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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Syntax of Seduction  (MF anal mc)
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Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 19:10:04 -0400
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THE SYNTAX OF SEDUCTION
by Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Word Count: 1665
Copyright (c) 2003 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archive rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



Can anyone be more lonely than a shy linguist?

Josiah Finn loved language more than life. To him the spoken and written
word was a feast of complex intellectual delights. Studying linguistics
gave his existence direction and purpose. It shielded him from the
messiness of relationships with his fellow humans. It filled his hours and
his days and provided him with everything he needed. Almost everything.

He was lonely.

He craved human touch. He needed the touch of a woman as a thirsty man
needs water. He was slowly withering away in his abstract wonderland of
intellectual delights.

Then he discovered Sassanid Dynasty love poetry.

The translations couldn't do it justice. Learning the old Persian
dialects had posed no great difficulties for an accomplished language
afficionado. The poetry, in its primordial, untranslated version, rang
as clearly as a bell in the empty cathedral of his heart.



His previous attempts to approach women had invariably ended in disaster.
They either laughed or totally ignored him. In the shark-infested waters
of the dating market, a balding middle-aged professor is dead meat.

But the poetry, ah, those magic syllables, that hypnotic rhythm.

Some crazy impulse made him walk into a dance club. The Snakepit was a
maelstrom of drifting blue cigarette smoke, mirrors, flashing multicolored
lights, and loud heavy metal music that made meaningful conversation
superfluous. He sat down at a battered wooden table two vacant chairs
distant from a woman. She was young, still in her twenties perhaps,
dishwater blonde, and she gave no sign that she noticed his presence. Or
would have particularly cared if she had.

    This guy plops his fat butt down at my table. Dressed in a suit and
    tie, Coke-bottle glasses, missing half his hair. Older. Old enough
    to be my father. Geez, must be one of those prof types from the
    college. Ultra-nerd. Freaky. What's he doing here? Must have got lost.

He felt totally out of place. He was out of place. What *was* he doing
here anyhow? Sweating and feeling uncomfortable, that was what he was
doing here. Get up and leave? Not yet, damn it.

The poetry. Remember the poetry. Why? It'll take your mind off the damn
nervousness. He began tapping the rhythm on the tabletop. The singsong
syllables struggled to emerge from his larynx, then he set them free
and chanted. First under his breath, then with growing confidence as the
power took hold of him. The woman had turned around and was staring at
him. Her eyes were enormous. They were immense pools of darkness.

    He starts jabbering some kind of nonsense. Can't understand a word
    of it. Must be foreign talk. He has bad breath. Never mind. What's
    happening to me? I'm drifting off somewhere. Must have had too
    much to drink. I'm in a fog. The fog. The Female Fog, my ex used
    to call it. When my mind would sort of curl up and go to sleep and
    the Woman Beast in me would take over. That guy's starting to look
    pretty good. I could --

Her fingernails were digging painfully into his arm as she snarled at him,
"Get me away from this friggin' place. Now. Take me home, damn you!"

She was a natural blonde. Unless had she dyed her pubic hair too. But
he had no attention to spare for inane speculation because he had to
maintain discipline. To keep chanting the poetry. Every time he stopped,
she seemed to get distracted, to lose interest. Right now she was kneeling
astride him, and the sight of his organ disappearing into the darkness
of her, then emerging . . . made it hard to remember . . . the cadence
. . . the syllables . . . but he had to keep chanting . . . or she'd
lose interest . . . and leave him.

    What am I doing humping this guy? Don't even know his name. Can't
    stop. He has bad breath. His armpits stink. Never mind. It feels
    so good having him inside me.

They fell asleep in each other's arms, and when he awoke she was gone.
The note read, "It was nice being with you, I guess. Best wishes." He
knew he'd never see her again. Somehow it didn't matter.



Josiah had been having problems with his department head at the college.
She was a dried-up old prune in her late 50s who seemed to have nothing
better to do than to harass him in a variety of petty ways and turn down
his grant requests.

"Pro-fes-sor Finn. Certainly you are familiar with the old adage that
scholars either publish or perish. Based on that criterion, you are
perilously . . . perilously close to perishing, I'm afraid. If your
research fails to yield at least three published articles in the coming
academic year, then you might well consider taking up something you are
better suited for. Selling used vehicles comes to mind."

"Dr. Martinette, with your indulgence, I would like to demonstrate that
my research is indeed bearing fruit. Kindly permit me to read you a brief
selection of poetry from the Sassanid dynasty."

He shouldn't have been surprised to find out that Petunia Martinette was
a virgin. At her age, too. My, my. But that hadn't seemed to diminish
her passion any. She had left deep gouges on his back and bite marks on
his neck.

How would she feel about him now? He desperately needed her good will
and patronage. His livelihood depended on it. How could he bind her to
him securely and irrevocably?

"Petunia, my pet, let me love you in a very special way . . . " (Pause to
chant a few quatrains of poetry) "This will bring you to a peak of rapture
attained by only a select few. It must remain a dark secret between just
the two of us. Now get on your hands and knees and lower your head."

Fucking her in the ass caused her momentary discomfort when he entered,
but the *chant* relaxed her back into a receptive trance state. She was
moaning with pleasure by the time he disengaged himself from her anal
aperture.

"The pleasures of sodomitic love, my love. Now we are forever entwined."

Her eyes were distant and dreamy as she smiled at him and sighed. She
was his, his alone . . . and he need never again worry about his next
paycheck.



Four dozen women later, Josiah had refined and elaborated the details
of the seduction system. Certain combinations of sounds chanted in a
particular cadence induced a hypnotic state in "receptive" women. It
needn't be ancient Persian poetry. It didn't even need to be any kind
of poetry at all. It was the tone and the rhythm that did it, that
neutralized the brain's higher thinking centers.

It worked on lonely women, vulnerable women, women with unfulfilled needs
for affection, for touching, for simple sensual release. Such women were
abundant -- all too abundant as it turned out. Josiah had long since
had his fill of flesh and lust and sloppy, wet couplings. Now he just
wanted to be left alone to pursue his studies of his beloved linguistics.

He wasn't left alone. Women constantly approached him, bothered him,
*hounded* him. The only explanation he could come up with was that
he had unconsciously assimilated the "magic" seduction cadence into
his speech and manner. Or maybe it was his new-found reputation as a
demon lover. The only remedy he could think of was to seclude himself,
to avoid human contact.

It was the cleaning lady who did him in. She was a 40-year-old divorcee
with three half-grown children and an annoying habit of snapping her
chewing gum while she talked. She had a quick and lively intelligence,
to be sure, but her tastes were rather low-class.

She was dusting the bookshelves in Josiah's study one afternoon when she
happened to bump up against his tape recorder. It clicked on and began
playing back his transcribed notes.

Seduction? Hypnotizing people into sleeping with you? Suddenly, Maybelline
Bumpus, afficionado of soap operas and avid devourer of romance novels,
became extremely interested. She rewound the tape and began mouthing
sequences of peculiar nonsense syllables over and over.



Josiah Finn awoke in the arms of a woman who looked oddly familiar. Last
night was a blur. All he remembered was coming home and finding the
cleaning lady still there. Had she broken one of his Rosetta Stone
replicas yet again? (Clumsy woman!) Had he forgotten to pay her for the
week? (Too many things to remember!) No, but she had cocked her head
sideways and smiled at him with a strange glint in her eye. She was
missing a couple of front teeth and this gave her a vaguely predatory
appearance. She had said something. What? Nothing he could recall.

She was awake now and smiling at him. It was the same gap-toothed smile.
It was, in fact, the cleaning lady who was sharing his bed. His bed! Had
they made love? (He was sticky down below.) They had made love! She was
saying something. No, chanting. The seduction chant! He felt himself
disappearing into a black hole as his consciousness began to fade. A
savage, mindless lust was taking possession of him. He had to have this
woman! He had to lose himself in her! He had to . . .



Mrs. Maybelline Bumpus Finn is fiercely protective of her husband. She
respects his need to devote himself to his studies and research, free
from the distractions of dealing with people. She screens his visitors
very carefully. Women have an especially hard time getting an appointment
with the professor. Attractive women have no chance at all.

Mrs. Finn is an eminently practical person. She understands her husband's
need for an occasional tryst with the department head. It's a matter of
job security. But she knows he'll always come home to her. After all,
she speaks his language.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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