iately it flies out of the bag and down the rocks. We don't need it. Yes, only now does he notice, as the gadget is already in the air: She did indeed have one in her bag, and one of the earplugs was still in her ear from the climb, but she had already switched the thing off earlier. A pity, perhaps the chamois would have got some enjoyment out of it. The earplug is also pulled out of her, the gadget falls silently past the rock faces. The woman disregards it. She is still trying, through hectic squeezing, stroking, turning and pulling, to at last get the man to come onto her wavelength where they can swim away all alone, but together, the two of them, in the ether, in infinity, for as long as they want, today, however, only at the time we have agreed. It's OK, Kurt, if you've got the cash, Gerti. The lovers. After all they belong to one another at every other time, too, just as they wish. At all times. The woman has ceased to exist and lives only through him. The lips of her vulva are briefly raised, he enters as agreed, and the lips close contentedly behind him. What was that noise, stop!, draws back for a moment and listens, darling, please don't stop, one listens with one's ears or the headphones and not with one's cock. This woman can never tolerate a distraction from herself and her subject, which is again herself. Her soul now buries itself puffing, panting, groaning in his. Earth flies up. We've managed it: The grave gapes open. The woman pulls his hand away from his own genitals, they're growing out of him, so there can't be any misunderstanding. He has to hurry up and get started, and then it should take a very long time and proceed tenderly. She shoves it in with her own hands, what has been held out to her in one hand, grips the rest of the man by the ass, shows her two rows of teeth, cries out, and beats him rhythmically, if at first still somewhat cautiously, but soon more vigorously on the back, she's got a sense of rhythm, but it's her rhythm, not his. But it's precisely at this pace, hers, not his, that the man is immediately supposed to go on, but at the same time stay there and then: never go away again. Go away: no, he can't do that. I believe and see that for their pleasure such people can sometimes behave as if they're crazy, this woman here, for example, but where the pleasure is supposed to lie I don't yet understand. I shall read it off myself and pass it on, if I find it. It exists, this spark of love, but one has to blow strongly on it and stick at it, so that the next time the spark doesn't go out with someone else. When one's in love, then everything is much more beautiful, but also more terrible, knows the woman, probably because a little bit of the spiritual is also involved, isn't it? No, it isn't! He will bring her a beautiful weakness, the man, but not until afterwards, when everything is quiet again and one can think and talk about everything and add oneself at will to what has been thought, at the places where one fits in. But only after it has gone on like that for a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes or as long as you like, a stiff cudgel thrashing the inside of her abdomen and at some point she has to cry out loud involuntarily with pain and pleasure, whether she wants to or not. She doesn't. And she mustn't. Otherwise it will occur to a hiker to see if anyone's there. In between he has to place his hand over her mouth, she'll chase away the animals and all the other hikers with her bawling, and chase them exactly in their direction. But we can't be doing with that now. There's no one there, darling. Everyone's getting ready to go to bed or has already done so. Doing something like that in the freedom of nature could become a habit with her, fears the man, who prefers to do it to her in her house. As caretaker, so to say, no, we don't say it like that. There he feels safe and protected, because it will soon belong to him. Here in the wilderness he almost feels afraid, no, not that, but he doesn't like it so much, one easily gets dirty, and that makes the woman at home suspicious. No, not really. This woman here is a burden. A pest. Today he would perhaps like to treat her somewhat more harshly and also take her from behind, which she doesn't like so much, so that she gets out of the habit of constantly ordering him around. This way, yes, this way, too, no, not from there, please not, I don't want that. Perhaps then at least she'll manage without him for a while, but not too long. Please not. Please not. You're not made of sugar, are you. Perhaps then at least she'll be quiet for a while. He goes at it a little more easily now, the man, he's got time. He'll convince her all right, after he's plumbed her ass a little at the entrance, where no one's keeping watch, that pain is not an expression when someone is suffering. Because there is no expression for it. A scent is stuck in front of his nose, which he doesn't like so much. Now he's in the beautiful forest, he is master of the situation, no matter which, he turns Gerti roughly on her stomach and now he really gives her a chance to shout, but she's somewhat subdued. If she really wants to, then go ahead, she'll have good grounds. No, he would rather have the ground. From which mountain peak has he just come? He's only on his way there? What, hasn't she just asked him to stop again? What, already? He's hardly started. This way it's not quite as nice as usual, Kurti, this isn't the way I imagined it, another way it would be much nicer than usual. Wouldn't you rather like to come from the front, so that I can look at you lovingly as you're doing it? I like that especially, to look into your dear blue eyes. No. That I don't like so much. I prefer it another way. I like it like this and like this. Yet the man could now slowly and thoroughly subjugate a whole nation, and if it were up to him, he would do so at any time. No. He's not going to stop now. In half an hour it will already be pitch dark, and the newspapers would be unable to see the whole nation trembling before him. Someone unimportant, who becomes important, a big event as recently in Ischgl, where the snow turned hard as stone and rose up against the people, because they abused it for their own pleasure. Minus ten, and a terrific band stands behind the popular girl group, girls who can sing terribly loud, whoever they are. Next week it will be a world-famous boy group. We will no longer be able to read the newspaper and not know what is happening to us, when the snow turns into concrete and collects in a single place, where it doesn't belong at all. There's no kissing now. One can't call it rejoicing anymore either, what the woman there is doing, who tried to throw her weight about, but there the man has already shoved her face into the dried up, pointed needles and gleefully rubbed her face in them, so that the decayed, rotting stuff presses into her mouth, nose, and, ouch, into her eyes. He'll come to regret disdaining my genitals, she hopes, although he does love me, but I'll be able to convince him, he doesn't really know about these things yet, I'll persuade him to love and honor all of my genitals and always to support their unfolding. Coughing and spitting and with her butt involuntarily rearing up and twisting round, the body comes and thoughts go until the man, with an almost careless blow to the small of the back, can once again control the spring sacrifice, which he has laid hold of there, finally on this occasion, and she lies motionless. She succumbs to her determination as woman, but she has determined place and time, something at least, no, nothing. She can hardly make so free now as to prescribe all the things he's supposed to do with her and above alclass="underline" where. How long? As long as it suits me. But you don't suit me, you're too tight for me. The: please stop now, I can't anymore, doesn't properly get out of her mouth anymore, because her neck is firmly pinned to the ground as if by a vise and she can only occupy herself with agitated waiting and involuntary flinching and twisting around, because of constantly being pinched, and thrusting her butt, until he's finished at last. Soon a little blood flows. Well, she'll survive, at home we've got a good antiseptic cream for wounds, for use both externally and on the mucous membranes, since we've known this man, but it won't be quite as nice as we had agreed beforehand and as this woman had imagined it. No, this time, unfortunately, it didn't turn out to be as nice as recently, she's almost unconscious now, hey, wake up!, but the woman will, when she takes stock much later, have been happy and content about so much affection and that at least he won't have killed her. Perhaps the next time. But a human being endures a great deal, I sometimes think: everything, but there are worse things than everything, and that is: when one doesn't get everything one wants. The terribly hard pinching of her buttocks wasn't very pleasant either, the woman registers, whose cash register rang and rang, because something was put into it, but without the man appearing to be at all aware of it. The woman counts up her takings-nothing there, how is that possible. Why does he do something like that? Presumably out of love and passion, neither of which could be controlled, and have swept their owner along like last summer's floods, but only half the street, they at least left the other half for next year, and next year the street still won't have been repaired. A fine weakness, in the local authority as among people, which is not to be confused with inactivity. But a new age has dawned meanwhile, don't you think? Do you know, for example, that age in which women determine what they want and when and where and how and why and above alclass="underline" where they want to get to? Is there a secret compassion somewhere in him, thinks this woman, it must be there somewhere, mustn't it? Has it perhaps been half suffocated, because earlier she threw herself so intemperately and gracelessly on this man? But what should she do if she simply can't control herself in his presence? What, you don't know the forest? I do know the forest, except not this one here, how shall I find my way out again? No, there is no secret compassion in this man, I say in his stead, not for anyone. But at least he takes his time with what he does, one has to admit that. However, for some people even time itself lasts too long. They wanted a condensed, abbreviated version of time, so that afterwards they can enjoy the infinity, the eternity of pleasure all the longer. At any rate the man has long ago ceased to be afraid of shit, I can assure you of that. He had to wipe it off his own mother often enough or scratch it off somewhere else or pick it off the floor. Would his penis stand up like that if he didn't like to do all that and didn't like me at least a little, thinks the woman, just as with violent jerks she feels him discharge himself into her and after that fortunately quickly become smaller and slip out of her. No sound apart from loud panting and puffing. Well hello. Is he not pleased at his success, for which he had to struggle long beforehand with himself and with her? Is he not tired by now and would at last like to be a little tender? His grip around the woman's neck relaxes at any rate, with a sigh the man collapses into a loose bundle over her, unfortunately with his whole weight on her back. With that it's already certain that for a while, until he's had a breather, he will cement her breasts into the ground and her breathing will be considerably restricted. But she has enough breath, confidence, and voice left over, in order quietly, but in detail, to declare the following, which she can't hold back, it simply has to come out, now is that supposed to be a question or not? Gabi is supposed to have disappeared, at least that's what I've heard. You see what happens. Didn't you take her straight home yesterday? I know, of course, where she was yesterday and with whom, and what should I do about that now? It serves you right, if she's run away from you, and now you only have me. Where did you drive her afterwards? Why didn't you take her home immediately? You should really know where she is. Will you go to see her again when she's back and drive her to the office early every morning? Don't think that I don't know! I've known it for a long time. Once I even followed you in my car. Where is she now? Since she hasn't come home. I know exactly, that you pick her up almost every day, early in the morning. She tells everyone she takes the early bus or the train, but almost every day she drives to work with you, that's what I've heard. I've heard as a fact, no, as a rumor, she collects used tickets from her colleagues and hands them in for her travel expenses. Her girlfriend says that, and another one, too. There's a few in the village who know it. So if they check, she doesn't need anything else. That's fraud, isn't it. Or worse. They'll surely immediately notice that the number codes on the tickets she's handed in were bought at quite different stops or even for quite different journeys. I've thought about it for a long time. How has the girl got the nerve to do it. You saw her last. Or did you take her somewhere afterwards? Ouch. Don't hit me again, don't ever hit me, and if you do, then not in the face, I've got the impressions of your hands and of the pine needles all over me, people will notice if I have a black eye as well. No, personally I don't care, but I would prefer if you didn't do it and would be satisfied with the love that I give you. Yes. I love you. You love me too. Other people don't know anything. They're not there at night, in my home, it's impossible, no one can pretend as well as that! No one can. You love me, too, I know it, I know it. In fact I don't even exist anymore, only you exist. I would like to talk to someone close to me about all of that, but I have no one. You must love me, a little at least, and one doesn't send what one loves to its ruin. Perhaps we need more room for each of us, not only in our bodies, where space is quite limited, as I noticed again earlier. We need more room for the two of us. My house would be the solution. I agree completely. Let's move in together. Please. I'll let you know immediately if I'm planning a change in this situation. But what should I want to change? I want to change that you always return home to your wife. I want you always to stay with me. Asked about my most intimate feelings, I reply, I would not want to change anything in this respect. I would want to have things exactly as they are now. Except that then you'll always be with me. Then I would not have to long for your presence, because I would constantly have it around me. And if I didn't have it once, then I would, warmly wrapped in the distance which there would briefly be between us, wait until you were with me again. Thanks for that. We have nothing to give away, but we'll be able to afford a bit. I can promise you that. That's more or less what I wanted to say and now I've said it. I long day and night for the sight of you. Look how courteous nature is, it lets us go first, before night falls and one simply isn't noticed anymore. And the ground opens and swallows one up.