The call for my number draws me from my lubrico-irrational interrogations. I move towards the "reception desk" where I give, with an instinctive gesture, my "social identity pass" to the lady in service. Without exchanging any glance or any word, she fills a form with multiple layers, detaches the pink and blue layers and gives them back to me, rolled up around a "plastic container" carrying my "social identity pass" and my "biogenic and eugenic conformity card". She then indicates to me, without never leaving her functional dumbness, the direction of the "cabins" located away from the large hall, where we can also find the "phone booths" and the "public toilets".
It is there that I will, as I regularly do, repeat the ritual of sowing a vulva made of synthetic material that releases a translucent vapor cloud; and I close my eyes each time, trying to imagine the bloody edges of a vagina that opens to the contact of my dick, that blooms out and that releases an odorous honey and that tightens and imprisons it as it drowned to make it explode and sparks all its viscous material that comes dying at the very bottom of ... this well built with synthetic material.
This time, I closed my eyes, and while I lower my trousers, the image of the beautiful foreigner fills my mind; I slowly strip her off and I grab my penis with my impatient fingers; I greedily look at her while activating my penis with accelerated and regular back and forth passes.
She is there in front of me, her dress is laying at my feet showing her beautiful body full with sensual roundnesses: her bossoms, round and pink like melons, decorated with chocolate papillae, her solar plexus convex and shining like a drum, the silver plated fleece, like a forest in flame, which hardly veils the opening of her vulva. My fingers are agitated over my penis, I engulf myself in her, my penis stripped by the action of my fingers showing the nipple inflated with blood, my fingers increase the rhythm of the masturbation, my breath accelerates, my nipple inflated by blood plunged to the deepness of her vaginal abyss. I keep my eyes closed, I see her and I feel her under me while I ejaculate and that way, I believe I sow her cavern and all her womb.
Then it is quiet again. I close back the "container" made of synthetic material where my seed rests. The image of the beautiful foreigner evaporated when I opened my eyes.
I must run to the "bus stop" to reach the bus which leaves in direction of the terminal of "Porte-de-St-Cloud".
She is there, the beautiful foreigner, discreetly sitting on one on the front benches of bus 73 of line "Vincennes-Porte-de-St-Cloud", one of the last survivors who still crosses Paris from east to west.
I look at her discreetly, she also looks at me, as if conventions did not prohibit any more, to the language of the eyes, to violate the border traced with red paint, the border between you and me, between us and the other occupants sitting silently on the benches of bus 73, on both sides of the red line which thus, separates and protects and discriminates the sexes and the souls.
She just had to look at me with her mischievous glance so that I reborn to my rut of male in heat. I do not have to close my eyes any more so that the social conventions disappears, for the "fhemale" in service, disguised as a "policewomen", sitting beside the "driver", does not supervises us any more with her inquisitor's eye.
I look at you and I see you who cross the bus door right after passing by the "Porte Maillot", at "LaMuette" along the forests of the "Bois de Boulogne", devastated, infested by debauch faunas, sidatic satires, Brazilian "shemales"; I follow you as if I knew that your glance invited me to follow you, to protect you or to rape you. Then I follow you, at short distance so that I see the moving balls of your beautiful buttocks; they are moulded under your flowered cotton little skirt; and you know it so well, who adjust the rhythm of your steps to the vibrations of my body on the ground and to the palpitations of my heart. You advance that way on the green grass, sometimes hopping, other times stopping to look at me with a mischievous way, to hide yourself in the underwoods, to reappear further away as if I were the hunter, and you, the scared animal that faint not to let herself oust out.
She pretended to resist at the very moment I caught her by the arm. She launched a small cry of startled animal then she let herself fall to the ground when I pushed her, then I let myself fall over her body. She did not protest, however, she seemed apprehensive. She opened herself like a flower, out of breath, she released her tits, raised her skirt, she search into my trousers to release my prick and she handled it like to break it, we fornicated like if we never did it before, instinctively, like animals and I remember that she laughed and that she cried too.
We were twisted together, we were exhausted, my face against her face, our breaths merging, her legs were raised and encircled my hips, my satisfied penis always resting in her womb, when the "CRS-women" took us by surprise. They were there, leaning over us, pointing their weapons at us hoisting the look of warlike Amazones, they separated us with violence. They seized the beautiful foreigner, they beat her, they profaned her inserting a long and black cudgel in her vagina, before bringing her and bringing me, I, separately from her, far, very far away, beyond the "peripherique", in direction of the north, far from the sinister suburbs built of concrete, in a "social rehabilitation camp" which recall me the concentration camps that I had seen, a long time ago, in the movies. I am still there, working like a convict and to confess myself, unceasingly, of my true faults, and those which they would like to charge on me, and to pray the new gods, for the salvation of my soul of male in love, just what would be necessary to preserve my fragile testicles from the torment of ablation, by the terrible inquisitors of the social consciousness.
The camp bore a name, strange and difficult to retain, if my memory is not decaying, it sounds like Auschwitz.
