Life is a disease
From the parents to
The children, it spreads
Life is a disease
From the parents to
The children, it spreads
Someone was pounding on the door. She searched frantically for her clothes. How had this happened?
Her body was warm and pulsing, her crotch wet. She had been freshly fucked. She was alone. Where was she? Who was she? She knew she’d done something terrible, with the wrong person at the wrong time, something dangerous, something illegal. She had betrayed herself and those who loved her in the worst way. But who? Who had she betrayed? Who had she lost forever? Who was she?
The pounding grew louder. She heard keys rattling in the lock. She needed something to cover herself, to stick between her legs. The room stretched out around her, black and huge, cavernous. A dim bulb flickered above her. “Just a minute!” She saw a corner of something and picked it up, cloth, thin, a dress, thin like gauze. She pulled it over her head, and immediately saw how little of her nudity it concealed. She sniffed the smell of sex on herself and recoiled.
The door burst open. She covered her breasts and crotch with her arms. A tall, strong black woman shadowed the streaming bright light. “Leyla. You have been summoned.” Leyla, was that her name? She shook her head. The name didn’t make her head clearer, didn’t shake the fog shrouding her thoughts.
“What’s happening? Where am I?” She hugged herself tighter, and felt very small and naked. The woman advanced toward her, staring her in the eyes, lips parted, smiling. Leyla felt the strong hands grasp her shoulder and pull her into the hall, and she released her hands concealing her figure.
She blinked at the bright light, and gasped as she saw professionally dressed women lining both sides of the hallway, beaming at her.
“You’ve been summoned, Leyla, you’ve been summoned.” The women were dressed identically, hair up in buns. She felt even more naked as she viewed their proper dress, their utterly controlled and composed uniform demeanors.
The tall woman put a hand on her shoulder and guided her down the hallway. “This isn’t going to be like last time, Leyla. You’ve gotten away with this long enough.” The floor was cold on her bare feet, and she struggled to remember anything that could help her, some scrap of memory.
A voice in her head whispered: “Georgia is the one pushing you. Seduce her. You need her on your side for what’s coming.”
Leyla nodded , reached up and felt Georgia’s hand. The women on either side tittered. Leyla stopped. “You’re sure this is the way it has to be?” She drew Georgia’s hand forward to rest on her breast.
Georgia clasped Leyla’s breast, and drew her to an embrace. Leyla sniffed Georgia’s cinnamon musk. Georgia wound a hand in Leyla’s hair and pulled her head back. She kissed Leyla’s neck, and an “oooohhh” sounded from the crowd.
Then she kicked Leyla’s legs apart, and kissed her neck. She whispered, “bend down and show me who you really are.”
Leyla bent at the waist and touched the floor. Georgia flipped up the skirt of her flimsy dress. “Just so you know, this don’t change a goddamn thing.” Leyla’s eyes widened as she felt Georgia’s hands grasp her backside. She watched the women blush in front of her. One of them, a delicate redhead, approached slowly and gently kissed Leyla’s upturned face.
Layla balanced her weight on the floor, her palms flat against the carpet. She saw another of the office women lowering George’s trousers. She felt Georgia’s fingers surprisingly soft, caressing her buttocks, kneading her skin, embroidering her flesh. Pleasure mixed with the waves of humiliation buffeting her, and she moaned. She understood that she must needed to submit to this experience if she was to survive.
She felt Georgia bring her hips down onto Georgia’s naked thigh, spreading her further, working her back and forth. Leyla locked her lips around the redhead, gasping into her sweet mouth as if she could pour all her sex into her. More women flanked both sides of her, supporting the redhead. One leaned in and unbuttoned the gauzy dress from Leyla’s torso, while heat radiated off her pulsing flesh.
Hands stroked her breasts, coming from all directions. She was lifted into the air, as the now nude Georgia laid down on the hallway carpet. She was weightless for a moment, then guided downward, so that her mouth was square with Georgia’s dark pussy. She felt Georgia’s hot breath on her crotch. The scent of cinnamon drove her in; she spread the black hair in front of her, the heat guided her downward. She spread Georgia’s nether lips and pulled back; the clitoris jutted before her and she kissed it, tongued it, and Georgia shuddered beneath her. A moan went up from the surrounding crowd.
Leyla felt Georgia’s tongue lapping at her clit, her nose moving back and forth. Leyla’s hips bucked faster and faster as her climax built, all humiliation forgotten. Hands stroked her hair, and silk shirt sleeves brushed against her back and ass. She was all heat, motion, and energy. She cried, screamed like she was alone, like there was no one else in the world.
Georgia began to groan, grunt, and the vibrations and heat caused Leyla to quiver and arch her back, spreading herself and her pussy. Leyla started to jerk her head and tongue faster and faster, thrusting and squeezing with her tongue and lips. Explosions rocked through her body, as she and Georgia came together. Leyla slumped forward between Georgia’s legs. Georgia drew Leyla up to her and cradled her, kissing her sweetly and softly on the mouth. “You were good, babygirl, you were real good.”
They stood up slowly, and the women crowded around them began to applaud. They began to dress. “Now we still got to get you to the judgment child. I can’t do nothing for you.” Leyla looked into her eyes, and nodded.
Chapter 2: https://hermanshermitage.com/2023/01/02/theres-someone-at-the-door-ch-2/
This life keeps passing, the events unfold, day after day, week after week, all the same. The children get older, the tiny gods of our religion. The faces in the mirror get subtly more lined with each year. Doubts creep in, anxieties, “is this all there is?”
There was a point to all this, once upon a time. There was a belief that a life was a success, a failure, or mediocre, and the habits practiced would yield uncommon results. Yet, that’s not how it feels. It feels endless, futile, a re-enactment of a drama from another time.
“Daddy? What’s wrong?” she asks. A head shake, a pat on her head. “Nothing, sweetheart, it’s nothing.”
These are the same thoughts and feelings that millions have had before; this is cold comfort, of course. A burst of inspiration, a parting of the clouds, a transformation could change everything, but it doesn’t. Mundanity chokes the miraculous. Nothing disproves the assumptions of despair and nihilism.
She takes my hand and holds it.
Am I satisfied
With this life, or just
Exhausted and dry
I planted my misery
Deep in the ground, hoping it
Would die and leave me in peace
Instead it blighted my crops
Withered my orchard, left me
Desolate, dry and barren
Glide through throngs who are
Enraptured by phones
Leaves me drained, devoid,
You know not how to stitch a
Wound, to tend it so it heals.
You can only twist the knife.
The nation I belong to
Has no passports or borders
Just people dancing, loving