|The Story||The Authors|
|He needed a break. His bladder was still fit to bust, and the afterimage of his daydream of Pamela still lay on the undersides of his eyelids, etched in radiantly thin crosshatchings of pyloric acid, now undoing the stay on a garter -- oh, damn! Damn it all and back again if it wasn't too much, if she wasn't a vision of perfection circa a mid-80s Oui centerspread. He turned left as he came out of the stacks and headed for the Handicapped Bathroom, which was roomy, private, and had a door that locked, detouring into the Fiction section en route for exactly as long as it took to slip a copy of The Story of O beneath his jacket.|
|Jake entered the bathroom and was at first startled by a man sitting in a wheel chair in front of the sink. "I'm sorry," Jake apologized and was about to leave when the man suddenly spoke up. "You can't use this bathroom," he said in a squeaky nasal tone. "I'll wait till your finished." Explained Jake. "No, you can't use this bathroom at all!" The man's face was beginning to turn red and his glasses slid down his nose and pushed them back up his wrist because he had no hands. "Why can't I?" Jake demanded, standing tall over the handless handicapped man. "Because you are not handicapped!" the man nearly shrieked. "Oh yeah? Who's gonna stop me, wheel chair boy?" Jake challenged. "I am!" the man said and he jabbed Jake in the nuts with his wrist. Jake fell to the floor in a fetal postion and wet himself.|
From his agonized, fetal curl on the floor Jake could see the the blanket wrapped around the man's feet, which were not feet but porpoiselike flippers, as well as the book where it had fallen open to the page on which O.'s innner labia are pierced with an antique Parisian manhole cover on which the name of her Mistress's grandfather's now-defunct contracting firm, Jacques Jean-Nicolas Etienne Robillard et Fils, stood out in bold sans-serif relief. The tightly bound O. moans with the sheer vaginal ecstacy of suddenly having to carry an extra 87 kilograms between her legs... Whrrrrrrrrrrrjjh, went the electric wheelchair, sputtering to life. "And let that be a lesson to you, squirt: Don't fuck wit da physically challenged," hissed the man somewhere above Jake and to his left; "And never, never tease a weasel, " he sang. "I will not say it twice. A weasel will not like it. And teasing isn't nice!" So saying, he motored out the door and away. |
On the floor, Jake wasn't sure whether to vomit, scream, or curl up like a potato-bug and die. His balls felt as if they had been smashed all the way up to the back of his throat, and the erotic yearnings which had originally sent him to the Handicapped bathroom were no utterly dashed. Not daring to move for fear of jostling his wounded family jewels, he read on, turning the pages with his nose.
|As punishment for the missing brandy-cask, Madame LaRoux had had Igor string O. up by her waist-length hair from the barn rafters, directly over the steaming manure-bins. Now, seventeen hours later, her buttocks still stinging with the delicious sting of Igor's giant paddle-ball paddle, O. rotated slowly back and forth on her hair, blinked impassively at by the little barn-owls perching among the eaves. Ah, les petits hiboux, she thought; Muy caliente. Aber, der berschne Igor hat mich noch nicht in meinem Arsch gefickt...und ich will es, ich will! Aber, es gefllt ihm nicht -- Was knnte ein armes Mdchen tun...?|
These ruminations were interrupted by the arrival, in the barn, of those pesky little relations summering at Chateau LaRoux, the mischievous Katzenjammer Kids. O. groaned inwardly and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if by doing so she could make herself smaller and smaller and finally invisible. But the K. Kids had noses tuned to such things, and immediately looked upwards and spied O. Whereupon, they began to pelt her with cow-chips, rotting apples, and a horseshoe which left a painful, u-shaped bruise across her unprotected belly... |
Damn you, spoiled fucking brats! she wanted to call down to them, but she knew this would only result in new measures of severity being added to her already severe punishment... She rolled her eyes. The sinuous muscles in her vagina, strong as they were, after seventeen hours were weary and sore from holding the four rolls of Susan B. Anthony dollars in... How wonderful, she thought, eyes squeezed shut to a fresh rain of cow-dung, Would it not be to be able to drop the rolls on you little shits...? Knock you both right the fuck out! Ah mercy, the things I put up with for that boyfriend of mine!