The Last Man
Three identical, exceptionally beautiful and voluptuous twin sisters, born as triplets (which is very common with all the artificial inseminations), sneak into my bed. And I am mesmerized by the six identical breasts, spilling over me from all directions, and I am beside myself
By: Extinct Tail
I dreamed that I was the last man in the world. At first, I'm afraid to poke my nose out of bed - lest they eliminate me, God forbid - after all, it's only because I didn't come out from under the blanket that they forgot me here. But then I realize that in a world of women only, even if I might be an inferior creature - sexually and socially - I am a world-class attraction. And who knows what's happening outside, surely there's abundance and world peace, and surely all women walk naked in the street, now that there are no men, that's how I imagine it (I'm still a man, after all). And I go out to the street from my den for a stroll, and all the women, who are actually dressed and impeccably groomed, look at me, with a mixture of desire-disgust-admiration-nostalgia, and it turns me on terribly, and it seems to me (in my male brain!) that it turns them on too. Countless women stare at me shamelessly.
And slowly I become a celebrity. At first, many famous women want to date me, hundreds of women simultaneously want to mark an X on a man in their resume, and there's no greater prestige than being an ex of the only man in the world (even if the relationship lasted only one night). And if it's a conquest of someone very famous - it only creates more buzz. And so each time I find myself someone more and more amazing, a thousand levels above my league. And I think that finally what is written in the prophet is coming true, that in the end of days gender relations will be reversed - and women will chase after men instead of the opposite: "A woman shall court a man". The dream of the prophets has come true.
But the truth is that I think less and less about prophecies and dreams in bed, because it's hard to concentrate in the shadow of breasts. And there's already a regular segment about me at the end of the news broadcasts that's called "Tail News", and legions of fans crowd around my bed, and the queues at the entrance to the room stretch for kilometers. But very quickly my unscrupulous manager realizes that media power is also political power. I'm increasingly surrounded by the most ambitious women on the planet, and I really don't leave the bed anymore, just like in the beginning. Only now they've built a palace around the bed. And there's a ten-year wait for the harem. King of the world.
And I can't even move a hand or foot out of my bed even if I wanted to, and I don't need to either, because they bring me everything I need to the bed, or could even want. And there's an endless stream of naked women to my bed of all ages, who want to be with a man once in their life, even though the cost is ten years' salary. Or young women who want to lose their virginity to a man - a new trend among billionaire daughters, because prices are skyrocketing, and this is how they show the world they can afford it - there's nothing like making others jealous. What can you do, not all of them are lesbians, even though we've progressed a lot, and we don't need men for reproduction anymore, and it's also forbidden to produce them anymore (and honestly, it's not even possible - the Y chromosome has long been extinct).
And legends develop around me, about what a man really is, and how a man is in bed, and these stories feed themselves, because they arrive so excited that I don't need to do anything anymore, and I become a living legend. And they all say that the male brain is something special, and mixes fantasy and reality indiscriminately, and even the high-browed critics in the newspapers are ecstatic about the rich inner world of the man, which is so flattering - revolving entirely around women. And all the world leaders court me, because I'm so popular and above all controversy, and they come to consult and lie in my bed, because it's a unique prestige that the manager gives them for free. And they hold international conferences in my bed, which are always very successful behind closed doors, and the honorable committee members are very excited to award me the Nobel Peace Prize (and since I don't go outside - the ceremony is held under the sheets).
And so gradually I accumulate enormous power, thanks to my extremely forceful and ambitious managers in the palace, who rule the harem with an iron fist, and there's already a principled agreement to appoint me as a constitutional world sultan. He's the only one who can lead to unity - to be the head of the global village, because the male brain has a special view of reality (did you know that men don't care what nationality you are in bed? A man is a wonderful thing! They treat everyone equally, from all races, classes and backgrounds - including those needing nurturing from developing countries - if only they have a developed chest). And there's a new critical stream of femininity, of intellectuals who claim that only the complementary perspective of the man can save humanity - and it's so lacking in the world. And they long for the male depth we've lost of the classicists (is it a coincidence they're all men?), compared to our shallow and contemporary female culture, and they beat their breast over the sin of man's extinction.
And because conspiracy theories start to circulate that I don't really exist (and that they had to invent me!), they take the bed out to the balcony and I give speeches from it to the incited crowd demonstrating in my favor: I have male thinking that none of you have, I think about the world from the bed! My brain is located between my legs, not like yours between your ears, and from there many ideas grow for me. And all my commentators in the media explain: only a man who rules the world will bring world peace, and unite humanity in the face of catastrophic global problems, which we women have degraded the world to. Only the king of the world will turn us into a people. Together, all daughters of man.
And here on the night before the coronation, apparently as a very special gift, three identical, exceptionally beautiful and voluptuous twin sisters, born as triplets (which is very common with all the artificial inseminations), sneak into my bed. And I am mesmerized by the six identical breasts, spilling over me from all directions, and I am beside myself with desire. Unable to decide between them at all and becoming addicted to the femininity that envelops me without doing anything. And they tie me up, and I laugh, and then I see that one is holding a knife. And the second covers my mouth and the third brings ice, and puts it down there. And I still manage to think what kind of crazy game this is, when they blur me there. And then the three terrorists castrate me, and I look at them in amazement and tell them you've gone mad, and they say: everyone deserves the same thing - equality!
And they take it with them frozen, and hurry outside with the project's scientist, who closes the door in a white coat and promises: I have here in my hand hundreds upon hundreds of millions of children. In the next generation - normal life. And from now on no one will be interested in your ideas anymore, and you too - I promise - won't be interested in your own ideas anymore. And the main thing is that we won't have to hear these incomprehensible delusions of grandeur again in the tail news - even you won't understand what you wanted from them.
And she's right. The palace is closed, the harem is dispersed, and I'm back in bed alone, but I no longer have a unique bed-view, and I barely think about women. Maybe occasionally I remember how the whole world was a herd and I was the male, but I don't know anymore what I found in them at all. How could I worship those round lumps of fat, whose name alone would make me tremble all over from within: breasts. And I don't remember even one that it was really nice with her, or that I was really nice to her, or that she was really nice to me (and it's not that I wasn't nice, right?). But the world has long moved on, and it turned out that indeed no one needs me - even without me there is world peace. And all human beings are brothers.