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BOOT FILE

by

Selima Kyle


The end space was surely where the castle of the king, or his equivalent in these scientific times, was invaded by the cunning Puss. He , this fabled monarch, would be surprised, outwitted, and Puss would truly take over. But no such place, no such master, nor mistress even, ever came to light. Merely an endless route, a journey winding itself out, growing infinitely from point to point. Each time the end seemed threatened, then came another, seemingly a point between here and the end. And between each two designated, predicated points, there always came, another. And forever. Like the Zeno frog, leaping from the centre of its circular pond to the circumference, yet always jumping half the radius, and then half of that, and then half again and onwards. Forever.

Puss was bored. Nothing dispelled the persistent gloom of self-satisfaction which hindered her progress. Her friends and acquaintances all, to the latter and least jack of them, were unable to tip her back from gloated lethargy and klugey dumps. So in one last effort to be free she took off, pressing with her a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of pop. She ventured way out of the normal roams and routes and soon found herself in the deep Ende. This was a Restricted area. It was contaminated by Dolls. Vactors. It was a dangerous place by all accounts. To her own mind, the warnings seemed too contrived, too wearisome to have been more than yet another way of maintaining the dull memes which weighted her hours seemingly for Everlasting. Until this, however, her escape.

How long did she intend to salt herself away and out? She had not decided. Her mind was so dismally corroded by the effects of her many days of dim wit that she was unable to make long term predictions. Truth be told, even her short term decision making apparatus, its bulbs, switches, perimeters and all the rest , its pariphanalia, was only just able to function on a low light. She sighed a good sigh and settled down by a river bank to take stock of the situation.

Within moments of her having lain down she heard voices fast approaching. Suddenly fearing the very worst, an abstract which assigned merely empty dread and no more if truth be told, her ignorance in these matters being enormous and just a name -’Vactors’ -, she rolled into the undergrowth - prickles, stings and barbs the lot - and breathlessly listened.

Two Vactor figures in splendid garb drew up to the very spot where only moments before she had herself lounged. They were clearly not human, though despite this, or maybe because of this, they were of an extreme attractiveness. The first figure to come into her view was a full seven feet tall, dressed in vivid crimson, including a large, felt-rimmed hat and with a face shining as if its constitution was of impossibly polished wood. The second, slightly less tall but perhaps wider, was also dressed garishly, all yellows and creams with a white powdered wig and a face grey and metallic.

She pressed herself to the rough ground in a cache dread and impossible desire. Here were two of the weirdings about which she had heard so much in mere abstract and low-down whisper - nothing more - and they were trapdoors to her Most Beautiful Figurines (MBF) She had never seen better, more, they were yum yum - the Most. She had never considered such a life-form possible. Nothing had prepared her for such sights.

‘How sheltered I have been. How hidden away from the powerful strangeness of the broader world. My parents, my friends, my doctors and my instructors have all been silent on such matters as these. It makes my blood boil to think that I might never have witnessed such things . To measure the world and all it can offer and yet be in profoundest ignorance of such essences, it is a hard thing to think, a momentously pressing error erased only by Pretty Chance. Luck. Lady Happenstance. Only that between me and a hole.’ She shook her head and then her heart skipped a beat as she considered how such a vibration might disturb the branches of her secret nest and thus announce her presence to the strangers. But they heard nothing, they didn’t twig. Instead, they bathed in the depths of the river.

Their bodies, one truly of the finest polished wood, the other of some supple metal, slipped through the blue waters like nothing less than gigantic freshwater eels. They were surely creatures of dense liquidity, aliens only to the dirty terra firma - so ran her thought as she marvelled at their grace and magnificent cybrarianism. Subtle power, swift deftness, the very perfection of the form itself here in these alien shapes, she was transfixed, transformed. She flushed and could not help herself - or rather, with a fan of digit, did indeed help herself, twigging her little pussy into delight and purr. She came there and then inside the bush, a silent heaven out of her own prompted imagination and the provocation of these two weirds. They lay still upon the grass, never once knowing that nor how nor why she too lay exhausted by her own hand. And then they sprang up and made to go on.

Alone, she determined to follow them but taking one look at herself and her stature considered that her situation was hopeless. They were no doubt high lords of their heaven. They were dressed in finery fit for princes. They were surely even now mounting themselves to their own self made pleasures. And she, a mere wagtail of a maid... she bit her lip and cursed herself for being so humble, so low. She cursed her family and their failure to rise towards high rank and officialdom. She raged against her poor learning and the failure of others to make her rise and rise some more. And then she railed against herself for having done so little and having been so loathe to make any moves towards achieving such summits. So done, she resolved to move alongside them anyway and think of something cunning to bring them to her.

She projected their route and ran on . She arrived ahead of them by a good several hours. It was a control tower. She crept inside. There was a single creature tending to some metaverse. The creature was small and cute and of female shape and form. Puss intruded with care and knocked her to the ground with a single blow. With deft and perverse pleasures which only now she remembered though all had been learnt and delved years before inside the rough and tumble of a school and its field games, she stripped the girl and knelt across her naked breasts. She pissed into her open, choking mouth, she slapped her again and again across the face and then made her turn onto her front. With malice and joy she licked the trembling girls’ arse and cunt and then fisted her until the victim could hardly cry out. Exhausted and well and truly washed up, the girl lay upon the stone floor sobbing quietly whilst Puss tied her up, gagged her slacking mouth and pushed her into the cellar.

She then rifled through the files on the open computer, trashed a few and set up new addresses and phony advances and waited. Sure enough, the two Vactors came along and looked in upon the household. All they saw was the computer churning out data about some high and mighty Adora who owned faluting zones of here and far about. Intrigued, they played further upon the banks and territories and discovered all the false information Puss had stored therein. They were mightily impressed by the stuff, not guessing of course, that all was but simulacrum and illusion. Puss had sped on ahead.

Arriving at the next port, she did as before. She used cunning and vicious heat to overpower the keepers of all Records and Sheets. She used her quick eye and subliminal strengths to erase true boundaries and create her own. These advanced her cause no end. Each time the two strangers arrived they found themselves reading about this remarkable and superb Adora and their appetites were whetted further.

And in cellars and hidden vaults, dark rooms and clamped vestries, her victims lay, shattered and demobbed by Puss’s nervous, hungry passion. There were boys with their cocks all sore from her cosh and suck, arses flamed and wrecked by her fingers and fists, nipples pierced and brazed, torn and twisted by her brutal fingers and teeth: girls double fucked and bruised from inner thigh to breast-tip: old men, their trousers hauled to their knees, their arse holes sealed by a heated poker stuck into the hole: old women the same done to their cunts also; some with their parts cut and bottled - the twelve inch member of one of the digeratiboys now floating free in the briny of a bottle, his legend now a black but pickled myth white guys like to pretend doesn’t matter but is all the matter, floating or not - she still dreams it as she moves: in all these hidden shows of perverse and heated secrecy Puss defines herself, her boredom, her cream-faced lunacy. For yes, by now, the moon shone in the sky and the journey seemed suddenly interminable.

The end space was surely where the castle of the king, or his equivalent in these scientific times, was invaded by the cunning Puss. He , this fabled monarch, would be surprised, outwitted, and Puss would truly take over. But no such place, no such master, nor mistress even, ever came to light. Merely an endless route, a journey winding itself out, growing infinitely from point to point. Each time the end seemed threatened, then came another, seemingly a point between here and the end. And between each two designated, predicated points, there always came, another. And forever. Like the Zeno frog, leaping from the centre of its circular pond to the circumference, yet always jumping half the radius, and then half of that, and then half again and onwards. Forever.

Puss thinks. She dreams. She dissolves into herself. She cannot help but begin yet again to grow fatigued. Instead of addiction there comes a pall, a drag, a sense of time accumulating irrelevancy. The journeying begins to tire itself, lose all point, instruct the end of joy and mind and purpose. She sighs. She grows discontent. She becomes stilled in an endless movement, an endless and constant change which is hardly change. It is the limit of thought. It is the limit of consciousness. No infinite ability to create the world afresh and anew. And then perhaps, the need. The understanding. The realisation. But all too late.

The break upon such endless tripe? Perhaps a distinction most unfashionable and distinctly underused. Unknown and disreputable to Puss. She strokes her long body, her ample thighs, her wet points and true. She wishes, she craves and then merely decides to sit and wait upon her want. If the two magnificent strangers would catch her at it, then it break the line, stop the palaver. She sits by the ruined character she’s just uprooted and deflowered. She has a depraved look as she watches the sun arise into the blue vectors.

But her twin objects of desire have long since quit the scent. Unlike hounds on a deep trail, they veered and wandered. They presumed an innocence and never sniffed the venal snares and blooming traps. The heinous corruption of Puss was nothing to them, being invisible, unknown, enigmatical and screened. How long ago had they taken their new course? How many iterations of her deceit and sleight had been drawn out after their disappearance? Hardly enough to stoke a boiler, but enough to plot a continent. In short, proof if ever there was any more required, that the length of a line is dependent upon the size of its measuring instrument. ‘How unfashionable to require morals,’ concedes Puss, slipping into another daydream, her fingers virtually hidden down her own or someone else’s knickers.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Selima Kyle wears leather and enjoys weird pleasures but she also writes throughout the night. She works at a well-known University library in the USA which shall remain nameless. At twenty three, she feels she’s got a little time left. This is her second story at 3am. There are many more to come…


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