The Science Fiction and Fantasy genre is often criticized for its childlike preoccupations to the exclusion of sexual themes, whereas elements of concern to `normal` social interactions are subliminated into generalizations on the theme of abstract evil, which is usually presented as wanting to devour somebody or something; rather than have sex. It could be argued that we`re being taught to view death and destruction as evil, but in excluding sex we`re being told that death and destruction is preferable, which is evil. BDSM `training` is sadistic Nazism; `behaviouralist` sex in which participants are `Pavlov`s dog` salivating for death and destruction. This `spoof` posits Scifi Fantasy as a `dress up`, that is, an excuse to wear sexually exciting clothing. Clothes for the bedroom aren`t for the street, but BDSM clothing is, which seems paradoxical. However, the reason we don`t see the wingéd fairy of sexuality on the high street is because Nazi `behaviouralist` psychology has trained us to prefer BDSM sadism - and pulled her wings off.
Since the disappearance of her father, Princess Dominix feels obliged to accept what - to noone else but herself - are the mystifying whims of the missing king's brother, the Grand Wizard Unkel Spunky Wunky. She is, even now, on her way to meet with him in the mysteriously titled (to her) Hall of the Great Swollen Glans.
Pausing half-way down the Staircase of Suckability to pout in the Miraculous Mirror of Mirabelle the Masturbatrix, she stamps her pretty little foot (she'd been doing something very important when the summons came - watching a candy pink cloud as, floating over the battlements of the castle, it changed from looking like a fluffy bunny wunny to looking like an even fluffier one). Now, however, as jagged sparks of orange and green fire fly from the brutalized marble steps, the usually abnormally tranquil face of the Adorable One is contorted with rage.
One of her attendants, in a futile attempt to circumvent the spell which, for almost eighteen years, has ensured the pristine purity of the princess' perfect pussy, begins to struggle manfully (or rather dwarfishly) with what is evidently a recently, i.e., magically, spot-welded zipper.
Ah, the irony. Our pert-bottomed princess of pulchritude, despite perceiving the danger which threatens, is handicapped by her dick-brained minion's very name. Watch as, spurred on by her apparent ardour, he misconstrues her cry of warning and, desperate to obey, still struggling to place at her disposal the tool of the trade all dwarves prefer, he trips over his beard and hurtles to his doom.
Well, it would!ve meant the demise of Knobby the Knob. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your temporal perspective), the squat and ugly one (feet first like a leather-and-metal-cased-dildo which, thanks to some horny little clit with an Electra complex who fears the sound of Daddy's penis extension coming up the drive, finds itself involuntarily ejaculated from its pulsating cave of bliss...) Now, where was I? Oh yeah, well this stunted geezer's boots have, or so it seems at the instant of contact, the good fortune of encountering what, due to the efforts of Fastuh Wankuh, head of the new Ministry of Correction, is now known by all and sundry as the Perpetual Piston (or, as the hoi-polloi of the gnome kingdom are wont to call it, the Pathetic Pisser) of Dominix's unbendng (well, till now) guardian.
The de faco ruler of all-that-can-be-seen-if-one-stands-on-the-Chair-of-Cheeriness-and-crane's-one's-neck-to-stare-out-of-the-West-Wndow-og-Winsomeness-in-the-manner-of-Someone-Demented, hops about the Foyer of Fucking Forever clutching what are supposed to be known as the Golden Globules of Gonad (but which are actually thoughtof as the Timid Testes of Terence). Dominix remains stern.
'Spunk!' she squeals.
The speed with which Knobby's stubby frame reacts is astonishing to all those who are privileged to witness it.Rigidly erect he rises from the scene of devastation, quickly replacing the Holey-Helmet-of-Horgasm (a distinctive form of headgear with an opening at the crown that, worn only by the King's elite shock troops, is reputed to signify certain unmentionable favours which the late Queen had been happy to bestow upon their ranks whenever her spouse was too drunk even to fart). But before our penis-shaped warrior of love can once more attempt to bring his weapon to bear upon the object of his presumptuous desire, again the deliciously commanding foot strikes lightning from the floor.
If it weren't for the strangled sobs normally indicative of a hernia-sufferer, the hunched up figure - gripping its private parts so intensely as it bounds about the Foyer -could pass for a Son of Onan anywhere in the Realm. Presumably the self-abuser'shead is buried in his groin so as to avoid the (not very) Original Sin of 'casting one's seed upon the ground'? At any rate, such a stance will undoubtedly afford the devoted wanker an opportunityof gulping down the precious ichor before it spills forth onto the marble sterility of the palace floor.
Luckily for Unky Wunky's shining reputation, not only is it forbidden to jerk off in the presence of royalty but, because of the spell that maintains the virginity of the princess, it is also quite literally impossible to 'come' within fifty feet of her (the palace walls are, however, a bit higher than this, which means that, whenever the princess ventures outside for a stroll, she soon gloomily returns, labouring not only under the misapprehension that it is always raining outside but that rain is grey, sticky, and comes down from the sky in gobsand squirts).
The more 'refined' of her Highness' admirers, that is, those who don't spend all their time trying to spatter her with semen from the battlements, have described her voice as trillingly thrilling (yes, it's a little known paradox that, because it's full of fairies, Fairyland's becoming moreand more difficult to find, i.e., it's population is shrinking). The rest of the rabble are, of course, first to admit that they've absolutely no interest whatsoever in anything that comes out of the princess' gob. their only concern is with how to get her to agree to them putting certain things inside that orifice and,once in, letting it stay there until she either chokes or swallows whatever 'comes' next.
In any event, both sets of royal groupies would be a tad surprised to hear her scream like a ten-minute whore in overtime.However, as it's illegal (a crime punishable by having one's eyes put out and replaced by one's testicles) to ignore a member of the elvish Royal Family (yes, our lost monarch has been known to take advantage of the law in this regard), Unkel Spunky Wunky ('Spunk' being our innocent heroine's 'pet' name for the king's bro'), manages to feign conversation by the simple expedient of articulating his pain.
Dominix remains unperturbed.
'Now, listen here Unk. You've gone too far this time.' She pirouettes on one wicked-looking green-and-pink piece of leather-and-plastic, a spiked thigh-length number that, despite the Fair One's impassivity, seems to be fucking her leg from groin to toe.
No, that isn't Unk! That's some palace flunky, excited by the sight of the King's only child spinning like a top in a leather-and-emerald rah-rah skirt, revealing sapphire-encrusted blonde pubic hair and what, if the truth ever needs embellishment, Fastuh Wankuh will call The Beautiful Twin Globes of Arse. But, as any wanker worthy of the title will have made for the battlements at this juncture, we can now count on a few sentences relatively free from interruption.
'Look at me Unk!'
The Grand Wizard, galvanized by the sight of his niece exposing herself to the covetous gaze of every passing predator, becomes immediately erect. Unhappily, the rest of his body remains doubled-up in agony. However, every cloud (even those resembling long-eared vermin) has a silverlining, and Unk's anguished posture does afford him the pleasure of tonguing (through the purple latex of his wizard's codpiece) what he's pleased to think of as the 'Orrible Organ of OO-er.
This is just awful.'
Dominix now pirouettes on the other sculpted lump of erotica masquerading as shoe-leather.
'Just lookat this.'
The Virgin Vixen, heedless of the tumescent tremors she's provoking in the Tremendous Trousers of Thul, throws wide the arms of her black-and-slashed-rubber-tunic, revealing the matching leather-and-chain (and topless) basque beneath.
'It's too cold to wear this.'
Cupping a ripely blushing breast in both hands, fingering the silve rnipple-ring that dangles thereon, the Angelic Apparition proffers the entire confection for the delectation of the misshapen ruin that, eyes bugging from its skull, saliva dribbling over its crotch, grunts and snarls before her in pain and horniness - and all to no avail!
'Look at my nipples Unk, they've gotten all stiff and...well, pointy!'
The sight of a near-naked nymph, encased in rubber, plastic, jewels, steel studs and leather, glowering hotlyand playing shamelessly with her erect nips - it all proves too much for the Old wiz. Hurling himself from the young temptress, he stumbles towards the Corridors of Carnality. Alas, today the Decrepit One is destined not to receive the soothing caresses of Candy, Mandyand Sandy, the Three Scrubbers of Sidcup. Fifty feet from our all-unawares prick-teaser, he falls thrashing to the floor, pools of gluey wetness oozing from his nether garments.
'Well, I'm not going to wear these horrid clothes any more!'
Oblivious to the wizard's flops and moans, our fetishist's wet dream advances to wag her finger at the fucked-out heap who, released from suffering by the holocaust of pleasure that, so recently, wracked his puny frame, delivers his tried-and-tested speech of admonishment.
'Hold child! What,do you think I enjoy seeing you dressed in Barabarian garb? 'Tis not for pleasure that I ask thee to decorate thyself in this way. 'Tis for the sake of thy father, the King. Is't not written in the Book of Quim the Hairy that, when the Squirmy Tubular One enters the Cavern of Kunnht, then will there be such a Flood as only the Child of a King shalt survive it?'
Dominix yawns.Theology bores her. Absently, she caresses her be-ringed teats.
The wizard's face grows hard (as does the bulge in his orange spandex flares).
'Know then, that until thy father returns to reclaim his throne, thou must continue to drape thyself in shiny gear!'
The form of the vicious septuagenarian insinuates itself across the carpet of the Foyer, humping the floor in its progress. Dominix gives it a few parting jabs with the sharp spear of a stiletto heel, a kindness to which the all-but corpse responds by increasing the frequency of its pelvic thrusts.
'Come, Knob! We go to seek my father!'
After watching our pocket Venus ride from the castle gates to a distance of fifty feet or so (thereby providing him with the chance to extract sweet hot tears of joy from his ponker), Knobby finally comes... Sorry, that should read: Knobby finally comes to realize... Yeah, that's it! Realization! Knobby finally realizes that the princess' second sentence qualifies her first. Hey ho!
About a mile out, the curiously matched pair (tall, vital, slender, horse-riding elf-maiden, and twinkle-legged, knackered and gnomish foot-and-penis-slogger) note a ribbon of oily smoke travelling at speed in their direction.
'What do you think it is?'
Knobby observes how, all-unconscious of what she does, the moist maiden rubs her mound of fur lasciviously against cool soft leather.
Could it be that 'ere dragon we bin 'earin' s'much 'bout missy?'
But the sensation of leather-on-fur-on-flesh drives all other considerations from the mind of the beauteous minx. Raising herself in the stirrups, eyes gleaming feverishly, again and again she slams her slippery cunt onto the pommel of her mount's saddle.
There is an earth-shattering roar, a dreadful rushing as of a mighty whirlwind, the appalling stench of petroleum waste products.
'Oi 'tink it's one o' they mortals ma'am. They come 'ere now an' then - drugs loik. Y' know, mushrooms an' such. Trippin' they calls it. Tek care. They ain't bounden by the magik of oor wurld.'
Bestride their path stands a chromium beast, its rider bedecked in shiny blackness, helm opaque, gauntlets flexing, strangling raucous power from his steed.
'Fancy a fuck?'
Dominix is nonplussed.
'Come 'ere darlin', I've got summat fer yer.'
Knobby interposes his stumpy girth betwixt the lovers, but the human either fails to see him or else deliberately kicks the dumpy pest into a ditch. Dominix applauds.
'Bravo, Sir Knight!'
Grabbing a bundle of flaxen tresses in one be-studded claw, the greaser assists her to dismount.
'Gosh, aren't you strong?'
The slap he bestows upon her is almost perfunctory as, eager to please, the merrily giggling girl coo's and ah's, wondering at the purpose of the fleshy pole he wields in his leather-clad fist.
'Ooh, let me.'
Quick to learn, the sweet young thing spreads wide her silken thighs and smiles beatifically up into the sunshine as, slavering and cursing, her ravisher squeezes out his meagre offering.
'Is that it?'
'Fraid so bitch. But theres always my trusty charger.'
'I might be a bike but I'm not fuckin' one mate.'
Her curiousity piqued, Dominix directs her swain to a three-pin socket situated in the trunk of a nearby oak-tree.
'We might be feudal here, but we're not backward. Think of it as a theme park.'
'Yeah, that too.'
'No, me batt'rys are recharged already - magical.'
'Oh, you want to do that again?'
She is less-than-enthused.
'No, I've got something better.'
He takes from his rucksack a finely chiselled tool, a missile shaped technological boon, a never-limp dick. Flipping the switch, he stares into her sea-green eyes and closes her fingers around the vibrating stem of the smooth plastic shaft. Blissfully she lies back, gently inserting the softly throbbing rubber tip, gratefully discovering the glories of clitoral stimulation. He watches for a while as, slowly at first, then faster, a gouging blur of need, she digs for the treasure of orgasm. Then, bored with the biological imperative, he turns to deal with weightier matters.
'Now, where did I put me spanner?'
Careless of the breeze toying wantonly with the spun gold of her coiffure,our lusty wench, a pillion passenger strapped like luggage to her man's Monstrous Engine, listens to the mellifluous AC/DC grinding out Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be (or are they chewing razor blades?), and is instantly converted to Rock Chickdom.
'Yeah, like wow! Far out!'
'Shut it bitch! What the fuck's that?'
Knobby could've told, but the truncated cretin is several miles away, thankful for the loan of the princess' erstwhile transport, but worried lest she bestow her new found nymphomaniac talent wholly upon her neanderthal captor.
Dominix is blasé.
'Oh, that. Just a silly dragon. It's been pillaging hereabouts ever since my father the King went AWOL. Y' know, sodomizing barns, raping outhouses, eating pussy - cats, that is (we think he's dyslexic or something). Anyway, that sort of thing.'
The iron-brown eyes of Buz the Bastard narrow in calculation as, brain-can now discarded (no cops to enforce for-your-own-good-bureaucracy in Pixie Paradise), he considers the import of her words.
'Bugger me! A King eh?'
'Well, mummy alwayscalled him the Goblin King, but I don't think she liked him really. I remember lying in bed all night, kept awake by her moaning 'No, please. Stop goblin. Yes. No. Please. Stop goblin!' Perhaps he had some kind of eating disorder? Bulimia maybe?
'Don't think so, but he adored linguini.'
As the pair approach the fearsome apparition, it seems to shimmer and melt in the afternoon haze. No longer are they faced by a flame-throwing Colossus with ten-inch incisors and a dong that Kong would've envied. Instead there's a wizened old man, waving feebly with one hand while manipulating his flaccid phallus with the other.
'Ah, daughter. 'Tis good to see thee.'
Confusedly, the old chap puts away his ridiculous implement.
'A spell, dear daughter. My brother, the wizard.'
He gestures ineffectually.
Dominix smiles non-committally.
'This is my boyfriend, Buz.'
'Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.'
There is a brief calm interlude. Then, huffing and puffing, having been thrown by his horse when it 'refused' (his amorous advances), Knobby arrives (hopefully carrying a punchline somewhere about his person).
'Are yer orlroight sor?'
'Oh, certainly Knobby. The evil spell cast by my hateful sibling could only be broken by an aggressively macho troglodyte with a penchant for sado-masochism and shiny apparel. Many thanks, my son.'
By way of acknowledgement, Buz slips a grimy paw inside the bodice of his bride-to-be, mauling her breasts, getting everything all messed up and rumpled.
'Duz this mean oi won't be punished fer kickin' yer bruther in 'is bollox then?'
Dominix is outraged.
'Don't be ridiculous Knobby! I shall personally string you up by your balls, torment your penis with a cruel contraption, and belabour your buttocks with a many-thonged thongy thing.'
'Oh, thankee missy. Stric' but fair, that's you mistress; an' oi don' care 'oo knos it!'