The Infantile Misogyny of Gran Autor

by Patrick Călinescu
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“Are you sleeping, Master?”


“No. Why?”


“That woman owner, whom you sent for yesterday, has finally come to see you.”


“Send him in then.”


“That I will, Master.”


And that woman owner, of whom the Master’s servant spoke, consequently stepped into the office of the Master.


“Master,” he said in a properly submissive tone, “I have come as you’ve told me to.”


“I’m glad that you have,” the Master said in a tone that was beyond any kind of interpretation. “Have you brought what I’ve asked you for?”


“Yes, Master, I have,” the woman owner said in a, by now, provocatively submissive tone.


The Master seemed to have noticed the great lengths to which the woman owner went in pleasing him; and he equally seemed immensely displeased with it.


“Bring it in then,” the Master said in amplified overtures of impatience.


“Yes, Master,” the woman owner said as he hurried off to the door of the Master’s office to open it for what he said he’d brought to come in.


And what he said he’d brought, by direct order of the Master, was a moderately long line of fine women who were now entering the office of the Master silently, meekly and, without exception, with their heads plunged down into the moving shadow they cast onto the floor.


They were, also without exception, naked and kept in a pristine state of natural beauty. None had any make up on and none had shaven any part of their bodies before they were brought into the office of the Master.


Their armpits showed the vast irregularity of hair types that can be preserved only in this pristine state of natural beauty in which they had been kept for today’s meeting with the Master.


Their thighs, too, hid an equally grand variety of pubic hair, which only the world of biology can naturally produce.


The Master saw this, as he looked at them upon their forming a moderately long line of fine flesh in front of him, and liked it tremendously. He even expressed his untamed content with the woman owner by blinking at him with a profound lack of chastity.


Then, the Master inspected each of these fine women, who had been keeping their heads plunged down into their prefixed shadow for fear they should know what the Master looked like, and finally chose from their moderately long line the one seemingly exhibiting the strongest inclination for all the types of natural body hair currently in existence.


When he had examined her thoroughly, he smiled pleasingly that his choice was, by far, the hairiest he’d ever seen.


The Master, pleased with the work of the woman owner, amiably dismissed him. With this peculiar tradesman gone, he returned to his chair at his desk and sank into it almost tired and distracted.


Now comfortably seated in his chair at his desk, the Master looked at the naked woman, who was still keeping her eyes hidden in the shadow born of the plunging down of her head into it lest she be revealed his true appearance, and secretly admired the pristine state of her natural beauty.


Then, he authoritatively cleared his throat and equally authoritatively told her to approach him. She obeyed him without hesitation and without any apparent revulsion to what she knew she was about to do.


It was only when she was within his reach that she raised her head and dared to look at the Master. It was only when she saw what the Master looked like that she began to feel more comfortable in such immediate proximity to the Master.


Then, the Master, happy with her general attitude, increased his theatrical authoritarianism and bellowed at her, in a neatly over-masculine tone, to kneel down in front of him and keep her head up and with much muscular tension in her neck. She, again, obeyed him without any sign of either hesitation or revulsion.


She had been staying in this half upright, half stooping position for quite a while when the Master finally showed his intentions for her. His plan was however unexpectedly simple.


“Now I want you to look into the floor again,” the Master said.


“Yes, Master,” she said while quickly reverting to the silent and meek posture she had when the woman owner brought her in.


“And now,” the Master went on with his plan, “I want you to open your lips and loll your tongue out, but only slightly so,” the Master warned her not to overdo any of his requests.


She barely lifted one lip off the natural wetness of the other; and through this imperceptible crack in the carnality of her lips she barely slipped the tip of her tongue out.


Then, with her head still plunged down into a shadow that wouldn’t move with it any more, she lost all mobility and got stuck in this almost unnatural position.


“Now I want you to stay still,” the Master went on with his plan, “and do your very best not to disturb any of the symmetrical distances between lips and tongue which you’ve managed to create so beautifully.”


She said nothing as she could say nothing while being under the Master’s orders to say still, but she somehow managed to vibrate a full and glorious “Yes, Master” from all her being.


The Master saw this very high level of her participation in his fancies, and liked it tremendously.


Then, the Master leaned forward over to her face, which was assembled according to his instructions, and without hesitation or repulsion, he stuck his manly tongue out of his mouth and began, vigorously, rapturously, to moisten, in circular movements, the already drying tip of her tongue.


He was moaning in grotesque and baritone modulations and he was licking the slightly cracked roundness of her lips with the velocious ferocity of a masturbating dog.


She, too, was moaning and she, too, was licking in perfect accord with the Master and as a means by which she hoped she would sufficiently mask her inward, ever more convulsing, giggles.


“Now I want you to get up from your knees and lower your head exactly as you held it when you came in and resume the natural countenance of your face,” the Master said when he had felt overwhelmingly bored with this.


“Yes, Master,” she said out of his fancy-resulting saliva pool that had flooded and consequentially blocked every word she struggled to utter.


“And now, finally,” the Master said in a tone of overarching indifference, “I want you to leave by the rear door where my servant is waiting for you to show you out.”


“Yes, Master,” she bubbled from the transparent depths of the saliva pool that thought her lips were the mountainous shores it will be eating away at in the following fleeting aeons.


When the naked woman had gone out of the Master’s office, the Master sank immensely into his chair at his desk; and immensely began reënacting both the lower and the upper lip; and the tip of the tongue tightly held in their midst.

The Infantile Misogyny of Gran Autor

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