip begins to tremble with lust. “Oh God, oh fuck,” she moans, reaching under her skirt with her left hand to find her clit. She is shaking all over now, and – quite to her waitress’ surprise – her eyes are beginning to leak tears.

“Are y’ all righ’, ma’am?” asks the girl.

“Oh yes, oh yes!” pants the customer, an expression on her face which combines luminous zeal with tragic nostalgia. She begins to rub her clit with her left thumb while the other hand deftly releases her own right breast from its strapless cup and begins to massage it. “Your asshole is so beautiful!” she moans, as she steps up her pace, sliding two fingers of her left hand into her already-juicing pussy whilst her other hand squeezes her tit with increasing desperation.

“And… and… it reminds me of someone,” moans the woman. “She had a beautiful GM asshole too, just like yours: clean and lubed, total gape and wink control. So fucking filthy she was too, such a beautiful, perfect, well brought-up, lovely assfucking slut – until… oh God…!” the customer squeals, revelling in the sheer beauty of the waitress’s pulsating, winking, teasing, egg-filled shitter, before clamping her mouth onto it to slobber over the pungent culinary marvel, “… until… until,” she pants, “she left us for the Outside World – OH MY GOD!!!” the woman screams, a strange wail of combined ecstasy and agony, her tongue lapping maniacally at the gorgeous egg-bulging asshole, the fingers of her left hand rubbing her clit to a frantic climax, her right hand beating and slapping at her exposed tit as she comes, tears coursing unstaunched  down her face.

“OH FUUUCK!!!” wails the woman. “ALISON, WHY DID YOU BETRAY MEEE?”

“ALISON?!” gasps the waitress. In shock, she momentarily loses control of her anal muscles, and the hard-boiled egg shoots out of her rectum, landing with a splash in the customer’s mug, sending its contents flying. Warm chocolate splashes across the woman’s exposed tit and down her dress, and whipped cream spatters her face and tongue. “Alison?” repeats the girl, as she turns her head. “Alison Bates?! Are you…?”

“She pleasured me so much,” sobs the woman, as tears continue to course down her face, mixing with the whipped cream to make creamy rivulets which drip onto her dress and exposed boob. “She gave me so much joy. I miss her more than I can say. My beautiful, sexy, fuckslut cuntwhore DAUGHTER!” She bursts into renewed floods of tears, her wails filling the small café, drowning out the strains of the radio.

“OH!” gasps the girl. “You’re… Oh, I had no idea! Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry!” the girl shudders, desperately pulling off her apron and using it to try to wipe up the mess she has made of her customer. “You make all those amazing buttplugs, don’t you? And Alison was my total fuckin’ idol,” she blathers, unsure whether to prioritise comforting the distraught parent or apologising for the mess. “She ‘elped me get into the RAF, ya know? She was such a great arsefucker. I miss ‘er so much, she…”

But the girl’s frantic monologue is suddenly cut short by a voice shouting: “RILEY! WHAT THE FUCK?” – as the front door opens, and in walks none other than the tall sexy blonde from the photos on the pinboard, dressed in a crotchless red bodysuit and transparent latex coat, followed closely by a skinny young man wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, and glasses.

“Oh, Claire, Claire – fuck, I’m so sorry!” Riley flusters. “I can explain everyfink. This is.., this is…”

“Lick my pussy, Claire,” says the customer, as formally as is possible for someone in such a state of sartorial disarray. “How are you?”

“Mrs Bates!” exclaims the blonde. “Oh my fucking God!”

There is shocked silence all round, punctuated only by the radio, which is now playing:

It’s beginning to fuck a lot like Christmas:

Toys for every whore!

But the prettiest sight to see is the pussy that will be

On your own front door…

~

This is such a beautiful cock! thinks Alison to herself, as she kneels on the floor of her bedroom. Outside, it is raining: hot tropical rain which drums insistently on the attap roof, offset by the noisy splashing of great monsoon puddles on the patio outside. The windows are open and the soft swirling breeze caresses her curvaceous body, giving some blessed relief from the habitual heat and sweat.

Alison’s tongue traces up and down the cock. By now, she knows every feature of this superb black shaft: the large vein which runs along the underside on the left, always throbbing, pulsating; the little mole halfway up on the right, which she always likes to tickle with the tip of her tongue; the perfectly-proportioned foreskin which slides back effortlessly whenever the cock goes hard, revealing that gorgeous throbbing deep purple-brown head – now gleaming with the first drop of elegantly poised pre-cum.

He moans as she licks off the glistening droplet, cock twitching with anticipation. “Good?” she asks.

“Oh, baby, so good!” he grins, his eyes twinkling with delight as he gazes down at her face, now slightly fuller than a few months ago , but still so prettily framed by soft light brown hair. Grinning back, she opens her mouth wide and, eyes still gazing into his, slides her lips all the way down the huge black shaft till they caress and nibble his balls.

“Oh fuuuck!” he exclaims, revelling in the ecstasy of feeling his member completely swallowed, the glans caressed and squeezed by the back of her throat.

“Mm-mm!” she chides him mischievously, waggling a finger in mock rebuke, before releasing his cock, allowing a small flood of throat-slime to dribble down her chin and onto her full, dark-nippled breasts. “He can hear every word!”

“Oops, sorry,” he laughs. “Just like Claire, hey? ‘Don’t say fuck – oh yeah, oh fuck I said fuck – oops!’”

“Rob, you shithead!” she laughs, playfully slapping his cock so it swings wildly from side to side, before eventually regaining equilibrium just in front of her lips.

“Hey, how come you can call me a ‘shithead’, but I can’t say ‘fuck’?”

“‘Coz you are a shithead!” she giggles affectionately. “A filthy-minded Undesirable shithead perv who leads nice white Enlightened anal sluts like me astray!” She plunges her throat back down onto his cock, emitting a long gurgling noise as she feels it touch bottom, her tongue curling around his heavy black balls.

Rob laughs, his cock jiggling in Alison’s throat. “Well, if I’m a shithead perv, then you’re a dirty filthy motherfucking whore, remember?”

“Aa’-hucking ho’!” corrects Alison, through a throatful of cock. “Dir’y fil’hy mowwerhu’ing aa’-hucking ho’!”

“Gonna prove it now?” asks the black man.

“Hey,” Alison remonstrates, removing Rob’s cock from her mouth again, allowing more slime to dribble down onto her tits, “are you complaining about the throat-treatment you’re getting? I’ve been practising hard!” To prove the point, she plunges her face back onto Rob’s cock again, giving him a brief but frantic gurgling up-and-down throatfuck, letting spit fly in all directions and splatter her face and tits.

Rob laughs. “Well, it’s paid off!” he enthuses. “A year ago, I didn’t know you could do that!”

“I couldn’t a year ago,” admits Alison, pausing her deepthroating. “But your sister bought me a damn good set of training dildos! So who needs the fucking Royal Academy of Fucking anyway? Hey, you gonna eat my ass now?”

“I thought we weren’t saying ‘fuck’?” replies Rob in puzzlement. “‘He can hear every word’ – didn’t you say something like that?”

“Well, maybe… But how about we make an exception when we’re actually fucking…?” suggests Alison tentatively. “I mean, how can you fuck without saying ‘fuck’?

“You could say, ‘Make love to me, my darling,’ like the respectable Outside Worlder you are now,” grins Rob.

“Ooh, that sounds so totally filthy!” marvels Alison. “That’s how to make my cunt juice! Say it again, fuckstud.”

Rob pauses, before looking into his wife’s eyes and intoning, softly: “I love you so much, my darling; make love to me now.”

“FUUUCK!” squeals Alison in lustful delight, her hand straying downwards to give her clit a much-needed rub. “That’s the filthiest thing I’ve ever heard! If my parents heard me speak like that, they’d be like” – she puts on a pompously parental air to demonstrate: “‘Mind your fucking language, cunty-pie! Act like a proper fuckslut, won’t you?!’”

Rob guffaws. “OK, so we’re allowed Enlightenment-talk when fucking, are we?” he asks, before adding, for comic effect, “Dirty filthy motherfucking assfucking shitcunt fuckwhore cuntslut?” He grins mischievously.

“Too fucking right!” chuckles Alison as she slowly stands up, feeling her stretched bulging belly lurch as she does so. “I didn’t win first prize in my school fuck-talk bee for nothing – you big-dicked ass-licking fuck-perv dickwad!” She grins at her own verbal dexterity, while Rob laughs. She steadies herself against him with one hand, before kneeling on the bed, bump dangling below her, her bottom high and in her husband’s face. “So, gonna eat my fucking haemorrhoids, big boy?”

Alison keeps her anus tight for Rob, so that he can concentrate on slurping his tongue around the recently changed topography of her asshole. Once the perfect puckered starfish, it now bulges unevenly: puffy, flappy, squidgy – and beautiful. Rob runs his tongue round her anal bulges, probing between them, poking gently at the tight hole at their centre, moaning in enthusiastic appreciation of his wife’s ever-changing beauty. “Oh God, Alison, you are so beautiful! And this – this is almost like eating cunt: soft and juicy and puffy. Fuck!”

She laughs. “Remember the first time you ate my ass, on that train? Bet you didn’t think you’d have made it look like this fifteen months later!”

“Just goes to show,” mumbles Rob, his voice muffled between her sweaty buttocks. “For all the genetic modifications the Enlightenment can offer, there’s nothing as beautiful as a natural God-given woman’s body, is there?”

There ain’t nothin’ like an ass,

warbles Alison, as her bump dangles and sways,

nothin’ in the world.

Though still muffled, Rob joins in:

There ain’t nothin’ – to be crass –

that is anything like an ass!

before renewing his enthusiastic slurping.

Soon they are fucking – “Sideways spoons”, requests Alison, “so you don’t squash the bump too much.” Rob reaches around the front to diddle her clit while his stiff black cock penetrates between her juicy flabby pussy-lips.

There ain’t nothin’ like a cunt,

he sings, as he revels in the pleasure of the same, happily coating his cock with her warm slime while inhaling the beauty scent of the sweet nectar coating his fingers,

nothin’ in the world.

And together they bellow with joyous abandon, to the soundtrack of the tropical thunderstorm raging outside:

There ain’t nothin’ – to be blunt –

that is anything like a cunt!

Alison climbs on top to come. “Easier that way,” she assures him. “Then I can control where the pressure is.” And she does, grinding her clit against the base of Rob’s stiff cock, rubbing her large full sweaty breasts in his face so he can slobber over them.

“Make the most of them while you can, tit-sucker!” she quips. “They’ll be someone else’s soon!”

There ain’t nothin’ like a tit,

she begins to sing – but stops with a sudden “Oops!”, as she sits up on his cock. “Hey, feel this!” she says, grabbing Rob’s hand and holding it to her belly.

“Whoa!” marvels Rob. “He’s lively today!”

“He’s saying, ‘Hey, can’t a guy get some fucking sleep around here? Get a room, will ya?’” They guffaw uproariously, before Alison resumes her careful clit-grinding. Soon her ecstasy takes over, and as her orgasm approaches she happily degenerates into her beloved fuck-talk: “Oh yeah, baby, gonna fucking come now, fucking coming on your big black dick. Love you, baby, I love you so much, do you feel how much my juicy cunt fucking loves you? OH FUUUCK!!!”

Her cunt spasms, and Rob feels her cervix pulsate against his glans. He can’t hold back any longer, and his cock explodes, splashing spurt after spurt of hot cum inside her, so that their juices mix and meld in her loose third-trimester cunt-space. “Oh yeah, baby, you like fucking your pregnant wife with that big black dick?” she trills, as she wallows in the sensations of their copula. “Like feeling all that hot creamy cum swash around in there? Like the way my cunt squeezes you, and strokes you, and sucks all that cum out?”

To make the point even clearer, she squeezes her pelvic floor muscles, milking the last few drops from his shaft as she pulls off, before allowing his cum to flood luxuriantly out of her cunt onto his balls. She kneels, and lovingly licks his cock and balls clean, as he moans with pleasure and joy, and she mutters, “Oh yeah, cum, cum… fucking cum… love your hot fucking cum, baby. All mine. No one else’s now. All mine…”

“Are you happy that I’m yours?” whispers Rob, as she lays her head on his belly.

She looks at him thoughtfully, before giggling: “Hey, it goes two ways, dickwad. We belong to each other, remember? – ‘till death do us fart’!”

They laugh again, until Alison pauses, saying, “Shit, my parents would be horrified! Marital fidelity – what the fuck?”

Rob chuckles, then whispers into her ear:

“It is not good that the man should be alone; let us make a helper for him like himself.” And now, O Lord, I take this sister of mine with sincerity. Grant that I may find mercy and may grow old together with her.

“Fuck,” mutters Alison, as tears of happiness fill her eyes.

“I think the appropriate response is ‘Amen’, actually,” chuckles Rob, as he gently wipes her eyes with his fingers.

“Not for a well brought-up Enlightenment slut like me, babe,” she replies. “There’s no profounder word than ‘fuck’…”

The rain seems to have stopped, and the birds are singing again.

~

“My dad says they used to allow fucking on the tube,” remarks Claire as she and Jill Bates enter Cuntden Town underground station. The walls are emblazoned with signs proclaiming:

NO FUCKING ON THE UNDERGROUND – FINE 500 EUROS

“Yes, they used to have fucking carriages,” explains Mrs Bates. “Then when they got rid of those, you could still do it on the platforms. But then there was that couple who were doing a standing fuck on the platform and lost their balance just as the train was pulling into Fuckham Broadway, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that,” grimaces Claire. “What a mess that was…”

“At least, they still have fucking rooms,” says Jill, gesturing to a rather overcrowded filthy glass-fronted waiting-room on the platform, full of couples fucking, all squashed together, and standing for lack of space. The glass is smeared with streaks of dried cum and spit, and puddles of semen and squirt cover the floor. A sign above the door reads:

TRANSPORT FOR LONDON CUSTOMER RECREATION CHAMBER

No pissing on the floor

Please take your butt-plugs home with you

Claire notices one woman being taken doggy-style, her nose squashed up against the glass so she looks a bit like a pig, her tongue licking day-old dried cum off the window. “At least, you’re still allowed to jerk off,” she laughs as they enter their carriage, indicating a sign on the door proclaiming:

DON’T BE A BERK: STICK TO A JERK!

helpfully clarified by a line-drawing of a businessman in a suit masturbating into a metal receptacle fixed to the wall of a tube carriage. The small print reads:

Please use the cum-trays provided

There is only one other passenger on Claire and Jill’s carriage when they get on: a woman with long reddish-brown hair – but she seems to be fairly self-occupied, her red dress hitched up to her waist while she quietly fingers her cunt. Thankfully, she is at the far end of the carriage – which gives Jill the confidence to open up about the reason for her unexpected visit. “Claire…” Jill Bates hesitates. “Have you heard from Alison?” Despite her now wiped-down dress and touched-up makeup, her face announces sadness and fear.

“Yes,” answers Claire carefully. “We exchange letters and gifts. By post is the only way now.”

Mrs Bates nods. “You know… my husband and I have not communicated with her at all since… well, since she left the Union.”

“I know,” answers Claire blandly.

“You probably think I’m a terrible mother, cutting her off like that. But it’s… well, I should explain: my husband doesn’t know I’m here.”

Claire nods slowly as she takes in the information.

“Bill thinks I’ve come to London just for the Christmas shopping. He feels deeply humiliated by Alison’s betrayal. He’s even cut her out of our will.”

Claire pauses, grimacing. “What do you want of me?” she asks.

“I… I want to speak to her. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being without her. I want her to come home. I want her to see sense, to end the nonsense with that black boy, to come back to us, to be the fucker she was meant to me.”

Claire pauses. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Mrs Bates. Alison seems very happy with her new life.”

“Happy?!” exclaims the older woman. “How can anyone be happy being oppressed, forced into a monogamous marriage, unable to express herself sexually the way she needs to? My daughter is a slut – one of the greatest, most promising fucksluts this country has ever known! We are – well, we were – so proud of her. She has a great future ahead of her. How can she throw all that away?”

Claire pauses and sighs. She looks around to check that the lady in the red dress isn’t listening, before lowering her voice and whispering, “Love.”

Jill Bates does a disgusted double-take, outrage etched on her face. “Claire, don’t talk to me like that!” she spits. “Really? This is the Enlightenment, for God’s sake! And we are Bateses: one of the greatest fucking families in the whole Union – and you dare to suggest that my fuckslut daughter is in ‘love’? That boy has deceived her with all this ‘love’-talk. There’s no truth in it!” In her agitation, her voice has got louder, and the woman in the red dress at the other end of the carriage pauses her self-pleasuring to stare, apparently shocked at Jill’s outburst.

“Calm down, Mrs Bates!” replies Claire, uncharacteristic fire in her eyes. “I don’t like it any more than you do. I think she’s lost her marbles too. But all the outrage in the whole fucking world will not bring her back. So the question is: do you want to speak to your ‘fuckslut daughter’ or not? If you do, then I am taking you now to the one man I know who can help. If you don’t, then you had better change trains, head back to Cunthorpe, and wallow in your humiliation – because this outrage is not going to help bring Alison back to you!”

The train stops at Splooge Street, and a large party of foreign students crowds onto the train, ending Claire and Jill’s private chat, and sparing Jill from having to make any hasty decisions. Quietly, she sits, seethes, and weeps as all around her, French teenagers settle into their seats and commence a variety of furtive sexual acts. One of them, a short pudgy brunette, seats herself on the bench opposite as her young male companion unzips his fly and begins fucking her face.

“OI!” shouts a conductor from the platform. “NO FUCKING ON THE UNDERGROUND!” Once he realises that the offenders are foreign, he changes to his best Franglais: “NE PAS BAISER SUR LE TUBE!”

“Ah, même pas une pipe?” – “Not even a blowjob?” exclaims the girl, as her friend stows his dick in his trousers, amid a great amount of disgruntled shrugging from their colleagues, and the train begins to pull away.

Jill is smiling again, though – and so they come to Tottenham Cunt Road.

~

“Mrs. Bates, it is an honour to meet you,” says Father Ambrose Deconceicao, extending his hand to shake hers. “Come into the chapel, and we can have a little chat. How is Alison these days? It seems such a long time…”

Jill Bates scowls. Father Ambrose is exactly the sort she despises: a dark-skinned “Undesirable”, and a religious “reactionary” to boot – an enemy, if there ever was one, of the Enlightenment, and all that she and her family stand for. Jill is a religious woman, a pillar of her Church of the Enlightenment congregation back home – but any church which preaches ‘love’ over Pleasure is anathema to her.

Not doubting that it was Father Ambrose and his ilk who persuaded her daughter to “go off with the black boy”, Jill mutters a stilted “Lick my pussy” – but clearly does not mean it. Claire stands to the side, feeling awkward as usual in this ecclesiastical environment – though even she has remembered to wear an opaque overcoat to cover up her crotchless bodysuit. Secretly, she is pleased that Jill feels even more out of place than she.

Once Jill has explained the situation – though in a tone as accusatory and unaccommodating as is possible – the priest smiles his signature smile, calm and unruffled. “Mrs Bates,” he explains, “as you know, audio or video communication between here and the Outside World is strictly prohibited by the Union. Normally, the only way of sending messages is by post – usually monitored and censored. However, we do have an ‘underground’ screen connection here which, because of the goodwill I have towards Alison and Rob” – here Jill Bates grimaces slightly – “I can let you use. But I must ask you first: are you willing to keep this a secret? This channel of communication between exiles and their loved ones in this country is the last remaining. If the authorities were to find out, we would, without doubt, be raided, and the network shut down.”

“Which is what you deserve,” counters Mrs Bates, with some bile.

“I will not argue that point with you now, Mrs Bates. But if that were to happen, you would be destroying any chance of ever speaking to your daughter again. Is that what you want?”

Jill Bates sits in anguish. She hates this man. She hates everything he stands for. She hates how he has “led her daughter astray”, how he has interposed himself in the midst of her perfect family of fuckers, how he has humiliated her, her husband, his business, their friends – and cocked a snook at everything she has ever held dear. But, beneath it all, she feels a pain, an utter desperation to speak to her daughter again. She does not know whence that feeling has arisen, and even if she did she would never call it “love” – but it is there, gnawing at her, eating her up, so that all that matters is her Alison, her dear, dear Alison, for whom she weeps and yearns as only a mother can. And so she weighs her words carefully, saying to Father Ambrose, “Thank you, Father. I understand. I will keep this a secret.”

The priest nods. “In which case, I will need to send a message to Alison and Rob myself first. They will have to contact you, not the other way around. I can route their connection through to you, but it is not safe for your call to be too long, so I will set it to automatically shut off after sixty minutes. Please will you be on your screen from nine tomorrow morning? Where are you staying?”

“At the Titz. We always stay there.”

“That’s a bit dangerous; likely to be monitored. Is there anywhere else?”

“You can use ours, at the café,” suggests Claire. “We don’t open till ten on Sundays; no one will interrupt you.”

“Let it be so, then – thank you, Claire,” nods the priest. “Keep your blinds closed, and the volume down – and if you suspect you are being watched, or notice anything unusual, shut down immediately.”

“Hey, if anyone tries to fuck with Mrs Bates, they’ll have me and Brad and Riley to contend with!” says Claire. “Oops, sorry – mustn’t say ‘fuck’ here – oh fuck, there I go again…” The priest chuckles indulgently.

“How can I thank you, Ambrose?” asks Jill, her face softening slightly, and tentatively half-reaching for her purse.

Father Ambrose waves her gesture off. “It is my honour to help. Please, Mrs Bates, give Alison and Rob my love.”

Jill snarls.

~

The Cock Tail  Bar at the Titz gleams with all the signs of ostentatious mid-twenty-first-century privilege: glittering crystal chandeliers, plushly unholstered couches, finely-groomed waiters in waistcoats and tails, and of course décor based on cocks: beaten brass reliefs of cocks on the walls, chandeliers fashioned from hundreds of sparkling crystal cocks, cock-themed upholstery and curtains, realistic gold-plated dildos protruding from the banquettes at regular intervals (for customers’ use) and – the pièce de résistance – a central fountain set around a huge luminous bronze phallus, from which flows a continuous ejaculation of champagne, which splashes down into a lovingly-fashioned cunt-shaped trough: the height, in other words, of Enlightenment chic.

Jill sits, savouring her glass of Vulve Cliquot (Grand Cul) 2047. She feels tainted by her afternoon: doing shady deals with Objectors and Undesirables and religious reactionaries is not how a pillar of fucking society such as she should behave: she hopes that soon she will be able to speak sense into her wayward daughter, and all this nonsense will be over. She leans back, admiring the pargeting on the ceiling just above her couch: a large penis ejaculating into a delicately proportioned, though wide-open, female mouth. Quietly, she slips one hand under her skirt and begins to slowly rub her clitoris in appreciation.

“Mrs Bates, it is an honour to have you as our guest,” says a voice, and Jill sits up to see a young woman standing before her, flashing a broad smile. She has long reddish-brown hair which shapes itself elegantly around her large full breasts, the nipples of which just peep over the top of her red dress. The rings on her fingers sport a number of large red gemstones: rubies, garnets, carnelians.

“Oh! Lick my pussy,” exclaims Jill. “Uh… haven’t I met you somewhere before? Today?”

The woman hesitates, before replying: “No… I don’t think so. But I work here, in the PR Department: Dolores is the name.” She indicates her name tag, which sports the Titz logo. “Forgive me, but I saw your name on the register, and I know that you and your husband are among our most valued regular customers. Our relationship with Bates Butts goes back many years. Can I get you anything special this evening?”

“That is so kind of you, Dolores,” smiles Jill. “But I’m already so well catered for. The champagne is wonderful: just what I need to relax.”

“Would you like me to get our maître d’ to spunk into it? He has the most delicious cum. We normally charge an extra five hundred euros for the service – but for you, I’m sure he can be persuaded to come ‘on the house’!”

“Well, put that way, I couldn’t possibly refuse, could I?” smiles Jill. Dolores turns on her heels and heads back towards the kitchens, returning a minute later with a dark-haired heavy-set man in a tuxedo, his thick cock protruding upwards from his fly at a forty-five-degree angle, his bulging glans already glistening with pre-cum.

“Daniel,” Dolores explains to the maître d’, “this is Mrs Bates, one of our most valued customers.”

“Ah, Madame, it is an honneur to meet you!” drawls Daniel, bowing, as his cock bobs up and down. “Bates butt-plugs are the finest in the world: all our waitresses use them, of course! Madame, may I have the privilège of frosting your glass of champagne?”

“Mais oui, certainement, Monsieur!” replies Jill, not a little flattered, and revelling in the pampering.

“In which case,” says Dolores, “sit back and enjoy the show, Mrs Bates!” She turns to face Daniel, kneels, opens her mouth wide and sticks out her tongue – but then pauses, asking, “Mrs Bates, do you prefer blowjobs in the ‘modern’ style or the ‘classical’?”

“Oh, Dolores, you are a true connoisseur!” smiles Jill. “Classical, please! One sees so much of the modern these days – but there’s nothing quite like the way it was done by the true masters: Erica Boyer, Cara Lott... ah, those were the days!”

Daniel’s cock is thick and gnarled, the veins standing out, bluish-grey and rugged, like a piece of ancient stone carving – but he plunges it swiftly into Dolores’ throat, eliciting an appreciative quack from deep within her gullet. Jill sits back and resumes gently rubbing her clit, as she admires the artistry of the two fine hospitality fuckers. Dolores exhibits all the signs of having been superbly trained in the “classical” style: she does not dribble or spatter or drool, but maintains neat, clean lines, swallowing her own spit even as Daniel pounds his thick shaft in and out of her throat. Dolores’ red lipstick does not smudge over her face, but makes clear, well-defined rings up and down Daniel’s shaft as her lips grasp and release, nibbling up and down from glans to balls.

Jill admires the show and whimpers in pleasure. The throbbing in her clit grows, and shivers of appreciative lust pass through her body, as she resumes slowly fingering her cunt. “Oh Dolores, you are such a beautiful cocksucker,” she moans. “What artistry! Is that good, Daniel?” she asks, as the maître d’s eyes roll upwards and his cock begins to jerk and spasm.

With consummate professionalism, Dolores retrieves Jill’s champagne flute with one hand, whips Daniel’s cock from her mouth with the other and, with perfect timing, jerks six or seven thick spurts of cum from his dickhead, neatly frosting the rim and the top inch and a half of glass. Twisting the flute rapidly so that the cum-coating is neat and even, she finishes off her decorative efforts by letting the last spurt gently dribble down the outside of the glass in a graceful curlicue. Leaning back, Jill closes her eyes in ecstasy, as her own fingers bring her to a genteel climax; at the same time, Dolores flicks open the carnelian ring on her left hand and, unseen by Jill, releases a pinch of colourless powder into Jill’s champagne, which she swills around so that it dissolves immediately. Daniel notices and raises one eyebrow quizzically. Winking at him, Dolores slurps the last glob of cum from the end of his penis, then dismisses him before he can say a word.

“Your champagne, Madame!” smiles Dolores, handing Jill the glass.

“What service!” Jill claps appreciatively, sniffs deeply the heady bouquet of champagne and semen, and takes a sip.

“Mmm, heavenly!” she trills. “It makes me feel quite… quite… strange. Ooh, that’s lovely… I don’t know what’s come over me, I feel rather… oh…” Jill pauses, her head spinning, her eyes glazing over as she tries to focus on Dolores. “What did you put in that?” she asks blearily.

Dolores smiles – but not the same sparkling customer-service smile she has been exhibiting hitherto: now her smile is cold, calculated, quietly triumphant. She laughs – a shallow, cunning chuckle – before saying, in a voice laden with cynicism and bitterness, “No, no, Mrs Bates. Now it is my turn to ask you some questions. And you will answer me with absolute honesty, won’t you?”

Jill’s head is spinning, but somehow she knows that she must obey. Briefly, her mind tries to fight back, to hold onto her consciousness of the moment, to maintain her own free will – but it is pointless trying to resist. She replies, in a voice devoid of expression, “Yes, of course, Dolores. Of course. Whatever you say…”

To be continued…