Breakfast time in the underground complex near Glastonbury known locally as Amoral Castle was always a sumptuous and meticulous celebration of a previous night's exploration of the outer limits of fixation.
MacQueen's loyal staff, all surgically adjusted to be artificially mute, were also all dressed identically, their deliciously muscled though very short calves were aesthetically sheathed in wrinkled white stockings, held tightly enough at the top as to leave lasciviously perfect red marks furrowed into the milky smooth skin just below the oft eroticised crease where thigh met vulvic seduction upon their removal later. Contrasting with these wanton pale folds were the reinforced tops carefree culprits in the scarlet brandings: tightly suspended by ornate, emerald encrusted garters, straps and buckles that so pleasingly constricted at mid-thigh the red velvet knickerbocker that a connoisseur might swoon, my dear, swoon. Each pair was adorned differently with complex filigree tuckings made from real gold thread, stolen, it was rumored, from the hive of a Cretan priestess.
Spilling like spent semen over every available surface was unsurpassed embroidery, illustrating multiple scenes of ancient human sacrifices, sinuously framed in a snaking suggestion of knotted and sharp wire that brought gulps of lust from even the most jaded, committed, sensualist.
Their moonlike bellies (distended by a special diet of protein whose primary ingredient, according to allegations drawn from intoxicated gossips in the most discreet and fearsome whispers, was said to consist only of the youngest, most succulent veal, fed on the milk of lactating females whose babies had been stillborn), seemed suggestive of transparent pubescent buttocks, covered in a glistening gossamer thin material from which, once a year, were fashioned the ritual condoms reserved only for MacQueen and the Howler, and prepared in darkest secret by the Demon Ping, Most High Courtier to Amoral and Keeper of the PinHole.
Perhaps, at this time dear listener, it might be deemed more than correct to confirm that pubescent herein refers to biological ripening and is in no way gender specific. Ah no! The protagonists and debauchees of this fair cave feign no interest in female or male, their appetites are far more sophisticated and all devouring than such base consideration. Oh no, these people don't care, they want to eat, to consume, to savor the corruption for no reason.
Through the most modern wonders of artificial augmentation both genders had three pendulous breasts, their swollen skin left loose enough to sag and droop with an elaborate sensibility of old age. Grotesquely attenuated though these drugs were, they held the viewer in awe, immobilized like solidified wax by the strictest of brassieres, from within whose discreet latticework structure sprang slim golden columns that supported silver doves, the tails and wings of which disguised the fatty liquidity of the triad of mounds.
Quite what this sticky substance was comprised of we shall probably never know, certainly it was considered an essential ingredient of some kind for the Demon Ping had more than a few underlings assigned solely to the scraping up and preserving of it. This task, which given the deeply sulfurous stink of what might be more accurately described as an ulcerous discharge, was less than attractive to an observer, appeared to carry with it the highest domestic status imaginable. The elite staff whose lives depended upon it were called the "jammers" by everyone else. Despite wearing the same uniforms as all the other servants and submissives at Amoral, they could easily be identified by their pungent odor. Outsiders had long ago nicknamed them "Stinkies" even though they had no idea what or who they were. They were trapped here forever by their noxious smell. The world outside assumed that a bed smell meant a lowly occupation, but they knew differently, they were proud to reek of catamenial distress. A dedication to the slime of suppuration was their calling, their price of admittance to this network of chambers and tunnels older than Silsbury itself.
As "Ping" was fond of reminding them all during the lulls between the storms, "Tor" was "Rot" backwards, so what could anyone expect?
MacQueen was brooding with a surly pumped-up lower lip.
The Howler, still watery-eyed from waking up earlier than he would have liked, and still dreaming in one part of his brain, stared without blinking. Small stains of dried blood discolored his unbrushed teeth. His breath was so rank one would sooner be licked on the tongue by a corpse-fed street dog in Kathmandu, than sit opposite him and risk the caress of his respiration. He liked it that way. He was blessed. No one could look him in the face. No one would ever dare desire intimacy.
Despite decades of suitably discreet D noticed electrolysis on MacQueen's upper lip it still bristled with grey stubble like World War One barbed wire entanglements. A most hirsute miniature Paschendale. It was easy for the Howler to imagine the shredded remains of scores of tiny corpses dangling discarded, as they pathetically expired on her sumptuously bruised lip.
Ambitious sycophants impaled and spiked, strewn dismembered, flaps of flesh crackling in the noxious mustard gas wind. The ultimate compliance of the stupid and duped to the greater glory of the upper crust was left billowing on the ravaged moors, like Monday's bleached laundry fluttering. Forgotten carrion, as each privileged new sexual conquest drew blood by Royal dispensation.
"Did you ever think of having coffee instead of tea?" asked MacQueen, who had a vile knack of making an intended pleasantry sound like an interrogation, or even worse, a bullying humiliation.
The Howler's penis, perpetually raw and tender from masturbation, twitched in exquisite tension. Half flaccid, half erect.
"And what might Sir wish to have for beak fast this morning, if I might be so bold," said Ping in a tone of superior distaste mingled with supercilious perfection.
Blessed are the distinctly alien, for they shall inherit the earth.
If he looked hard enough and blurred his eyes, the crumbs of noble snot secured by the thicker liphairs became molten lava erupting with indecent force into a smoking battlefield, to capture and preserve forever the more balletic death throes of the dead. MacQueen's smile became a museum of fossilized hunting trophies. Did that in turn make the Howler a mere callous foxhound snapping at the trapped and doomed in their puny foxholes?
Service they called it. Serving up a meal of sacrifice for no reason more like, thought the Howler.
A vicious flicker of amusement born of long, long, long-ago-surrendered self-esteem, caused one corner of his mouth to break the otherwise immobile texture of his face. He'd given up having hopes and desires of his own when his family promised him to MacQueen.
"And what might Sir like for breakfast, if I might be so bold as to inquire," said the ever obsequious Demon Ping. Totally without even feigned sincerity.
"Ahhhm, razor wire, fried eggs, chips, sausages, and fried tomatoes with baked beans," sighed the Howler, the faux pas of his battle weary reverie fortunately passing unnoticed. God he was hungry!
"Wey feel thet on English Break Farst es moore then appropriart."
It was MacQueen speaking, anyone could figure that out without even looking up.
MacQueen fixed the Howler's eyes and held them. NO wonder he'd learned to mask his thoughts. The skin on his face remained still, revealing nothing. Only his eyes and lips ever seemed to move. He felt nothing. Why should he? He had worked so hard to feel numb.
Barbara, MacQueen's sister, meanwhile, poured charcoal colored cereal into a porcelain bowl. The bowl had intricate patterns in gold around the rim. When you looked closely, they were treponemes intertwined with barbed wire spirals.
The Howler was transfixed, he watched with morbid fascination as dozens of black, swollen corn cadavers tumbled into the rich tinned cream.
"Ping dear, please be a darling and fetch me some fresh strawberries," sniffled Barbara, "and do hurry man!"
"Certainly Ma'am."
Ping made a noise like a roulette wheel as he turned on the spot and disappeared down a tunnel.
Breakfast was a sumptuous tradition inside the morbid caverns and cancerous crevices of that last hidden bastion of blue blooded indulgence approached only at night through fake sewage farms and abandoned wartime bunkers, located miles away in the untended fields of masonic landowners.
This morning was no exception. The kitchen staff, under the ever prescient eyes of the Demon Ping, had surpassed themselves. On a panther black granite surface perfectly sliced and buttered royal Baby Hovis was displayed, garnished with twists of tomato ketchup upon black porcelain tableware inset profusely with diamonds and sapphires, creating a circlet of unconscious embryos. Marmalade, with lavish serpentine threads of peel, was inviting attention from crystal jars resting upon doilies of purest cotton, woven into MacQueen's secret coat of arms. Immaculately boiled large brown free-range eggs steamed in the cold, humid air of the chamber. A generous tureen decorated with tendrils of human hair and fluttering live moths bubbled and spat, full of baked beans. It was all rooted in a perversely ordinary and mundane hunger, but ingeniously extravagant, despite itself, in a decadent manner quite without parallel.
"Corm orn, evray bordy" said MacQueen, "wey railleh doo thenk wey cord all doo eh lort warse then too ate es hharteh eh break farst es wey carn toodey."
MacQueen felt good this morning. These long weekends were such a blessed relief. Everyone together, family spirit. That sort of thing. And fun of course. Why, even the Howler seemed relaxed. His leather mask, drawn so tight across his face, seemed almost dewy, as if it had become his own skin after so many years. If MacQueen didn't know better, one could have sworn one saw emotion in those dilated eyes earlier. Even the swollen lips, small cuts and splits still weeping a little, had a touch of shape, an unusual connectedness to thought, as they protruded from the unzipped slit. Maybe he would actually speak today instead of wearing that stupid hand-made sign bearing the legend "WHIP ME!" around his neck.
Well at least he'd progressed since that notorious party and replaced the black shoelace with a pearl necklace he'd rifled from the Brown jewels.
Barbara sniffed, stirred the contents of her bowl slowly. The dwarf had visited last night. Arriving at 8pm, just like always. God he had a big cock for such a little guy. Whatever she thought of his deformed legs, the weak hips, so easily dislocated, the pigeon chest with its snow white hair, and his albino eyes, their natural pink turning more bloodshot and red with each snort of cocaine, she still got wet. Not just normal horny wet. Dripping wet.
You see she preferred not to wear panties anyway. That way, whenever the mood, or lethargy, took her, she could expose herself to the servants, or simply have a spontaneous wank whenever dirty thoughts possessed her; which they invariably did many times each day. No, this wet was a whole other level of wet. She could produce so much vaginal fluid that it quite literally dripped from her pussy onto the floor.
God he had a big cock for such a little guy. If that's the dwarf, I wanna meet the giant.
The Howler: An English Breakfast (Chapter 1, Part 1) Lyrics performed by Pigface are property and copyright of the authors, artists and labels. You should note that The Howler: An English Breakfast (Chapter 1, Part 1) Lyrics performed by Pigface is only provided for educational purposes only and if you like the song you should buy the CD