New Erotica 5

by Неизвестный

  Siward came, his face puce and his teeth gritted hard as he emptied his semen into Josepina’s throat. With the cock held deep in her gullet she began to gag, the spasms of her throat milking his sperm even as her own orgasm started. She came with her face red and her cheeks blown out, her eyes shut tight and the muscles of her bottom locking over and over against Florian’s gut. With that Brother Florian also came, jerking his erection free of Josepina’s hole at the last instant to spray thick, cream-white fluid across her beaten, upturned buttocks.

  Both men moved back quickly, dropping their robes and mumbling prayers. Josepina stood, stretched, reached back to wipe the come from her bottom. Running her fingers over the bruised surface of a nate, she scooped what she could into her palm, put her hand to her mouth and ate the semen. She swallowed and licked a last blob from her lip before her expression returned to its earlier serenity, showing not one trace of the sorrow, misery or contrition expected in a beaten girl.

  ‘Slattern! Trull!’ Brother Florian exclaimed. ‘Are you not in the least repentant?’

  ‘Are you a she-devil, a succubus, to remain so indifferent to your sins?’ Brother Siward demanded. ‘Have you no sense of rectitude, no compunction?’

  Josepina said nothing but hauled up her culottes to cover her welted bottom and let her dress drop back into place.

  ‘This will cease!’ Brother Florian snapped. ‘This sour disobedience, this vile behaviour! In future you will model your conduct not on Lilith, as you seem to do, but on Epiphany. Be meek! Be virtuous! Follow her example in every way!’

  Briefly Josepina’s mouth curved into the smallest of smiles.

  As Josepina walked from the room in which she had been beaten, Epiphany sat in the chapel, her eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer. Sunlight struck through the high windows to her side, dust motes dancing in light that showed the first trace of dusk. An irregular diamond of rich blue, cast through the window, moved slowly on the pale locks of her hair as she knelt. For an hour she had barely moved, even her lips still as her mind dwelt on matters far removed from the mundane.

  Only when the bells in the tower high above her began to chime did she move, rising and walking from the chapel, hands clasped in her lap, head bowed. As she moved across the busy court each person she passed was greeted with the same, barely audible blessing, as if her soul were too delicate to bear such brute contact. Never once did she raise her eyes. At the gate she mumbled a meek request to the doorman, who answered with a grunt.

  Beyond the gate she followed the line of the high wall, moving with yet greater timidity, her hood pulled tight about her face. All about her was bustle, brothers answering the call of the bell, boys hurrying on errands or in simple mischief, the fishermen, moving down towards the quay and boasting of the octopus they would take on the high-tide that evening.

  Many gave Epiphany admiring stares, watching the way her breasts and buttocks moved beneath the light material of her dress. A few made ribald remarks, commenting on the way the sun revealed the contours of her body, even offering money for sexual favours or demanding she lift her dress. To all of this Epiphany responded with the shy aversion of her eyes, never angry, never hurried, blushing faintly and occasionally murmuring forgiveness for the more outrageous comments.

  At the quay she stopped, looking out across the sea and then down into the still waters of the harbour. The smaller octopuses had already started to come in, darting among the weeds in water tinged dark with their ink. A few children stood, knee deep in the rising water, tridents poised in a vain attempt to catch the creatures. Older fishermen ignored the water, indifferent to such small quarry, intent on the preparation of their nets and tridents for when the black tide was high and the giants came in from the sea. All spared a glance for Epiphany, the old men in brief admiration before returning to their work, the young in speculation, each urging the others to make an approach. None tried, every one aware of her purity and unwilling to suffer certain rebuff.

  Presently she turned and began to walk, south, along the shore, with the sun falling slowly towards the sea in the west. Only when she reached the headland did she look back, pushing her hood from her eyes to scan the beach and dunes, alert for any who might have followed. Content that she was alone, she moved on, faster, now, her eyes fixed to the grey-green bulk of the next headland.

  She reached it as the sun touched the horizon, skipping quickly through the gentle waves as the water lapped at the base of the low cliff. Beyond, a bay opened, the cliffs rising above a shore strewn with great boulders of yellow stone and a beach of pale sand. Choosing a rock at the centre of the cove, she climbed to its smooth upper surface and composed herself, arms hugging her knees to her chest.

  The tide rose fast, cutting her off as the last red glimmer of the sun faded into the sea. Water, black with octopus ink, washed close to the base of her rock, the brilliant moon throwing reflected silver from the waves. Epiphany remained still, listening to the murmur of the waves, her eyes fixed to the water, watching.

  Shapes began to rise, black humps among the waves, as smooth as the water, yet moving with a power of their own. Eyes appeared, broad ovals reflecting dull silver in the moonlight, the size of coins, the size of apples, the size of saucers. Epiphany shivered, her teeth chattering despite the warmth of the night as she watched the great, black octopus pull themselves up into the shallows.

  With the press of fat, gleaming bodies pushing against the base of her rock she stood, her trembling hands going to the clasp of her dress. A soft click and it fell away, the linen garment dropping around her feet. Her culottes followed, pushed quickly down, her boots last, to leave her standing, naked in the moonlight, her skin ghost-pale, her hair like silver.

  Her mouth came open as she stepped down from the rock, her lower lip trembling hard. Cool water touched her foot, and the muscular firmness of a tentacle. A wave splashed on to her leg, breaking to wet her thighs and the soft, yellow down of her underbelly. The body of an octopus squeezed against her leg, soft yet resilient, pressing itself between her calves and on into the calm shallows among the boulders.

  Epiphany stepped forward, feeling the water rise until it reached her knees, then kneeling, submerging herself to the level of her chest to leave the waves lapping at her breasts. To all sides she could feel the bodies of the creatures, smooth, rubbery tentacles sliding against her skin, suckers using her flesh for grip as they pulled themselves inshore. One, its bulbous body the size of a marrow, nudged between her thighs, pressing to her sex and sliding beneath her, one tentacle tracing a slow line along the groove of her bottom as it passed. Epiphany let out a quiet whimper at the sensation, spreading her knees wider to the black tide.

  Around her the octopus had begun to mate, the males reaching out distended sperm-arms to the females, caressing and sucking, seeking the apertures to the mantles and egg clusters within. Many touched her, arms moving in exploration, unsure of her taste, unsure of her texture. Her vulva was open, swollen and wet, leaking her femininity to the sea. Again and again tentacles found her flesh, drawn in by the taste of her sex only to reject her as alien. Others used her body as an anchor, coiling their arms around her, sucking at the flesh.

  With fat, resilient bodies pressing in on every side, she let herself sink lower into the water, submerging her breasts. More tentacles immediately found her, gripping both breasts, curling around her back, squeezing her waist and belly. She began to sigh, and to rock, her breath coming slow and deep as she moved her body back and forth in her cage of rubbery arms and swollen bodies.

  A tentacle gripped between her legs, lying from pubic mound to anus, tiny suckers clamping to her sex lips and clitoris. She groaned, feeling the suction on the sensitive bud at the heart of her vulva. Another, large cup closed on one nipple, drawing the bud out, stiff and sensitive. Beneath her two beasts began to squirm, their bodies writhing against the sensitive flesh of her bottom in their ecstasy of copulation.

  A wave splashed her face, and as it
cleared she found herself looking into two huge eyes, as large and pale as the cut halves of a melon. A moan escaped her lips as thick arms took her about the waist and curled beneath her bottom, brushing the smaller creatures aside. A sperm arm as thick as her wrist brushed her thigh and she knew the newcomer was a male.

  Reaching down into the water with a new urgency, she caught hold of an octopus, her fingers busily checking the arms for the tell-tale groove that would reveal its sex. None existed, marking it as female, and she quickly pulled it between her thighs, her fingers sliding gently beneath the mantle, opening the cavity and pressing it to her sex.

  As she rubbed the female octopus against herself the big male pulled her closer, his thick arms powerful beyond her strength. She released the female, sinking her slime-covered fingers into her vagina as the full bulk of the male squeezed between her open thighs. With a deep groan Epiphany threw back her head, abandoning herself to the fate she had worked for, leaning back and pushing her sex out to the now eager male.

  Eight arms took her, holding her, pulling her in. Two were behind her back, two around her waist. The fifth cupped her bottom, much as a human lover might have held her to mount her body on his. The sixth and seventh held her thighs, spreading them to the point of pain, opening her for exploration and fertilisation. The last, the elongated sperm arm, had already begun its work, caressing her, stimulating her to the point when she became receptive.

  Epiphany writhed in the arms of the octopus, sobbing and whimpering with reaction, her whole body engulfed in an ecstasy far beyond anything else she knew, the horrid thrill of the black tide, with her body locked helpless as the slime-covered sperm arm stroked her naked flesh. With her nipples aching beneath suckers, her vagina gaping as it leaked the taste of the female into the water, she could only lie back, moaning and sobbing, crying in her ecstasy, heedless of the waves breaking over her body.

  A tentacle tip had found her anus, working inside to fill her rectum with cold, rubbery flesh. Helpless to stop it, she let the pleasure come, feeling her bowels bloat and fill with the arm reaching up, coiling and uncoiling deeper into her gut. Her arms went around the body of the big male, hugging it to her, her warm embrace against his cold, bulbous mass. His sperm arm was at her belly, moving lower, drawn in by her taste, rubbing between the lips of her sex, squirming against her clitoris …

  She came, crying aloud as the pressure of the sperm arm squeezed down past her clitoris, pressing against it. He found her hole as her climax peaked, making her scream as her vagina filled with tentacle. With his sperm arm inside her he pulled her close, crushing her to him. The tentacle in her anus pushed deeper up, anchoring in her bowels and stretching her ring until she felt she would burst. More sperm arm squeezed into her vagina, filling her until her front hole felt as bloated as the back.

  Lost on a plateau of exalted, obscene bliss, she let herself be taken, feeling her body fill with bulbous tentacle, squirming her breasts against his body, kissing and licking at his dome, crying in-between, calling herself names that would have had Josepina blushing in confusion.

  The second orgasm came as the sperm started to flood her vagina. She could feel it, running sticky into her body, bloating out her cavity and spilling from the mouth to the rhythm of her contractions. Part of an arm was pressed to her clitoris, rough yet soft, and with a frantic wiggling of her hips she brought herself off, bumping her bud over the ridges and papillae of the beast’s skin and coming with a long, drawn-out scream.

  With her cunt brimming with octopus sperm she began to buck wildly in his arms, everything forgotten but the pleasure of being mated. Her orgasm held, every muscle in her body locked tight, anus pulsing on the thick, intruding arm, mouth agape in one, long scream, arms tight around his resilient bulk. Still the sperm came, filling her and flooding out into the water around her, washing over her face with the waves so that she could taste it. Driven to an unbearable peak of lust, her senses began to slip, her mind riding on bliss so high, so sublime that nothing whatever mattered beyond her act …

  Epiphany came to her senses as her open mouth filled with water. Gagging and choking, she quickly pulled herself back up on her lover’s tentacles, bringing her head clear of the water. He was spent, and pulling back, the tentacle in her anus working out in slow waves, the suckers moving across her back, buttocks and legs. Her vagina was still contracting and she felt the end of the sperm arm pull free. She leant forward, giving him a parting kiss between his great pale eyes before pulling herself back and standing, only to sink down once more to her haunches, exhausted.

  Staring out across the moonlit sea with vacant eyes, she allowed the spent tip of his sperm arm to slide from her vagina. Her body arched, her anus smarting and pulsing, her vagina dribbling octopus sperm into the water. She knew she would be covered in sucker marks, bruises and tiny cuts, yet all would be covered by her long dress and the demure hood she always wore.

  Only when the sea had begun to retreat did she rise. Washing the last of her lover’s sperm from her body in a rock pool, she set her face to the village, walking the moonlit sand, her expression meek, timid, and above all, innocent.

  DISCIPLINE OF THE

  PRIVATE HOUSE

  Esme Ombreux

  Esme Ombreux has a remarkable reputation when one considers that she has written only four books for Nexus. These aren’t just any four books, though: the first; One Week in the Private House, sold out within weeks of first publication and has been reprinted twice; and the sequel, Amanda in the Private House, more than lived up to expectations, as did the third and fourth, Discipline of the Private House (extracted here) and An Education in the Private House. Esme followed these with Captives of the Private House and Pet-Training in the Private House.

  She also edited the first two New Erotica books, and used to write Letters from Esme in the back of a number of Nexus novels – all in all, a true devotee of erotica.

  In the following extract from Discipline …, Jem, Mistress of the Private House, is due to be put through her paces by the Chatelaine’s depraved minions.

  As Jem and Robert made their way from the dungeons to the north range of the Chateau, Robert’s right hand roamed continuously over the curves of Jem’s bottom. She was naked but for her collar, matching leather cuffs around her wrists, the chains, and a tightly fitting leather helmet within which her hair was contained. From time to time Robert would pull on the leash and laugh when Jem stumbled. With the movement of her arms restricted by the chains, on occasion she almost fell; each time this happened Robert grabbed her roughly, pinching her nipples hard as he righted her, and gave her six lashes for being clumsy.

  As he led her through the lamplit corridors he maintained a steady stream of muttered invective: ‘Not so high and mighty now, are you, little whore?’ he said, over and over again. ‘My Mistress has got you, and she’ll never let you go. She’ll keep this pretty little arse so sore you’ll never want to sit down again. And if she ever takes pity on you, you can be sure I won’t.’

  Jem succeeded in maintaining a subversive cheerfulness as she dutifully thanked Robert for his consideration, but she could not help feeling apprehensive. It was clear that Robert had an ordeal prepared for her in the Chateau’s kitchens, and that he expected her to be unable to remain subservient throughout it.

  They had reached the wide passage that ran down the spine of the north range of rooms and separated the dining hall, with its tall, south-facing windows, from the cryptlike kitchens, sculleries and storerooms of the Chateau. This was one of the oldest parts of the building: the ceiling vaults rose from semicircular arches that were supported by thick, round, age-pitted pillars, and the flagstones had been worn by centuries of feet scurrying from hall to kitchen and back again.

  Robert led Jem past the pair of vast swinging doors which led directly into the main kitchen. He stopped instead a little further down the corridor, in front of a single, plain door. Jem thought that behind the door was one of the smaller rooms devoted to
food preparation: the bakery, perhaps. The main kitchen, of course, was so cavernous that the blackened ceiling was difficult to discern; the bakery, buttery and sculleries were therefore small only by comparison – each was much larger, for instance, than the spacious cell that Jem had shared with Olena the previous night.

  Jem thought she could hear raised voices and laughter from behind the door. When Robert pushed the door open, the sound of voices abruptly ceased. The silence seemed ominous.

  Robert propelled Jem through the doorway. She found herself standing indeed in the bakery, a large, square room of yellowed stone, its ceiling supported on squat pillars. The air smelled organic: yeast and hot bread, carried on currents of warm air. All the oven doors were open, the ovens were empty, and in the vast fireplace only a small pyramid of logs was burning. Nonetheless, the room seemed hot to Jem.

  It also seemed crowded. Lounging on and around a sturdy wooden table were half a dozen kitchen slaves; all men, all young, and all staring at Jem with unconcealed interest.

  Jem almost allowed her amusement to show on her face. Six strong, libidinous lads: was this supposed to be the ordeal that would break her will? She lowered her head and did her best to look demure; it would not do, she decided, to let Robert catch her eyeing the bulges at the fronts of the aprons that were the only garments the male kitchen slaves wore. She concentrated on absorbing the masculine atmosphere of the room: the heat; the earthy, arousing aromas; the penetrating gazes of hardworking, hard-bodied young men.