by Mael d'Armor
Jenny’s tone brooks no argument and Sandra does as she is told. The bed around her is absolutely soaked, like her. She becomes aware of how thirsty she is. Her throat is parched, her lips dry.
‘Here. Drink this,’ says Sandra, holding up a big glass of water as though she had read her mind. ‘You need to rehydrate.’
Sandra takes the glass and downs its contents in one long draught. She comes back for air, marginally restored. Jenny pours her more water from a large jug.
‘You’re quite the squirter. That’s good. Drink up.’
Sandra is not sure what is good about it. About wetting the sheets like that. She’s never done that before. She knows little about it other than what she picked up in vague asides in the odd conversation. Female ejaculation, she thinks it’s called. Is that what it is, really? It doesn’t seem thick or anything. But whatever it is, it spurred her on each time she came, she remembers that. Like her creature thrived on this release. Got more frantic with each of her strange liquid hollowings.
She downs half the second glass.
‘Drink up everything,’ insists Jenny.
She complies and gets another refill straight away.
Ten minutes and four more glasses later, her bladder feels precariously full. She must have drunk enough to fill a small barrel.
But Jenny has brought up another full glass to her lips.
‘Please Jenny, I’m good now.’
‘You’re good when I say you are. Drink up.’
Sandra knows it is useless to resist. The golden collar seems to have drained the last vestiges of her will. She forces down some more liquid.
‘All of it.’
She keeps going, some overbrim trickling down at her mouth corners.
‘Excellent,’ coos Jenny. ‘You’ll be properly primed for your next session. Ready to gush and goad your demon’s appetite.’
Sandra places the empty glass next to her. Her next session? She is grateful already. She realises with dreamy longing she cannot wait.
She also realises that she wants to pee. Desperately.
‘Can I go to the toilet?’ she asks. She feels that she has to ask. That her fate has taken yet another turn. Set her on a new, ambiguous tangent — one in which she has no control over her body. No say.
‘No time for that, I’m afraid,’ says Jenny.
‘Oh please. I so badly need it.’
‘Your fantasies are mine,’ comes the sweet reply. ‘So is your arse. So is your bladder. You do as you’re told, honey.’
She bites back a groan. But she has no choice. She must do as she is told. In spite of her pressing need, she finds perverse satisfaction in the thought that she is at Jenny’s mercy. That she must obey without question. She knows this is a terrible, shameful abdication but there is something hugely gratifying in the asking. In the begging. The demeaning. She is turned on by this.
‘Get up and cross your legs. That should help you hold it in. Whatever happens, you are not to relieve yourself, do you hear?’
Sandra nods and gets up hurriedly. Then stands there, covering her nether bits with both hands, fidgeting with her groin muscles. This seems to calm the discomfort somewhat, though at the same time excites her more. Delicious little waves are again vamping her. But Jenny cuts this short before it gets too far.
‘We’ve got to get going. We have a long night ahead of us.’
Get going? Sandra seems to recall Yaouen saying she must not leave the tower. Something to do with a protective spell. But so much has happened in the last few hours. So much has flowed under her bridge. His voice sounds so flimsy, so distant.
‘Didn’t Yaouen . . .’ she begins.
‘Forget that old bore,’ cuts in Jenny. ‘We’re out of here. You want to have some fun, don’t you? I know I do. And there’s someone who wants to see you. Someone who’s got plans for you. Big plans. Put this on.’
She takes a sleeveless blue tunic out of the shopping bag then hands it to Sandra.
‘No need for panties or anything, they’ll just get in the way.’
Ordering her to raise her arms, Jenny proceeds to slip the tunic on her.
‘You look good enough to eat,’ she approves, eyeing the sweep of fabric cupping the breasts. ‘And I’m sure you taste twice as good as fairyfloss.’
The tunic does not belong to the triple X variety and barely hides Sandra’s private parts.
‘Perfect spring wear, wouldn’t you say? Covers the essentials but reveals enough to drive anyone with a whisper of testosterone crazy.’
She takes Sandra’s hand and leads her to the lift door.
‘Perhaps I should finish my tale,’ she adds, as she steps into the cubicle, pulling Sandra in her wake. ‘We got sidetracked earlier on, what with all the moaning and bucking.’
She has slipped her hand under Sandra’s tunic and is gently caressing her.
‘And it would help you understand why we are getting along so brilliantly. You don’t mind me talking to you while we’re walking, do you?’
Sandra is unable to string two words together. Delightful spasms are running up and down her back.
‘Good answer, sweetie. You’re such a good friend. We connect on so many levels.’
She gives Sandra a provocative sidelong look.
The lift door opens onto a cobbled street and they step out into the coolness of a star-studded evening.
22
Sandra’s eyes are drawn to the night sky and she blinks a few times. She has no idea what time it is, but the fresh air is a welcome change and takes some of her mind off her pulsing needs.
She looks around. There is not a single soul to be seen, bar the obligatory street tabby that slinks away round a corner as soon as it spots them.
Holding her hand, Jenny starts up the street, towards the old covered market.
‘So, as I was saying before you went frisky on the massage bed, I had great fun with my baker boy. After we wreaked sweet havoc on his shop — you should have seen the floury mess! — I took him to my love nest, gave him a black mask to wear and we had sizzling sex all night. With him tied up mostly, and me torturing him with my crop and velvet lips. His stamina was amazing and he must have fired his pistol ten, maybe twelve times. Nah, make that a baker’s dozen. And in case you’re wondering, this wasn’t just the effect of his youth. The mask was enchanted. A handy little device that was — and a legacy from my mother, a half-fairy queen from the Northern Lands.’
Jenny pauses. She appears lost in reminiscence. Then comes back to her tale.
‘There is a lot of her in me, I’ve been told. She was noted for her beauty and seduction skills. Never knew her, though. The good woman died in childbirth — specifically while having me.’
There is a brief blur in her eyes.
‘Forgive me, I’m straying from the point. The mask had a regrettable side-effect. Come morning, a part of it would contract around the neck and choke its wearer. So Baker Boy went out with a squeeze and a bang. I consoled myself with the thought that he popped his last load with a smile on his face and a cock as rigid as a week-old French baguette. There are worse ways to go.’
Sandra visualises a male member the length of a baguette but this time has trouble finding appeal in the thought. Jenny is purring on.
‘Now, I was not going to let a small detail like that interfere with my fun. A trusted servant discreetly committed his body to the waves and before the week was out I had a new toy-boy, a sailor from afar. He was fun, in an exotic, full-tats sort of way. He smelled of faraway lands and entertained me with his swashbuckling accounts of high seas adventures. But after a night of kinky moves, he too fell to the curse of the mask. Squeak.’
The hand holding Sandra goes for a quick squeeze, to emphasise the point.
‘And he too was returned to the sea. But I had taken a strong liking to the lover thing. And to the wild partying. I started throwing huge banquets to bring in more youths to my city. Easier to cherry pick my fancy men that way. Thanks to
me, Ys, beautiful Ys, gained a reputation as the hottest place on earth, if you except the crater of Mount Vesuvius. Oh Sandra, you cannot imagine what wicked fun I had! I was as happy as only a totally spoilt, shallow-minded princess can be, devising new ways of snaring my victims. And sweet-torturing them. But’ — Jenny gives a little sigh — ‘nothing lasts forever. One day my fate took a hapless turn. This handsome, mysterious stranger rode into town on the high bridge that connected Ys to the coast. Dressed all in red. I should have known he meant trouble. He had this air about him, aloof yet so incredibly beddable. I fell for him as soon as I laid my mascaraed eyes on his strong jaw and crimson doublet. Needless to say, I arranged for him to be seated by my side at the evening feast. He hardly spoke to me, just a polite nod now and then, but when he leaned over — after dessert I think it was — and whispered something dark and sexy in my ear in that deep husky voice of his, I was hooked pure and simple. Ready to be his bitch.’
Jenny stops and turns to Sandra.
‘I’m sure you can understand what a panties-twisting experience this can be. One minute you’re sitting there carefree as a fantail having your every whim indulged, the next you’re dying to please your man like a common moll.’
A pair of late-night stragglers — a middle-aged gent and his well-dressed partner — drift past them, throwing them curious looks. Jenny ignores them. She starts leading the way again and resumes her story.
‘This was a complete emotional reroute but I did not give a toss. There would be no mask for Mr Redhot. He enticed me to the royal pigsty as soon as I had downed my last cup of chouchen. And then, like a man possessed, he went down on me between Miss Piggy and Mr Porky. Started with the spiciest tongue job south of a bejewelled navel, then banged me crazy in all possible combinations of cock and girl. And all the while the mother of all storms was building up out there, keeping pace with our naughty ructions. But just before I was going to kaboom, the bastard pulls out and leaves me hanging breathless on the cliff edge. Just like that. No warning or anything. I could have died of frustration. I snivel something about how he should work on his timing but all he has to say is he can hear the waves thrashing against the city walls.
‘“Do not worry, my prince,” I pant, “the walls are strong. So are the gates of Ys and only my father has the key to them.”
‘So he melts me with his hot gaze and tells me if I want to hog it some more I have to get the keys for him. I’m dripping with pagan desire and the night is still young, so what can I do? I sneak into my father’s room in my half-torn robe and pinch the key from my old man’s neck. Then rush back to my lover, my mind full of that next standing fuck he promised. That’s when I found out how deceitful men can be. As soon as he gets his hands on the prize, he disappears without a word. And I thought I’d cornered the market on cheating and lying! Next thing I know, the waves are crashing into the city streets and alarm bells are ringing everywhere. The blackguard had opened the gates!’
As the two women round the corner of the cathedral into a narrow street, bells explode into life somewhere above them, echoing the chaos of that night. The rings pound through the air like grenades dropped by spiteful gargoyles, and Sandra falters on the cobblestones, almost gasping from the invasive sounds. By the twelfth stroke, her legs have turned to jelly. But Jenny’s grip on her hand remains firm and she has no choice but to stumble on. When the last sound dies out, Jenny continues her tale.
‘I race back up to my chamber for safety and stand there awhile, watching in horror as my world is engulfed by the raging seas. Then I rush to my father and beg him on my knees to save me. We tumble down in panic to the stables and he jumps on Morvarc’h, his magic horse. Then he pulls me up behind him. But the seas are pounding around us and flush us down to the city square. Morvarc’h is flapping his wings ferociously, struggling to keep his nose above water. I look up and see this monstrous wall of water closing in on Ys. We’ve only got moments left. A voice descends from the heavens, calling upon my father to cast me from his side. I turn around and spot that old killjoy Saint Gwenole, lecturing between the clouds in that annoying nasal twang.
‘“Your daughter has brought shame upon Ys, Gradlon! Get rid of her! Do it quick if you want to save yourself!”
‘And then my father does something terribly unfatherly. He kowtows to the old beard and, with eyes full of reproach, shoves me off the horse into the foaming brine, as they say. The last I see of him is the back of his ermine coat as Morvarc’h soars into the sky, seconds before the monster wave crashes down upon Ys. I don’t even have time to scream in fright. I get sucked down by the tumbling waters and everything goes dark. When I open my eyes, the storm has died and the city’s gone. And I’m floating on sea currents with a fish tail and an appetite for men that’s big enough to make the Harlot of Jericho look like a blushing damsel.’
They walk in silence for a while.
‘Yes, I was turned into your run-of-the-mill sea woman,’ broods Jenny. ‘A Mari Morgan. Condemned to roam the ocean and river mouths and trap youths and men to their doom. And I lost my gorgeous looks. Lost my pretty face, my model curves. My lustrous jet-black hair. No fitting end for the daughter of a great king, you will agree.’
23
Having turned down another medieval-looking lane — though one with a more commercial feel — they find themselves sauntering past a fast-food joint. The late-night variety. But the tiny shop is closing and the lights inside have gone dim.
‘Don’t know about you,’ says Jenny, ‘but I’m peckish. And this is a perfect chance to road-test your obedience before I present you.’
She turns to the store and, through the take-away window, calls to the young man inside. ‘Je peux avoir un kebab ou quelque chose dans le genre?’
‘Un kebab? Désolé, on ferme.’
Sandra notices how the youth is eyeing them both curiously. Clearly surprised to see two such stunning creatures turning up so late. And wearing so little, especially one of them.
‘Vous ne pouvez pas faire une exception pour deux petites Australiennes?’
‘You’re from Australia?’ he asks, switching to English. His face has lit up. ‘I ’ave a friend who’s just moved zere for a year. Working ’oliday veesa. Maybe I’ll do the same next year.’
‘You’re a student too?’
‘Oui, I only work ’ere weekends you know. I don’t own zis joint.’
‘You speak very good English.’
‘Sanks.’
‘Is your boss here?’
‘No. Not at zis time.’
‘So you could serve us then? Nobody’ll know.’
‘Sure, but . . . I’m a bit tired. I’d like to get going.’
‘We could make it worth your while,’ says Jenny with a smile and a seductive hair toss to the side.
The student eyes them noncommittally.
‘Make it really worth your while,’ she insists, giving him her sexiest lip bite. ‘We could serve you.’
The student seems to have trouble swallowing. He leans forward to check the street left and right. But still says nothing.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Aurélien.’
‘My friend is dying for a bit of fun, Aurélien. To cheer herself up.’
He looks at Sandra quizzically.
‘She’s just been dumped by her boyfriend. And had her passport stolen from her this morning. And her money. The same person stole my cash too.’
‘Well zat . . .’ He is looking for a word.
‘That sucks,’ offers Jenny.
‘Yes, zat sucks,’ he agrees.
‘Talking of which I thought we might strike a deal. An exchange of favours. We are starving. Especially my friend. And there’s not a cash machine in sight.’
He says nothing though you can see him debating fiercely. And swallowing even harder.
‘Can we come in, Aurélien? Please.’
Her eyes are pulling on him with all their sensuous leverage. She has arched back for a ful
l display of her busty assets.
‘It’s . . . it’s quite small in ’ere but I guess . . . I guess . . .’
He steps away from the window and unlocks the narrow door to the side. Jenny steps in, dragging Sandra after her. You couldn’t swing a cat in there.
Perfect, Jenny’s eyes are saying.
She wastes no time in manoeuvring Aurélien against the midget counter. He is a scrumptious lad. Toned-up, deep brown eyes, a cute mop of blond hair.
‘You’re a darling. You’ve saved our lives. And to show you how grateful we are, we are willing to pay in advance.’
‘To pay? I sought you said you ’ad no cash.’
‘Oh Aurélien, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’ She leans into him and brushes lightly against his trousers. ‘I thought you Frenchies were the adventurous type.’
‘Ze . . . ze guys in Paris maybe but . . . zis is Brittany.’
‘Whatever,’ replies Jenny, locking eyes with him and teasing him through the fabric.
He is standing there with a smitten look on his face. Something is stirring in his pants.
‘You wouldn’t mind being serviced by my friend first, would you?’
‘I . . . Non . . . Okay . . .’ he stammers.
She turns to Sandra, pointing lasciviously to the bulge.
‘Now kneel.’
‘Please, Jen. Have puss-pity,’ whispers Sandra. ‘Not a wholly-total stranger. Please.’
But she knows hers are hollow words. She is already feeling the thrill of her helpless plight. Her humiliation. Jenny’s command is exciting her beyond anything she could have foreseen. The blood is flushing her cheeks. And she is liquefying.
Her demon has curled out its pleasure-coated limbs to draw her into their trap.
She kneels meekly. The lino floor has a cheap hardness to it but she gives it not a thought. She is terribly, horribly turned on. And her bladder is pulling on her again — though she can’t tell her sensations apart. The two urges have merged and turned more intense for it.
‘My friend likes to put on airs,’ breathes Jenny into the student’s ear, ‘but she never wears panties. Believe me, she is dying for a good fuck.’ She samples Sandra and brings her gleaming finger to his face. ‘See? Melting.’