"She turns. Hold up my fur. He obeys. Be careful. Dont touch my skin.
Earlier in this game she was nervous, constipated, wondering if this was anything
like male impotence. But thoughtful Pointsman, anticipating this, has been
sending laxative pills with her meals. Now her intestines whine softly, and she
feels shit begin to slide down and out. He kneels with his arms up holding the rich
cape. A dark turd appears out the crevice, out of the absolute darkness between
her white buttocks. He spreads his knees, awkwardly, until he can feel the leather
of her boots. He leans forward to surround the hot turd with his lips, sucking on
it tenderly, licking along its lower side . . . he is thinking, hes sorry, he cant help
it, thinking of a Negros penis, yes he knows it abrogates part of the conditions
set, but it will not be denied, the image of a brute African who will make him
behave. . . . The stink of shit floods his nose, gathering him, surrounding. It is the
smell of Passchendaele, of the Salient. Mixed with the mud, and the putrefaction
of corpses, it was the sovereign smell of their first meeting, and her emblem. The
turd slides into his mouth, down to his gullet. He gags, but bravely clamps his
teeth shut. Bread that would only have floated in porcelain waters somewhere,
unseen, untastedrisen now and baked in the bitter intestinal Oven to bread we
know, bread thats light as domestic comfort, secret as death in bed . . . Spasms in
his throat continue. The pain is terrible. With his tongue he mashes shit against
the roof of his mouth and begins to chew, thickly now, the only sound in the
room. . . ."
