Specifically Her Cuteness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Romance by Sherry Mellor & a Lady

Author:Sherry Mellor & a Lady [Mellor, Sherry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Sherry Mellor
Published: 2017-05-30T22:00:00+00:00

Six

___

I awake. I am still on the central spire's roof. I am alone. This morning's breeze flows over me as if water, agreeably deafening me. Uniforms are scattered all over the roof: those of the longbowmen, I realise, as I check their insides.

Fuck:

I am naked, and rather cold; my testicles are surely -

What testicles?

They are, along with my member, gone; in the place of my genitalia is bare skin; when I stroke it it responds to my fingers much like a ribbed, rubber car mat would.

Hmm.

Without standing, I peer over the roof's rim, wondering, as I see barren, maroon soil extending all around, two things:

The first: did I leave the oven on?

The second: why was Alexander once called a wee troublemaker?

Deeming the second trivial, I focus on the first line of thought:

I am sure I turned that fucker off: that is to say I have no idea; did I leave the oven on?

No. Of course I turned it off.

Maybe not.

Hmm.

Nah. I did.

Did I?

Yes.

Sure.

Alright.

• • •

Now, as I stand, and wish I still had testicles so they could receive fellatio from this breeze, I contemplate something important:

If I move another millimetre, am I still me?

Hmm.

Silly.

I move another millimetre.

I am, of course, no longer me.

"I'm a fucking changed man!" I yell, hardly able to hear my words over the breeze, which, seemingly on purpose, rose to a great and loud wind upon my mouth's opening.

I move another millimetre.

I am still me.

Sure.

• • •

I open my mouth, and begin scratching an itch that just moments ago began within the strange contours of flesh lining the interior of my cheeks.

Fuck me.

So much flesh, perhaps enough on each cheek for a half-pounder. Could sell them to McDonald's now, perhaps, for their procurement when I'm gone.

Meh. Not if I can't stop scratching: there'll be nothing left to sell!

I spit a dollop of scarlet from my mouth.

"Christ!"

Another dollop.

"Jesus!"

Another.

Another.

Man, did I just spit a lump of flesh out? I lean down, prod the unidentified object with my little finger, and hear not what I expected, a squelch, rather a squeal, miniscule.

"Would you like any condiments with your apple juice, sir?"

"Where did that come from," I utter, putting minimal effort into my speaking:

For I don't give a fuck.

I swing around.

I swing again.

Again.

"1,080 degrees and still my question lies open!"

"Cut up, ye," utters the now-tired voice. "In any case fuck up and stop it; look to the East; do you see that small bandit?"

I swing around.

"No."

"Do you smell him, then."

I sniff.

"Yes," I say, confidently. "And it's a female; impossible for me not to know this, now that I've smelled the bandit: for all my nose told me it saw is an incredibly neatly pressed skirt."

"Colour?"

"Irrelevant, surely."

"Ha."

A quick breeze gushes up and slobbers all over my groin before abruptly stopping at my waist: hmm?

I look down.

By fuck, a skirt: appears really neat; holds all colours I can imagine, all such hues part of a harmonious horizontal blend.

"Look at this bellend," giggles another voice, origin unclear.

Suddenly something plummets from the heavens, smashing and sinking deep into this roof's surface.

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