by Mael d'Armor
‘Oh puh-lease. I want you in me? Is that the best you can do? That’s far too polite.’
‘Fiste . . . Fiste-moi dans le derrière . . .’
‘Still too polite. And you’re not begging.’
‘Oooh . . . Je t’en prie, Jenny. J’ai le cul en feu. Fist me dumb-crazy. I need this baddily, desperatically. S’il te plaît. Please.’
‘That’s better. The deep option it is, then.’
‘Oui . . . Profond. Deep-poky. All the in-way. Fuck me hard-all.’
‘Excellent. I’ll be happy to grant your wish. Take you on a proper mind bend. Feel how easily my fingers are going in? You’re loosening fast — and I don’t mean just your sweet rim. You’re giving in so easily to your cravings. It’s very gratifying to see you so pliable. So malleable. I expected you to put up a fight.’
She brings more oil to her slippery task.
‘Yaouen has been an excellent tutor, though he didn’t mean to. He has trained you well for what is to come.’
What is to come? The thought echoes through Sandra as she succumbs to her addiction. She has no idea what Jenny is talking about but is too far gone to care. That fat devil is too busy sucking. It wants this all too much. She has to indulge its greed.
Her demon reaches out with a lustful limb and snares her wrist. Pulls her hand to her clit. She starts a compulsive pas-de-deux.
‘See how keen you are?’ mocks Jenny, wedging in her fingers all the way to the palm. ‘You cannot help yourself. You are falling so fast. Absolutely no self-control.’
She maintains her torrid pace — eases back, moves in, gaining imperceptibly.
Sandra is lurching. Floundering like a sinking ship.
She gasps for breath. Sheds a string of stricken notes. Licks the air in blessed agony. Oh Christ! Oh please! She is about to splinter. Jenny’s sap-work is destroying her.
Then one more lascivious push and she yields to the fist with a harsh groan.
Her guts do a fantastic flip.
Oh God, oh God! The wind rushes from her lungs. She feels so crushed, and so close to bursting, and so exquisitely vulnerable.
And so fucking ecstatic.
The intensity of the pleasure slicing through her fogs her vision.
The probe invades her, stretching her to gagging point, and she comes on the spot, bucking hard, her brain in a spin.
Through the blur that follows, she sucks in a few manic breaths, drowning in her turmoil. Her body begins to quake.
Then, impelled by forces she does not understand, she plunges two fingers deep into herself and buckles off the pillow, rubbing hard to match the pulsing in her guts. The urgency is flushing her face, beading her brow with sweat, scorching her cheeks. She keeps kneading, her unseeing eyes compelled by some image of endless concupiscence. Her fingers have gone feral.
Fattened by its wanton spree, her demon has spawned voracious mouths in every part of her. It is feeding on her lush tendrils, lapping every drop of pleasure on her skin. It has fastened itself around her nipples to suck her to distraction. Around her throat to squeeze out scales of rapture. Around her brain to pump all thoughts and sanity from her. This is more than she can take. More than anyone can take. Every atom of her being is splitting apart. She has been stripped of all agency, all clarity. She is a mass of pure mindless need.
‘Beautiful,’ gloats Jenny. ‘Your lust is consuming you. You cannot fight it. There’s nothing you can do.’
Sandra cannot hear a thing. She is on fire. Her guts have taken on a life of their own. The fist is working her relentlessly, wrenching ungodly noises from her lips.
And then there is a surge of blinding light, and her body snaps into a desperate arc. She high-noons with loud moans, squirting in strong quick bursts, her flesh racked by tangled delights.
But Jenny has no intention of letting go. With a perverse little smile, she waits till Sandra’s hips have dropped back on the bed. Then she resumes her slow pumping and sends Sandra tumbling head over arse into a vortex of tortured blasts which leave her shaking and rasping uncontrollably.
And crying tears of surrender.
And wanting more.
‘Your demon is gorging itself. I can feel it getting crazy. I can feel its bloated belly swamping you, claiming every part of you. It’s going for your soul. It is such an insatiable devil.’
A twisted groan from Sandra and her hips buck as another spike of weird bliss blows her mind. Caught in an infernal loop of gratification, she has lost control of her spasming body. She contorts herself like a woman possessed, spurred by her tormentor, by her own hand, by those ruthless instincts that are boiling her blood.
She arches back and explodes again, squirting hard between spurts of short, frantic breaths. She does not know where she is anymore. She does not know who she is.
When at last the fist withdraws from her, she lies there winded and defeated, her brain shrivelled, one restless forearm twitching against her temple.
She is drenched from all the sweat. From her crazy needs. From the helpless gushing.
But her loins have not settled. Her fingers are still thirsting. Scavenging her folds. Refusing to leave.
Jenny runs a lazy tongue from her belly button to her breasts. She flirts with her nipples for a while, then deftly mounts her and sits on her chest, trapping her shoulders with her thighs. She grabs Sandra’s ankles and forces her legs up, bending her like a stuffed toy.
‘Now suck me,’ she says. ‘While you finger yourself.’
Shattered and exhausted, Sandra tries to say something. Please, have some mercy. Do not make me do this. She looks up, searching for Jenny’s eyes, but a hand grabs her scalp then tucks her firmly into the darkness of the crotch. She is almost smothered. Smothered, and intoxicated. And in the blink of an eye finds herself turned full on.
‘Don’t make me repeat myself.’
This is hopeless. She is drowning in Jenny’s scent. Her brain is half fried but pulsing with fiendish desire. She takes a tentative lick and likes what she tastes. A lot. Far too much. Then her urges engulf her like an instant tide and she buries herself into that night, tongue lapping, senses spinning. Never before has she tasted woman. Never before has she lost herself in such heady sweetness.
And her demon is loving it. Going berserk. Demanding more, always more. And she submits to its dictates with muffled moans. For nothing else matters. Nothing exists in the world but the licking and the sucking and that hot juicy clit. Nothing but the lapping and the gorging. Her mouth, her brain, have fused in this oneness of want. And she keeps going in shameless abandon, euphoria flushing down her throat to the pit of her stomach.
The hips above her have begun to rock, grinding her into the mattress. She claps one fevered hand on her lover’s thigh while still kneading herself.
‘You’re . . . You’re doing great,’ moans Jenny. ‘You’re a fast learner. Anyone would think you’d been doing this . . .’
Her voice trails off into a long, hollow moan.
‘. . . for years,’ she concludes, her hips bursting into tremors.
Sandra too is convulsing under Jenny, with harsh rasps. Not that this does much to appease her. Her demon is not the slightest bit sated. She clasps her lips on Jenny’s clit again.
‘Not so fast, sister,’ croaks Jenny, breathing hard. She forces Sandra’s head back on the pillow. Then releases one captive ankle, reaches for the wrist behind her and brings Sandra’s hand to her own thigh.
‘Don’t you move your twitchy fingers an inch,’ she commands.
‘Please . . . Please . . . Il faut . . . Il faut que j’me touche. Que j’te suce,’ begs Sandra. ‘J’en ai besoin.’
Jenny is keeping her clit just out of reach of Sandra’s tongue.
‘Of course you need this. The question is, how badly?’ She smiles, dipping one finger in Sandra’s mouth and stroking her tongue as you would a well-trained pet.
Sandra begins to pump like a ravenous animal.
‘Yes, you can suck
all right,’ chuckles Jenny.
She pulls out her finger.
The bottom drops out of Sandra’s world.
‘Please, oh please,’ whimpers Sandra, ‘I’ll do-or-die anything you want.’
‘Anything?’
‘J’ai ces affreuses pulsions. Those horrible urgentings.’ She looks up at Jenny with imploring eyes, then strains for the dark lips before her.
‘Perfect. You look delightfully fidgety. I think you’re ready to fulfil your calling. To suck on command like the obedient slut you are.’
Something of the old Sandra flickers in an obscure corner. An after-image of resistance. The faintest whisper of appalled denial. A slut? Surely she is not a slut? She has not sunk that low, has she? She whimpers again. She is not sure. All this feels so hazy. And she is hurting with want. She finds it impossible to put a coherent thought together.
‘Poor Sandra. I can detect a trace of conflict in that lovely head of yours. Let me make this easier for you.’
She reaches for the bag she left earlier by the bed, recovers a golden collar from it then slips it on Sandra. The ornament appears to be magnetised, for it locks into place with a slight buzzing sound. Jenny cocks her head, appraising the effect.
‘You look absolutely divine,’ she compliments.
Her finger brushes against one of the gems encrusted at the front.
For a moment, Sandra hangs in frustrated suspense. Then the collar begins to pulse and something leaks into her. Something sweet and spicy and horribly satisfying. Soon, the throbbing has gained in strength, firing shots of pure pleasure to her core.
She starts shaking her head and before she knows it has imploded in a warp of delectation so intense she is left gagging like a hooker on her first blowjob. This is a brutal, overpowering rush, as if her brain alone had bucked and climaxed. And she has been flipped inside out, left quivering in Jenny’s grasp. Flung wide open to be pillaged, bled of her grimmest desires.
Jenny smiles. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ll be completely amenable to my suggestions.’
She offers back her finger to Sandra.
‘Let’s play mind games, shall we? Imagine your incredibly handsome but incredibly arrogant new boss wants to test your commitment to teamwork. He locks his office door while his equally gorgeous and equally arrogant personal assistant removes her panties and puts on a strap-on dildo. He orders you to kneel before him and points to the bulge in his trousers. It’s this or you get the sack. Do you accept?’
Sandra can only manage a stifled moan.
‘Do you?’ repeats Jenny, pulling out her finger.
‘Oh . . . Oui . . .’ gasps Sandra, reeling with an image of herself sucking off the bastard in the business suit, while being enjoyed from behind by the bitch in black-lace stockings. They are going hard at it. Taking no prisoners. The man is deep-throating her and the woman plumbing her depths, her face shadowed by a triumphant scowl.
The pleasure soars, inflating her to bursting point.
‘Are you choking on him?’ taunts Jenny. ‘Is she filling you to the brim?’
‘Yes . . . Ohaaaw . . .’
‘You’re such a docile little player. So quick to debase yourself.’
Incredibly, the words are enough to tip Sandra over and she goes off with shrill sounds.
‘See what a bawdy broad you’ve become? I don’t even need to touch you. But perhaps you can put up a semblance of resistance against the gruff, swarthy sea captain who found you hiding on his ship. He is a gambler, holds up a dice and puts a deal to you. If you throw a six you must submit to him in any way he chooses. If you throw anything else you walk free. You throw a six. He is rough around the edges and doesn’t give tuppence about romance. He yanks down your jeans, rips off your panties and sends you belly-flopping on the bunk bed, not bothering to undress you further. Then he comes down on your arse with his massive tool and churns your guts to mush in the blink of your teary eye.’
‘Ooooh . . . Ooooh . . . Putain . . .’ chokes Sandra, arching and contorting herself, halfway to being blown to bits by the humping sea wolf. The vision is so vivid she feels the breath of her blunt rider on her neck. Feels his grip denting her, crushing her skin.
‘He works you to your wits’ end then pulls out and calls the quartermaster. They strap your arms up to the galley rafter and sandwich you between them. And then they roil you up till your belly bam-whams. And stir you back to life till you’re arced on the brink. And then they swap places and pull out all the stops, with you bursting hard and crying out for more. And when at last they’ve had their fun, they leave you gutted and gasping on the bunk with come leaking out of your ears. Then the captain gives you the dice again. Same deal, he says. If you throw a six, he gives you to two more of his men. Anything else, you walk free. You throw a six. And spend the next hour fornicating with the first mate and the boatswain. And even though they too are only here for their kicks and kinks, you cannot help coming and coming like a bitch in heat.’
Kept on a ridge of highs by the randy pair and their spicy sandwich moves, Sandra has been twisting like gum, shedding heavy grunts and gushing hard again. She clutches distractedly at Jenny’s thighs.
‘When you get to roll another time and land one more six, you begin to suspect the dice is loaded. The question is: do you care?’
The coarse moan issuing from Sandra leaves no room for doubt. Still, Jenny presses for an answer.
‘Do you?’
‘N . . . Nooooo . . .’ exhales Sandra, consumed by her lust.
‘Do you want to keep rolling the dice?’
Sandra bucks in assent, her eyes wild.
‘Do you want to keep sucking off those men? Getting rammed by those complete strangers?’
‘Oui . . . Ouiii . . .’ she breathes hoarsely.
‘Would you flaunt yourself to the first Joe that came along?’
‘Le premier . . . Yesss . . .’
‘Would you be arse-toyed by the first foxy Jane?’
‘Par . . . Par n’importe quiii . . .’
‘By anyone? Right here if I asked you to?’
A whimper of agreement.
‘You know what this makes you? Don’t you?’
Sandra closes her eyes and throws her head back, cheeks burning with her own spiralling desires. She is still so freaking horny. Her brain, her body, are ravaged by this ache. This is a complete, utter surrender, she knows that. But she does not give a ship rat’s arse. She rasps out her answer with the same desperation she has been pumping her bastard boss and the master gunner, the second mate and the rigger and even the swabbie.
‘Une salooope . . . J’suis une petite salope.’
‘A proper little slut indeed. The best, most juicy, most libidinous of her kind. Wild and totally uninhibited. Back-arching, arse-wriggling, clit-ready and panties with no fixed address. Your mind has betrayed you for what you are. Shameless. Depraved. The queen of sluts.’
‘Oui . . . Oooh God . . . La reine des salopes.’
‘The dice never lies, does it? You’ll always throw a six. You’ll never have enough. Always thinking of the next cock. Or the next clit. Or the next arse-fuck.’
Jenny looks down upon her with a look of triumph. Reaching back, she buries four fingers into Sandra and resumes fattening her insane demon.
‘Now suck me again, salope!’
21
Eyes. A pair of eyes are floating in the ether above her. Sexy, searching, iridescent — and full of reproach. ‘You have been quite busy since I left,’ they are saying. ‘Weren’t you supposed to wait for me? I always honour my contracts, you know. Always. Instead of which you have been whoring around.’
She is overcome by shame and looks away. ‘You . . . You left me,’ she stammers. ‘I wanted you to stay. Wanted you to hold me. To kiss me.’
‘Kiss you?’ If eyes alone could sneer, those certainly would. ‘And why would I want to do that? Kiss a slut? Sluts are not for kissing. Sluts are not for holding.’
‘
I’m not a slut,’ she protests, without conviction.
‘Oh but you are, honey. You are. The most consummate of her kind. A tramp, a floozie, une petite catin, without a shred of morality. Look down.’
She does — and discovers she is cowgirling a hunk of a man with a scruffy chin and a golden ring in one ear. The muscles are rippling on the man’s stomach. She feels a surge of desire and sinks her nails into his chest.
‘And look behind you.’
She complies eagerly, only to see a long line of sailors waiting for their turn, their faces lit up with prurient expectation.
The eyes are mocking, and triumphant. They have also turned shadowy, their sparkle swept away by an ill wind. And they seem larger, beautiful but cruel, clothed in long eyelashes. A woman’s eyes. Then a face grows around them, like a cloud pattern in a sunset sky.
Jenny’s gloating features fade in.
‘Wakey-wakey, Sleeping Beauty.’
Sandra emerges from her troubled sleep. It is dark outside. The torches on the wall are oases of soft light in the gloom of the chamber.
Jenny, who is bent over her, brings a hand to her forehead.
‘You’re still hot. Good. Your demon is making itself at home.’
Sandra looks at her friend through a misty veil. Yes, Jenny must be right. There is still this pulsing between her legs. An itch she wants to assuage.
Her hand moves to answer the prompt. She is more swollen than usual and still so pleasurably damp. She is a pussy hair away from being fully aroused again. She shudders in gratification as she cups her palm over her clit then runs a hesitant finger around it.
No. She needs a break from all this. Doesn’t she? Fuck. Everything is so confused. Her creature’s vibes have warped her thoughts. And the beast is only half asleep, waiting for the next opportunity to gorge itself.
She senses how bloated it has become, how hopelessly captive to its demands she is. Her body is not hers anymore. It is a knotted web of pleasure with a mind of its own. A tangle of long feelers, coiling and uncoiling lazily in the evening’s shadows. Resting before the next lascivious assault.
‘There is no time for hanky-panky,’ says Jenny, steering Sandra’s hand away. ‘Sit up.’