Agent Cybele Reporting, Part 3

Yeah, that whole 'love is blind' cliche often proves true but . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Cybele: (Shaking his cold hand) Yes, expectations are funny creatures, Matthew. I never ex-
pected to meet such an erudite and fascinating man. I'll see ya tomorrow.
That's all for now, my lord. I'll check in tomorrow night. This is Agent Cybele reporting.
After sending the email, and reading her master's instant reply--"Well done, Agent. Be strong,
and don't underestimate him for his frailties"--Cybele considered Ezra, naked and cuffed to the bed posts
as always, and shuddering as always in body-lubed supine agony, blood seeping through the makeshift
tourniquet of linens wrapped around the stump of his recently foot-severed left leg. His ball gag was in
place. "Quiet as a pig on a spit with an apple-gag is how I prefer you, husband."
"Uncuh . . . uncuh . . . uncuh," was Ezra's reply.
"No, no, no, silly! It's oink oink oink. Can't you get anything right?"
"Uncuh? Uncuhhhhh!"
"Shut your mouth, Ezra! You're dryin' me up, and you know how pissed I get when I'm dry.
Uh, no matter. You know the drill. Just hurry the fuck up and get hard, or it's curtains." Cybele dis-
robed and knelt before the bloody stump. She started licking it. After several minutes of this, she looked
up. Ezra's shaft had retracted into his body. Only the head eyed her. A sad pink bell pleading for mercy.
"I ain't riskin' lock-jaw suckin' your limp shit for half an hour again, Ezra!" Cybele yanked the dick head
out as far as the shaft's elasticity would allow. Sore shaft. A red-raw rubberband. "I'll give ya to the count
of three, hubby. One."
"Uncuh!"
"Oink, retard! Two!" Cybele batted the limpness against her dark, raisony nipple. Why am I
compelled to do this? What is normal foreplay--Goddamnit!
"Uncuh!"
"Don't you want my little bald chicken anymore, honey?" Cybele lowered her crotch to the
dickhead, and rubbed the velvet pink of it vigorously against her clitoris. Nothing happened but the
rising of Cybele's rage. "Three! Show me the circus dick!"
"Uncuh!" Ezra squirmed impotently, beading sweat mixing with the body oil and drizzling onto
the bedsheets. Cybele kissed the dickhead. He's left me no choice. No choice!
"Sorry it had to be such a brief marriage, your honor, but irreconciliable differences have brought
a screeching halt to any further possibility of matrimonial bliss. Bye, Ezra." Cybele sucked in the length
of the three-inch flaccidness and bared her teeth. Nose pressed to testicles. Ezra's last experience.

August 9, 2007.
Dear diary:
It's hard to find a good fuck these days. If Ezra could've just ejaculated on my face on command,
it could've worked out for the duration of my assignment, but no. Ezra couldn't cut it. Time to move on. I
write the following, dearest confidant, with a good measure of fear and trembling. If Lord Zorac were to
read these musings I'd be a goner, fit for the paper shredder, not the Round Table. I must be going crazy.
Prelude ramblings are necessary to get my head right before I start this. Damnit, I sound dumb. I'm sorry,
diary, but it's the first time I've witheld information from the Table. I've been trembling with confusion
ever since Matthew and I parted. Cutting up Ezra into garbage bag pieces gave me time to think. I think
I'm falling in love.Uh, there, I said it! For the first time in my life I'm falling in love and I don't know how
to handle it. It is written. Now, what do I do? He's, uh, how do I say it? He's so damned cute when he
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takes his glasses off and rubs his head and looks at me with openness and such lovely longing in his un-
focused grey-blue eyes. I melted. I forgot my role. I can't trust this feeling. I've been warned of it all my
life but it feels right. I wanted to warn him of the truth and take his hand and run somewhere, anywhere,
so that we could be alone and hidden for at least a day of heaven before the inevitable all-seeing eye with
its ax came a-choppin' at the gates of our love grotto. This was not in my plans. My initial assessment to
the Round Table was so wrong. His superciliousness occasionally comes out, but only as a carefully
maintained defense against the jabbering, closed-minded rabble. He's the first man I've ever met who
holds on to the courage of his convictions. And now another revelation, dearest page: Matthew's words
awakened in me a desire I've never had: I want to be free from the Game. Gods help me! I have fallen un-
der his spell as I feared I might a few days ago. He calls it the zoo. Same thing. Game, zoo, cage, farce,
slavery condition, all souls media-manipulated till death do we lose out on everything meaningful out-
side of the box, where the flowers bloom in the garden of original nature, where once we were gods not
show monkeys jerking off for peanuts and bananas and a warm bath in a sterile cell that we can never
leave, and never even know that we have a choice. How Matthew's awakened the poetry in me! I don't
know what love is. I've never had the chance to know. As a grapefruit-bulge in mother's belly my fate
was predetermined. I need time. I can't fuck up till I decide. I must play along till somehow I know for
sure. Till somehow I trust myself. Can I know for sure? Can I trust myself? I'm not even horny for him.
It's fucked up, but lust is taking a back seat to this other thing. It's a sickness in my stomach, and my
heart and my head and it won't go away. I don't want blood anymore. I want him. I want Matthew, and
something new, and maybe I can figure it out, dear diary. My old life has given me comforts though.
Comforts and no little part glory. Could I leave that? Gods help me!

August 9, 2007.
Attention: Lord Zorac, Chief Administrator of the Round Table.
This is Agent Cybele reporting. Matthew Primeau arrived at the cafe at the usual time, my
lord. He brought copies of the first four chapters of his novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, Livin' in
the Last daze: A Multispecies, Multidimensional Dark Farce. What a silly, overarching, grandiose ti-
tle for a work of juvenile slop. Thank goodness for my speed-reading instruction, my lord. I managed
to plough through the 120 pages of small-font, single-spaced drivel in less than an hour and a half. I
did this while in his presence so I could assess his emotional reaction to his ideas being exposed before
a stranger he so wants to impress. He just wants to get in my panties like all the others. I know that now.
How to sum up his written thoughts? To say the writing's sloppy would be a compliment worthy of be-
ing pinned to his bulletin board as a jack-off visual. It's horrendous, embarrassing doggeral. Unpublish-
ible! At his poetic best even the likes of Hallmark would spit in his face for his toddler-esque inanities.
Yes, there is a good deal of anger levied at civilization, but it's rehashed Daniel Quinn and John Zerzan
dummied down to bad stuffing not fit for a kindergartner to ingest. I realize that Matthew may still be
a threat to us, that the bad writing is simply bad writing, and not evidence of harmlessness, but it does
speak, I think, to his overall intelligence, and that's no small matter. We may have over-estimated him,
my lord, but I say "may" with patient precaution, not as final judgment. Matthew informed me that his
friend, the Marcus, was coming tomorrow, which is Saturday of course, and Sunday, both long working
days for Matthew, days in which I'll have Marcus to myself. I plan an aggressive course, my lord.
Matthew invited me to the Refuge for drinks tomorrow night. This is a perfect opportunity to catch him
off guard. I'll do whatever I have to do to get him to spill his guts and soul to me in that dive; and hope-
fully, by the time the night's over, we'll know a great deal more than we know now on what exactly the
Marcus and Matthew are up to. While Matthew was engaging in one of his numerous toilet visits, I
asked Dale, quite coyly, what he thought of Matthew. "A kook," he said, shaking his head. "A kook,"
is all he said. The dear man just wants to keep Matthew's dollar twenty-five a day in the store. If it
wasn't for Dale, Matthew would probably be consigned to the comfort of his home coffee maker alone.
Matthew appears to have only one friend in the world, and I am ready, my lord. Tomorrow morning,
Marcus's ass is mine for breakfast; and by evening with renewed appetite, Matthew's is dinner. It's
going well in Portland, my lord. More tomorrow. This is Agent Cybele reporting.
Again she sent the email. Again an instant response. "Your arsenal is formidible, Agent.
Spare nothing in the assault. The pacific northwest is pretty much the last holdout for free-thinking
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enemies of the state, and Portland is the lynchpin. As kooks of the rose city fall, so falls the organized
hopes of kooks everywhere. Find out who these malcontents have swayed asap, and let's be done with
this nonsense. We need to know who's who and where the fuck their final holdouts are before phase 2
can be implemented without incident. The FEMA camps are almost ready. Let's roll!"