It took three weeks for the three of us—I think we were three—to negotiate three scenes. Portia and Portia used the same Oh-rïg-ën© account, and all sentences scored similarly: stats consistently showed that the language skills matched those of an 8-year-old cishet male with undiagnosed ADD compulsively drinking a retro 24-ounce Big Gulp© and ignoring both a frenemy’s Ohs© and the Röm-baa’s bleats for help. There was no hint of Portia’s results-driven micromanaging. None of Portia’s provocative playfulness. I was never sure who I was Oh-ïng© with. Maybe an actual sugar-highed kid was running the show.
Portia and Portia proposed that we script simple humiliation scenes by collecting settings, actions, objects, and players that she/they (shey?) could combine as shey liked. (Shey said shey’d been role-playing works by a 20th-century playwright named Brecht—who was all about predicament scenes—but who sadly ruined some great songs with his Verfremdungseffekt.) Shey sent me a dozen Ohs© a day, peppering me with questions, leaving me annoyed and frustrated, and only fleetingly aroused, or rather scaroused as kinkstérs would have it. On day 21, after we concluded our negotiations, shey Ohed© me with options for one final wardrobe detail. First Oh©: “Hard iron heavy tight-fitting old headgear stuffed with mass-produced khaki polyurethane-foam-filled plastic?” No, I replied, afraid that would make me sweat. (Also, I recalled pledging that I would drive a tank if it pleased shem, and I figured the helmet would lead to the battlefield.) Second Oh©: “Soft woolen light loose-fitting brand-new headgear lined in a wispy layer of cottage-spun ebony silk?” Yes, I replied. (What young femme-identified folk would say no?)
That night I couldn’t sleep, not because I was excited by my first assignment, my first scene. But because I couldn’t stop thinking about the wool. Woolen? Wool. Wooly! I’d be a sheep, I thought. No, that’s silly, I thought. Yes no, I’d be a sheep, a Merino sheep humiliated by the shearing of her splendid bespoke wooly cap. I lingered over thoughts of being rounded up at noon under a blazing sun. Maybe an Australian sun in an Outback sim. I’d be overcome with heat. I’d never outrun, never evade the stern-looking shepherds brandishing their crooks, threatening me with the shearing of my life. Of. My. Life.
Alas it was not to be.
For my first scene Portia and Portia teleported me to Missing Mile, where it was always a chilly dawn. Then shey sent me a bonnet. I was fully prepared to be a spring lamb but that’s not what shey wanted from me. Instead, Portia and Portia had cast me as a limp-eared Easter bunny without her eggs. I longed for a big colorful basket of small foil-wrapped chocolate treats. They would melt reassuringly in my mouth as they did when I was a child avi, before my avi parents divorced and ghosted me. The eggs would be perfect offerings if Portia and Portia arrived to test my devotion to shem. Even though they were damned hard to free from their infernal wrappings, I would peel those little eggs like grapes. I would wiggle my nose for shem. I would hop shyly. But then I would open my mouth wide, and I would open my other holes even wider, when shey brandished a clutch of big slippery siliponic Care-outs©.
I practiced wiggling my nose. I really did. But all I could think about was sheep, who never wiggled nothing for no one, even when they were stampeded over a cliff by a tyro dog, ruining Gabriel’s life. I tested my powerful rabbit legs, hopped around, not at all shyly, sniffed the air. Gradually I began to sense a mass of wooly, smelly beasts milling around me. They were a flock of genetically manipulated neo-post-vintage sheep—green-glowing Kac-Alba-Arties, voluptuous hybrid Holstein-Romanov-Beefalo-Friesian-Dorper-Polypay furries in desperate need of a good milking, and huge baad baad black sheep sweating inside all-encasing pleather that sizzled under the noon sun. I sank to all fours on the empty dirt road in Missing Mile. Sank at no one’s command. I held fast to my wooly bunny bonnet. I scaled it up to show more fleece, hoping the other sheep would accept me as the latest gen-fad. I fantasized about watching the gang of burly shepherds grab my flock-mates one by one and barber them quickly, unceremoniously, with no intention of giving them the shearings of their lives.
Hypnotized by the buzzing of the industrial electric razors, I’d wait patiently for my turn—wait with my hard-beating heart in my knot-tight throat. But for how long? When would I be wrestled to the ground by one of them? Which one of them? The one I liked to watch? The one they called “ringer”? He was older than the others, stronger, quicker, and rougher. If a sheep squirmed, he’d grab it by its head, taking full control. I imagined this man—older than the others, stronger, quicker, rougher, cisser, hetter, with no time for sugar, no need to Oh©, in short, a master—handling me like any other sheep, grabbing me by the chin, expertly twisting my sweet sheepy-bunny-head into an inescapable hold, maybe even using his forearm to press on my windpipe. I’d wiggle my nose then, wiggle it for him, wiggle it hard, even though he wouldn’t see it, even though he wouldn’t care.
I knew I was kneeling alone on a dirt road in Missing Mile, abandoned in the sticks by Portia and Portia, with a nöb somewhere on the horizon. And yet I was certain I was in Australia, certain my resistance to their ringer had attracted the other shepherds’ attention. I could tell they’d laid down their razors and gathered round, laughing at me rasping and writhing in protest and pain. (Don’t think I was a meek sheep; I did not bleat.) I knew that Portia and Portia had sent the shepherds big baskets of those chocolate eggs I craved. I was alone on that dirt road and yet I felt every blow as the shepherds pelted me with most of the treats and sucked on the rest. (They’d saved the green ones for themselves, just like pop stars who curated their M&Ms© in the days of yore.) I thought I could hear some of them softly sing. (Portia and Portia later told me it was probably an old ©Christian© hymn, a paean to Mary, to Mary of the Little Lamb.) And then all of them went silent and still as my masterful ringer stripped me of my latex, smirking at the spring-themed pink and green, showing all the men my dripping sweat. He turned me over and over, searched my body, searched it hard, searched it long, looking, he growled, for something ripe to shear.
Credits
Doe . Bunnish . (Kraken pack)
:Dernier: “Keiona” Jacket – Pink
:Dernier: “Keiona” Skirt – Pink
:Dernier: “Keiona” Catsuit (BoM) Mint
/ HEAD / lel EvoX NOEL 3.1
euphoric- Zelda eyes
[Glam Affair] Winnie [Lelutka EvoX] Icy A came with Winnie – Blush 50% and Winnie – Eyes Makeup 1 (old gift)
Ladybird. // Face Bandaids – Nose, Pink!
Ladybird. // Glitter Freckles – Purple
Hexed – Fear Tattoo FRESH
REBORN by eBODY v1.69.6
eBODY – REBORN Shape 1 my edit
-Pretty Liars- Boobs lift LEVEL 7
Location: Missing Mile
Pleisure, a Second Life Fashion Blog 