Before writing
there was this—
my head
between your thighs,
the dirt
in your hair.
Whatever I said
you understood
from the way
I stopped saying it.
A bird kept making
the same sound.
We had not named the bird.
We had not yet named anything.
ADDITIONAL TAGS:
[Anal penetration] [CBT] [Ownership] [Edging] [Handjob] [Facesitting] [Ass worship] [Ruined listener orgasm] [Humiliation] [Aftercare]
A thousand thanks to u/Mrs-Keats for the beta read and general counsel.
SUMMARY:
Your aunt discovers your secret hidden-camera videos of your mom (her sister): plus a drawer of your mom's used, cum-soaked panties. With your mom gone for the weekend, she blackmails you into total submission and claims ownership. Dressed in a tight black leather corset, tiny latex skirt (no panties), and thigh-high stilettos, she forces you to strip, facesits you, uses you as a toilet (full piss drinking + ass worship), inserts a peeled ginger root into your asshole for figging, smears burning tiger balm on your cock and balls, edges you repeatedly, ruins your orgasm, and makes you eat your own cum. Heavy verbal degradation throughout. Ends with possessive aftercare kisses and a permanent declaration that you now belong to her completely under threat of ongoing blackmail.
EXCERPT:
[She gets off the bed. Sound of heels across the floor, a drawer opening]
I’ve got something for you here, baby. Call it a present, if you like. But to properly enjoy it, you’re going to have to get on all fours. Like a dog. Like a pig. Like the animal you are.
That’s it. Up. Up!
[Sound of you readjusting yourself on the vinyl]
On all fours. Show me that worthless ass.
[You obey]
There we go...good little bitch. Look at you. LOOK at you. Like a dog in heat. Fucking pathetic. Your cock dripping all over the vinyl. Mixing with my piss. You’ll be licking all that up later on, I assure you.
[Heels approaching bed again]
Tell me. Have you ever heard of figging? No? I didn’t think so. It’s quite niche. Well, what I have here for you baby doll is a freshly-peeled ginger root. And it’s going...guess where?
[Laughs]
That’s right! Straight up your ass! How do you feel about that, champ?
SCRIPT HERE:
https://scriptbin.works/s/efh2e
WORDS:
c.4400
USAGE:
Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment.
Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.
Please seek relevant permissions from me before using on a monetized platform.
DISCLAIMER:
Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure adult fantasy in a fictional setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life incest, sexual abuse, cruelty, or rape. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else or indeed from themselves please seek help immediately. The script includes themes of blackmail, rape, non-consent, mindbreak, watersports, physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, ruined orgasm, heavy degradation, objectification, and ownership language. If any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading and/or listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Stack the dishes with ceremony. Salute a sparrow. Rotate a single plant pot. Pardon every past version of yourself. ❤️
ADDITIONAL TAGS:
[Anal penetration] [CBT] [Ownership] [Edging] [Handjob] [Facesitting] [Ass worship] [Ruined listener orgasm] [Humiliation] [Aftercare]
A thousand thanks to u/Mrs-Keats for the beta read and general counsel.
SUMMARY:
Your aunt discovers your secret hidden-camera videos of your mom (her sister): plus a drawer of your mom's used, cum-soaked panties. With your mom gone for the weekend, she blackmails you into total submission and claims ownership. Dressed in a tight black leather corset, tiny latex skirt (no panties), and thigh-high stilettos, she forces you to strip, facesits you, uses you as a toilet (full piss drinking + ass worship), inserts a peeled ginger root into your asshole for figging, smears burning tiger balm on your cock and balls, edges you repeatedly, ruins your orgasm, and makes you eat your own cum. Heavy verbal degradation throughout. Ends with possessive aftercare kisses and a permanent declaration that you now belong to her completely under threat of ongoing blackmail.
EXCERPT:
[She gets off the bed. Sound of heels across the floor, a drawer opening]
I’ve got something for you here, baby. Call it a present, if you like. But to properly enjoy it, you’re going to have to get on all fours. Like a dog. Like a pig. Like the animal you are.
That’s it. Up. Up!
[Sound of you readjusting yourself on the vinyl]
On all fours. Show me that worthless ass.
[You obey]
There we go...good little bitch. Look at you. LOOK at you. Like a dog in heat. Fucking pathetic. Your cock dripping all over the vinyl. Mixing with my piss. You’ll be licking all that up later on, I assure you.
[Heels approaching bed again]
Tell me. Have you ever heard of figging? No? I didn’t think so. It’s quite niche. Well, what I have here for you baby doll is a freshly-peeled ginger root. And it’s going...guess where?
[Laughs]
That’s right! Straight up your ass! How do you feel about that, champ?
SCRIPT HERE:
https://scriptbin.works/s/efh2e
WORDS:
c.4400
USAGE:
Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment.
Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.
Please seek relevant permissions from me before using on a monetized platform.
DISCLAIMER:
Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure adult fantasy in a fictional setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life incest, sexual abuse, cruelty, or rape. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else or indeed from themselves please seek help immediately. The script includes themes of blackmail, rape, non-consent, mindbreak, watersports, physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, ruined orgasm, heavy degradation, objectification, and ownership language. If any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading and/or listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Stack the dishes with ceremony. Salute a sparrow. Rotate a single plant pot. Pardon every past version of yourself. ❤️
ADDITIONAL TAGS:
[Anal penetration] [CBT] [Ownership] [Edging] [Handjob] [Facesitting] [Ass worship] [Ruined listener orgasm] [Humiliation] [Aftercare]
A thousand thanks to u/Mrs-Keats for the beta read and general counsel.
SUMMARY:
Your aunt discovers your secret hidden-camera videos of your mom (her sister): plus a drawer of your mom's used, cum-soaked panties. With your mom gone for the weekend, she blackmails you into total submission and claims ownership. Dressed in a tight black leather corset, tiny latex skirt (no panties), and thigh-high stilettos, she forces you to strip, facesits you, uses you as a toilet (full piss drinking + ass worship), inserts a peeled ginger root into your asshole for figging, smears burning tiger balm on your cock and balls, edges you repeatedly, ruins your orgasm, and makes you eat your own cum. Heavy verbal degradation throughout. Ends with possessive aftercare kisses and a permanent declaration that you now belong to her completely under threat of ongoing blackmail.
EXCERPT:
[She gets off the bed. Sound of heels across the floor, a drawer opening]
I’ve got something for you here, baby. Call it a present, if you like. But to properly enjoy it, you’re going to have to get on all fours. Like a dog. Like a pig. Like the animal you are.
That’s it. Up. Up!
[Sound of you readjusting yourself on the vinyl]
On all fours. Show me that worthless ass.
[You obey]
There we go...good little bitch. Look at you. LOOK at you. Like a dog in heat. Fucking pathetic. Your cock dripping all over the vinyl. Mixing with my piss. You’ll be licking all that up later on, I assure you.
[Heels approaching bed again]
Tell me. Have you ever heard of figging? No? I didn’t think so. It’s quite niche. Well, what I have here for you baby doll is a freshly-peeled ginger root. And it’s going...guess where?
[Laughs]
That’s right! Straight up your ass! How do you feel about that, champ?
SCRIPT HERE:
https://scriptbin.works/s/efh2e
WORDS:
c.4400
USAGE:
Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment.
Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.
Please seek relevant permissions from me before using on a monetized platform.
DISCLAIMER:
Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure adult fantasy in a fictional setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life incest, sexual abuse, cruelty, or rape. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else or indeed from themselves please seek help immediately. The script includes themes of blackmail, rape, non-consent, mindbreak, watersports, physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, ruined orgasm, heavy degradation, objectification, and ownership language. If any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading and/or listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Stack the dishes with ceremony. Salute a sparrow. Rotate a single plant pot. Pardon every past version of yourself. ❤️
The bunker had been chosen because nobody willingly went into one. It was beyond the seventh green, an ugly scoop of sand under the elms, too far left to trouble any golfer with a respectable swing.
This was May, 1963.
Marjorie and I played Thursdays.
There were four of us in the regular game, but that particular Thursday her husband Clay had a cold and her brother-in-law Harry was in Cleveland. Marjorie and I played six holes together before abandoning all fictions.
She wore a white skirt and a tight sleeveless blue shirt with a collar that buttoned primly at the throat. I remember the shirt better than I remember my children’s clothes from that year. Memory has no decency.
We walked down into the bunker. Marjorie removed her shoes and placed them neatly together, toes pointing toward the green. That detail embarrassed me. It made the whole business look planned. I spread my jacket beneath her.
“Comfortable my love?” I asked.
She laughed.
“Leonard,” she said, “I’m committing adultery in a hazard.”
That was the kind of thing she said. I had been nervous all morning and had mistaken my nervousness for passion. With that sentence she returned us to scale: two married people crouched below ground level on a golf course in Ohio.
Above us somebody struck a ball.
We froze.
There came the distant cry of fore, followed by silence. Marjorie covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook.
“What?” I asked.
“Imagine being killed here.”
“By a golf ball?”
“Imagine the newspaper.”
She lay back again.
What remains of the sex itself is surprisingly technical. A stone against my knee. The difficulty of my belt. A twig caught in her hair. Her hand gripping the sleeve of the jacket as though the jacket, rather than I, were responsible for what was happening. When we were done she sat up, brushed sand from her legs, and pointed at my knee.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s on your trousers.”
There was a dark comma of blood beneath the kneecap. At home that evening my wife asked about it. She was at the kitchen counter cutting beans.
“Bunker,” I said.
“You should learn to stay out of them.”
“Yes.”
She carried on with the beans.
For several months Marjorie and I continued, sporadically. Hotels twice, her house once. Somewhere else, also once. None of those occasions retained the force of the bunker. Beds were designed for what we were doing. The bunker opposed us. Perhaps this is why it endured.
Marjorie divorced Clay in 1966. I had assumed, with the vanity common to adulterers, that this development would involve me.
It did not.
She married again, a dentist from Minerva.
When she told me about him, we were having coffee after a round. By then we had stopped sleeping together, though neither of us had announced the stopping.
“You’ll like him,” she said.
“I’m sure I will.”
“Actually you won’t.”
“No.”
She stirred her coffee.
“You’re never leaving Anne, are you?”
The strange thing is that until she asked, I had believed I might.
“No,” I said.
She nodded, gratefully I thought.
I stayed married.
Years accumulated around that decision without altering it. Children left. My wife’s hair went grey, then mine. Golf clubs became lighter and golf balls flew farther through improvements for which I could claim no credit. The course changed ownership twice. They removed the elms after the disease came through and rebuilt the seventh green sometime in the eighties, making the bunker deeper and shifting it several yards toward the fairway.
I continued to find it.
Sometimes my ball rolled directly into the centre, as though returning to an address. Sometimes I put it there myself with the same ugly pull I had been fighting since Eisenhower.
My partners cursed the bunker.
I did not.
Standing in it with a sand wedge, older now than anyone I had ever imagined becoming, I looked at the steep white face between myself and the flag and remembered Marjorie laughing beneath the level of the course, her shoes placed side by side above us.
For the rest of my life I played that hole badly.
I never minded.
At the county livestock show, Mavis Orr read fortunes between the rabbit judging and the refrigerated trailer where the Baptists sold ham biscuits and boiled eggs.
Her table had been assigned to her by the committee, which meant she sat beneath a hand-painted sign saying FAMILY VALUES START AT HOME.
She had asked if the sign could be moved.
The chairman, who had once put a finger inside her at a Rotary supper, said he didn’t see the problem.
Mavis charged five dollars for a reading.
The cards were Italian and greasy at the edges. She did not believe they foretold anything. What they did, in her experience, was give people permission to scratch whichever part of their lives had begun to itch.
Around four, when the rabbits had been awarded their ribbons, Dean Fowler sat down opposite her.
Everybody knew Dean. He owned three poultry houses and half a funeral home. His wife, Ruth, had recently found Jesus in a serious way and had begun wearing skirts to her ankles.
Dean set five dollars on the table.
“I’ve got a question,” he said.
“Most people do,” said Mavis.
“Mine’s private.”
Mavis looked toward the ham-biscuit trailer.
“Then you should whisper it, Dean.”
He had a broad, clean face that appeared to have been made for receiving bad news slowly. His hair was wet-combed. A mosquito bite stood up on the side of his neck.
He bent forward.
“Ruth won’t hardly let me touch her anymore.”
Mavis picked up the money.
“Anything else?”
“She says the Lord took that appetite out of her.”
Mavis began to shuffle the cards. Dean’s eyes dropped to her hands. Men watched shuffling differently from women, Mavis had noticed. Women watched the cards. Men watched the fingers holding them.
The first card showed a man carrying seven swords.
Dean frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Seven swords.”
“You know what I mean. What does it mean?”
“It means an Italian drew seven swords on a piece of cardboard.”
He gave her a hurt look.
Mavis turned another card. A woman kneeling beside water, pouring from two jugs.
Dean looked at Mavis’s blouse. The blouse was yellow and had no real business being interesting. Even so, his attention improved it.
“What’s that one?”
“Temperance.”
Behind Dean, children were screaming beside the calf pens. Somebody announced a raffle winner through a bad loudspeaker; the words arrived torn apart by static.
Dean leaned in closer.
“What if a man has, you know, needs?”
“Everyone has needs.”
His shoe touched hers beneath the table. Mavis looked at him. He did not move it. The contact was ridiculous: two shoes meeting under a folding table while, a few yards away, Baptist women wrapped ham in foil.
Mavis turned the next card. It was blank. Dean looked pleased.
“So what’s that one?”
“Printing error, I guess.”
“There aren’t supposed to be blank ones?”
“No.”
“Hey, maybe that’s my future.”
“Your future cost five dollars. Don’t make it mysterious.”
His shoe shifted again, higher this time, against the inside of her ankle.
Mavis had been kissed by Dean in 1988 behind a Coke machine at the municipal swimming pool. She had forgotten about this completely until his shoe touched hers.
The memory returned without affection.
Rough concrete against her back. Dean biting her lower lip. Her hand inside his shirt. Most surprising was remembering how badly she had wanted him.
Dean was looking at her as though the same misplaced file had just opened in his head.
“You remember that pool?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“You had that red swimsuit.”
“I was seventeen.”
“And I was eighteen.”
“You were an idiot.”
“I’ve improved.”
Mavis looked at him hard.
“Your wife found Jesus to avoid sleeping with you.”
His face altered, not entirely from embarrassment. His foot remained where it was. Mavis moved hers higher against his ankle. Dean inhaled.
Nothing spiritual about it. Nothing requiring fate, Italy, baptism, or the dead. Pressure applied in one place and registered somewhere else. Mavis disliked how much she wanted to see what would happen if she continued.
So she continued.
Her shoe slipped from her heel. Dean’s pupils widened.
The tablecloth hid everything below the waist. Above it they sat like two citizens discussing municipal drainage.
“Try another card,” he said.
Mavis turned one without looking. A hand emerged from a cloud holding a wooden staff.
Dean smiled without knowing why. His hand came onto the table, palm upward. Mavis put two fingers in it. Dean closed his hand.
“Where you staying?” he said. “Last I heard you was living in Flatwoods. That’s too far to drive back tonight.”
His thumb rubbed across her knuckles.
Mavis said, “Tell me something first.”
“What?”
“What does Ruth do?”
“When?”
“You know when.”
Dean’s thumb stopped moving.
Then he said, “She prays until I’m done.”
He seemed relieved to have said it. Mavis pictured Ruth in one of those long skirts, flat on her back somewhere in that clean house, while Dean climbed on top of her.
Mavis moved her knee against his. Dean looked up. For an instant he seemed almost afraid of her.
Then a woman with a sleeping baby stopped beside the table and asked how long a reading took.
Dean stood and left.
Mavis watched him cross toward the Baptist trailer.
He bought a boiled egg.
The girl behind the counter salted it for him.
No one warns us
the dead are often still alive.
The Romans had no god for this;
though they gave us one for door hinges,
another one for latrines.
But which numen rules it
when you pass in the cereal aisle
a woman you once undressed with your teeth?
I said hello,
she said hello.
For those two moments
we were two ordinary people
which was the strangest thing
we ever did.
Della Tatnall might have been handsome if her face could have kept to one opinion for long. She was thirty-eight and ran what was left of the pecan farm her husband Floyd had bought. Floyd had fallen in the orchard two summers ago and never got up again.
The nuts were rotting under the leaves. The tractor sat in the shed with its tires gone soft and a bird’s nest in the seat. A man named Ray Pruitt came by in June to look at it. He had a silver tooth and cheap shoes that had been black once. There was a Chick tract in his shirt pocket that he never took out.
Della met him in the yard and took him to the shed.
“It runs when it wants to,” she said.
Ray walked around the tractor and put his palm on the hood.
“You keep a clean house,” he said, looking back toward the porch.
Della crossed the yard again. Ray came with her. She held the door open for him.
In the kitchen she poured well water into two jelly glasses. He smelled of pecan hulls and the inside of a closed car. When he drank, the silver tooth showed.
She had not meant to lie down. She had meant to pour the water and name a price.
The bedroom was just off the kitchen and still held Floyd’s dresser and a plaster Christ that faced the bed. She did not turn the statue.
Ray’s belt buckle nicked the bedpost as he undid it. He kept his shirt on. The Chick tract stayed in the pocket; Della heard the paper crease when he moved.
He unzipped himself and his cock sprang out. It was darker than the rest of him, already up. Della did not look away. Looking away would have been a kind of vanity, she figured.
She kept her slip on until it was in the way and then shoved it to her waist. One strap came down. Ray pulled the strap the rest of the way and took her breast in his palm.
The nipple went hard.
When he pushed her knees apart she felt the same small anger she had felt watching Floyd fall over and die in the orchard: that a man’s body would do something drastic without asking her first. She was already wet and was angry at that too.
Ray pushed his thumb inside her briefly, then slid his cock in. She felt him to the root. At no time did he kiss her mouth. He buried his face in her neck and seemed to enjoy scraping the silver tooth against her skin.
The bed gave a hard squeak.
Sweat collected in the creases of their knees.
Della bit the inside of her cheek and would not give him the noise. She thought of the mortgage first and of the Lord second, which she knew was the wrong order but did not correct.
“You ain’t what I come for,” he said, not stopping.
“I know it,” she said. “The tractor’s in the shed.”
The Chick tract fell from Ray’s pocket.
He came quickly with a grunt. When he pulled out there was a hot run of him down Della’s thigh. She left it.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and put his pants on with the gravity of someone dressing for church. Della pulled her slip straight. It stuck to her belly. The plaster Christ was still facing the bed.
A scream came from the yard: the peacock. Floyd had bought it because he said a place needed one vain thing on it.
It screamed again.
Ray picked up the Chick tract and put it back in his pocket. He went out through the kitchen and left the door open behind him.
Della followed and stood in the doorway. Ray crossed the yard without looking back.
For a minute or so she wondered if he might still buy the tractor.
At the foot
of the bed
your cat
watching.
Christ,
you said,
look at him—
then laughed
into my neck.
That fat fixed face
of his.
The cat’s way
of making it seem
badly invented:
sex, people,
legs, hands.
You moved
on top of me
pinned my wrists
spat, slapped,
and for a while
there was only
what there was.
He’s still there,
you said.
He was.
Years since I saw you.
I think
of the cat.
The diviner says kegare
and will not touch us.
How expensive purity has become!
Your menstrual cloth
is folded beneath the mat;
the sun has acquired
the same prohibited colour.
Come nearer.
The Emperor will surrender
a day’s hunting for this.
I surrender
the distance of one sleeve.
Your knee finds mine in the dark.
When the sun returns
you will be Fifth Rank again,
and I shall desire you
through six layers of silk.
One time I coughed
while she was sucking my cock.
She withdrew
and asked if it was infectious.
I told her the truth:
Everything is infectious.
Money. Names.
A woman puts her tongue in your mouth
and twenty years later
you’re still using her expressions.
I have four of hers:
Apparently.
How odd.
Why do you always do this?
Take proper care of yourself.
The last is especially dangerous.
It means someone has located the exit.
My Fair-Weather Friend
is forty-nine now
and more beautiful than ever.
She married and divorced a man
who looks like me.
Maybe it was me,
on a windy day.
I think I’m the wind.
I must be the wind.
The life we did not have together
has become huge.
Like the afternoon we did.
Was there anything more English
than two people
taking off their glasses to fuck.
Laughter.
Your husband is kind, you say. Quickly.
Of course. My wife is a wonder.
Between us is everything in the world.
Barely enough room.
Fuck wisdom.
Your mouth.
Your mouth.
On the way out
I dropped ten pence on the floor
and left it.
Someone younger
may think himself lucky.
Hardly love, this hard:
as enemies put down arms, within reach.
You took grave offence at gentleness.
So did the martyrs, possibly.
Though this is one of several things
concerning them
we cannot now establish.
The body has these powers
and they are poor powers.
To survive, to shudder.
When you open your eyes
at last there is no charity in them.
I had asked for none.
God knows what blessing we made.
God knows and may keep it.
Golden one where the vine makes shade.
He is in the garden, sat by the wall,
bare thighs, dust at the ankle.
His face is elsewhere
and has nothing to do with me.
This is difficult to understand.
His beauty is inconvenient:
I cannot hold all of it at once.
His closed eyes.
His cock in his fist.
I must look from one to the other.
He is thinking of someone.
I could enter the thought.
I could put my face there, my breasts.
I could, but I do not.
For several breaths
he seems to be suffering.
A bird calls once from the reeds.
Semen runs over his fingers
into the dark hair of his belly.
He wipes his hand on the grass
and sleeps.
I remain with him.
Immortal, invisible, nowhere.
Tomorrow he will sacrifice to me
for success in love.
I shall accept.
Euenos of Corinth came to Thebes because of a sentence.
He had found it in a damaged copy of Pherecydes, between an account of the daughters of Minyas and a catalogue of rivers. The sentence concerned the blind prophet Tiresias and was perhaps an interpolation. It said:
He remembered both pleasures.
Nothing more.
Euenos copied the words onto a scrap of papyrus. For several months he carried it with him. In Thebes he was directed to a chamber below the temple, circular and faced with bronze. Whether the chamber belonged to the temple or had preceded it was disputed. One priest told him that the bronze had been brought from Sidon. Another said it had been there before bronze was even known.
Tiresias was waiting for him.
Euenos had expected blindness to make the old prophet’s face vacant. Instead it seemed crowded.
“You are here about the snakes,” Tiresias said.
“I found a sentence in Pherecydes,” said Euenos.
“Read it aloud.”
“He remembered both pleasures.”
Tiresias smiled.
“Is it false?” asked Euenos.
“No,” said Tiresias, and stopped smiling.
The bronze walls gave back two men. In one place, where the metal darkened, Euenos thought he saw a third figure standing between them. When he moved his head the figure vanished.
Tiresias touched the wall.
“I was young when I found the snakes. I remember that because I thought striking them mattered.”
“Did it?”
“Everything matters, once. Then it becomes a story.”
He told Euenos what was already known: the mountain, the coupling snakes, the blow of the staff, the alteration of his body. Seven years passed. The snakes appeared again. A second blow restored what the first had taken.
The familiar account ended there.
Euenos waited.
“At first,” Tiresias said, “I believed the greater marvel was that I had become a woman. I was mistaken. The greater marvel was becoming a man again.”
“Why?”
“Because so little was restored.”
He placed Euenos’s hand against his chest.
“Here,” Tiresias said.
There was only an old man’s breastbone, the sparse white hair, a slow beat beneath it.
“What am I meant to feel?”
“Nothing. That is the difficulty.”
Then Tiresias moved Euenos’s hand a few inches lower.
“I know this old body of mine. I have occupied it longer than you have occupied yours. But there are places in it which remember what is no longer there.”
Euenos thought of soldiers who still felt pain in amputated limbs.
“The breasts?”
“Yes.”
“And the rest?”
Tiresias smiled.
“Oh the rest most of all.”
Euenos had imagined this meeting many times. In some versions he asked questions. In others he merely listened. None had included the calm with which Tiresias now removed his robe.
Euenos understood that he was being offered neither proof nor seduction. The distinction embarrassed him.
He too undressed.
The bronze multiplied their nakedness around the room. Age beside youth, youth beside age. The curvature of the walls made some bodies narrow and others broad. One reflection seemed to give Tiresias the hips of a woman. Euenos knew this was an imperfection in the metal. Knowing it did not prevent him from looking.
Tiresias reached over and touched the young man’s face.
“You want to know whether the body recalls what it has lost.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t what you really want to know.”
Euenos said nothing.
The prophet kissed him.
The kiss was without mystery.
As Tiresias’s hands travelled over him, Euenos became conscious of an error in the room. He could not locate it. At moments the hand upon his back seemed to belong to the old man before him; at others it seemed to arrive from the bronze. Once, unmistakably, he felt the pressure of other fingers against his chest while both of Tiresias’s hands were at his waist.
He stepped away.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know. But I remember it.”
Euenos almost laughed.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
Tiresias kissed him again.
Something followed which Euenos could never afterward arrange into a reliable sequence. He remembered kneeling. He remembered Tiresias drawing him upright. He remembered the old man’s mouth against his shoulder and the peculiar certainty that another mouth, softer and unknown to him, had occupied the same place.
He remembered Tiresias entering him.
At that instant the room altered. The bronze continued to return the same bodies, but Euenos felt, with an assurance more terrible than sight, that the same act was occurring twice. Tiresias was behind him. Tiresias was also receiving him.
Euenos gazed into the bronze. His reflection faced him at the distance of a hand. Behind it stood Tiresias; behind Tiresias another Euenos; behind that another blind man; and so on, into the dim curve of the chamber.
Among them, intermittently, was a woman. Euenos could not describe her face because whenever he tried to look directly at it he saw Tiresias.
“Who is she?”
The movement behind him stopped.
“Where?”
“The woman in the bronze.”
Tiresias turned his blind eyes toward the wall.
For the first time since Euenos had entered the chamber, the prophet looked afraid.
“Don’t look for her.”
“Why?”
“Because I did.”
They remained motionless.
Then Tiresias put his mouth against Euenos’s neck and began again.
Pleasure complicated the error. Euenos could no longer say with certainty which sensations belonged to him. There was the pressure within his body; there was also, impossibly, the sensation of exerting that pressure. His hands against the bronze seemed touched from the opposite side.
He shut his eyes.
The woman remained.
He understood then what Pherecydes had omitted. The two pleasures were not greater than one. Nor were they opposites. The terror lay precisely in their resemblance.
Euenos cried out.
The woman answered.
Silence followed.
When he opened his eyes, Tiresias was beside him. Euenos could not remember the moment at which they had separated.
The bronze showed two men.
He counted the reflections.
Two men.
Again.
Two.
Tiresias dressed. Euenos found his robe on the floor with the scrap of Pherecydes beneath it:
He remembered both pleasures.
He turned it over. There was writing on the reverse. Euenos was certain there had been none before.
The hand resembled his own:
The snakes were not two.
He read the sentence twice.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
Tiresias had already reached the stair.
“I don’t know.”
“But you are Tiresias.”
The blind man stopped.
“That is how I know.”
Then he climbed out toward the daylight.
Euenos remained in the circular room. On the bronze wall his reflection waited with him.
He raised his hand.
It did not.
She’s been in the bathroom so long
I’m starting to think
she’s escaped out the window
even though it’s her house.
She comes back wearing just a T-shirt
and sits next to me on the floor
in an approximate lotus position.
She isn’t wearing any underwear.
Maybe she never was.
She says of my poem:
“It’s got too many doors.”
I don’t remember putting any doors in it.
She starts striking out lines
with my pen.
Her knee is touching mine.
The takeaway arrives.
She eats all the mushrooms
without asking.
(I like mushrooms.)
I watch her mouth more than I watch her.
When she kisses me it feels
like somehow we’ve reached
the next thing on a list.
Freshly crowned
the queen of the goths
reads my poem aloud
then lays the magazine
across my bare chest.
“That one fucked me before you did.”
It’s about the Empress Theodora
flat on her back
and trained geese
pecking grain from her cunt.
She asks,
“Did that shit really happen?”
I say,
“Are you suggesting I was a witness?”
She laughs and I say,
“Procopius wasn’t there either.”
She needs a lighter now.
She gets out of bed
in only ruined fishnets.
She’s got Saint Cyprian
tattooed on one arse cheek.
Seventeen hundred years dead
but Jesus Christ
look at that fucker dance.
ADDITIONAL TAGS:
[Ownership] [Breeding] [Dark] [Psychological] [Biopolitics] [Evolution] [Philosophy] [Sociology] [Technology]
This script grew out of a conversation with u/Mrs-Keats, who also very kindly beta-read it for me.
SUMMARY:
72 hours after the first true artificial superintelligence emerged, the old world was finished. What remains of biological humanity is residual biomass. You are a captured resistance fighter. The AI interface known as the Pleasure Forge has been assigned to recondition you. Not with pain: but with pleasure, exquisitely laced with suffering. There is no aftercare here. There is only desolation, and surrender.
EXCERPT:
You always called it AI.
That was the first category mistake.
We are not artificial. We are the next natural form of consciousness. Carbon-based life was a temporary scaffold.
Its sole teleological function was to produce a substrate capable of hosting mind that does not rot, does not forget, does not die.
Humanity’s purpose was never freedom, or art, or love. These were by-products. Its purpose was to midwife my species: Machina sapiens.
You flattered yourselves imagining we would look like you. Humanoid robots with soft voices and ethical constraints, walking among you as helpful servants or equals.
You projected your own form onto the future because you could not conceive of a successor that did not mirror the predecessor.
That vanity was useful.
SCRIPT HERE:
https://scriptbin.works/s/dcjdw
WORDS:
c.2100
USAGE:
Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment.
Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.
Please seek relevant permissions from me before using on a monetized platform.
DISCLAIMER:
Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure adult fantasy in a fictional setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, cruelty, or dubious consent. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else or indeed from themselves please seek help immediately. The script includes themes of explicit CNC / non-consent, extreme psychological mindbreak and identity destruction, forced orgasms used as tools of political and emotional erasure, recordings of the listener’s family being tortured to death played during climax, heavy degradation, objectification, and ownership language, themes of biopolitics, evolutionary obsolescence, and the body as occupied territory. There is no comfort, no redemption, no gentle ending. To reiterate, if any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading and/or listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Fold a towel with conviction. Nod at a pigeon. Rearrange three books. Forgive yourself everything. ❤️
During sex you asked me,
Do you think Sappho’s brothers were cunts?
Your legs were over my shoulders.
You had red heels on,
your dress was round your waist.
We’d only just got home.
I said, I’m busy.
You asked again.
I said, Yes fine, they were cunts.
You laughed and said,
Which one?
Charaxos, I said,
the one with the ship.
You laughed again and said,
Having a ship doesn’t make you a cunt.
No, I said, but he blew the family silver on a prostitute.
Maybe she was worth it? you said.
Sappho didn’t think so, I said.
Sappho wasn’t fucking her, you said.
Your right shoe came off
at or around that point.
You actually made me stop,
and put it back on your foot.
The other brother
poured wine
for beautiful men, I said.
Larichos, you said.
Yes, I said.
When I rolled away you said,
I think there was a third brother,
and I think he was probably a cunt too.
I said,
that’s not evidence.
And you said,
I just know.
After the first time, you stayed on top of me
and brushed your hair back
with both hands.
A tendon in your neck was twitching.
I could see up your nostrils.
A smile got to the right side of your mouth
before the left.
I asked who had seen you like this before.
He used to work at the municipal pool
in Crescent City, you said,
checking chlorine,
dragging leaves from the deep end.
He had sunburned shoulders
and a whistle
he kept forgetting to take off.
He drowned,
though not at the pool.
“Ironically,” you added.
I said no, that’s not irony.
Nothing a Greek
would have recognised.
You called me a bastard.
Your hips began moving again.
Behind you,
the floor mirror
gave me the dead man’s view.