A Slashfic

It's about time for a fun post. So, taking my inspiration from the delightful regyt, I bring you... philosophy slash. (Warning to the easily squicked: proceed at your own risk!)

Bored by my paper on the philosophy of mathematics, I summon up a mental image of Ludwig Wittgenstein. He comes to me sporting a schoolboy uniform and a large erection. "I have some rules for him to follow," I declare in my strictest headmistress voice. He nods and wordlessly hands me a metal ruler.

"Recite the six-times table," I command, rapping him lightly on the knuckles.

He complies, standing in the middle of my office as I circle him, brandishing the ruler. "... Six times three is eighteen. Six times four is thirty-six." At this point, our common practice dictates that I smack him on the rump. "Six times five is thirty-eight." Another smack, slightly harder than before. He goes on in the same way. (I must say, from the way his cock jumps each time I hit him, I suspect he is breaking the rules deliberately.)

When I've had enough of our little language-game, I decide it's time for him to remove his uniform. I express this thought perceptibly through the senses: unraveling his tie; unbuttoning his shirt and trousers; then pulling everything off hastily and tossing it to the floor. I look with pleasure on his general form. "Chair!" I command, and he sits down in the wooden seat I've reserved for guests. I plop down next to him in my considerably comfier wheelie chair, and proceed to remove my skirt.

"Here is a hand", I say, grabbing his right hand. He seems unsure as whether I've expressed a verifiable proposition, so I demonstrate the use of the hand by placing it between my legs. He catches my meaning now, and sets to work without asking for further explanations. I grab hhis cock, so that the elements of my body correspond to the elements of his.

He is flushed and panting; his blood pressure has doubtless increased. I, too, am breathing heavily. But do we experience the same sensations? Does he feel the same tightness in the stomach, the same explosive lightness in the chest? When I recall that it felt just like this last time, am I remembering correctly? To distract myself from these questions, I rake my fingernails across his thigh. He moans.

"Did that hurt?" I ask. He nods in reply. "How do you know it hurt?" Silence. "Would you like me to do it again?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me how it felt."

"Like pain." This frustrates me, but I have to admit, it's a reasonable answer to the question I asked. I scratch him again, harder. He tries to describe his pain, but I realize it's no good; there's no such thing as a shared private language. I cover his mouth with my free hand. What else can I do? Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

[/slashfic]

Yeah, I realize this is some prime blackmail material to be placing on the Internet. In theory, I could be outed as a huge dork.