The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The alarm clock read 11:50, on and off with its remorseless blinking. Gary reflexively coccooned in his blanket. Too early. How was a man supposed to smoke and drink late into the night, and still be expected to get up before two? For a thursday, people could be so uptight. Didn’t they know the weekend was coming—just two days away! Thankfully Gary had developed the skill of sniping the snooze button in his sleep back in high school. He was already beating the machines.

Finally, after a half-hearted attempt at sleep, Gary plopped his hand down on all the buttons, wiping his fingers slowly across the screen in a drowsy embrace. The clock beeped once and forgot all about him. Gary lumbered out of bed, his knees and ankles popping. Despite his youth, Gary was built like an old house and settled like one too. He took to sitting well. On his way to the bathroom, Gary flicked on his computer to let it warm up. He saw the world through his computer: read the paper, looked for jobs, played videogames, writing his blog, and only spent . . . maybe an hour or two watching porn. Not too much.

The Gary looking back at him from the mirror brushed at his teeth like a zombie. Chronic use of chronic hadn’t yellowed his teeth and spitting, gave the glass a big scruffy smile. He scratched thoughtfully at his belly, a shirt with two cartoon mascots from the 90s’draped shapelessly around his body. Ready to go to work! Gary might be lazy, might be a disaffected generation Z loser, but years of public education had sharpened his procrastination skills into a spear. Sitting down at his computer, Gary flexed his fingers and gave his neck a good crack. It was time to change the world.

What is all this shit?

— by Gary Marshal

All this Caitlyn Centerville bullshit. It’s pathetic really. Rally the nation around the country’s single most grotesque welfare recipient for the national treasure of getting knocked-up. If wasn’t so unrepentantly vulgar, I might throw up.

Seriously, are we living in the fucking dark ages? Cheering in the streets over one woman’s courage to lay back and take royal dick for a living. Wait – scratch that – she doesn’t have to do anything for a living. This pregnancy is the most ‘labor’ she’ll ever go through. The royalty of this country are so fully submerged in constitutionally mandated largess and feudal trusts they grow old trying on ridiculous hats while the rest of us scrape around in the dirt for a couple of coppers. And we’re supposed to preen and bandy about novelty place-settings for this wretched spawn. Invite his image into our homes and carry on like worshiping a landed prince is the normal thing to do.

Britain’s austerity measures have created a lost generation of college educated paupers forced to humiliate themselves behind retail cash registers for a few cubic feet of criminally overpriced ‘housing’. Customer service yessirs working an engineering degree into their bootfittings and would-you-like-frys-with-that? Yet we’re still supposed to flood the streets with hurrahs every time one of these spoiled old-money aristocrats successfully perpetuates their legacy of exploitation and cruelty? Well I say no. Piss on that.

This new release of novelty silver coins commemorating the unholy union of privileged elite is designed to rubberstamp the ongoing plunder of public coffers, the ideals of a free democracy, and the tutelage of this nation to the fucking vampires feeding at the top. It’s like some furred lord tossing spare change from his balcony in a gross attempt to placate the masses. Silver coins with his graven image. This baby is already born with a silver spoon. This time, lets shove it up his ass.

Unless you have open-handed access to Buckingham Palace, and the decadence of a dozen summer castles strewn about the land like some striding giant with a bloody hole in his pocket, you aren’t taking part in a long and proud tradition of British empire. You’re not “with it”. You’re just another dopey peasant with a rucksack of gaudy memorabilia. The crown is an anachronism with no place but the history books labeled The Dark Ages, and yes, I know what you’re going to say. Maybe they don’t have any signing authority on governmental action, and yet Knighthoods still seem to worm their way into the hands of swing votes in the less attentive parliamentary seats. Not to mention the crown’s 41 million pounds annual expense. But that’s pennies in the government’s checkbook you whine. That’s the cost of graduating eight thousand doctors, lawyers, and engineers every year you wheezing git.

That’s why, with my signature sign off, fuck the monarchy. Fuck these limp-wristed parasites leeching all the oxygen for serious public policy. Fuck these entitled cockroaches living off the fat of the land that always look down on you. Whose every breath is a whispered insult and who would recoil in pain from your touch. Fuck these snotty pricks that are too goddamn fragile to be seen with a commoner like you. Fuck these sour, pompous, inbred, upjumped highwaymen. Fuck them were you see them. Fuck them where they stand. Fuck them in the streets. Fuck them, all of them. Fuck the Monarchy.

Gary leaned back in his chair and was profoundly proud of himself. The nine month lead up to the royal birth had almost reached its natural conclusion and the media frothed for any trivial tidbit to amuse themselves. Bunch of grovelling, toothless wrecks that spun about the city like a loosed balloon. But not Gary. Every week was his best work. He didn’t think he could do it, but every week he had topped himself. There was something about writing a particularly venomous sermon that filled him with murderous satisfaction. This must be how a victorious knight feels after a brutal melee.

Running an online newsletter is hard work. Gary had learned a long time ago that no one understood his plight. Everyone thinks it’s so easy working from home. There’s no commute they say. There’s no bosses looking over your shoulder, hounding you for numbers they say. As if it were all just one long recess. WRONG. The only difference is that you have to become your own taskmaster. You have to manage your own time. It’s hell, with little reward. Already twenty-five, Gary felt like he had accomplished so little.

And the distractions! You know how hard it is to sit in front of a computer all day and not visit your favorite forums, news centers, or play video-games? You know what a pain it is when you’re right in the middle of a real knock-out article and your mom comes hollering about supper? No, I bet you don’t. Cause you’re just another typical Type-A cubicle jockey making cold calls for insurance premiums. Probably hankering for your bi-weekly church holiday from the real world so it doesn’t seem quite so goddamn meaningless. Fucking sheeple.

Writing an progressive-liberal-humanist-libertarian-atheist blog requires constant self-promotion. Readership is everything and despite the obvious demand for a clear headed, straight-talking hero not afraid to risk personal relationships for a story, traffic was still an uphill battle. People get so locked in to their favorite particular informational connection that they become myopic and stunted in their thinking. Tribal almost. That’s why news aggregate sites are so important to the movement! Everyone should be plugged into Reddit, or the Huffington Post, or the Daily KOS. That’s where the real news of the world was happening.

Even those had limitations though. Reddit was particularly difficult to write for, it’s blogging tools not quite up to par with something like WordPress. Besides, those were purely journalistic sites. They just gave you the facts; Gary was the man to tell you how it really is. Tedtalk is always telling us data retention is no longer important. It’s data synthesis that has value in today’s world. Sussing out what’s actually important about an issue. So that people don’t just know that a cross is erected on public land, but why it’s being stabbed into the heart of democracy.

This chair stabbed too. After a few hours it pinched into Gary’s lower back like a scorpion. Well, it was 12:30 in the afternoon. That was enough writing for now. Time for an ice-cream break!

Inspiration could be crushed by the littlest things. Sometimes it could be as little as a tiny baggie of harmless narcotics. Hard to concentrate on getting the serious business of the world done when every morning brought fresh moonlandings with the next big free-to-play videogame and animal memes. Gary organized his essays by title and while it amused him to scroll through lists of damning rebukes, found himself wishing his article’s names were a little more informative. Was I working on The Emperor’s New Hoes or A Tourist’s Guide to Feigning Freedom? Thankfully there were tutorials on Youtube that could help with opening recent documents. Gary had learned to use some pirated audio-mixing software that way and had so far made some truly compelling two-chord baselines.

Our digital zion has a serious red light district. The internet is like old New York City, venture capital awash with porno theaters. It’s amazing online journalism could survive at all. Gary could think of half a dozen fap sites with easier access than his own.

Gary kept track of new visitors by having them pledge themselves to the cause. A simple pop-up grey-ed out the entire site until a user provided their email address, username, password and filled out a short survey on the evils of divine right. It was the perfect way to separate the committed from the inane. Find the signal in the noise, so they say. Once you got to it though, the site was devilishly easy to navigate. Gary had even designed it himself, though – truth be told—there were a lot of great template designs that helped too. Beige background, a floating picture of that guy who had that great speech “You’ve got to get angry!”. I wonder if that’s from something. Two separate news feeds cradled the yolk yellow center text and a flashing ticker read the latest outrages. Comic Sans really made the letters pop. Looped audio cheeped in the background like an Nightingale with a smoking problem. Readers loved it and said so in the comments.

The comments. They were a mixed bag. Short-sighted traditionalists. Half of them knew little or less of their own history, but still clung to the extravagance of ceremony and nation. Ready to split wide smiles for an institution that hated them. The other half were sunshine, nods and no action. One in particular, a singular QueeniE, had been Gary’s own personal Moriarty since the beginning. The Monarchy is an outstanding legacy of British excellence. The UK rakes in dollars through tourism. Every post of QueeniE painted the picture of a sad, defunct apologist – utterly immune to good sense. Her latest tirade accused him of being an obese, neck-bearded loser with no ambition. A bit of a departure from her usual crowing.

He fed on it. The sheer ignorance of these useless rubes digested into a caustic menace. Gary’s fingers were hot, he needed to get typing while the poison still bubbled. There isn’t always time to proof-read before hitting the presses. Sometimes it just has to come out raw.

Dong Addled Royalty Strips for Nip-Slips

—by Gary Marshal

Today’s latest muck-raking exposes just how sadly fetishistic the pandering jackanapes we call news-outlets have become. These rags are happy to ignore the fact that we have a medieval crime gallabanting about modern-day London, so long as she has a nice face and willing to show her wears. Apparently that’s the price of liberty: a pleasing rump and nice swollen teats for the goons to gawk at. Our fourth estate, the proprietors of our civil discourse, are a bunch of horny children humping at the golden bars of their gilded cage.

The other day our King’s brood-mother was ungraciously photographed by our gallantly over-worked paparazzi taking a somewhat indecent swim. This is what qualifies as front page news. Not the thousands of man hours the British people will spend providing military salutes to a “pure-blooded” infant. Not the road closures, or planned downtown standstill for his majesty’s velvety birth. Not the shameless marketing of worthless baubles to doddering pensioners or litany of blossoming international crisis. None of these.

No, the media has decided to turn it’s lens of public attention, it’s authority as the primary educational mode for millions of British people on the wet tits of our blushing duchy. Caitlyn Centerville was caught swimming and sun bathing over the weekend, a story that preempted domestic spying and a military coup of one of the world’s most strategically precarious regions.

I don’t begrudge Caitlyn a thing. Swimming is one of the few ways pregnant women can stay active. What I take offense at, and not the crass pleasure the media seems perversely attached to, is the vacant happiness she seems to exude in these photos. These are photos inside the bubble. She just teeters about with that big baby bulge in a skimpy two-piece smiling at all the other highborn ladies. Fanning herself oh-so-delicately, and rubbing her hands over the fleshy growth.

The woman is baby-drunk. The front page of today’s Guardian shows a dripping Caitlyn rubbing lotion into her pregnant breasts. Her mouth so open you can practically hear the moaning. The Sun managed to capture the exact moment Caitlyn and Bill are both caught staring down the perfectly rounded ass of one of their fellow swimmers – a cousin no doubt—like two hungry carnivores ready to gobble meat. And of course, the image that all the papers are running, Caitlyn’s exposed boobs as she tried to exit the pool, her face smiling and unaware. Her two lovely mounds too much for her little top.

This is so fucking simple. I don’t really know what else to say. The very idea that there is some other response than just, ‘yes I agree’ to ‘we shouldn’t have kings anymore’ is mind boggling. It’s insane. This is 2013 for fuck’s sake. We are still, STILL, lorded over by some bronze age holdover best typified by the dominance hierarchies of primates. The monarchy is an artifact from the age of butt-fucking animals and kingdoms of blind sexual congress. So as always, fuck the monarchy. Fuck these tailored chimps living rich off the fat of the land. Fuck the monarchy.

Included in today’s post was a gif that had been making the rounds of Caitlyn slowly pushing a pencil in and out of her mouth. The crossword she was working on forgotten in her lap. Gary fumed. A strange heat thumped somewhere deep in his hindbrain. The summer this year had been especially oppressive and sweat beaded on his forehead. Gary steamed in his chair—panting. This one had taken more out of him than he expected. Normally there was some relief after hitting submit. Part of being a professional is about establishing a routine, Gary’s was a leafy bowl and afternoon snooze after his essays went up. Today though Gary’s blood crashed through his veins. Valves slammed open an shut, hyperventilating. He felt like fighting, like throttling something or punching something into a messy red pulp. Years of captaining a office chair hadn’t physically equipped him for violence, but god did it sound appealing.

Suddenly soccer hooligans made a lot of sense. A lost warrior tribe performing the ancient male ritual of stomping out-of-towners. Caitlyn Centerville blurred in his mind, flashing. The sexual habits of the royal family had always been lurid speculation with the underlying assumption that in one way or another a spoiled upbringing of no consequences resulted in sexually unhinged deviants. Today’s story rushed in, connecting all the dots. Obviously, the royal family are a gaggle of unhinged hedonists. Of course they’re railing anything that fucking moves. Their the fucking royalty, the people who once claimed the right to rape your bride on her wedding day cause, I’m the king—fuck you.

Gary’s turgid cock was rock freaking hard. It had never been so goddamn stiff. Usually Japanese comics and witty appropriations of children’s cartoons were enough to get him off, but that picture of Caitlyn—rising out of the pool, kept invading his mind. That smile. That innocent, unknowing smile. Her face a bright, shining reminder of absolute incorruptibility. A child-like expression of wonder and amusement above two swollen teats. Unblemished orbs of boobflesh hung beneath her in a sagless extension from her body. Thin strong arms palming the pool’s rail, pulling the twosome together, a happiness so bright and airy—she was a vision floating out of a sapphire lake. Sparkling nodes of crystal water raked over her pinkish mounds, making them seem fresher. More ripe. Even pregnant, she was drop dead gorgeous and her naked breasts burned in Gary’s mind. Generations of good breeding and access to beauticians had truly produced a fine specimen of excellence.

That night, all of England went to sleep buried in their privates or fucking their partners imagining Bill’s tight bum or Caitlyn’s glossy flesh. Gary had never cum harder in his entire life.

QueeniE writes:

Gary Marshal has so much egg on his face you’d think he was the best tipper at a gay omelette bar. His gross misreading of history is a transparent alibi to project his own inadequacies and to knock down the terrifying straw-man of the royal family that haunts him. Your forced petulance does little more than paint you as a roaring infant and excuse me if I’m not about to wipe the soiled bottom of a girthy man-child.

The royal family pays back the government of England tenfold, and has done so since we lost the colonies. I’m not sure if this is getting through to you, you half literate zeitgeist drop-out, but the kingdom has every right to grateful for the continued assistance of his majesty. In exchange for the forty one million pounds the royal family receives from the government coffers, they turn over about two hundred million pounds in profits from their private property. The royal family are not the leeches you describe. What other private citizen lives under such an arrangement? Surely you would not trade 100% of your income for a quarter of it back as salary. I suppose that story doesn’t fit quite so neatly into your socialist fairy-tale.

This of course must whistle freely through that wax canal you call a head. Even a virgin potato creature like yourself must at least see the value of the lucrative tourist trade the royal family brings. People don’t flock to our country to take photos with their kids of our generic, functional bridges. They come because all around London the Queen sprinkles a little bit of magic with esoteric reminders of the past.

Who wouldn’t want to come see Bill and Caitlyn? They’re such a lovely couple. They’re not the gloomy, aloof royalty you so determinedly paint them as. They’re fun! And friendly! Bill was even in the army, don’t you know? A cowardly dough beast like yourself wouldn’t have the balls to enlist, running around in those beefy fatigues. God, he is so freaking cut you know? He’s the complete package, a real life Mr. Perfect! Strong, rich, so handsome, and a prince on top of it! That interview for the Daily Mail, where he let the reporters touch his bare chest had me creaming my pants! The silly girl could barely speak for her next segment and just slurred the words looking distracted. Probably wanted to finger herself right there in the studio, dreaming about Bill fucking her silly little pussy raw.

And Caitlyn! Beautiful, gorgeous, sexy Caitlyn. She straddles the line nicely between sticky centerfold-girl and a European lady of refinement and dignity. The royalty have always been the model of elegance and good taste. When that ditzy reporter practically started humping poor Bill on camera, did Caitlyn move in with jealous screeching? Did she do as much as bat an eye at the dizzy slut drinking up her man? No! Caitlyn took the poor woman into her graces and selflessly guided her to all the fun places to touch on Bill. The look of ecstasy when they ducked the belt said it all. Even pregnant, what man wouldn’t want to just nut all over her face? You could hear her drip onto the floor just sitting between the male anchor and her boo. She turned so red when the anchor said she smelled like strawberries. Her shudder of pleasure was the kind of authentic, everyman’s blurred-vision horniness you just can’t fake.

It devolved from there. A departure from her usual clipped style. Before now QueeniE’s longest post had been a paragraph long if that. Enough room for a mouthy insult and an historical jabbing. My last article must have really gotten to her, thought Gary. Good. The change is happening then, I’m finally getting under their skin. The best way to discredit someone is by having better ideas, and Gary was holding onto the ‘Let’s not have Kings anymore’ card. Readers saw and they knew what a histrionic bitch QueeniE truly was. Where to even start.

Sure, maybe it was technically accurate to say that the royal family does pay directly into the system more than they collect through the profit sharing arrangements agreed to by King George. But this explanation should be far from adequate! It plays into the whole virgin land mythology as if the royal family had raised their vast acreage up from the sea. They owned it, end of story. A single military family that had put hundreds of thousands of starving peasants to death enforcing their claim to all the animals and all the harvests was gracious enough to share some of those earnings and only some of those properties with the state when it became clear monarchs were a thing of the past. King George traded government authorities to the people to forgive his own disastrous financial planning? What a brave and giving man. If the British monarchy stands for anything, its as a model for a peaceful transition of power.

The ruddy tourists. Everyone’s glad to separate them from their money, but it’s the least popular reasoning and she must know it. Gary didn’t remember always feeling this way, but lately the idea of other people coming into the country was a little abrasive and judging from the other comments, there was a lot of support for people who said so. Tourism. The word farted in his mouth. Tourism was the business of humiliating yourself for outsiders. Maybe it was nice in small, respectful quantities. A smallish enterprise of cowing the rest of Europe to our ways. Not as the staple to our economy. Not just so some uppity yanks could pecker about the city, chaffing the average citizen with nosy remarks.

Gary looked for anything else in QueeniE’s wall of text to spear her with but it was thin. Her comments about Bill and Caitlyn were spot on. One way of building trust and community with your readers is to notice when they do something right. Caitlyn was dripping during that news segment. When she got up to leave a large wet spot had formed under her dress and her hand had slipped out of the host’s grip when they shook hands. Evidently she had been diving during the conversation. They had all got a big laugh out of it on set. Bill just shook his head and smiled knowingly at his wife’s embarrassment.

God, she was so hot. Angular, smooth – a courteous face with lots of smiles. The way she had kept glancing back at Bill, needing to sneak her hand down his trousers to discretely check on something throughout the interview. She probably hadn’t made it to car before they were off fucking. Who could stop them? Umm, excuse me sir? Excuse Mr. Prince Bill – Future king of the British Empire—would you mind not butt-fucking your wife in the hallway? You see, she just squirts so much, all the technicians are getting their feet wet. Bill wouldn’t have even heard the insect. Or maybe he would and just slowly turn, giving the pup a thousand yard stare as he brings Caitlyn to a screaming orgasm again and again. His shoes getting polished in her sparkling fluid.

Bill was a boss, just truth be told. There were unclear memories of a plain-faced polo-player that swam unmoored through the public consciousness. The Bill of last night’s sensation looked like a burly stable boy that grew up impregnating fertile housewives. Caitlyn kept resting her hand on his thigh during the interview, bumping into a suspicious log in his pants. Each time Caitlyn caught herself stroking the swollen bulge, she would recoil back as if shocked by electricity. But like clockwork, after a few hurried incoherent questions would find her hand back in Bill’s lap. Absently tugging on something.

Content standards had definitely taken a turn lately. Just another perk of being the royal family I guess. The broadcasting laws could be bent if you were born into the right family. Just because they’re royalty and everyone can’t stop talking about how much they want to see them fuck, they just get to grope each-other on television? All yesterday it had been, ‘did you see Caitlyn do this? Did you see Bill do that? I would absolutely ruin Caitlyn’s slippery hole If I got the chance. What I wouldn’t do to give Bill a blow.’ Blah blah blah. It was all anyone talked about anymore.

Even the royal birth couldn’t put the brakes on the royal birth coverage. Every channel had turned it’s eye to this couple. Scrubbed models with microphones stood on all the fashionable street corners speculating breathlessly. It could not have been more frustrating. The monarchy is not a neutral institution. Talking about it as if it were just a Popsicle stand down the street made the few professionally distanced anchors paddle around in their words stupidly. All anyone wanted to know, are they fucking?

How long before the kingdom gets another prince? How long could the people of Britain wait before we can spin this machine back to full peel? Caitlyn and Bill were so obviously fuckible. Caitlyn had been there to elaborate on some recent scandal that she had been jerking off her royal cousins and most of her staff. Bill had opened up saying they were actually looking for a third partner and that many ladies of the house had already auditioned. “Caitlyn’s generous, but selective.” He had said to the host. “I mean, you know wives. Always taking their time deciding who we should fuck. It’s like, just point my dick in a direction and let’s go!”. Everybody laughed.

The studio audience swooned as one. Every applause line surged out in gyrating erotic gestures. Bill and Caitlyn were filled with anecdotes instantly recognizable with any new parents: fucking eachother to sleep while still caring for a newborn child. Their solution had been as simple as it was elegant.

“You see, we just moved the nursery into the bedroom. A lot of people don’t know this, but the hardest part of something like that is really just the whole shifting around the floor plan to a building.”

“Really? That’s all you have to do? Gosh well that sounds like a real time-saver.” Chuckled the empty suit asking them questions.

The out pouring of sympathy from the audience was palpable. Couples donked themselves on the forehead, why hadn’t they thought of that? They could have got away with way more fucking if they didn’t have to go check on the baby all the time.

“What do you say to those viewers at home that might be worried that young George might be exposed to some kind of harm?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t know. . .?”

The host clearly hadn’t thought this question out very hard.

“Well all I can say is that this way, George is always close to me. I’m actually lucky that I have such a broad chest because this way, I can be balls deep—like 20cms—into Caitlyn’s cute little hieny and still be able to lean over and little George-y a pat.”

“Plus it’s super easy for feeding too. Having him right there.” Caitlyn nodded energeticly.

“He’s sooooo hungry too. All the time. He doesn’t really have teeth yet, so it’s just a little gentle gumming. It feels so good. Sometimes its all I can do to not just bend over the cradle and let Bill plug me while I’m getting my tits sucked. Besides” She paused, turning to the studio audience and pointed out her soaked top. “I make more milk when I’m horny.”

The hooting had been deafening. The cut camera flickered trying to find a usable reaction shot. A fit forty something yanking at the crotches of her two male partners. A teen with her family, touching herself for the very first time. A pair of teenagers just discovered kissing. A prim, composed young lady got a few seconds of air time before a technician spotted two ragged lines of cum across her face. In the end the channel just went with Caitlyn and Bill being ushered off the stage. For a one leaning moment, it looked like the audience wanted to go with them. George had to watch it two or three more times before he felt comfortable enough with the material to respond.

Part of being a credible journalist, and not just some blatantly partisan asshole, is noticing when the opposition does something right. Or tries to at least. Gary Marshal was a strong believer in light as the best disinfectant. Nothing makes a person look more silly and ineffectual than an honest expression of their thoughts and feelings. Really it couldn’t be simpler. Gary was just borrowing the war time propaganda strategy from the Americans during the second World War. They didn’t need to invent mythologies about the Nazi War machine. Some of the most impactful image campaigns just borrowed materials straight from the Nazis. When you see what your eating, unmasked from it’s native illusions, people will make the right choice all on their own. Truly untenable ideas will hand you the noose to hang them with.

So it was with some measure of curiosity and excitement that Gary Marshal found himself embedded in a roiling crowd of half naked lunatics awaiting his turn to meet the royal couple. The announcements had gone out to much fanfare. Caitlyn and Bill found themselves absolutely inundated with requests to appear on one talk-show or another. Nevermind they had a newborn on their hands. People could not get enough Caitlyn and Bill! It was on the lips of every person and in every page of every paper. Caitlyn and Bill, Caitlyn and Bill. Britian’s sexiest duo.

The royal family only exists today because it has never yielded to public demands, so this recent about-face signaled one of those moments where someone was sure to shove a foot so far down their open gullet it would never be forgot. Just the other day, Gary had made meat out of Caitlyn’s tell-all sex tips for ladies of all ages. Not everyone was the luminous fertility goddess Caitlyn was. Not everyone can just orgasm from penetrative sex every time. Her insights into cum-spurting titty-fucks hardly applied to flat chested ladies. Prince Bill was just as useless. He seemed confused by the concept of technique, repeatedly baffled by anything more complicated than ‘just slamming it in’. Such a gentleman. The article was accompanied with a spread of glamorous nudes and Bill holding up his chubby 8 inch cock, his body a towering statue of defined musculature. Maybe stuffing the whole of his dick into willing ladies was the primary challenge for him, but it all it does is warp the sexual expectations of young men.

Sheeple. All of them. A writhing trail of oblivious fandom. The line to meet with Caitlyn and Bill wrapped around Windsor Castle and out onto the streets. Traffic was mayhem and the underground rapidly clogged with ignorant swooning tourists. Police gestured incomprehensibly like they were waving down large invisible planes.

The peasants crooned with excitement. They looked ridiculous. Dressed up in their Sunday best, as if they were going to impress the royals. Fashion flowed the other way. Unlike money, image does seem to trickle down. Comely girls sweated over earnest facsimiles of Caitlyn’s regal attire with little success. Not many people could squeeze into the teensy skin-tight tissues she called clothes. Some of the moms in the crowd probably should have shaved before trying Caitlyn’s more casual looks. All around him bubbling girls sashayed about in straining boyshorts, fleshy dunes blurring together in a tantalizing celebration of tits and ass.

Gary was glad men had it so easy. Dress pants and a belt. A classic look that Bill wore well as a lifetime of leisure and refinement he no doubt wasted developing the shallow grooves of his rugged V. His stomach just slotted into his hips like a knife. Even Gary’s own paunch had improved lately. Gary hadn’t been the only new recruit at the local gym. If people saw that anyone could match the physique of the royals, then some of that aura of invincibility would rub off like lunch meat on a paperbag. Or something. Moving heavy things up and down had been more compelling than Gary remembered.

A single column funneled the crowd towards the main gate and limped forward painfully slow. The crowd was rank with anticipation. All around him people gushed into their cellphones, posed for grinning selfies, or playfully jerked off their boyfriends. Gary had to step around a determined young man knuckle-deep in the beaming lass next to him. A row of horny women braced themselves against the outer wall, welcoming all cummers. Some were laughing, holding hands, as men and women alike dipped into them from behind. The sidewalk looked like the birds had been at it and everything smelled vaguely of almonds. A trash of discarded bottoms and sticky cups was building underfoot. The only sour face belonged to Gary, when something caught his eye.

Just twenty paces behind him was a normal person! There, amid the boozy crowd stood a honey yellow reed, politely nudging the people around her back into some semblance of a line. She looked divine. A silky sundress blew around her petite frame like hazy sawdust—like hay and sunshine. She was shaded by a big floppy hat so encrusted with glassy gemstones it must have been handmade. Most people just ignored her, lost in their own sopping pleasure. Yet still, she went around tapping on people’s shoulders and pointing at what was supposed to be a line. Many brushed her off with rude remarks and her warm expression looked ready to be snuffed out. Too quickly, she was standing next to Gary. Something had pulled them together.

“Sir? Excuse me, are you waiting in line?”

Oh, right. I was staring at her like some goon. That’s probably how she caught up. Staring at her. . . light shone straight through the wispy slip. She was clearly not wearing any underclothes. Her naked body a svelte shadow beneath the wraps. The silhouette of her delicate breasts were just beyond definition. Gary still hadn’t responded, she was getting away!

“YES! Yes! Sorry, yes. I’m in line. I’m here. I’m Gary. I’m uhhhh. I’m waiting in line. Whaaaa. . . are. . . what are. . .”

Oh my god brain. Get your shit together. Talking. Use your words Gary. Just open your mouth and blow sound out of it. Girls respond to that.

“What’s your name?”

Perfect. You got this.

“I’m Emily. Hi!” She said with a broad smile. She forced herself to stop and shake her head, batting it away.

“Gosh, sorry. I don’t mean anything by it. I just. . . I just feel so cheerful and open, it’s like if I don’t try to keep a lid on it I’ll just float away.” Emily blushed clutching a white and pink polka dotted notebook to her chest, suddenly nervous.

“No, I know what you mean. Is this crazy or what?” Gary gestured at the line around them. The young man fingering his girlfriend earlier had her up on her tippy-toes, screaming in orgasm and splashing the pavement.

“Yeah! I know what you mean. There’s so many people. I just love the royal family, don’t you?” Bubbled Emily.

Gary had heard the exact same words from his mother just the other day on the phone. Even after ten minutes of dictation, he hadn’t been able to change her mind.

“Yeesss? I can’t believe they’re doing this you know. I had to come out to see for myself.”

“Oh I know. I’m actually hoping to ask them a few questions for my blog. Is that why you’ve. . .?” Emily trailed off, pointing at Gary’s own black non-descript writing pad.

“Yeah actually. I write a blog about the royal family and politics. It’s fascinating stuff. It’s so great to meet a like minded-thinker!”

“Oh, I don’t do much of the politics stuff. A bit boring, with all the parliamentary this and thats. I just try to educate people about Britain’s history with something of an eye for the interesting stuff they don’t teach you in school. With cartoons and stuff. Would you like to see some?”

Emily didn’t wait for a response. In a flash the notebook popped open and Gary found himself nose deep in webcomic sketches. They were pretty good. He recognized a few of the more prominent figures, the central gag seemed to be displacing modern speech habits onto ancient stereotypes. Gary silently resolved to never open his own poisonous notebook. Her most recent entries were a little risque. Gentlemen getting discreetly blown under a table. The invention of the vibrator. It was only on the last two pages that Emily had drawn out full nudes with Mr. Darcy butt-fucking poor miss Elizabeth.

“So what are you going to ask them when you meet them?” Gary raised his voice more than a few octaves. “Is it hard being the most prettiest princess bringing joy and happiness to everyone?”

“NO!” Emily bopped him in the shoulder. “What’s the point asking questions you already know the answer to? Or worse, a question that doesn’t give them the opportunity to think for themselves? Caitlyn and Bill live in a very unique position, and one that has been forced upon them from birth. I’m interested in who they are as people and what sort of choices they’ve had to make in their own lives, not these predetermined labels they have to uphold.”

Gary was about to begin his own jolly, finger-pointing rebuke when a topless, cum-handed teenager asked for their tickets. They had finally made it to the front gate. Where had all the time gone?

The Scot’s Guard were out in force and ringed the main entrance. Tourists and locals alike embarrassed themselves taking raunchy pictures with the famously unflappable guards. Yet another insufferable vestigial limb of royal tradition. Yes, they’re internationally well known for not being distracted. Whoop-dee-do. They were still an overpaid redundancy to CCTV. Though truth be told, Gary begrudgingly preferred their stoic resolve over the faceless surveillance of machines. Emily gasped happily and waved Gary over to come watch.

A spiky German girl humped one of the guards legs, tracing his jawline with her tongue. What started as a cheeky lap dance rapidly devolved into a needy grind. Two young ladies used their dropped bras to rest their knees for a blowjob contest. The Scot’s Guard didn’t bat an eye when soft hands shimmied them out of their trousers. Whether they would be hard or not never registered as a possibility. Two red springy dicks just popped out when their belts hit the floor.

Emily reached over and took hold of Gary’s hand. It was nice to share the moment with someone. The women took to their task like fish to water, diving head first onto the smoking poles. Neither wanted to be out-done, sucking and pulling. Devouring the tasty cocks in front of them like nothing had ever been so grand. The guards flat affects betrayed nothing, but after a minute or so one of them must have known he was close because she fished it out in favor of just licking and pumping the man. His climax came soon after with her tugging it out over her shoulder with both hands, smiling up at him. Her competitor just bobbed viciously on her prick, each bounce leaving a soapy lather in its wake. Her hand found its way up a half unbuttoned coast to climb his rocky abs while the other hooked around the back. When he came, she looked like she was never letting go.

“Tickets?” The teenager still smiled, not really concerned about the delay. One of her co-workers had been nice enough to fondle her boobs for her, protectively rolling them in her hands from behind.

“Oh right. Sorry.” Gary apologized handing over his rumpled stub.

“Amazing, isn’t it? I only ever did it once in college and I could barely get the head in. How these Americans learn to do it, I’ll never know.” Emily joked.

Past the main gate opened into the most incredible gardens Gary had ever seen. They were truly spectacular. Groundskeepers wandered about, pecking at flowers. No one looked like they were in a hurry and just peddled about in slow motion with dull, freshly fucked laziness. Gary and Emily slowly made their way through some woven arches and past the media booths where men in suits combed their hair. What looked like a medical tent had been set up on the far side across the grass and physicians meandered about looking for refreshments. Right in the center were Bill and Caitlyn, Emily was the first to hear them. Gary was the first to see.

Two sky-blue tarps had been laid down, one for Caitlyn and one for Bill. Together they were servicing close to a dozen people. Gary could barely see Caitlyn, surrounded by a circle of standing, naked men. But he smelled her. As they walked closer the smell of peaches flushed out the air until it was like breathing hot wax. A granual syrup of desperate rutting blew out of her like a hot wind. Each breath was a snort, a shot of perfumed nasal spray that sizzled thoughts into ripe fruit. At some point Gary had dropped Emily’s hand and took a place in the circle trance-like.

In the center of the tarp Caitlyn squealed in a high sing-song voice that reminded him of the angels. Ecstasy rippled through her and burst out her throat in gleeful yelps. Her legs kicked in the air and the man stuffing her had to grab handfuls of plush cheeks to steady himself. No one had eyes but for Caitlyn and together they huffed her tantric incense. Lubricant gushed out with every thrust and occasionally the two would slip in puddles of their own creation. The translucent fluid sparkled like glittering mucus and seeped into every pore.

Words bubbled up in Gary’s mind, linking into thoughts and expressions. Anything other than just standing here, completely in awe of Caitlyn’s powerful fucking. Each time he tried to open his mouth, Gary found it clasped shut, his words bursting like pink balloons. Replaced with indelible scenes of Caitlyn sucking each cock as it was presented. Howling with joy at each swinging dick as it plowed into her. Her steaming pussy gulping down each lucky rod. Caitlyn fucking. Fucking Caitlyn. Fuck Caitlyn. FUCK Caitlyn.

Emily didn’t fair much better. She hadn’t noticed when they separated, staring straight at prince Bill. Something was wrong. Maybe. Something had changed. The man was a stallion. A creature of unstoppable strength. Muscles glistened all along his naked body and Emily felt her eyes scaling upwards to look at all of him. To tall, at least two and a half meters. He was plated in taut layers of hardened body. Massive shoulders gave him an impossibly broad chest that slimmed down into a teardrop waist. Four Caitlyns could probably lay side-by-side on top of that thing. Her legs were buttery. A dampness ran down her legs but she couldn’t find the energy to care.

Bill thunked into the backside of a crouching woman, wiggling her thick hams. A slender peni-dick. A slender dick, cock slid effortlessly in and out of her willing hole. Wet beaded strings connected them as the tan tube rocked back and forth into her body. It must have been near a foot long, parting the poor woman easily. She was holding her shirt in her mouth, biting into it and growling like a wild animal. Her blood shot eyes and matted hair scared Emily. The way we clutched her own nipples, barking in heat and lubricant surging out with every thrust. It was so nasty and erotic. She had to get a better view.

Taking a spot wrapped around Bills meaty thighs, Emily watched the dick pour itself in and out, rubbing herself the entire time. It was so relaxing. Riding the gentle up down saddle of Bill’s leg. The way it pressed so nicely into her inflamed pussy. He smelled so good. His sweat stung somewhere deep inside of her that she never wanted to let go. Overhead, Bill puffed like a locomotive. Before Emily quite knew what was happening, she found herself guided onto her hands and knees. New women were there with her, taking care of her. Bill rested his enormous perfumed cock on the crease of her ass, deciding on a hole. He made the right choice.

Hours later, a hobbled Gary made his way to the lost and found. A team of elderly janitors had been circling the grounds all day, making a tidy collection of missing garments, cellphones, and glasses. It was inside the third bin Gary found his shoes and notebook. Gary was about to leave when something near the bottom looked vaguely familiar. Jammed between a wooly sweater and some earphones peeked a dog-eared white and pink polka dotted notebook.

“Oh my god! I can’t thank you enough for finding this. It really means a lot to me, thank you.” Emily looked like Gary had crushed the calendar all into Christmas.

“Yeah well you know, I had such a great time with you the other day. I’m so glad we could meet up like this.”

Meeting at an internet cafe had been Gary’s idea, both of them being bloggers and all. It was kind of incredible they still existed. A wifi hotspot seemed to entirely replace the functionality of an internet cafe. I mean, I guess you can’t replace furry-faced barristas jaded beyond their years and expensive coffee that tastes like tree bark. It didn’t matter though. Gary would have paid anything and complimented the turpentine to see Emily again. Her love affair with gemstones extended to her clothes too apparently, as they were sewn liberally into her halter-top.

“Wasn’t that fun! Meeting members of the royal family so intimately. I never thought I’d get to experience it in my lifetime. I just felt so full with Bill inside me. Every time I think about it my pussy aches for more. I just can’t stop thinking about it – the weight, the feel . OOOoooo.” Emily squeezed her legs together reminiscing, her hands clasped in her lap. Just panties today, oddly discolored at the crotch. “Oops, there I go again.” She said, poking at her wet spot.

The idea of another man didn’t bother Gary at all. Well, not Bill at least. Can’t cry over spilled milk, especially not when its done by a professional milk spiller. Just being in the same place as Bill tickled Gary with an insidious sense of patriotism.

“Oh I know. I haven’t been able to wash the apricots smell off me. You don’t smell that?” Emily shook her head.

“When I catch a whiff of it, I get so hard I just have to drop what I’m doing and rub one out. It’s like Caitlyn’s pussy was full of some kinda mild itching powder, I think I’m still swollen down there.” Gary moaned.

“Oh you poor thing.” Emily chided him playfully, patting his obvious erection. After Bill swapped to another one of the girls, Emily had just laid in the grass blissed out of her mind. Colors swam in her vision and the prickly grass had been electric. All she could remember of Will was cumming and cumming and cumming. That and his long smooth cock. God, it was perfect. She dreamed about it, pleasing it. After coming down, she had thanked him profusely. Bill just nodded before hosing down the backside of some ebony bitch. She had actually stopped by Caitlyn’s tarp but Gary looked busy. Gary and two other built men were trying to gag Caitlyn in spooge, but every time they sprayed in her face, it just rolled off like water on a duck. She was so lucky a hunky guy like Gary wanted to go out with her! And he was a writer too!

Emily still had her hand wrapped around Gary’s penis. Gary’s thick, hurting penis. The location was unique. . . okay the location wasn’t great. The internet cafe had been an interesting idea but the reality of it left much to be desired. All around them other customers wanked off to online porn unabashed. Some top-heavy bimbo was banging around on the table next to them, two computers pushed to the side to let missionary happen. Her toes occasionally poked Emily in the back of the head.

“So show me this blog of yours, I’m dying to see it.” Gary could be so earnest. It melted her heart, really. She gave him an appreciative squeeze and was rewarded with a a droplet of moisture in her palm.

“Okay! Don’t be put off by how proud I am of it. Really tell me what you think. I never get honest feedback about this kinda stuff. Just don’t make fun of my drawings, okay?” Emily warned.

“I promise.” Gary really did. He had flipped through her sketch book, there was great stuff in there. Minimalist, but witty. Whatever her blog was should be a hit.

“Okay here we go. What do you think?”

It was obviously a girl’s site. The webcomic appeared in the center of a faux stage with red curtains and everything. The rest of the site looked like a wedding invitation. A textured beige background with frilly white lace for borders. Pink thread held everything together and the text looked as if it was embroidered onto the screen. A slender coquettish bumble-bee winked at him from the top of the page. It wore a little golden crown tilted like a fedora on it’s head. Underneath read the title of the page, which was-

“QueeniE Bee’s Buzz Around Town!” Gary almost choked on a gulp of coffee which did nothing but scald the inside of his mouth. Between a spit-take of hot coffee and letting it dribble back into his cup, Gary chose the latter.

Emily was torn between offense and concern. Gary’s meaty cock had wilted in her hand a bit, and in the end that won out. She redoubled her efforts causing the gagging Gary to try and stop the attack on his over senstitive crotch and wipe his mouth at the same time.

“I said don’t laugh!”

“Emily, no. Stop. Gentle is good. Be careful down there, you don’t need a death grip.”

“Oh. . .” Damnit, now Gary knew she had never done something like this before. Stupid! “I thought maybe you didn’t like the site.”

“Oh, no Emily. No. That’s not it at all.” She looked so worried. It was strange, Gary couldn’t recall seeing a concerned face at all this week. Emily had been scooching closer with her butt, inching towards him for the last minute. She was brushing her own crotch at the same time.

“Here, let me get that for you.” Slipping a hand past her damp panties, Gary cheered his courage. She was so wet already. He sunk in immediately, pushing past her greasy folds and tickling her button with the flat of his thumb. Emily trembled at his touch, her shivers urging him on. When she gasped, he blew onto her belly. Thankfully it took more than once or twice before Gary needed a break these days.

“You need to promise me something now. Watch this.” Gary whispered into her ear.

Emily would have agreed to anything. Gary felt so good in her hand; it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing but anything had been setting her off these days. When she got home yesterday Emily ran her vibrator dry, probably yowling like a cat in heat.

“Okay, look at this.”

Right. Gary’s blog. Emily managed to crack open her eyes and check out the screen. It looked framiliar. Her heart sank.

“Oh my god! You’re THAT Gary Marshal??? Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I’ve said the meanest things about you. It really is a weird site though. How can you be so mean about the royals? They’re such nice people.”

“It’s okay. I really like the conversations we get going on there. That time you called me—” He was cut off though.

Two young university kids pawing at each other barged through the small cafe, giggling and cheerful. The twosome landed unceremoniously at the terminal next to Gary and Emily laughing and pulling at each other’s clothes. Turning to the monitor, the girl quickly brought up a live feed of Caitlyn and Bill satisfying their adoring public. Her skirt was tiny and the boy lost no time flipping it up to reveal a beet red pussy. She had to hold onto the computer with both hands, staring right into the screen, as her man plunged into her from behind.

“Maybe we should take this some place a little more private?” Gary said loud enough to be heard over the squealing din of climaxing customers.

But where would they go? Gary thought back to his own dinky flat and was immediately ashamed. An untidy pile of unwashed laundry spilled over the top of his hamper. His desk was a nightmare of wires and cords. Everything else was organized in heaps and the whole room probably smelled like jizz. Emily would take one look and think he was some sort of mongrel. Gary pressed his two fingers deeper and rubbed at her clit with his palm deliciously. They were practically hugging and all Gary could hear were Emily’s gasps as she rested her chin on his shoulder. Her own hand pumped his member enthusiastically.

They both came quickly, Emily making these adorable little chirping sounds and Gary heaving a single angry sigh. Emily brought her hand to her mouth and sucked on his goo thoughtfully. She had never really liked the taste of cum before, but as she probed the crevasses of her hand searching hopefully for more delicious strands, she was opened minded enough to try at least.

“Well, my place is free. That is. . . if you want to come over?” Asking a boy over! Emily high-fived herself for her boldness. Her face though must have given away her nervousness because she found herself doing her very best puppy-dog eyes as she said it.

Gary slowly considered her sequinned blog, the hours of costuming that must have gone into today’s ravaged outfit, and the pair of ironed white thong panties now soaked and hammocked down by her knees. He, Gary freaking Marshal, was being invited up into a girl room!

“YEAH! I mean, yeah. That sounds cool. Really cool. Let’s do that.” Emily kissed him full on the lips and, together, they both felt truly happy.

“Awwwww. . .” The boy behind them slowed his pumping.

“So cute!” breathed the girl with some difficulty. She was still squirting a little bit after all.

Apparently the whole cafe had been watching them get acquainted. How embarrassing! Emily led Gary out by the hand to the sound of clapping and the heartbeat of triumph. Today had been the best day ever.

Bright florescent lighting fit with the white tile and unfurnished walls of the spacious employee cafeteria. A bullet proof sneeze guard protected limp troughs of denatured eggs and soggy taters. A single frumpy lunchlady shuffled ceaselessly behind it like an iron curtain separating the serving staff from the regulars. Occasionally she would stop and pester an offending tray with a long metal ladle, scowling the entire time. Cole did his best to return the glare, but hers was so effortless, so practiced, that his own came out like a curious Mr. Bean. It was like she wasn’t even trying.

After a polite thank you Cole returned to his two compatriots already seated amongst the long rows of unfilled pale plastic tables. Other than the muted clash of their forks and knives, and the padded gate of their ageless lunchlady, the hall was quiet as the grave. The lights buzzed overhead like the digging of worms.

Jacob waved him over anyway.

“Yo, over here!” He said patting the seat next to him. Jacob was the oldest of them and had been here the longest. He still had a child-like wonder and a live and let live policy that contrasted with his sloping bookish face and salted grey hair. jfHe hadn’t greenlit any meaningful research in at least a decade, but this was government work and no one seemed to eager to push him out. He would take long naps and shed sagely wisdom every once in a while. Apparently in the seventies the guy had created the blue prints for one integral government system or another, and even though it ran itself, was so arcane and mired in self-reference the short list of people able to fix anything with it hadn’t yet added another member.

Sadie just nodded in his direction. She was a recent fellow, brought in on some sort of paradoxical program simultaneously designed to bring in new blood and cut costs. A kind of indentured green blood. It looked like Jacob had made a fresh convert as they both ate out of plain brown paper bags. Looking back at the gloomy operating room of a buffet, Cole might just start as well.

“So how’s tricks?” Said Cole, settling in.

Sadie gulped down a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. An ordinary girl, still unused to her surroundings. Everyday she looked startled just to be here. As think tanks go, they were grossly over-funded and everything glistened with importance. Other than the three of them there was only one more member of the team. Doctor Timmothy Cavish. A reclusive old goat that seemed to have graduated from the school of tipping iridescent beakers into other colorful brews. Technically he was their supervisor, but as he wasn’t interested in supervising, and they weren’t interested in being supervised, a mutual truce had organically formed between them.

“Meh. I think I might have done something wrong. My data is getting pulled around weirdly. Spikes I can’t explain. Erratic trends. . .” Sadie worked with a lot of meta-data. Building a profile of the average person sort of thing with enough specificity to get a bit scary.

“All quiet on the western front.” Jacobs mused. The man gave more energy to saying he did nothing than to his work where he did nothing. “How’s your own work coming?”

Now that was something of a sore spot. Jacobs must have known too because he asked like a man trying to sneak up on a landmine. While nothing ever came out of his office, he was still fairly tapped into the right grapevines to hear things before they happened.

“De-nied. Shame too. Right when I was starting to produce results. My light bulb would save this city hundreds of thousands of pounds annually. Millions over just a few years. But because it requires some upfront funding, a small temporary increase in head count, and looks too expensive—they wont bite.” Jacob nodded sympathetically. Enough projects had came and went under him that he knew not to take it personally. Sadie listened with 100% attention, as she did to everything. Cole might not have been as world weary as Jacob or naïve as Sadie, it still had him fuming.

“Looks too expensive? How can they call something too expensive if it saves them money on what they’re already spending now? I mean there’s short sighted, and then there’s short sighted.” Sadie broke in. Cole shot her a wide-eyed and exasperated shrug in response.

“I mean literally looks too expensive. The new lights look way better than those crusty old lanterns they have out there. The big wigs up top are running a scheme of belt tightening. They can’t be seen spending money on big new fancy lights. They’re so bloody committed to the cause, they can’t afford to save money. Bunch of dickless. . .” Cole bit his tongue.

“Those are our employers, you know.” Murmured Jacob into his pudding.

“I know.” Growled Cole.

A silence of uncomfortable munching descended on the group. Across the hall glass beakers clinked.

Sadie broke the impasse. “Cavish is up for an award.”

“WHAT!” Spat Cole.

Jacob shot her a warning glance too late. Sadie wasn’t great on picking up the mood of a room and carried on blithely.

“Yeah, apparently some big project he was on came through. A medal, straight from the queen I heard.” The prospect of their department head recognized on such a prestigious stage had her giddy. Jacob chewed at them both like a tranquilized cow.

Cole picked his words like he was cleaning his teeth. “What. . . could that useless codger – no, sorry—that racist, homophobic slug have possibly done. You’ve seen him right? You’ve done that at least?”

Sadie was taken aback by the brush of anger and wanted nothing more than to retreat back to the sterile ticking she had saved them from. “Of course I’ve seen him.”

“I don’t mean in the halls where he makes you dodge his wandering hands inbetween good mornings. I mean actually doing something. The guy just mixes fluids neon goo all day in these glass Rube Goldberg machines. It’s seriously like something out of Flubber. When I first got here, I think he actually asked me to call him ‘the alchemist’.”

Jacobs snorted decisively.

“That man is probably the number one reason my project got dunked today. No one takes this lab seriously anymore. The way I hear it, we’re still living off some private grant from the 90s. The central office probably doesn’t even know we exist. Shit, I’m surprised the queen is even still willing to be seen with the man. You remember – Jacobs, you must remember.”

Jacob nodded again, grinning. Sadie leaned in, curious. She loved getting the inside scoop on things. A terrible gossip, in that she leaked like a sieve and that she could be such a sucker for it.

“Get this. All the members of the lab are showing off for a royal visit. This literally never happens. The queen doesn’t need to give phony photo-shoots to build up her credentials on innovation, but for whatever reason, she is on tour of our science facilities. Everyone’s on pins and needles. Jacobs here even bust out that hideous lime green bow tie of yours.”

Jacobs chuckled, half asleep.

“Everyone’s rehearsing what they’ll say. What they’ll do. Dusting off their most showy projects. The lab is in full swing and Cavish, that fucking ape-man, that knuckle dragging idiot, shows up beaming. I mean ear to ear. Guy looks like he’s been huffing Nitrus all night. He presents, her majesty the queen of England, with his own brand new Anti-gay Grenade.”

Sadie almost choked on her baby carrots.

“I’m not joking. He walks up to her, proud as can be, and plops this heart shaped hand-grenade in her hands. Starts explaining about the purple fog of transformative hetero-normative lust it emits. Now, keep in mind, we’re all panicked. Half of us aren’t sure this isn’t just the worlds most classless gag, half of us are really concerned the queen just took an live explosive from this unstable freak, and half of us just saw our careers flush down the drain. We’re fucking scrabbling to get this poor lady out of here, to get Cavish back in whatever box he crawled out of, and pray we wont have to redact the years of our lives working here.”

“So what ever happened? How did he not get sacked on the spot?” Sadie was enchanted, like a child at their bedtime stories.

“I’ll never know. I think he’s got friends in high places to have escaped being crucified outright. Though, look around you.”

A light flickered indifferently, blinking the catatonic lunch-lady in and out of existence.

“I’m not sure if we survived or they just put us in Siberia.”

Jacob exploded out of his slumber with a drowsy second wind. “You can’t let things like this get to you, Cole. It happens. It’ll probably happen again and you can’t let yourself go to pieces over it. You lost, and right now it probably feels like shit. But you remember two months ago? You come barging through that door, happy as a clam, waving your little slip like a mighty conqueror. Changed two questions on the hospital admission forms and obliterated your predecessor’s backlog. Amazing. So look. No one’s expecting much out of you today. Why don’t you—”

Jacob caught himself, there was an opportunity here.

“Why don’t we, make a day of it. Those two royals are still out there in the park, I hear. There’s a little miss I was able to place out there doing medical work on the two of them. Caitlyn’s still milking she says.”

Cole wasn’t quite sure why that turned him on as much as it did. Just the thought of her swinging teats, dribbling with white ambrosia shoved everything out of the way. He had even just been down there yesterday, waiting his turn for a hole or a hand. The woman was insatiable, bending the men around her into a groaning vortex of sexual abandon.

“And. . .” He continued, catching Sadie’s eye. “My girl tells me Bill hasn’t stopped cumming in four days. Doing it bareback now too. There were some difficulties engineering a condom for him and even the tech girls had to admit, bareback seemed pretty fun.”

Sadie was practically drooling. Like many girls she was trying to hide her interest, but they had both seen her notebook. Nothing but doodles of dicks flecked with drops from wet hands.

“Well. . .” Cole was still hesitant.

Sadie supplied all the missing enthusiasm. “Oh don’t be a stick in the mud. Come on, it’ll be fun! We never go out together!”

Suddenly Cole found himself facing a glassy old man and an exuberant young lady, pleading with him to go have some fun.

“Alright, let’s do it. You know, this is just the thing I need to take my mind off my work. I’ve been so distracted this last week. Maybe a few squirts with Caitlyn will do me a world of good.”

“Ha!” Said Jacob clapping him on the back. Sadie bounced out of her seat smacking her hands like a seal. “Yay!”

“Should we tell Cavi—. . .” Sadie began, but stopped short when she saw the two men eyeing her. They probably had pretty big dicks. She’d have to find out when they got back. It was clear there was no need to disturb their esteemed supervisor.

She was right. As Timmothy Cavish watched his only three employees walk out the door to fuck the royal family, he didn’t say a word.