Young Cunts Act 04

ACT FOUR, SCENE ONE

a few days after our last chapter:

Friday 21st May 2032,

but very early in the morning, after a long night:

The Corn Exchange, Cambridge

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

chanted the crowd.

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

"What a night, eh?!" Cunts bellowed, as she and Hildegard leapt on the podium. "What a fucking night!" The crowd cheered raucously.

"Fuckers!" shouted Cunts. "Need I remind you of how far we have come?! The crowd started to chant: "Cunts! Cunts! Cunts!"

Emma Jane gestured for calm. "Fuckers," she continued, "a mere four years ago, the European Union chose to turn its back on the chaos of war and disease, by welcoming the Enlightenment -- abandoning the narrow-mindedness and moral repression of the past, realising that society would only be truly fulfilled, and Europe's pre-eminence and independence could only be secured, if they accepted the pursuit of Pleasure as their primary goal. There were many who said that Britain would never follow that path -- that we were bound to remain mired in prudishness, class privilege, nepotism, inclusivity, 'love': all those meaningless, pointless watchwords which achieved nothing save deprive us of our true destiny as free fuckers. When Hildegard and I founded the UK Fuckers Party three and a half years ago, we knew that the establishment would hate us, and would do their best to bring us down. But a new King and Queen, and a new generation of political leaders, saw the Light: we have rejoined Europe, and with the passing of the Societal Reconstruction Act last year the government was able to roll out Flexible Fertility and Genetic Modification to the whole country, allowing all our citizens to be freed from the shackles which prevented them from realising their full fucking potential."

There was a huge cheer from the crowd, during which Cunts passed the microphone to Hildegard, who continued: "Comrades! Now, with this election, we hold the balance of power and, make no mistake, we intend to use it! If the Labour Party want any part in the next government, they must embrace the Enlightenment in its fullness -- and that means reshaping society from the bottom up: the end of love, the end of jealousy, the end of monogamy. We will make this a fucking nation, a fuckers' nation. Anyone who tries to impede our progress -- any Objectors, Undesirables, reactionary religious groups, disloyal ethnic minorities -- these no longer have a place in our land!"

A new wave of cheering erupted from the crowd -- though, it must be admitted, not quite as enthusiastic as that which had greeted Emma Jane's speech. "And so," continued Hildegard, "let us stand together to sing our anthem,

The Interfucktionale

!"

Arise ye fuckers from your slumbers

Arise ye lovers of wet cunt

For Pleasure in revolt now thunders

And at last ends the age of cant.

Hildegard's tenor voice was strong and compelling, and some of those Party operatives on the podium joined in with her -- but most of the crowd were not in the mood for such sincere and idealistic hymnody. Heady with their victory, and fired more by lust than political idealism, they began to chant over Hildegard:

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

And they proceeded to do just that. All around the hall, men and women alike were stripping off. Soon cocks were being sucked, cunts eaten, assholes penetrated with joyous abandon. Groups of the party faithful formed daisy-chains of fuckers, writhing on the ground as they indiscriminately pleasured each other's genitals. Some stood on the sidelines, jerking their cocks or fingering their cunts while watching the scene unfold. Banners hung from all the walls, decorated with pictures of tits and ass and pussy, proclaiming what everyone knew to be the glorious truth:

VICTORY TO THE FUCKERS PARTY:

THE PARTY OF THE NEW ENLIGHTENMENT!

The chanting grew, accompanied inevitably by the rhythmic clapping pattern everyone knew. Hildegard tried to keep up her Interfucktionale, bellowing as best as she could:

Away with all your moral scruples

Flaccid dicks arise, arise...

But Emma Jane Cuntslicker read the room the way Hildegard couldn't. She knew what the Party faithful wanted: not philosophy, but filth. Grabbing the microphone, she began to chant:

Pussy, you're a wet cunt, hot cunt

Fuckin' in the street, gonna take a big cock today

You got cum on your face, you big disgrace

Fuckin' your ass all over the place, singin'

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

"Sing it!" Cunts shouted. And they did just that. They sang, they fucked, they stamped and clapped, and they fucked as they sang:

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

Hildegard was momentarily bewildered, perhaps even annoyed at having the limelight taken away from her -- but Cunts knew that this was the beginning of something utterly new and great: a people, a party, and soon to be a whole nation devoted to Pleasure, devoted to fucking, stripped of their inhibitions, having cast off their shame at the altar of the New Enlightenment.

"We will fuck you! This is it, Hildy: nothing can stop us now!"

Hildegard looked at the crowd, now fucking and sucking and cumming with unstoppable lust, and she knew it was true, and she saw that it was good. "You wonderful, fuck-obsessed, filthy little cunt!" she exclaimed to Emma Jane. "Fuck me!"

And Emma Jane did. Tearing off both her own and Hildegard's clothes, she grabbed her blond fuckbuddy and wrestled her to the ground, grinding their cunts together in a tight scissors-lock. "Fuck me, Hildy!" she exclaimed. "Now we can fuck as we please! Pure fucking Pleasure will rule this nation -- forever!"

Soon the two party leaders were rolling and writhing on the ground, their tongues frantically penetrating each other's mouths, their sweaty tits slipping and squelching against each other, their cunts flaring and grinding. Their colleagues and supporters gathered round, frigging their cunts and jerking their cocks in a heady cocktail of ideology and lust as they watched and cheered their fucking co-leaders. And as Hildegard and Emma Jane climaxed together, their bodies twitching and pulsating as they screamed their ecstasy to the world, their colleagues gathered around to release their own juices. Cocks exploded and cunts squirted, and soon the writhing rising leadership of the Fuckers Party were being splattered with male and female cum which doused and coated their bodies, turning them into a gorgeous, creamy, wriggling mess.

We will, we will FUCK YOU!

chanted the crowd, as the two young women kissed, slurping jizz off each other's faces and guzzling it down.

But it was not long before they noticed that someone had joined them. Hildegard noticed it first, as she felt a new tongue slurping across her cum-coated cunt. Cunts and Hildegard broke their slobbering kiss to look down, and saw a pretty girl with reddish brown hair tied back in a high ponytail, naked apart from a Fuckers Party branded tank top and a red-cross nurse's cap, devotedly slurping fuck-gloop off their bodies.

"Hey," Hildegard grinned. "Who are you, pretty bitch?" she asked.

"Hello, Miss Hildegard. Hello, Miss Cuntslicker. My name is Dolores. I belong to you now."

INTERMEZZO

the same morning

(Friday 21st May 2032, in case you had forgotten)

in the editorial pages of a highly respected broadsheet newspaper

The recent success in the General Election of the Party of the Enlightenment (dubbed by all its supporters the 'Fuckers Party') should not have taken us by surprise -- but it did, which is surely yet another sign of how out of touch not only the British political establishment but also the national media are with the zeitgeist. Those of us old enough to remember may well compare last night's result with the shock we felt at the Brexit vote in 2016. But whither Britain now? The Fuckers' leaders appear in no mood to downplay their success. They know, as do any of us who dare to be honest about it, that no one will be able to form a government without them -- and they are determined to impose their full agenda on the country: principally, rejoining the EU, where already all the most extreme elements of the Fuckers' manifesto are commonplace, reshaping the whole of society to embrace "free fucking" as not merely the new norm, but the new

sine qua non.

Co-leader Hildegard "Fotzenficker" (yes, you read that right) insists upon the "purification" of British society of any objectors -- whom she, somewhat indelicately, terms "Undesirables". Her colleague Emma Jane "Cuntslicker" (where will it end?), affectionately referred to by her followers as "Cunts" (of course), is perhaps slightly less strident than her German colleague, but she is no cuddly compromiser: it is her intention, she says, to found a "Royal Academy of Fucking" to spearhead the transformation of society. And already she has organized a highly successful public "Exfucktion Rebellion" in central London (slogan: "Just fuck arse"), which neither municipal nor police authorities deemed it worthwhile interfering with. The Fuckers seem to be moving faster than anyone around them can react, and taking the public with them.

We do not envy the leadership of the Labour Party, who cannot escape their Hobson's Choice: throw their lot in with the Fuckers and form a coalition, or risk the collapse of our polity entirely? If they seek the advice of our new King, we suspect that they may find him firmly under the sticky thumb of his Californian Queen, who has already publicly endorsed Bates buttplugs as "good for your spiritual health". So perhaps the outcome is inevitable...

ACT FOUR, SCENE TWO

Just a few months after the last flashback:

Sunday 16th January 2033,

Northolt Aerodrome, West London.

No music required;

sometimes silence makes the best soundtrack.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. Today's Expulsion Flight will shortly be ready for boarding. Please proceed into the Terminal Building to have your luggage inspected and your papers checked. Please remember that only registered Undesirables are eligible for free transport: ethnic minorities, antediluvian religious adherents, or conscientious objectors to the New Enlightenment. You are limited to one suitcase each.

It was a cold winter's day outside Northolt Aerodrome, where the Daniels family gathered shivering and huddled together in the weak sunlight, one family among many in a sea of mainly dark, disturbed faces. John carried one suitcase in each hand, his face set with grim determination. Rosie clutched and clawed at her children, as if by holding them tighter she could somehow delay the dreaded but inevitable parting. Tears coursed down her face as she gazed down at Eva bundled in her arms, and six-year-old Robbie, bewildered and fearful, clinging to her legs. With them stood a dark-skinned young man, cassock and clerical collar marking him out as a priest.

"Why do you have to go, Mummy?" asked the boy.

"Because it is not safe for Mummy and Daddy here anymore, Robbie," said Rosie. "But don't worry, Father Ambrose will keep you safe. You like Father Ambrose, don't you, darling? He's very kind, isn't he?" Father Ambrose forced a smile.

"Yes, Mummy... but I don't want you to leave us! Why can't we come with you?"

Rosie's jaw trembled, and she looked at her husband with barely concealed desperation, as if by some miracle a solution, even at this eleventh hour, might be found. But John's jaw was still set hard, imprisoning the turmoil behind his façade. "You'll be better off here for now, Robbie." Rosie spoke the words like a well-rehearsed script. "Where Mummy and Daddy are going we will be very poor; we may not have enough food for you and Evie. Father Ambrose will look after you for a while. As soon as we find a safe place to live, and enough food for us all, we will come and get you; then we'll all be together again, OK?"

Not far away, on a hard bench just inside the terminal building, Edward Turner sat brooding, his black suit and white collar marking him out as a man of the cloth. He too was in the turmoil of parting -- though one might not have been able to tell that, as he sat alone and silent. But as he sat, he thought, and thought hard and deep, for he was a careful and sincere man.

"Come with me," he had said to his beloved Olive, as she rode his cock one hot July night in his quarters at the Chaplaincy, her pussy sliding deftly up and down on his stiff dick. He clutched her to him, feeling her sweaty fulsome tits squidge against his chest, speaking as quietly as he could so as not to awake the Rector in the next apartment down the corridor, or the student boarders upstairs.

"Sure!" the dark-haired buxom girl replied. "Where? Pussy? Arse? Or on my face while you eat me out?"

Eddie laughed, his cock jiggling deep in Olive's pussy. "No, no! I mean... come with me: come with me to the Outside World. Let's leave this crazy place. I have family in southern Africa; we could start a new life together, both of us together. You and me..." He looked into Olive's eyes, so bright and keen and beautiful -- and he meant it. "Come with me..."

But the memory was interrupted by an announcement on the tannoy:

Final call for today's Expulsion Flight. All Undesirables eligible for transportation please proceed immediately to the terminal.

"You know how to contact me, don't you?" muttered Ambrose, sidling up to John, whilst Rosie continued to claw and clutch at her children.

"Tottenham Court Road, number 38B, isn't it? Your new hideout..." John replied.

"Yes. I think it'll be safe. The landlord is sympathetic, and well-connected. So long as we don't draw attention to ourselves. And -- John, I'll take good care of them, you know."

"I know, Ambrose. And, despite what Rosie says, we know that we may never be able to come back for them; we understand that they may need to be brought up in the new ways -- the 'Enlightenment' ways, you know?"

Ambrose grimaced. "We will probably all have to make all sorts of unpleasant compromises and sacrifices to survive, John. You and Rosie are making one. Your kids and I, and the others who are trying to stay, will have to make others. We'll take it one day at a time."

"You know that we've done the GM thing on Evie, don't you? And they've both been sterilised: they won't let us even register with a doctor now without it. I hate the thought of it -- but we figured that if she's going to survive growing up in this 'brave new world', we may as well give them the best chances we can... Are we doing a terrible thing, do you think?"

"John, these are strange times. Nothing is forever. The Church has been persecuted before -- and every time she is, her members just do the best they can in that moment..."

Meanwhile, inside the terminal building, Eddie was counting out the contents of his wallet, and stuffing a large envelope with banknotes. He muttered under his breath, "Eighty... ninety... a hundred... one hundred and five thousand, three hundred and sixty-four euros." The envelope was fat and bulging, but somehow, to Eddie, it seemed paltry, pathetic, almost insultingly so. "Well, that's all I have. And I won't need it where I'm going." Eddie sealed the envelope tightly, took a pen out of his coat pocket, and wrote a name and address on the front in block capitals.

"No, Eddie, come on, this is silly," Olive had said, lying on her back and looking up into Eddie's eyes as he slid his hard cock in and out of her wetness one early autumn night. "You want to leave all this, leave this country, this continent -- all because you're scared of the Enlightenment? I mean, here you are fuckin' me -- ooh, that's good, yes, grind it like that, against my clit, yeah nice! -- but you don't like it when the country starts to come clean, admit that all they ever really think about is fuckin'! I mean, fuckin' makes people happy, doesn't it? What's wrong with that?"

Eddie paused, his huge cock half-in, half-out, glistening with Olive's cunt-nectar. "Yes, my darling, fucking you makes me happy. But fucking

you

-- not the entire world. I know I'm a hypocrite. We all are, to one extent or another. But that doesn't mean that there aren't higher ideals: love, commitment, constancy -- all those things which the Enlightenment threatens to outlaw. I want to love you, Olive, I want to be with you forever. I want..." Eddie pulled his cock out with a gentle squelch. Still stiff and massive, it waggled comically before her flaring vulva, as if demanding an audience.

Eddie paused. "Olive... my darling..." Eddie paused again to take a deep breath. "Olive Throstlethwaite, will you marry me?" Eddie's cock continued to nod up and down in front of Olive's crotch, as if willing her answer.

Olive looked up in astonishment. "Oh God! Really? Do you love me that much, Eddie? Me? I'm just a slut, you know. Do you really want to be saddled with a 'sick, perverted, filthy fucking whore' for the rest of your life? Here, fuck me first, Eddie -- and then we'll talk about it afterwards. Put that monster dick back in me now..."

"Can I suggest a more poetic way of describing it?" he smirked, reaching for his Bible from the nightstand.

"You're not tryin' 'a tell me Solomon wrote poems about cocks as well, are ya?" Olive giggled, as she ran her hand up and down the full length of Eddie's thick shaft, feeling the coating of cunt-slime, and the veins pulsating beneath her fingers. "Did he like boys too?"

Eddie laughed. "No, no, but... here, read this," he said. "Just substitute a word or two here and there," he smirked.

Olive took the Bible, and focused on the lines Eddie was now pointing out to her with a slime-stained finger. She got the joke and cackled, before declaiming in mock-ecclesiastical tones:

Your

cock

is like the tower of David, built with courses of stone...

Your

cock

is like the tower of Lebanon looking toward Damascus!

"You fuckin' perv, Eddie! I love you, you know that?"

FINAL CALL!

came the voice from the tannoy, so loud that the speakers crackled and fed back.

Final call for today's Expulsion Flight!

The Daniels party, along with a few other last straggling families, made their way at last into the terminal building, John holding Robbie's hand tightly while trembling Rosie clutched Eva to her breast. Amidst the sea of dark queueing faces there were a few people of paler complexion -- and Father Ambrose recognised one of them with a gasp. "Eddie!" he called, "Reverend Edward Turner!" -- and the young curate on the bench looked up from his reverie.

"Father Ambrose de Conceicao!" exclaimed Eddie, standing to greet him. "Fancy that! You leaving too?"

"Er... no, Eddie," said Ambrose, as they shook hands. "I'm staying for now. I've found a place in London where I think some of us can stay safe -- for a while, at least. But I don't blame you for fleeing while you can. I've come to see off some friends of mine: I'm going to be looking after their kids for a while, whilst they find their feet in the Outside World. Come, meet my friends John and Rosie, and their children Robbie.... and Eva."