The Woman Without Clothes or Apologies

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The Woman Without Clothes or Apologies

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She wore the ribbon like a medal from some lost war — pinned above her ribs, naked beneath except for a smear of glitter and stale perfume. The men approached in tandem, bureaucrats of flesh, one entering the front gates while the other pushed past the tongue checkpoint. It wasn’t sex — not anymore. Just a maintenance ritual in the underground bunkers of Interzone. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, dripping static and old jazz. Her eyes rolled back to a place beyond the ceiling, beyond the room, beyond the body — where pleasure had been outlawed but obedience still paid in cigarettes and synthetic morphine. The act looped, recorded, filed. Nothing was felt. Only performed. Flesh clicking into flesh like code. And somewhere in the corner, a typewriter clicked without a typist, spelling out the last lines of an obsolete instruction manual

April 19, 2025
She was seated upon the other as if by some silent decree, her posture rigid, uncertain whether this act was permitted, expected, or already condemned. The room was dim, the walls sweating with age, and somewhere outside a door creaked endlessly, like a hinge caught in deliberation. The girl beneath her did not speak. Her face was hidden, obscured by the weight of the other’s body, or perhaps by the weight of the situation itself. What passed between them — mouths, skin, a shuddering breath — felt less like desire and more like a process, some inscrutable ritual they had been instructed to perform without understanding the language it was written in. Above them, a mirror hung crooked, reflecting only fragments: a knee, an elbow, a shadow that might have been a hand or a moth. Neither of them looked into it. They were not ashamed, exactly — but they were watched, somehow. Watched by the silence, by the air itself, by a faceless clerk in a back office who would one day file a report on this moment, mislabel it, and seal it away in a drawer that never opened again

April 19, 2025
he bed was narrow, the sheets coarse, but they didn’t notice. The girl with dark hair moved slowly, deliberately, her head buried between the other’s thighs. There was no moaning, no performance — only breath, skin, the quiet mechanics of human contact in a world that had tried to strip it away. The other girl lay back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as though expecting someone — or something — to burst in. But nothing did. It was just them. For a few moments, they weren’t subjects, weren’t watched, weren’t weighed down by duty or fear. They were simply alive, and that was enough of a crime.

April 19, 2025
The room was bathed in soft synthetic light, the kind calibrated to mimic dusk — soothing, calculated. They lay entangled on the narrow bed like two figures from a Grecian vase, reinterpreted by some Freudian artisan. One, her hair cascading over the other’s thighs, moved with deliberate focus — a kind of secular devotion, tongue in place of prayer. The other stared at the ceiling with eyes half-lidded in abstraction, not so much in ecstasy as in quiet wonder that such sensations were permitted, even encouraged, in a society so thoroughly sterilized by pleasure. There was no shame — that had long been abolished. Only a curious awareness of roles being performed, of bodies enacting a ritual more ancient than history, yet somehow sanitized by the very clinical precision of the act. Desire had been reengineered — and yet, in this moment, something almost real slipped through the programmed bliss

April 19, 2025