Monday, 11 August 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a rude excerpt for your entertainment.

On Friday night I was at Nine Worlds Geekfest, in the audience for Zak and Kristina's "How to write a sex scene" workshop. So today's excerpt is from Janissaries, a story I wrote a few years back hoping that Kristina might like it ;-) It was an experiment in pushing my limits for full-on fem-sub, and writing for the first time about figging, and probably the filthiest thing I wrote until Named and Shamed. With my scariest protagonist ever.

‘Open up.’

I obey, relaxing my iris. My arse is well-trained. It has had to take six cocks in turn, many a time, and it knows how to yield. I know what it is to have six loads of come in my private entrance, squirting out between my cheeks as I crawl away. This ginger finger is moist and slippery and feels cold. It goes in past the ring of muscle easily, the last quarter remaining outside. It’s not uncomfortable.

‘Kneel up. Face us. Hands behind your head!’ barks the captain. I hurry into position and feel the first warm glow ripple up the tissues of my violated bottom. There’s a big grin on Rurik’s face.

As soon as I am in position I am ignored, or at least left alone. They carry on eating and talking among themselves, with only the odd glance thrown in my direction. The topic of conversation is the coming campaign season, and whether military success will yield a worthwhile new crop of slaves. There is good-natured disagreement as to which nation’s women are the best fucks. And as they talk I feel the cool slickness of the ginger turn to a burning flame inside me, the pungent juices prickling and inflaming my insides. I begin to squirm, secretly at first. I squeeze my arse-muscles – but that instantly makes the sensation truly painful and I learn my lesson, unclenching with a gasp.

Rurik chuckles.

As the moments wear on the heat builds unbearably. I wonder if I’m going to burn up. Sweat springs out on my back, trickling down my crack. My breasts quiver. I begin to writhe my hips almost imperceptibly, longing to pull the tormenting plug from my hole. Soon it feels like the whole length of my spine is aflame, and tears well up in my half-closed eyes. I start to pant. I long to pee, as if the liquid might put out my inner fire. My labia feel engorged and I can feel moisture oozing from me. The tiny chime of the bells on my nipples is unceasing as I squirm and shake. At last I can’t hold back my anguish and I let out a moan.

‘Is it too hot for you, Kitten?’ Rurik asks.

‘Please masters…’

‘Have you got an itch you can’t scratch?’ He comes forward to pull my silken shred of a loin cloth clean off, and slip his hand between my obediently spread thighs. He fingers my clit, and for a moment it is wonderfully distracting. Then as the itch ignites I realise he has ginger juice still on his hand and now my most sensitive flesh is sparking into torment. I squeal outright. He slithers his fingers into my gash and remarks, ‘She’s wet as a swamp here.’

He’s not wrong. Something – the frustration, the inflammation, some alchemical effect of the ginger itself on female flesh – is making me slathering wet. My sex gapes. He explores me briefly then withdraws.

‘Want me to take the ginger out?’

‘Oh please – yes! Please, masters,’ I moan.

‘How about I put some of this nice cool cream up there instead?’ Rurik picks up a ceramic pot of golden-yellow syllabub from the table. The thought of its soothing richness in my back passage makes me want to scream with need, but I bite my lip instead and nod frantically. My clit is starting to throb.

‘Let’s see how much of it is left then,’ he says, sitting himself back down and unlacing his leathers. His cock springs out, already stiff enough to summon me with an imperious jerk, but he grips its root between his fingers and sticks the whole thing into the syllabub, scooping out the cream as if with a spoon. It oozes down his length. ‘Come on and give me a licking then.’

Darius makes a mock-complaint: ‘Hey. I wanted to eat that!’

‘You still can, if you like.’

His expression of disgust is theatrical. ‘You think I’m eating anything where your cheesy knob has already been?’

‘Well, you’ve had your tongue up her cunt plenty of times. Maybe you like the taste of my knob-cheese, Darius.’ There are general snorts of laughter but the black man and the blond aren’t going to start a proper scuffle; they’re both too interested in what they’re going to be doing to me. Darius starts to loosen his armour.

‘Just don’t waste that dessert, Rurik. I want to see it used.’

‘Oh, it’s not going to waste. Time for the Kitten to get her cream.’

I’ve crawled to Rurik on hands and knees. I’m yearning to feel the soothing, rich cream in my abused passage and it’s frustrating to have to take it in my mouth instead, but at least it’s something – anything will do – to take my mind off the burning between my cheeks. I wrap my lips about the white froth and it melts in my mouth, tasting of honey and saffron, slicking my throat. But underneath the sweetness is meat and salt, and I slide him deep into my throat so that I can lap up the drips and runnels from the underside of his shaft. I feel him thicken, butting against my soft inner flesh. I feel his scrotum tighten under my hand. They are talking over my head, but I can’t hear the words because Rurik has his hands over my ears, guiding my head up and down on his cock in the rhythm that pleases him best. I squirm my bottom, whimpering my distress even through my diligent sucking.

Just as I think Rurik is going to add his own cream to my diet, he pulls me abruptly from his cock. Mouth open, lips wet, tongue displayed, I meet his gaze. He rubs his fingertips up his slippery shaft, and I see in his eyes he’s saving himself for something more than a blowjob. Instead he pushes me into Darius’ lap and I go down with a gasp onto my second cock of the day.

There is no cream this time to sweeten the meal. This cock is the colour and hardness of mahogany, broad and impatient. His pubic hair clings in tight curls over his crotch and up the root of his shaft, his scrotal pouch is heavily wrinkled and almost blueish. And he is not the last. I am passed on down the line, one by one, because they are all divesting themselves of their clothes now. I am surrounded by cock and I abase myself willingly, as frantic as the most ardent of worshippers to forget my own misery in the giving of myself to my deity. Among those slab thighs, I bend to make obeisance. Cock is my god. These men with their brawny arms and their smell of sweat and leather, their broken noses and their callused hands; they are my gods. I know them as a priest knows those he bows and prays to every day. Each cock is different in taste and behaviour and appearance. Some are smooth, some veined and gnarled; some uncut, some shorn of their foreskins. Jaffez has a pronounced list to the right. Teodric’s helm looks too massive for the shaft it sits on. Milo seeps with excitement. Rurik’s balls clench so hard they seem to disappear into his body. Alain’s prick stands up so stiff it almost brushes his belly, but Darius’ is too heavy for that; though he gets hard he does not rise. Some of them like to sit back and let me lick, others prefer to thrust into my throat.

I can hear their desultory conversation, like the voices of indifferent gods: they are reminiscing about whores they have fucked and virgins they have despoiled, and comparing me unfavourably to them all.

Somewhere in the middle of this, a hand pulls the ginger plug from me. I moan with gratitude. Then cool and slippery digits probe my burning hole anew – and suddenly the ginger finger is back, but this time bearing a slippery load. They are using it, I realise, to stuff my arse with the honeyed cream. It slips in and out of me over and over. I feel myself filling with sweet dessert, which melts deliciously on my inflamed inner walls and oozes out, greasing my ring.

Then I get to Alain, and Alain has no patience. He picks me up bodily, turns me and slaps my behind down in his lap, spearing my slick anus with his prick in one savage thrust. My sensitised tissues seem to explode. I shriek, twisting in his grip, but he lifts me and slams me down even harder to teach me a lesson. The others curse his lack of manners, nearly choking with laughter. Ignoring them, Alain gets a good grip with both hands and begins to shaft me deep and fast, bouncing me on his thighs. The saffron cream squelches out over his balls.

‘Smack her tits!’ he grunts.

So I get one man on either side of me and they slap my breasts and my face in turn, stingingly, until Alain lets loose with a snarled blasphemy and blasts his spunk up my back passage. With a spasm of irritation he throws me aside, face down on the couch. I cling to the coverlet with clawing fingers, pressing my face into the cushion.

Almost as fast as he has discarded me, the others move in.

Janissaries is one of the short stories in my second collection, Dark Enchantment. And currently it's really cheap on Kindle!
Amazon US : Amazon UK

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