Twins
“Again, Ishiko?"—though that’s not her real name. I have absolutely no idea what her name is. Even if I knew Japanese—which I don’t—and I asked her directly, she wouldn’t know it either.
When she moved in, I had to call her something. I chose the first one that came to mind, one that sounded Oriental.
“Watashi no oppai wa niku no meron,” Ishiko replied.
She was cleaning up the mess she’d made by tripping over the little table in the middle of the living room and knocking over my food tray.
“Still not used to it, huh?"—I bent down to pick up her glasses. They had a prescription of six diopters, even though she saw perfectly... or at least, she did before I put them on her.
“Watashi no oppai wa niku no meron,” she repeated. It’s the only thing she knows how to say.
The first time I saw her, I was in Osaka. She was having dinner with who I suppose was her family: a husband, two little girls. She seemed like a devoted mother and wife. She made her daughters laugh and still found time to flirt with her husband.
But it wasn’t her that caught my attention; it was her enormous bust. That pair of tits begged me to liberate them, they needed to be truly satisfied. To give them life, autonomy, even if that meant getting rid of the family, but above all, getting rid of the woman who possessed them.
“Ishiko, you haven’t cleaned up your mess yet and you’re already bothering the girls,” I scolded her. She had her hands wrapped around them, caressing them, squeezing them, tugging at them insistently.
It was almost all she did all day. The girls are very condescending and rarely complain, but she often wakes them up. I hear them grumbling. And the next day, they’re in a bad mood.
Ishiko groaned, “Watashi no oppai wa niku no meron,” without letting them go. The poor things were tired, hanging limply.
So I slapped her ass. Hard. She yelped but didn’t let them go; she was holding them hostage.
I gave her another, harder one. She shed a few tears but kept tugging at them. It wasn’t until the third that she finally stopped bothering them and went to the kitchen.
I sat down in the living room, waiting for the new food tray. When it arrived, Ishiko exclaimed: “Watashi no oppai wa niku no meron.” It’s her bon appétit, her ‘ohana, her amen.
Breakfast consists of eggs, sausage, and bacon. Ishiko holds the tray against her chest, and the girls lean towards it. They sink into the egg first, the warm yolk dripping between their folds. The sausage is squeezed, crushed by their weight. After all, my girls are fat, that’s how I love them. That’s why I feed them so well. The bacon crackles under their weight, shattering into small pieces that stick to their skin. Then they fall asleep while Ishiko clears the table. She doesn’t eat; the Twins have never quite forgiven Ishiko for holding them captive for so long. They give her food with a blander taste, though it’s nutritious.
When she comes back, Ishiko strokes my leg. I know what she wants. She’s naked, as always. That’s how the Twins like her to be. The glasses give her an intellectual air that turns me on. What can I say, I have a glasses fetish. But it wouldn’t be the same if they were fake. That’s why Ishiko looks at the sun every morning. I don’t know how much she can actually see anymore.
“Ishiko, you can do it now,” I whisper to her.
She smiles as she unzips my pants. She does it all in silence; we don’t want the Twins to find out, they’re territorial.
It took me a while to teach Ishiko to deepthroat it completely. Her husband probably never demanded it from her. Now she’s an expert. She doesn’t know any other way to give a blowjob. Fast and all the way down, over and over. Sometimes she seems to be in pain, but she keeps going. Harder. And harder. She doesn’t give up. A slight gag now and then, but nothing that stops her from having my dick all the way down her throat again a minute later. She’s a real trooper.
When I finish, she devours it. Seriously, she loves semen. Partly because she finds it delicious, partly because it’s her breakfast. Her only breakfast.
Although sometimes, just before I come, I pull it away. I give it to her true self.
The tits. The Twins.
They’re the ones who matter. They’re the ones I love.
They need to eat more urgently than the rest of the body.
They’re the ones I talk to, the only ones I talk to, that heavy form of fat that adores me.
“It’s a cake for 180 people,” the girl emphasized, seeming skeptical that the hall would be filled.
“I know. I don’t want any guest to go hungry.”
Ishiko was running around like a little girl or a dog. Her expensive wedding dress was a bit dirty, but luckily it wasn’t something the ceremony actually needed.
“Excuse me, sir? Are you sure you don’t want the waiter service?” asked the girl, who was now even more dismayed by my instruction that once the buffet was set up, we wanted to be left alone.
“We’ll manage.”
The only person who had crashed the wedding was Ishiko, who was now naked and gagged. So she wouldn’t ruin such a solemn moment.
She was also wearing a blindfold that prevented her from seeing and noise-canceling headphones. This was an intimate moment between the brides and me. One I didn’t want to share with anyone.
On June 27, 1844, somewhere in Illinois, Joseph Smith became America’s first martyr of love. The prophet knew that love, true love, should not be limited by something as arbitrary as a number. That’s why God entrusted him to reveal to the world that there was nothing wrong with polygamous marriage. Of course, the world paid no attention whatsoever to God or the prophet. In Illinois, it’s still illegal. However, for love, I’m willing to risk my life. And without a doubt, the Twins were worth it.
Of course, not having a minister, I had to improvise. I read a couple of ages about fidelity, and they repeated after me. Then, finally, I asked if they accepted me as their husband. Enthusiastically, they screamed yes.
During the feast, I had Ishiko lie down on the table, so the girls could eat more easily. Then, with their characteristic humor, they bathed in melted chocolate.
I kissed them, I stretched them. They screamed with pleasure, begging me to do it harder.
Then they had a fun idea for Ishiko: I put her inside the cake. And we started eating. Of course, everyone except Ishiko, who wasn’t part of the celebration.
Marriage changes your life. For example, the Twins and I had to make some modifications to my bedroom, since we promised we would always be the first thing they saw when they woke up and the last thing before sleeping.
So I made a hole in the wall next to the bed. One big enough for Ishiko’s face to fit through. One big enough to hide it. That way, only the tits, my beloved wives, remained at the head of the bed.
On our nightstand, we have three golden frames with our favorite photographs. Two are from our wedding: one shows the moment I put the wedding rings on the Twins—some gold piercings I made by melting down the wedding ring of the woman who was once Ishiko—and the other shows Ishiko with her mouth full of the right Twin and a little party hat we put on her so she wouldn’t get bored.
The last photo is one I took the first time I saw them: captive, dressed like Taliban. It’s to remind us how far we’ve come since that day.
Breakfast changed too. Every morning I get up and make coffee for the three of us. The Twins love to dip themselves in the hot cups. Ishiko shudders every time they do it.
Then, usually, I cut up some fruit. The Twins have fun squeezing it. They even fight each other to see who can do it faster.
It’s strange how I went from a dominant role—where everything revolved around me—to a servile one, where I’m the one who assists my girls. But it was necessary after they discovered my past with Ishiko: the morning blowjobs, the fetishes she fulfilled for me with the glasses. Needless to say, they want nothing more to do with her, so we agreed never to remove the blindfold or the headphones from her again. As much as possible, we want it to be just the three of us. Still, I take the gag off a couple of times a day to feed her.
The only problem with our current arrangement is that we live in an ableist society. Since my Twins are in a state of disability, society persecutes them, punishes them for existing. The other day I saw an ad on the internet from Interpol. They were looking for Ishiko—well, rather, Yuriko—40 years old, mother of two young women currently. There wasn’t a single mention of the undignified state the Twins were living in, the degrading state that this so-called Yuriko forced them to live in. I guess that’s how the global terrorism of our time works.
We live in peace. Our nights are spent watching movies at home. The Twins are fans of Korean cinema. They’ve really expanded my cultural horizons. If only people would stop looking at the external and just focus on the internal, they’d see how wonderful they can be, and how evil the woman who controlled them was.
The girls and I have talked about expanding our family, whether the traditional way or perhaps by adopting. I’ve told them I know their past, that I can accept their daughters as my own. I know they miss them. It’s been over a decade since they last saw each other.
They’ve also shared with me their desire to liberate more people from the Taliban, because extremism has gone global. I can’t leave the house without seeing some poor woman covered up to her neck, oppressed, kidnapped. They beg me, they cry to me to help them, just like the Twins once did.