Chapter 2

The sun has barely risen this wintry Sunday morning, and fog swirls across the path and canal outside the front door of Claire’s Cunt Kitchen.

“Brad, shut the blinds, will you?” calls Claire from deep within the bowels of her kitchen. “And turn the screen on, it’s nearly nine!” Bradley is wiping tables in the front room of the café, scrubbing the last of yesterday’s semen stains off the pink formica tops. Jill has arrived a few minutes prior, and now sits drumming her fingers on a table, waiting for her virtual rendezvous with her wayward daughter.

The previous afternoon, Jill had been feeling quietly confident: she had had a strategy in mind about how she could coax a bit of common sense back into her daughter, how to persuade her that it would be better for everyone if she quietly came home to resume a normal, respectable fucker’s life. But now, for some reason she can’t quite work out, Jill is feeling ill at ease. She awoke this morning lying on top of her quilt, on her bed in her suite at the Titz, fully clothed – and couldn’t quite remember how she got there. Indeed, she still can’t remember the previous evening at all, beyond a vague recollection of chatting with someone in the bar.

Too much champagne? she wonders. The image of a red dress swims into her memory, but then is gone again. Her mind feels a bit like it has been sliced open, things taken out, and then sewn back up again. She rubs her head, almost expecting to feel a wound; but there is none there.

The large screen above the café counter flickers into life, bringing with it the sound of a cheery Christmas medley – Jingle Bell Cock as its opener. This morning’s test card displays two pretty blond girls in Christmas bobble hats sucking a very large cock, their lips splayed along both sides of the shaft, tongues curled underneath and touching just below the frenulum. Closing the front blinds blocks the weak natural light that has been seeping in through the windows, and so Bradley leaves Jill in the semi-darkened café, awaiting her call, and disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen.

“Will she be all right?” he mutters quietly to Claire. “She’s pretty on edge.”

Claire is standing naked, facing the stainless-steel kitchen surface, kneading bread dough. Little splashes of white flour dust her pert tits, and her tight early-morning pussy-lips peep cheekily out from below her buttocks. “I don’t know, Brad,” she replies. “But I don’t think I can say anything more to her. Leave them to it and hope for the best. Hey, look up!” She points to the ceiling.

Bradley does so, to see that Claire has tied a sprig of mistletoe above the counter. He chuckles. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It means, dinky dick, fuck me under the mistletoe whilst I make bread!”

“Say no more!” Bradley grins, releasing his small but stiff cock from his trousers. “Cunt or ass?”

“Oh, cunt, please, babe, at this time of the morning – nice and gentle.”

Bradley chuckles, standing behind Claire and nudging his dick in, whilst reaching round to gently tweak her nipples.

“Ooh, that feels good!” squeals Claire. “But stick with my rhythm, will you? Pull – push – twist – pull – push – twist...”

“I like the twisting bit best,” chuckles Brad, doing just that with both cock and fingers.

“Fuck yeah, so do I,” she replies. “But if I do that all the time, the dough won’t rise – oh fuck, Brad, that’s good,” she exclaims, grinding back against his rigid cock. “And if all you do is the twisting, the customers won’t get any bread today, ‘coz I’ll be so fucking horny I’ll never finish!”

Brad relents, but instead, on the next “push”, his cock buried deep in Claire’s pussy, he reaches forward with both hands and grabs two handfuls of dough. “Hey, what are you doing?” Claire remonstrates – until Brad slaps the dough over her breasts.

“Kneading buns,” he giggles, as he squeezes her two dough-coated tits, whilst his cock continues to pull, push and twist inside her, and the test card starts playing I’m Dreaming of a Whiteshit Fuck.

Suddenly, however, the music cuts out, and a voice calls, “Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Shh!” hisses Claire. “It’s Alison!” she mouths, pausing her kneading, but resisting her instinct to rush out into the café to greet her dear old friend. Bradley nods, and keeps kneading Claire’s breasts as his cock slides gently in and out of her pussy.

“Oh my God, Al – what’s happened to you?” gasps Jill, as her daughter’s face flickers into view on the screen above the café counter, a strong dark hand resting on her shoulder.

“Mommy?” Alison’s voice trembles slightly. “Oh Mommy, I’m so happy to see you. You look so beautiful. You pleasure me so much, Mommy...”

Jill studies Alison’s face in the screen with consternation. “What’s happened to you, Alison? You’re so ... fat!”

Alison laughs. “I’m pregnant, Mommy! You’re going to have a grandson!”

Jill regards her daughter with horror. “Oh my God ... Oh my motherfucking God ... No, no – oh Alison, did you have to? How? Why?”

“Well, we just let things happen naturally – after reversing our sterilisations, of course,” explains Alison.

“‘We’? What do you mean ‘we’? Are you still with that boy? Is that him there?!” The pitch of Jill’s voice is rising.

“Rob, yes. Mommy, we are married to each other now.” Alison reaches her right hand over to touch Rob’s. “And this” – she pats her bump affectionately with her other hand – “is our son. Your first grandchild.”

Jill gasps, clasping a hand over her mouth in horror. “Oh God, no!” she moans. “You can’t do this, Alison, you mustn’t. Get rid of it, won’t you? Will you really stain our family’s name like this?! Oh God, the shame!” Jill bursts into a wail of humiliation. Alison sits silently, quiet tears running down her face, as Rob’s hand gently squeezes her shoulder.

“EAT M’ CUNT, EVERYONE!” yells Riley with her customary exuberance, as she barges into the café through the front door, a draft of damp cold air following her. “Oh fuck shit motherfuck, Alison!” she gasps, as she catches sight of the screen. Her eyes dart from the screen to the sobbing Jill, and back again. Realising she has interrupted a sensitive moment, she mutters an embarrassed apology, bites her lip, and tiptoes through into the kitchen.

Claire is now leaning forward over the counter, sprinkled with flour from head to foot, her cunt speared from behind by Bradley’s dick, and dough caked over her tits. She gestures with a doughy hand for Riley to join them. “Leave Jill and Alison alone, Ri,” whispers Claire. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do or say to make it easier for them.”

“OK,” nods Riley. “So, shall I get to work on that dough?” she smirks.

In the front room, Mrs Bates is sitting in tears in the gloom; her daughter, thousands of miles away, is also weeping, her unseen husband’s hand still resting tenderly on her shoulder.

“Al...” ventures Jill, “will you not come home? You know how proud of you your father and I are...” – she pauses a moment, wiping tears from her cheeks – “ ... were ... I mean, ‘are’, of course, but ... Don’t you see, here you have a great future ahead of you! You could be a great fucker, like they were training you to be at the RAF. Or, if you prefer” – she fumbles for ways to build bridges – “you could even work for the firm. Your dad would be so proud for you to join him at the helm: the new face of Bates Butts International, think of it!”

“Mommy,” says Alison slowly. “I can’t come back now. Rob will never be allowed back, because he is an unsterilised Undesirable. And I have made a choice: I am married to him now.”

“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything, surely?” remonstrates Jill, her hackles rising again. “You can leave him. I mean, if you really insist upon having the baby, then just leave him with it! I mean, to be the manor born, don’t you think? Leave them where they belong, and you come back where you belong!”

“Mommy...” Alison’s face is strained, red with humiliation – but she struggles to control herself, as Rob’s hand squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “No. I will not leave him. This baby is ours, together. Rob is my husband, and I love him.”

“Alison Bates, how dare you?!” hisses Jill, rage overtaking her again. “Didn’t I teach you not to use that dreadful word?! My daughter, my own cuntslut daughter saying such things! Oh God, what will your father say?!”

The front door of the café opens again, and a young man appears; clean-shaven, with short brown hair, he is tall, broad-shouldered and handsome. The front of his tight leather trousers bulges impressively. “Oh, sorry – m’ cock,” he mutters. “Is Riley in?”

“I’m in ‘ere, Gary!” calls Riley from the kitchen. “Come fuck me buns!” Gaz tiptoes apologetically through the café, waving gratefully to both Jill and Alison, and disappears behind the counter.

As he walks through into the kitchen, he beams at the sight. Claire has finished kneading her dough – apart from the residue coating her tits – and she is now leaning back on her elbows on the kitchen counter, face and body liberally sprinkled with flour, icing sugar and ground cinnamon, and her clit adorned with a large strawberry, while Bradley holds her legs wide and fucks her hairless pussy. Riley is reclining next to her, just finishing off her task of rolling the dough into large round buns and sticking them one by one up her rectum, before carefully farting them out again onto a large greased baking tray in neat straight lines.

“‘Ere, Gary, I fink this one needs a bit more kneading – know wha’ I mean?” smirks Riley, crowning the last bun at the entrance to her perfectly gaped asshole and beckoning with a glistening middle finger. Gary takes one adoring look at the bleached-blond anal slut, removes his huge cock from his trousers, and lunges.

“OH FUUUCK!” screams Riley, as all nine genetically-modified inches of Gaz’s stiff shaft plunge into her dough-coated ass. “That’s it, fuck me dough, Gary. Fuck that soft squidgy fuck-bun in me hot arse. Knead that fuckin’ dough for me, Gary, make it fuckin’ rise. Coat yer fuckin’ dick with me arse-bread!” Soon Gaz’s cock is plunging enthusiastically in and out of Riley’s rectum – bread dough, icing sugar and anal lube flying in all directions both internal and external, as Riley screams: “YEAH! FUCK MY HOT SHITTER, YA GREAT BEAU’IFUL FUCK-STUD!!!”

In the front room, Alison and Jill are still facing off awkwardly across the thousands of miles which separate them. On hearing Riley’s voice echoing out of the kitchen, however, they both start to giggle. “Ooh, she’s really good, isn’t she?” grins Jill. “Do you think Daddy could hire her for our next commercial?”

Alison laughs. “Fuck yeah! Do it, Mommy. I think she’d be brilliant!”

Jill laughs out loud, her tension dispelled by this blessed moment of brief communion between her and her wayward daughter. “I’m glad to see you can still appreciate the value of a filthy slut, Al,” she quips.

“Oh Mommy, of course I can! I totally fucking can!”

“Well then, why did you go off with these religious antediluvians to the Outside World? I mean, they’re all Undesirables, illegals, filthy –”

“Oh Mommy,” interrupts Alison. “There are all sorts of people in the Outside World. And they don’t all agree, or like each other – but they put up with each other. That’s tolerance, isn’t it – putting up with people you can’t stand?”

Jill raises an eyebrow. “There are some opinions which should not be tolerated, Alison – and I hope you will not do so.”

“You don’t have to like what people think in order to tolerate them, Mommy. If the Enlightenment refuses to even hear what Objectors think, then we are just condemning ourselves to never being challenged, never being called out. And then how will we ever learn? You may hate the life I’ve chosen, Mommy – but please tolerate it. Because I know you love me too...”

Alison realises, just a touch too late, that she might have been unwise to say that last sentence – for immediately Jill explodes: “ALISON MARY BATES, DON’T YOU DARE SAY THAT WORD IN MY PRESENCE!”

Thankfully, the front door is flung open again, and this time three teenage girls enter: the first is slim with long brown hair; the second is slightly pudgy, with her hair in a soft blond bob, her round breasts straining at her coat; the third has short black hair and glistening bright red lips. “‘CUNT!” they call together, before noticing Alison on the screen. “Oh – Alison ... it’s Alison ... Alison Bates!” they exclaim, pointing at the screen, before noticing Jill sitting nervously in the dark.

“Oh – sorry, ma’am: m’ pussy,” says the black-haired girl, “are you talking to Alison?”

Jill nods, unsurely.

“Aw, she pleasured me so much!” squeals the brown-haired girl, removing her coat to reveal her naked body and pert breasts. “Hi Alison, m’ cunt! Remember me?”

“Teresa!” grins Alison. “And Amber and Belle! ‘Cunt, girls!”

Claire appears behind the café counter, at the entrance to the kitchen, her body coated in bread dough, flour and icing sugar, a finely-crafted coating of Bradley’s sperm on her lips and cheeks, and little dribbles of honey, chocolate and pink buttercream down her tits and belly. “Girls, come straight on through,” she says, as a little string of semen dangling off her chin sways, snaps, and lands gracefully on her big toe. “I think Jill and Alison need to be left alone for a bit.”

The girls all duly say their “m’ cunts” as politely as they know how, and giggle their way through into the kitchen where Riley is now lying on her back on the counter, bottom in the air, and Gaz is jerking a copious load of sperm into her gaping, dough-speckled asshole.

“Come and get it, girls!” calls Riley as she spies her friends. They gather kneeling in front of the counter, before Riley tightens her sphincter, swills her anal mixture around in her rectum, then farts a sploshy melange of semen and bread dough into their delighted serried faces. “FUUUUUCK!!!” they screech in delight, as they gobble it down enthusiastically, slurping the pungent effluent of each other’s faces.

“Right, everyone, enough fucking around!” calls Claire, standing on a chair to gather her staff to attention. “We open in an hour, so let’s get to work. Gaz: washing up and cleaning. Riley: eggs, and salads. Teresa: sandwich fillings. Amber: bacon and sausages. Belle: drinks. I’m on bread and cakes, of course. And Brad: front of house when Jill and Alison are finished.”

Out in the dimly lit café, dialogue has cautiously resumed. “Mommy,” pleads Alison. “Please don’t be angry at me. That word I said – well, it just means the same as how you feel about me, and how you and Daddy feel about each other.” Jill rolls her eyes in frustration, but Alison presses on: “It just means that we will stick by each other, suffer for each other – without thought of recompense.”

“But that’s just wrong, Alison,” replies Jill. “That’s what led to the oppression and exploitation of the Old Times. Relationships must be based on equality, and compromise, and balance – not sacrifice. Otherwise, it means one party is being exploited – and that’s just what’s going to happen to you if you let that boy rule your life.”

“But, Mommy, think. When I was in Fart’s Hospital that time after Eva attacked me, and you and Daddy sat by my bedside for days nursing me back to health: was that ‘equality’? Did you expect me to be able to repay you? And I’ve seen you and Daddy give things up for each other, again and again, without keeping a balance sheet. Do you make sure to ‘pleasure’ each other equally? No, and that’s because there is something deeper in your relationship. You don’t have to call it by the ‘L-word’ if you don’t want – but it is there ... And it is here, now ... here...”

Alison dares say no more, but she gestures, her hands reaching back and forth towards her mother, as if pleading, as if trying to pull her closer, to show that they share a bond – that Bond which, in the world of the Enlightenment, has been declared unspeakable. “Mommy,” she whimpers. “Mommy...”

Jill sits, trembling, as tears again start to leak down her face. “Oh God, Al ... All I want is for you to be happy.”

“I know, Mommy. So will you trust me to do that?”

There is a long pause, during which the only sounds are the clattering of pans and dishes in the kitchen, and the banter of Claire’s staff as they prepare for their day’s work. “Ooh, taste this bread, Claire,” calls Riley: “It’s so fuckin’ good!”