An Epitome to the Perfect*

They all want to splurge their jizz onto your face. That is why they always stare at it. You are scrutinized by men who wish to fondle you and kiss your face with lust. You are whore of the past and the leader of tomorrow. Society has made you high and mighty and history has degraded ‘your kind.’ Your features are of a perfect doll, but your texture is not nearly as perfect. Every little pimple that shows up, every less often rough patch of skin, a misalignment or unmatch is looked upon as serious as a sin on a Sabbath morning. It's your fault; you're too perfect to have imperfections.
The delivery boy wants to rape your package. The man that brought you the package was staring at you too long. You are used to that already, you take it as normal. The sodomy that would be brought upon your head goes undone, life goes on. You are protected now, in the 21st century playground. Your ancestors from the old _______ roots have never imagined that some sick, perverse men will masturbate at night to your small, compact, perceptibly perfect features. The village incest is much purer and is overlooked. Your uncle is not to blame about your pretty face being a cock magnet, but then fast forward to the beauty deprived American; your face stands on top of the list to worship, just in secret, but at first opportunity he wants to stick you and disgrace everything you stand for. Your smart mannerisms and hard work are your faults. If the man caught staring at you has his way; you will be degraded to a level of a common whore.
Your choice of a fuck-man is of same descent, albeit of different national identity. You pull a great feat, because you know that he worships your looks, but he can’t take you down and stick you and disgrace you; history prohibits him from bringing sodomy upon your beautiful head and body. You also can’t help to notice other men of western origins, your slight or not so slight attraction to them is understandable. You want to be included in their way of life, you crave to move on to bigger things than your petty roots. And yet you have no idea what that western man will do to your morals and your highly kept image if he grasps the hold of you, even for a second. You will become a dog, kicked, humiliated, sodomized and broken.
Your clothes would look great if they were moist and sticky with semen. You wear pretty clothes and they make you even more attractive and yet everyone knows that you look better without them, less umpf – more skin. Your butt cheeks are small and your thighs are tiny. An ideal instrument to have a man’s way with you. Your anus must be as tight as pinhole and at the idea of you groaning at as it is being stretched makes men forget all thoughts and get lost in your pain and lust. Your light smoker’s throat is a bit harsh and yet it makes you a goddess of the audible. Your moans and groans are deep and lusty. Even a basic plea to ‘stop’ would be a turn on, even for the meek of sadists.
You are repressed and you don’t know it. This life of work and high experience is new and the twinkle in your eye roars for you to be a dirty whore. The need to be degraded is as necessary as air for bacterium.
The man that came by your desk yesterday bringing you the report, he wants to throw his semen onto the first page or better yet; squirt directly on your face and revel in ecstasy. You would take it all and accept the butt slap and tit grab and even a slap on the face that will leave a blister. But such as the environment you are in; it is not allowed, its prohibited. Your body is beyond invasion, your face is kept. The front of hard work and diligence is active. But you should know that we all know that the pig-tailed toy object is all you really are.
I scarcely want to worship you but instead I wish to play the role of the observer. It would be nice to unleash all the pent up, heavily repressed lust onto you. I think about your tight anus all the time. Sometimes I want to rip your pants off, slash your blouse open, bring you under me and stick you, slap and degrade your obelisk of purity into the filthy swine whore you really ought to be. I will not do that instead: I feel rewarded to watch you struggle to be good at what you do and at same time be haunted by these western men with their age old ideal. You are their ideal. A rite is to be reenacted in their head. Your nonchalant attitude about their desires, as if there is nothing more to their prolonged stares but just a flirtation that you will never consider serious but instead dismiss as mere ‘cute.’
The danger is still ahead. The corporate is not saving you from the mail room clerks for your benefit but instead; they are preparing you for a mass sacrifice with the chosen. Of course these things do not just happen but instead all events must align for the moment to be come. It is all built into the 21st century model; protect at all costs and then molest. Ironically they are protecting your cultural secretions intact. The zipper on your pants is an entrance to the forbidden dungeon of the corporate.


- John Bogusz [anonymous]

*A fiactitious account.