Of course you did! How could any inferior being not miss these regular insights into the day-to-day life of an irresistibly attractive, all-powerful goddess?
Anyway, I’m back at home now following a week’s travelling to and fro around the solar system, visiting my planets. More of that later.
You may recall (your minds are so much feebler than mine, so maybe you don’t) that in my last post, I mentioned the idea of having a statue built in my image to decorate my home. Well, that statue is now in place in my entrance hall, and it looks fantastic! Obviously, it was never going to look anything less than absurdly lovely given the subject matter (me), but it’s even better than that. If you don’t believe me, come and check it out for yourself. If you’re really lucky, I may even let you leave alive…
The statue in my hall is hand-carved from the finest marble. Its base is three-foot tall, and the actual figure (nude of course) stands twelve foot high. I’d imagine it’s quite an awe-inspiring sight for an ordinary person. Not as awe-inspiring as the real thing in the flesh, but then nothing ever could be.
Ever lost your car keys? I haven’t! For one thing, I have perfect recall. For another, I don’t have a car. Why should I bother with a car if I can run hundreds of times faster than the fastest race vehicle, let alone fly at nearly the speed of light? Anyhow, countless times I’ve overheard ordinary people saying they’d searched high and low for their keys. Well, I had to search high and low to find a suitable marble quarry for the material for my statue. In the time it would take the average puny man to look through his house for a set of keys, I scanned much of planet Earth. In the end, of course, I found just what I was looking for.
Having located the quarry, I needed a big, big chunk of material to be cut free for my statue. There were a number of experienced stone masons working there and they would probably have been the best people for the job. However, I thought (correctly, as ever) that it would be a lot more fun if I picked my own work-force. So, from the nearest towns, I hand-picked the ten most attractive, most muscular young men and carried them (it made no difference to me if they struggled) to the quarry. Once there, I roughed them all up a bit (for a laugh), then stripped them naked and set them to work while I watched.
It was hot, and they were soon covered in sweat. After six or seven hours, one of them looked up at me and asked if he could take a break.
“Arm or leg?” I asked him, strolling over.
“Er…” he hesitated.
“Arm it is then!” I told him. I reached out and tapped his upper arm with my forefinger, just hard enough to make the bone inside snap. He started to yell in pain. I told him to shut up and get back to work. There were no more “break” requests until the work was finished, two days and one-and-half nights later.
The boys’ inexperience made the work slower than it needed to be. And, to my amazement, they seemed to get weaker and weaker as the hours passed. As if they hadn’t started out weak enough! The other problem was that I wanted a particularly thick chunk of material. I wanted a perfect representation of myself, so the starting stone had to be deep enough to carve out the shape of my body including my wonderful big breasts and my stunning, curvaceous rear.
Once the men were done, I ordered them to line up. Five minutes later, as they all lay unconscious with various mild to severe injuries, I was forced to conclude that they had been too tired from their exertions to satisfy me sexually. Men! It's just as well there's so many of them all over the world: unless you are ridiculously careful, you can only use each one once, and then you just have to throw them away….
I would have needed to round up another two dozen “strong” (that adjective always makes me laugh) males to move the carved-out block of stone. In the end, I decided not to bother. Instead, I moved the marble the easy way, by picking it up myself. It must have weighed tens of tonnes. Of course, I barely felt the strain, lifting the entire chunk smoothly off the ground with a single hand. I could have effortlessly lifted ten more with that same hand, keeping my free right palm resting on my shapely hip. In fact, I only adjusted my hold to a two-handed one in order to fly the stone home at Mach 2…
My chosen sculptor was waiting, chisel and mallet in hand (as I had ordered him to be) when I descended from the sky carrying the massive piece of marble. I set it down on the floor, making the whole house shake.
“You may begin,” I instructed. The artist got to work immediately.
It quickly became boring watching him work, so I decided to spice things up. “Let’s have a race,” I announced. The confused sculptor looked up from his work, waiting on my every word. “I’m going back to the quarry,” I explained. “When I get there, I’m going to carve out four more pieces of marble just like that one. After that, I’ll install them: one on Venus, one on Mars, one on one of the moons of Jupiter and the fourth one on Pluto. Then I’m going to shape each of them into perfect representations of myself. If I can complete the task and get back here before you’ve finished, I win. OK?”
“OK,” the artist agreed. That was hardly surprising: he’d already learnt that questioning my words (let alone actually disagreeing) is an exceptionally painful, not to mention futile, exercise.
“To make it more fun,” I said “let’s have a bet. If I win, I break both your legs. But if you win, I only break one of them. Fair?”
He swallowed hard and nodded, knowing he had no choice in the matter. I smiled. “Right then… Ready, Steady, Go!”
I flew to the quarry in under an hour, my supersonic wake almost sending a jet airliner into a spin as I shot past. Once there, I directed my heat vision onto the solid marble face. What had taken ten big men forty hours to accomplish, I managed in thirty seconds. The beams from my eyes cut through the stone like a hot knife through soft butter. Having carved out one chunk, I moved straight on to the next without even taking a step from where I was standing.
A few minutes later, I was carefully balancing four massive pieces of stone on my upturned palms. Stacked together, they were the size of a van and dozens of times heavier, but I’d be lying if I said I found it difficult to fly off carrying them. I had to fly slower than I would have liked so as not to drop my load and also to prevent it overheating as I took it through the upper limits of the atmosphere, but once out in space, I was free to speed up.
I went to Venus first. I planted a slab on end, pressing it down into the rocky surface of the planet. They say Venus is too hot to support life and that the atmosphere is poisonous, but I was quite comfortable there. Running around the marble, I carved small pieces of it away with tiny blasts of heat-vision, making a perfect, double-sized replica of my physical glory. In all it took nearly five minutes to complete the work.
After that, I gathered up the remaining three giant slabs and headed for Mars. Having already done it once, it was even easier to sculpt the block I left on the red planet. Three-and-a-half minutes later, I was streaking away from the latest magnificent new monument to my greatness, two big square blocks of marble resting on my outstretched arms.
I had figured that it would be a waste of time leaving a statue on the surface of Jupiter. No other living being would ever see it there, as only I am invulnerable and powerful enough to survive the pressures there. So instead, I installed the stone image of myself on one of the gas giant’s moons. I chose Europa, because there’s a good chance a mission from Earth will land there one day. I had to laugh, thinking of how freaked out those future astronauts will be when they see my work!
Finally, it was on to Pluto. Now, I know it’s not considered a proper “planet” anymore but being solid (not made of gas) made it a lot more suitable place to leave a statue than Saturn, Uranus or Neptune. I used a warm waft of my breath to temporarily melt some of the surface "ice" so that the block of marble was well and truly fixed in place when the liquid re-solidified. Pluto’s supposed to be too cold for any kind of life, but I felt just fine in my thin, tight T-shirt and shorts. My nipples weren’t even any larger than normal (but then, they are pretty big normally).
With three successful carvings behind me, I finished the heat-vision remodelling of the block in just a couple of minutes and stood for a while admiring my work. Then I took off for home. I might have been right at the very edge of the solar system, but with no “delicate” slabs to carry, I got back inside three-and-a-quarter hours.
“I win!” I declared, triumphantly, as I walked into my home to find the sculptor still at work. In fact, he’d only managed my head and shoulders. He was hard at work, chiselling out the massive curved recess that would become my cleavage. He looked amazed as he saw me. Amazed, and terrified.
As you would expect, I was magnanimous and generous in victory. I did not break the artist’s legs until he had completely finished his work, three days later. Two little flicks of my bare foot broke the bones. While he screamed, I showed there were no hard feelings by blowing him a little kiss that sent him rolling, head over heels, across the entrance hall, out of the open front door, down the steps and half-way along the drive.
When he finally came to a halt, I called out cheerfully, “If you’re still there in ten minutes, I’ll kill you.” Then I went back inside to admire his work. It wasn’t up to the standards of what I had achieved out in space (naturally) but it wasn’t a bad job. I’m happy enough to keep the statue in my home.
I’m also more than happy to leave the four other monuments on my various other new properties (or “planets” and “moons” as you might call them.) Yes, they are mine now. The whole of Venus, Mars, Europa and Pluto belongs to me. My statues are all the proof of ownership needed. Don’t bother trying to quote international treaties at me. My slender sexy body contains more strength than you could ever possibly imagine and no weapon on Earth can even tickle me. So if I say a planet’s mine, it’s mine.
Have I mentioned lately how wonderful it is being me?
Thursday 14 September 2006 17:55 BST (GMT+1)
It starts off familiarly enough: you get into your car and start the engine.
After that it starts to get a little weird: the motor fires up, you put the car into gear, the engine roars… and nothing happens.
Confused, you press down on the accelerator again. The wheels spin. Still the car doesn’t budge. Smoke rises from the tires.
Then it gets completely freaky: the vehicle’s frame creaks loudly. The rear of the car seems to be rising. In the drivers’ seat, you are being tilted forward. In panic, you turn around. The view out of the back is partly blocked by… the upper half of a female torso. For a moment you are distracted by the sight of the fabulous large round breasts contorting a tight, thin T-shirt.
The car continues to rise. A flawless neck becomes visible. The car is now at a forty-five degree angle to the road. Your papers slide off the passenger seat. A wide, sexy grin can now be seen through the rear window. You have to use your hands to stop your head hitting the steering wheel.
Craning your neck, you see the most beautiful young female face you’ve ever beheld, grinning down at you through the back window. Then it disappears and is replaced by sky as the car tilts almost to upright. You scream in confused terror. You catch a snatch of the sound of a woman laughing cruelly. Then the car tips past its balancing point and crashes down onto its roof, completely flipped over. The engine is silent now and the laughter is louder than ever.
You decide to get out, injuring yourself as you release the seat-belt. Just as you are reaching up to open the door and climb out of your upside-down car, your vision is filled by a pair of perfect, bare ankles. You twist your neck to look up at two glorious long, shapely legs.
A metallic groan and then the door of the car flies off. A hand descends from above, reaching into the car for you. You try to move away but five slender yet immensely powerful fingers grip your arm and then pull you out of the vehicle as if you were weightless. You find yourself being slowly lifted. You see the thighs at the top of the legs. A pair of tiny, tight shorts.
And then that T-shirt. It’s so tight, you can see the subtle abdominal muscles beneath the fabric. Still you rise. You’re so close that the T-shirt is all that you can see. The massive swell of the stunningly firm, awesomely round breasts passes less than an inch in front of your face for a few fantastic seconds. Then the neck. And then that perfect, beautiful, grinning mouth with its immaculate teeth.
Of course, it’s “just” me. My feminine hand under your rear fender, holding the car still when you fired up the engine. That same hand, at the end of my slender arm effortlessly lifting your entire car with you in it off the road and then flipping it over. Then, my single finger ripping the door off. One arm pulls you out and lifts your face (slowly) up the glorious front of my body…
It’s like a beautiful erotic dream.
A dream that becomes a nightmare. A nightmare for you that is. I just keep laughing...
Friday 15 September 2006 17:58 BST (GMT+1)
As I was leaving my house this morning, I walked past the statue in the entrance hall.
I paused to look at it for a moment, thinking (not for the first time) about how magnificent it looks. At twice the "actual" size, my physical perfection is particularly evident. My body is so glorious, it's as if my external appearance is an extension of the incalculable power within.
It's difficult, at such times, not to wonder. If a twelve-foot high statue of me is so inspiring, just how mind-blowingly awe-inspiring would a fifty foot monument be? Or a hundred foot one?
I'm sure I could make one that size myself. Picking up a hundred foot high block of stone and carrying it wherever I wanted would be well within my capabilities. But there'd be a more fitting way of creating such a huge statue of myself: having one built by other people for me.
Now, for that scale of operation, I'd need millions of workers. Probably, a whole city full. I'd have to conquer the local military, and subdue the population. Then I would command them to construct the largest statue in the history of Earth, dedicated to their sexy, all-powerful new ruler.
Once it was built, I would hover in the sky, "standing" on thin air, with my hands on my hips and my fabulous chest thrust out, watching haughtily over the millions as they worshipped at the foot of my monument...
Actually, that's one of my favourite fantasies. And the best part of it is that I could make it come true tomorrow if I wanted...
Monday 18 September 2006 20:11 BST (GMT+1)
Well, Friday's post seems to have made a few people nervous.
I never said that I plan to enslave a major city and force its inhabitants to build a giant statue in my honour. I merely said that I could do it and that if I did do it one day, it would be a lot of fun.
Now, just because overpowering an army and a couple of million civilians is something I could achieve with ease does not necessarily mean I intended to carry out such a scheme in the near future. I was more than powerful enough to do it yesterday, but I didn't. The same goes for today. Why should tomorrow be any different?
Conquering a city would hardly be a test of my abilities. I possess more strength in my shapely, sexy body than there is in every single tank-engine on Earth combined. And on this planet, nothing can harm me. Defeating, and ruling over the whole of humanity is well within my grasp, should I chose to grasp it.
Please don't think that I'm put off by the bloodshed that would accompany any global take-over. It wouldn't be my blood getting shed. No, the only reason I have not exercised the world domination option is that I prefer a quiet, low-profile existence. Put simply, it's more fun remaining incognito.
So, to put your minds at ease: I have no plans to take over the world this year.
And there's no point worrying about me having a change of heart. If I did reverse my opinion, there'd be nothing any of you could do about it anyway. Well, nothing but wait for my orders...
Tuesday 19 September 2006 18:02 BST (GMT+1)
Despite the reassurances I gave yesterday, some people are still frightened by my little city-enslaving, giant-statue-commissioning daydream.
Of course, you have every reason to be frightened because you, and all the rest of the people of Earth, are so utterly defenceless against me. But, like I said, worrying about the fact that one day I might decide to take over the world isn't going to prevent it happening any more than all the soldiers, guns and bombs in the world could.
Some people seem to have missed the point of my little fantasy completely. Take this correspondent, for example:
O Plenipotent Blogger:
A twelve-foot-tall marble statue of Blogger in all her super-powered pulchritudinous glory! What a truly awe-inspiring sight that must be!
Whilst I approve of the suitably respectful salutation, the author is much mistaken if he thinks he can impress me with a couple of fancy words. Don't forget how easy it would be for me to make you eat that thesaurus!
But -- it occurs to me that there's another way you might have gotten a statue of yourself made. It wouldn't have been twelve feet tall, but it would have captured every magnificent contour of your body in perfect detail.
All you'd have to do is requisition a foundry for a few hours, and explain your intentions to the steelworkers. (I know how persuasive you can be.) You'd stand -- naked and posed -- on the floor of a vat as it slowly filled with red-hot molten steel. I can imagine the liquefied metal rising higher and higher -- knee-deep, then hip-deep, then up to your neck -- until you were fully submerged. To you, of course, it would feel like a nice warm bath.
Do you seriously think I did not know about this method of casting? I, a goddess whose perfect mind is only overlooked because of my soul-shatteringly glorious beauty? I wanted a statue for my home that was twice as big as me, because that is the only way to leave the observer in an adequate state of awe. If the subject is larger-than-life, shouldn't the statue be so, too?
Also, you are incorrect. Molten steel would not feel like a "nice warm bath" to me. The burning gases at the edge of the sun feel like a "nice warm bath". Molten steel barely even registers as "tepid".
...once the steel solidified, the slightest twitch of your super-muscles would split the block in two ... and you'd have a mould of your body. Just join the two halves together and pour molten gold or silver or platinum into the cavity, and voila -- a perfect life-sized likeness of Blogger.
A "twitch" of my muscles would not split a block of steel in two. It would shatter the steel into a million fragments that would explode outwards from my stunning body. I'd have to use the utmost care to cause the block to split in half so that it could be used as a mould.
And you could use the mould over and over. Every city in the world could boast a statue of you!
You just don't get it, do you! Why would I want to make a mould that could be used to quickly and efficiently mass-produce statues of myself? And why would I settle for such little statues?
All the fun is in making men build the statues by hand! The larger the statue, the more it dominates the skyline of each city, reflecting the nature of my power. Thousands and thousands of men would have to work non-stop for weeks to create monuments to my glory, purely because my whim would dictate it...
Such a lovely daydream...
Wednesday 20 September 2006 19:15 BST (GMT+1)
"Has anyone ever told you that you are stunningly beautiful?"
I couldn't believe my ears. Some puny man was trying to win my affections with an unbelievably clichéd line. Not in a bar, but in the otherwise deserted park shortly after six in the morning.
I spun around to see who would dare proposition me so crassly and saw a young man, several days unshaven, in a creased suit. His red eyes and blotchy complexion revealed that he had not slept much in the previous twenty-four hours (whereas my complexion was perfect as always, even though I haven't slept ever).
"Seriously," he tried again (amazingly enough), "has anyone ever told you that?"
"Loads of guys do every day," I replied, pretending to yawn. "It's hardly an insightful observation."
Naturally, the fellow looked a little hurt by my reaction. "Well," he said, defending his wounded pride, "I just had to tell you."
"And now you have told me," I replied. "I hope it was worth the agony."
His brow knitted in sudden confusion. "The... 'agony' ?" he naively inquired, "What 'agony' ?"
"This agony," I grinned. I focussed my eyes on him, activating a very careful, exceptionally mild blast of heat-vision. Twin beams of feint light shot from my pupils, converging on the young man's ankles, instantly igniting the hem of his trousers. He screamed in pain and horror as I played my lasers briefly up and down his body, setting fire to all of his clothes and burning his skin.
I strolled happily away, leaving him rolling on the grass in panic as he desperately tried to extinguish the flames. Frankly, I had better things to do than listen to a man's pathetic whimpers...
Monday 25 September 2006 22:01 BST (GMT+1)
Well, I think I've finally satisfied my statue-craze (for the time being, anyway).
There's a meteor, about the size of a four-storey house, currently passing about a million miles from the planet Neptune. That's to say, there's something that used to be a meteor passing Neptune.
These days, it doesn't look much like the ball of space-rock it once was. Not since I caught up with it and with a combination of agile, fluid flying and powerful, precise blasts of heat-vision, converted it into the biggest, most stunning replica of my physical glory yet.
The thing is still hurtling through space at thousands of miles an hour, spinning just as it was when I redesigned it. That I managed such a magnificent carving job despite the constant rapid movement of my material is a testament to my goddess-like powers. Sometimes I impress even myself.
Anyway, judging by its trajectory when I left it, my handiwork should be passing not too far from Earth in a couple of decades. It should cause quite a stir!
Tuesday 26 September 2006 17:35 BST (GMT+1)
People in these parts (that's ordinary people, of course, not me) are constantly moaning about roadworks.
They complain about having to walk around holes in the pavement or circumventing temporary barriers, or being forced to drive around diversions and so on. Naturally, you never hear such negativity from me. Then again, I can jump over mountains, let alone small holes in the ground. And I can walk right through fences and barriers as if they weren't there, letting my gorgeous body smash everything in its path.
People also drone on about the tools used by workmen. They say they're too loud. Loud?! They should try having a thermonuclear warhead exploding next to their ears! If only they could survive more than two hundredths of a second of the initial detonation, they'd stop referring to road-drilling as "too loud".
With my superhearing, I have no such problems. I can "tune out" sounds, no matter how near or how loud. I can hear the beating of a fly's wings next to a jet engine working at full power, merely by concentrating a little. If you were to hide somewhere in a fifty-storey block, with music blaring at full volume in every room, I could still locate your precise location from the sound of your heartbeat... without even needing to enter the building.
Road-working tools are, much like the guys who work with them, fun for a little while until they prove too weak and fragile and inevitably end up breaking. Case in point: yesterday evening.
I borrowed a pneumatic drill from some local workers. OK, it wasn't strictly-speaking "borrowing" as I didn't return it. But no-one tried to stop me taking it. Perhaps that was because I moved too quick to be seen by "normal" eyes, running into the work area and snatching the drill from the guy using it.
He was holding on pretty tight at the time, but all that meant was that he suffered seven or eight broken fingers and a couple of badly cut hands. His grip certainly had no effect on the total ease with which I pulled the device from his grasp. I had time to grab the drill with one hand and the attached motorbike-sized industrial compressor with the other.
Together, the two items weighed over a tonne, which, in my terms is as good as weightless. The "burden" certainly didn't slow me down at all. I was just a blur to the poor, hopeless, pathetic men. In fact, I was already half a mile away before the ex-driller started to scream in pain, and twice as far again by the time he or his colleagues realised that two large, heavy pieces of construction equipment had vanished.
Anyway, I'll tell you about the fun I had with my "loud" new toys next time...
Wednesday 27 September 2006 18:05 BST (GMT+1)
As a general rule, I don't need help. For anything.
Of course, you already knew that. There's nothing that anyone else can do that I can't (and an uncountable number of things that I, and no-one else, can do).
So, usually, when logistics conspire against me, I just force the situation back into my favour. I'm strong enough to (literally) bend the world according to my wishes. If I want to grip both ends of an object that's bigger than my arm-span (say, for example, a eighteen-wheel truck) then I can just crush the object with my hands and my glorious body until it is the right size.
That's normally fine, and it's really no effort for me to accomplish such feats. I once reduced an entire fleet of heavy goods lorries into basketball-sized lumps of greasy metal, first by squeezing bits of vehicle between my palms and eventually by getting my arms around the compressed chunks and hugging them tight to my magnificent, voluptuous chest.
Sometimes, however, that kind of solution just won't do. My new pneumatic drill is a good example of this. The large, heavy-duty solid metal tip of it, hammering powerfully enough to pulverise concrete many times a second, intrigued me. The only problem was that the switch to activate it was on the handle.
I'd stripped naked and lain down on my back with my knees bent and spread. You might think these industrial tools are heavy but it felt feather-light to me as I lifted it and positioned the business end between my round, silky thighs. And that's when logistics conspired against me.
You see my arms are long. Shapely, slender (powerful beyond your ability to even imagine) and long. They are the perfect length, just as every part of my body is the perfect dimension. But they are not long enough to reach the far end of the pneumatic drill when I hold the near end an inch away from my intimacy. Long, but not that long!
The obvious solution for someone as strong as me would have been to bend and compress the drill until it was about half of its original length. As a physical challenge, it would be easier for me to accomplish than tearing a single sheet of paper is for you. But, I knew that the thing was not designed for such abuse and that reshaping it would inevitably stop it from working. And, above all else, I wanted it to be fully-functioning.
In the end, I had to resort to using self-adhesive tape to stick and hold the trigger-switch in the "on" position. That meant that the drill was working at full power as I brought it towards the entrance to my womanhood. Carefully, I drew the furiously pistoning steel chisel-like tip towards my waiting sex until, finally, deliciously, it came within striking range.
If you are one of those who thinks these pneumatic devices are loud when they're being used to smash up concrete, you should have heard the noise it made pounding against my invulnerable nether lips. It felt a little like a tongue flicking many times a second at the edge of my vagina, only many times more intense. I found myself moaning with pleasure in response.
The thrusting metal, whilst easily powerful enough to reduce stone to rubble, was nowhere near sufficiently strong to actually enter me. Until, that is, I made a conscious effort to relax my inner muscles (like I do every time I take a man). Then it slipped in, giving me fabulous tingles as it continued to vibrate up and down inside me.
Experimentally, I clenched myself within and found that I could easily hold the hammer still with just the muscles of my sex, despite the best efforts of the big noisy compressor. I relaxed again and let the drill resume its work of pleasuring me until, in combination with my free hand squeezing my breasts and then pinching a nipple with enough force to vaporise solid steel, I reached a very pleasant orgasm.
I rode the waves of pleasure for a minute or so until I finally began to come down from my peak. I couldn't resist giving the thing a final squeeze with my vagina, and enjoyed the feeling of the metal deforming under the vast pressure exerted by my womanhood. Then I pulled it out, and removed the sticky tape from the switch to finally silence it.
After admiring the resculpturing job I had done on the hammer tip for a brief moment, I used two fingers to easily squeeze it back into something resembling its original shape, ready for the next time I want to use it.
Thursday 28 September 2006 19:45 BST (GMT+1)
One of the reasons I love where I’m living now is the fact that my house is huge and set in big gardens.
That means the nearest neighbour is two hundred yards away. The main reason why this is a good thing is the noise issue. I can make an absolute racket without anyone complaining to the authorities (like they did a few times in my old place). It was always such a pain, first having to scare off the people who came to investigate the claim and then intimidating the complainant into never, ever moaning about me again.
Take the other day, when I was playing with my pneumatic road drill. In the flats where I used to live, fifty other people would have heard the noise. But here, I could have left the thing running all day and all night and no-one would have noticed. In fact, it got me thinking: how much noise can I get away with here?
It was time for an experiment. I went out and found a test subject. Some other women like to “pick up” men in bars and clubs. I pick them up (literally) wherever I find them. This one I found in a quiet side-street. I grabbed him under the chin and while he was still too shocked to react, I pulled his face to mine and kissed him firmly on the lips, carefully drawing in just enough air from him to knock him unconscious without collapsing his lungs and other organs.
I carried him home wrapped up in a large sheet which I slung over my shoulder. Passers-by probably thought I was carrying around a big load of feathers, rather than a large, fit young man, because I manoeuvred his weight so effortlessly.
Once inside, I dumped the sheet on the floor, letting my test subject roll out onto the carpet. Then I fetched some water which I threw over him to wake him up.
“Where am I? Who are you?” he asked groggily as he came to.
“Silence!” I ordered him, giving him a very, very gentle kick (well, more of a prod with my bare toes than a kick) in the ribs. The force of the contact lifted him briefly from the floor and made him cry out. That was a good start, but I needed much more noise than that from him. Needless to say, I got it.