by Неизвестный
Jem was confident that, when it came to tests of sexual endurance, she had as much stamina as anyone. But by now even she was beginning to feel tired, sore, used and uncomfortable. She was finding it difficult to keep at bay fantasies about hot baths full of scented bubbles. However, she reasoned, all six of the young men had now had their climaxes, and she knew that they would no longer be as diligent in their testing of her. Perhaps, she allowed herself to hope, she would shortly be released, and would be allowed a brief respite before she was obliged to submit herself to the next of the Chatelaine’s ordeals.
She heard a door being flung open. A loud male voice filled the extensive space of the bakery.
‘Is my bird ready, lads? Can I have her now?’
There were shouts of ‘Yes, Chef,’ and ‘Here she is, Chef,’ before the voice of one of the kitchen-slaves emerged from the concatenation. ‘She’s trussed and tenderised, Chef,’ said the brown-eyed kitchen-slave, ‘and oiled, and skewered on the spit, and basted. Just the way you said you wanted her. All she needs now is the stuffing.’
‘Sauces and stuffings, those are my specialities,’ the Chef said. ‘That’s a nicely done rump,’ he added, and the shock of pain as a heavy hand landed on her backside revealed to Jem that the Chef had come to stand behind her. She felt strong but nimble fingers tracing the lattice of lines on her buttocks, and exploring the folds of her vulva under the stretched membranes of her penetrated vagina.
‘This one’s good and juicy, too,’ the Chef commented. His fingers moved to Jem’s anus, into which, thanks to the oil, he was very easily able to insert two fingers. ‘She’s ready for stuffing,’ he announced, and without further ado he withdrew his fingers and instead presented to Jem’s prettily and pinkly crinkled arsehole the head of his manhood.
As he buggered her he stroked her burning buttocks with one hand and used the other to vibrate the shaft of the phallus in Jem’s vagina. As a result, Jem soon forgot her discomfort and was about to reach a deep and slow-building climax of her own when the Chef shouted, and jetted hot lava into Jem’s bowels.
‘A very tasty morsel,’ the Chef commented as he withdrew his shrinking penis. Jem groaned with frustration. Around her, the kitchen-slaves began to untie her bonds.
THREE BEASTS
Penny Birch
Penny Birch is a naughty little minx. Not only does she shamelessly reveal her love of the bizarre world of pony-girl carting in her first novel for Nexus, Penny in Harness, she also reveals dark secrets about her best friend in A Taste of Amber and tells us everything we ever wanted to know about her cheeky activities in Bad Penny. Fans of Penny’s enthusiastic writing and encyclopaedic knowledge of perversion will know that these books really are treats to look forward to. Penny is, moreover, a founding member of one of the UK’s first pony-girl carting clubs, so everything you are likely to read is based on real experiences.
The following story is not published elsewhere. However, her previous Nexus books are as follows:
Penny in Harness
Regime
A Taste of Amber
Dirty Laundry
Bad Penny
Uniform Doll
Brat
Nurse’s Orders
In for a Penny
Jodhpurs and Jeans
Plaything
Peach
Tight White Cotton
Fit to be Tied
Tie and Tease
When She was Bad
Penny Pieces
Knickers and Boots
Temper Tantrums
Tickle Torture
Ariolimax columbianus
Wendy and I were still racing the Banana Slugs when the Minister entered the department. They had arrived that morning, flown in direct from Seattle, six fat yellow monsters nestled in a moss-packed box. One was a real whopper, brilliant banana yellow and as long as my hand even when limp and sleepy. We put him on a wet bench top and sprinkled him with water to get him going, and discovered he measured an impressive twenty-seven centimetres when fully extended. Wendy wanted to call him Grandpa, but I didn’t think that was fair because it felt wrong to give a hermaphrodite a male name. Wendy giggled and said a male name was perfectly suitable because he looked like a huge cock. Huge was right, over ten inches and nearly as thick as my wrist, although I’ve never seen a bright yellow cock. I called Wendy a dirty-minded trollop and pointed out that Grandpa was still an unsuitable name because the slug was speeding away down the bench while we argued and anything but decrepit.
That was what started the slug racing. The others were getting frisky and one was already out of the box. It was an orangey yellow, rather like Wendy’s hair. I pointed this out and earned myself a slap on the bottom, but she immediately adopted the slug and christened her Clementine, then bet me ten pounds that Clementine could beat Grandpa over a measured course. My bottom was tingling from the slap, so I took the bet and added a spanking for the loser, panties down, to be delivered as soon as it was safe.
I was confident in Grandpa. While Wendy and I had been arguing he had crawled a good metre, and more importantly, done it in a straight line. Slugs aren’t like horses and dogs, you can’t teach them to race along a course. You can’t force them to race at all, in fact, they do as they please, but Grandpa seemed game. Wendy was convinced Clementine was even more active.
We marked off a metre and let them go. Wendy was right, Clementine went at a hell of a pace, for a slug. Unfortunately she went in the wrong direction and was halfway up a window when Grandpa crossed the finishing line. I was cheering by then, and laughing at the prospect of getting Wendy’s panties down and turning her wobbling bottom a nice rich shade of pink. I was even more confident too and offered double or quits, adding the humiliation of stripping nude for her spanking if she lost.
She accepted and we set the slugs up again, only for Clementine to win by half a length. That meant quits, which was boring, so we agreed on a third race, with a naked spanking for the loser and six of the cane for good measure. We retrieved our champions and put them on the starting line once more, only for the door to open before they had travelled much over an inch.
I heard the catch go and turned to find Professor South pushing the door wide with his face set in the obsequious smile he reserves for visiting dignitaries. The next person who came in was obviously the Minister, although I had completely forgotten he was coming to inspect the department. After him came various sidekicks and several reporters, while I gave a smile every bit as unctuous as the Professor’s and tried desperately to remember what the visit was supposed to be about. If I was right he was the new Minister for Genetic Research, a department or sub-department or something created to calm public fears about genetic engineering.
He was a small man, very formally dressed and precise, straight out of the ’fifties, and just the sort of MP you could imagine going on about permissiveness and the moral decay of society. What he was doing overseeing genetic research when he probably hadn’t been in a science lab since he was at school I couldn’t imagine, but Professor South had made it very clear that our continued funding depended on his good will.
Wendy and I came to attention, greeting the Minister politely while the flunkies hovered around and the reporters photographed our apparatus. We’d been setting up a practical for the first years, and the lab looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie, although it had nothing whatever to do with our work. It kept the reporters happy anyway, while the Minister surveyed the arrangement of retorts, tubes and burettes with every evidence of suspicion.
‘Dr Birch and Dr Smith are currently working on a gene sequencing project,’ Professor South explained, making a sweeping gesture to include the whole lab.
‘Ah, indeed?’ the Minister asked. ‘And what, exactly, does that involve?’
‘We are mapping the DNA of various species of gastropod,’ I answered. ‘Limacidae and Arionidae at present, slugs that is.’
‘Slugs?’ he queried. ‘And how will that be of
benefit?’
‘Essentially we are learning to map DNA more efficiently,’ I answered quickly. ‘We in fact use genetic material from slugs’ eggs, thus avoiding contentious issues of experimentation on living animals. Besides, if all our slugs are released by animal liberationists at least we’ll be able to catch up with them.’
He didn’t even crack a smile, but tugged at his chin and turned to examine a burette stand as if it was a piece of medieval torture equipment. Professor South began to explain our anti-vivisection policy in more serious terms, and at that moment I felt a wet, sucking sensation on my leg. I knew what it was at once, and a quick glance below the level of the bench confirmed it. Grandpa was crawling up my leg.
It would have taken a second to remove him, but I didn’t dare move. Because I was wearing short boots he was already a good way up my calf, and under the hem of my lab coat. No less than six cameramen had their lenses trained on us, and I knew that if I picked him off every paper in the city would soon have a photo of me removing a ten-inch banana slug from under my coat.
I stayed still, trying to look calm and attentive and wishing the Minister would go away and take his entourage with him. He didn’t but kept talking, asking inane question after inane question while Grandpa crawled slowly up my leg. He tickled, making me want to wriggle in the same way as when I badly need to pee, but I didn’t dare move at all. I wished I’d worn jeans instead of a skirt, and then he began to spiral slowly around my knee cap and I really wished I’d worn jeans.
It was agony, desperately trying to stay still as his fat, sticky body traced a line under my skirt and up the inside of my thigh, along the groove between my tightly closed legs and into the V where thighs meet panty crotch. My pulse began to hammer as he reached my panties and the water started to well in my eyes …
He stopped, his long, turgid body lying from well down my closed thighs to half way up the tight white cotton that covered my pussy. I swallowed, near to panic, and then I felt a strange scraping, itching feeling right between my sex lips and I knew that he had begun to eat my panties.
Slugs like cellulose, they’re about the only animals that can eat it, and cotton panties were obviously no exception. I hate nylon panties, but I was wishing I’d worn some as I felt his radula scrape away the only barrier between my naked pussy flesh and Grandpa’s fat, slug body. I actually felt it when the threads broke, I’m sure I did, a sudden, tiny release of tension as the thin cotton gave in. Then I was helpless, bare to him as he began to enlarge the hole, moving his head slowly from side to side as I held myself stock still in front of those awful camera lenses and writhed and squirmed inside.
I was struggling to hold back my tears, tears of awful frustration as well as in reaction to the feel of Grandpa eating slowly away at my panties. My only hope was that he would finish his meal and crawl back down, but I knew it was vain. Slugs climb, and it wasn’t just cotton he was enjoying, but cotton with a spicy tang of pussy juice. I knew I was turned on from all the talk about spanking between Wendy and me, and that my pussy was sodden. In fact it could even have been that which drew him up my leg in the first place.
Now he was well into it, squeezing his head through the hole in my panties, right against my pussy, prodding at me like a cock searching for the hole, bumping on my clitoris, then between my lips. I suppressed a groan of despair as he began to ease his fat body through the hole in my panties, squirming and twisting inside, pushing into the tight gap between pussy and cotton. Slugs move by sending waves of muscular contraction down the length of their bodies, and as Grandpa forced his way into my panties each wave was rubbed right against my sex, between the lips and on my clitoris. He got himself right in, his whole, fat, slimy, ten-inch body, packed into the tight chamber between my pussy and my panties. I could imagine the way it would make the front bulge out obscenely, with his body moving under the cotton.
It was right on my clitty, his body rubbing on me, each muscular wave pressing tight, until my heart was hammering and my pelvic muscles had begun to contract. I knew I was going to come, I just couldn’t help it. My vision was going, with red spots in front of my eyes. My body felt weak and my nipples were straining against the material of my blouse. It was happening and I couldn’t stop it. I was coming with a slug down my panties, coming in front of a dozen people, all staring pop-eyed as my arousal became impossible to hide and my mouth came open in a long, groan of helpless, despairing ecstasy as my thighs and bottom cheeks clenched tight and my pussy began to pulse.
Grandpa’s tail found my cunt and slipped inside. The full, fleshy width of his foot settled on my clitoris and squeezed, sucking the little bud against his body. I choked back a scream as the camera flashes exploded and then I was going to my knees, sobbing and gasping as I came and came and came.
I never did it, I never pulled up my skirt and showed it all off, panties and slug and cunt and everything, all in a filthy, slimy mess. Despite everything I held from that, just coming over and over as Grandpa’s fat body squirmed in my panties and they all looked on in shock and disgust and amazement. All except Wendy, my darling, wonderful Wendy, who pulled me up under my armpits and helped me from the room, all the time reeling off a frantic explanation about stomach cramps, period pains, appendicitis … anything except Banana Slugs.
Gigantopithecus grandipedis
It started as a student prank, and a pretty trivial one at that. I had left the order form for the Banana Slugs on my desk and, because it was addressed to Rocky Mountain Biological Supply, some joker had added on a request for a Big Foot Sasquatch. When I came back I didn’t bother to change it. After all, it was obviously a joke, and a harmless one. Besides, I couldn’t be bothered to fill out a new form.
The people at RMBS obviously found it funny anyway, because when the invoice for the Banana Slugs arrived it contained a note apologising for being out of stock of Sasquatch and promising to send one as soon as possible. Wendy and I replied with a request for delivery at their earliest convenience and an added note that for preference the Sasquatch should be male, not too old and in good condition. In return we got a note saying that they did now have a Sasquatch, but an elderly female with only one leg. We asked if she was available at a discount and they refused, citing the rarity of the species, and so it went, getting ever more ridiculous. Finally we accused them of giving preferential treatment to US universities and threatened to sue if we were not immediately supplied with an eight-foot male Sasquatch in prime condition.
The phone call came at one o’clock in the morning. I awoke with a surge of adrenalin at the thought of some tragedy, only to find that it was the airport customs, saying that they had a large, angry Sasquatch for the university and that I was to come immediately.
I knew it was some stupid prank by RMBS, but I still had to go. When you regularly bring in things like Banana Slugs and shrunken heads it pays to be on the right side of Customs and Excise. I didn’t even argue, but threw on a tracksuit and trainers over my panties and set off. All the way I was wondering what RMBS had done, but when I finally arrived I really began to wonder. It had come in on a 747, a massive wooden crate with air holes and large ‘This Side Up’ stickers. They had forklifted it to the quarantine bay, where it stood inside an enclosure used for zoo animals. I signed several forms, each listing my consignment as ‘Sasquatch, large, male, one’. With the formalities over I was allowed into the enclosure, while the customs officers, a dozen airport officials, several reporters and two policewomen looked on in fascination.
There was something in the crate, something big, and I could only imagine they had sent me a bear. It was one hell of a joke, but there it was. I peered through an air hole, standing on tiptoe to get high enough. There was a bar inside, clearly part of a cage and obstructing my view, so I moved to another. The interior was dim, illuminated solely by the faint rays of light striking in through the air holes. For a moment I could see nothing but dust motes dancing in the dull light, and then it moved, something hairy and a dee
p red-brown. So they had sent me a bear, and a big grizzly too by the look of things. It was a stupid thing to do, and I was pretty angry as I undid the catches that held shut the front of the crate, also sorry for the poor animal. The hatch swung down and I stepped aside to let it fall, then stepped up on it to get a better look at the grizzly.
It was the arms I saw first, great, long things totally unlike the forelegs of a bear. Then he turned and I saw his face and I could only stand and stare. It was an ape that was looking at me, a huge, heavy-browed ape, with the protruding muzzle and heavy jowls of an orang-utan and a fringe of dark orange hair. It was the eyes that had me fixed to the spot. You can see the intelligence in an orang’s eyes, but these were different, these were human. I just stood, staring transfixed as he unfolded himself to his full height and my last hopes that he might have been a big male orang vanished. He was a Sasquatch, and he was huge, well over seven foot, and built more like a man than an ape, despite the massive, splayed feet, the knuckling, simian hands and the mass of hair that covered all but his face, his great swollen belly … and his genitals.
He was a male, there was no doubt about that. His cock had the dimensions of a cucumber, a great, ponderous thing, dark brown in colour and hanging over two balls the size of oranges, big oranges. It wasn’t completely limp either, and as I stared at it the foreskin began to peel back to expose a head the size of my fist and a rich scarlet in colour. He growled and took his cock in his hand, looking right at me and jerking at it. The great bulbous head came right out, pointed straight at me with obvious interest. I heard a nervous, female giggle from behind me and I found myself blushing furiously. With a few more jerks he came erect, his penis a truly monstrous thing, some two feet of shiny brown cock meat with the head a bloated red-purple globe and a dribble of Cowper’s fluid at the tip.