Best Fantastic Erotica

by Cecilia Tan

  “Excellent, excellent,” coos Dr. Blonde as she walks around the machine, testing leads, positioning the dildos and probes just so, making sure all is prepared. Lascivia holds a small box roughly the size of a large video-game controller.

  “We’re ready to begin,” she says with a snicker.

  “Look, lady,” moans Victoria suddenly, her voice going from meek to strident. “I don’t know who you are or where you come from, or why you think you can do it to us, but—”

  With a sigh, Dr. Blonde presses a button in the remote control and Victoria gasps as she feels her mouth suddenly filled with a huge, throbbing, thrusting dildo.

  “Hey—” begins Ned, before his mouth fills with an even larger dildo—men having, at least in Dr. Blonde’s opinion, bigger mouths.

  The straps around Victoria’s and Ned’s heads keep their mouths securely on the dildos as the amazingly-lifelike penises seethe and throb, pumping them from their lips to the very entrance of their throats.

  “Not everyone is orally erotic,” sighs Lascivia, “but I imagine that for any woman with ‘Leather Bitch’ tattooed on her ass, it’s a good bet.” Lascivia toys with the controls, circling the machines and running a long-nailed hand over Victoria’s naked ass. She still wears her black leather chaps, which leave her crotch and ass fully revealed but still present quite a fetching picture. Lascivia is so fond of black leather.

  Her fingers work the controls and the machine swirls into action.

  Victoria tries to utter a moan of terror—and is wholly unsuccessful due to the thrusting dildo in her mouth and throat—as she feels the entrance to her pussy poked and prodded, opened deftly by a narrow probe pumping out copious amounts of lubricant. As Victoria is penetrated, she feels suddenly that, in fact, the lubricant is wholly unnecessary. Her face reddens inexplicably.

  Meanwhile, Ned is squirming and writhing against the machine as a similar probe floods his tight asshole with thick lubricant. Within moments, Ned has felt the press of the thick cockhead capping an enormous rubber shaft as it begins to penetrate his now well-lubricated orifice. Ned, contrary to Victoria’s knowledge of him, is not exactly a stranger to passive anal intercourse, so the moan that tries to force itself out of his mouth around the thick thrusting dick is not one of terror or pain but of sheer, raw surrender. This is doubled by the fact that Ned’s hard cock is being kneaded, slapped, stroked and abraded tenderly by the machine, two mechanical sleeves pumping him viciously as he rocks back and forth in the seat.

  As Ned moans, Victoria feels herself penetrated by the big dildo which forces its way in to her aching pussy. Much to her surprise, she has a sudden orgasm at that moment, brought on by the combination of being penetrated and the sudden surge of electrical current through her clit. Lascivia Blonde utters an evil laugh as she sees Victoria quiver in orgasm. Then, she works another lever on the remote control, and Victoria realizes in an instant that the thick cock thrusting into her cunt is the least of her concerns. For at that moment, a second probe has wriggled its way into Victoria’s rearmost entrance, and one rather more snug. Victoria lets out a yelp which gets muffled in the bulk of the dildo in her mouth, and a shudder goes through her body as she feels the slender probe entering her ass and pumping thick, jellied lubricant into it.

  Lascivia Blonde cackles wickedly, punching buttons randomly as she dances about the room with her prodigious breasts popping out of her skintight leather corset. The leathergirls, crouched in the darkness around the machine, are uttering their own kind of laughter, more subdued but no less gleeful. As Dr. Blonde works the controls on the remote, various metal devices fold out of the machinery on all sides of Ned and Victoria. A neurological pinwheel rolls swiftly up Victoria’s back, eliciting a squirm of pleasure. A forklike device pokes and prods Ned’s hairy ass-cheek. A mechanically-operated ping-pong paddle smacks Victoria on the behind, causing her to gurgle deep in her well-fucked throat and tense up her ass-muscles-even as the thickness of the second dildo is beginning to force its way into her ostensibly-unwilling orifice.

  Victoria’s body, naked except for the chaps and boots, shudders as her anus opens up for the thrust of the machine’s dildo. Her second orgasm manifests itself in a sudden tensing of her entire body and, then, an immediate relaxation as the dildos in her mouth, ass and cunt begin to fuck her rhythmically. Dr. Blonde is aware of Victoria’s orgasm, it having registered most dramatically on the complicated series of dials mounted on the wall above the machine—dials which monitor heart rate, breathing, muscle tension, and other vital signs of both subjects. While Victoria’s nether depths are being most efficiently plumbed by the dildo, Dr. Blonde takes a moment to inspect the response of her companion. And Ned, if anything, is enjoying himself even more than Victoria. In fact, his own orgasm is not a few seconds in the future, according to Dr. Blonde’s controller.

  Dr. Blonde works a lever, causing the dildo in Ned’s mouth to retract just beyond his lips so that she can hear him moan as he comes. “Oh yes... oh yes... oh yes,” it begins, a shuddering, whimpering groan of pleasure—but Dr. Blonde realizes with only a vague surprise (but a very specific pleasure) that Ned is hungrily straining against his head-harness, trying to force his lips out as far as they could go, desperately attempting to get his mouth back around the thick head of the pumping dildo. This is an unforeseen response, though of course not unplanned-for. With the skillful manipulation of a button or two, the machine springs into action as Ned moans with his oncoming climax. Metal arms work their wonders and a metal sleeve is quickly snapped over the head of Ned’s pulsing cock. This occurs as the seething and pumping dildo shoves its way back into Ned’s eager mouth, thrusting and bucking in time with the dildo up Ned’s ass and the rings around his cock. Then, as Ned’s scream of pleasure is muffled by the thickness of the machine’s cock, Ned’s own cock explodes in violent spasms, pumping an impressive volume of man-juice out into the rubber sleeve. The sleeve eagerly sucks the jism from Ned’s pulsing prick, and before Ned knows what is happening he tastes his mouth flooding with semen, the throbbing and quivering dildo pumping him full. The taste overwhelms his body with pleasure, and his orgasm heightens as Dr. Blonde’s machine pumps his own semen into his mouth and throat. Ned eagerly swallows.

  Meanwhile, Victoria is on her fourth orgasm and going for a record. She’s rarely had more than one orgasm in a single day, and her single four-orgasm experience was mostly due to the fact that it was her first day in the accounting department. Now, the breaking of that record seems imminent. In fact, Victoria’s fifth orgasm is thundering toward her with an unstoppable force that threatens to tear her naked body asunder—

  Even over the whinings, moanings, sighings, and screechings of the machine, the sound of the ironshod door opening is audible.

  “Dr. Blonde?” It is Angelique.

  “Later!” shrieks Lascivia, randomly punching buttons as she anticipates Victoria’s next orgasm.

  “Uh... Doctor... I think you really want to know about this!”

  Dr. Blonde whirls, facing Angelique with a visage transformed by fury. “What is it, you little tart? How dare you interrupt me! Do you want to be next on that machine? Can’t you see I’m—”

  Dr. Blonde halts in mid sentence as she sees the wide-eyed biker couple standing behind Angelique.

  “Busy?” And at that very moment, just as Victoria crests toward her moaning, screeching orgasm, there is the sound of metal gears screaming their last and the distinct acrid smell of electrical smoke. The machine’s many parts grind to a collective halt.

  “Oh no, no, no, no,” groans Victoria, her words almost indiscernible around the dildo, “No no no no fuck no... don’t stop....”

  “Who the hell is this?” Asks Dr. Blonde, her own eyes wide.

  “Uh... .I’m Cannibal George, and this is my wife Miss Blowjob... we had an appointment at 7:30, but I had some trouble with my ‘hog,’” George giggles a little and flushes with self-satisfaction at the use of that time-honored biker term to d
escribe his brand-new Harley with its troublesome fuel line problems. “We’re real sorry, but we were wondering if we could go ahead and—hey, wait a minute, I know that guy!”

  Cannibal George bends forward to peer at the quivering mass of male flesh frozen in mid-pump by the machine. Ned is still moaning softly, his face a mask of contentment with a dick shoved into it.

  “Ned! Is that you, Ned? Ax-Murder Ned from Design!” Then George seems to suddenly realize that something is very, very wrong. He looks around. “And... uh... you’re that chick he’s been ball—I mean dating, right?” George scratches his head. “What’s your name again?”

  “Oh God oh God fucking fuck me fucking just shut up and fucking fuck me you fucking fuck,” Victoria sobs desperately.

  “Uh-oh,” says Lascivia Blonde nervously.

  “What the fuck’s going on here?” asks Miss Blowjob, a portly, middle-aged woman in a black leather miniskirt and fishnets.

  Angelique and Dr. Blonde exchange uncomfortable glances.

  Then, in an instant, Dr. Blonde’s confusion and discomfort transmutes into anger.

  “What is going on here?” snarls Dr. Blonde as she tosses the burnt-out remote control across the room, “Is that you need to be taught some manners! Three hours late to your appointment! You’re going to learn the meaning of the word ‘remorse,’ motherfucker! Girls! Strip them naked and take them to dungeon #43!!”

  In an instant, the leathergirls spring into action, and within moments a pleasurably-squirming Cannibal George and Miss Blowjob have been carried off into the darkness of the castle’s corridors.

  “Fuck me? Please fuck me?” Victoria whimpers pathetically as she squirms in her shackles, rocking the machine gently back and forth.

  Dr. Blonde’s lips twist in a smile as she surveys Victoria’s delectable pale flesh and her most willing supplication.

  “Angelique!” snaps Dr. Blonde. “Go get me a Number Ten Black Windsor Fuse! And be quick about it! We’re going to get this fucking bucket of bolts running again before our guest changes her mind....”

  As Angelique hurries off, Dr. Blonde begins laughing gleefully, her laughter mingling with the sounds of Victoria moaning “Yes... yes... oh yes... replace that fuse... oh God yes....”

  Dr. Blonde pats Victoria’s bare behind. She bends forward and whispers into her ear.

  “Not to worry,” she coos. “You’ll get your fucking once Angelique returns. And then... what say we deal with those nasty biker types together, my little darling?”

  Victoria shudders, her pleasure-blasted mind barely comprehending what Dr. Blonde is saying.

  But some part of her responds, and she hears herself groaning an enthusiastic “Yesssss...”

  And so, like I said, it was all pre-ordained by the gods of kink, the fates of perversion, the black leather muses of heavy breathing. The weavers of the tapestry of deviance. Either that, or the parties involved were just plain lucky. Certainly Dr. Blonde has to do four tricks for the price of two, but as we’ve already established, that’s not exactly a hardship for the poor girl. And more importantly, Victoria, AKA “Leatherbitch,” does exactly what she set out to do, and it turns out she didn’t really need Ned’s help after all. Quite the contrary, in the coming weeks she earns that name then some, and learns how to make a pretty penny doing it. Eventually she and Dr. Blonde share the patent on the fuck-machine, Victoria having assisted profoundly in the research and testing of the device. And as her career in professional dominance develops, Victoria achieves a sort of Pervert Nirvana. No longer does she give blowjobs under an oak desk to earn extra vacation days. Rather, she spends her days and nights at the Castle of Lascivia, earning a lot more than vacation days while slapping around her former bosses from the computer industry—most of whom turned out to be Lascivia’s clients.

  Dangerous Larry even shows up for a beating at the Castle one day, to his vast misfortune. But that’s another story.

  Sure, Ned misses Victoria a little bit. But things work out OK for him, too. The Murderous Torturers become plaintiffs in a class-action lawsuit organized by their riding pal Belt Sander Mike Rubbitt from the law firm of Tutchit, Strokit, Wankit, Jerkitt and Moen over in Sunnyvale. Evil Joe Landowski, owner of Evil Joe’s Cupertino Hogs, is discovered to be getting rich fleecing yuppies, selling them badly-imitated Harley-like bodies manufactured in Tijuana with cut-rate engines from stolen Yamahas. The Torturers get their due, and an all-yuppie jury gives them a pretty penny for pain and suffering, too, which enables all the Murderous Torturers to retire early—and let me tell you, the West is never the same after that. To this day, appliance salesmen everywhere herald the Torturers’ approach with an ecstasy bordering on the religious.

  Nocturnal Emissions by Joe Nobel

  Father Francis pondered the words for the next day’s sermon. He stared at his blank page all afternoon. False starts lay crumpled in balls around his feet. He felt anguished and sickened by events of late in the village. This revulsion was not turning itself into the eloquently written words he so desperately needed. He dipped his quill into his ink. He looked at the candle on his writing table, almost half burned and nothing to show for it. The candle cast its meager shadow; its flame flickering against his furnishings—against a cabinet of rough hewn wood for his clothing, against a shelf of aging books on the opposite wall, and over his bed with a mattress of straw.

  “If I call for calm, would it merely incite the peasantry? Or should I appeal to the fact that we now live in modern times and cast aside the ancient superstitions gripping us. After all this is the 16th century, and we are past the age of such fears.

  “How easily these unemployed rogues whipped up these fears,” Father Francis grumbled. “Superstitions I thought were long behind us. Hysteria, that’s what it is. It’s gotten to the point where any young woman turning down the advances of one of these boys is pronounced a witch. Anyone standing up for them is a witch. Anyone speaking out is a witch. What a pall of fear it has cast over the village. People who have been neighbors for years avoid each other’s glances. Fathers keep their daughters locked up fearful that anything they do will bring down the accusations. And now, rumors are spreading about those men, that they harbor witches. God in Heaven, guide me! What can I do? I feel so helpless. I cannot stop this madness, I am but one man, and I am weak, but it must be stopped.”

  Just two days ago, young Elsa Klein was killed during her witch trial. Her only crime was being the serving wench on duty when a gang of hooligans marched into the tavern. That, and having red hair. The trial consisted of ladening her with stones and throwing her into the river. The girl drowned, proving her innocence, but if she’d somehow lived, they would have burned her as a witch. Father Francis was having grave doubts about being able to write any kind of sermon that would quell the masses. Perhaps, he thought to himself, I should be researching a less deadly ways of detecting witches. After all, I am a man of science. My library boasts over twenty books. Only monasteries and big city churches hold more.

  No, facts will not quell this mob. But then, what? He knew he would somehow have to rise to the challenge. But, how? He felt so tired, so empty, so drained.

  That’s when he heard the noise. The church doors! It sounded like something was attacking them. He grabbed his lantern and ventured cautiously out of his chambers. He was not a brave man, yet he forced himself through the vestibule and into the church proper. The grand front doors swung in the wind. How did they get open? Or a better question: who opened them? The cold night air blew wet leaves inside. He saw no one there. If someone had broken in, they could be hiding anywhere. He walked down the main aisle, mindful that an assailant may be hiding in any pew. By the time he reached the door his pounding heart was almost in his throat.

  Father Francis could clearly see that the doors were forced open. The signs were clear enough by the lantern’s glow. A chill ran down his spine when he saw how they were forced open. It looked like it was done by a set of claws. Some daemon might be l
oose, feeding off the fear and hysteria of the town. A bear, more likely, he tried to remind himself. But if it was a bear from the forest, where was it now? Surely a bear in its lumbering ways would make tremendous noise and clatter as it scavenges for scraps of food. Other than the wind and rustle of leaves there was silence. If not a bear, and not a daemon, then what, vandals? Perhaps in the clear light of day, these claw marks would reveal themselves to be inflicted by an ax or a hammer and chisel. He looked around from his vantage point of the church steps. No one, no thing, not inside, nor out. He managed to calm himself and to turn his attention to securing the door. He remembered he had rope in the shed. It would do nicely to tie the door handles together. It could be fixed properly in the morning. He ventured outside cautiously.

  Groping around with a lantern in the creaky old shed took longer than he thought. Just when he found the rope, he heard a window creak open and bang against the stone wall. He had not left any windows open. He made his way back in. The sound seemed to come from the far end of the church, all the way down from his chambers. He ran back to his room to see that his window was open indeed and someone or something tripped over his writing table. The writing paper for the ill-started sermon was scattered and wind-strewn across the room. His bed was ruffled as if someone jumped onto it on their way out. His sheets were flung back onto the floor. Other than that, there was no damage. This was no bear. This was no vandal. And he did not particularly believe in daemons. What was it then?

  He went back to the main door and bound the handles together with rope. He would get his handyman to help fix it properly in the morning. He picked up his scattered papers. There wasn’t much worth salvaging. He sat back down at his writing desk with a thump. He looked down and found it impossible to write.

  Surely God would provide inspiration while he slept. But instead of getting a sound night’s sleep, Father Francis lay awake listening for every sound. Every branch that brushed against a window sent his imagination into a wild frenzy. He did fall asleep eventually, too late, much too late.