by Jack Bantry
The torn hair fluttered from his fingers in thick wisps. He grabbed another bunch close to the bald patches he’d already created and began to tug again, not to cause pain, but to aid control. He pulled down her head as he grinded upwards with his hips. Helen responded in kind, bucking on top of him, matching his motions, becoming cohesive pistons.
Her vision became diluted with red, tendrils of maroon creeping in, pulling the tunnel closer and tighter as her universe became centred on Steve Bessett’s grunting, perspiring face.
They groaned into one another’s mouths, speaking their own, new language. Not so much words, but the sounds people make when they do the things they really want to do, when pleasures are realised and fulfilled without a measure of guilt.
His sounds annoyed her, defeated her own.
Helen reached behind him and grabbed the mouse from his desk, tugging the cable free from the USB port. His mouth was agape, each push and buck of his hips releasing a wheezy grunt. Without breaking motion, Helen crammed the mouse into Steve’s mouth. He guffawed and choked. She wrapped the cable around his neck in three quick whips and pulled tight. His eyes bulged, his cheeks puffed as if suddenly inflated from within. He tried to push past the obstruction with his tongue, still smiling internally as his entire body frothed with pleasure at the freshly inserted kink.
He let go of her hair and settled on her breasts, gripping both and digging his fingers in the flesh as if it were clay, pulling and twisting the handfuls in a keen effort to rip her tits off.
Helen fucked him harder, hips gyrating back and forth, energetic and full bore, fluid and economical in her movements. She didn’t waste a second, grinding full pelt upon him. She needed this. She wanted this. The more the cable cut into him, the harder she fucked him. The harder she fucked him, the more she pulled on the cable. She pressed a palm down over his mouth, covering his nostrils, streams of blood trickled snot burst out of her fingers as he fought for breath.
Steve’s face turned purple, his return thrusts slowed, the bucking of his hips becoming soft, infrequent jolts.
She was winning.
A hot slickness prevailed at the tight spot of their conjoined crotches. Helen’s eyes caught the sight of blood seeping from the darkness between them. She knew it was hers. She’d fucked herself raw; fucking too hard too soon. This made her even wetter, fucking him harder as the thought of damaging herself filled her with even more satisfaction. She wanted him to go through her. To tear. To plunder. To use.
She bucked violently downwards, pushing and twisting his meagre length around and away from his body and pushing off his chest, turning it downward with a snap. The chair leant back from the strain of their combined weight, the wheels squealing as they shot out from beneath them. The back of the chair landed hard, bouncing them both to the side as the chair skittered the other way. She landed hard upon his coccyx, felt him come loose and free inside her. She had broken him. Pain resonated in Steve’s bulging, purple face as his nerves acknowledged the agony of his broken member and responded in kind. He moved to grab her arms, but she dived forward and snatched the keyboard from his desk. She pressed it against his face, turning his head away from hers. Then she raised it high above her head, spitting blood in his face before bringing it down hard across his balding skull. She battered him again, and again, and again, whacking the keyboard down so hard the keys jumped from their placing, spelling nonsense as they landed.
The keyboard shattered into three black shards, circuit boards leaking out like spilled guts. Helen discarded the pieces, then grabbed hold of the cable around Steve’s throat, tugging hard as she ground deeper onto his slackened, though still reasonably hard member.
It wasn’t enough. She grabbed the PC tower, dragging it towards her as she tugged wires free from sockets and raised it above her head. She brought it hard and flat across Steve’s already bloody and purpled face. She wanted to yell a triumphant orgasmic Yes, Yes, Yes, with each successive blow she rained down upon him, but instead her cries of joy came out as primeval grunts that were almost a bark.
As her hips rolled back and forth, Steve’s dislocated penis moved freely within her, following her movements despite the angle. It didn’t fight against her any more, but became more fluid with her movements.
Her insides tingled, her stomach aching, and her crotch burning, but her rising orgasm was just out of reach. Almost there, but not quite reaching crescendo. The summit was beyond a horizon that seemed to move further away the closer she got to it, a cusp that she couldn’t quite grasp. Her frustration grew, and overtook her, her body shaking in anger, the realisation that a satisfactory climax wouldn’t be reached with Steve.
Her partner was now blue and red, spent, his tongue lolled like an escaping slug, bleeding from where he’d bitten it during their fury of passion. Choosing different directions to look into, his eyeballs were bulging outwards and practically boiling with pain as the last remnants of life left him.
But he remained semi hard.
Helen placed one foot firmly on the floor, nearly slipping from the puddle of shared gore that had pooled beneath the office chair, and unsaddled herself from Steve. His semi-rigid, though broken cock fell from her and pointed at the bloody floor at a sad, unnatural angle. It glistened with thick dark blood, a slow stream of pearly pink semen dribbled from the end and into the mire of tainted love in thick, salty drips.
Even in the throes of death, Steve had managed to somehow reach orgasm involuntarily as the life was literally squeezed from him.
She hadn’t won; she hadn’t even come a close second.
The urge to fuck and be fucked, flamed harder and brighter than before.
By someone.
By anyone.
Awake after her frustrating proximity to the little death, her focus returned from the tunnel vision she’d been locked into with her Steve tryst. The red mist diluted back to some semblance of reality. The pain flared from her wounds; missing patches on her scalp that trickled red into her hair, the bites that giggled naughty blood from several points on her person, the purpling finger marks that had exploded like stars on both breasts, and the broken nails she didn’t know she’d broken.
She became aware of her surroundings, other couples, some in threes, even more, were in the process of coital carnage. Screams of both pleasure and pain become tangled together until there wasn’t any difference between the two. Her ears became attuned to the sounds of the office; choking sounds, the comical slap of flesh on flesh, and guttural, wet plunging noises that reminded her of boots being pulled out from thick, wet mud.
She and Steve weren’t the only ones taken over by an urgent primal need to commit adultery with a violent garnish.
The entire office was in the midst of a full on festival of fuck.
The closest coupling involved Margaret Armitage, the homely and rotund head accountant, who only a few minutes earlier had popped out for a cup of green tea, but now sat astride the face of Thomas Prince, the new intern who had only started two weeks before. She sat upon his face, skirt lifted, grinding her crotch into his eager, young face, pressing her ample weight into the space surrounding his open mouth, as he simultaneously guzzled and struggled to breathe. His face was as purple as her blouse, eyes seemingly trying to escape the sockets as pressure mounted behind, whilst thick veins bulged up in a tangled map of newly laid roads.
There was no safe word. Even if there was, he couldn’t speak it.
Tiffany Samson, who happened to the be the largest black woman Helen had ever met, sat astride his adequate penis in a reverse cowgirl fashion, the sway of her tree like legs and hips mirroring that of Margaret Armitage who was having fun at the head end she’d commandeered as soon as the urge had overtaken her. Back in the real world, back before this frenzy had diverted its first synapse, both women had harboured secret fantasies about Thomas when he first started a fortnight before. He was young, toned and shy. They were middle aged and sexless, and quietly eager to act on urges they’d
long thought lost, secrets that they’d confided in Helen’s care with quiet giggles. With their minds free of social constraints, Margaret and Tiffany had wrestled young Thomas to the ground without a fight, where they now sat astride him, using him as a human see-saw, rocking back as forth as they squeezed the young life out of him. Tiffany hadn’t even undone his belt. She’d tugged his cheap supermarket trousers down as far as she could past his bony hips and tugged his member free before mounting herself upon him, his still buckled up belt tucked tight beneath his bulging scrotal sack, the twin eggs looking ready to pop, straining as Tiffany rolled her hips back and forth.
Faces of the other members of staff became lost in the mass of twisting limbs and slithering bodies, until they became one fleshy, fluid swapping entity that squirmed as they penetrated one another. Clothes were half worn, some ripped from backs, whilst others were pulled down as far as needed before penetration could happen. Gender didn’t seem to matter.
A brief moment of clarity befell Helen, as if the old her, the sane her, the one that wouldn’t ever, ever fuck Steven Bessett, broke through with clawing fingers of sanity and glimpsed the strange scene that had grasped hold of everyone in the office and forced them into this carnal dance. Office enemies hate fucked one another. Best friends defied finely tuned social laws and broke down platonic boundaries, firebombing once clearly defined friend zones. Men on men, women on women, and several groups engaged with one another in an octopus tangle of rutting backs and gasping mouths.
Trickles of blood ran down breasts and backs and shoulders as the rising powerful promise of orgasms clenched jaws tight and viced them open just as easily. This extra sensory pleasure, this sexual super charger, changed the safe pressure of love bites into nibbles and then into actual chomps. Chunks of bitten flesh filled mouths muffling the moans of pleasurable pain.
The smell of bright, fresh copper began to overtake the sex smell, that pungent, pleasant aroma that conjures a special memory, a demanding, though pleasant aroma, like opening an old, loved book and becoming lost in the vanillin, or the petrichor aftermath of a good downpour that brings comfort to the senses, telling us that the inclement weather has ceased.
A new odour touched her, even overpowering the heady plumes of ichor that filled the air. It was faeces. It wasn’t identifiable by sight, but the tang was unmistakable. One, or possibly more of the group had literally had the shit fucked out of them. But no one protested or broke rhythm. Soiling oneself during a mass orgy was now a social norm.
She forgot the smell, and concentrated on the sight and how much she wanted to be in the mix of bodies. Anywhere.
In there.
In the fray.
Deep and hard.
Then she was away from her good self again as the urge came back as a wanton tsunami.
She shivered; her mouth formed a sensual O and her eyelashes fluttered as she flirted with everyone, the rush of blood to and from her head somehow washing the sense from her, replacing it with a labial goad.
She needed a new partner. Steve was fucked out.
Her hands moved down as she considered using her fingers to free the frustration, she gave herself a quick touch before pulling them back. She needed something thicker and deeper reaching, nothing else would do.
Stuart Colley, the sandwich guy, who had dutifully delivered snacks in a little hand built cart to each and every floor, nine to five, five days a week, stood by the water cooler, his hand a blur in front of his crotch as he masturbated furiously whilst banging his head against the wall. He had already begun to leave a smear of bright blood like a graffiti tag. Perhaps his head banging was down to a unique frustration at not being able to find a seat at this particular spontaneous mass orgy, so had resulted to getting his kicks by keeping to the substitute bench until an orifice opened up for him.
As if Aphrodite herself was listening to his wishes, a pair of buttocks presented themselves, rising above the mass like a prize. His eyes eagerly widened. Stuart Colley, needing no encouragement, stepped through the mass of meat and inserted his already raw member into the nearest hole.
Helen wanted in. She grabbed the nearest pair of shoulders and violently tugged the woman she didn’t recognise onto the floor, as her vulvic compulsions were paramount amongst all others. The bodies shifted almost instantly, moving like fluid, the exposed pole of flesh becoming swamped by flesh as the crotch of another stole her place.
No more seats at this party. Standing room only. Every hole, every length, every mouth was seemingly taken by the writhing throng. She didn’t want a fight. She wanted to fuck. It would take a new level of aggression if she wanted to be ravaged in this particular orgy.
Helen could have waited, but the urge was too much. It had overtaken her, and moved through her, possessing her like fire on her skin. The flames burned brighter than the midday sun, and the itch tormented her deep within, a thorn in her soul that needed digging out with a fat cock or two.
Seeking further fulfilment, she glanced out of the window and onto the small balcony where members of staff took illicit cigarette breaks instead of heading down to the smoking area on the ground floor. Down in the sun-drenched park below, more bodies mingled in motion. Larger groups of friends and strangers were tangled together, bound and biting, screaming, sucking, fighting, pulling, gouging, squeezing, plunging, grabbing, pleasing, choking and possessing one another, their screams of mingled pain and pleasure uncensored in the afternoon air.
All that mattered was sex.
Fuck or be fucked.
This party was full, but other parties had started.
Carried by the impulsive want she felt bulging within her, the longing pressure that could only be popped by a perfect concoction of pleasure and pain, agony and ecstasy, Helen rushed towards the balcony, the ache inside her barely satisfied, the need, the want, to be fucked to death raging harder and hotter than ever. Helen would have her climax.
Without a pause she put her hands on the rail and vaulted over mindlessly, desperate to join the various orgies that frolicked below.
The wind rushed past her skin, the cool freedom of gravity fluttering the hairs and triggering a million sensations at once. The freefall should have cooled her; instead she burnt up as something was detonated within her, rising and frothing towards the surface.
Her eyes rolled back, she gasped for that last breath as she dug her bloody nails deep into her palm, drawing fresh blood. The other hand wandered to the red patch that throbbed between her legs.
It was coming. She could feel it. And she welcomed the release, closing her eyes as she braced for this final thrust. This was it. The volcano bubbled within, ready to erupt.
Her body impacted with the hard paving below; bones folding beyond bends, blood jumping from sudden openings in the skin and organs liquefying into a bloody internal stew.
She smiled as she came without explanation.
Threesome
by
Ryan Harding
The surprising thing was how aggressively Karla pursued him. She transferred into his anatomy lab at the start of the semester and walked right up to his table like he’d called her over, taking the stool beside him. The plain Jane who’d taken that seat for the past two classes drifted off to another table when she saw her place had been usurped. Just like that, Karla was in Blake’s group with Adrian and some other girl. Three hours passed too quickly all of a sudden, but before the end of the week, he was getting much more than three hours with her outside of class. Karla wasn’t shy about wanting him. Blake was in spelunker mode with her V before the Thursday lab, and it just went from there.
Two weeks and three times as many fucks later, she asked him, “How would you feel about making it a little more interesting?”
“What do you mean?” Blake smiled, but it put him on the defensive a little bit. The implication was that they were somehow already stale or lacking, which for him it wasn’t. It couldn’t be, at least not for a while. She was a goddess.
&
nbsp; We just screwed a minute ago and she’s talking about spicing it up?
She shrugged, like she hadn’t planned this whole proposal and wasn’t sure how to continue. Of course she did. She always had a secret. Figuring it out became a lust unto itself. “Oh, I was just thinking…maybe I could bring a friend? I don’t have to. I just thought you might like it.” The shrug again, like this was all for his benefit and anything other than gratitude would be unreasonable.
She was right about that.
Inside there was an eruption of excitement, like magma bursting against volcanic rock. It warmed him up all over and nudged his penis awake, once again.
Blake had to play it cool, though. This could be a trap. He didn’t want to give the impression like he’d been waiting for something like this his whole life. He had, of course—what guy hadn’t?—but he didn’t really think it would ever happen, and with Karla, he hadn’t been thinking in that direction. She was beautiful. He didn’t use that term lightly in his mind, although he could be casual with it in conversation if it proved to his advantage. He’d told many girls they were beautiful because it was expected, even if they were only marginally attractive. He’d never tried the blunt honesty of, “Hey, you’re fairly cute. There are about fourteen other chicks in here I’d rather fuck, but I’d feel okay about sticking it in you.” He didn’t have high hopes for that gambit.
“A friend?” He furrowed his brow as if pondering. “That’s… interesting, I suppose.”
A horrible thought occurred to him. “You do mean a girl friend, right? I mean, not a ‘girlfriend,’ but… like, not some dude.”