The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 10

     The Story The Authors

into the manager office to confront tom on his wierd sexual comments. Brian was scared when he heard tom was looking for him thinking he was going to be the next victim of tom's anal adventure.

...Aben had always been at a complete loss as to where these frequent perverse thoughts and images came from. The concept of "subconciousness" was unknown to him. He vaguely connected his desires to the women who passed in and out of his taxi cab -- especially the hairier ones, who stimulated the bruter, gruntier, more animalistic impulses in his fantasy life -- visions of great, hairy, disembodied and vaguely sentient vaginas gone feral and quadruped raced through his head, the sounds of pounding feet on forest floors reverberating in his mind and making him dizzy with the humid odors of overripe mangoes, fetid swamps, rich human musk and sweat fermenting between folds of fat and in damp pockets of skin suggesting a good more available bodily orifices than just 9. He shivered as if the hand of pale Death itself had just lain a light, loving caress down the back of his neck.
Aben closed his eyes and unclenched his usual reserve. He settled back into "the day-dream," as he called it... A recurring vision for which he had no explanation whatsoever, it regularly reared up fully formed from the Okeefenokees of his subconscious, dripping and stinking with the muck and worms of repressed lusts and latent desires, scaly with the unclean postulates of the Id... only to sink back down into the black fens of denial an hour or so later, leaving Aben dazed, shamed, unfulfilled, and that much more likely to beat his wife and children when he got home. Ivan Mufti, no stranger himself to the aforementioned
...It begin with a great low groaning sound... huge doors throatily opening, canal locks churring with the friction of metal against metal, pariah dogs growling and struggling and farting in their alleyback slumbers, the dying croaking guttural in their charity beds so as not to be quite so close to death, women giving birth to teratogenic monstrosities, the shrieks of the damned and the barks of the possessed, bodies dully thudding against bodies thudding against more bodies with still more bodies crunching and breaking apart and pulping beneath their shifting fidgetting myriad feet... it was as if the very earth and old stale Hell were joining gnarled hands, spreading open like a pair of mismatched legs, foaming-at-the-crotch so to speak... and from the overwarm hollow between issued forth the whole chanting company of Aben's deepest mind, stacked Bacchantes shaking their multiple sets of teats, limbless veterans of senseless wars with neighboring nations, monstrous heads of cabbage dancing on skinny legs and heavying the air with their sour boiled August reek, which blended with the overpowering odor of a hundred thousand unwashed bodies stuffed in a single rush-hour subway car... Women with the heads of birds, and great tufted blackamoors brandishing priapic organs, and brazen children displaying their roselike pudenda with neither shame nor abash, and vast crawling reptiles steaming in the tropical air... Hippopotami bursting from bizarre crotchless underwear, giant winking self-lubricating carrots and cucumbers, satyrs in rut, toothless grandmas waving dildos at him, priests copulating with monkeys and goats, young girls fellating sea-otters, howling dogs stuck together, Humpty Dumpty buggering a chicken, the chicken winking at Aben...
They stop in a milling crowd just before Aben, who suddenly finds himself sitting on the high stone throne of a Tartar chieftan; and then out from their sticky ranks wriggles the woman from the cab...
Ivan Mufti
"Aben," she says from deep in the back of her throat -- it is the husky grrr of a lioness in heat, and Aben shrinks from it the inch-and-a-half that is all he has to shrink there on his heathen throne. "Aben." She peels back the ragged terrycloth bathrobe she wears a shoulder at a time and lets it fall, revealing breasts luscious and spheroid as cantalopes and then, unbelievably, a second face...? Aben gasps, even though the scene has played itself out many, many times in his imagination with the whole physical spectrum of womanhood. Yes, two eyes, a small uptilted nose and a pouty mouth with full lips and a pink flick-licking tongue regard him merrily from the middle of her superb stomach... "Aben," again, and he feels all the blood and heat in him collecting in the two centers of his being, face and crotch, as she continues, "Aben take me Aben take me Aben take me Aben," running that mischievous second tongue over those lips and drawing his eyes still further southward to the thistly black thicket between her legs. "Aben..." Aben Mufti

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