Claire's Cunt Kitchen

"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 ofVulve 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 ourmaître 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.