A story by Jule Gern
I.) The Bleeding Bull of Seville
The Andalusian August heat can reach its 40 degrees in the shade and even the nightly cooling down lets the thermometer sink to 30 degrees at most. Especially in the narrow alleyways of the oldtown of Sevilla, the summer heat accumulates. We, the reader of this story and I, the writer, who wishes to remain unknown, find ourselves in such a summer night in Seville. No sign of a Juan Fernandez yet.
And we allow ourselves to listen, discreetly or indiscreetly, to the chimes of the Giralda, the imposing tower of the Cathedral of Santa Maria de la Sede, which is just about to strike its twelfth beat. Afterwards our attention is drawn to a strangely wide open window. It is the window to one of the rooms of the Hotel Palacio at the Plaza del Triunfo almost next to the venerable cathedral.
Untie me, you son of a bitch.
Stop it! My God, you’re crazy”, the voice of a young woman who could not resist certain caresses that a man, at the advanced age of fifty-four, gave her. The man in question was Juan Fernandez Delgado, a German from Berlin, whose parents, who came from Malaga, had built a new future for themselves in Germany and wanted to get to know their ancestral land, joining a group of tourists who were going to visit different cities in Spain. Delgado was only one of the twelve participants who made up the group. Six men and six women. But no. There was a thirteenth person: the tour guide. Her name was Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho. And it is she whose breathing, almost silent but still audibly moaning voice we just heard.
“Not, please, not there. Not…” and a shrill scream broke the silence of the night for only a fraction of a second. But those who had ears to hear heard how in Elena Maria Mendossa-Caravallho a forbidden lust was trying to make room for itself, which she herself wanted to suppress again and again, but was less and less able to resist this very lust.
“Bastardo!”, she took it from him, “not the clitoris; son of a bitch… damned… ah… no, you…!” But Delgado’s tip of the tongue had already conquered the sweet pearl of Elena Maria. When would she give herself unconditionally to the seductions of this tongue? And when would the proud Spanish woman finally give up her orgasm? When would the chaste stubbornness give way to the more and more bubbling lust?
His tone was demanding and did not allow for excuses
“When are you coming, sweet cunt?” Delgado’s greedy smacking voice.
“Not at all, you mean… …owhaaa… you mean pig, you!” screamed Elena Maria into the night. I wonder if there were other ears besides ours listening to the spectacle that disturbed the silence of this Andalusian summer night.
Senorita Mendossa-Carvallho had herself tied up. She had let herself be captivated by the eyes of a typical German bastard, as she called him. Despite the forty-degree heat of Seville, the senorita liked to dress in black; it was almost daily a different costume with a skirt, each time fascinatingly short in the eyes of Juan Fernandez Delgado. He liked to see the ass, around which this irresistible mini was wrapped and which gave this butt a very special appearance.
Juan Fernandez met the senorita
“You wear a tongue stud? Really cool, if I may say so,” Juan Fernandez had said in the bar of the Hotel Palacio. He had taken a seat at one of the small tables, not at the counter. One had a city tour with a following shopping possibility behind oneself; also the dinner was taken. The daily programme of the group was fulfilled and Juan Fernandez read in the Diario de Sevilla, the newspaper of the capital of Andalusia. Small comfortable armchairs around the individual tables of the otherwise narrow and rather plainly furnished hotel bar. Two chairs to each table. Inviting for a relaxing and perhaps sometimes intimate encounter. Señorita had suddenly taken a seat at the same table where Juan Fernandez was reading his newspaper.
In the corners of the entire room there were small screens on which any one of the Spanish music channels flickered. One music video replaced another. Juan Fernandez was not familiar with the Spanish pop scene. The offered music titles were unknown to him and did not meet his musical taste anyway.
“Have a nice evening! Does this town please you?” the beautiful Spanish girl.
“Just as nice evening, I enjoyed the day, I really did”, Juan Fernandez replied, “please take a seat.
And it was like a dream come true for him, a dream he had cherished since the beginning of this sightseeing tour. Suddenly she sat before him; the woman he loved to look at. Now she had crossed her sun-tanned legs. Clean-shaven. The heat of the day but also of the evening made nylons seem superfluous. And the naked thighs of this athletically trained woman exerted an enormous attraction on Juan Fernandez.
In conversation he learned all kinds of things about her, for example that Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho was the daughter of a rich banker from Madrid. But she is thoroughly fed up with the millionaire airs and graces of her father and mother and wants to manage her own life. At school, she had liked the subject German. She had started to study German language and literature in Madrid, but dropped out again. Tour guide, that was now her profession, animator.
He obviously liked the Andalusian Madonna
And indeed, her appearance had an extremely animating effect on Juan Fernandez. His eyes involuntarily stared at a pink glowing satin panty. It was certainly not intentional that Señorita Mendossa allowed that look. It may have been set unfavourably or at least advantageously, depending on the perspective of the person being looked at or considered. But the shortness of her miniskirt could hardly have prevented this look. Embarrassed, Juan Fernandez read the weather report from the day that had just passed into the night. Small talk interrupted his attention, which he wanted to pay to the weather report, again and again. The thighs, the pink panties, the charming laugh and the tongue that kept flashing her piercing – all this put little beads of sweat on his forehead that the senorita might have noticed.
The young senorita flirted with this man, who must be old for her. She was perhaps in her thirties, unattached, no children, no husband, or at least no one she wanted to talk about. Elena Maria is single. She doesn’t need men. And again and again she let her piercing show, let her tongue slide over her lips. She had ordered a piña colada. The evening allowed a little alcohol; why not. Juan Fernandez only had a still, but well-chilled glass of water. On this piña colada occasion, the remark about the tongue piercing escaped him, to which she replied with a smile: “Sometimes it’s more disturbing.”
“You mean kissing?” and that was perhaps already too much of a flirtation, but what is said is that Juan Fernandez suddenly went through it.
“I’m not going to tell you anything about that,” Senorita Mendossa parried, yet with the same confident smile that was hers.
“Perhaps indiscreetly of me. I’m sorry.”
A silence that lasted several seconds followed.
“Why don’t we use first names?” she suddenly asked. “Sometimes you Germans are a little stiff, I think.”
And Juan Fernandez swallowed because something in his pants had actually gotten stiff.
“I don’t know if all Germans are stiff,” he tried to defend himself.
“Perhaps as false as the prejudice that all Germans are Nazis?”, her reply and Juan Fernandez swallowed again. He had a quick-witted lady sitting in front of him.
“But now I was a little tasteless, excuse me!”, but her rowing back was also true for her: said is said.
“Well, I’m thinking now,” Juan wanted to object, “I’m thinking now: the Germans have to live with their Hitler; the Spaniards have to live with their General Franco. Isn’t that so?”
Juan Fernandez liked Pablo Picasso
“I don’t know. I have nothing to do with it. And maybe you should, oh, I’m sorry, maybe you shouldn’t let yourself be guilty of something you had nothing to do with. That guilt is on others. Don’t you think?”
“You got that right. Franco is over and Hitler is over, and yet, by the way, there’s a picture of Pablo Picasso hanging in my room. Guernica.”
“A stupid alliance that Franco and Hitler’s Germany have made against the Spanish people. This picture is a symbol of this stupid and extremely unhappy union. This is how I understand it. It is not an accusation of guilt against German tourists who want to get to know our country, certainly not”, said the Señorita, who once again proved her quick-wittedness.
In fact, this painting by Picasso shows nothing other than the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War, as waged by Franco with not inconsiderable support from Hitler and Mussolini. The rest of Europe had at that time, in the 1930s, retreated into a reserved apeasement, which unfortunately brought the Spanish people a Franco dictatorship of almost forty years.
Perhaps attack would sometimes be the better political method to resolve conflicts? But the whole of Europe allowed the dictator to allow decades of diplomatic restraint. People were afraid that Spain could be ruled by communists. Before inadvertently supporting the wrong people, support those you think are the lesser of two evils.
The Roman Catholic Church also preferred to support the right-wing military dictatorship of General Franco – and allowed the Spanish Communists to disappear into Franco’s torture chambers. Finally, one of the mysteries of history remains the unfortunate role played by the Order of Opus Dei in the machinations of the Spanish Generalissimo. The fact that quite a few of the members of the government in the leadership under Franco openly expressed their sympathy for the founder of Opus Dei, Josemaria Escriva – does this speak for the depth of the Catholic faith of these people, or did Opus Dei in fact play the role of a secret service for the Franco regime?
A state security disguised as an institution of faith? Did Catholic confessionals in reality serve to sound out alleged or actual communists who endanger the true faith? Juan Fernandez knew of his father, a former Benedictine monk, who had virtually jumped out of his habit, as it is said, that Opus Dei had been under surveillance by the German Federal Intelligence Service, at least at times, because it was suspected of spreading anti-democratic ideas.
The Andalusian Madonna
And, of course, anyone who in the 1960s still gave at least moral support to the Spanish military dictatorship should be protected by democratic institutions. The unfortunate Hitler-Franco-Mussolini alliance lasted until 1975, the year in which the great general died. Fear of communism as a political advisor had also helped Chilean General Pinochet to power. Also in Chile the western democracies and the Catholic Church unfortunately chose the side that let the infidel communists disappear in prisons and murder them. But Juan Fernandez could not and would not discuss politics or recent history with his tour guide. Nor would he have had the necessary equipment to compete with an Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho. Perhaps his views, which were in any case extremely influenced by his priest father frustrated by the church, were also somewhat one-sided.
“How did you like the bullfight this afternoon, I mean, you liked it?” asked the senorita. At the same time the video clip for the music title “Take a bow” with Madonna appeared on the four screens. A song that sings of the truthfulness of love and despises the lie.
Take a bow
The night is over
This masquerade is getting older
. . .
For a brief moment Juan Fernandez lost himself in this music clip or lost himself in the extremely erotic scenes between the singer with the mysterious name of Madonna and a torero who proudly fights his battle with an equally proud bull – but the love and passion of the sexes is not about show; it is about authenticity of feeling.
Say your lines but do you feel them?
Do you mean what you say?
This show is over say goodbye
Say goodbye
I’ve always been in love with you
I guess you’ve always known it’s true
You took my love for granted
This show is over
Say good bye
You’d break my heart
“I saw a real bullfight for the first time in my life. More and more I felt pity for the animal, I must say.”
“Snivelling?” asked the senorita, “typically male, I’d say.”
Tough lady, thought Juan Fernandez.
Bullfighting is typically Spanish
“Bullfighting is also controversial in Spain. But my blood starts to boil”, enthused Elena Maria, “the bull is stupid. He gets irritated by a red rag and runs to his doom.”
“Perhaps you mean typically male,” Juan Fernandez interrupted.
“Perhaps, yes,” laughed the senorita.
“Bloody thing, definitely. It was a long time before the bull was finally dead. Isn’t that animal cruelty after all?”
“I don’t want to argue about this. Bullfighting is not your business, it seems to me.”
“I wanted once to have the experience I will not become a lover of bullfighting.” Some of the group did not even want to participate in the visit to the Plaza de Toros de La Maestranza. You should not have delicate nerves if you want to participate in a corrida de toros.
“In 1796, the matador Jose Delgado y Galvez laid down the rules by which a bullfight must be conducted in his writing Tauromaquia. Are you related to him by any chance?”
“The name Delgado must be mentioned more often. I’m not aware of any family ties.”
“I thought so”, the senorita with a slight pity, “we even have women as matadors. Are you familiar with Cristina Sanchez? But there are many others. We Spanish have real blood in our veins.”
“I absolutely believe you,” and Juan Fernandez stared at the señorita’s panties and thought about whether he might be acting like a stupid bull that is driven mad by a colored shred of fabric and possibly led to deadly stupidity. “Do you think I’m not looking in your eyes? You’re pretty cheeky, I’d say!” and she opened her thighs – so discreetly, of course, that no one but Delgado noticed. Only he should be allowed to enjoy this sight, accompanied by an inviting smile, which let him see the tongue again, pierced by a flashing piercing.
“Don’t you want to know more?”
… whispered Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho to her counterpart. For a short moment she had bent over to him. Not only did she let her tongue spin, no, she pulled down the décolleté of her black t-shirt a little. Two dark-red nipples appeared, possibly protruding an inch from the softness of her breasts. A small ring had passed through each of the buds.
“Didn’t that hurt?” Juan Fernandez asked involuntarily.
“Do you really care?” she said and he swallowed again.
“Shall we go to your room or mine? You’re already horny. I can see it in your face, you little pig.” and she kept showing her tongue.
“Let’s go to my place. We’ll have a piña colada brought up there and a glass of water, I think.”
“I’d love to…” she smiled mysteriously and they both got up from their chairs.
Actually, it was forbidden for Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho to enter into a fling with one of her guests. Something like that could cost her her job. But what are prohibitions for such a woman? We had just arrived at the door of Señor Delgado’s hotel room. The bastardo, whom the senorita thought he was anyway, smiled mischievously and opened the door.
“Come in, madam.”
“So formal all at once. You Germans…” and she smiled at him with a look as if to say: “Dare you, boy, dare you!”
Juan Fernandez closed the door behind him and saw in front of him how Señorita Mendossa was waving her bottom back and forth, strutting her towards the wall, straight towards the Picasso, the Guernica; to the right of it was the bed, which one of the employees had made up cleanly for the night that was only just beginning for the two newly in love, although midnight was not far away. And Juan Fernandez suddenly could no longer control his instinct, which had been raging in him like a hurricane for a long time.
Unleashed by the fact that the two were now alone, the otherwise strong conscience of control, this constantly admonishing superego, which was constantly screaming its animal indecency reproachfully into his ears, which were almost deaf to the loud moral preachings of his conscience, suddenly stopped. And whether he wanted to or not, his two hands grabbed the two swaying buttocks of the lady and they felt a breathtaking round.
“Hey, not so hard…”
… she turned her face to him. “Can’t wait, can you?”
Juan Fernandez pushed Elena Maria in front of him. “Hey please, not so rough, my God!”
And she was already standing in front of the Guernica. Under the Picasso a small chest of drawers on which handcuffs were lying, which the senorita had not yet noticed.
Juan tore up the miniskirt with a demanding jerk, so that Señoritas bare ass finally came out, hidden between her ass cheeks and yet recognizable her pink thong.
“Have you gone completely mad?” and she turned both her hands towards her bottom. But Juan Fernandez’ hands had just decided to spread his ass cheeks as far apart as possible. An outcry filled the room and the señorita’s hands wanted to put an end as soon as possible to the unpleasant situation that had now arisen for him, the ass, not for Juan Fernandez. But this same Juan Fernandez knew how to deftly reach for the handcuffs and make them click around the señorita’s wrists, so that their plan could not be successful. Instead, his gripping hands now opened this splendid ass all the more powerfully.
“You’re crazy, stop it now!”, the already futile appeal of Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho. Juan Fernandez knelt behind his Andalusian Madonna, as which he now felt her to be, much like the Madonna of the video clip to the music title “Take a bow”, which he still saw running before his mind’s eye, and let his tongue slide around the anus of his beloved.
“You’re not right in the head anymore, it seems to me. You can’t do that!” she called to him, her head swaying back. “I’m embarrassed, stop it, you, please…” And his tongue went up her asshole.
“Come on, please…!”
“What: Come or please?” he asked back.
“That, my God… you know that!” and he tried to spread her thighs from behind, which she was only too happy to squeeze back together. She seemed really embarrassed.
Her butt was a taboo
“You have a great ass perfume. You always use it on those special occasions?” “My ass is off limits to you. Did you hear that, you fucking shit?” a rather upset sounding Señorita Mendossa-Carvallho and she tried to fend off both his hands and his increasingly pushy tongue A Gucci perfume might have been what filled his nose.
“Hold still; don’t be bitchy now!”
“I’m not bitchy. You “re licking my ass… damn it… my asshole, aahh, you bastard, you dirty bastardo!”
And as embarrassing as she was about this ass-licking of Señor Delgado, it seemed to be finding more and more of her unspoken pleasure. Resistance or protest suddenly sank to a minimum, and if there was any left, it was only to maintain and defend at least a touch of decency, as it is inherent in every lady, especially this Andalusian Madonna.
“You’re a mean pig… …a… …horny… pig,” and he’s all, “You taste damn good and your smell makes me dizzy.”
She just laughed and said, “Don’t stop, you horny bastard. At least do me right, come on… you!”
His fingertip stroked around her anus, which sometimes closed nervously and sometimes opened willingly.
“Don’t hurt me, please. …be careful, okay?” she asked. And even as she was saying this, his finger went up her asshole.
“Ahaaaah… this is too tight… Owwww… you pig. No. No… please…” and Delgado saw her kneeling on her arse, throwing her head backwards. “Pull, no, pull your finger out, don’t go in so deep… …mean… you pig, you miserable bastard!”
Again and again he let his finger slide mercilessly back and forth. Not only did the moaning of his Madonna not bother him, it spurred him on to ever new ideas about what he could now do to increase the horniness to finger its peak.
“You finger too hard. Please stop. Listen… listen… …stop… ahaa.”
Juan Fernandez missed a lot
Juan Fernandez overlooked the fact that the window of his room was wide open. Maybe he just didn’t care. If there really are walkers in the Plaza del Triunfo at this time of night, they would like to hear how two lovers lived out their passion. Juan Fernandez had heard that during the Semana Santa, Holy Week or Holy Week, many celebrations took place in this very square and with almost ecstatic exuberance a certain Marian procession led through the old part of Seville. The Andalusian Madonna is carried, kissed and adored in an almost erotic way in a big procession through Sevilla every Easter night.
Finally, it is taken to one of the side chapels of the cathedral, after hundreds of Sevillianos have gathered in the Plaza del Triunfo to cheer the Madonna loudly. There is no trace of contemplative silence. There, the Spanish Catholic soul bubbles with reverence for what in Seville is sonorously called “Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza” or “La Macarena” for short. The Andalusian Madonna is carried on a frame that itself already weighs one or two tons. And everyone who is allowed to touch the Madonna just once is blessed with happiness. If you make a wish, this wish will of course come true – and if not, then the touch was not intense enough or you did not perform this touch with the necessary passion. The more genuine the feelings, the more the true love for the Madonna, the noble La Macarena, is realized.
So the window was allowed to stay open. Who was the real Macarena? The one in the room of Juan Fernandez or the one who is carried around lonely in the Semana Santa, albeit with all reverence, and who comes to stand unnoticed in some side chapel in the great cathedral and will wait in vain for any attention – the Señora de la Esperanza, the woman of hopes and illusions, the woman of dreams, of noble and less noble dreams, even the dreams of a Juan Fernandez Delgado? “Ah, you v
I want your dick in my ass. Give me your dick. Please, stick it up my ass, you son of a… Auhh aaa…. you miserable bastardo!”
And Juan Fernandez did not take long to ask. He rammed with all his male force his part into her ass, which had been stretched sufficiently by his dexterity, and fucked and fucked as he could.
“Not so hard, you idiot… not so hard… you mean horny pig. sow!”
Did she still not want to have an orgasm or was she just cleverly hiding it? Delgado’s semen splashed powerfully into her anus and whether she wanted to or not: Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho was horny too. There was a thousand volts running through them. But her climax, what else had to happen? Or was she really such a good actress?
“Oh, you fucking dirty bastard!”
And Juan Fernandez grabbed his Madonna, turned her around so that she could or had to look at him now – eye to eye and he passionately kissed his Macarena and tasted her piercing. Almost helplessly, he reached into the drawer of the chest of drawers, which he could easily open, and pulled out a thin metal chain, perhaps about a meter long. In a flash he managed to pull this chain through her nipple rings.
“What are you going to do now, Bastardo?” she asked now almost timidly. How she would have liked to remove the chain, if it hadn’t been for these handcuffs. But perhaps these handcuffs offered a welcome alibi with which her Catholic conscience could justify itself with the fact that Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho was not in a position to defend herself at all and therefore had to endure all the lewd actions. So the forbidden lust might have found its excuse, which flooded Señorita after all, whether she wanted to allow it inwardly or possibly resisted it.
“I want your climax, I want you to come.”
“You’re just rude. You are… oh God…!”, whether perhaps her orgasm had overwhelmed her several times before and she just didn’t want to admit this fact, which exposed all Spanish virtuousness, to this rough Señor Delgado? But the latter in turn knelt before his Madonna.
“Fuck you, oh, yeah. Fuck you,” it came from her in a suffocated groan.
And he sucked on her clitoris and her labia.
“Oh, God, you giddy treat!”
And he sucked her pearl into his mouth and she cried out as a sign that he should continue or as a sign that he should let go of her clitoris? He could and would not differentiate. Was she able to distinguish this? We don’t know. However, he noticed a metallic taste at the tip of his tongue and it didn’t take him long to realize that, like her nipples, her clitoris was pierced by a small metal ring. And in no time at all he grabbed the thin metal chain that was dangling in front of his nose and pulled it through this clitoris ring.
The senorita yelled at Juan Ferndanz
“Are you completely crazy now!?, she shouted at him, who now tightened the chain in a way that was as simple as it was clever, so that nipples and clit were put under pressure in a rather tight way, namely under pressure to get hornier and hornier. It might be that Señorita now felt pain as well as horniness. Her outcry clearly indicated this. But it could also be that her orgasm had just begun, and this with such force that Delgado and perhaps Señorita Mendossa became almost unconscious.
“You make me scream. That fucking hurts. Ahahau… You’re mean, horny pig…. Don “t pull like that… Ahaahauuuu!”
But Delgado left the chain as it was and pulled Señorita forward, telling her all she had to do was follow him and the pain and horniness would not increase as much as it did the first time. And she followed; what could she do? But she followed hesitantly. Perhaps unwillingly. Maybe she liked this painful horniness or the horny pain that the tight chain in her caused only too well.
Delgado, however, had the impression that the enormous orgasm in Señorita Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho did not want to end at all – and Señorita herself did not want this orgasm to ever end. Who knows the logic of passion? Who knows the natural laws of instinct and pure love? And who can judge or condemn the bad boys and bad girls of this world? Who wants to be a judge when love has the only word?
Finally Delgado threw his Andalusian Madonna on the bed, which was so freshly made up. She cried out in horror, but lay on her back. Delgado bedded himself next to her without forgetting to keep the chain tight.
Suddenly Elena Maria moaned quite innocently
“Listen… …hear… …on… …please… please!” moaned Miss. But this moaning was suffocated in a violent kissing, as it were. His tongue caressed her tongue. His tongue, which was allowed to taste the sweetest honey it ever tasted, was now allowed to play with the hard piercing instead of a soft clitoris. And Señorita allowed this game – perhaps only in safe expectation of another highlight? Or was it possibly in one single mega-orgasm that lasted forever? As if Señorita Mendossa-Carvallho and Señor Delgado knew to distinguish here.
Eventually they fell asleep together. That must have been it. At least we woke up together. The chain had come loose and Delgado had removed the handcuffs from his sleeping and exhausted Andalusian Madonna late at night. And only in the morning, when they both woke up, did Delgado notice a small bite on his neck, which may have bled considerably.
“I’m sorry, my sweet mean bastardo, you left me no choice,” Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho only noticed as Delgado stared incredulously at the shared white pillow with its own traces of blood. A huge hickey so to speak – no more but also no less. They showered, got dressed and went on separate ways to the breakfast room where the rest of the group had already poured their coffee.
None of them could guess what had happened that night. No one could have guessed that the passionate sounds of that night had come from the strangely wide open window of a hotel room in the Palaciohotel. Only we, the reader and I, know the secrets of this night. Let’s keep it a secret. Let us leave love to the magic of this night.
II) Ego te absolvo
1 – Never your own daughter
He was embarrassed to hang around in the brothels as a mid-50s man, gawping at young ladies who might be 25 years old at most. He was happy to admit to himself that youthful beauty had a voyeuristic appeal for him, but his shame at being able to see himself as the father of these daughters gave way to the insight that he should better not visit a brothel any more – at least not one whose staff, from an old man’s point of view, resembled a kindergarten.
He had two daughters, of whom he always saw himself surrounded by and imagined that they would pursue this idiosyncratic activity in a comparable establishment. And this thought caused deep displeasure in his heart. Horny bucks let their hands wander on the naked bodies of his seventeen-year-old Elena or his one year younger Jessica. A shiver made him tremble in front of such men. Was he one of them himself? He had just lost his job due to a charge that made him see in his morning mirror the biggest scumbag he had ever seen.
2 – The letter
Dear Sirs,
I have been confronted by my superiors with accusations made against me by members of your staff, which I find deeply degrading, humiliating, insulting, hurtful and mendacious What I was told by phone contained pretty much everything from “parking wrong” to “rape”.
It is true that the collection of the deceased Mr. Grabow was disastrous, but this is very much related to the rebuilding situation in which the clinic is located; much more so, at any rate, than to my alleged ignorance of how a collection should be carried out properly. I do not want to comment further on the type of pickup; I have done this in detail enough to my boss. I was told that the intention was to have the police take me away. I would have sexually abused the employee who was kind enough to explain the very complicated way to the prosthesis to me a little closer.
The access to the prosthesis has become so difficult since I last picked it up from you that I was very grateful for the help of your employee. I am very interested to know what made you and the receptionist want to arrest me. Last night I was given notice. What I want to say to you is my accusation of slander I hereby invite you to send me a statement on the course of the evening of 2.2.18.
On the basis of this statement, I intend to have it examined whether or not a libel action against your house makes sense. At the moment, it is rather the case that verbal accusations against me are buzzing around in the air, which are a very explosive mixture for me. In the event of a libel action, you are in a duty of justification, especially if you are concerned about my arrest. If you can only weakly or not at all fulfil this duty of justification, your action against me will be exposed as a lie.
I’m accused of abusing a hospital worker
I do not know the names of your employees with whom I had contact yesterday. One worked at the reception, the other was an intern on some ward that I don’t know either. I don’t have to. I hereby declare the hospital an institution. And this institution, according to my boss, has banned me from the house on the grounds of sexual abuse. I can live with the ban.
As I have been given notice, from now on my above mentioned home address applies again. Please send me your statement as soon as possible and do not forget to point out to the staff in question that lies can be exposed. I will not let myself be pelted with dirt like your employees have allowed themselves to do with me. Make this unmistakably clear to yourself and to these employees, especially since all this will result in my professional end in Bielefeld. And all this because of what? That is the question I am putting to you and I would ask you to make a written statement.
Please note the possible consequences of this statement. Whether a libel suit will have any success for me, I do not know myself. Probably none of this will succeed. But I would like to achieve the following as a minimum: The employee in question, who has kindly shown me the way to the prosthesis, may possibly even describe under oath what my sexual misconduct, abuse or rape consisted of.
May she then carry with her conscience for the rest of her life the infamous lie with which she broke my neck in every respect. You can’t get deader than dead. I expect my request to be dealt with swiftly.
P.S.: You can always make the planned arrest. I can be reached at any time on my mobile phone number or by email. You know where I live too. But when you make the arrest, remember everything I have said about your duty to justify yourself. What you bring against me must either “sit” or you will forget your accusations as quickly as possible.
3 – The termination
An intrigue or a silent mail intended by nobody had brought Sebastian Behrens the dismissal. He had given up his profession as an undertaker after this dismissal. Shut up and get out. This is what his end should have looked like. Since he did not know how to explain this departure to his children, he had written an angry letter to the clinic management. Whether it made sense or not, a few days after his letter, the clinic director replied personally with a short email which read
4 – The answer
Dear Mr Behrens,
With reference to your letter, which I received yesterday at 5 p.m. by internal mail, I would like to make the following statement.
After consulting with your former employer, those involved in our company and also your direct superiors, I cannot understand the points you have made and
Accordingly, we do not confirm this either.
At no time was any accusation of sexual assault made, except that you had not parked your vehicle correctly and wanted to leave the building with the deceased through our main entrance. The removal of deceased persons through the main entrance is contrary to our internal guidelines and is therefore not permitted by our reception staff.
I regret that you have lost your job and wish you all the best for your future life.
With kind regards
Andreas Behrens
5 – The accusation
What remained of the accusation of rape was the accusation of illegal parking. But the consequence remained the same. Sebastian Behrens wrapped his thoughts in self-pity about an unjust boss, an unjust receptionist, who had given him instructions for the removal of a deceased person with feigned friendliness, which she then communicated to his boss by means of a telephone call played out in a hot, scalding-hot manner. Frustration on the part of Sebastian Behrens about a lost job; frustration also on the part of a receptionist who took pleasure in seeing this Sebastian Behrens tremble to get his job? Behrens imagined it that way. He imagined a lot of things.
He didn’t know how to wash off the dirt on his face. The filth of the accusation, the filth of being a scumbag. He had indeed sent the aforementioned email from the Director’s wife to his boss, but in vain. Behrens was outside, outside the door, as Wolfgang Borchert would call it. Outside, simply in the cold of a reality that made Sebastian freeze to death.
6 – The Head Cinema
A head cinema of revenge developed in his loneliness. A dangerous mixture was brewing in his head, a fantasy mix that he should have fought back, but didn’t want to or couldn’t.
7 – winner or loser?
“Can’t you even add up numbers? Too stupid to do the math?” she shouted at him, the headmistress. Behrens tried to avoid their steel-hard looks, which sought to slap him mercilessly, even to beat him. He heard her nagging, who wouldn’t in these thin-walled rooms, only too well. Again, only reproach, nothing but reproach. Humiliating, insulting, hurtful like the receptionist. Her hands energetically clenched in her hips, she had built herself up behind her desk.
She was wearing black leggings. Closely nestled to her thighs the stretch. Sebastian enjoyed this sight, although he was not allowed to enjoy it. His slowly ascending horniness possible, but illicit. And all the more charming. Anger rose up in him. Anger at his inferiority. This tough lady, sexy. A little saliva got on her lips. And she paused. Squeezed her lips together and then unintentionally left her tongue for a brief moment to the greedy gaze of the one who was the loser here – or the winner?
In a voyeuristic sense, he might have been this winner, because he was allowed to see her saliva, and even through the tight leggings he thought he could guess her labia. A mysterious slit shimmered through the black of the fabric, which was supposed to hide, which revealed too clearly. Indiscreet the look or indiscreet the leggings? Maybe wet those lips too? How Behrens would have loved to let his tongue slide over the labia of his boss, who was still snorting with rage.
The boss was very dominant, who played with him
But he remained the inferior fantasist who had to submit to his role, whether he liked it or not. However, he liked the thighs, plump and shapely. Followed Behrens at the end of a submissive inclination deep inside himself, when he took pleasure in the extremely humiliating bullying games his boss played with him. Whether her pussy got wet already, if only because Behrens
was incapable of any kind of response? Because he was silent as a mute? Bearing and enduring every eloquent thunderstorm that pelted down on him?
Bullying was hardly to be called that, what the director’s wife allowed herself with her submissive subordinate. Moby fuck he called her in his mind. What an intelligent pun! But did it change anything about his shameful situation? No. And suddenly he stood up, who had been sitting so well-behaved in front of his boss’ desk.
“What, what do you want?” puzzles the question of Moby Fuck. And Behrens had already positioned himself behind the desk.
“What… please… what?” and the fingers of his left hand dug between her thighs.
The bossess tried to avoid these fingers and took one or two steps backwards, but only reached the wall with her back to the wall. And the fingers massaged the pussy quite hard.
“Damn… listen…. my god….!” but the fingers just wouldn’t stop. “Why don’t you spread your legs, you horny bitch?”
“How do you talk… …you… with… me!” and fingers burrowed between the labia through the stretch fabric.
“You’re already really wet,” Behrens remarked, who actually expected a slap in the face long ago, but it didn’t come.
“Son of a bitch,” moaned the boss. “You’re… …fucking… …not so… rough… you are… …fired!”
“Maybe later. But only maybe,” replied Behrens, whose right hand was tampering with her breasts.
“Wow, your nipples!” and they were hard, those sweet buds that blossomed more and more the more Behrens twirled them
“Don’t!” she suddenly cried out, “not so hard… not!”
“Where do you want it harder, darling, tell me where?” and he massaged her bosom and cunt alike.
“Oh, God, you… …devil!”
But the phone rang and there was a knock at the door.
8 – Ms Director
So the erotic fantasy journey of Sebastian Behrens suddenly broke off, because his phone actually rang and someone actually knocked on his door.
She let herself be seen, this Spanish Señora Elena Maria Mendossa-Carvallho. She was his wife director. This lady was his mistress, the one who was in charge. And wordlessly she said to him again and again and again: “Look at my ass, you sow. Look at your fill. But if you touch me, you’re lost, boy. From one second to the next you’re fired and you’re out on the street, understand?” And Behrens trembled when his boss entered his office. He was a minor employee at the hospital where he was alleged to have sexually harassed one of the nurses.
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