Erebus
09-27-2005, 5:31 AM
In Other World, the normal rules of logic do not apply. Improbable events which, in our everyday existence, we might attribute to madness, wishful thinking or the workings of an over-active imagination, are commonplace there. Other World is part of a parallel universe in which all things are possible, particularly those which seem impossible here.
When we close our eyes and dream, we touch the frontiers of that far-off realm. And yet, though immeasurably distant, it remains within reach. For it is as much within us as it is without…
‘WIN A WEEK INSIDE MY PANTS!’
A thousand neon bulbs winked on and off, illuminating the huge, crowded theatre. On stage, a naked man prepared to claim his prize. Legions of his fellow citizens looked on, in jealous anticipation of what was to follow.
A large, bewigged compere paced the stage, barking through a microphone, reminding all the losers that this could have been them; might one day be them; but not tonight. Tonight it was some other lucky bastard.
Below that glaring, omniscient legend: ‘Win a Week Inside My Pants!’, the image of a perfect woman smiled back; taunting them with her puckered mouth and swollen breasts; with her big, flared hips, and plump, glistening vagina.
Briefly, the camera angle altered, and the all-seeing lens slid down between her legs. A thousand men groaned as the woman’s fingers gripped her buttocks, peeling apart her plump, creamy globes. They leered shamelessly; their collective gaze locked on the dark runnel of the woman’s crack, the hairy trench in which sat paradise – the pouting crater of her knotted anus, bulging with vulgar promise.
Now the woman’s voice echoed around the hall: ‘Win a week inside my pants!’ she cried, then licked her lips and sighed.
The man on stage prepared himself. A week in heaven; a week in hell. Both beckoned crudely, now, in the shape of the woman whose image filled a thousand glittering screens. His head uplifted, he spread his arms, welcoming the crackle of light that tore into his body, shattering his atoms, reforming him into a new image; shrinking him to the size of a small rubbery pencil.
To huge applause, a woman strode onto the stage; the woman on the screen, larger and more vibrant in the flesh. She pressed one hand between her legs, her fingers moving through the channel of her sex. As the cameras homed in, a spiders’ web of sticky love strands filled each silver screen.
The prize winner was carried forward, cradled in the hands of a helper, chosen from among hundreds to assist on this most special of days. The man lay perfectly still. The shrinking ray had not only refashioned his form, it had suspended his more usual functions. For one week he would require neither food nor drink; nor need to expel such items from his body. His arms and legs were useless, too. Only his head, his sense of smell, his eyes, ears, nose and mouth remained active.
A pair of white cotton panties was produced, slipped around the woman’s ankles and drawn up to her thighs. The helper stretched out her hands, and carefully lowered the tiny man, face up into the gusset. She noticed that his expression was no longer calm. His tiny lips were trembling, his nostrils flared a little as he filled his lungs with air.
The helper cupped him from beneath, as the woman reached down, took hold of her cotton knickers and hoisted them up. When he was only inches from her crack, the man began to wriggle nervously. The helper had been told to expect this. ‘All men panic,’ the woman had informed her. ‘Right at the end, when they see my bum-hole, they often become frightened.’
So the helper knew what to expect and held on a little more tightly, manoeuvring him into place, pushing his head up against the hairy knot of the woman’s anus, forcing his face into the crater, his tiny legs lodged in her crack.
The woman pulled her pants up all the way, securing him inside her arse. A soft chair was brought forward into which she lowered herself.
‘He is trapped!’ she told the cheering crowd. ‘See how his little legs wriggle!’
The camera homed in, relaying to the eager throng an image of the man’s body, threshing frantically between the woman’s buttocks.
She would wait until he had calmed down a little; and until sufficient images had been relayed to taunt the other men with the knowledge that this might have been them. Might one day be them. But not tonight.
Then she would get up and leave the forum. She would dress fully and go about her normal business for the next seven days: a tiny man imprisoned in the gusset of her pants.
She felt him wriggle furiously, his little head lodged inside her anus, and sighed. It would soon be time to turn him round and offer him another view of paradise.
It would be a long week for both of them. She was very happy.
She hoped he was, too…
When we close our eyes and dream, we touch the frontiers of that far-off realm. And yet, though immeasurably distant, it remains within reach. For it is as much within us as it is without…
‘WIN A WEEK INSIDE MY PANTS!’
A thousand neon bulbs winked on and off, illuminating the huge, crowded theatre. On stage, a naked man prepared to claim his prize. Legions of his fellow citizens looked on, in jealous anticipation of what was to follow.
A large, bewigged compere paced the stage, barking through a microphone, reminding all the losers that this could have been them; might one day be them; but not tonight. Tonight it was some other lucky bastard.
Below that glaring, omniscient legend: ‘Win a Week Inside My Pants!’, the image of a perfect woman smiled back; taunting them with her puckered mouth and swollen breasts; with her big, flared hips, and plump, glistening vagina.
Briefly, the camera angle altered, and the all-seeing lens slid down between her legs. A thousand men groaned as the woman’s fingers gripped her buttocks, peeling apart her plump, creamy globes. They leered shamelessly; their collective gaze locked on the dark runnel of the woman’s crack, the hairy trench in which sat paradise – the pouting crater of her knotted anus, bulging with vulgar promise.
Now the woman’s voice echoed around the hall: ‘Win a week inside my pants!’ she cried, then licked her lips and sighed.
The man on stage prepared himself. A week in heaven; a week in hell. Both beckoned crudely, now, in the shape of the woman whose image filled a thousand glittering screens. His head uplifted, he spread his arms, welcoming the crackle of light that tore into his body, shattering his atoms, reforming him into a new image; shrinking him to the size of a small rubbery pencil.
To huge applause, a woman strode onto the stage; the woman on the screen, larger and more vibrant in the flesh. She pressed one hand between her legs, her fingers moving through the channel of her sex. As the cameras homed in, a spiders’ web of sticky love strands filled each silver screen.
The prize winner was carried forward, cradled in the hands of a helper, chosen from among hundreds to assist on this most special of days. The man lay perfectly still. The shrinking ray had not only refashioned his form, it had suspended his more usual functions. For one week he would require neither food nor drink; nor need to expel such items from his body. His arms and legs were useless, too. Only his head, his sense of smell, his eyes, ears, nose and mouth remained active.
A pair of white cotton panties was produced, slipped around the woman’s ankles and drawn up to her thighs. The helper stretched out her hands, and carefully lowered the tiny man, face up into the gusset. She noticed that his expression was no longer calm. His tiny lips were trembling, his nostrils flared a little as he filled his lungs with air.
The helper cupped him from beneath, as the woman reached down, took hold of her cotton knickers and hoisted them up. When he was only inches from her crack, the man began to wriggle nervously. The helper had been told to expect this. ‘All men panic,’ the woman had informed her. ‘Right at the end, when they see my bum-hole, they often become frightened.’
So the helper knew what to expect and held on a little more tightly, manoeuvring him into place, pushing his head up against the hairy knot of the woman’s anus, forcing his face into the crater, his tiny legs lodged in her crack.
The woman pulled her pants up all the way, securing him inside her arse. A soft chair was brought forward into which she lowered herself.
‘He is trapped!’ she told the cheering crowd. ‘See how his little legs wriggle!’
The camera homed in, relaying to the eager throng an image of the man’s body, threshing frantically between the woman’s buttocks.
She would wait until he had calmed down a little; and until sufficient images had been relayed to taunt the other men with the knowledge that this might have been them. Might one day be them. But not tonight.
Then she would get up and leave the forum. She would dress fully and go about her normal business for the next seven days: a tiny man imprisoned in the gusset of her pants.
She felt him wriggle furiously, his little head lodged inside her anus, and sighed. It would soon be time to turn him round and offer him another view of paradise.
It would be a long week for both of them. She was very happy.
She hoped he was, too…