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A Clockwork Pink (With apologies to Anthony Burgess) By tame tom "Who's it to be then, eh?" There was me, that is to say, Cole, and my three moogs, Wall, who was as his name jexed, a true wall, as in, "", and, "", Tame, who plucked his true name from the ol' flickerbox, a quiet, sinny, giggly sort, and Malevick, the wicker baddy who might well be pointer of our little gang had Your Humble Narrator not been. "Who's it to be then, eh?" We were sitting in the Lactos Marvo, a nipple bar where one can groon a bit of the white and runny straight from the whore's teat, as it were, but of the cracker variety that filled their meaties up with Pep, and Mary, and even some Pappa's Blend, if one was so inclined. Waiting as we were, the marionettes of spread and deliver, for the din to kick in and fill our socks with the gorgies, so's we could pluck the pretties and give them a tassle. "Who's it to be then, eh?" And there they were, O my brothers, parading before us in their stilts and do-nothings, awaiting rides and tokens to go spend on their frillies and trinkies, three little teasers done up in fusion, with their handles in braids, their meaties pushed up and bulging like, eyeing us now and again. A count could see we were on the outers, four to three, and while I favored leaving the Wall to groat himself, I knew my moogs would hear none of it, being the Musketeer type. The addendum being that two of the teasers were doing the gigglies over Yours Truly, and knowing that Tame would be an outer on his own while Malevick and myself did the pant and squeeze, and not relishing his putrid little whines. There was but one prong for me and that was to pluck a street pretty for the lot. I screamed: "Out! Out! Out!" like a yipping dog and raised my stick to signal the charge. "Out? Out where?" comes Malevick in his questing, nibbling tone. "Just out! Into the looney light, past the breach, my dear little moogies!" With boks, hoots, and stompers, we were out into the tar with the little sprinklies overhead. Bloodhounds in search of fresh bulging meaties, our socks full of gorgies, laid on by from the Pep, ready to tassle a pretty and ungorge ourselves. A bit of damage might be had in the spread, a bit of the old break and shatter, for there was only one sound that maggered over the crumble and shake of glass, the scronch of wood, the scratch of polish, and that was the Ludvig B. doing the strum and punch of number nine. Luck befriended our socks that night, O my brothers. There would be no self-groating for the moogs, but full spread and deliver, when down from the Libra comes a tap-tap- tapping of a handy pair of stilts. On top of which were gammys of gold, soft and light, running with the sheen of hose runaway up under the frillies which enveled the ol' curlies, crack rose, and joylips. They do not make pretties such as this, not even on the ol' flickerbox, but with a flat gutter all the way up to the fullest of full meaties, which she coached minxlike behind a pile of books. Being T-dressers ourselves, full with the pride of fusion, that being Toppers for hats, tall and Abe-like, with our starch collars up and enveling our wattles, down into cloaks over tights, with our socks protected by cups shaped the shapes of giant noses, we mullied up to her and did the ol' pat and bow, full and sweeping, from which she, startled with the flecking eyes of a nervous 'orsie, did back a few tappers away, eyeing us as mongrels, curling her sock-grips into a little leer of "". "Evening, fair pretty," came on I, in the cordial and polite, still bowing and sweeping, the lot of us with Toppers kissing dung. "Wh-what do you want?" "Fair pretty, your humble moogs are here as a 'uman cage to keep your tulips safe from the wolves and hyenas." Wide-eyed, her little blueys sighted us with a fair mistrust. Oh, but she was a sharp pretty, who knew the wolves, but before she could give us the ol' nye and brush, I was sidling, giving her a squeeze and a pet, as one would a timid deer. All shushes and coos, as I can be I assure you, I whispered: "What's the matter?" Her sighters fell to her pile of books, behind which coached the meaties, pumped full and bulging, with silica surely. But not letting my sighters fix too long on them, lest she drift me, I quickly lined a Title. "A fellow liner. Ah, the wonders to see a missy so imbent on filling the ol' plate. We moogs have long lived and soaked in the local Libra. May I sight beneath the top?" "Oh-oh, sure. Are you in with Pavlov?" "In. In! My sister, I, myself, and the moogs are not just in, but inside out. What other liners doth she have, eh? Let the moogs sight them, I beg of you fair pretty!" "Oh... okay, well, there's B.F. Skinner and-" By the pointers I pinched the books and dealt them so we might all have a liner, and also in uncoaching the meaties, which assurances jexed, my dear brothers, were as plump and as siliconed as ever a meatie be, brimming and squashed like a couple of fat jellyfish. "Oh, but tsk, tsk-" I chastened, and she formed the little crease that I so groat. The porcelain cracked, the wrinkle winked at me, teasing. "What?" "Oh my!" I did the pointers to a line for my fellow moog, which happened to be Wall, who only got the giddies as he thought as well as his title. "Tsk, tsk. Oh, so many tskers. What a pretty should be doing with such censors. A helm and a buchanan. Such lines that do not fit the frillies of such a lass." And there, my brothers, did her crease deepen until it was dug in her mask like a Nam trench shoveled for cowers hiding from all the glory gory, from all the spread and jungle poke to be had without catch or jolt. "But... but... they're psychology..." "They're filthy!" Wall munched, in his full O way, chewing on his own wormies and spitting with every syllabic grin. "They must be smashed!" cried Malevic, and began to process them, forming litter, forming fetti and snow from the Libra books. The pretty dashed for them like a snake tongue, but the ol' stick under the chin, pressing, cuffed her fast. She settled for yelping like an old hen. "What are you doing? They're not mine! I have to return those!" Then, my brothers, her mask did form the ol' dishrag, all wrenched and straining, with the O at full tilt, and flaming marbles for sighters, yelping and snaking forward. Tame began the giggles then, forming the books into fetti until there was nothing left. Ah, and our tickers did the bump and grind behind their cages and we all felt the Pep riling our socks full with gorgies ready for her tulips, that is her joylips, that would soon mash and squirt. She got the drippies in her sighters, and I did a little lickety-spitty, sucking one drippy, sucking two drippy, until I was doing lickety-spitty over her whole mask. Then was she squirming and grunting like an old sow, but my stick cuffed under her chin kept her glued, and Malevic grabbed one gammy while Tame grabbed tuther. "NO-" came the henpeck, but then into the tar were we, like pirates with our treasure. A stick to the gutter cured the yelpers sure enough, and down came our nosey cups, exposing socks full of elmers, squirty and full. She was leaden into the drippies by now, dear brothers, and tossing her braided handles, which I handled well till her sock-grips in their O were beneath my wormies. Playing at nye and brush, as it might aid her in her time of need, giving me the ol' "huf-huf-huf" which each prod of my sock. Oh, did the drippies run, cascading in rivulets off her mask, the glorious drippies which gave my sock such stiffness in her joylips. "Me, next!" came Wall, whose plate might have been "". I kept up the lickety-spits over her mask, watching that lovely crease etch like broken glass, watching her sighters fog over, prodding with the ol' sock until the elmers came squirting, spilling out and down her gammy. One by one, the spread and delivers came and went, each slicing that crease a little more and a little more, and me sighting her mask the whole time, every lovely pang and dribble, every sniffle and pant, every delicious plea and huff, grinning with my wormies, giving her a lickety-spit now and again when I thought her plate might crack for good. Then, with our socks deflated and shrunken like dead, recoiling worms, we stood over her and sighted her, while she did the squeak and dribble, wiping the drippies now and again. The came then, dear brothers, with my wormies squirming by her drums, jexing all the items she could gleam over again and again. "If only," said I, "if only... you hadn't loitered at the Libra so long. If only you'd gone for a nice creamy instead. But you didn't." Her sighters closed and squeezed out more drippies, her mask shook, her sock-grips trembling. "You didn't," came I again, "because in the ol' ticker, clickety-clickety, the whore clock chimes." There was wheezing and airless sobs then, drippies, dripping like she'd never dripped before, that lovely crease cutting practically through her plate, back into the hemi's forever and good. But still, dear brothers, came I with my wormies squirming against her drums. "Your desire, sweet sister, your... is that you wanted this, wanted the ol' elmer squirt in the pitch, wanted the sprinklies overhead with your spine flat on the pebble and your gammies up in the air." She managed a squeaky, "...n-no... " "Yes, my sister, wanted and achieved, and have forever and good. Say it now, sister. Say it, admit it, fess it and the mighty moogs will leave thee in pieces." Then did her sighters open, all glassy and drippy and full of glory gory, fixing my sighters with a crease cutting her hemi's in two for sure. "... please... don't... " But the diggys had to go, so the crease would loiter. No diggys for the whores, so sayeth the moogs. "Say it," came I soft, with the shush and coo, convincing, trueing into her plate until her hemi's echoed with it. "Say it." "I-" "Fess to father. Let the truth leak out, sweet sister, sister whore, sister swank." "I-" then the gulp and gasp, her sighters so full of drippies they were like drowning puppy sighters in a deep well, whining. "I... wanted it." So soft, soft like down and sheep fur. "Repeti please, sister studenta." "I wanted it." "The conviction doth not mark thee, sister." "I wanted it!" Oh, but the drippies would last forever, the lovely little crease like a valley of woe. "And.... " prompting, waiting. "I wanted it!" like the old rooster's crow in rise, crooning like a fat Vegas singer. "And!" "I... don't know!" Back into drippies. Softer than joylip fur cooed I, "whore". Breaking then, delicious, lovely breaking, breaking voice, breaking ticker, breaking ghost. The sister was in the faith. "I'm a whore!" Over and again, crowing in the tar, baying at the sprinklies overhead, till the faith was fixed firmly in her ticker, pride converted, broken and remade, and she believed forever and good. This being done, we left the teaser with her frillies up around her gutter, breaking and dripping from sighter and joylip. Having untoppable events, we divided and aimed for our divied mats, at which mine was in my home, and which Mum and Pa kept all cozy. *** "Then what before my wondering eyes should appear," said I, sighting my moogs all settled and aglower on the wreckage, that is to say the lobby litter of chairs, gammies swinging, sighters burning."What?" All their sighters were on the dung then, but there they were with something leaden in their plates, wormies frozen to their masks. I sighted Tame, whose pinchers fidgeted, then Malevic, whose sighters only flamed like hot marbles, but it was Wall's mumbly wormies that bait me. "What?" says I again, sidling him and lapping him, trapping his pinchers beneath my gammies. "We have some... new rules," comes wicked Malevic, a home breaker if ever there was one for moiling my humble moogs. Still, his tone was a bit wobbly, so's I know he's not so stand up, but mostly laying down and crawling and kneeling and doing the baby's first. "New rules?" said I, and placed the spikey ball of my stick under Wall's wattle. "What's wrong with the old ones, eh? They've worked well so far." "We feel," began Malevic, did a gulpie, scratched his nose cup and began again. "We don't think it's fair that you should get the first push with a pretty." "Fair, little moogs? Fair is that I brought the moogs to her in the first place. Fair is what I say." "Yeah," comes Wall's mumbling wormies, "why c'nt one of us have a first go for a change?" And like abused labor did they unite then, O dear brothers, against Your Humble Narrator. Wall's whining gave them strength. Malevic placed a pincher on his fellow whiner's t-bar then and gave it a squeeze. "And we don't like you picking on Wall's plate. Doing all this ' and all. Let his Title be." All acockers went my left furry and I sighted Wall hard with my greenies. "Is that true?" Rather than reply, Wall played the roulette back to his teamster. "And Mal 'as a plan, 'ee 'as." "Is that so, Mal?" Then should the last teamster come forward, Tame, all giggly and brewing with curled wormies. "Yah, yah, and it's a smackers!" "So," said I, one furry still cocked, "what is this smackers of a plan, Mal?" Mal buttered up his pinchers then, wormies squirming, marbles more flaming than ever and again. "Well... there's this old art pretty outside of town. See? No one around for eons." "No one to hear the ol' rooster crowing, eh?" "Roit! And see, the ol' boy'll be out of it for a bit, so I figure's we can do a little smash and grab, and then... spread and deliver." And there sat I, my brothers, in the pall, enveled by strikers, all wanting to link up the next chain and be the lead moog, but none with the rumplies to make the first cue. In the pall and dead air, sat I, waiting, with baited breath, doing the ol' lickety-spit over my wormies, letting my gentle moogs fear for their ghosts. "Tonight then, my moogs?" Then their wormies curled, their marbles burning like cat eyes's flecked in the tar. "Lead on, Mal. Lead on." Now, the gigglies and giddies were high in them, and they'd not gleamed with their tiny plates my dissatisfaction, but I, O my brothers, was six feet in, my hemi's resounding with their , their , and how Malevic supported Wall, and how Wall supported Malevic, and how Tame chimed in only at the plan and not a moment before. And I was gleaming that the teamsters are not so stand upish, and are really the Down's with their asian sighters and their slow hemi's and their tickers like quivering quills, bowled over by the slightest gush of rain. But for a moment, and nothing more, did I forget all the nasties upon sighting my Curver, with Eights and chrome all around, bright and red and shiny like a lovely, heavenly toy but with a racing ticker that could melt asphalt and set the fields afire. And it occurred to me that I did not want my Curver filled with teamsters, but only with gentle moogs, and that now, dear brothers, was the time to do the break and smash, to. Wall, being the best mask smasher, and always good in a tassle with the rivals, had to be the first downed. So, with my stick, proud and spiked, did I, having been given no other prong on which to set course, do the smash on his rumplies, and watched his surprised sighters and his total anatomy acrumble. Yet, Malevic was soon to his aid with a curving pincher, but a crack and a bow and knee to his gutter and he was acrumbled over as well. Tame I did not worry so much, and rightly, because he only stood, like a quivering quill, fearing for his ghost too much to move. Smashing Mal's plate with my bok into the pebble until I heard the crack and splat of his mask, I saw Wall getting to his boks beside us and turned with my pincher stretched for aid, my wormies smiling, for he was, after all, my good little moogie, and I a compassionate, if not vengeful, leader. Spotting my soft curling wormies, sighting the gentle forgiving tone of my sighters, grinning his own little wormies, did he accept my pincher, my offer to set things straight. Then did I do the slicers on his palm with my little blade, and his shocked sighters and dog yelping made my wormies curl even more, feeling my own sighters burning like flaming marbles. "Now, my moogies, is everything as it was again?" Nods all around, too shocked not to. Not even on the flickerbox had they seen such a turnaround. "Everything back to as it was before?" Nodding little plates. "Then lets us off to the pretty that awaits, eh?" *** The humble abode, that is to say the wreckage, was an easy chipper. A gentle knock on the old pane, and the moogs were entered. Asunder and apart did we go egging, gleaming that the pretty must be downstairs, by the tones. How right we were, but wrong as well in that the ol' boy was there as well. Still, a fast surprise with Wall doing his thud on the man's plate, and the fossil was shaking and spitting on the tile, while I conducted Mal to fix fast the pretty. Mal wrangled her like a sow, her pinchers fast up and hard behind her spine, while I danced the rain dance, drilling the tiles with my wet and yellow, then tap dancing in it to splatter her gammies. She had not yet begun the gorgeous drippies, but that would come soon enough. Meanwhile, Wall crushing the ol' boy's plate with a bok, did not stop the man from crowing, "What do you want? What do you want?" I, settling on the haunces of my boks, narrow sighters and curled wormies, did provide consolation. "We are from the Patrol of Decency, ol' boy, and it has come to our attention that your pretty is dressed too indecent for the likes of the children." At this point, the pretty did an enveling down at herself, admiring her long ruffles and fixing me with confused sighters. And there, O my brothers, was the start of the lovely crease, her mask wink, as I called it then, directly centered between her furries. If only her drippies would begin, I could feel my ticker start its internal pummel against the cage. Then a pulp, among a pile, did catch my sighters, and I pinched it up to line the title. A CLOCKWORK PINK. The ol' boy'd been 'puting this, printing this, and I gleamed it might make a lovely gag all acrumpled and stuffed between his wormies. Of course, not before out little adventure had any of us partaken of the old Lacto Marvo, so there was no Pep or Mary to rile or soothe our socks and fill them with gorgies, but little matter. The drippies would care for that, right as beads. "What are you talking about?" came the pretty, a hard 'orsie tone that I did not much like. "This isn't indecent." Then did I rise her ruffles with the spiked bulb of my stick to expose her frillies. She squirmed and the lovely drippies began, began in two tender rivulets of woe down her mask, sighters rolling up into her plate. "P-please," came the ol' boy's frady tone, spitting out the pulp gag. "T-take whatever you want." "Oh, I intend to," and a winking sighter to Wall commenced him to kick the ol' boy in the gutter. Knobbing the end of her ruffles with the spike on my stick, came the sound of the renting of material. With flaming marbles for sighters, I gave Tame a sad, joyous sigh of relief. He took upon himself to finish the job with a blade, exposing her lovely, long gammies, all smooth as porpoise skin, and slick with pore drippies. Behind us, the , for I would not count Mal, being the lead teamster and all, and gated to twisting her pinchers while I conducted business, came the caving gutter and whimper of the ol' boy while Wall kicked and kicked and kicked with his bokkers until there was a foam and chucking on the tiles. Then we were held in the pall of the room with only the soft mews of the pretty, all sniffles and drippies. Breaking the peace, humming, then whistling a bit of the Gene Kelly, I lunged my wormies against her sock-grips, pressing them open with my lickety-spit until the white and gleamings were wet and mashed. Pinching now and again her meaties, as large as two soft pillows, but squishing them this way and that until the drippies were a constant little stream of delight. Falling then, O my brothers, down to her gutter, making my way down to her frillies, she snapped like the jaws of a rabid rabbit her gammies closed. A quick stick direct got Tame moving, prying them apart so I could rabble on her old joylips and do a little voracious nibbling till the drippies here began to match to her sighters. Already, my tights were slipped and my nose cup down and off and my sock full with gorgies while I hummed my Gene Kelly. A vicious rip of the spike parted her frillies. Then, flopping out like some runaway ironing board in a flatters, did I notice to my horror another sock filling even then with gorgies. Only this sock was not of mine or my moogs, but from the pretty. Shocked and sicky, I launched backward on my boks, falling flat on the old caboose while gigglies sprang all around like burst pipes. "We 'ave somethin' for you," came Wall's voice from above and as Your Humble Narrator sighted up to crow, down came an object of great solidity upon my plate. Horrorshow, my brothers, because the sticky sweet ran and the spots like fat, round, black fish swam before my sighters, and still the gigglies from all around brought me into an artifice of tar without the sprinklies. "See you in the funnies," came the tone of Malevic as they bokked their happy selves away while I crowed and crowed. "You've crunched my plate! You've crunched it! I'm dying! Dying!" Their gigglies faded then with the sound of the old red-n- blues coming for Yours Truly. "Come back, my moogies! Come back!" But then, with my sighters blinded by the sticky sweet, I could just make out the pretty in the stand up with her stilts rised and her sock-grips twisted down, all her white gleamings showing as she bokked me so hard. And I did notice that she aimed at the crease etched deep, nasty and slick with the sticky sweet, in the center of my furries. *** They stood around Yours Truly all totally in fusion like, say if the fusion was from Mars or my favorite, Uranus, all white coats and smiley wormies, sighters like tar sprinklies. It was a pretty who did the toning, though she was not one me or the moogs would've spent sock time on, no stilts, no pretty paint, no fiery wicks on her pinchers, no soft slick gammies. We would've checked her for sure, maybe some smash and grab, but definitely no spreading there. "We have a deal for you, Cole. May I call you Cole?" "Why sure. And may I be so bold as to inquire into the quality of this deal?" "Well, there is a new procedure we'd like to try. We've had the go ahead from the penal system, but we'd need your consent." "Well then," said I, waiting for the. "It's a new technique that will commit your sentence. Wouldn't you like that, Cole?" "A committed sentence is a wondrous thing. I gleam it'd be smackers, Carol. Can I call you Carol?" Having lined the Title on her little white coat bar, I was all and , with the proper manners and the proper no cent smile. Her sock-grips did a little curl and she smoothed my furries with her pinchers, all coos and shushes. "If you like." I was beginning to get a bit of the old sock wiggle for this pretty. "It's a cure, Cole." Relishing not the time the wigger had delivered unto me, I did not lunge like a snake tongue, but sure as beads dogpaddled toward her jex. "I'd like that very much, Carol. I want to be cured." Her sighters twitched a little, and narrowed."You'll need to sign some things, a few papers." "Where is a quill? Shall I sign it now?" O the beaming of her mask then, dear brothers, did make a certain light come into her sighters that gave me a turnaround. Suddenly, I gleamed that in the right stances me and the moogs might give her a go after all. Into my pinchers, the pretty delivered a quill and ream upon ream all requiring my inits here and there and again there, and at the bottom here, and so on. Afterwards which Carol sat with curled sock-grips, satisfied as she was, and me buttering my pinchers in preppers. "Can we begin right away, Carol? I'm most eager to be cured." "Certainly." With a snap of her pinchers, another white coat delivered a long hypogun, sated on some strange liquid. "If you'll just give me your arm, Cole, we can begin." Rolling the cuff, she pressed and a whoosh went into the old leather, quick as a bee sting. "What's in the needle, Carol? Vitamins?" "Vitamins? Yes. Yes, vitamins. You have some trying times ahead of you, Cole. You'll need all your strength." "But I'm most healthy already. Do I really need them?" She nodded, and at first I gleamed she was agreeing, but then more properly jexed her signal to one of the white coats, because the fossil quick as a flicker brought a wheelchair 'round. "But I don't need that," I vexed. "I can walk. I'm very healthy." "The procedure will weaken you somewhat, Cole. Try to go with it, all right?" "Whatever you say, Carol. If it'll cure me than I'm bonkers for it." They wheeled me through the long corridors of the hospital, with me sighting multiples of nurses with short ruffles, their gammies whitened by the runaway hose, and me thinking of how I'd love to see that little crease etch in between their furries and drippies on their masks and to empty some elmers into their joylips. Then a funny feeling came over Yours Truly, a firing of the sock and rumples, a terrible burning like spilled acid, and my little man nips tingling as frigid as the 49th, and a dreadful weakening of limbs and lightening in the hemi's. And I was beggers for the wheelchair then, because the energy had left me even so much as to crawl. Behind the doubles, a large auditorium laddered with a pale screen, but I sighted no rows upon rows of cushioned rockers. Where would all the pretties sit? All in vacancy but for a single contraption that might be a very special rocker just for Yours Truly. I was feeling most on top of the heap at this point, I can tell you, with all the white coats swarming like busy, busy bees, and Carol giving me the warm sock-grips and making my sock fuller with gorgies all the while. Into the chair was I delivered, and in nickers I should say, because I could scarcely make the old accordion work anymore. There I sat all woozy and sickly like a pneumonia kitty, letting the white coats strap me in, pinchers, arms, t-bars, standers, and boks, and all the while I did my best to curl my wormies so they might sight I was cooperating and meant what I jexed about being cured and all. But about now, my brothers, a funny thing was happening to my leather, it was getting the crawlies up and down, and feeling squishy and clay like. This I did not like, but still affected the warm wormies and friendly sighters for sincerity. Though it was like the old meat and bones was melting, I worked the accordion, unable to help the clickety-clickety of the ticker, speeding like my Curver on a bender. Then the white coats, all harmonious like the oompa- loopmas, were wheeling a grand object towards me, black and ominous, fussing and anxious and excited and sighting me with strange curled wormies. I did not like the sight of their glittering sighters, I can tell you, but as the object was brought closer, a hair's whisk away by now, I sighted what I gleamed to be a sort of mold on the inside, like I was to be some giant gelatin to be squeezed and pressed and reformed. "Breathe, sweetie, " Carol said, and I just then realized that the old accordion had frozen. This drew attention to the burning in my man nips which by now had spread across my whole torso and was drippies inside and linking up with the baby hole and down into my sock (which was so recoiled it was like a withdrawn turtle's head) and behind the rumplies and even past and down into my gammies, making the follicles tingle and burn. The mold squeezed over me tighter and tighter, and I was not relishing the terrible sense that it was all a joke on me and this was the wiggers funny way of sentencing me to death by crushing, when at once a smackers of a clack resounded and the crushing stopped. I would've complained but my wormies were sucked quickly into a sort of vacuum O and fixed there, while a tube poked in, all greasy and sick, and slid like a sock in a tulip down my throat. A slat slid open and there was sight again, and what a sight but that when I opened my sighters to gander it good, the vacuum drew in the lids and once again fixed its prize. But this I did not mind, for on the screen, dear brothers, was a fair pretty, an impossibly clean and smooth pretty, a pretty the likes of which could only be seen on the old flickerbox, shorn as a sheep and painted and hosed and soft and perfect. "Sorry about the eyelids, Cole, but we wanted to make sure you would watch our little videos." "No 'orries," said I, with my wormies wrapped around the knob inside, and having a bit of harders with the tone. "I 'ant to 'atch." "You want to watch?" "Uh-huh." "That's good, Cole. But you never know. We needed to make sure. These pics are to assure your cure is solid. We can't have you drifting back into your old ways, can we?" "No, 'e can't." "Just watch and relax, Cole." And what sights did they play. The impossibly clean and smooth pretty was suddenly trounced upon by a moog-ish gang, and she crowed and got the drippies, and that lovely crease began between her furries, and the light shone upon her skin, all tense and fierce and slick. One held her pinchers twisted above her plate, while another forced her gammies open and struck her across the mask until she was crowing louder than before, and filled her tulips with his sock. But the strangest thing, dear brothers, was that while I should be feeling my own sock full with gorgies, and my ticker racing like a runaway rocket, I was instead feeling sicky and impure. My leather had the crawlies and was burning, burning as if I was being dipped in lava. My gutters was roiling and my hemi's was struck with a sudden feeling, a sudden terrible feeling. I could not jex why I would feel this way when such lovely glory-gories was filling the pretty's sighters on the screen, but I was, and feeling bad and getting the fradies until my wattle was gurgling like I might spew. "Sto', sto' it!" "What is it, Cole?" "Gonna s'ew!" "Do you feel sick, like you might vomit, Cole?" I tried to nod, but could not what with everything holding in place. "Yes." "You won't vomit, Cole. I can assure you. Just watch the videos and relax." On the avi went, playing more pretties, some with a turnover so a moogy-ish fellow could ram her crackrose or fill her sockgrips with his sock, some being beaten, and then into other topics such as sports, and all the while making me feel sicker and sicker more and again until I wanted to fetal and die. My leather burning, my rumplies recoiling, my sock numb, my sighters watering and so wanting not to see anymore, not be sick anymore, not to burn and roil. Then, dear brothers, the room went pitch and there was nothing but a bee sting on my dumper and a long wait while my accordion remembered to squeeze and release. When the screen lit again, I prepped to be sick again, but it did not come. Instead, a pattern rolling and spiraling and like falling down a rotating staircase began to make me woogy and sleepy, but my sighters could not close. My hemi's felt cottony and dull, and the burning continued but with a different feeling, not like molten lava, but like an icy hot. My whole corp felt bloated and squirmy, my man nips numb, but feeling swollen like two gorgy socks, and torso and gutter and baby hole humming and filling me with joy such as I might get when poking a pretty. On the screen were funny things, closets full of ruffles, zooms of fully gorgied socks, all branched and prupped and slick with drippies and the third eye beaded with elmer's, but here was I, Your Humble Narrator, feeling soft and weak and empty, vacant and with the desires, desires to do things. I must have toned, because Carol leaned close and gave a little trickle. "Does that feel good, Cole?" I attempted a yessing of the plate, but it was firmly fixed. "That's good, Cole. You're getting better. You're being cured." Then there were rows of paint and polish, and naked wicks needing fierried, and sock grips needing reddened, soft mask wings needing browning, sighters needing bordered, furries needing shaped, lids in dire need of color, and I could see how it all pieced. There were shelves full of stilts, and draping hose, and drawers full of frillies, and I was floating, on a cloud of pure joy, moreso even than the Ludvig B. Adrenaled, I had such vissies as of filling binders with silicaed meaties, and of leather shorn and soft like feathered down. Then, speaking of the man, the ol' number nine filled the room and I could not jex the meaning, but only felt that this was impropo. I began the squirmies to release myself, but Carol was at my drum again. "What is it, Cole?" "Rot!" "What's wrong, dear boy?" "It's 'ot right 'eeling like this wit' Luddy." "Luddy? Ludwig? You mean the music, Cole?" "Yes, yes, O 'lease sto', sto'. It's not 'air!" A pause, a toning between whitecoats, then Carol again. "I'm sorry, Cole. It can't be helped." Crowed then, did I, fair brothers, and crowed again, unable to help the soft desires running through my corp, unable to stop sighting the screen with even more vissies of brushing handles, twirling and braiding, more ruffles short and revealing, clean, shiny gammies and painted bok wickers. On and on, this and that and again, and all the while filling me with dreamies and bubbly gutters, my hemi's humming with virulent vibrations, spreading throughout, into my ol' man nips, and especially around my sock and rumplies, but moreso , or inside somehow, and still more yearning and empty, until the tar fell over me and my sighters went dead. *** When my sighters cracked, I was back in the room. At once, I was sorry I'd missed all the little pretties on the roll back, in their nurse's whites and all, but then that feeling came over me again, sweet brothers, and I was not so much gleaming on trouncing them so much as what it might feel like to have that runaway hose on one's gammies, all thin and smooth and silky like. "What strangeness is this?" I asked, but there wasn't anyone about to answer. I gleamed forcibly on finding one in a closet, no, backing one in, and clacking the door, and getting the crease going in her little mask and starting her into drippies, but all at once I was feeling most ill. A terrible illness had come over me and the weakies were in my gammies and I was thus rolling in suddenly hot, sweaty linens when Carol entered. She rised a furry. "So... discovering a few things this morning, aren't we?" "What 'ave you done to me?" She saddled the bed beside me, while the revulsions passed. "We're curing you, Cole, that's all." And with that, she pinched the linen and pulled it away revealing what all that burning had done to my flat little man nips, which were not at all flat anymore but filled like a regular pair of meaties. Not quite so soft and plump, but still a smackers of a set if only they weren't hanging from my frame. "You bitch," came my soft tone, for I could not wrap my hemi's around the vissy below. She trickled a bit and it got my adrenals flowing. I reached up to pinch that mask, to pinch it most firmly and make the drippies start, but not before my pincher could touch did I fall back into the sickies, and went fetal and gasped ready to spew any sec. "We've tamed that," said Carol, gleeing all the way, adding, "Oh, but there's more." Then did she let the softness of her pinchers rub around my meaties, down onto my gutters which felt softer than before, pudgy, and, O sweet brothers, did the waves of joy fall upon me like warming sunshine over a span of beach. She cooed, "Does that feel good? Hmmmmm?" and my hanger shivered up and down with such pleasure that made my sighters go dreamy. She had me so 'round the finger that when she paused, I began to beg. It could not be helped, but she only slapped me on the bum (which seemed too round and soft to be mine). "No time for that, Cole. We've got another full day ahead of us." And then, it was wrap 'em up and back into the black mold like a diseased gelatin. Hour after hour of videos, with me burning and yearning and going all sickies and feeling terrible, than wonderful, all depending on what played. *** I was freed, but it was not the same old Cole who gammed out of the penty, but a new type, a type that made Your Humble Narrator gusted and milled, but there was nothing to be done. There was only and me bokking it back to the old homestead to see Mum and Pa, knowing that beneath all the misfitted clothes was a full pair of meaties, draping soft and lovely, and I did enjoy them in the pitch when no one was sighting, but still that they were there made me go wobbly like. And the old sock had pulled in like the turtle's head and never poked out again. Yes, tulips, not to be helped, they said. Learn to enjoy it, Carol said, but what's a lead moog to do? A lead moog must have first push at a pretty, and now I could push nothing nowhere. I was more likely to have a moog push at me! There I was, soft and clean and fumed in the penty clothes, handles braided and wagging like a 'orsie mane, gammies soft beneath the dry, coarse legs, mask naked and needing paint. Not that I wanted paint, but had to, you see. To go without it was to be constantly and revoltingly ill. And just the sight of the new wicks needied fierried played in my hemi's like a broken record over and again. I dared not speak because the old toner was no longer deep and mannish, but quiet and cooey and full of lispy hushes and t's and s's and thin and high as a tweety chirp. There would be no mistaking me for the ol' Cole. There was naught but to sight me as a pretty. Oh, Carol was so right. There was so much more. Every slip of the cuffer was loose. Every step twisty, shaking hips as soft and as swollen as infected sheep fur, and nothing could be done. Nothing. For on the way home, pretty brothers, did the shop glasses begin to catch hold of the ol' sighters, and they would not go so long as for another glass to catch them. And behind the glasses, ruffles, short and long, sweaters and binders, stilts and paint, all driving into my hemi, until I could not take another step but to enter into the establishment. "Two things," said the first sales pretty that happened upon Yours Truly. "One, do you have the current? And two, what moog left you cleaned out thusly, sister?" The very thought of plunging the old sock into her joylips gave me the pangs until such gleamings hardly entered the ol' plate anymore. Instead, there was a rushing at the word. As it was, the penty did hand me a bit of the old current and I splayed it, by which she pinched my cuffer and began to drag me about. First to frillies and binders, piling them one on top tuther, and all the while with me gleaming, I can't wear these. These are pretty things. I want my ol' moog suit, with the Abish topper and the cloak, with the tights and the nose cups-but then the sickies began to turn in the gutter. Instead, the joy came, buzzed like busy, busy bandsaws through my very middle, making the ticker race, making the bok tips tingle at every last sight of every sweet and pretty underthing. I wanted every frilly up my gammies, over my roundish rump, and every binder seemed better than the last, mashing and squeezing my tender but full meaties up until perfectly plumped and silicaed like. Then hours into the ruffly things, every long and short, every down the middle and off the shoulder number, until the accordion couldn't gust anymore, and all the while me puddling in the old sighters, getting the drippies and seeing that lovely crease between the old furries, but in mask, and not of renters, but of pure grating. There were so many tiny 's I could scarcely keep them numbered. There were kisses then. Strange and wonderful mashings of the old wormies, but they didn't feel like wormies anymore, and didn't pear so, so much as sock grips, though the sales pretty told me that all the other pretties called them cupids, or cupies, after which I was dragged to a miracle of paints in every color. A rainbow of paints, some making the old mask feel like a true mask, but others softening the old leather, softening like a feather. Then there was plucking the old furries, which gave me something to crow about, I can tell you. Soon, mask soft, cupids shiny, sighters glinted with color, and all the more sweet and bold for it, I was being dragged to a place that made the old joylips go moist. There before us, sisters, were a heavenly array, a veritable universe of stilts. Black, red, tan and white, high and low, and all fitting my lovely little bokkers perfectly. A quick trip back to the paints gave my toe wicks the furious fiery of red, much like my cupies and my pincher wicks. Here was Your Sweet Narrator getting the pampers from a strange pretty and unable to help the perfect buzzy pleasure shocking every nerve. Then, more kissing, and smearing of paint, but fixing it was a joy now, touching up and detailing. Finally, a running through my handles of her pinchers, her cupies frowning at the braids. "No one wears it like this anymore. Have more current?" Shocked, speechless, breathless, I held up what I had left. She gave it a quick count and beamed, cuffing me once again, leaving me no choice but to be in her wake, until I was delivered to a chair and reclined and all sorts rushed and huffed about me, wetting the old handles, separating the braids, brushing it out and warping it this way and that. And all with me beaming with buzzy joy, but it could not helped. I tell you. The cure had changed me. Whether or not I liked it was of no concern, because I could not help but like it. After, O fair sisters, after did I bounce and shay about because it also could not be helped, standing in front of a glass (having been ejected upon the discovered moment of depleted current) sighting the new me, in shock and wonder with my cupies all beaming and whites splaying, feeling soft and lovely, clean and new and perfect. When over my t-bar did I see a familiar face, a familiar grinning, leering face. Then, did my cupies lose their joy, for there was Malevic. *** So there was wicked baddy Malevic, having carried me off into some urban he'd procured in the tar. And there was I, all in fusion, meaties bulging, gammies shining in the flicker of a tiny-caust, smelling the paint on my mask, feeling, O sisters, feeling the crease begin to etch in between my furries (which plucked into thin perfect balconies over freshly painted lids, did give him joy I'm sure). The crease, which I had so loved, was now slicing its way back into my hemi's. Irony is the saddest of all causes to support. "A pretty shouldn't be out all loose and alone," came Mal. "Let me go!" Huffing my pretty meaties, unable to help myself, clenching my gammies as tight as a bank box, I tried for a stance, but he chucked me with a stick. In short order, recognizing the stick with its little spikes, I released the drippies. It couldn't be helped. So many things helpless now, the drippies, my excited drippy tulips, my huffing meaties, the crease, and now the glory-gory gleam in Mal's sighters. Tactician, thy name be woman. Time for another ell. "Where's all your moogs, eh?" Mal's mask paled a bit, but then the gigglies began as he dropped his nose cup, and there flopping out like an invalid fetus was his sock, not quite gorgies, but working up to it. "Wot would you know of moogs. Some pretty like you, eh?" I trickled then, and we two exchanged creases. "Couldn't keep them, eh, Mal? Not a pointer?" "You better do some hushing, pretty, or there'll be lovely slick and slimy on a runaway down your-" "Ran them off, did you? Did they trade you in for a smarter, did they?" No fishing trip this, but instinct somewhere from Cole's moog pointer days, gurgling up like sour milk from his hemi's. Mal's mask was like a barber's pole, first white, then red, then white, then redder. "Shut up." "Who was it then? Who did they trade you for? Or perhaps what? A fresh squirt of lacto, eh? Or a bit of dung from squeaky, freshly squeezed, I'm sure." He knuckled my smeller then, which I'd expected, but rather than be stand upish, fellow sisters, I felt every pick in the old corp go acrumble. The cure had me again by the tails, and would not let me off. I hid my mask in my pinchers and got the drippies so bad that the sobs bounced off the tops and bottoms of the place. "There's a fair pretty. Tongueless and with fresh cherry." I'd never liked the way Mal spoke, so absolutely without wit and savvy. But there was a time and place for the old , and this wasn't it. Now, was to keep the old cherry alive and to myself, if possible. Though I had no mustard what might be done with it, rather than the old winky-winky which gave my hanger such shivers of delight and caused joy filled crows that could not be denied. Then there was the tone of Mal's blade scraping from the old belt, and finally, unable to sight the boy because of the drippies and the terrible shame that had overcome me, I sighted him blearily through my wet and soppy sighters. He was trickling, taunting me with the blade, coming close to my new soft mask, placing its cold edge in a way so as to threaten me with less softness, less lovely and look at me-ness. "You'll be nice to ol' Mal now, won't ya's?" My plate was nodding without permission, but then, O fair sisters, did I jex that it was just what I should be doing. I turned on the brights and gave him my cupies, parting the soft and yielding gammies so's he'd come in, closer, closer. "Nah, I want your sock grips for their namesake, eh?" I nodded with the brights still on, and catted to my knobbies and there with his sock all ready, I began to give it some lickety-spit before I squeezed his rumplies hard enough to bring down to eye level. A few wicks up under didn't hurt either. His pinchers went straight down for as to soothe and as they did so, I caught a cuffer, gave it a bit of a twist and the blade was in my hot little grip. Before he could give me a what or a who, his little socky was off and rolling on the tiles and the slick and slimy was spewing, and spewing, and he was crowing. "You've killed me! You've killed me!" I trickled and looked for a place to wipe off my pinchers. Caring more than a bit for my ruffles, which he'd so rudely mashed about. *** The tap-tapping of my stilts chased me to the homestead. As if escaping wolves, and perhaps in truth so, I divvied about until I jexed the key I'd hidden an eon ago, in another life, in case Mum and Pa tried to give me the kickers. I'd had glory-gory plans of returning in style, wearing their leather for my own. Releasing the throbs from my tenders, letting the stilts drop, releasing my meaties from their horrendous strickers, throwing it into the pitch, I began in earnest a search for ol' mat for as to soothe, thinking I'd make the announcements to Mum the next day, about my return and all. She might be a bit of aid in my current predicament. Up the climbers, slipping from my short ruffle, barer and barer with each step, I sauntered in the old room, longing for the old posters and bust of Ludvig and Bach and the brothers. But a click of the light brought a strange bulge beneath the old linens. It revved up, hair atussled and gave me the hardest crease I'd ever sighted. "Who the fuck are you?" came a somewhat familiar voice. "What the-who are-" Then it faded in, bled in as ol' Mal's life bled out, the recognition. It was a one way street. A gleaming of one thing bounded back and again in my hemi's. He rised as quick as a croc, and I could not help but sight the largest sock, full of gorgies, so full of gorgies it was like a snake ready to spit, and it had sighted me, standing there with my meaties loose beneath the blouse, only little frillies to cover the rest of me, my ruffles and stilts being in my pinchers and all. "Well, well! This is not so bad, ho, ho, ho!" Fixed I was, dear sweet sisters, by the size of his sock. Could not be helped as I only stared and got that desire again, that terrible yearning and emptiness and wanting to be filled, my tulips twitching and beginning the drippies, even as a monstrous frady overcame me and gave me weakies, trembling knobs, shivering hanger and all. "No-no." But there was no no-no, only his fat pincher on my t-bar as I did the turnaround, and dragging me on to the mattress, tying my cuffers one by one with the strangled linen. There I was doing squirmies, a mousy acrobatic on what used to be my mat. "Who are you?" I crowed. "What are you doin' 'ere? Where's- " I almost mistepped there by saying Mum and Pa and that could not be so. Wall might know who I was. "It's mine," came back Wall. "Fair and square. I bought it so you've got no beef there, pretty. But that's for tuther day, oy? Because by law pretty, you are in my homestead and breaking and entering and that means I can do whatever I-" "Law doesn't work trouncing in, does it? You'll have to slice open my juggies, because by the earlies I'll be in the station!" The crease shared us both as he stood all shaky and fuddled. "I thought you came 'ere for it." "Why would I do that?" "Aren't-aren't you from the shoppe?" Now that stopped the old ticker. He'd ordered himself a whore and he thought I was it, but that meant she'd be on the way and if luck had me might release my cuffers. "No." He saddled the mat, looking lost. "Then she didn't show. And I paid all that money." The ol' boy'd been had. It took all my grit to keep the trickles in harbor, as it were. "You'll let me go then, eh?" And he did. It was the shockers. He did the ol' turnaround. "Please don't tell the heat," he begged, no diggy's at all. "There's no cent standing, oy? It'd be my eighth and they'd nick me for sure." "I-I won't," came a stammer that toned remarkably like mine, only soft and sad, as my ol' ticker was going teamster on me and feeling pity. I scrambled then to the bath, righting my stilts and binders, redressing for I didn't know where, but not here. Not in the homestead, not near Wall who was now. Plus, there was the long sock, so fully gorgy, that would make me feel less and not more, and I honestly didn't jex if I could keep my gammies closed to it, what with the cure giving me such hard yearning and weakies. Out into the room, I sighted Wall, still saddling the bedside, but fumbling with something, of which I didn't care, but to make for the break. "I-I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. I'll just go." A sigh, a Wall sigh, big and large and hopeless. "I'll be alone." I'd nothing to tone at that, and even then my sighters fixed on his sock so foreign, so thick and prupped and perfect. The yearning, dear sisters, was nibbling, and nibbling, and chewing on the old ticker, and down beneath, into the cherry which was moist and empty and dreamy-nice, and giving me that soft feeling like back in the penty watching videos. "I-I'll-" I'll stay and give you my slick and wet, ol' boy, open the gammies and let you fill me with that tree trunk of yours and crow till the earlies. "I'll just go." "It's all right. I'll be all right." I was tap-tapping, sweet sisters, making for the door, knowing the cure would have it's way with me and then he would. "At least Cole left me his lovely tunes." At the door, almost into the hall, keeping my sighters on the plan, which was keeping my meaties, gammies, and cherry to myself, and not giving in, and not putting out, when something struck the air and I could not move. At first I only did the mannequin, but soon with notes hanging and lilting one tuther, flutes and clara's chirping, timps thundering, I could feel the old molten lava, but not the burning in acid type. No, the old lovely magic jingle. "Don't-" came that thin toning out from my wattle. "Oh god, please don't." "What?" But the damage was spread, my dear sisters, for into the air and into my drums and into my hemi's and into my ticker and down my flat, softer than soft gutter, and flicking my cherry merciless and cruel until the drippies came in earnest, with my gammies quivering and my corp melting in perfect, yearning joy, came number nine. Ludvig B. Then I was doing the ol' turnaround, and what a turnaround, quivering and twisting in hippish wonder, lickety-spitting my cupies, tingling meatie tips and all, making not for the break but for the ol' tree trunk, which was there, prupped and gorgy and wanting it everywhere, in every O, in the O of my fist, in the O of my cupies, in the O of my joylips, bungly rumplies banging against the ol' crackrose. "Fuck me, god, please fuck me!" There was a hazy diversion whilst he did a turnaround himself, before he was upon me, with me under, secure, and, lusty sisters, just as I yearned for. Cuffing my pinchers firmly over my plate, forcing my gammies apart with his waist, brushing the soft inner, and then the sock that pushed and pushed and filled and filled until a crow left me that could be heard through his namesake. And he did the ol' push-pull and I crowed and clawed and had a meltdown top to bottom, mostly bottom, all the time gleaming now and again, and. And above it all, Ludvig. The number nine and me crowing my best with my gammies in the air, dangling, with me huf-huf- -huffing and puffing and panting and kissing and being kissed, and having his wormies into and around my cupies, and giving the wattles all the cruel nibbles that sent joyous shivers up and down the ol' hanger. Till the last course, the last string strung, the last timpani rung, the last spread and deliver. There is no going back, said my hemi's. Not after this. It would be a lifetime of painting and shaying, of softening and oiling the ol' leather, and of huffing with the ex-moog who was most certainly. Yes, indeed, horny sisters, I was cured all right.