Democritus’ Atom
two stories of extreme sexuality by Richard K. Weems
Cheap Stories, volume 9
Democritus’ Atom
two stories of extreme sexuality by Richard K. Weems
Published by Written by Weems, Ink.
© 2011 by Written by Weems, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Cover: Portrait of Edward Radclyffe 2nd Earl of Derwentwater (1655 – 1705)
by John Closterman
Author photo by Svea Barrett.
Also by Richard K. Weems:
Anything He Wants
The Cheap Stories eBook series:
The Fine Art of Fletcherism and two more stories
Paradigms and Curbside Boxes
Apples and Self-Interview – two stories
Falling – avant-garde fiction
The Need for Character – flash fiction
Soup – three flash fiction pieces
Mercy – three micro-fiction pieces
Violence and Sitting Danny Rolling – two essays
Democritus’ Atom – two stories of extreme sexuality
Rules of Combat and Dangerous Theater – two essays
CONTENTS
Thanks to the following magazines for publishing earlier versions of these stories:
“Democritus’ Atom”: Pif Magazine
“While Humping Savagely…”: Melic Review
for Svea, my BabyMine
Guil: There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said—no. But somehow we missed it.
—Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead
We made bets. Innocent ones at first, silly things a man and woman just starting to test the range of possibility try on each other. Wagers fought in riddles: put me in a bucket and I make it lighter, Sphinx-like stuff. The befuddled had to cook the befuddler dinner. The confounded ironed the confounder’s weekend wash. With familiarity came more forward wagers: loser goes down on winner and gets no reciprocation; loser is winner’s naked butler for the day; loser masturbates while singing aloud “Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends”—an image of her I didn’t easily forget.
Then she won, over and over, until I couldn’t even think of challenging riddles anymore. She, on the other hand, seemed to have a storehouse of nasty riddles to pair with the cruelest wagers for my weakest moments.
The unwritable sentence, for instance.
“Understood: to, too and two.” She demonstrated on the legal pad I was to use for my answer. “Write me this sentence,” which she did not demonstrate on the legal pad: ‘There are three tü’s in the English language.’ No restructuring, no revision.”
She sat before me to display her lack of underwear beneath her stylish, professional skirt. By this time, I had licked her shoes clean. I had wiped her ass, collected a week’s worth of piss in a gallon jug which I then had to chug from. Fear of yet another failure was already distracting enough, but now there was also her pussy, a crevasse my penis hadn’t traveled for a month now.
Also distracting was the fact that I still had hopes of beating her again. I had a list of things I was going to do to her upon my next successful wager. What joy to have spread her across my lap, the short-lived ripples on her unyielding posterior rolling out from under my hand, she slurping down a bucket of mashed tofu to a gag ball and nipple clamps, the application of which she would have to beg for. Even a straight-up fuck, a heated shag on the hardwood floor, would have been torture to her, especially if I were the one on top.
I took frantically to writing, my hope fueled by the smell of her vagina, wetting I was sure at the spectacle of my desperation.
There are three to’s...
She ripped the sheet from the legal pad upon which I slaved. “Wrong!” she screamed with obvious delight.
There are 3 2’s...
“Ridiculous! Inane!” This torn sheet fell heavily, crumbled out of shape by her strong, harsh hands.
There are
There are
There are
The blank spaces glared at me, taunted me, sucked all words from my mind.
“Assume the position,” she said.
I had long lost the will to countermand her orders when I lost. I lay back as she squatted over me and hiked up her skirt so I couldn’t help but see the payment I owed her.
“Open wide, lemming,” she said, “it’s suppertime...”
...no...this is not it...this goes on too long...summarize succinctly...
* * *
This is to tell where things went bad with us (‘her and me’ she would have preferred it—even now, how her orders haunt me!)...thus to document the turning point, the definitive, concise moment that effected the lowly state our relationship was to become, at least for me...
“I am,” was all I could offer. It seemed like a good answer, but she only laughed and spun in her leather desk chair that was so amenable to spinning.
“Dope,” she sung out, “numskull, goon.”
“‘I am’ is three letters,” I said in way of defense. “There is no shorter going.”
She tapped a clothespin against her teeth with intellectual delight and savage anticipation. “Half-wit. Critic. Stop being so literal.” She licked her lips in her sumptuous way and leaned toward me. That smell (her hair), the way her double-breasted jacket held onto the curves in her torso...