Corona Games: Dominas New Dystopian Kink

The doorbell rings one point five metres away.

Jack, steps back and waits, his head bowed in deference. A shudder circulates through his body and returns to his groin where his pathetic little worm jerks awake momentarily before it retreats, almost disappearing.

Domina, hazmat suit fitted, respirator adjusted and hands fully gloved, makes one final survey of her apartment noting everything in it’s rightful place before opening the door.

‘I see you followed my directions correctly, eventually’, she quipped.

‘Place your shoes in the bucket and strip’.

Her deadpan face and hardened stare conveying a don’t-fuck-with-me stance.

Domina’s new fetish was playing out like a Hunger Games episode: full lockdown, curfew and quarantine rules apply.

‘Follow me’, she commanded, leading the way to the bathroom.

‘Shower, put on the hazmat suit and mask and come into my den’.

Jack does as he is told, noticing the hairs on his arms and neck bristle and shrink back as the icy air-conditioning slaps his skin.

He’d been fantasizing about this day, ever since the first wave of Coronavirus (Corvid 19) swept across Europe, with Italy almost decimated in it’s wake.

It reminded him of his mortality, the beck and whim of governments and George Orwell’s 1984 dystopian nightmare coming into fruition. It made him feel alive, on the contrary, gave him a reason to live out his last days letting go of the old ways, going out on his terms.

Domina was a survivor. Gone were the days of luxurious 24 hour bookings, champagne and wads of cash. It was adapt or die slowly in her isolation, knowing her body wouldn’t be found for weeks.

These were the days of demeaning quickies and blow n’ go’s for a fraction of the price and the odd apocalypse fantasy that gave her just enough extra to remember how she once felt secure. Now, she controlled her working environment to suit and insisted on safety protocol.

It didn’t preclude the risk of contracting the disease, but it was harm minimised. What choice did she have? She had arrived in Australia post Iraq War and her protected immigration status had been drastically diminished, as would her bank balance be in the not-so-distant future if she didn’t find a way to make the most of a shit situation.

Jack looked at himself in the mirror, putting on his mask. He was reduced to an anonymous automaton. Nameless, faceless and nothing more than a number in a system designed to suck every last drop of humanity from his wretched soul, if he even had one. A nobody. A pitiful excuse for a human being. He wanted to feel the humiliation of his meaningless existence played out one last excruciating time.

Domina watched her pain slut enter and ordered him to get on all fours on the bed. She picked up a 1 metre length of flexible plastic pipe and gave him six of the best in quick, hard succession.

/ / / / / /

Jack felt the weight of the whole world reign down. Searing pain shot through him and waves rippled along the length of his flacid cock awakening from it’s morbid slumber to stand at attention. It was all he could do to stop from crying out.

Jack knew he would fail, miserably and so did she.

© Copyright 2020, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

The Last Custer Fuck

Move over Corona!

You’d have to be bloody blind to believe Corvid19 is the dreaded lurgi: it’s only the common cold repackaged into the dreaded flu, commandeered to implement the first wave of a Globalist attack, the last Custer fuck for the dying imperialistic dream.

The bourgeois are creaming themselves for the last time, while socialism rises like a rogue wave revolting in it’s wake, leaving a trail of destruction in search of the snake – waiting for a drum roll and the last head to fall.

30,000 U.S. troops on the march in time to strategically coincide, singing My Corona and Uncanny Boy and the world follows the Pied Piper like a zombie hoard to a mass genocide. No masks. No suits.

The West is going down, but not without one final autoerotic spasm: a shit storm the size of China forcing everyone into the foetal position, while the banks foreclose with an enema.

Me?

I’m going to hedge my bets on the 1993, season 4, episode 21 of The Simpsons, and buy a bottle of Dettol and wipe the whole slate clean!

If I could do a Weinstein or an Epstein and get away with it, I’d want to open my mouth like Greta Thunberg and renegotiate a ‘Rommel Death’ with a slice of pizza but all the shaming I’ll leave to the Vatican, royalty, past presidents and Hollywood’s boulevard of broken dreams, to remind me I am merely a conspiracy theorist with a vivid imagination, trying to live a pipe dream.

The Simpsons, Season 4, Episode 21 predicts Corona Virus

Dettol Kills Coronavirus

New World Order, David Icke

© Copyright 2020, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved