Chapter 4

CUNT IS A CONCEPT!

proclaimed a banner, in gaudy capital letters.

A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK!

demanded another.

FUTA RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS!

announced a third. And a fourth posed the existential question:

ASSIGNED CUNT AT BIRTH...?

“God, look at them,” sneered Gaia, as she stood by her window watching the crowds demonstrating up and down the length of Harley Street. “always thinking they’re entitled to more! Do you know, I had a man ring me up the other day: he’s already got two cocks, but he’s wanting three, so he can DP one of his “wives” whilst the other gives him a blowjob. And he wants the second “wife” to have a cock too, so she can fuck the first one’s face; and she wants four tits – or was it five? – so he can titfuck them all at once; and on and on...”

“And what did you tell him?” asked Melia.

“Well, I told him exactly where to put his two cocks! And – guess what? – he replied, ‘Oh, that’s a good idea: I’d not thought of that... ‘ Ha! That’s what happens when we develop science without the wisdom to match. People think that just because they want it, and it’s possible, there’s no reason they can’t have it!”

“Humanity has always been like that, Gaia,” sighed Melia, a resigned tone in her voice. “Ever since I arrived here, on that first Vdrmlian transport a hundred years ago, I have been as amazed at human short-sightedness as I have been at your inventiveness and ambition.” She looked down at the crowd outside – mainly humans, both men and women, some of them ostentatiously displaying their multiple genitals as they hoisted their banners and hurled slogans at the façade of the Institute for Sexual Medicine.

“So why did your government choose here? Surely there are any number of planets in the Galaxy you could have set up a colony on!”

Melia thought for a few seconds, before answering: “Well ... maybe the food ... Yeah, that’s about it, really. Crème brûlée: yummy. Nothing quite like it on Vrdml ... Oh yeah, and the tits: that’s one human obsession Vrdmlians have taken to big time: big tits. Problem is, fitting three G-cup breasts on a chest my sort of size is a bit of a challenge,” she added, indicating her slender torso – so no surprise it hasn’t really caught on. I think I’ll do without...”

“Yes, exactly: you at least have enough common sense to realise that you can’t just keep denying reality without there being consequences! I warned the Minister about this years ago: that we’d have to go slowly, tread carefully. But – typical politician – instead of solving the housing crisis, or the cost of living crisis, or the education crisis, instead he just gives people more ways to fuck, hoping they won’t notice that they’re homeless poverty-stricken ignoramuses! ‘Cocks and circuses’ – that’s what I call it! The irony is, now he’s the one who’s scared of civil unrest – I mean look at them out there!”

Through the window came the sound of chanting from the crowds outside: “A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK! A WOMAN’S RIGHT TO COCK!”

“Well...” interjected Melia cautiously. “You must admit, much of this acceleration has been caused by the whole Daphne effect. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d have been OK.”

“True,” nodded Gaia ruefully. “And that was my fault. I had such reverence for, such gratitude towards Lucy Kuiper – I mean, without her tireless work back in the twenty-first century, this Institute’s dickgirl research would never have come to fruition, and we would never have made contact with you! I guess I wanted to pay her my debt of gratitude, by returning her beloved Daphne to her. Sadly, I may have achieved exactly the opposite.”

“How do you mean?” Melia raised an eyebrow.

Gaia sighed. “I’ve been in the Ministry this morning, studying the timelines: not a pleasant experience, you know, researching everything which ‘might have been – if only’ ... Here, have a look.” She picked up a folder from her desk, marked “L. Kuiper: timeline information – strictly classified”, and handed it to Melia. “It’s towards the bottom of the page one.”

Outside the crowds were now chanting, “MY BODY, MY COCK! MY BODY, MY COCK!” as Melia opened the folder and read. Reaching the bottom of the first page, her eyes widened, and she gasped. “Oh no! Oh gods! How awful! But ... we can’t tell her, can we?”

Gaia took a deep breath. “Ordinarily, no. But if by revealing to Daphne the terrifying truth we can convince her to assist us in readjusting the timeline, it might be worth it.”

“Is that legal?” asked Melia.

“Not in the strictest sense. But I have spoken to the Minister about it, and he thinks, especially as your first attempt to persuade her wasn’t successful, that we could, in this case, stretch the protocols a bit. These are exceptional circumstances, Melia. The situation is only getting worse – and the timeline investigators say it will reach crisis proportions within the year, unless we achieve readjustment. We must act now.”

“Mjhlw frgl,” sighed Melia.

“And so, may I ask you all to join me in offering a toast – to the brides!”

“TO THE BRIDES!” chorused the guests in response.

“Hip hip...”

“HOORAY!”

Daphne and Lucy sat at the head table, dressed in twin backless white wedding gowns, faces glowing, clasping each other’s hands. Around were gathered parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and the best of their colleagues from the medical and musical worlds, all relishing the joie de vivre and companionship which only such an occasion can bring.

“Hip hip...”

“HOORAY!”

The hotel was a Tudor manor house in Surrey, and the cake was, by special request of Lucy, a croquembouche: a massive cone of profiteroles, stuffed with pastry cream and laced with chocolate and spun caramel. Both brides stepped forward, to cheers from their guests, to each pick one profiterole from the cone and feed it to her new spouse.

“Hip hip...”

“HOORAY!”

Of course, it all went wrong: Daphne managed to smear chocolate on the lace collar of her dress, caramel dripped down into Lucy’s cleavage, and they couldn’t help giggling as they simultaneously hand-fed cream puffs to each other, so that the contents thereof smeared onto their lips, chins and fingers, making a creamy mess of both their faces and all four of their hands. There was much good-natured laughter and cheeky banter all around, before they invited their guests to enjoy their dessert while they retreated upstairs, to discard their soiled clothes and change early into their going-away outfits.

Clutching a bowl of profiteroles, the newlyweds made their way up the stairs to their room, still feeding messy handfuls of caramel- and chocolate-coated cream puff to each other. Drunk on their own joy, and knowing that they would have to change clothes anyway, they made no attempt to be careful, so that by the time they reached their suite, their faces, hair and hands were a slapstick mess: cream and chocolate dripping off their eyebrows, noses and chins, their soft cheeks gleaming with sugary delight.

Neither Lucy nor Daphne needed to say anything, for as they closed the door of their hotel room behind them, they knew what they had to do. Their lips mashed together, tongues exploring, seeking, tasting, as they slurped and licked all the sweetness from each other’s faces, hands groping, squeezing, stroking and – inevitably – ripping each other’s wedding dresses off till they stood flesh-to-flesh, naked bar their white stockings and heels.

“Fuck me, my darling,” whimpered Lucy, as she felt Daphne’s cock, stiff and sweaty, pressing against her vulva. And Daphne would have complied immediately, had they not been interrupted by a sharp double-knock at the door.

“Who is it?” panted Daphne, as she revelled in the sensation of Lucy’s damp pussy-lips smooching gently at her swollen glans.

“Room service!” called a voice. “Mrs Kuiper said you might have some dresses for cleaning?”

“Oh fuck, Mum,” panted Lucy under her breath, before calling out, “Just a minute! We’ll leave them here over the back of the chair and go into the bathroom. Then you can let yourself in and take them away – all right?” Lucy and Daphne smirked, picked up the bowl containing two last profiteroles, and retreated into their ensuite, Daphne’s rigid dribbling cock wagging eagerly from side to side as she walked. “You can come in now!” called Lucy as, with a giggle, she shut the bathroom door behind them.

In an instant, Lucy was on her knees. Grabbing a cream puff from the bowl, she impaled it on Daphne’s cockhead, letting crème pâtissière ooze along her thick shaft, before opening her mouth wide to swallow the cream-coated futa dick as deep as she could in one go. “Mmmfuck...” she moaned, savouring the heavenly combination of cream, chocolate, caramel and sweaty cock, whilst calling, mouth still full of futa-flesh and pastry, through the bathroom door to the maid: “Have you found the dwesses aww wight?”

Lucy and Daphne heard the maid reply, “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” before shutting the door on her way out. But the newlyweds did not bother to return to the bedroom. Instead Lucy grabbed the last profiterole and squeezed it in her palm, before smearing its contents over Daphne’s dick and balls and resuming her full-frontal oral attack. Cream melted and dribbled off the shaft in little white rivulets, rendering Lucy’s happy face gradually messier and messier.

“Oh God,” whimpered Daphne. Unable to restrain herself, she began to fuck Lucy’s face, relishing the feeling of her cockhead lodging itself into each cheek in turn, as a mélange of cream, chocolate and spit dripped off Lucy’s chin and onto her full breasts. “OH GOD!” cried Daphne again, feeling the cum start to surge up through her shaft, and her cock begin to spasm. “Oh Luce, oh love, oh fuck...” she trilled, unable to hold back.

“Let it go, my love,” cried Lucy, grabbing the cock with one hand and pumping it vigorously in front of her open mouth. “I want my dessert!” Her lips and face still smeared with croquembouche, now her mouth filled with a new type of cream, as she jerked spurt after spurt of her wife’s sweet futa-cum deftly onto her tongue, before swilling it around and, with an ecstatic whimper, swallowing it.

Daphne gazed down in adoration and delight, as Lucy’s lips and tongue slurped up and down her girlcock, licking off the remains of cream and pastry. “Oh love, that’s so good, so good...” Daphne moaned. “But ... you haven’t come yet. What shall I do for you now?”

“Later, my love,” giggled Lucy, making a little glob of semen jiggle, sway and drip off her lower lip. “They’re expecting us downstairs. Best not to make it too obvious what we’re up to! Let’s have a quick shower now, and change: later, that dick’s got all night to make me come and come and come – what about it?”

“OK, darling,” replied Daphne. “Though ... shame this shower cubicle isn’t larger...”

“That’s the problem with Tudor manor houses,” smirked Lucy, standing up. “And when Mum found this place, a fuckable shower stall probably wasn’t top of her list of priorities!”

“Well, you go first then, love: you’re messier than me! I’ll just go get myself a cup of tea,” said Daphne, as Lucy let herself into the shower cubicle.

But as Daphne let herself out into the bedroom, her semi-flaccid sugar-coated cock still dangling before her, she drew breath in shock – for there, standing in the middle of the room, was a dark-skinned, frizzy-haired woman with large breasts bulging beneath her maid’s outfit, and a pair of cream-soiled wedding dresses draped over her left arm. “What do you think you’re doing?!” hissed Daphne indignantly, instinctively but unsuccessfully attempting to cover up her genitals with her hands. “You were asked to take those dresses for cleaning – so take them, and get the f–”

But then Daphne paused – for she realised that she had seen this face before. “You!” she exclaimed, her face crumpling.

“Please don’t be afraid, Daphne,” replied Dr Gaia. “And please don’t send me away. I’m trying to save you. You are in danger, both of you. You must listen to what I have to say.”

Tristi e soli i vecchi miei piangeranno, penseranno ch’io non torni più! – “Far away, alone and sad, my friends will weep to think that I shall never return,” sang Jake Wallace, the camp minstrel, in his doleful baritone, accompanied by Volodymyr the Ukrainian répétiteur on a baby grand. Except that, this being a production by the great Henke (so great, indeed, that he needed only one name, a bit like Björk, or Pelé – or Stalin), Jake Wallace was dressed in a hazmat suit and carried a Geiger counter instead of a banjo. “Cut!” screamed Henke, a middle-aged hippie with a paunch, a bald pate, a goatee and long grey hair down to his shoulders. “Who do you think you are, a camp minstrel?” he bellowed at the hapless baritone as he pounded his fist on his table. “The end of the world is nigh! And you act like you are singing a home-sick ballad – no, no!”

“But, Henke,” pleaded the singer, a short paunchy Welshman called Dai, “listen to the text: ‘La mia mamma, che farà s’io non torno?’ – ‘How my Mamma will weep if I never come home!’ Surely this is a home-s–”

“The text?! Fuck the text!” screeched the Teuton. “I am the Director! My vision overrules the text! It’s all in Italian anyway: these English toffs don’t understand a word of it. We give them what they deserve – not what they think they paid for! Do it again!”

Daphne sat at the back of the auditorium, awaiting her entrance, muttering under her breath, “How to fucking ‘opera Germanly’ – Jesus, now I’ve seen it all...”

Sitting just in front of her, her tenor co-star, a slightly balding Scotsman called Duncan, smirked in sympathy. “Just wait for the infanticide, the race riots, and the gay orgy. All to come. And you thought this was a Wild West romance?”

Daphne slouched back into her seat, but did not waste much time sulking, as her mind was too full of her unexpected encounter with Dr Gaia the previous weekend: “No,” Daphne had insisted, “I am not leaving Lucy here to come back with you to the future! You sent me back here, and it was Lucy’s foresight that allowed that to happen. We will not be parted!”

Al telaio tesserà lino e duolo pel lenzuolo che la coprirà... – “To shroud herself shall she weave woe and linen at the loom,” sang the chorus of gold miners on stage – dressed, of course, in Ku Klux Klan outfits which they kept tripping over, much to Henke’s annoyance.

“What we didn’t realise, Daphne,” Gaia had replied, “is that sending you back changed the course of the sexual history of mankind. It’s one thing for women to want cocks. But now they’re demanding multiple tits, or retractable dicks like the Vrdmlians. And men are wanting two or three cocks – or both cocks and cunts, or expanded arseholes, so as to take all these huge ten-inch dicks we keep providing their wives with. And because Lucy has now learnt about this technology from you, and can research it at her Institute, all this demand has developed two hundred years earlier than we expected it to!”

Il mio cane dopo tanto mi ravviserà? – “Will my dog recognise me after so long?” sang the chorus of miners, whilst bending over and miming buggering each other doggy-style through their KKK costumes. Henke smiled contentedly – though Daphne could not tell whether this was mere directorly satisfaction, or because the mediocre but buxom mezzo-soprano, Bambi by name, whom he had cast as the squaw Wowkle, was now crouched at his feet, headdress feathers waving just above the level of his table as she slid her fulsome spit-lubricated tits up and down around his rather small penis. Daphne scoffed, but returned to brooding over the conversation with Dr Gaia.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Doctor!” Daphne had responded. “This is ridiculous! You can’t expect me to abandon my wife now, and let you take me away just because of your bullshit story about a ‘crisis of demography’! You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake, and you claim to have all this amazing sexual technology! So use it! Sort the problem! Yourselves!!”

O mia casa al rivo accanto, là lontano, chi ti rivedrà? – “Will I ever see my home so far away...?” sang the miners dolefully, whilst crawling on all fours smacking each other’s backsides with their Geiger counters. From below Henke’s table there now emerged the sound of slurping and gurgling, which provided an awkward counterpoint to the miners’ concluding pianissimo six-part a capella chorus; nevertheless Henke was happy, rolling his eyes upwards in combined artistic and penile ecstasy.

Daphne’s eyes, though obscured in the semi-darkness of the rehearsal hall, began to water, as she remembered what Gaia had revealed next: “All right, Daphne, I’m going to be brutally honest with you. I’m not supposed to tell you this, because normally Ministry rules are that timeline matters are to be kept secret, and certainly not divulged to those who will be most deeply affected. But ... if you stay here,” Gaia had continued, with a desperate sigh, “you will be condemning Lucy to death!”

Vlod the répétiteur was working extra hard now, Daphne noticed. After the relative calm of Jake Wallace’s ballad, now the miners were having fisticuffs. In Henke’s version, of course, they were using Sten guns and hand grenades – but the pianist still had to produce a passing impression of the orchestral part, all jagged trombone lines and hammering triplets from the wind. Daphne knew her entrance was soon, but she sat frozen in her seat, recalling her shock and anguish as she had stood with her dangling dribbling penis listening to Gaia’s revelation: “In two years’ time, Daphne, she will die in a car accident. You will be widowed – unless you come with me back to the future now and enable me to correct the timeline. It is the only option. It is your – her – only hope...”

“HELLO, MINNIE!” chorused the miners on stage, as Volodymyr bashed out Daphne’s entrance theme – a broad, lush, triumphantly thrumming twelve-eight with great fistfuls of added ninths and heart-melting glissandi: the perfect tune for a powerful heroine both adored and feared by the men who surround her. “HELLO, MINNIE!” But Daphne was still cowering at the back of the hall, frozen in remembered terror.

“DAPHNE!!! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” screamed Henke, instantly rousing her from her anguished reverie. “YOU’VE MISSED YOUR FUCKING ENTRANCE!”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” cried Daphne, dashing down the aisle towards the stage. “I’m so so sorry!”

“HELLO, FUCKING MINNIE!” screeched the director. “What the fuck’s wrong with you these days? You missed three cues yesterday! And now you can’t even get your cunt on stage on time for your Act One entrance!” Henke’s face was incandescent with rage, and spittle flew from his lips – as Bambi emerged from beneath the table, hastily stowing her tits in her buckskins and smirking as she wiped a stray drop of semen from her chin.

Daphne stood, mute, her body trembling with rage and humiliation.

“Ah, Mister and Missuses Lecoq! Do come in,” trilled Dr Gaia, a fixed smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

Mr Lecoq was a tall, muscular man in his fifties, dressed in a Gucci suit, with dyed black hair, Prada sunglasses, and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He reckoned that he had reason to be pleased with himself, for, in his wake, by means of a pair of pink faux-leather leashes, he was leading two young women, tottering on their stilettos, neither looking any more than nineteen years old, flawless examples of largely identical surgically-enhanced silicone beauty: plumped red lips, extended pink finger-nails, bleached blonde hair down to their cinched waists, and huge breasts bulging behind improbably tight sparkly crop-tops. Indeed, they were so similar that the only way Gaia could tell them apart was by the lettering on their bulging tops: one read “WHORE”, in pink cursive script; whilst adorning the chest of the other was the designation “BITCH”.

“Whore, Bitch – down!” commanded Mr Lecoq. “Whore” batted her eyelashes and giggled stupidly as she sat on the floor and gazed adoringly up at her husband. “Bitch”, in contrast, pouted, sticking both tongue and middle finger out at the man, before sitting at his feet and proceeding to suck her thumb.

Surreptitiously, Gaia rolled her eyes at Melia, who turned her back in disgust, pretending to sterilise some medical equipment on a trolley by the wall.

“You gave me two cocks, remember?” said Mr Lecoq, an unmistakeably accusatory tone in his voice, as he pulled down his trousers to remind her.

“I do remember,” replied Gaia, maintaining her customer service expression as best as she could, as the blonde bimbos licked their botoxed lips at the sight of Mr Lecoq’s members while kneeling in a practiced attitude of genital veneration. The man’s two erections were, even Melia would have admitted, most impressive. Positioned one above the other, but sharing a single massive pair of testicles which dangled below, they gleamed and throbbed with lust. The lower cock was clearly the standard nine-inch model, huge and roughly hewn; the upper was a touch slenderer, obviously a bespoke model designed specifically for its intended purpose – which Mr Lecoq was apparently intent on demonstrating.

“‘Ere, let me show you,” grunted Mr Lecoq, before looking down at his fawning wives. “Whore, arse up, now!”

“Oh yes, Hubby-Bubby, totally fuck your Whore with both your dicks,” squeaked the first Mrs Lecoq, as she knelt on all fours, pressed her head sideways onto the floor, and pulled back her very short skirt to reveal a tight round bottom. “Whore totally loves being DPed, Hubby-Bubby!” she giggled, as she spread her buttocks to reveal a dripping shaven pussy and a gently winking anus. Placing one foot on the side of her painted face, Mr Lecoq lunged, his two penises simultaneously penetrating his wife with a noisy double squelch, before beginning to fuck both her holes with ostentatious abandon. “Oh, Hubby-Bubby’s cocks feel so good,” the girl continued to squeal. “Hubby likes fucking his dumb blond fuckwife so fucking hard!” The second Mrs Lecoq held the first wife’s buttocks wide with her hands, drooling with worshipful desire at the two squelching pounding cocks.