Will

by Robin Wyatt Dunn

He regretted it later but for the first month he held her cunt in his mind like a stress ball and squeezed it whenever he thought of her: by consent it was his and he had it on remote control.

Remote control, spooky action at a distance, the loop of black holes, event horizons, and the female mind, leptons quarks and a thousand paradoxes wound tight down between her nineteen-year-old thighs. He’d concentrate, and tighten his mind, frowning a little, and know that a couple miles away, she tightened in response.

What can we tell you of Los Angeles, those who’ve never tried to make it? Well, I’m telling you. Our apologies go up on the silver screen every month; we know there can be no ultimate repentance.

Cunt on a leash;  the core of her umbilically linked to his neocortex, morality an afterthought to power as it is any megalopolis, “what ought we do” the question that follows “what can we do”―it never precedes it.

Like a distant radio station he’s tuned into her conscious awareness, and she’s perfectly aware, overcome, she is the happiest little slave you’ve ever seen, and it’s always that way when they’re young, confusing power and love, lust and meaning, body and mind, anchoring their taut flesh and slack will into a world of your direction, the older man, the leader, the selfish prick who knew he had to make some compromises.

“Oh God,” she says, inside his mind. “Oh, God,” and she’s cumming in Composition class, stifling the urge to let all that pleasure out of her mouth.

*

And so we linked them up; and so we arranged. Some say it’s the noosphere, vampirism, dark forces, Satan worship, or simply human will.  Whatever you call it you need an introduction, a way in, a granting of the power from the source to you, a modicum of trust, a little young flesh, and then they’ll see what you can do.

*

I keep her waiting outside my building for two hours, standing there like a whore. She wants to smoke but she knows she shouldn’t; that I’ll fuck someone else if she lights the cigarette. For every thirty minutes that she keeps her mouth shut, refusing every conversation that comes her way, I squeeze her cunt now only forty yards from my skull, I squeeze her and her panties drip.

*

I hadn’t many options, but they were generous, with her age, her looks, she’s a knockout of course, not too smart, I’d wanted smarter, but she has eyes that are killer, dreamy and lost and willful and alone.

*

They’re never robots, you see, never meat puppets, only more explicit versions of the inequities of human life, amplified for pleasure, and for education. Willing surrender is always better, in so many ways.

*

I came in her that night, for the first time, and witnessed the beginning of the end of who I was before.

Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in The Town of the Queen of the Angels, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, in Echo Park. He is 33 years old.