Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11703837.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Tyrion_Lannister/Sansa_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy/Robb_Stark, Sandor_Clegane/
      Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy, Robb_Stark, Arya_Stark, Rickon_Stark, Bran
      Stark, Sandor_Clegane, Tyrion_Lannister
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Dark, Murder_Family, Murderers, Revenge
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-04 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1616
****** Dance with the Devil ******
by tinywriter81
Summary
     Mother was dead and Father had left for King’s Landing; the time for
     justice was at hand, and they were the executioners. Dark!AU. Future
     Sansa x Tyrion, Arya x Hound, Robb x Theon.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Title:  Dance with the Devil (1/?)
Author:  Demelza
Disclaimer:  Game of Thrones and its characters belong to GRRM and HBO.  I'm
just borrowing them here for a little while.  No infringements of any
copyrights are intended.
Genre:  AU
Pairing:  None as yet, future Sansa/Tyrion, Arya/Hound, Robb/Theon
Rating:  O15
Warnings:  Gore, graphic violence
Summary:  Mother was dead and Father had left for King’s Landing; the time for
justice was at hand, and they were the executioners. Dark!AU. Future Sansa x
Tyrion, Arya x Hound, Robb x Theon.
Author's Note:  Beta'd by me.  Mistakes are mine. *g*
oOo
Amidst the dancing flames of the torches perched in their place along the great
barn’s walls stood the Stark siblings, Jon and Theon.  Each of them were armed
with a heavy iron dagger that bore the head of a wolf on its hilt.  Sansa stood
with Bran and Arya at each side of her, their eyes fixed on the cloaked man
that knelt on the hay-covered barn floor before them.  His head covered in a
musty sack, she could hear the man’s laboured breathing from beneath, heard the
almost-whimper that sounded with every intake of air he rasped for.  The
sympathy she might have once held for someone in his position ebbed into her
mind but she pushed it aside as she thought of her mother’s naked, torn and
bloodied body found only days ago.
‘The devil doesn’t deserve our sympathy,’ Robb had told them tonight before the
sun had set.
And, he didn’t.
He’d butchered sixteen women.  Left their bodies on display as if they had been
crude pieces of art made by the self-claimed artists across the seas in
Bravvos.
He’d mutilated them.
Tore their skin from their bodies in one inch wide strips, flaying them with
delicate care.
But there was nothing delicate about the last hours of their lives, flayed
alive, their blood draining into troughs wherever it was the bastard had been
so inclined to butcher them.
And now, now he was before them.
The Stark siblings had sworn they would be the ones to seek justice on the
man.  Even young Rickon, his tear-streaked face framed with fierce raven curls,
stood amongst them there in the barn.
Sansa thought for a moment of the innocence he was about to lose.  The
innocence they were all about to be torn away from.
But this is for mother,she thought, and the words steeled her.  They told her
this was their duty.
Robb stepped forward then, iron dagger in his right hand, and stopped before
the cloaked man. 
Sansa watched as her brother’s jaw muscles clenched and unclenched – he, like
them all, couldn’t stop seeing the image of their mother’s body.  The tears
that streaked his cheeks set forth fresh tears in Sansa’s own eyes.
She was blinking them away when the bound man before them lifted his head.
“You’ve pissed yourself,” came his hoarse voice.  His body trembled – but it
wasn’t a tremble of fear, it was the convulsions of laughter as it started.
All eyes were on Rickon then, and as Sansa’s gaze lowered she noted a puddle of
urine that had pooled at his feet.
Their mother’s murderer continued to laugh, however racked with pain.
Sansa tightened her grip on the iron dagger in her hand.  She yearned to plunge
it into the bastard’s throat, but Robb had told them this had to be done
slowly, they had to let the bastard suffer as much as their mother and the
other women had.
She didn’t know if she had the stomach for what she supposed he meant by that,
at ten and six years of age she was meant to be preparing for her upcoming
wedding to Ser Loras Tyrell.  None of them were meantto be here doing this.
Their father had told Robb and Jon that the murderer would be taken to the hill
where justice would be dealt to him before he’d left for King’s Landing on
seemingly urgent business as decreed by King Robert.  His idea of justice was
taking Ice and slicing through the man’s neck in one swing, but that wasn’t
what the children wanted.
It wasn’t the justice their mother deserved.
Now alone while Father was in King’s Landing, the Stark Siblings, Jon and Theon
stood in a circle around the murderer.
“Come on then, you coward,” the man taunted, his voice rough.
At those words, Robb closed the distance between himself and their prisoner. 
He grabbed the man by the head and forced him face-first onto the floor.  With
one slice of his iron dagger the rope that secured the sack on the man’s head
came loose.  Then, grasping the sack, Robb ripped it free as he took two steps
back, away from the balding, forty-something man that lay on the floor.
Their eyes fixed on the murderer, the Stark children stood still as they
watched him try to lift himself back up unto his knees.
Once upright, the man eyed the young man before him.  “Robb Stark,” he said,
promptly spitting dirt and hay from his mouth.  Slowly, he lifted his gaze to
the blue-eyed, eldest Stark child.  “To what do I owe the honour?”
Robb held the man’s gaze.  Then, with the motion of his left hand, Jon stepped
forward, dagger firmly gripped in hand.
The murderer’s gaze shifted to Jon for a beat, then to Bran as he stepped
forward.  Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Theon followed suit, and the murderer fixed
his gaze back on a hate-filled Robb.
“Really?” the man asked, laughing.  “Does your father know you’re out at night,
playing with his best silverware?”
Robb removed the robe he wore, then each of the Stark children, Jon and Theon
removed theirs.  Each swoosh, each rustle as they fell to the ground, made
their prisoner eye them with glee-filled humour.
None of the children spoke.  Not even Rickon, who, despite his trembling gait,
carried forward with what he knew he needed to do for Mother.
“Tell you what,” the man said, cricking his neck.  He looked at Arya first,
then Sansa, followed by Bran.  “How about a bedtime story?”
The three looked to Robb.  His eyes remained fixed on the man before them,
daring him to speak another word.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful woman named Catelyn Stark…” the man
began, shifting his gaze to Theon, then Robb.  “…one afternoon, I whisked her
away for the greatest adventure of her life.”  He looked at Jon for a moment,
“I tore her clothes off and her beauty was beyond my wildest imagination.” 
Finally, as he turned, his gaze settled on a tearful Rickon.  “Then, with a
very sharp knife, I sliced off strips of her skin until only her beautiful,
tear-streaked face remained.”
Tears were running down Sansa’s own cheeks as Rickon yelled out in a rage,
charging for their mother’s murderer.  Her whole body jolted with each of the
two stabs the young boy took at the man’s shoulders.
Bran and Arya followed within moments, each stabbing at their mother’s murderer
with two strikes.
Sansa darted her eyes to Robb, who gave her a nod.
She walked towards the laughing, bleeding man.  None of them were as well-
trained at using a blade as Robb, Jon and Theon were.  Her younger siblings had
cut the man, but their stabs had barely dug deep enough to really do anythingto
him.  But that’s why Robb told them what order this had to go in.  Who went
first and how many stabs each they were to deliver.
The iron dagger felt heavier now than it had before as Sansa lifted it up,
above the man before her.  For a moment as he lifted his red and bruised face
to look at her she thought better of what they were doing.  But then she saw
the darkness in his eyes.  She saw the unrelenting and hateful monster that had
slaughtered her mother.
With a mighty, downward thrust Sansa brought the dagger down and plunged it
into the man’s shoulder.  He didn’t scream, but his breath left him as he fell
to the ground, dagger still in his shoulder.
She dropped to her knees, placed her left hand on his back.
Tears burned her eyes.
He lifted himself up, slowly, whimpered breaths shaking him.  The hate was gone
from his eyes.  All she saw before her was a man.
Reaching for the dagger, she struggled with all her strength and pulled it
free.  Blood gushed out, bursting with hateful heat as it struck her cheek and
forehead.
Her gaze met his again.  He was pleading wordlessly.  She could stop this, he
knew she could.
But her last, unkind words to her mother resurfaced in her mind: ‘I wish you
were dead!’
Sansa moved her right hand towards her left, gripped the iron dagger’s handle
and with an enraged, pain-filled scream she plunged the dagger into his
shoulder once again.  But as it went in, jolting her own shoulders, she pulled
it out and plunged it in again.
Still gripping the dagger with dear life, her whole body began to convulse as
heart-pounding sobs left her body.  It was her fault their mother was dead. 
She had willed it into the world, and the gods had listened.
She felt hands around her then, and she moved with them.  Bran and Arya helped
her away from the man.  Rickon raced over and wrapped his arms around her
waist, and the four of them dropped to the ground together, crying desperately
as they heard every grunt, every sound of iron plunging into flesh as Robb, Jon
and Theon finished off the task.
End Notes
     The "relationships" tagged on this fic build from the next chapter
     onwards. This chapter was a stage-setting chapter.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
nt's place,
becoming the lover of the parent lost. But, Miss Barring, our time is up. If
you wish to discuss these things later--"
"Have you ever tasted a pussy?"
She froze. Before she could answer, I had taken her by the wrist, my silver
bracelet clicking against her turquoise one. I saw, felt the shiver that ran
through her and drank it in, let it pool between my legs as heat. "I have," I
purred.
She pulled her hand away, shaking from indignation. "As a matter of fact, I
have, once. I didn't enjoy it."
I took one last drag off my cigarette, stumped it and let out a pitying croon.
"Then you must have chosen the wrong kind of woman," I said, kicking my shoes
off, opening my legs a little. "Was hers one of those bitter ones, fishy ones?"
I said, full of sugary sweetness, yet with the swagger of an old playboy. I ran
my toes up her leg, silk whispering against silk, and saw her nipples pointing
through her blouse. She covered her face but did not move her legs at all, made
no attempt to close them.
A textbook case, I thought to myself, of the repressed homosexual urge. The
more she wants it, the more she denies it. Oh, this was beautiful, I thought;
finally a chance to do what Torsten and Helena had done to me--to tear down
someone's inhibitions, to give them the ravishment they'd always wanted, to
reveal the true pervert within. I'll make your dreams come true, my little
dyke; you just wait and see.
I withdrew my foot and spread my legs a little, stroking my thighs, my
fingertips dipping in between them. "I know mine is very sweet. Would you like
to see it, Anita?" To face that thing you really want? Are your dreams full of
soft little pussies, Anita? Wet, sweet, hot pussies, all inviting your tongue?
She tried to say something, but stayed still, clutching the arms of her chair.
Yet she was leaning forwards, perched on the edge of the seat. She swallowed,
her face entirely flushed, now, and I could smell her perfume of patchouli and
musk. The perfumes of a whore, of a secret sister, and like a sister confiding
in another I now spread my legs. I opened them wide, wider until my legs were
draped over the arms of my chair. She gasped as I did so, and I laughed as I
wondered whether it was at the realisation I had not worn panties or the fact
that my pussy was shaven, bare.
I ran my fingertips over my slit, the heat of it, already so swollen; I swore
she must've been able to smell me. I was wet from arousal, from power, and
slowly, I lifted a string of my sweetness from my pussy with my fingertip,
tantalising her with it. "Would you like a taste?"
It was her apartment; there was nowhere she could run. Her eyes flashed with
hatred, beautiful, beautiful hatred as she fell to her knees and between my
legs. Clumsily, she kissed my pussy and whimpered, a pitiful little sound.
I laughed and caressed her hair. "Go on. Indulge. No one is looking."
She whimpered again and kissed my slit, not knowing what to do. She reached
within my folds with her tongue, tasting me, so hesitant, yet with obvious
astonishment.
"Tastes good, doesn't it?" I purred. "That's what you get when you shave it
bare and if your Daddy feeds you lots of sweets."
She shook her head, hissing at me. "You're the filthiest little--God--"
"Says the dirty old woman with her mouth full of pussy." I wrapped my legs
around her shoulders. "Go on. Lick."
She did, yet it was the act itself, the seducing of my analyst that gave me
greater pleasure than her inexperienced fumblings did. I had to guide her head,
her mouth, to help her find my clitoris; I knew I wouldn't be able to come this
way and that I would need penetration. But the very idea of those verdigris
claws inside of me made me shudder with disgust. I disguised this shudder as
pleasure, found myself pretending an orgasm to please her, astonished that I
would do such a thing. I had never done so for a man--if they had failed to
satisfy me, I had told them so. Helena had usually been resourceful enough to
bring me to orgasm with various tricks, various toys, and perhaps this was why
Anita started to suddenly disgust me. I'd accomplished seduction, but I could
not enjoy the sex itself, not if I was to be the dominant partner.
And here, I would have to be that; I could now see that Anita was incapable of
playing the leader when it came to sex. Even as I continued to play, pretend,
moan into the ceiling, I cursed my stupidity: no matter how many times I tried
to be the one in charge, the fact remained that sexually, I needed someone
capable of taking me, turning me inside out.
I missed Torsten, missed him so much I could've wept. One more week and he
would reach this side of the Atlantic; one more week and we would never part
again. Even as I spread Anita's legs to return the favour I tried to imagine
Torsten, but it would have been easier had I been fucked by a man. This was
what I disliked the most about typical female homosexuality: the equality of
it, the exact thing so many lesbians lauded it for. Being in debt to the other
woman after she'd brought you off, having to assume the active role in turn for
the sake of fairness. And all of this because of the simple biological
difficulty of a woman achieving orgasm while she was on top! I resented Nature
for that and for making me desire women nevertheless, resented having to play
both parts when only one suited me. Whereas a man--or the rare sort of dominant
female, like Helena--could easily achieve orgasm while I lay still,
surrendered, enjoying the sensations of simply being fucked. Oh, for Torsten's
cock, oh, for Helena's harness!
This was nothing like them; it revolted me. The hairiness, the smell of Anita's
pussy--of old, dank sweat, traces of menstrual blood, and as I had feared, that
very bitterness and fishiness that had turned her off women--I had to fight not
to gag. No amount of soap could ever wash the odour off pubic hair, the very
biological purpose of body hair being the transmission of scent. Natural or
not, the smell now revolted me after what I had been accustomed to in my
partners. This was so far from the smooth genitals of Torsten and Helena and
Athena, their clean scents, their secretions always sweet and fresh, not having
fermented in their underwear for days. I sobbed, but masked it as lust,
thinking of this as a form of punishment, a penance: something to remember
whenever I thought I no longer loved Torsten, something to remind me of the
exact things he was and others were not.
I sucked on Anita's clitoris and slipped two fingers inside her pussy, curling
them with all my might, mechanically inducing an orgasm in her. She howled from
the bottom of her lungs, her legs shaking around my head, thrusting her pussy
into my face as she came.
At last. She was still shaking when I withdrew and started to fix my clothes,
my hair and my makeup in the mirror. She wanted to kiss me, to thank me, but I
was already halfway out of the door. Escaping, escaping into the traffic,
disappearing into the exhaust fumes and the noise.
***
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/dancerobbiesmall.jpg]
***
Stockholm, March 3, 1940
Little Empress,
Your father longs for you. I could write ten pages on how much I miss the sight
of you, the sound of your voice, the games we play--but first things first. You
asked me about the finances. I regret to say that I still haven't been able to
sell the apartment, but nearly everything else has been sold and we still have
a fortune to retire on. I trust that the funds have been transferred to the
American accounts safely. Don't bother to do any adding up--I kept a
comfortable amount to myself, for reasons you will understand. One needs heavy-
duty diversions at a time like this. Sweden might be the coolest country on a
continent that's on fire, but it's still dreadfully boring--to be honest, I
would prefer the fire.
The diversions have been too few, but last night, I had a most pleasant one. I
have only just arrived home and had to pick up pen and paper immediately so
that I could describe my experience to you in exact detail.
Oh, yes, my love, it was one of those adventures--and it didn't start in an
establishment of ill repute, either, but at one of those dreary society
parties.
His name was Robert--a Scotsman, he told me, although at first I had suspected
he was another Eastern European Jew on the run. (The Old Town has been flooded
with them lately--the amount of circumcised cocks I've seen these past few
months you wouldn't believe. Would you believe my taste for the exotic has been
dulled after Stockholm became a haven for refugees?) He was a sophisticated,
bespectacled young man with an intellectual air about him, yet underneath those
glasses his features were those of a Classical boy-beauty--oh, I could smell a
faggot a mile away. In body, he was closer to myself than to the type I usually
prefer: he was almost as thin as I was, even boyish for his years, which I
approximated somewhere on either side of thirty.
I first glimpsed him in the toilets, trying to tame his fair, curly hair with
rather a poor choice of wax--he was one hell of a dancer and those curls had
come loose after he'd been giving the ladies a spin. I stood at the urinal and
saw he was looking at my cock through the mirror, thinking I hadn't noticed. I
deliberately slowed down the stream of piss, held my cock lightly in my open
palm in a gesture of offering, subtly manipulating him into giving himself
away.
And he did. Quickly, he turned and stared at his tin of wax like it was some
highly fascinating ancient artifact.
I buttoned up, satisfied. "I've got something here that you'll like," I purred,
moving a little too close to him. His pupils were wide; he trembled--if you had
only seen the look on his face as I reached into my pocket and offered him my
pomade! He looked disappointed, even, flushed a little as he accepted it. He
mumbled his thanks and the way he behaved--so innocent, so confused--made me
sure he must have been a complete virgin with men, completely repressed.
I set out to undo that. I invited him to my table and bought him a few drinks.
Not too much, of course; I wanted him to remember everything about this night.
Therefore, I used my face and my hands to drug him; people often underestimate
the power of a long, meaningful glance, the way one can guide another person's
eyes with deft movements of one's hands. You know these movements well from
what I have taught you--the arc of the hand that holds the cigarette, the exact
angle from which to gaze at someone to make them aware of their own bodies, the
ways to sit so that they will be aware of yours. The hand that rests casually
near the groin, imitating the line of the penis or the vulva, the open-mouthed
ways of drinking and smoking that arouse subconscious thoughts of fellatio.
And all the while, we carried on a conversation like two gentlemen, even as his
eyes burned, even as he sweated visibly. He was, indeed, an archaeologist--
I laughed and told him about the vision I had had of him with his tin of wax.
He laughed with me and cast his eyes down so demurely it was as if I were
talking to a young girl; my cock pulsed at the sight. Such large blue eyes he
had, almost like ours, only marred by those ridiculous spectacles. Already I
was wondering what those eyes would look like when he knelt at my feet; if they
would water when I pushed my cock into his mouth.
From time to time, he was interrupted by women. He was a hit with the ladies,
beautiful and intelligent as he was, but after a while, he began to--politely--
spurn their offers, claiming he was too tired to dance well enough to do them
justice. He did not seem tired at all, no; I'd say he was rather animated as he
talked to me, so I swelled not only with lust but with pride. Whether he was
fully conscious of it or not, he was mine. The thrill of this made me even pay
attention to his dry talks of rocks and sediments and pottery shards. After a
while, however, he apologised, clearly used to people finding these lectures
boring.
"I'm sorry. Terrible habit. One gets carried away, you see. My wife says I
should talk about life and the living, not just skeletons. She believes we only
have the one life, and that we shouldn't waste it on thinking about the dead."
I leaned back and smoked lazily. "She is a very smart woman."
"She is, she is," he said, polishing his spectacles with his handkerchief. I
saw his eyes--how beautiful they were now, free of their confinement!--light up
with warmth. "She's a psychoanalyst, you see."
Inside, I scoffed. Everyone thinks himself an analyst these days. Any fool can
now think they are wise, offering sage advice to others when their own lives
are a mess. But I saw this topic could turn out very fruitful indeed. For is
psychoanalysis not obsessed with sex? Now, that is my forte.
"Tell me something," I ventured. "It's something I've been wondering about and
have been meaning to ask someone who knows his Freud."
He laughed nervously and pushed his spectacles back on his nose. "I'm no
expert."
"You sleep with Freud beside you, don't you?"
He burst into laughter, albeit a very short one. I could hear a tinge of
bitterness in his voice--hell, the people I had seen analysed had only been
made more neurotic, more anxious about everything because of it. They had
started to live inside the head so much that they had forgotten the body, and
that's what I presumed was the case with Robert as well. This man had never
lived out his desires; perhaps his wife was too nervous to enjoy sex as well,
thinking about it too much instead of just giving herself over to furious
fucking.
"What was the question again?" Robert said, busying himself by digging out a
cigarette.
I leaned over to light it for him, smiling the same way I would do with a lady,
and he couldn't have missed the meaning of the gesture. "There's something
Baudelaire said..." I began.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a poet."
"But you are in love with an intelligent woman, are you not? Baudelaire used to
say that there was something perverse in that. That loving an intelligent woman
was the pleasure of the pederast."
His eyes widened in shock. "I don't think that's a very gentlemanly thing to
say. Is that what you really believe about women?"
"I didn't say I shared his belief. But what would your Freud say about that
thought? What with the liberated women of today becoming more and more like men
in every way, does it not follow from that that the modern man--if he is to
keep up with the ladies--should in turn become a little homosexual?"
I let that last word hang in the air between us and blew the most perfect of
smoke rings around it, an open, shimmering hole.
He stared at me and gawped, tried to speak, but nothing would come out.
Instead, he excused himself and headed for the toilets. Yet even as he rose, I
saw he was hunched over a little, trying to disguise an erection in the
looseness of his trousers.
I followed him.
Precisely thirty-four seconds later, I slammed him up against the wall of a
cubicle and fucked his mouth with my tongue.
"God help me," I heard him whisper as I dropped to my knees, his hand going to
his chest in the reflex of the Catholic trying to cross himself. But the Devil
won: he had Torsten Barring on his side, did he not? Soon Robert's cock swelled
in my mouth, tasting of sperm, pussy, piss. I fancied I could even smell old
books on his trousers; sand, ink. I chuckled around his cock and looked up at
him, steadied his trembling hips with my hands. He was gasping, closing his
eyes; why, he even covered his face with his hand! Oh, but this was brilliant;
I felt like a medieval incubus seducing a clergyman, out to suck his sperm into
myself so I could spit it inside nuns later.
That was the precise moment I stopped. I got to my feet and wiped my mouth.
"I'm going to call a taxi. If you want more, you can get it at my apartment." I
threw my business card on the floor. "Your choice."
I left him there, his cock wet and hard, his spectacles halfway down his nose,
his mouth gaping open wide.
I wasn't even out of the restaurant door when he ambushed me, joining me in the
coat room. He still couldn't speak, but stepped into my taxi and followed me
home. I regretted having got rid of our chauffeur--remember old Bertil, always
so good at the whole actively-not-listening business? Unfortunately, the
presence of an ordinary taxi driver forced me to remain chaste throughout the
ride home.
Poor Robert--or, "Please, Robbie, everyone calls me Robbie," he mumbled as I
shoved him into the elevator--the boy was out of his mind. Yes, in my mind I
called him a boy; he seemed so young, so fragile, tiptoeing as he reached up to
plant a kiss on my mouth. I almost felt sorry for him, can you imagine? But
that's part of the fun in seducing innocents: to take one last look at what you
will soon have spoiled, having lured the virgin to your lair. To bask in the
cocaine euphoria of your own beastliness, ruthlessness.
"Is it your first time?" I asked as I turned the key in the lock. I knew the
answer, of course, but wanted to give him the chance to say something, to
justify this to himself.
"Yes," he said, almost in tears as I pushed his coat off his shoulders, "yes,"
as I took his mouth with a kiss.
"Then let me make it good for you."
And I did: I drew out that anticipation for both of us, relishing his purity
for as long as I could. I led him to my bedroom and stripped him slowly, with a
tenderness that mimicked love. I made my gestures deliberately feminine,
adoring at times; for the rest of the time, I made sure he remembered my true
sex by the force with which I claimed his mouth again and again, crushed his
body against mine. An electric charge went through me as he fumbled with my
buttons, never having undressed a man before. And even in the half-light, he
stared at me, at the shape of my body, at my erection courting his. I had not
lit a single lamp; the moon was full and its light was magnified by the snow,
so that the entire room was lit with blue and white. Blue and white, the curves
of his shoulders and chest, the dark peaks of his nipples. Blue and white, the
planes of his stomach, quivering as I laid him down and kissed his cock.
He was afraid, deathly afraid even as I sucked him, his buttocks clenching as I
cupped them. "What's the matter?" I asked in my sweetest voice. "Do you think
I'm going to hurt you?"
"Yes," he rasped, then bit his lip as he realised how blunt he had been.
"Then why did you come?" I asked, spread his legs and laid myself down on top
of him. "Why did you come?" I asked again and rubbed my cock against his,
trapping them both between our bellies. When he still refused to answer, I
pinned his wrists down upon the pillows and stared into his eyes. "Is it that
no one has hurt you the right way yet, Robbie? And you're curious?"
His eyes flickered; his throat bobbed and with a low moan, he kissed me. He
could not say "Yes," but it was there in his kiss; it was there in the way he
wrapped his legs around me, the way he lifted his hips, offered his ass in
sacrifice. Glorious, glorious sacrifice; oh, he was beautiful.
It was then that I took the glycerine and slicked up his cock. "I'm going to
make you wait for it," I said, deliberately cruel, crooning in his ear as I
fucked him with my fist. "I'm going to make you ask for that pain, Robbie
dearest."
Of course, he whimpered; I like it when a victim obeys his cue. Swiftly, I
straddled him and sat down on his cock. Even when he had barely entered me, he
howled, howled as my ass swallowed him, as I clenched in utter delight around
him. I pinned him down again and took him by force, each one of his howls
reverberating through my body as I forced myself down on his cock. Such a
beautiful, thick cock, never having had an ass squeeze around it before; far
tighter than a pussy ever could.
"Do you like that?" I asked and rolled my hips.
"Please, God, please, please--"
"Hmm?" I chuckled in his ear and kissed it, then purred in the other. "I think
God has turned a blind eye."
And at that, I bit him on the neck, giving him that pain he had so desired. He
howled, wailed until my ears hurt and there, there: he came inside of me,
thick, gorgeous blasts of sperm leaking out of my ass, down his cock, down his
balls. So soon, just as I had predicted, leaving him soft and vulnerable in my
hands. I had reached that moment, the headiest moment of seduction where I had
plunged someone into such a state they would let me do anything to them.
"You are a man well-versed in history, Robbie," I murmured, rolling my hips,
fucking him with my ass as he panted underneath me. "Now what do you remember
of the woodcuts depicting witches' sabbaths? How the witches would swear
allegiance to the Devil?"
He looked at me, baffled, still gasping for breath, embarrassed from his
premature ejaculation. "What does that got to do with--"
I decided to refresh his memory and turned around, presenting him with my ass,
with his warm come now sluicing out of my asshole. "Osculum infame."
The kiss of infamy. Before he could protest, I sat on his mouth, smearing it
with my ass. He screamed, screamed louder as I took his cock into my mouth and
sucked it. And oh, oh--would you believe it?--he stuck his tongue out and
lapped at me, sucked my asshole, sobbing eagerly in his damnation. I moaned, my
cock jerking against my belly, and I lifted his hips high, high so that I could
bury my face in his ass in turn. He screamed again as I began to lick, now
realising the extent of the pleasure he was giving me; only I turned those
screams into coughs as I began to shit his come into his mouth.
He pulled back, gasping, gagging in disgust; I merely turned him onto his side
and attacked his ass once more. I didn't even know if he was clean and I didn't
care--in fact, the likelihood that he wasn't was what now made me reel in
sickening excitement. A few crumbs of shit weren't going to stop me, oh, no; I
laughed into his ass, a laughter wicked, dark. I clawed his buttocks apart and
found bliss as I dipped my tongue into his ass, feasting upon his delicious,
musty, virgin taste. I paused for breath and saw he had covered his face with
his arm again, his sobs now so loud I thought he must have been crying; it was
hard to see.
I licked my lips and laughed. "Shh, Robbie, don't cry. Don't cry. I said I was
going to make it good for you, remember? So good." I turned him to lie down on
his face so that he wouldn't have to look at me, so that he would be forced
into experiencing only the sensations I was now giving him. I massaged the
muscles of his anus with my thumbs and blew on it, my own cock aching to have
that muscle spasm around itself. "I am a man of my word, Robbie; I will make it
hurt good, too, if you just ask me nicely."
He shuddered on the bed, and I could hear the sheets rustling as he squeezed
them in his fists. I licked his ass again and I wished you were here, Laura,
wished you were here to taste his cock as I tasted his quivering ass. Are you
imagining it, my little queen? Are you? Kneeling in front of him, sucking the
taste of Daddy's ass off his cock? Are you reading this with your hand in your
panties, playing with your little pussy? Because that's what I thought of at
that moment, of how much you would have relished it all. The taste and feel of
the ass, loving it as much as I do, oh--I pushed my finger inside of him, that
thrill of the moment when you don't know if you will hit a tail of shit or not,
and so perversely, I almost wanted to--but he was clean. Dry, hot, but clean,
making the smallest of sounds as his muscles clenched around my finger, as I
tugged him open a little.
So hot, so delicious; I had to have more. I pulled my finger out and wet it
with my lips, sucking his taste off it, now richer, deeper, sweeter. I had seen
him use saccharine in his coffee--he wasn't a particularly vain sort, or the
type that would've needed to watch his figure, so I had come to the conclusion
he must have been diabetic. Perhaps that explained it? The sweetness remaining
undigested, turning his ass as sweet as a pussy, and I know you will laugh, but
that's what it reminded me of. You won't be laughing when I try it on you,
that's for sure; if this letter reaches you before I do, start taking
saccharine now. Just as I will, to offer you the same taste in turn. How in the
hell had I not discovered this before? The taste was exquisite. I growled and
licked him again, again, then pushed two fingers in with my spit. His noise was
louder, this time.
"Does that hurt?" I asked.
"Yes--" and he meant to say something else, but hesitated.
I nodded, laughed a little, tugged at his asshole. "But it's a good pain, isn't
it? The sort you wanted?"
"Yes," he whimpered.
I kissed his buttock. "Then let me give you some more."
I could have used the glycerine now, but didn't; Robbie wanted to hurt and I
gave him that. Perhaps it satisfied his Catholic guilt; perhaps he needed to
feel like he was paying a high price for--this! The greatest pleasure a man
could experience! Aren't the Christians a contrary lot? Yet I gave him the
sexual martyrdom he wanted, playing the wicked emperor to fulfill his
perversions. Perhaps he had known of me after all, had heard of Heliogabalus,
had wanted to be sacrificed upon the arena of my bed. And for that, I spat into
his ass, pulled it open, pulled and tugged so hard he was stiff from being
overwhelmed so, trembling. Yet when he lifted his hips, I could see his cock
had not grown soft at all, no; it was gleaming, dripping from his joy at his
ruin.
"Take the glycerine from the bedside table. That's it. I want to see you pour
some here, right on my fingers."
I could only hear his breathing in the dark, the sound of him opening the
bottle. My cock bobbed as the cool liquid hit my fingertips, and I couldn't not
hiss from pleasure as I pushed the glycerine inside his ass, rolling my
fingers, feeling the walls of his flesh. "That's enough. Put the bottle away,"
I said, starting to fuck him slowly with my fingers.
I spent long, quiet moments stretching him, stroking him on the inside until he
finally started to relax, to sink into the bed. Only then did I curl my fingers
a little, press on his prostate again, again. He let out an astonished moan,
completely uncontrolled, suffocating the end of it into the bedsheets.
"Good boy, good boy, good boy," I crooned, knowing that even if Robbie were to
never touch a man again, he would still be hungering for this touch for the
rest of his life. He could return to his wife, return to his safe
heterosexuality, but in his sleep, he would still remember this, the moment of
his awakening. He would remember this touch, remember me; remember another man
inside his body. Possessing him, taking him, teaching him, the erastes to his
eromenos.
I fucked him a little faster so that my fingers made wet noises against his
ass, two inside, two slapping against his perineum. "Do you want my cock,
Robbie?"
"Yes," he said, now unhesitant, his voice thick from pleasure.
"That's good to hear." I took my hand out and slicked myself with it, pressing
him into the mattress, guiding my cock against his ass. I brushed wet hair from
his ear and kissed it. "I should like to hear it again. What do you want me to
do, Robbie?"
He went stiff and stilled; yet now he was drunk, so drunk from pleasure I could
hear something in him give, give completely as he answered me. "Fuck me," he
slurred; debauched, damned. "Please, fuck me."
"Now, what kind of a boy would say a thing like that?" I tutted in a mock-
appalled voice, pressing my cock deeper, struggling to stay still as his little
hole sucked around the head of my cock, as if wanting to draw me inside of his
body. "What kind of a boy are you, Robbie? You're not a little faggot, are
you?"
He sobbed, but now from ecstasy, spasming underneath me as I dipped the head of
my cock inside, the clutch of his muscles tight and sweet. Over and over he
clenched, cold sweat breaking upon his skin as his nervous system fought my
invasion--but I was stronger, as I always am. "There, what kind of an ass sucks
on a man's cock like that? Like a little mouth, hungry for a big drink of
sperm? Tell me, Robbie, tell me--what kind of a boy are you?"
"A faggot," he cried, "I'm a faggot, oh, God, I want it, please, please, I want
it, I want it--"
"You want my cock in your ass?" I asked, pulling back a little before I pushed
even deeper. The head of my cock slipped past the tightest part and he
convulsed, gasped, the cold sweat now pooling in the dip of his spine.
"Yes," he cried still, "Yes-s-s-," that hiss breaking into stutters as I pulled
back and thrust in again, fucking his little ass open, torturing the muscles
with the head of my cock.
"Does it hurt? Do you want me to hurt you some more?"
"Please," and his voice was softer, now, his breathing steadier, his hips a
little looser. The pain had obviously started to fade, and we couldn't have
that. I spat on my cock to slicken it even more, then pulled back completely
and thrust so deep inside I hurt myself with the strength of the thrust--but
the bigger blow was to his guts. And the noise he made, Laura, the noise! It
was so wounded, so childlike it was beautiful, and again I thought of you. I
even wondered if he had wet the bed, like some male virgins do when penetrated
with a cock the size of mine. So I groped around for his cock and found it wet,
but with the slickness of arousal, the remains of glycerine. It was fat in my
hand, fat and warm, and like a natural, Robbie arched his back, moving a little
of his own volition, now.
I kissed his shoulder and chuckled in his ear. "It doesn't hurt so much now,
does it?"
"No," he said, and for the first time, he turned around and offered his mouth
for a kiss. Emboldened by the pleasure I was giving him, he moaned a little,
slightly exhibitionist, even; showing me how much he was enjoying it.
"Good boy," I chuckled, now drunk from the pleasure his ass was giving me, too.
"I might give you more pain later, if you want it. But now, I want you to see
you enjoy it. Show me how it feels when I fuck you," I said, licking his mouth.
"Move your ass for me; make noise for me."
"Yes, sir," he whispered.
My cock leapt inside of him; I rolled my hips and groaned. "Say that again."
"Yes, sir."
For a brief moment I lost control, yielding it to my hips instead. I fucked him
so hard my back creaked, fucked those noises and cries of "sir" straight out of
his mouth, pushed them out through his guts. I spat on my hand and rolled it
around his cock, fucked him so brutally I lifted his hips completely off the
bed so that he lay face down, ass up in front of me. "Fuck--!" I barked again
and again as I watched my cock gleaming in the moonlight, covered in glycerine
and his anal mucus, every heavy inch of it gliding in and out of him.
"You're a born little whore, that's what you are," I growled, smacking his
buttocks left and right. "Tell me how it feels. Tell me how it feels when I
fuck your ass."
"So good, fuck, so good," he hissed into the pillow.
"Big enough for you?"
"Yes! It's so good, oh, so good, please don't stop, please, sir--"
I keened, tossing my head to throw loose strands of hair off my face. That
didn't work, so I took my hand off his cock and wiped the hair off my face with
it, inhaling, licking his taste off my palm. "Fuck. Touch your cock, touch it.
Fuck your hand; do it."
He moaned and did as he was told; now I could clasp his hips and straddle them
with my thighs on either side of his ass, sink my cock so deep my balls pressed
against his perineum. He groaned so deep from his throat he sounded more bull
than man; such a strange sound for a man so slight. But by that noise, I knew I
had hit just the right spot, so I pulled back a little and slammed in again. He
wailed and worked his hand on his cock so fast I could hear its slick sounds;
his ass loosened so much from pleasure that I knew he was close.
I grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head up, fucking him slowly, with
thrusts so savage and so deep he was gulping for air. His ass made farting
noises around my cock; he cried "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," trembling, lost in
his debauching, gone.
I just shook his head by the hair. "Come on my cock. Give me a good squeeze,
that's it, squeeze me with that dirty little hole, smear it, smear it."
He jerked underneath me once, twice; coiled, tense, so near, so near. It was
then that I threw all of my weight into my thrusts and bit into the nape of his
neck, so hard I could feel his skin give. His scream made my eyes flash white,
his ass spasming, slurping around my cock as he came, and the disgusting sound
of it was enough to make me come undone. Groaning deep in my chest, I spat his
blood out of my mouth and shot my come inside his guts, so huge, so voluminous
a load that I was laughing in disbelief as the orgasm seemed like it would
never end.
In turn, Robbie's ass kept spasming, sucking out my sperm, greedily swallowing
every blast as he mewled underneath me. He kept shuddering and writhing,
dancing upon my cock and his ass made noises again, my come bursting out of it
in rivulets as he clenched over and over, dribbling down my balls.
When his pleasure finally seemed to recede a little, his whimpers turned into
those of shame. They became even louder as I pulled out and he farted the rest
of my come out by accident, so unused to his ass being loosened like this.
"Dirty boy," I tutted with a smile, and to his beautiful, magnificent shock, I
scooped up my sperm from his ass and fed it to him with my fingers. The way he
looked into my eyes, adoring, surrendered to his corruption--oh, you should
have seen it! It aroused me so that a final little trickle of come spurted out
of my cock as I took in his submission, so beautiful, so complete.
We lay there side by side for long moments, he feasting upon my fingers, warm
and filthy in the afterglow.
***
It was a pleasant surprise to wake up next to him in the morning. And you know
how I am in the habit of kicking them out as soon as the sex is over. But
perhaps this happened because for Robbie and I, the sex was far from over. In
the gold and cream of the morning light, I again realised I must have been
seeking a Laura in him--his blond hair all tousled, his eyes so wide, begging
for me to initiate him into further sins.
And as my bladder was full, how could I not think of you? Yet, Robbie could
never have served me the way you do, and I kept my promise: I wanted to save
that particular pleasure only for you. Therefore, I made my way to the bathroom
and used the toilet instead. I was already aroused from Robbie's kisses, so I
rinsed my guts swiftly with a syringe before returning to bed. It was cold as
hell in the bedroom; quickly, I slipped underneath the covers and shivered in
Robbie's embrace.
Robbie kissed me and rubbed warmth into my hands, his eyes staring without
focus, softer now that he didn't have his glasses on. I believe the boy might
have been falling in love with me a little; I stretched in his arms and basked
in his adoration. This was completely different from our play last night; we
kissed lazily, tasting each other for long moments, limbs wrapped around one
another. He seemed slightly hesitant, but I took his hands, his mouth and
guided them to where they would bring me the most pleasure. And oh, the pride
with which he looked up at me when he took my cock into his mouth! I could feel
his own cock jerking against my leg as I stroked his face and called him a good
boy.
Yet there was something else I wanted even more. I pulled him to lie on top of
me and licked his mouth, sinking my fingers into his hair. "You didn't fuck me
for very long last night," I scolded him, nipping at his lips, rubbing our
cocks together lazily. "Would you like to try and do it properly this time?"
He raised his eyebrow and laughed, now warmed by the challenge. "I'd love to."
"Then, open me," I hissed, pushing him down by the shoulders, lifting my legs
and spreading my buttocks.
His eyes widened, but he tried to mask his surprise as he laid himself down
between my legs. I felt my ass clenching, enjoyed being able to shock him with
my body this way. I was sure he had never seen a shaven man before, let alone
an anus like mine. I knew how raised the rim was, how red--I had been using my
toys every night ever since you'd been gone, had kept myself in training.
I stroked the bud of my ass with my fingertips, rubbing it, lust coiling in my
belly, heavy and sweet. "That's what your ass will look like, too, once you get
used to it," I murmured.
He ran his fingertips over it, too, quiet, with a scientist's fascination.
"Doesn't it hurt?"
"No." I shook my head. "It only enhances the pleasure. Makes you more aware of
your ass, of what you've been doing with it," I leered. "Ever wondered why a
faggot walks like a woman?" I dipped two fingertips inside my ass and spread it
for him, spread it, hissing through my teeth in delight. "It's because his ass
has become a little pussy."
There, there, the shock: that little word never fails to make an impact. He
looked at me aghast, not sure if I was joking, if he should laugh or not. He
swallowed, then looked at my ass again, and I saw him think of the
connotations, the absurdity of my calling it a pussy. You have a long way to
go, my boy, I thought; this being his first taste of true sexual power at its
purest. The power of the libido, of the life force itself, something that
always expanded explosively beyond the biological sex, tore through all
categories and limitations as it went. Every fairy, every dyke, every true
libertine knew of this transcendental, transformative quality the erotic
possessed, and I sought to awaken this knowledge within my young apprentice as
well.
I pulled my fingers out and relaxed a little. "Would you like to kiss it?" I
asked in my sweetest voice. "I just washed it, too."
Last night, he had been drunk; I had forced my ass upon him. He hesitated a
little; he remained there hovering, tense. He leaned closer and I spread my ass
for him; again, it clenched a little as I felt his breathing on my wet flesh.
He swallowed. I was about to encourage him with more words, but then he was
upon me: he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to my ass, hard, his
lips closed, as if defying--or punishing--himself. But the ululating whimper he
let out, vibrating straight into my ass--oh! I moaned and clutched at his head
with my hands, urging him to continue.
And there it came: the first, tentative lick, then the second; another whimper
as he lapped at my ass, tasting it, pushing his tongue inside of me. Feverish,
now, he spread my ass, staring at it with an expression that looked like anger:
hatred at himself for loving this, perhaps? It wasn't the first time I'd seen
that look on a man.
"Spit on it," I leered, stroking my cock. "Go on."
He loved that; it allowed him to insult me, to punish me for seducing him by
inflicting such a gesture on my ass. So much like the priest who demonises
woman, yet falls for whores over and over, he spat on my ass again, then sunk
his tongue inside of me once more. And now, he had reached a state that same
clergyman would surely have interpreted as satanic possession: he fucked my ass
with his tongue, tried to push it inside as deep as he could, moaning,
snorting, huffing into me angrily.
And it felt fantastic, fantastic; each lick a flicker of heat through my guts,
my hips opening themselves like a woman's would, hungry for a fat prick. I was
ready, more than ready, but I wanted to indulge him, to truly smother him in
the pleasures of the ass.
So I reached for the glycerine. "Give me your hand," I hissed, pouring the
clear fluid over his fingertips. "Now, stretch me." With trembling, wet hands I
spread my ass again. "Give me two."
He inserted them far too swiftly and I gasped, panting, staring at the ceiling.
"Slowly," I growled, but to my surprise, he didn't listen.
I looked down at him and his face was still furious; he kept pushing his
fingers in roughly, fucking me with them, stabbing them inside of me. He was
chastising me, now, the monk flagellating the temptress. Well! I had not been
expecting that. My cock spurted a little; I found myself howling, half in
delight.
"Fuck," I moaned out loud, lifting my legs, urging him on. "Give me more. Hook
them, fuck; hook them, drag them--"
I didn't know if he used three or four fingers, but I didn't care:
inexperienced, clumsy, he curled them far too hard, but that just added to the
thrill of it, the violence of it. Feverish, I fucked him right back, rocking my
hips on his hand, stuttering a stream of profanities into the ceiling. "Fuck
me," I snapped, "Fuck me."
He tilted his head, his face so different now, some mad new light gleaming in
his eyes. He seemed much older, more wicked; even his cock an angry red, a
thick and hard threat between his legs. He curled his fingers again and smiled.
"Want to be fucked, do you, faggot?"
I wailed. In that moment, I adored him. "Yes," I moaned, my own cock so wet it
slid back and forth on my belly. "Please, Robbie. Fuck me."
He threw himself upon me, far too fast, far too hard: he crushed the air out of
my lungs with his weight, thrusting his cock inside without any teasing
whatsoever. It sent a cold jolt of nausea through my guts, my stomach flipping;
even as I sobbed in his ear I relished the pain, relished my violation--was he
not fucking my ass as one fucks a pussy? As he started to thrust, I bent double
from the pain at first, stiffening, unable to breathe. How quickly this had
happened! How quickly we had gone from sweet kisses that seemed like love to an
act more akin to hate. He fucked me so hard my eyes rolled back in my head; my
breathing came in shallow stutters. Yet all throughout this, my cock had
remained hard. I wanted to clasp it, wanted to stroke it, but he pounded into
me with such force I couldn't even reach for it. All I could do was lie there,
hold my ass open for him, let him brutalise me, watch as his cock sank inside.
Something in me snapped; I wanted to drown him in insults, whip him into even
greater heights of violence. "Do you like what you see?" I gasped. "Like
watching your faggot's cock sinking into another man's ass?" Finally, I managed
to grab my cock and stroke it, still spreading my buttocks with my other hand.
"Does it gape, Robbie? Is it dirty? All dirty and wet and tighter than a girl's
pussy could ever be?"
He slapped me, like one slaps a woman; I screamed, my balls jumping. I nearly
came there and then, spurting sap over my knuckles, staring furiously up at
him. "Fuck me, you fucking fairy. Fuck me. Shoot it in my ass."
"You fucking bitch," he snarled--my hips jerked up and I was close, so close.
With a roar, he pulled my legs over his shoulders and bent me completely in
half; I howled as he slammed his hips into me, his balls slapping against my
ass. My knuckles burned against his stomach as I stroked myself, my ass
loosening, spasming around him, opening itself wide at the threshold of orgasm.
Growling in rage, he grabbed my head and kissed me so hard our teeth clashed.
And there it was: I howled around his tongue, convulsed around his cock as a
splendid, full-body orgasm overwhelmed me, far more intense than the one I'd
had last night. The orgasm only penetration could give me, a series of
quicksilver waves within my guts; and only then, the ejaculations, the endless
ejaculations, wetting my entire stomach. My hand slipped on my cock and I
wailed, loving how he wrested control from me, each one of his thrusts forcing
another spurt out of my cock. Like a woman, I came on and on and on, perhaps
came twice in a row, it was hard to tell; that's how long it lasted.
Now it was my ass that was making noises; now it was he who was trembling on
top of me. He couldn't hold himself up any longer, only spread my legs on
either side of his hips and laid himself down on top of me. There, he slowed
down, his face contorted, sobbing as he moved on top of me. He looked confused,
as if he had trouble reaching climax this way. He had an embarrassed, boyish
look on his face; he even glanced down at himself in worry. The man who had
been so ravishing me was gone; again, I was being made love to by a youth. He
looked sorry, even; as if he had just come out of a drunken mania and only now
realised what he'd done.
So I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him into a kiss. "Let me help you
with that."
"How?"
I lifted my legs and bent myself double again. "Dip it into my mouth," I said,
the thrill of it making my cock twitch again. "Then my ass again, then my
mouth. See which one makes you come first."
Oh, the noise he made at that! He pulled out, shaking all over from exertion,
unable to stop stroking his cock before he put it to my lips. I swallowed it
eagerly, not having had the chance to do this with a real cock in months. The
taste I loved the most in the world; my ass darker in taste than his, yet
cleaner. There was a thin white ring of foam around his cock, mid-shaft, and in
the warm, dim light of the bedroom, I could not tell how clean it was. This, in
my current state, aroused me beyond measure. I wanted to taste it, taste all
the filth it promised, but his cock was too big; the ring was just out of reach
for my lips and my tongue. I moaned miserably as he withdrew, but oh, the taste
of my ass on my tongue while I am being fucked--there is nothing like it in the
world, nothing. I licked my lips, purring as I relished each drop, small drops
of sperm still dripping out of my cock as Robbie continued to fuck me.
"God," he said and shook his head. "You filthy bastard," he groaned,
disbelieving.
I laughed and watched that white ring move along the shaft of his cock, my
entire being now focused on it, on how it would taste in my mouth. "Give me
more."
He gulped in air. "I'm going to come, I--"
"Then come in my mouth," I moaned, "Let me taste my shit."
He howled, nearly falling over as he bent over me. I swatted his hands away
before he could touch his cock, before he could ruin it, and grabbed his hips.
I stuck my tongue out as far as I could and swallowed his cock, swallowed it
until I choked, sucking with my lips, the tip of my tongue pressing into his
balls. And there, as he came undone, there, I could taste myself: such a rich
taste, so deep, so dank, so salty-sweet. My ass, my ass. I shuddered and pulled
back a little so that I could moan around it in delight; so that I could taste
his sperm, too, as it spurted into my mouth. I let him fuck my face, my throat,
slurping noisily around him, drooling, sperm and spit dripping in strings onto
my chest. But underneath all that, oh, the taste of my ass; oh, the taste of
sweet, foaming filth! I swooned, dizzy from a lack of oxygen, light-headed from
fulfillment--in short, I was a man replete.
Even as we lounged back on the bed, I nuzzled his groin, sucked his cock, let
it soften in my mouth.
He was speechless for a long while until I gathered him into my arms and kissed
him, sharing our mixed tastes with him. He made no protest and kissed me back
lazily, again shaking his head. I lay there and fancied myself the provider of
a public service, offering him a liberation greater than psychoanalysis could
ever accomplish. What's the point of going through all your repressed desires
if you are never going to act them out? What I was doing was far more valuable
than therapy--I didn't deal in words, but experience.
And for this, my little eromenos was grateful, oh, yes. Even as I escorted him
to his apartment, he went down on his knees in the stairwell and sucked me. In
broad daylight, could you imagine? He'd become like us already, initiated into
sin by my hand, and I knew this neophyte would go far. The sun shining through
the skylight glittered upon his golden hair, the wetness of his mouth as he
licked my sperm from his lips, smiling with so much satisfaction and gratitude
it would have broken my heart had I had one. Another one I'd got to stray from
the flock, I thought, and made another tick in the Devil's ledger.
And here I am, sitting with a massive erection, Laura, massive--but before I go
and take care of it, I am sending you my love. Don't forget what I said about
the saccharine, will you? And remember, no playing with your ass until I'm
there; let it tighten for me, become sweet for me. I will make it worth the
wait, I promise.
And now, I shall withdraw and think of what I'm going to do to you when I
arrive, my beloved daughter. I'll leave it to your imagination for now--I'm
sure it can come up with all kinds of delicious little visions.
Not long, now, my sweet little Laura.
With love,
Your Daddy.
***
Oh, the bastard. The complete and utter bastard.
I laughed dryly to myself--that both of us should have simultaneously set out
to seduce the repressed! It would not have surprised me had he been sucking the
taste of his ass off Robbie's cock and exploding in ecstasy the very moment I
had been trying not to gag from Anita's taste.
Now, I all but burned from jealousy--yet not from his seducing of others, but
because he was better at it than I was. What gave him the right to succeed
where I had failed?
"Bastard," I mumbled still, even as I let go of the letter, leaned back on the
sofa and slipped my hand into my panties.
I had been wet from the moment he had mentioned Robbie staring at his cock in
the toilets: I knew I would not last long, the letter itself having drawn out
my arousal like a long, slow fuck. And yet the most arousing thing about it all
was the astonishing similarity between our ways of thinking, our ways of
living, our perversions. We were more like sister and brother than uncle and
niece, father and daughter, I sometimes thought. Identical twins--if not in
body, then in mind and spirit. The narcissistic delight each of us took in
watching the other at play was one of the major flavours, moods, colours of our
relationship, permeating it on all levels.
I could taste Torsten's ass in my mouth as I pulled back the hood of my
clitoris, trying to hold back orgasm. My pussy pulsed; my thighs shook, yet I
waited, waited. He had told me to think of what he would do when he arrived--
very well. That immediately led my thoughts to taxis, and what he had said of
nosy drivers.
But what if Torsten should take that, as he took everything that blocked him
sexually, as a challenge? What if he would pretend he had no money to pay the
driver, lifted up my skirt and offered his daughter as payment?
My pussy clenched again; I kept my breathing shallow, knowing that with the
next deep breath I would be gone. Groaning, I turned around on the sofa, wet
two fingers of my other hand in my pussy and pushed them inside my ass, the
shock pulling me back from the brink for a moment. I had kept my promise to him
partially at least and had not put anything bigger in my ass, nothing as wide
as a cock. But at times like these, when I grew this overheated, I had to do
something like this or combust from sheer frustration. I imagined the sofa to
be the cramped backseat of a taxi, the fingers in my ass the taxi driver's
cock, the upholstery the fabric of Torsten's suit.
"There you are, there you are," I could hear him crooning in my ear as he
guided the driver's cock into my mouth, and I came so hard I nearly fell off
the sofa. I howled, hooked my fingers as I imagined him tasting the driver's
cock from my ass in turn, felt his gloved hand on my pussy, heard his soft
chuckle of delight.
Bastard.
Chapter End Notes
     During this period, the words "homosexual" and "lesbian" were used of
     anyone with any same-sex tendencies no matter where they'd be on the
     Kinsey scale now. The modern meaning of "bisexual" as "someone
     attracted to both sexes" instead of "hermaphrodite" was only slowly
     starting to emerge and wasn't in wide use yet.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     A standalone, worksafeish illustration (which does, however, fit the
     mood of their reunion in this chapter) can be found here.
It was a cold, windy morning, yet I had made an effort for his sake and mine. I
was freezing in my winter coat; underneath, I wore only a jacket and a blouse,
a short pleated skirt and white knee-high socks. The very picture of the little
girl looking for her father; one of the harbour guards mistook me for a
schoolgirl and even offered to escort me. I acquiesced, more amused than
anything else.
Customs and Immigration were crowded, as usual: I knew a man of Torsten's
wealth would be granted a speedier passage, yet it still took over an hour from
the ship's arrival until I finally saw him emerge through the doorway.
I had thought to tease him, had thought to flash him my legs, to seduce him
straight away, but simply seeing him was enough to move me to tears. We had
only been parted for a few months, yet he still looked somehow older, his face
more deeply lined under the shadow of his fedora. Yet he still walked like an
emperor, tall and lean underneath the dark coat he had slung over his
shoulders. When he noticed me, he flung away his cigarette, and the age that
had so weighed upon him melted off him completely: his face lit up with a broad
smile, showing all his crooked teeth.
"Daddy," I cried, not at all pretending; my heart was aching, sincere. I was no
longer alone.
He was headed for my bench, but I leapt up and embraced him, hugged him so
tight he yelped, laughed.
"Laura," he said, "Laura, Laura, Laura," he sang, lifting me off my feet. My
stomach flipped as he spun me, then just as swiftly, he set me down, beaming.
He cupped my head in his hands and kissed me upon the lips, soft, gentle; the
very chastity of the act charging it with eroticism, a promise of kisses more
savage to come. "Go on, then," he said and took me by the hand. "Take Daddy
home."
In the taxi, he draped his coat over his lap and pulled my hand underneath it,
to rest over his groin. He was soft, still; his eyes lazy. He loved to do this
from time to time, to cup me or have me cup him in this way, to remind me of
who it was that truly owned me. I stroked him gently, not with the intent to
arouse, rather to relish and possess him in turn. I wanted to tell him how much
I had missed him, how I would have wanted nothing more than to have him take me
right here and right now, but I couldn't speak.
He lifted his hand to the silk ribbon at my throat, his fingers against my
pulse. Now he could feel how my heart was galloping, how fast I was breathing,
all of my body saying see what you're doing to me? He hooked his fingers into
the bow and pulled me into a kiss, a slow kiss, stirring a little underneath my
palm. He kissed my jaw, my cheek, making me break out in gooseflesh all over,
then leaned in to whisper in my ear. "Lower, my child, lower. Feel how full
they are? I haven't touched myself in three days."
I whimpered, but he clasped his other hand over my mouth, kissing my ear. "Shh.
Tonight I'm going to see if you've kept your promise. To see if you've kept
yourself nice and tight for me."
"I have," I whispered into his palm with a kiss, my pussy now so sensitised the
movement of the car hurt.
"Good, good," he purred, flicking his tongue against my ear. "You just wait
until I open you up."
I pushed my mouth against his hand to suffocate my moan. But he grinned and let
go of me, pushed me back and rearranged his coat. "Is it far?"
***
I led him into the apartment I'd made into a home, as much as two demons can
have a home. It was certainly not a wholesome family home, but neither was it
the Rococo lair he had owned in Stockholm, littered with bric-a-brac. It was
modern, with clean and severe lines, with plenty of white and black, with high
French windows looking out over the city. "Do you like it?"
"I'll let you know when I've seen the bedrooms."
"There are three. You can have whichever one you want."
The bedroom I'd mostly slept in myself was the only splash of colour in the
apartment: it was what had attracted me to the place to begin with. Its walls
were painted a brothel red, it had a fireplace, and I'd had the cast-iron bed,
the floors and the walls covered with Oriental fabrics, furs. There were more
lanterns and candles in the room than electric lights, and I liked it that way:
it was like walking into a different world, one from a different era, an escape
from the brutalism of its surroundings.
The look on his face was curious--not condemning, but not rapturous either. He
nodded as he took in the sights. "Very... bohemian. A little Victorian,
perhaps, but quite charming. The others?"
"The next one should be more to your taste."
The bedroom next door was a little smaller, the walls beige and white, just
like his bedroom at home. This room, just like the living room, had French
windows and a small balcony. I'd made sure to drape the windows with curtains
the colour of cream coffee, knowing how much he loved the way the colour
enhanced natural light, bathing the room in a soft warm glow in the mornings.
And I'd even rescued some of his bric-a-brac: I'd hung his beloved miniatures
over the desk, and upon the desk itself, flanked by his porcelain elephants
ticked his cherished Rococo clock.
He sat down on the bed--enormous, of course, big enough for someone as tall as
he--and bounced on it with the glee of a schoolboy. "Perfection. Give my
regards to the interior designer," he said, pulling me into his lap for a kiss.
"Although I think we should give it a test drive."
"There's one more room left."
He kissed me with an impatient moan. "Then, let's see it."
The third bedroom was the smallest, but seemed larger for the reason that now
made him whistle loudly. The room had no windows, but it was covered wall to
wall, floor to ceiling with mirrors, multiplying us a thousandfold as we
stepped inside. There was barely any room left over from the low, plain bed, a
stark white rectangle that filled the room. But then the bedroom was only
designed for one purpose, and it wasn't sleeping.
He embraced me from behind and chuckled at our reflections in the mirror.
"Perfect."
I leaned back against his chest and smiled. "I thought you might want to test
drive this one tonight."
"Oh, I will." He ran his hands down my chest, my belly, tugged up my skirt; he
hissed as he saw the white panties I was wearing underneath. "Wear these."
"I will." I kissed his hand. "But first, lunch. Then I'll run you a bath."
***
It was cold, so I'd lit a fire in the scarlet room and had drawn the curtains,
making it so that when Torsten arrived from his bath, the entire room was like
one soft, dark womb. He sprawled upon the rug in front of the fireplace in his
silk dressing gown, stretching like a cat.
When I took his head in my lap and offered him a brandy, he sighed in
contentment. "First class service. I won't be needing a maid at this rate."
"We have one, but I've given her the day off. I wanted you all to myself."
"Mmm. Because you don't want her to hear you screaming for me, that is," he
said and pulled me into an upside-down kiss, so that we could both have the
pleasure of sucking the lower lip. The kiss and the brandy made me warm in the
belly, between the legs. That warmth was welcome after the discomfort of having
just rinsed my ass, a thrill to my pussy after I'd just shaved it. For a week,
I'd kept myself furry, so that I could be especially smooth for him tonight, to
drive my dirty old man wild, to heighten my own pleasure when he would finally
touch me. I wanted him to touch me now, wanted him to slip his hand between my
legs already, but knew I had to wait and let him gather his strength.
"You're squirming," he said when he pulled back from the kiss, his pupils wide
from lust. "Has my little girl missed her Daddy?"
"I've missed you ever so much," I said, again filled with that sickening thrill
of adopting a sugary, little girl's voice. I had not used it in months, and
being finally able to do so was a pleasure headier than that of the alcohol. It
was the first step of letting go of weeks and weeks of cursed adulthood, of
responsibility. Finally, finally I could let myself become delicate and small
in his arms; bliss. I could see his cock shifting underneath his dressing gown,
adored the way his heavy lashes now fell to his cheeks as he laughed.
"Your Daddy has missed his little girl, too," he purred, and with a sudden
groan, he sat up and pulled me into his arms. He sat me in his lap and I
wrapped my limbs around him, clinging to him, trembling from sheer happiness.
He slid his hands underneath my jacket and caressed my back, inhaling my hair.
"You smell so sweet," he murmured. "A little bit of shampoo here, a little bit
of vanilla behind the ear." He breathed more heavily, now, and I felt a
tremendous power, a tremendous feminine power in arousing him this way, with
all the little things I'd done to prepare myself for him. It was exactly what
I'd wanted, and now he was quivering thanks to it, my magnificent creation of a
little girl. And as he kissed my neck, I quivered, too; this girl always felt
more real than my daytime self did, now that I had peeled so many layers off
myself and revealed what was at my core. The core only Torsten had been able to
touch; the sweet, moist core I wanted him to feast upon again and again.
"That feels funny, Daddy," I said, simpering so that he hissed through his
teeth at my play. I shook in shock myself at the words that left my mouth; at
how perfectly I became the innocent. I turned that mouth into sugar, into
pouts, all of myself a delicacy for him to taste. "It makes me feel all tingly
when you kiss me there."
At that, he kissed my neck more fiercely, sucking upon my skin so that I cried
out into his shoulder, sure that he would leave a mark. I didn't care; that
kiss sent a jolt straight into my pussy, made it flash, spark, more than any
other type of kiss ever did. It was a horrible kiss, an awful kiss because it
made me want to tear myself apart if I didn't get fucked right now, my pussy
clenching, sucking around the ghost of the cock it needed inside of itself. I
sobbed, like a child denied.
"Stop, Daddy, please, stop!"
"Whatever for?" he laughed as he pulled back, his eyes glittering in demonic
delight. "Does it hurt?"
"It makes the tingling worse."
"Mm-hmm? Is it a good tingle or a bad tingle?"
I nodded downwards, between my legs, closing my eyes in shame. "It feels funny-
-down there."
He pretended surprise. "Really? What have you got down there?" He lifted my
skirt and my pussy pulsed; I nearly lost my balance as I shook in his lap. "Let
Daddy have a look."
I laid myself down on the rug and spread my legs, lifting the skirt up to my
belly. I was wet, so wet there must've been a visible stain on my panties;
again, I clenched so hard my thighs shook. The low croon in his throat didn't
help; it felt as if my pussy couldn't stop clenching as he spread my legs and
leaned in between them, sniffing me.
"But my dear girl," he said, his mouth open, panting. "Here, you smell even
sweeter. Have you been stealing candy again? Is that what you've been smuggling
in your panties?"
I moaned and bit my lip. "No, Daddy."
He tutted. "I think you are a naughty little liar, Laura. This smells exactly
like Daddy's favourite candy." He sniffed me again, theatrically, his lashes
fluttering sharp, jagged. "I think you've been saving this candy up for me, so
that you could tease me with it. Isn't that right?"
I couldn't bear to look at him, at his wet mouth, at his wicked eyes; my head
tossed upon the rug and I mumbled into my shoulder.
"I can't hear you, Laura."
He ran his hand over my slit, up and down, up and down, pressing so lightly it
drove me insane. Only when I failed to hold back a moan did he stop. I panted
and looked up at him, trembled. "Yes, Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy."
"Don't be sorry. I think it's quite touching. Have you been taking good care of
your candy for me?" he said and brought his thumb to the top of my slit,
rubbing my clitoris through it. My panties were now soaking wet; I could see
his fingertips were gleaming.
"Yes, Daddy," I said. I captured his hand between my thighs and squeezed,
wanting to keep him there. "I just--I wanted you to touch it," I said, and all
of a sudden, the words caught in my throat and prickled; my eyes filled with
tears. All of these weeks suddenly came crashing down on me, and I sobbed
underneath him. "I missed your hands so much, Daddy. I missed you touching me."
He laughed softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he leaned
over me and kissed me. "I missed touching you, too, my child." He cupped my
cheek and searched my eyes, speaking to me like a teacher encouraging a pupil.
"Now, what have you been doing with your candy? Tell me."
I stole another kiss and whimpered into his mouth, from emotion, from arousal.
When I let go, I laid down again and spread my legs, inviting him to look at me
once more. "I've kept it all fresh and clean for you, Daddy."
He insinuated his fingers into the waistband and peeked inside, then laughed in
mock-shock. "But Laura, Laura! It's all smooth down here." He pulled the
panties lower so that my thighs were trapped together, framing my pussy,
pressing its lips together in offering. "A smooth little baby pussy," he
crooned.
At his words, I shook so much my hips came off the floor. I cried out loudly as
he pulled me to lie down on my side, so that he could spread my buttocks, look
at my pussy and my ass. He just chuckled. "You know exactly what your Daddy
likes."
A little baby pussy. I reeled at his words, the way he articulated the exact
perversity of what we were doing. And again, he purred it, "A smooth little
baby pussy," leaning down to lap at me in uninhibited, sick delight.
And which one of us was more insane, he or I? Because I loved this, loved being
violated over and over, giving myself to my beloved uncle, my beloved father
over and over. I could have left him long ago, could have rejected his desires,
but why should I have if those desires matched mine exactly? I laughed inside
at the idea of what would have happened had Fate never brought us together.
Would he have become a real molester, preying on true innocents instead of the
child who was born a whore? Would I have burned myself to exhaustion seducing
older men, none of whom would have dared give me this, the father-lover I had
always sought? I sobbed in gratitude to the Devil, sobbed at each one of
Torsten's licks, sucks, huffs and snorts as he buried his face in my pussy and
gave us our ultimate fulfillment.
"Please, Daddy; please, please," I cried from the bottom of my damned little
heart. I wanted to be fucked; feared that the blood that had now packed into my
genitals would cause me some bizarre form of nervous damage. "It feels so good,
so good. Please give me some more, I can't--"
At that, he growled and pulled my panties back on and smacked my ass. "Get on
your hands and knees."
Shaking, I did as I was told. He hissed and stroked his cock through his silks,
leaning back on the rug. "Turn your ass towards me. Arch your back. Show me."
I pulled up my skirt, pulled my panties higher so that they dipped into my
slit, the cotton now completely soaked and slick against my pussy. I glanced at
him over my shoulder. "Like this, Daddy?"
"Yes, just like that." He leaned over me and grabbed me by the hair, rewarding
me with a hungry, savage kiss. "Off to the mirror room with you," he said,
rubbing his cock against my pussy, panting into my mouth. "I want you to watch
yourself seduce your father." With a bite, he let go and knelt behind me. "Now,
crawl."
With shaking arms and legs, I did--yet, immediately, he tutted at me. "No,
that's too fast," he said. "Slower. Lift up your ass, push out your pussy. I
want to see what I'm going to fuck."
Suffocating a whimper, I arched my back again and moved as slowly as possible.
I tried to think of cats, how they walked with their tails held high, making
each and every one of their steps soft, erotic. The way he walked, more
sensuous than most women I'd ever met. I let the warmth of lust flow up and
down my spine, making it flexible, sinuous; let desire flood my every limb
until all of me was throbbing, radiating with heat.
It took an eternity for us to reach the mirror room, I felt; but finally, we
did. He stood at the foot of the bed, right in front of the mirrors.
"Get up. Stand up in front of me, that's it."
He kissed me again and turned me around to face the mirrors, made me look
myself in the eye. Grinning coldly over my shoulder, he took me by the hair and
lifted me, lifted me until the pain made me dance on my toes, made me cry out
into the hand he now clasped over my mouth. "Whore," he breathed into my ear,
his voice slithering straight down my neck to my chest to my pussy. "Did you
play with other men while I was gone?"
I shook my head and made a noise of protest. In my letters, I had told him
about the two women I had played with: the analyst and the brief liaison with
an anonymous woman at a lesbian bar. I had not had other men since he'd
prostituted me at the brothel; how could I have? Nobody knew me the way Torsten
did; nobody knew how to hurt me the way he did.
"Take off your clothes," he said, never letting go of my hair.
Wincing in pain, I peeled off the jacket, the blouse, the skirt, the panties--
when I finally got to my socks, he clicked his tongue and shook me by the hair.
"Faster."
By now, my eyes were wet from tears of pain; my nipples hard and crinkled as he
finally let go of my hair and cupped my breasts in his hands. It felt heavenly
to have him squeeze them from behind, this always far more pleasurable than
having them squeezed them from the front. I leaned back against him and sighed
in delight. "Thank you, Daddy."
"I missed these tits," he purred, deliberately coarse; he kept smacking them,
pinching them until I was squirming against him. "I thought of others looking
at them, wishing I could be here to see it. My little girl with her big tits,
every dirty old man's dream," he said, kissing my neck, pulling on my nipples.
"Making men hard left, right and centre. And this fat little pussy here; such a
fat, fat little pussy..." he hissed, slipping his hand between my legs, and oh,
the onomatopoeia of the way he always pronounced "pussy," always so sibilant,
wet, slick. "Tell me, Laura, is that why you wear trousers? Jumpers? To show
off your pretty, big titties, to make men look at the curve of your fat little
pussy?"
"No!" I screamed as he started to thrust his fingers inside of me. "No, Daddy.
I only want you, Daddy; I only want you."
And it was true. We'd agreed to only play with others if the affairs were
homosexual; any other lovers, we had sworn to share between the two of us. I
did not let other men fuck my pussy, partially because of the fear of
pregnancy, but also because of a twisted sense of romanticism. I only wanted
Torsten's cock in there, the first cock that had ever claimed it, the only cock
that would ever feel right. "It's yours."
He pulled his fingers out, slick, and now spread my pussy with them, pushed my
hips forward so that I could see everything: how wet I was, how pink and red
and swollen.
He chuckled and kissed my cheek. "It's almost a shame. It's such a pretty
little pussy." He pinched my folds and tugged them, slapped my pussy until I
was sobbing again, until his entire hand was smeared from my wetness.
"Please, Daddy, please--"
"Hmm?" He shrugged off his dressing gown and slipped his cock between my
buttocks, fucking their cleft as he rubbed my clitoris. "Do you want me to fuck
this little pussy?"
"Yes!"
"Why should I?"
"Because I've made it so sweet for you, Daddy. Sweet for your mouth, soft for
your fingers, wet for your cock--"
He laughed. "A little poet, that's what you are." He thrust his fingers into me
so hard I now made slippery noises, watched in astonishment as my pussy dripped
off his hand onto the floor. I was shaking all over, so close to orgasm, now,
my weight forcing me down onto his hand.
I howled, balancing with my hands against the mirror.
"Daddy--"
Yet he wrenched me back by the hair. "Beg."
"Please fuck my pussy, Daddy. Please."
"Slut." He took his hand out of my pussy and smeared it all over my face. The
shock of it made my entire body convulse; my knees buckled. I couldn't even
howl, just coughed, snorted, stared into my eyes in the mirror, my mascara now
smudged from tears, from my fluids.
Before I could say anything, he had sat down on the bed and pulled me to sit in
his lap so that we were both facing the mirror; I nearly fell over and tried to
balance myself against the mirror again. But he pulled my hands behind my back
and grabbed my arms.
"Ride me," he rasped in my ear. "Go on. Watch as you sit on your Daddy's cock."
I shuddered on top of him from the very idea, yet was frustrated by the
difficulty of guiding his cock inside of me in this position. He had to let go
for a little while so I could rub and spread my pussy right, to wet its lips
right, to move my folds out of the way. Finally, I managed it, and oh, the
sight--I'd never seen him sink inside of me like this. I mewled as I held him
there, held myself in place only with the muscles of my pussy, spreading myself
around him.
Was this what Torsten saw as he fucked me, every time? Was this why he loved
exotic flowers so much? If this was the sight they reminded him of, the way my
flesh now unfurled around him, burst into bloom from his tending, his love? My
pussy tried to clench around his length, but he was too big, too thick: how I
could ever have taken all of this inside of myself, I had no idea. I hurt
because of the way my weight forced me down on him; the head of his cock
pressed against my womb so hard it made a sharp knife of pain cut through me.
"Please," I cried, shook, begging for mercy.
But he spread my legs on either side of his thighs and grabbed my arms once
more, forcing himself ever deeper. He peeked over my shoulder and growled.
"Fuck yourself. Go on. Slick up my cock."
I had no choice but to move on top of him, forcing myself to focus on the
pleasure, on my father's command. Slick, I thought, slick, willing myself to
get wetter, to pleasure him, myself better. My father's cock, my father's cock,
oh, God, my father's cock, I thought as I rode him; concentrating all of my
being on how much I loved him, how much I had needed him, this. For three
months, I hadn't felt this beautiful, hard, brutal heat and width inside of me;
for three months, I hadn't felt his sperm splashing inside of me. The glory of
being penetrated by him, the sound of his heavy breathing behind me, the smell
of his sweat and cologne in my nostrils. I loved him, loved him with my pussy,
with all of my body, and there, there, the pain finally started to fade and I
shuddered on top of him. "Daddy," I cried at his reflection, a wounded cry of
anguish, of surrender.
"That's it, my sweet girl," he rasped. "That's it. Daddy loves you." He let go
of my arms and hugged me to himself, pushed my hair out of my face and kissed
me. "My beautiful girl, my beautiful girl. Look at what you are to me, look."
And now, the sight of myself, my breasts heaving, my stomach dipping, rippling
as he penetrated me deep--oh, it made me swoon. He took my hair in both of his
hands, not to hurt me this time but to frame my face, to force me to look at
myself. "Beautiful," he said, the thought echoing in my mind, beautiful, Laura
the millionairess in the metropolitan penthouse, where she had always wanted to
be. Where she had been meant to be.
This was it; this was my destiny, the one I had carved out for myself. And yet,
underneath the successful woman lay the child-whore now dancing upon her
father's cock, perfect, perfect; nothing could be more perfect.
I brought my hand to my pussy and rubbed it, rubbed it until his strokes sent
rising pulses of pleasure through my womb; as he felt me unravelling, he fisted
his hands in my hair and twisted, pulled, made me scream until those waves
cascaded through me. I screamed from the top of my lungs, each blow of his cock
a shockwave rippling through my blood, bone and marrow; I screamed on and on
until the last of those ripples had faded, until my throat was hoarse.
He laid himself back down and slipped out of me, panting himself. He hissed and
curled up on the bed, staring down at his cock: it shone a dark, furious red.
"Fuck," he laughed, his hand trembling upon my cheek as we lay face to face.
"You almost made me come, there."
I wanted so much to touch his cock, to suck it, to make him come in my mouth,
but I sunk my hands into his hair and kissed him instead. The thought of him
saving his sperm up for my ass thrilled me beyond measure; my ass clenched at
the thought, sending one last orgasmic tremor through my womb. "I want you to
fuck me in the ass, Daddy," I purred, and the very words made his cock jerk,
made his eyes narrow with desire. I was an evil little tease and knew it,
daring to slide my hand to his hip, my thumb stroking the side of his stomach
just above his hipbone, to where I knew he was exceptionally sensitive. "I've
only ever fingered it a few times."
He moaned and pulled me into a kiss, rubbing himself against me. "Dirty girl. I
knew you couldn't resist touching it. Did you taste it, too, when I was gone?"
"No. But I've been taking the saccharine, just like you told me to."
"And are you clean, now?"
"I just rinsed."
"Shame; you will have rinsed all the sweetness off," he murmured against my
mouth, and he disgusted me and aroused me at the same time.
"You're sick," I whimpered, but he laughed and smacked my ass.
To think that he'd returned from Sweden even dirtier a bastard than he'd been
before--oh, the thought of his new fetish horrified me, yet I imagined him
licking that Scotsman's ass, what Torsten must have looked like with his cock
dripping upon the sheets at the new taste he'd discovered. He'd made me
curious, and I hated him for it, hated the new pulse of heat in my pussy,
remembering that one time he had taken my ass without preparation and had
forced me to taste it, not knowing what I was tasting.
"You're sick, so sick," I whispered into his mouth, sugar-soft as he pushed a
finger inside my ass, "a sick bastard, a sick fuck," I purred as he laughed,
turned me onto my stomach and licked my ass. I was burning up again, pushing my
ass onto his tongue, my spine liquid once more. I fucked him with my ass,
pushed it back onto his drooling, grunting face, my pussy so wet that when I
looked between my legs, I saw I was dripping down his chin.
He pulled back and huffed, slapping my ass. "Turn around. So that I can see
your ass in the mirror."
I did so, but not before I'd tasted myself off his mouth, sucked myself off his
tongue, panting from how much I wanted him. The mirror was only a handspan away
from this end of the bed, and I bent as close to it as I could on all fours, my
toes touching its surface. I closed my thighs like I had seen prostitutes do in
dirty postcards; lifted my ass high to display my pussy, my asshole.
He only paused to pick up a bottle of glycerine from the bedside table. As he
knelt beside me, I tried to reach for his cock, but he swatted my hands away
and placed them on my buttocks. "Spread yourself. Can you see?"
I twisted my neck until I could. I spread my buttocks as forcefully as Torsten
would have, fingertips on either side of my anus. You could have mistaken it
for a virgin's; that's how smooth it was, a tight little slit gleaming from his
spit. And that's what he loved: he laughed wickedly as he spread my buttocks
with me and stretched the bud of my ass with his thumbs, moving the skin back
and forth, testing his present before opening it. His mouth was open all
throughout, his tongue peeking out, and he was drooling. He opened his mouth
even more and dribbled spit onto my ass, letting it fall off his tongue onto my
asshole, massaging his saliva into my flesh as I whimpered, my pussy clenching
again and again as he did so.
"Now, let's see." He pushed two fingers in from either side and it hurt, it
hurt; I had not slicked myself with glycerine beforehand. Perhaps because I had
wanted it to hurt, had wanted to see that exact smile upon his face as he felt
my ass spasming, as he felt me stiffen in pain. The purr in his chest was now
louder, his cock bobbing, slapping against his stomach as he stretched my
asshole. "You have kept yourself tight; my, my."
He spat again and pushed his fingers in deeper, hooking them, pulling me open.
I gasped, trembling so much that I nearly fell off the bed, my toes squeaking
against the mirror. The insides of my ass and my pussy were pulsing with
delight, however, wanting him to fill them, my pussy smearing my thighs.
"Fuck me, Daddy, please."
"Oh, no, no, no, my sweet girl," he laughed softly. "I've only just started.
It's going to take a while for me to train this ass again," he said, twisting
his fingers in further, reminding me of what I had been able to take before.
"Or is it that you want to hurt? You want me to take you dry, is that it?"
"No," I lied, closing my eyes in shame.
It was a lie he saw straight through, and smiled at me from the mirror as he
kept tugging at my ass. "I'm afraid I want a good slide tonight, my child," he
murmured, kissing my back. "You don't want your Daddy to rub his cock raw on
the first night, do you?"
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
He smacked my ass. "As you should be."
He picked up the glycerine and poured some on his hands, then smeared it all
over my ass, using almost the entire bottle to make my buttocks glisten and
gleam. Only then did he push the rest inside with his fingers.
This time, they slid in so swiftly I tensed once again, but underneath his
fingers--oh, God, that was four, four he was now pulling me open with--my pussy
could not stop clenching as he spread me wide. If I had been touching my
clitoris, I would've come there and then as I saw myself in the mirror: now,
saw all the way inside of my ass, all pink and black, raw.
He shook his arms so that my entire ass jiggled, I gasping, horrified at the
lewdness of the image, clawing at the sheets. "Please, Daddy, please, please--"
He slid four of his right hand's fingers inside my ass and offered his left
hand to my mouth. "Ask nicely."
"Please," I said, looking into his eyes as I sucked my taste off his index
finger. "Please," I repeated with each finger as I sucked it clean, shaking
from how he was filling me. I felt nauseous, even more so as I watched him fuck
my ass with his hand. How could I have ever taken his entire hand inside of me,
if just his fingers hurt this much, made me afraid I would pass out from the
shock to my nervous system? "Please, Daddy. You're killing me."
"Now, there's a thought. Perhaps next time, you'll play dead for me," he said
as he slid his hand out and laid me down on my side, spooning me so that we
were facing the mirror. "Would you like that?" he purred as he started to guide
his cock inside my ass.
"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck--"
He slapped my cheek, hard. "Language. You are to only use that word if you're
begging for me to take you. Do you understand?"
"Yes! I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sor--" but my words snapped in half as he lifted my
knees to my chest and slid the head of his cock inside.
As he pushed beyond the deepest, tightest muscles of my ass I became only
silence, only shallow breathing; became but the stars dancing in my eyes.
Drunk, I watched the show he was now giving to both of us, as if I were an
audience member observing it from the outside: the soft, blonde little girl now
sodomised by a tall, dark man, his eyes the Devil's. The girl's pussy a
child's; his red, slick cock a satyr's; this and the pink ring of her ass
moving back and forth with his cock, his every long and cruel thrust. He was so
deep inside of me I felt it in my stomach, in my throat: cold sweat broke out
upon my skin and my eyes rolled back in my head. I clutched at him, patted at
him, at the bed; gagged as he kept on fucking me, hurting me.
"Shh, shh," he whispered, still holding my legs against my body, hugging me
against himself. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it, my child?" he said,
slowing down, pulling out almost entirely; then, he pushed so deep inside of me
my vision went white, then black. I could only hear his voice, the melodious,
feline cadence of it murmuring tenderness in my ears. "Such a good little girl,
such a good little ass, such a tight little ass for your Daddy. You've made me
so proud, girl; you've made me so happy, girl; can you feel how hard you've
made your old man?"
"Mmhh," I slurred. That was all I could manage as the nausea faded a little and
my eyes fluttered open.
He stayed still inside of me, buried nearly up to his balls. He draped my own
arm around my knees so I could hold them against my stomach myself, then
brought his hand to my pussy. He began to stroke the top of my slit softly, so
softly I shivered all over: now, I could only feel pleasure, my pussy and my
ass clenching against him, around him.
"There you are," he purred. "Isn't that a beautiful sight?"
"Yes," I cried, turning my head so that he could kiss me. He was smiling in a
way that on any other human being would've looked beatific; yet on him it was a
smile satanic, far more beautiful than an obedient angel's smile could have
ever been. He kept gazing into my eyes as he fucked me, stroked me until I
melted in his arms. The heat of orgasm had never risen this softly in me, yet
every time he flicked my clitoris and pushed his cock past the curve of my
womb, pleasure like white-hot, shimmering ink spilled inside of me, saturating
me, making me glow.
"I love you, Daddy," I whispered.
"Say that again."
"I love you," I said and this time, he sucked each word from my lips, devoured
each one from my mouth. The touch of his lips made me splash with heat again,
and I looked into his eyes, pleading. "May I come, Daddy?"
He moved his fingertips in my slit. "Please, do. But you have to look in the
mirror. Watch yourself. You look so beautiful when you come through the ass. I
want you to see that."
He sounded so tender, so vulnerable it made my heart leap; "Yes, Daddy," I said
in my sweetest, sweetest voice. "Show me."
Again I turned my gaze to the blonde girl-child, to her father's beautiful,
long fingers gently stroking her bare pussy, his beautiful, thick cock sinking
inside her ass. He slid in so easily, now, moving a little faster, making his
strokes longer, knowing how much I loved it when he hit that special spot
inside of me with force. A little girl-faggot, he'd called me, saying that was
the exact same spot in which the male prostate lay, and just like a man, I
dripped each time his cock slid past it.
He held my gaze through the mirror, guided it with his own, exposing me to
myself: as I saw my pussy trickle through his fingers, I could no longer hold
back the convulsions. With his other hand, he grabbed my hair and forced me to
keep looking: I held my eyes open even as I shuddered in his arms, even as my
thighs jerked so hard I nearly fell off the bed. I keened through my teeth,
then wailed, coming and coming, a new series of ripples emanating from my hips
at each one of his thrusts like stones cast into a lake. And all throughout,
his eyes: my father's pale, demonic eyes watching me over my shoulder, drinking
in the sight.
"Beautiful," he whispered into my shoulder, into my sweat-wet hair as I fell
slack in his arms. "Beautiful."
I simply lay there as he kept on moving inside of me: adoring him, content to
exist only as warm, flowing flesh around him, flesh for him to bury himself in.
He slowed down so much I wondered if we would fall asleep like this: him still
hard, still inside of me.
Yet, after a while, he groaned and started to move faster; from his voice I
could hear he was desperate for release.
And oh, how I wanted to pay him back for what he'd given me; I wanted to do so
many things to him. I wanted to suck him, wanted to lick his ass, wanted to
satisfy him in any way I could; therefore, I turned around and swallowed his
cock into my mouth. Finally, the taste of the deepest recesses of my body was
upon my tongue: I sobbed in ecstasy as I savoured it, analysing what was
glycerine, what was pussy, what was the taste of my ass underneath it all. And
there, there, I tasted it: a sweetness I had not tasted before, making me moan
around his cock, making me rub my pussy so furiously I was pushed to the brink
of orgasm once more.
And he guessed it, his eyes flying wide in excitement. He lifted himself onto
his elbows and smirked. "Saccharine?"
"Yes," I gasped as I pulled up for breath. I laughed, delirious from shock, yet
licked around the root of his cock, the part I had not managed to swallow yet,
seeking every last trace of that taste. "I can't believe it," I murmured
against his balls, shaking my head.
"Then I must take you dirty next time," he growled and pulled back my head,
rearranging me upon the bed with my ass towards the mirror, the same position I
had been in when he'd been opening me. Unceremoniously, he squatted on top of
me, his legs on either side of my thighs, and started to push his cock inside
my ass. "What do you think, my child?" he chuckled in my ear. "If I push deep
enough, will I find more of it? Will I touch saccharine-flavoured shit?"
I was too busy wailing to answer. He could always get so deep inside of me in
this position it horrified me: and now, for the first time, I saw exactly how
deep. My neck hurt as I kept looking, as he slammed into me so hard he was
sinking me into the mattress, but I couldn't stop. I had to see it all. His
cock felt even bigger from this angle, yet now it was sliding back and forth so
easily, so that he could bury himself in me entirely. With a low, guttural
groan he thrust so deep inside of me his balls smacked against my pussy with
every blow: they were now so full, drawn so high I knew he was close.
He fucked me so hard my pussy made disgusting noises as air was pushed out of
it; so slippery, so wet--I had to bring my hand to it and rub it. With only a
few strokes, I was coming once more, this time so hard I was screaming
underneath him, screaming like I was being slaughtered: he fucked me so fast my
vision turned into a shower of sparks. Black and white and purple lights were
flashing so rapidly behind my eyes I was terrified: was this what an epileptic
felt? Or one collapsing into schizophrenia, endless hallucinations? What if,
one of these days, he would overload my nervous system, flood my brain with
such unnatural chemicals that there would be no turning back, and I would be
turned into gibbering madwoman forever? Yet there I gibbered, laughed, growled,
snarled, sobbed as he fucked me through my orgasm, as he made my pussy spray my
hand with each one of his thrusts.
He was laughing, too, howling as he let go, as he clutched me against his chest
and fucked my ass full of sperm. On and on he came, on and on and on; I felt
him reach behind himself and even if I couldn't turn to look, I knew he was
pushing fingers into his ass to make his orgasm last, to make his ejaculation
as voluminous as possible. For me, all for me; I shivered in delight as pulse
after pulse of sperm filled my guts and slicked up his cock, dripped out of me
over my pussy, against his balls still slapping against me. And now it was my
ass that was slurping, too, Torsten groaning in ecstasy at the sound as he
shuddered on top of me.
"Spread your ass. That's it. Now--don't move, don't move, don't move," he
stuttered, then lifted just a little to allow me to turn my head towards the
mirror. "Look, Laura, look."
And I looked: slowly, oh, so very slowly he pulled his cock out of my ass,
every fat inch of it, then laid it on the small of my back so that I could see
how wide open I was. I cried out as I saw myself, saw the gaping hole that was
my ass, more open than I'd ever seen it before. And as I cried out, the
movement of my belly made his come sluice out of my ass: it poured out over my
pussy in a thick, chunky stream, disgusting, delicious. I could not tell if it
was all white or if there was a little yellow mixed in, and that made my guts
spasm again: another blast of come burst loudly out of my ass, this time
spraying the mirror, making me whimper in horrified awe. Another fart of come
and he was upon me: before the stream of sperm could hit the mattress, he
caught it with his tongue, licking it off my pussy, slurping it loudly into his
mouth. I screamed because I had no choice, because I was too overwhelmed,
sobbed into the sheets as he sucked each and every drop of his sperm out of me,
swallowing it all back into himself.
"It's sweet," he keened, his voice quavering, "sweet, sweet; saccharine sweet,
oh, Laura--"
"Let me taste it, please, please," I cried, not believing my own ears. "Please,
please, Daddy, please."
He pushed four fingers inside of my ass again, twisting them inside of me as he
laid me down on the bed and faced me. There, he kept fucking me, pushing little
wails out of me as he shared what little sperm there was left with a kiss: he'd
swallowed most of it, but I still sucked the remains of it off his lips, off
his shameless tongue. I was not sure if I could taste any sweetness that wasn't
glycerine: yet the very thought made me shudder in one last orgasmic aftershock
upon his hand, against his body.
"You dirty old man," I murmured, soft with love as he took out his hand and
lapped his fingers clean. "You dirty, dirty old man," I smiled as he pulled me
into his arms and hugged me, wrapping all of his limbs around me.
"I love you too, my child," he said, combing my hair from my face, his face
glowing from tenderness, from utter relaxation. "I love you so much," he sighed
and kissed me as accomplices do, then hugged me against his chest. "So much, so
much."
I laced my fingers with his and kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome home, Daddy."
***** Chapter 3 *****
The first few weeks of our life together in New York were a flurry of parties,
amusements, diversions. I resented the days I had to crawl out of bed with a
hangover to attend to business, while Torsten slept well until midday--again, I
became the businessman and he the pretty, frivolous wife. Was this what rich
men felt all the time? Yet I was happy, feeling energised because of the amount
of activity around us. Torsten set out to forge important contacts and
relationships, to well and truly establish us in societies high and low.
Even if he was a poor businessman, he had a magnificent skill for finding just
the sorts of people we needed for our purposes, whether those purposes were
financial or recreational. Some days, I would simply lean back and watch the
way he lured in the wealthy and the impressionable, relishing his mesmerism,
his legerdemain as he used his body and his words to draw people to himself.
His charm intoxicated me, his lies and empty promises the most exquisite of
aphrodisiacs. Afterwards, I would pounce him, suck his cock in broom closets,
back alleys, drunk simply on the power he exuded.
Tonight was no exception. We were at home and had been entertaining a few
guests, only one of whom lingered. From the living room, I watched Torsten bid
goodbye to our latest catch: a Miss Lind, fifteen, an heiress, an orphan--yes,
another one, would you believe it? I laughed at that, too. It was no wonder he
had done his utmost to charm her, even now leaning over her hand to kiss it,
the very picture of chivalry. As she turned towards the door, I watched her
round buttocks jiggling underneath her white satin dress and listened to the
husky purr of her voice as she said goodnight. I was sorry to see her leave,
even if I had been a little jealous. But that jealousy was nothing compared to
the lust this long-lost sister now stirred in me. It was a twisted,
narcissistic lust and all the better for that: she was soft and curvaceous, her
skin the creamiest white with splashes of pink, her hair a platinum blonde.
For this, people often compared her to Jean Harlow. To this, she would respond
in her broad Brooklyn accent: "Honey, it's not that I look like Jean Harlow.
It's that Jean Harlow looked like me." The looks and quips of a movie star, the
perfect diva at fifteen--how could I not adore her?
"She wants to fuck you," I said to Torsten when he returned, inhaling deep from
my cigarette.
"Birgitte?" He leaned back on the sofa beside me and crossed his legs, smoking
lazily himself. "A lot of people want to fuck me," he said breezily. "Do you
think I should try and squeeze her in somewhere?"
"You know, I think she's bluffing."
"But you just said she wanted to fuck me."
"Oh, the lust is real, all right." I picked crumbs of tobacco from my lips.
"It's just that there's something unnatural about it, something cold. Like a
writer who pens romances but has never lived one. Do you think--she might be a
virgin? That this whole glamour queen thing is just an act?" So many women did
these things in private, but for most, the role-play remained in front of the
mirror. Yet some brought that role into the outside world, because they knew
they could achieve something by it. Torsten and I were great pretenders; it
looked likely to me that Birgitte was one, too, thirsty for money and pleasures
the same way we were.
"Maybe you are right," he said, stumping his cigarette, blowing smoke through
his nostrils. "Maybe she is bluffing. All the more reason for us to seduce her,
isn't it?"
I laughed--the thought of her secret purity, the innocent underneath the facade
of the diva was what had finally awakened Torsten's lust. I could see his eyes
glittering, saw him squeeze his thighs together the way he always did when his
prick started to swell. So I laid my hand on his thigh, fingertips not quite
touching the curve of his cock. "We should show her how it's done," I said, the
very thought making my pussy swell in turn.
He pulled me into a soft, languid kiss. "Mm-hmm? I thought you said you were
done with women."
I slid my hand to his cock and cupped it. "Not if I can lure her in and then
watch you ruin her." Like you ruined me. The very thought of being a spectator
in this bloodsport aroused me until I was dizzy with it: to watch him at work,
seducing an innocent, fucking an innocent before me. A re-enactment of my own
debauching, another pink pussy yielding to his cock, another pink ass forced
open; I imagined tears running down Birgitte's face as Torsten fisted his hands
in her hair and I shivered in delight. I felt wet between my legs, now; I
couldn't hold back a moan.
He squeezed my hand over his cock and chuckled into my mouth. "Being fucked in
front of the mirror really gave you ideas, didn't it?"
"God. Please, Torsten. We must do this."
He slapped my cheek lightly. "Don't call me that when you talk about fucking."
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I murmured, the sting of his slap making my nipples harden,
now. I only ever called him by his first name when it was serious; the few
times I had done so during sex had indicated that he was hurting me too much,
that he had gone too far, and he'd had to stop. He'd come to hate his name that
way, always associating it with being sexually thwarted.
"I forgive you." He lifted my chin. "So. My little girl wants a taste of pussy,
then?"
I nodded. He searched my eyes, calculating, obviously processing what he knew
about my tendencies. "There's only one way in which this will work," he
murmured, half to himself. "I don't want you to come crying to me like a little
brat this time, having forced yourself into doing things you'll never enjoy.
But I think there's a way..." he leered.
"Yes?" My heart thrummed in my chest.
He undid his trousers and slid my hand inside, then took my face in both his
hands and whispered against my mouth. "I'm going to use you."
I gasped, my hand shaking as I lifted out his cock, now hardening from his
cruelty. "Yes?"
His eyes flashed with ice and his grin was sharp, jagged. "Yes," he drawled,
nodding. "How would you like to become my instrument, Laura? An extension of
me? To think as I think, to think with your cock? To hunt that bit of tail down
for me? So that I can have both of you kneeling at my feet, your little pussies
all wet and aching for me?"
"Yes," I moaned, trembling violently at the very thought. To not only submit to
him, but to become a part of him, a flesh and blood channel for that all-
devouring, all-ravishing sexual force of his. Already, my eyes opened wider, my
nostrils flared; the hot heaviness between my legs wanted to reach outwards as
well as inwards, a psychic erection. I quivered with it and kissed him
hungrily, like a man kisses a woman, licking his mouth, panting into it.
"You're a genius."
"That's what I've always said," he hissed. He pushed me down so that I was
kneeling between his legs, then slapped my lips with his cock. "Now, show me.
Show me how you'll teach her to suck my cock."
I did. I focused on his pleasure alone, deriving my own from his, from
dedicating my body completely to his service. He must've thought I was weeping
because his cock stopped my throat, but my tears came well before that, from
sheer joy. This was what I had been yearning for, this complete letting go of
my self, and now he was again offering to make it a full-time occupation for
me. The bliss of it, the bliss--in gratitude, I slicked his cock up with my
mouth, making love to it, lifting his balls the way he loved best. And all the
while, I stared up into his face, dizzy from lack of oxygen, from the
vertignious sky of his eyes. I adore you, I said with my mouth and my hands and
my eyes. I adore you, I adore you, I adore you, I wrote with my tongue as he
turned around and offered me his ass. I was sure he was thinking of his ménage
à trois right now: of two girls, one pleasuring him in the front, one at the
back; that's how tremulous his cries were, that's how fast he was stroking his
cock.
"More," he cried out, panting into the sofa cushions. "More."
I clasped his hips with my hands and with my mouth, I devoured his ass--heaven,
a musty, salty, dark and delicious heaven. I pushed my tongue as deep inside of
him as I could and moaned, knowing what the vibrations of the sound would feel
like inside his hips. I kept on moaning, kept on fucking him with my tongue,
clawing at his hipbones until he jerked violently for one last time. He keened
high in his throat as he came, his hand making slick noises on his cock as he
rocked his ass against my tongue; I kept it stiff even if it hurt, knowing how
he wanted to draw his pleasure out.
By the time he turned around, he was far from the suave gentleman our guests
had known. Strands of his hair had fallen to his cheeks, his face was gleaming
with sweat and his suit was rumpled; he was beautiful. He slumped on the sofa
and took me by the hair. "You're not going to let the maid see that, are you?"
he said, nodding towards the puddle of come on the sofa.
"No, Daddy," I said and shuddered in ecstasy as he pressed my face into the
cushion, smearing my face with his sperm. I sobbed in joy, licking it all off,
indescribable elation filling my entire being as I saw him smile down at me.
That he was still not tired of this, that I could give him delight like this
with my humility, my submission, my worship of him. I blinked back tears once
more. "Thank you, Daddy."
For that, he took me with his fingers, his mouth; he devoured my pussy with
such greed his face became as smeared as mine. "You will fuck her like this,"
he snarled and curled his fingers in my pussy, fucked me with them until I was
wailing, imagining it. Imagining fucking Birgitte with my fingers while Torsten
squeezed her breasts, fucked her ass; that was what finally made me come
undone. I held his face in my hands as he looked up at me, fucking me with his
hand; I screamed again and again as he forced me to come all over his face, my
body dancing upon his fingers.
"Fuck," I cried, shuddering, staring as he continued to fuck me. "Fuck," I
cried even louder as he pulled his hand out and slapped me on each cheek,
sending two more orgasmic jolts through my body. "You're so good to me," I
murmured, pulling him into my arms. "My Daddy's so good to me. So good."
He lifted my hair from my face and kissed me, kissed me deep as he rocked
himself inside of me. "And tomorrow, you'll show me what a good daughter you
can be. Won't you?"
"Yes," I promised and wrapped my legs around him, melting underneath him.
***
The next day, I met Birgitte for lunch. As I walked to the café, I could still
feel Torsten's sperm soaking into me, climbing into my every cell, an osmosis
of his wickedness. He'd fucked me well that morning, more masculine than I'd
ever seen him, hard and violent, suffusing me with his sexual power. In the
manner of a primitive occultist, he had summoned up that power in himself,
whipped himself into an erotic rage, and duly, I had responded. I had sworn at
him, slapped him, called him names. We had fought, pulling each other's hair,
clawing at each other, the sex itself a mimicry of rape--I had pulled a muscle
in my back when he'd forced my arms behind my back and fucked me on the floor.
And oh, I'd been screaming until I was hoarse; until I was glowing with him,
the impact of each one of his cock's blows reverberating through me until I'd
felt myself become all cock in turn. Cock, cock, cock; the violating, hard,
keen and greedy prick, the tight, unbearable ache of the balls, the frantic
need to surge out as sperm. The rut, the musk, the grunts, the plunging into
the heated, sweet darkness of another's flesh, forever seeking the womb he had
been separated from. When I had come, it had been with him; the very moment I'd
felt his sperm splash inside of me, I'd felt the psychic spill of it into each
and every corner of my being, and I could have sworn he was whispering become
me, become me, become me.
So here, down the avenue now walked Laura the half-vamp, half-playboy with the
swagger of the cad and the languid hips of the whore. I wore a blood-red suit
and a blood-red hat, an outrageously large hat with an outrageously large black
feather in it. People stared at me in the street and I drank in those stares,
drank it all, the jealousy, the disapproval, the admiration and the hatred. It
was all food for me, something to nourish myself with; each time my very
existence provoked a reaction, it gave more fuel to my fire. And thus, I walked
like a flame, swaying, flickering, licking the air, devouring the oxygen around
me.
And there, at the very back of the private section of the café, at a corner
table only the richest could afford, sat Birgitte. My little angel, the dirty
old man in me purred, as Birgitte was clad in all white, well aware of how it
illuminated her, how it accentuated the fairness of her skin and the
unnaturally light halo of her hair. I can't wait to see how far you'll fall.
She received me with enthusiasm, with a hug that lingered, a wet kiss on my
ear, her soft flesh suffused with the cool and fresh perfumes of neroli,
vanilla and lily-of-the-valley. Perfumes that reminded me of Helena whenever
she had dressed in male attire: yet Birgitte was all female as she jiggled into
her seat, voluptuous, her heavy breasts brushing the table's edge as she leaned
towards me.
"So." I leaned over in turn and lit her cigarette. "Tell me more about
yourself, Birgitte."
Thus, there, for the better part of an hour, we chatted about her, me, about
this and that; I found her company stimulating. She was entertaining enough, if
a little vain and frivolous. We talked animatedly of our favourite films, of
books, of the stories that titillated us, touched us, and found some sisterhood
in that at least. Nevertheless, our likeness was more physical than spiritual:
I did wonder if the waiter mistook us for a pair of sisters, both blonde girls
of the same height and complexion, both blue-eyed, both curvaceous. In
intelligence, however, I soon realised she was below my level, and not just
because she was one year my junior. But at least she had some sense of humour
in that pretty little head of hers, some imagination as well and a great deal
of erotic allure--those things could take her far if she knew how to use them,
especially in the bedchamber. In another age, she could have become the
greatest of courtesans, the sort who could not only pleasure a man's body but
also offer him good company. I thought of my analyst and how she'd made it to
her age with the same, amazing potential within herself, but had let it lie
dormant until it was too late. Until she had started to wither.
I would not let the same thing happen to Birgitte, I told myself. I would
rescue this girl from goodness into sin, no matter what it took. I would help
her blossom as I had blossomed, would seduce each and every petal of this bud
into unfurling, would spread her open so that she could release her fragrance,
display her beauty to the world. The virility Torsten had fucked into me
stirred, wanted to penetrate this beauty, to stretch it open. To make that
neatly painted little mouth stutter profanities, droplets of Torsten's sperm
spraying from her lips as I plunged my hand inside her, the little pussy I'd
made into a cunt.
So lost was I in my erotic reverie that she noticed. "Am I boring you?"
"No, not at all."
"I'm sorry anyway. I would never, ever want to bore you. To have met you,
Laura, it's fantastic, it's grand, so grand," she said, squeezing my hand, her
eyes glowing like those of a drug addict. "There's no one my age here, and they
all treat me like a kid. You're the first one who hasn't done that."
I nodded sagely through a plume of smoke. "I want us to become friends," I
said, squeezing her hand back. "The best of friends."
She made such a noise of delight that the waiter nearly spilled our coffees.
Presently, she clasped my hand with both of hers. "You're free for the rest of
the day, aren't you? Let me take you shopping."
"I'd love nothing more." I stumped my cigarette and smiled, realising I was
acting exactly as Torsten had done last night--blowing the smoke through my
nostrils like a dragon when it spies a virgin. "Let me finish my coffee and you
can show me around."
By the end of the afternoon, my feet hurt like hell and my hands were so full
of shopping bags I had to constantly apologise to people for bumping into them.
Yet I was grateful for Birgitte's knowledge of all the hidden wonders of the
city--now I knew where this exiled Russian countess pawned her antique jewelry,
where the mistress of that millionaire got her flamboyant hats, which couturier
could cut a dress so ingeniously one could hide an unwanted pregnancy for
months on end. All of this was subtle social knowledge, the currency of gossip,
the sort of things one would need to know at dreary cocktail parties in order
to be somebody. I had thought to make Birgitte a woman of the world, yet she
was the one who educated me!
All of this from a fifteen-year-old whose mother had been a seamstress from
Brooklyn and had married into money. She told me her father had been a Swedish
entrepeneur--I'd vaguely heard the name of Lind somewhere, I thought, but I
could not put a face to the name. Perhaps he had been one of the ones on our
list of those who got away before we could swallow their businesses, perhaps
having spent most of his time in America. And he'd died a few years ago, when
Birgitte was twelve--followed soon after by her mother. A freak traffic
accident only months after she'd lost her father.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she said when we we'd sat down on a
park bench for a breather. She paused for a while and kicked at the ground with
her shoe. "But I cursed God that day, and never set foot in a church again."
I laughed, laughed so uproariously I scared the pigeons away. If only Torsten
were here!
"Don't laugh." She looked at her hands, perhaps thinking I found her ridiculous
or blasphemous or both; it was hard to tell.
I put my arm around her and pulled her close, rubbing her shoulder. "I don't
fault you; I don't fault you at all. After all, they say the Devil throws the
best parties. And he never turns anyone away at the door."
She smiled a little weakly, taking my hand in hers. "You're wicked."
"And so are you." I measured her face with my eyes, with the long, caressing
glances Torsten had taught me so well. "I like that."
Our faces were now so close it was inevitable: it was she who leaned towards me
first and kissed me. It was a soft, chaste kiss with closed mouths, but I liked
the firmness behind it, showing that whatever she now felt for me was real. I
kissed her back, with equal sisterliness and emotion, so sweetly not a single
soul in the park would have taken offense. They would not have known of how I
already imagined Birgitte naked, stretching upon the white and cream satin of
Torsten's bed.
I cupped her cheek and smiled warmly. "When will I see you again, my little
devil?"
"Oh, please let it be soon," she said, kissing my hand.
***
So, the weeks passed and I, having thought to enamour Birgitte, became
enamoured with her myself. Oh, I was crushing terribly, feeling like the
teenager I truly was. And with Birgitte, I let myself be one. We could go to
the movies together, gossip together, share candy and perfume, fix each other's
makeup and hair. And somehow, this felt like the role-play Torsten had given
me, the license to be the little girl I'd never been allowed to be. And I was
sure it was the same thing for Birgitte. She could be the tough, no-nonsense
bitch around grown-ups, every inch the grown woman because she would not be
taken seriously otherwise. But when we spent time together, kissing and
giggling and swooning over fashions, film stars, both of us became soft, light,
relishing every moment. My scarlet room became a safe haven for us, scattered
with magazines, cosmetics, the little trinkets we would buy each other as love
tokens.
Torsten was amused at first, but I could see a touch of green seeping into his
eyes, could see him frowning more. On the days I had exhausted myself
emotionally and physically with Birgitte and couldn't respond to his caresses
as enthusiastically as I wanted to, he became furious. It's not that I didn't
love him; I was simply tired, and he, in order to get a reaction out of me,
turned his caresses more violent, more cruel. I felt a perverse delight in
lying in his bed or dangling from a hook in the wall, my body dancing to his
blows, completely passive and yielding. I loved him even more, now, seeing how
his jealousy inspired him to a passionate intensity, showing us both how much
he needed me, how he would be nothing without me. So that even as he attached
binder clips to my nipples and the folds of my pussy before fucking my ass, the
pain rendering me completely silent, internally I would repeat I love you,
Daddy, I love you, I love you.
I became more fluid, spending my days in a trance, a dream; whenever I wasn't
with Torsten, I felt myself reborn from him, as if both of us had merged in me
now, become a whole new creation. Always, always Torsten's dark power would
move through me, never separate from me. Whether I had to deal with business
associates or hold hands with Birgitte, I could feel him in my hips, in the way
my eyes devoured the world around me with insatiable greed. I told him this,
showed him this, and he watched me in awe, finding this to be true: indeed, how
could he be jealous of me if he was me?
"It is the you in me that wants her, you know," I whispered against his chest
in bed, sated after sex. I laced my fingers with his. "My hands are your
hands."
He nuzzled my hair and chuckled, mellow, now. "I've always wanted to have a
woman's hands. But when do my own get to touch her?"
"I'll have to seduce her first. Tomorrow morning should do it. She's got
plumbers coming in and I said she could use our bathroom. Did you get that
mirror fixed?"
"Yes," he purred. "It's all in working order."
"Then, wish me luck."
"Oh, I will. I'll even sacrifice a chicken if that's what it takes," he
murmured and took my mouth with a kiss.
***
I rubbed the silver bracelets at my wrists, nervous, waiting for Birgitte to
arrive. I never went out without Torsten's necklace and cuffs, now; I even
slept wearing them, loving the way how at any moment, he could hook his fingers
around the necklace and stop my breath, signalling that he wanted sex. He had
been brutal last night, dragging me across the floor by the cuffs; my wrists
still ached and showed faint red marks. Birgitte was going to ask about them
and both Torsten and I knew this; lust curled up my pussy at the thought of her
kissing them better. But where the hell was she? Torsten had withdrawn to the
mirror room a quarter of an hour ago and turned out the lights--the view
through the two-way mirror to the bathroom was dim, but better than no view at
all.
Finally, the doorbell rang. "I'm so sorry I'm late," Birgitte panted, bringing
a gust of cold air with her. "It's just that I couldn't decide which clothes to
bring. It's freezing outside."
"It's all right," I said and took her suitcase. "Father won't be home for a few
hours yet; your virtue is safe."
"But my reputation isn't! You know what they're saying now?" she laughed as she
pulled her scarf off her head, ruffling her hair. "They're convinced I'm out to
seduce your dad. Would you believe it?"
I burst into laughter. "Like mother, like daughter? He is very handsome," I
said, subtly prompting her; "all the women adore him. I'm told he's considered
quite a catch."
"Oh, he is a looker, I'll give him that. But imagine me becoming your
stepmother!" she shook her head and flung herself onto the sofa. "And then you
would hate me."
I sat down next to her and kissed her cheek. "As if I could ever hate you. I
almost wish I'd been born a boy, now; then you could marry me."
At that, she blushed, actually blushed; and by that, I knew I had struck a
chord in her. She did want me; I knew it from her lingering caresses and kisses
over these last few weeks, the way she had touched me when we had helped each
other dress. Now, however, she covered up her embarrassment by snatching a
biscuit from the coffee table and nibbling on it slowly like some small, pretty
animal.
I laid my hand on her knee. "But you're freezing! Shall I go and run the bath
for you? I've given Ulla the day off since Father's away."
"I'll help." She sprung to her feet and took her suitcase. "I'm going to have
to learn how to do it if I'm to be the mistress of the house, aren't I?"
For that, I smacked her on the ass, making her blush even more. "It's this way.
Come on."
Of course, I had to come up with a good excuse to join her in the bath.
Thankfully, the chilliness of the day worked in my favour when I explained to
her that we only had a limited supply of hot water, and that I could use a bath
myself. Underneath her polite exclamations of "Of course!" and "I won't mind!"
I could sense that she was giddy, giddy from the very idea. Therefore, while
the bathtub was filling up, I gave her a glass of brandy to relax her, to lower
the last of her inhibitions. I glanced in the direction of the long mirror
covering the wall opposite the tub and grinned. Enjoy the show.
She swallowed her brandy so fast I poured her another one, and by the time we
helped remove each other's girdles and brassieres, we were giggling into each
other's mouths. "I'm not a lesbian," she murmured, "but you, Laura, you...
you're so beautiful I just want to look at you. May I?"
"There's no harm in it," I purred and slipped off my panties. It worked every
time: she, just like everyone else, gasped as she saw my shaven pussy.
"But that's--"
"Takes ten minutes with a decent razor. But you have to soften the hair first
with a bath, or creams. Would you like me to show you how to do it?"
"Oh, yes, um, I'm sure I wouldn't mind," she mumbled, finally realising she was
staring, averting her gaze as we both descended into the tub. She adopted a
pragmatic, casual tone. "But why would you shave it all off?"
"You'll find out," I said. "Do you want me to wash your back?"
"Oh, yes, please."
So I did. For long moments, we just bathed each other, lounged in each other's
arms, in the warm water and the scents of lilies and roses. And all throughout,
I told myself to forget the Laura that didn't enjoy being active with women and
channeled Torsten the seducer instead. The thrill that went through my body as
Birgitte leaned back in my arms and gazed at me adoringly, sighing, relaxing
completely--oh, it was out of this world. She didn't protest as I cupped her
breasts, massaged them; her pale pink nipples hardened underneath my hands and
she quivered, her lashes falling to her cheeks.
"Do you want me to continue?" I asked, kissing her nose.
"Please," she said and captured my mouth in a kiss. She cupped my hands tighter
around her breasts and squeezed so that the fat flesh spilled out from between
my fingers; she moaned and my pussy clenched so hard my hips jerked against her
back. I imagined Torsten, glued to the glass on the other side, staring down at
us, his prick as hard as rock. Was he masturbating right now? Stroking his
cock, willing himself not to come? The very thought made my pussy clench again
and I hummed in delight, slipping one of my hands down Birgitte's belly. I
brushed the very edges of her pubic hair with my fingertips, making her gasp in
a most satisfactory fashion.
"Would you like me to show you how to shave, now?"
"Mm-hmm," she said and with a big slosh, she turned around in my arms, bolder,
now. "What do I need to do?"
I unplugged the tub and got up. "Go and sit on the toilet. It'll be easier that
way."
This was torture for her and I knew it: now, she could not hide her arousal,
and I enjoyed her squirming as I made her spread her legs for me. We used two
razors: I taught her to use her own at first and offered to shave the trickiest
parts myself. By the time we got to that point, she was shaking, absolutely
frantic. She dropped the razor from her hand, whimpered and grabbed the toilet
seat as I spread her pussy--so pink, so shining, so plump--oh, the little
bitch's was prettier than mine! I imagined Torsten's cock sinking past the fat
lips and had to bite my tongue in order not to moan. God, but it was a
beautiful pussy, the mound of it heavy as I pushed it up with my fingers and
snicked off the hair at the top of the slit, just above the clitoris.
I pretended to spread her just to check for last hairs, but I lifted the hood
of her clitoris only in order to massage her through it. Her clitoris itself
was now swollen, a dark, pomegranate red as it peeked out from its hiding
place, like a little cock waiting to be sucked. Her folds were swollen, too, so
wet she could no longer pretend: she moaned, panted, desperate. "God, Laura.
You are terrible. You are wicked, so wicked--"
I shaved the last hairs off her perineum and put the razor away. Now, I just
held her pussy open and grinned, inhaling her scent blatantly, so sweet, so
alluring, so clean. "Would you like me to kiss it, Birgitte?"
"I've never--"
"That's all right. You just smell so good I would love to taste you. May I?"
She bit her lip. "Please."
I massaged the top of her slit with both thumbs, framing her clitoris; she was
now so wet her inner labia were gleaming, purpling, packed full of blood. She
must've been hurting, so I took pity upon her and sucked her clitoris into my
mouth. She shouted, her knees trembling around my head as I sucked her, licked
her, she flowing sweet and rich into my mouth. I had never enjoyed kissing a
pussy so much, but then this was the most delicious one I'd ever tasted, as
sweet as mine, pure sugary perfection. I keened as I tasted her, sucked her
fluids into my mouth--oh, such thick, clear fluids like egg white, nothing at
all like the white foam I'd tasted on Anita. So few women were ever this clean,
this sweet; I pushed my tongue as deep inside of her as I could in order to
taste her fully, completely. Oh, to have had a cock to penetrate her with, to
dip into her with, to fuck her with--with a groan, I pulled back, leaving her
spread open, moving aside so that Torsten could see.
She was dizzy, her eyes rolling; I didn't think she had come, but she pulled me
into a kiss nevertheless, kissing me violently, pushing me down onto the floor.
"Laura, Laura," she whimpered, "what are you doing to me?"
"Good things?" I said, ruffling her hair.
"Oh, yes," she said and squirmed.
"Would you like me to show you some more?"
"You bet." She took my hand to kiss the palm, but paused at my wrist. "What's
that?"
"The bracelet?"
"No, this!" she ran her fingertips across the welts. "What happened to it?"
"That's what I meant to tell you about," I laughed and wrapped my legs around
her, rubbing my pussy against her belly. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Anything. I owe you so much, Laura, I--" she babbled.
I put my finger to her lips. "Let's get back into the tub and I'll tell you."
I turned on the shower, then sat down in the tub and pulled her to sit in my
lap, kissing her for long moments under the warm spray of water, making her
ride my thigh. "Now, then," I purred into her mouth. "In case you were out to
seduce my father, there are a few things you must know about him. You see, he
likes to leave marks."
Her eyes flew wide, but she said nothing.
"And you're in luck," I said, slipping my hand to her pussy, stroking it
softly. "Because he likes his girls young. Blond. Voluptuous. Oh, and shaven,
just like this."
"You're joking!"
"Oh, no. It's exactly as you think," I drawled, slipping two fingers inside of
her--oh, not a virgin, that was a surprise! Nevermind; I leaned closer. "And
let me tell you," I kissed into her mouth, "my Daddy is an amazing fuck."
At that, I curled my fingers and she cried out in shock, broke the kiss and
sobbed into my shoulder. I felt awful, wonderful, a molester, pleasure-shivers
vibrating up and down my entire torso. My hand was now my cock, violating her,
thrusting into her, her little pussy so wet around it and now, oh--now she
moved her hips against it, not to escape but to fuck herself on my fingers,
whimpering, clawing at my back.
"You like that idea?" the beast in me hissed in her ear as I slipped my thumb
over her clitoris. "Are you thinking about it right now? My Daddy fucking you
as he fucked me? Holding you down by the wrists as he slides into your little
pussy? Is that going to make you come?"
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God--"
"Oh, no," I laughed, spitting water from my mouth, kissing her violently. "God
left you long ago. Who do you think it was that sent me? Hmm?"
She looked at me, her arms around my neck, her face contorted as if she was
weeping; perhaps she was. "I wished for you, prayed for you but I didn't know,
I didn't know--"
"We've found you now, haven't we? There's a good girl, there's a good girl," I
crooned and soothed her with kisses, Torsten's kisses, Torsten's words. "Now,
tell me. Is your little pussy going to come for me?" I asked, twisting a third
finger inside of her.
"Yes, I, oh--Laura, please--"
I reached deeper inside of her and found that soft, soft little spot just
behind the pubic bone, just behind the clitoris and I stilled my hand. This is
for you, Torsten, you dirty old bastard; come, now, let that sperm splash the
mirror, come. I pushed up with my thigh, curled my fingers and pressed.
"Come."
And there, there, Birgitte wailed, her pussy clenching violently, sloshing
around my fingers; her hips, her entire body shaking with the force of her
release. She shouted so beautifully, so loudly, her voice so high; it echoed
off the tiles of the bathroom, a thousand Birgittes breaking into a thousand
orgasms all at once, beautiful, lost.
She was still shaking when I pulled her off myself and washed her clean. Her
teeth were chattering as I helped her out of the tub and wrapped us both in
heavy bathrobes, towels around our heads. I had lit a fire in the scarlet room
and led her there, to more brandy, to warm blankets, to a bed so soft her
little body sank into it like a stone. There, I held her, kissed her until she
drifted off to sleep in my arms.
***
When I was sure she was fast asleep, I slipped into the mirror room. Torsten
lay there in the dark, still out of breath, his cock out of his trousers. He
had, indeed, made a mess of the mirror; his cock was still so hard I took it
into my mouth and sucked it, tasted the last drops of what I had milked out of
it with today's show. I never said a word and neither did he as I climbed on
top of him and satisfied myself with his cock. To think that I hadn't even
thought of my own orgasm as I had taken Birgitte--how completely Torsten's
spirit had possessed me! But now, the greed in my pussy awakened and I rode him
and I rode him, each of us covering the other's mouth with a hand to muffle our
cries. In secret, in silence we fucked, frenzied, wild; the only noise in the
room was the slap of our flesh. Finally, finally he threw me down upon the bed
and forced both of us to come, simultaneously, perfectly; he dug his nails into
the welts on my wrists and drank my screams into his mouth.
We lay there for a long while until I realised I had to go back to Birgitte
before she woke up. Torsten, however, would have to remain in this room: if he
so much as used the bathroom, Birgitte would notice.
"Next time, we will both take her," I promised, kissing his belly before I took
his softened cock into my mouth.
"My perfect daughter," he whispered, ecstatic as he let his piss flow into my
mouth. "My perfect, perfect little daughter."
***** Chapter 4 *****
After a week had passed, I got a serious case of cold feet. It was Birgitte's
sixteenth birthday in three days, and Torsten and I were to share her then, but
something in me recoiled from the very idea.
Everything was, technically speaking, better than before. Torsten was no longer
wildly jealous, Birgitte had been warm and sweet towards me and had been
telephoning me incessantly whenever we were not together.
And that was the problem. I'd had to work several long days in a row, and she
would telephone me even at work. I had rented an office to better run the
sprawling chaos that was Barring Industries, had hired secretaries and
accountants for us and delegated some of our business to smaller executives,
but I could never let the bastards out of my sight. I was stressed as hell by
the time I got home, and the moment I lay down on the sofa and got my feet up,
the telephone would ring again.
Birgitte was never unpleasant and would shower me with love, but I still felt
drained by having to be there for her day and night. The playboy in me had
started to fade, become distant--now, it became clear that I couldn't keep that
mentality up twenty-four hours a day, no matter how hard I tried. Now that I
had turned seductor, again I felt the little girl was starved. I found myself
growing weak, prone to tears, and hated that in myself. And all because I
didn't have enough time to relax, now, to simply sink into Torsten's arms and
have the stress whipped out of me.
Eventually, I took the receiver off the hook and collapsed onto the sofa, into
Torsten's lap, weeping from sheer exhaustion. "I can't do this," I groaned.
"You've seen what she does. She's a vampire. I want to have some time to
myself, to spend it with you, to be rid of this damned responsibility, having
to exist for others."
"Shh." He petted my hair, adopting a reasonable tone, but underneath it I could
hear he was tired, irritated, weary of my complaints. "Just a few days, now.
You won't have to play the man to her once we take her, I promise you. I'll be
there, remember?"
"But what if you will fall in love with her?" I sobbed, knowing even as I said
it that I was insulting him, being a selfish little bitch, my reason clouded by
pathetic self-pity. Still, the words kept spilling out, poisonous, my darkest,
most absurd fears falling bitter from my lips. "And then you'll leave me, and I
will have to manage all by myself--"
He yanked my head up by the hair and slapped me once, twice, so hard my ears
rang.
I deserved it. I realised this was exactly why I had been pushed into saying
such stupid things: my subconscious could not take it any longer and needed him
like this, needed him to hurt me to snap me out of it. Words would not do; only
blows would be enough. My malaise had reached such a point that I literally
needed to have it beaten out of me, needed to have it washed away by his
discipline, drowned in pain, that headiest of narcotics. I looked at him, hot
tears running down my face as he stared at me sternly, his finger in my face,
every inch the concerned father.
"Don't you ever dare say that to me again, Laura."
"Then call this whole thing off. Let's forget about her, stop answering her
calls," I babbled.
He slapped me again, then grabbed me by the chin and measured me with his eyes.
"You're the one who wanted us to seduce her. I'm not going to let you back away
now. We'll have her on Saturday and see what happens after."
"But that's just it," I hissed, a part of me still angry, still panicking. "You
don't care about how I feel; you don't care that she's eating me alive. You
just want to fuck her, don't you? You just want to have two girls at once."
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do." He shook my head by the hair, his smile cold
and wide. "I've more than deserved it for putting up with your little games.
You've played with each other's pussies long enough; now it's my turn."
"But she wants my soul, don't you understand?" I cried.
He slapped me again, now snarling in my face. "Do you think I'd ever allow her
to take something that belongs to me?"
And with that, he took my lower lip between his teeth and bit me, bit me until
I screamed. By the time he let go, I was dizzy from pain. I dangled there from
his hand and sobbed and sobbed, watched as a drop of blood fell from my lip
onto the white sofa, only to be dissolved by my tears.
"This is what you get when you fall in love," he murmured, wiping his mouth,
and I didn't know whether the look on his face was pity or spite.
"It isn't love," I murmured, swallowing my tears. "I thought it was, but it's
just a crush, a stupid crush." I couldn't breathe; my ribcage seemed to be
shrinking in on itself, crushing my heart. I had thought of it for days, now--
how in the hell could someone who made you so happy make you so miserable? Was
this what ordinary romances were like? I swallowed and sucked at my lip,
swallowing thickly. "I don't love her," I whispered, fully realising it now,
the futility of other loves in comparison to Torsten. "I've only ever loved
you, Daddy."
"Come here." He let go of my hair and pulled me into a softer kiss, sighing
into my mouth. "I hereby release you from all obligations, my child. You don't
have to pretend to be me any more."
I clung to his jacket and murmured against his shoulder. "I never pretended.
You were inside of me. You still are."
He hugged me tight against his chest and petted my hair. "Only you're the
female half of me, the woman I'd always wanted to be," he whispered with such
tenderness it made me ache. "That's what I've always loved about you. It was
stupid of me to try and force you to be anything else."
"Don't think I didn't enjoy being the man, though," I laughed, a little
hysterically. "I never truly had, not until that day in the bathroom, you
know."
He pulled back to kiss me again. "I'm glad. But promise me one thing."
"Yes?"
He cupped my face in his hands and looked into my eyes, his smile soft, warm.
"On Saturday, you will both kneel at my feet, as planned. I will make you love
it, I promise you. And we don't ever have to see her again, if that's what you
wish. If she gives you trouble, any trouble at all, I will sort it out." He
pinched my cheek paternally. "All right?"
"All right," I said and kissed his hand.
***
He worked on my malaise for hours that night, like a surgeon performing a
delicate operation to remove a diseased growth. As soon as he'd moved in, he'd
had extra hooks installed into the ceilings in every room--ostensibly for
chandeliers, but in truth, each and every hook was meant for me. Tonight, he
brought out the rope and suspended me by the wrists from the hook in the
bathroom. And by that, I knew how serious he was: when no other room would do,
I knew he had the most extreme methods in mind. Extreme, because I needed them;
extreme, because he needed an outlet for his anger; extreme, because he needed
to prove the depth of his love for me.
He brought out the Indian whip and weighed it, running its single tail through
his palm. It was his cruellest instrument, one that could flay skin off bones
and therefore required absolute precision if used upon a lover. It was no
ordinary whip, no, a ritual tool of sorts: one which he had reserved only for
days like these. It could maim me permanently, and the fear this whip inspired
was part of its power, a power that demanded absolute trust, absolute
submission to the one wielding it.
"You need this," he whispered as he lifted the whip to my lips.
"Yes," I whispered as I kissed it, kissed it in acquiescence, in humility born
of the deepest gratitude.
By the fifth stroke of the whip, my tears had dried. By the tenth, I lost all
sight and hearing; all I could see was the vast blue of his eyes, his blue
carrying me, his blue enveloping me, his blue lifting me to the vault of
heaven. At the fifteenth stroke, I fell into sweet, complete unconsciousness.
I don't know how long I spent that way, but it must have been a while. My
awakening was slow, brought on by a sense of pressure inside of me, a warm,
heavy heat as circulation returned to my limbs. As my awareness slowly
returned, I realised he had released me from the ropes and laid me down on my
side on the floor. He was kneeling behind me, his arm straining, reaching
downwards and it was then that I understood what the weight in my hips was: he
was fucking my ass with his fingers. But wait, no--he twisted his arm and in my
haze, I couldn't even feel any shock as I realised he had his entire hand
inside of me.
If my entire body had fallen slack, it would have been easy, the way a doctor
could insert his hand inside a patient under anaesthesia; my stomach reeled. I
hadn't taken his entire hand since we'd been parted, and the weight of it, the
stretch of it threatened to plunge me into unconsciousness once more. To think
that he had planned this in advance, had perhaps been planning it for weeks,
and had saved it up for a day like this, oh--I wanted to retch, wanted to
orgasm so hard I exploded; I clawed at the floor and looked up at him, groaning
weakly.
He just smiled gently and pressed a kiss to my hip. "How does that feel?"
"I love you," I slurred.
"The feeling is mutual." He pulled out his hand and kissed my asshole, kissed
it with his tongue, moaning into me in delight. "You look beautiful." He wedged
his hand and twisted it inside of me once more, so easily I could only wail as
I was stretched, filled. "So beautiful, my child. So beautiful."
Cold sweat broke out on my skin; I shivered upon the tiles. "You're pressing on
my bladder, Daddy," I said, and even through my delirium, even without looking
at him, I knew what those words did to him.
"Really?" he said, sweetly, pulling his hand back a little and fluttering his
fingers against the back of my womb. "When I press here?"
I gasped and jerked, a little drop of piss escaping my urethra at the pressure.
"Yes, there," I gasped, jerking again, helpless as he laughed and laughed.
"Are you going to give your Daddy a little present, then? A little potful of
gold?"
A cry shattered against my teeth. "Yes." Yes, I would reward my Daddy; it was
the least I could do for what he had given to me, for how well he had loved me
tonight.
"You'd better let me catch it, then," he murmured against my buttock.
Never taking his hand out of me, he helped me onto all fours, lying down
underneath my hips himself so that he could gift my pussy with a soft kiss. He
spent a long time toying with my ass, sucking the wetness off the lips of my
pussy, moaning into me in delight. "Come on," he murmured, and through my legs,
I could see that he had now taken his cock out of his trousers and was stroking
it with his other hand. "Give Daddy a little piss."
I closed my eyes and breathed, breathed as deep as I could; it took me half a
dozen inhalations and exhalations before I could force myself to squeeze out
even the smallest of trickles. He cried out in ecstasy as my piss hit his lips;
when he noticed how short the spurt was, he withdrew his hand a little to allow
me to give him more.
"Come on, there's a good girl, there's a good girl, piss, piss," he hissed,
moving his fingers in a fucking rhythm now, drumming my insides with them. It
was that hiss that did it; he made me shiver all over at his shamelessness, and
now he hooked his fingers and made me piss, piss, burst out in golden splashes
all over his face. He moaned, keened into my pussy, the forceful exhalations of
his noises making me spray even more until his forehead and hair were dripping
with it. His keen rose to a scream as he jerked underneath me: he ejaculated so
violently his sperm hit my buttocks, splashing warm all over my skin.
I buried my face in my arms and sobbed, sobbed as he kept on fucking me with
his hand, pushing me into the softest, vastest, red-and-black-and-electric
orgasm, seconds after his own. With each of his sucks on my clitoris, with each
cruel tug of his fingers at my ass I kept coming and coming, not knowing
whether I was pissing or ejaculating or both; all I could feel was wetness, a
warm sea of utter bliss. I cried out until I was hoarse, grinding my pussy into
his face, shuddering until I finally collapsed on top of him.
We lay there on the floor for long moments, in silence. I was still jerking,
still twitching all over as he slid his hand out and brought it to my mouth.
Without even looking at it to check for cleanliness, I kissed it, licked it,
licked all of my sweetness off it in utter worship. I clasped his arm against
my chest, hugging it close, letting him smear my face and my hair with his
hand. I whimpered as my ass squelched, farting out the lubricant, all the air
he'd fucked into it with his fist: he just brought his mouth to my ass and
sucked out each gust, each disgusting noise, his wet cock jerking as he
swallowed them all.
"Thank you, Daddy," I murmured, the words thick and heavy in my mouth.
Gently, in silence, he washed us both, then carried me to his own bed. There,
he held me, spooned me underneath the thick down bedcovers. My Daddy was but a
vast warmth around me, against the sweet, dull ache in my stomach, my guts. He
hugged me so tight my breathing slowed down, until I drifted off to sleep in
his arms, his hand clasped over my heartbeat.
***
It took us quite a while before we managed to lure Birgitte away from her own
birthday party. As hostess, she had to entertain everyone, even the dullest of
socialites. However, she spent so much time with me that I felt a wicked
delight in taking in all the jealous glares I got from the social climbers and
has-beens. I wore a long dress of white satin, just as she did; we'd been to
the same beauty salon and the same hairdresser that day so that by the time
we'd emerged into the restaurant arm in arm, you could have indeed mistaken us
for a pair of sisters. I had forgotten all about the stress she had been giving
me: flying high on the bubbles of champagne and a dash of cocaine, I felt
nothing but affection and lust for her, purring on her arm, watching Torsten
watch us from a few feet away.
He leaned back against the wall and measured Birgitte from head to toe, smoking
languorously. Birgitte raised her glass to him and drank; from our hints over
the past few days, she knew tonight was going to be the night he finally fucked
her. Or she fucked him, I thought: she met his gaze boldly, and as if by
accident, let a trail of champagne escape the corner of her mouth. She made no
move to mop it, and Torsten realised this was his cue: he took out his
handkerchief, and in a most modest fashion, dried Birgitte's neck and cheek.
"But, Miss Lind, any lower and you would've ruined your present!" he laughed
with a twinkle in his eye.
I'd just wrapped said present around her neck. It was a wide, blue satin ribbon
with a large bauble hanging from it, a blue and white porcelain sphere the size
of an egg, with golden, raised whorls curling all over it in delicate Rococo.
There was a bell inside the sphere that tinkled when its wearer moved--it had
been made for some Frenchwoman or another before the pretty neck she'd hung it
upon had been sliced in two by the guillotine. And now, as Birgitte laughed
with Torsten, the bell tinkled again. "I feel like a cat, now," she said, "or a
Christmas tree."
Torsten licked her with his gaze once more and purred, shifting from one foot
to another, slinking his hips outrageously. "Oh, a cat, most definitely. And a
pedigree one at that, if I may say so. Would you like to dance?"
"Why not?" she said and took his hand.
I swallowed down her champagne as well as mine as I watched them move onto the
dance floor. I'd already tired myself out dancing that night, and wanted to
save some energy for later. However, Birgitte danced as if she hadn't a care in
the world: she twirled and spun and gyrated to the pulsing, hot jazz, dancing
as black women did, rocking her hips and breasts boldly.
Torsten was content to follow her, to meet her movements now and then, to spin
her: he danced much more slowly around her, capturing her against his body and
then releasing her once more. But oh, the way he clutched her when he caught
her again, his eyes staring deep into hers, his fingers like claws, dragging up
her bare back; I shivered in lust at the sight. Is this how we look like when
he dances me? I thought. Instead of jealousy, I felt a flash of narcissistic,
masturbatory delight as I watched their bodies colliding, separating, fusing
and separating again, warming each other for fucking.
When they had finished, they were both sweaty: Torsten offered her his
handkerchief, then used it to mop sweat off his own face. I could see he was
inhaling the scent of her breasts off the handkerchief, far too unsubtle a
gesture for a public event. I sensed that if we didn't leave soon, he would
pounce everyone in the room and we would have an orgy on our hands. Or, more
likely, we'd get arrested.
"Come on," I murmured and laid my hand on Birgitte's waist. "There's more dope
at our place."
"Just a minute."
Quickly, she twittered around the room, saying goodnight to the most important
guests, making excuses about having to stay at our apartment because of the
state of her bathroom. Finally, finally she managed to escape. We were out, out
in the cold air, wrapped in our furs and hats, all of us dashing towards the
taxi Torsten had called for us. The sky was clear and the stars were bright; I
took one last look at them and couldn't remember the last time I had been this
happy. What the hell had I been worrying about? Perhaps it had been
premenstrual madness, I thought to myself as I climbed into the taxi, my
breasts and my pelvis heavy, aching. Nevermind; at least my body was at its
most orgasmic, at its most sensitive right now, perfect for tonight.
Torsten sat in the middle, Birgitte and I on either side of him; we caressed
each other shamelessly over his body while he was content to watch. We laced
our fingers together over his chest and exchanged champagne-sweet kisses but an
inch from his face; when the car jostled, his moustache scratched my cheek and
even that small touch was enough to bring a hiss out of him. I chuckled into
Birgitte's mouth and slid our joined hands lower, lower and it was just as I
had thought: he was hard, and he bit his lip so as not to make noise as I
cupped our hands over his erection. None of us said a word; the only sound in
the backseat was that of our breathing, the tinkle of Birgitte's bauble. We
continued thus for the rest of the journey, Birgitte and I clasping him,
massaging his cock, wetting each other's pussies with our kisses.
By the time we'd made it to our apartment, Birgitte's lipstick had worn off
from kissing, and I noticed the same thing had happened to me. While Torsten
went off to get the champagne, we cooled off for a while in the hallway,
reapplying our lipstick in the mirror. "I'm going to kiss all of yours off soon
anyway," she said, "but that's why it's so fun to put on, isn't it?"
"I'll make a mess of you," I hissed in her ear, smacked her ass and she could
not hold back a squeak of delight.
I took her hand and led her to the scarlet room, to the green plush sofa by the
fire. This time, we sat Birgitte between the two of us, I on her left, Torsten
on her right. I could smell her pussy, could smell mine, could see Torsten was
still hard in his trousers. Yet, he insisted on offering us cigarettes,
champagne, sweets--he was such a glutton for anticipation. He hadn't fucked me
for two days, now, and I thought how full his balls must have been again, and
which one of us would receive his sperm first, and where. My pussy? Hers? Would
he dare fuck her in the ass tonight? Or me, while Birgitte was watching? My
nipples hardened and pointed through my dress as I calculated the
possibilities.
"So, Birgitte," Torsten said through a cloud of smoke, crossing his thin thighs
and rocking his foot. "Tell us about your experiences with men." Blunt and
straight to the point, exactly what he was good at.
Birgitte blushed and brought her hand to her bauble. "There's not much to tell.
And you couldn't call them men. Just boys." As she murmured that, she looked
her age, young, fragile: she closed her knees in a sudden, chaste gesture.
I refused to allow her that and slid my hand to her thigh. "Has a man ever been
able to give you an orgasm?"
Now, she even made a noise and flushed utterly scarlet, the bauble ringing and
ringing as she squirmed in her seat.
"Be honest," Torsten said and stumped his cigarette. He scooped up some cocaine
from a silver tray and lifted it to Birgitte's nose. She inhaled it quickly,
greedily, obviously grateful for not having to answer immediately. When she
still tarried, Torsten took a few more fingerfuls and offered them to her until
she relaxed and melted into the cushions, her head lolling against the back of
the sofa.
"No," she finally drawled at him in challenge, playing with his cufflinks. "Do
you think you could give me one?"
Torsten burst into a delighted, purring laughter and moved closer to her,
lifting the hem of her dress from the floor, up, up, up to her knees, then let
his hand rest there. "But my dear Miss Lind, I would love to."
Birgitte let her head loll in my direction, a teasing twinkle in her eyes.
"Your dad is a wicked man; absolutely wicked. Do you think I should let him?"
I slid my hand beside Torsten's and pushed her dress all the way up to her
hips, loving the way she shivered under my palm. "Not only do I think you
should," I murmured against her lips and swallowed the squeak she made as I
pressed my hand to the wet silk of her panties. "I am telling you to."
She whimpered and I kissed her again; she made a mock struggle, but I could
tell she was helping me as I pulled those panties off. I could feel Torsten was
spreading her legs, spreading them; he whistled loudly as he looked between
them. "My, my."
I lifted her dress to have a look myself. "So you took my advice," I laughed as
I slid my hand to her smooth mound. "Feels so much more sensitive without the
hair, doesn't it?"
"Yes!" she yelped and tried to close her legs as I started to stroke the top of
her slit, but Torsten held her open.
"Do you want us to continue?" I asked. I rubbed her pussy more violently, now,
then slapped it, making her jerk so that her bell rang and rang and rang.
"Please," she panted, trying to grab a hold of my shoulder, devouring my mouth
with kisses. "Please, continue."
Again, Torsten laughed, grabbing her by the hips and arranging her on the sofa
so that she was lying down on it, with her head in my lap. He lifted her legs
and made to wrap them around his shoulders, but changed his mind at the last
minute. He bent Birgitte in half instead, offering me her legs: I took my cue
and hooked my arms around them, underneath her knees. Her breathing grew
shallow, rapid as I compressed the air out of her lungs this way, her plump
pussy now exposed, pushed out for Torsten to admire.
"It's such a pretty little thing you've got here," he crooned, a pitying note
to his voice. Casually, he dipped his fingers between her folds and drew a
glimmering strand of arousal from her pussy. "Whyever did you keep this from me
for so long?"
"I'm sorry," she whimpered, her hair tickling my breasts.
Theatrically, he closed his eyes and inhaled her, long, over and over,
savouring her scent like a perfumier. His eyes fluttered open only halfway as
he hissed and leaned down to taste her pussy, she crying out into my dress, he
moaning loudly into her mound. My own pussy pulsed uncontrollably as I watched
him bury his face in her, lapping at her like an animal: as his nose and cheeks
sunk into the fat, white mound, I whimpered, too, thinking I would come right
there and then. I desperately wanted to touch myself, but had to keep holding
Birgitte's legs open.
He heard my whimper and leaned in to kiss me, offering me her taste. It
astounded me--how could a girl possibly taste this sweet? Had she been daubing
herself with sugar? "She smuggles candy in her panties, too," I whispered as I
sucked his tongue, his lips, he laughing into my mouth at our private joke.
He reached in to free my breasts from my dress to better squeeze them, to pinch
my nipples. "And how is your little pussy, my child?"
"It's very, very wet, Daddy," I crooned in my little girl's voice and stole
another kiss. I let go of him and turned to Birgitte, who was now looking at me
in shock. I smiled at her, but it was Torsten I was directing my words at,
still in that soft, cooing child's voice. "I want to see you play with her
pussy, Daddy."
He squeezed himself through his trousers and hissed. "Oh, girls, girls. I will
play with you both, but you must play nice. Come, Laura. Give your friend's
pussy a little kiss while Daddy plays with it, will you? There's a good girl."
Gladly, I did as I was told. I leaned forwards and laid my mouth over her
pussy, licking it as best as I could in this position. Torsten lifted my hair
away from my face as I lapped at her, sucked her clitoris; Birgitte wailed
underneath me, pushing my dress up in turn, clawing at my thighs. "Please, oh,
God, please--"
At that, Torsten raised an eyebrow and sucked on two of his fingers, then slid
them slowly, easily inside Birgitte's pussy. She shuddered underneath me,
stuttered a series of cries; my bare pussy hovered over her head and even if I
couldn't see her face, I knew she was staring at it, tempted, struggling
against the last of her inhibitions.
Brutally, I sat down on her face, smearing her mouth with the slick sweetness
of my pussy, with the glory of lesbianism. I was angry at her having denied
herself this long, furious from my own arousal; I fucked her face, fucked it,
took it with my pussy and my ass. She ululated into my pussy as Torsten fucked
hers with his fingers; the wet, sticky noises her pussy made as he assaulted
her with his hand were enough to bring me to the brink. But now it was she who
came: she convulsed and wailed and I lifted my pussy to give her air, to let
her shout her release out, scream it out, her cries broken into pieces by the
slick-slick-slick of Torsten's hand still fucking her fast, merciless, all
through her orgasm.
Torsten yanked his fingers out with a slurping noise and Birgitte groaned,
heaved underneath me. Equally merciless, I sat on her face with all my weight,
violating her mouth with my pussy. "Suck it," I panted, desperate for orgasm,
"suck, suck it, suck it--"
It was then that Torsten reached over me and pushed his wet fingers into my
ass. I screamed, my face pressed into Birgitte's mound, my ear, my hair wet
from her pussy, coming and coming as he hooked his fingers inside of me.
I jerked so hard I lost my balance and slid off the sofa, still quivering in
aftershocks as I collapsed onto the rug in a heap.
"Are you all right?" Birgitte laughed and joined me on the rug.
"Yes, I'm all right," I laughed back, blowing strands of hair from my face.
Torsten stood above us, still immaculate in his tuxedo and black tie, sucking
both our tastes off his fingers, his eyes glittering in the firelight.
"Enjoying yourselves, ladies?"
"Oh, he is wonderful," Birgitte crooned and laid her head in my lap. "Does he
do anything more?"
"You talk as if he was a lapdog." I played with her hair, tugging it a little
until she winced.
Torsten tutted, pulled up his trouser legs and squatted in front of us. "I can
do much more than that, but in my own time."
"You aren't even undressed yet!" Birgitte exclaimed, the very picture of the
spoiled brat.
He raised an eyebrow at that, got up and lit a cigarette. "You two aren't
undressed either," he said. "Perhaps if you did something about that, I might
even join you." He sat down on the sofa and leaned forwards, his hands between
his knees. "I'm waiting."
Birgitte and I took one look at each other and attacked each other's clothes.
Soon, we were yelping, tussling, tickling each other, wrinkling the rug,
stealing kisses as we pulled our dresses off each other. Then our stockings,
garters; she made to remove her bauble as well, but Torsten shook his head and
clicked his tongue. "Leave it on."
I knew he would say that; the moment we had picked the gift we had thought of
her wearing it during sex. It tinkled beautifully as she took her hands from
her neck; spontaneously, she went to him and knelt in front of him. Such an
instinctive gesture of submission; oh, she was learning fast. I followed suit,
both of us kneeling at his feet just like he'd wanted us to.
"Like two little odalisques," he murmured as he stumped his cigarette, gifting
each of us with a tobacco-blue kiss. His eyes were fond, adoring as he took in
the sight of us by the firelight, caressing our breasts, our hips, our bellies.
I could see we were both covered in goosebumps: the entire room smelled of our
pussies, now, heavy and sweet. Again, he kissed both of us, slow, long, then
hooked two fingers under each of our collars. His eyes flashed cold and with a
sudden hiss, he yanked us towards himself so that we stumbled, choked.
"I can do anything I like to you two, can't I?" he said slowly, looking at me,
then Birgitte, then me again.
I nodded, unhesitant as a great weight slid off my chest. I no longer had to be
active; he had finally taken charge. Adoring, I melted under his gaze. "Yes,
Daddy."
Birgitte, however, cast her eyes down. She was distraught, her eyes filled with
tears of shock. She was shaking all over, her breathing so uneven she could not
form words. Torsten pulled her closer and kissed her again, unhurried, with
such skill that soon she was whimpering into his mouth. When he pulled back,
Birgitte's eyes were glazed, looking within. I knew that look, that exact look
because I had lived that moment: the little girl who was sick and tired of
being nice, damnation blazing in her eyes as she told herself to reject her
shame, reject her upbringing, reject all that was good and moral and plunge
herself into the glorious sins on offer.
He looked at her and waited, waited. "I would like it very much if you answered
me, Birgitte."
"Yes," she choked, her lashes falling to her cheeks, tears quivering upon them,
then sliding down, down her cheeks. But when she looked up, there was a new
glow in her eyes; with those tears, she had now shed her shame. "Yes," she
whispered again. "Master."
At that, something in me cracked, split open and turned me molten on the
inside. Tears flowed down my face, too, in sympathy, in full understanding, in
full sisterhood. And Torsten, oh, Torsten, how perfect he was as he now smiled
at her, truly worthy of that title, like no other man could ever be. Softly,
gently, he spread his tongue wide and licked the tears off Birgitte's face, a
final consumption of her chastity, a deflowering, a ceremonial acceptance of
the new soul into the Devil's fold.
By now, both of us were shaking and he drew us close, so that our heads rested
upon his thighs. There, he caressed our hair, wiped our tears, kissed us over
and over. "There, there, my girls, there, there." Between kisses and caresses,
he offered us more champagne, cocaine, marmelade sweets until we finally calmed
down and leaned on him, curled up against his legs.
"Never let it be said I don't take good care of my pets," he said and caressed
our hair once more. He turned his caresses longer, more lascivious, guiding our
hands to his groin. "I've got another treat for you girls right here, but you
must share it equally. One half for each. Do you understand?"
We nodded. I was the one to undo his trousers; I knew how to tuck in the folds
of his fly so that his balls rested comfortably upon them, lifted up by the
fabric in the way I knew he liked. He caressed my cheek tenderly for this
gesture, then guided both of us to kiss his cock. I could tell Birgitte had
never done this before; she kissed his cock so hesitantly, surprised at the way
it felt against her lips, then bolder as she seemed to enjoy his scent, his
taste, the softness of his skin. Soon, she was moaning in delight, I laughing
at her moans. When Birgitte finally dipped her tongue into his slit to taste
the fluid gathered there, Torsten gasped and his head fell back; he was panting
at the ceiling, entranced by the pleasure we were now giving him.
I purred and joined Birgitte in kissing, sucking the head of his cock; gently,
I stroked the root, the balls, coaxing out more pre-ejaculate. He always tasted
so heavenly, now even sweeter thanks to the saccharine, and I wanted to make
sure Birgitte wouldn't forget his taste too soon. Even more, I wished he were
naked so I could kiss him between the buttocks, lick his asshole--the very
thought of it made me claw at his trousers, eager to undress him so I could do
exactly that. Birgitte joined me and he didn't resist, just groaned in lazy
satisfaction as we pulled his clothes off him and joined him on the sofa.
Again, he hissed and tugged us by our collars. He laid down on his side and
guided Birgitte's mouth to his cock and my mouth to his ass. Birgitte didn't
obey him immediately; instead, her eyes widened as she saw me spread Torsten's
buttocks and lick his asshole, the way I relished the task. Torsten shook as he
held his ass open for me; he buried his face into his arm and let out a series
of whimpers, pushing keenly against my tongue. Birgitte's bauble tinkled again
as he pulled her closer, his voice tremulous from pleasure even as he guided
his cock to her mouth. "Suck it. As wet as you can, as deep as you can. And
watch your teeth."
"Yes, Master," she whispered and I felt that whisper echo all through Torsten's
body, felt him clench and shiver again at the title. I loved the taste of sweat
in the hollows of his thighs, on his ass, slick between his buttocks now that
he'd shaved himself in preparation for tonight. He hadn't played with himself
for a while and the bud of his anus was a little smoother than usual; I
hungered for the old pussy and dared spread him with my hands so that I could
feel the little folds purse around the tip of my tongue. He moaned once more
and there, there, he opened for me: his little pussy sucked upon my tongue and
in turn, I fucked it as deep as I could. I paused only to roll and smack my
tongue against my palate, to swirl the deep, rich taste of his ass in my mouth,
savouring it like the finest of wines.
By now, he was swearing, groaning loudly; Birgitte's bauble rang constantly,
now, with her gags and her coughs. I glanced at her from between Torsten's legs
and saw that her makeup had run completely and that she was drooling, strings
of saliva hanging off her chin; she was beautiful, so beautiful my pussy
clenched in sadistic delight. Her first time sucking a man and already she was
giving him what he loved most: the little girl debauched, destroyed, savaged by
his cock. I pulled back for breath and had to slip my hand to my pussy, moaning
myself.
Torsten, however, noticed this: groaning, he pulled his cock out of Birgitte's
mouth with a wet smack, then took both of us by the hair. "No playing with
yourselves unless I tell you to." He was heaving, his wet cock slapping against
his stomach, strings of Birgitte's spit dangling off it. "I think it's high
time we retreated to the mirror room. I want you to see yourselves," he said,
shaking us both by the hair until we whimpered, "see what a pair of little
sluts you really are."
And at that, he threw us down onto the floor. When I tried to get up, he put
his foot on my chest and pinned me down, pressing until I choked. My heart
pounded against his foot as he leaned down, down, putting more and more of his
weight upon me; I thought he would break my sternum any moment and I panicked.
Yet, he only leaned down to pick up one of Birgitte's stockings, one of mine.
He gestured to Birgitte. "Come here."
Deftly, he tied the end of each stocking around our collars, each of us now on
a makeshift leash. He laughed and shook his head at his own ingenuity, at what
we must have looked like: two ruined girls with their faces wet, their pussies
wet, staring up at him in bafflement.
He grinned and yanked on the stockings so that we fell onto our hands and
knees. "Come on, then."
With carpet-burned knees, we made it through the hallway and finally ascended
to the bed. I observed Birgitte closely as she took in her surroundings: she
flushed all over as she saw herself, us, the entire scene with her own eyes.
The decadence of the sight was enough to make my pussy pulse once more: a man
regal, tall, erect, with two naked beauties at his feet. The tyrant and his
slaves, so many of us in the mirrors that for a brief while, they created the
illusion of a sultan and his harem, a sea of flesh stretching into infinity.
It was then that he started to slap that flesh, slap our thighs, our buttocks,
our breasts, sending us tossing and howling upon the sheets. He looped the
stockings around his left wrist so that we couldn't run away and kept slapping
us until our flesh jiggled in the mirrors, until he had turned us pink and red
all over. Finally, once we were all breathless, he guided us to bend over in
front of the mirror, just as he had done to me on the day of his arrival. Two
wide, round asses mottled with red handprints, two plump pussies, two pink
little assholes side by side, presented to him in offering.
"That's better," he purred, letting go of the stockings for a brief moment.
"Look at what a pretty pair you make, look," he said as he leaned over us,
spreading a buttock with each hand, kissing the small of my back. Both of us
were panting; Birgitte even covered her face with her hands, but eventually
forced herself to look.
"Six little holes for me to fuck tonight," he crooned, spreading our pussies
with his hands, "and to think I've barely even started." He started to rub our
pussies until we were both shaking; I bit my lip out of spite, so as not to
show him how much I was enjoying it, and partially to let Birgitte's moans flow
into his ears uninterrupted, just as our twin saps were now flowing down his
fingers. Torsten slapped her ass, slapped her pussy; once her cries were loud
enough, he returned his fingertips to her clitoris. "I think we should let the
birthday girl have my cock in her pussy first. What do you think, Laura?"
"Absolutely, Daddy," I said and sat down, helping Torsten arrange Birgitte down
on the bed. Again, I laid her head in my lap, this time far more comfortable
than we'd been on the sofa. Tenderly, I brushed hair away from Birgitte's face
and kissed her. "You'll love it," I whispered, in the manner of a little girl
sharing a secret with another. And louder, so that Torsten could definitely
hear me: "Daddy's cock feels ever so good when he fucks my pussy." I reached
for her clitoris and rubbed it until she started to squirm, and kept on kissing
her. "You do want his cock in your pussy, don't you?"
"Yes," Birgitte gasped, out of breath as she broke the kiss, her body straining
underneath my fingertips. She lifted her gaze to Torsten, who was now kneeling
between her legs, stroking his cock and smirking at me in adoration. "Please."
"Mm-hmm?" he murmured, giving her pussy a long lick, another. "What's that you
say?"
"Please, Master. Please put your cock in my pussy."
"This cock, right here?" he said, his playful fatherly voice so perfect it made
shivers run up and down my spine. He rubbed the head of his cock between the
lips of her pussy and pretended to be shocked. "But it's so tiny, Birgitte. A
grown man's cock in a little girl's pussy, like that? When you haven't even got
hair down there yet?"
At that, Birgitte moaned so loudly she threw her head back, shaking so much I
took her to be close to orgasm just from his words--and no wonder. I squeezed
her breasts, kneaded them, pinched them. "Answer him."
"Please," she wailed. "Please, Master. Please fuck my pussy."
He tutted and slapped her pussy with his cock. "But I'm going to split you in
half."
By now, Birgitte was delirious, staring up at him, lifting her legs and
spreading them wide. "Then split me," she whimpered, shaking so much her bauble
was ringing with her every breath. "Please."
"Well, then," he said, again in that pitying croon of his, "since you ask so
nicely."
He started to push inside and Birgitte's bauble stopped tinkling. She stilled
completely, her chest unmoving underneath my hands, her eyes fluttering shut.
Torsten didn't tell her to relax, didn't tell her to breathe, no; he was
relishing the violence of the sight, her very stiffness, the illusion of taking
her by force. Perhaps she hurt; it was likely, considering how big he was, and
it was clear that this pain, real or imagined was what now made Torsten groan
deep in his chest as he dipped his cock in and out of her, in and out of her.
Mesmerised, I watched as he split the fat peach of Birgitte's pussy, such a
dark, angry red hardness sinking inside such a delicate, pale and pink
softness.
I shuddered, imagining myself in her place: the moment, the trance of it so
perfect it was as if his cock had been sinking deep inside of my pussy, too.
And there--oh, yes, that moment arrived--the moment the head of his cock hit
her womb, when his cock was only halfway in, her pussy not stretched enough yet
to accommodate its full length. That flash of pain, definitely real now,
Birgitte's eyes snapping open wide. It was now I who moaned, moaned where
Birgitte couldn't, pleaded for gentleness when she was too overwhelmed to do
so. Yet I did not use words; I only leaned towards him and kissed him, stroked
his hair, his shoulders, slowed him down with my caresses.
He moaned into my mouth and kissed me back, caressed me back; he shook as he
gathered my hair into his hands and sucked upon my tongue, still rocking into
Birgitte. In this moment of pure corruption, of our sharing this girl, I felt
his love so deeply I felt a subtle orgasm expanding, radiating through me, an
orgasm spiritual rather than physical. He pulled back and looked at me, his
eyes suddenly so vulnerable: he shivered and moaned, glanced down at his cock,
then back at me. He tried to say something, but couldn't; he just kept on
moving inside Birgitte, and I could feel her relaxing underneath us, now. I
clasped the back of Torsten's head and gave him one more deep kiss, loving him
with my mouth until he, too, relaxed and melted once more.
I turned my focus back to Birgitte; I leaned down and stroked her pussy again,
then kissed her.
"Better?" I asked, spreading moisture onto her clitoris.
"Yes," she smiled and nodded, groaning in delight, then turned towards Torsten.
"It feels wonderful."
"Does it, now?" he grinned and leaned down to kiss her in turn, nipping at her
lips. "Why is that?"
She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer, mock-whispering, her own
voice now very girlish after she'd seen how it stirred him. "It's ever so big,
Master," she said, offering her mouth for more of his bites, rocking her hips
back onto his thrusts.
"And you like a big cock in your little pussy, do you?" he asked, combing his
fingers through her hair, devouring her mouth as he speeded up his thrusts,
rolling his hips in a way that made her wail underneath him. "You like it when
I do that? When I'm really deep inside of you? Hmm?"
"Yes, Master! Please, oh, please--" she buried her face in his shoulder and
sobbed. "Please, don't stop."
With a growl, he reared back, forcing himself to stop kissing her so that he
could take her legs and lift them over his shoulders. "You want me to keep
fucking you? Like this?"
"Yes!" she cried, and as I attacked her breasts again, she screamed it even
louder. "Yes!"
"Rub your little pussy. Look me in the eye. Look me in the eye as you come on
my cock."
Her only answer was a mewl; he bent her double and stared at her, clasping her
face. His face was contorted from effort, red from heat; he was snorting,
huffing so that spit beaded upon his lips, his moustache. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle
went Birgitte's necklace, slick-slick-slick her pussy as she stroked it, a
piercing shriek rising from her throat even as she bit her lip. It was a scream
of terror and orgasm all at once, Torsten slamming into her with slow, long
thrusts so brutal they sank her into the bed. And all throughout, he kept
staring into her eyes and she stared back, convulsing so violently it was as if
she were having a fit of some kind. Her noises became scattered, bubbling out
of her mouth, bursting out of her mouth in torrents every time he slammed his
full weight into her. Her teeth chattered as she let go, her legs shaking as
they fell open around his arms, and finally, she fell completely slack in my
lap, her eyes rolling back in her head.
With a grunt, Torsten kept on fucking her, she as limp as a rag doll in our
arms, and for a while I was sure she had lost consciousness. Her eyes remained
flipped, her head lolling off my thigh, the little bell ringing, ringing,
ringing with each one of Torsten's thrusts. This is how he'd fuck a corpse, I
thought, delirious; this is how he'd fuck a woman he'd just murdered. When
ordinary perversions would no longer be enough, is this what he would do to me,
murder me for the simple pleasure of fucking my dead body? Because that's what
I now saw in Birgitte and I reeled, imagining myself a corpse in his hands,
cold and dead as he shot his seed inside of my body. And in my madness, the
champagne and the cocaine and the sex singing in my blood, I thought a happy
death, a death to be wished for, the happiest of all possible deaths.
Yet Birgitte groaned, opening her eyes, looking up at me and then him, drunk
from delight. "Come inside of me," she whispered, "I want to feel you come
inside of me."
I'd told her about Torsten's sterility, and that had excited her; that, and the
idea of his sadism had been powerful aphrodisiacs to her. And look at her now,
squirming happily, lusty once more: she wrapped her arms around his neck and
kissed him, pulling him towards herself with her legs again, crooning sweetly
in his ear.
"Please, Master. Please fill my pussy with your come."
He keened, trembling on top of her, his hips snapping, all of him coiled so
tight he must have been in pain. I helped him; I reached over him and dragged
my nails up his back, again, again, clawed at him and pinched him until he was
howling, jerking, gone. Sobbing, he thrust inside of Birgitte and stayed there,
hugging her against himself, every muscle in his body twitching underneath my
hands. Finally, he fell limp, crushing her underneath himself; faintly, I could
hear Birgitte sighing happily.
"Come here," he slurred, gesturing for me to join them, drawing me close so
that he was lying half on top of Birgitte, half on top of me, stretching
happily upon his bed of girl-flesh. He groaned and put his arms around both our
necks, kissing our cheeks; with one last sigh, he lay still.
I was still a little restless; after a while, he noticed this and told me to
fetch the champagne and cigarettes. I didn't presume to drink or smoke without
his permission, not in this mood we were still in. I just offered him his
cigarette, lit it and poured him a glass.
He leaned back against the cushions, Birgitte's head in his lap, I kneeling
beside him. "Good girl," he purred and offered me a sip from his glass, then a
drag from his cigarette. When Birgitte made a small noise, he offered these to
her, too, little rewards for good behaviour.
"Let Daddy catch his breath for a while," he murmured into my mouth with a
kiss. "Play with each other in the meantime. I think Laura is feeling a little
neglected."
Gladly, I sunk into Birgitte's arms and let her kiss me. I was heated, but it
was a slow heat, now, not pierced by a desperate hurry to come. I was content
to lie down and be explored by her, aroused by her curiosity and her innocence
even more than by the caresses themselves. They were nowhere near as clumsy as
Anita's, however. Birgitte had a natural gift for sensuality, for indulgence;
her lovemaking was creative as much as it was passionate. She kissed me
playfully all over, teased me, sought to bring out reactions from me with the
strokes and pinches of her hands, and I loved it. Like a dirty old man herself,
she attacked my breasts, squeezed them, sucked them, bit them until I was
squirming, laughing, kicking underneath her.
Torsten shook his head and lit another cigarette. "Such little devils, you
two," he purred.
Encouraged by Torsten's praise, glowing with it, Birgitte lifted my legs and
buried her face in my pussy. I yelped, unable to stop laughing, feeling light
and utterly giddy at her playfulness. I'd never laughed during sex so much, I
realised; it wasn't that Torsten was never playful, but our lovemaking was
always of a much darker flavour. I felt strange, dizzy; I had told Torsten I
didn't love Birgitte, but I found that the laughter that now made my breasts
heave was opening something in me. And that Birgitte was a flood of lightness,
sweetness entering into me, saturating me with colours, lights, flavours. What
a strange thing to feel, strange; I suffocated on it, yet let myself give into
it, to Birgitte's utter loveliness.
She stopped, then looked up at me. She made to ask me something, but turned to
Torsten instead--I marvelled at how well she had taken to her subordinate role,
realising even playfulness was no excuse to do something without her master's
permission. She lifted two fingers to my pussy. "May I?" she asked him.
He stumped his cigarette and knelt beside us. "Go on. Let me see."
At first, her fingers felt uncomfortable, but Torsten guided her, showing her
how to dip them inside of me, showing her how to relax them, soft and gentle at
first. I shivered all over not from the penetration, but from the look in
Torsten's eyes: he was using Birgitte as a toy on me, watching every sensation
that flickered over my face. "Deeper," he would croon at her, "there, a little
faster; now curl them a little," he would say, never taking his eyes off mine
as he taught her. By now, I was so wet I trickled onto her fingers: he spread
my pussy, dribbled spit over my clitoris and I moaned. "There, there," he just
purred, then started to rub my clitoris with his thumb. "The left side is where
she's more sensitive. Let's see if we can make her come. Give her three."
Birgitte did, and I choked, shook underneath their hands; the spot she had
found inside of me was so sensitive each and every one of her caresses hurt,
now. I couldn't breathe; my head thrashed upon the sheets, my hair glued to my
face; yet I couldn't come. "Please," I begged. "Please, please--"
"Come for her," Torsten said, a teacher disciplining a child for poor
performance. He tapped my cheek with his hand, still rubbing my clitoris with
the other. "Come."
I breathed deep, the way I always did to push myself towards orgasm. The waves
were there, but distant, mild, never reaching past that point where they would
cascade into full release. "I can't, I can't--"
"Yes, you can," he said and slapped my cheek, hard. "Come."
I reared back from the impact, jerking with Birgitte's fingers inside of me,
but it was her expression at him hitting me that made those waves rise higher,
higher. The shock on her face, the fear, the disgust and the arousal, the
unmistakable arousal--oh, Birgitte, you are me--a sob broke in the back of my
throat.
Yet again, he slapped me. "Do you hear me? Come." And even as I started to
come, he never stopped slapping me: with each one of my convulsions, he smacked
me, sending half a dozen more shockwaves crashing through me. The pleasure-pain
of it was exquisite, exquisite; he made Birgitte fuck me hard and fast until I
was screaming, impaling myself on her hand. I was so wet I might have
ejaculated, but I didn't care; he leaned down to swallow my screams in the way
he so liked, his hand rubbing my clitoris so hard he was hurting me and he knew
it.
"Thank you, Daddy; thank you, thank you," I whimpered into his mouth, still
jerking as he kept on rubbing.
"You should be thanking her," he said, pulling Birgitte up so that we could
kiss. I shivered as I felt how wet her face was; I kissed and licked her clean,
murmuring apologies.
"Don't apologise," she said, kissing me softly. "You taste delicious," she
said, enamoured, shaking her head and smiling at me.
"Both of you do," he murmured, kissing each of us, more fierce, now. "Get up,
both of you. I want to try something."
I laughed again as I realised what he was attempting: he moved us so that I was
on all fours and Birgitte was positioned the same way, stacked on top of me. It
was outrageous, outrageous of him, but once he started to fuck us both,
plunging his cock from one pussy into another, my laughter died and turned into
a moan instead. Even as he was fucking Birgitte, she whimpering on top of me,
her pussy dripping over my ass--or perhaps exactly because of that--I was
stirred into even greater arousal than before. As he pulled his cock out of
Birgitte with a slurp and slid it inside of my pussy in turn, I wailed at the
reflection I saw in the mirror. Two kneeling girls, two pussies, taken by a man
furious, using both of us as nothing but flesh, nothing but holes to satisfy
his cock. We existed only as toys, as pieces of meat for him to fuck as he
roared and grunted and snorted on top of us, his balls shining as they slapped
against our wet pussies. I loved it, drunk on the sounds of him, myself,
Birgitte. I was swimming in the rut of it, at being reduced to but a red, hot,
shining point of sex and nothing more.
Torsten fucked us faster and faster, so erratic he must have been close to
orgasm. He keened on top of us, wrapping his long arms around both of us,
crushing us together. With a high-pitched noise, he pulled back and pushed
inside of me again, then did something that had Birgitte stiffening in shock.
"Oh, you thought I wouldn't take this little hole, did you?" Torsten snarled at
her. "Open up, open up, open up--"
Yet, as soon as he had said the words, he stopped thrusting and stilled
completely. He let out a terrible noise of disgust, pulled out of me and shoved
Birgitte down on the bed, snarling at her. "You little bitch."
As I turned to look at him, he was furious, his hair fallen to his cheeks, his
eyes frozen with anger. He was holding his hand out from his body, and two of
its fingers were gleaming brown.
Oh, God. Birgitte covered her face and burst into tears; I cowered. With his
clean hand, Torsten grabbed Birgitte by the hair and shook her.
"Don't you ever dare do this to me again. Ever, do you hear me?" He held his
dirty fingers inches from her face, Birgitte wincing, trying to turn her face
away in disgust. "I should make you lick these clean, to teach you a lesson. Or
is that what you wanted me to do, coming to me dirty like that? Hmm? Should I
just push these into your mouth right now?"
Birgitte closed her eyes and sobbed, jerking back as far away from him as she
could. "No, please; I'm so sorry, Master. I'm so sorry, so sorry, I--"
"You little pig." He stared at her for a while, and I wondered whether he would
really do it. I already saw it, saw the shit-covered fingers sinking past
Birgitte's lips, and to my horror, I no longer knew whether the shiver that
went through me was that of disgust or lust. My pussy pulsed, my stomach
reeled; he brought his fingers closer to her, closer, his own cock leaking out
a drop of arousal. Birgitte made a retching noise, another, dangling off
Torsten's fist.
It was then that he relented and let her collapse onto the bed. "Laura, fetch
the tissues. Then hold her still."
My hands shaking, I gave him the tissues and went to comfort Birgitte. I
brushed her hair from her face and hushed her, but did not say a word. Torsten
spent a long time spitting on his fingers, even poured the remains of the
champagne on his hand and used up half a dozen tissues to clean himself up, to
make sure he was spotless. Yet, his cock stayed hard throughout; he observed
the transfer of the shit into the tissues with a perverse slowness, and I knew
him well enough to see he was struggling with himself. If that shit had been
mine, would he have tasted it? Made me taste it? Was it only the presence of an
outsider that prevented him from taking that last step into his ultimate
fetish, the threat of which was his greatest aphrodisiac? I was sure that's
what was going on in his mind even as he tossed the last of the tissues aside.
"Now," he said to Birgitte, his eyes still furious, his voice low and menacing.
"What am I going to do with you?"
Birgitte twisted in my arms and kicked the sheets with her ankles as Torsten
approached, leaning over her, full of coiled violence. She cowered, truly
frightened out of her wits. "Please, Master. I'm sorry; I'm so sorry. I can go
and wash, I--"
"No." He put his hands to her neck and caressed it, pressing his thumbs into
the hollow of her throat. Birgitte went still and swallowed; Torsten tilted his
head in a way that made him seem more lizard than human, too swift, his eyes
unnaturally wide. "You'll take your punishment like a good slave should," he
said, his voice soft, smooth, cold. He massaged her throat, suffocating her
whimpers, his long fingers curling all the way around her neck easily; for a
moment, I feared that he would snap it.
But it was the ribbon around her neck that his fingers now strayed to.
Carefully, he undid the bow at the back, then weighed the bauble in his hand,
considering us both.
"Laura. Turn her around, yes, face down on the bed, just like that." He untied
the stocking from around her bauble and tossed the stocking to me. "Bind her
wrists with this, then hold her down."
I bound her hands behind her back and lifted her face into my lap. I dared
caress her hair, but didn't say a word, in case Torsten disapproved of my
showing too much empathy. That, and because his cruelty, the firmness of his
discipline aroused me; I was more jealous of Birgitte than anything else as he
knelt down beside her. He dangled the bauble beside her ear and rang the bell
inside it. "Guess where this is going, my dear?" he leered.
"No!" Birgitte screamed.
"Yes," Torsten purred and spat in her ear. "Laura, hold her still."
I grabbed her face and smiled at her coldly, at his spit trickling down her
temple, my pussy tightening at the very idea of her punishment. "Oh, yes," I
said, nodding at her. "You can take it, can't you? It's the least you could
do."
"Please--" she kicked again, squirmed.
I grabbed her hair and yanked her head up by it. "Didn't you hear what he said?
He needs you to stay still."
She screamed even as Torsten spat on her ass, screamed as he started to ease
the bauble inside. He just laughed, cooing at her, mocking her. "Oh, it hurts,
does it?"
"Please, stop, please--"
"Oh, no, no, no; this is what you get for teasing me with a hole like this.
It's so pretty, too." He spread her buttocks and dipped the bauble in and out,
in and out, stretching her asshole with it, and my pussy pulsed again as I
imagined how painful the Rococo whorls must have felt against the tender
surfaces of her sphincter. A virgin ass, and this was the first thing it would
take inside of itself: Torsten chuckled as she screamed, as her ass swallowed
the entire bauble. Only two pretty lengths of ribbon were peeking out of her
ass, now. "There you are." He pushed on the muscles of her ass to make sure the
sphere had slid inside completely. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
She was panting fast, now, hysterical from pain. "No," she whimpered. "It
hurts. Please, take it out."
"Oh-ho-ho," he laughed. "Those are the words I want to hear when I take this
little hole with my cock, my child. You don't even know what pain means yet."
And with that, he smacked her ass, smacked it until the bauble rang inside of
her, until she was howling into my lap, sobbing uncontrollably.
"There, now; that's closer to pain as I see it," he said sweetly. "But I think
you need a little more. Help me, Laura."
I was glad to do so. Together, we smacked her ass, making her twist and turn so
that the bauble rang again, all of her tinkling. We laughed as we made music
with her this way, with her yelps, screams, the little bell making the sweetest
of sounds with each and every one of our strokes. After a while, her screams
died down and she merely lay there, panting, staring at me with empty eyes.
"Have you had enough?" Torsten said, smacking her again. Her ass jiggled, but
she didn't move, just kept staring.
"I think she has," I said gently, stroking her cheek. "You have learned your
lesson now, haven't you, princess?"
"Yes," she whispered, quiet, entranced.
I couldn't not kiss her. She was exactly as I had been whenever Torsten had
tortured me. She'd gone past her horror into a state that was beyond it; into
the quiet realm where pain and pleasure commingled, where the physical and
mental shock of what he had given her had stunned her into ecstatic silence.
"Good girl," I whispered upon her lips; "Good girl," Torsten murmured as he
kissed her as well.
Presently, he brought one of his hands between her buttocks and slipped the
other one to her pussy. He pushed at her anus, massaging the bauble through it
until Birgitte let out a soft whimper.
"But, my dear Birgitte!" he exclaimed, then leaned over her, his mouth
glistening against her ear. "Why is your pussy so wet? Hmm? This was supposed
to be a punishment." He lifted his hand out to show me. "Look at that. All
dripping wet. Is it because you like me hurting your ass? Is that it?"
"No!"
He smacked her ass with his wet hand and laughed. "Liar. I think you are just
like my Laura and love nothing more than having things put inside your ass. In
fact, I think we should show you what it's like. What you're missing out on."
He sucked his fingers clean and turned to me. "Shall we?"
I kissed him. "I'd love to, Daddy."
He took the bottle of glycerine from the bedside table and handed it to me.
"You'll have to show her."
Purring underneath his gaze, I took the glycerine and moved so that I was lying
down on my side, just like Birgitte was now, so that my ass was inches from her
face. My pussy was now so hot and wet it hurt for me not to touch it, so I
rubbed it a little as I slowly eased two slicked fingers inside my ass. I
moaned as they slid inside of me, so easily; Torsten spread my buttocks to get
a good look himself.
"That's how my little daughter keeps her ass ready for her Daddy," he murmured
at both of us, kissing my knuckles. "All nice and clean and wet," he said,
leaning in to lap at my pussy.
I whimpered as he did so, my thighs shaking around his head. "I'm ready," I
said, not caring if I sounded impatient. I'd wanted him to fuck my ass all
night; even as I now slid three fingers inside of myself and tugged, they
didn't feel big enough. "Please, Daddy," I said, lowering my voice to a little
girl's pitch once more. "Please fuck me in the ass. Please."
"Mm-hmm?" he murmured as he kissed my shoulder, moving into a spooning position
behind me, resting Birgitte's head on my thigh so that she could see
everything, everything. "Daddy's little girl wants a big dick in her ass?"
"Yes," I breathed, taking my hand out, using it to spread my buttocks instead.
"Please, Daddy," I whimpered, pushing my ass against the head of his cock,
kissing it with my anus over and over. "Please fuck me in the ass."
"Doesn't she ask nicely?" Torsten said to Birgitte and kissed my neck. "Good
little Laura," he murmured as he started to push inside. "Good little girl.
That's it, that's it," he cried into my hair as I pushed back onto him,
swallowing him with my ass. "That's how a good little girl takes her Daddy's
cock inside her ass, oh, oh, that's it--"
Finally, finally he was inside of me. It'd only been two days, yet I'd missed
his cock so much: the wonderful stretch of it, the length of it, the heat of
it. No matter how many times I'd taken it, it always felt enormous, like it
could split me in half. The push of it felt like it would never end, each of
his thrusts such a violent blow on my internal organs so that sometimes I
feared I would throw up, that there simply wasn't enough room inside my body
for a cock like his. Its width and the heat of the glycerine hurt the muscles
of my anus with every stroke but I loved that heat, loved that burn: every
single time he sodomised me it felt like losing my virginity all over again.
I tried to clasp him, but he started thrusting faster, making my wet hands
slide off his skin; I buried my face into the sheets and couldn't do anything
except lie there, ululating, pushed back and forth with his thrusts. He truly
wanted to give Birgitte a show, fucking me hard and fast, showing the innocent
how a father fucked his daughter, drowning her in the experience of true
incest. No Electra complex, this; simply the reality of my father's fat cock
churning in my guts, making my pussy wet his balls, each blow sending white
pulses of ecstasy up my spine.
"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," I cried, delirious, panting, so close to coming, so
soon.
"Do you like that?" he purred, sliding his hand to my pussy. "Is Daddy giving
your ass a good fuck? Hmm?"
"It's perfect, oh, it's beautiful, oh, fuck, don't stop--"
"See how much she loves it?" he said to Birgitte and slid out nearly
completely, displaying her his cock. "Look how clean it is, look. No shit like
in your dirty little hole, just glycerine and anal mucus; sweet and delicious.
And do you know what she likes to do with Daddy's cock when it's been in her
ass?"
I screamed, but he clamped his hand over my mouth. I'd told Birgitte so much,
had told her nearly everything, everything except the ass-tasting and the piss,
for fear of her running away. If she'd known about those things, would she have
followed us home tonight? Yet the very fear of it, the horror of it made my
pussy pulse underneath his hand over and over, orgasmic tremors rippling
through me as I thought of performing our rites in front of her.
"What is it?" Birgitte asked, having no choice.
He took his other hand off my mouth and crooned in my ear. "She loves to watch
as I take my cock out of her ass," he said, turning his strokes long, rolling
his hips until I moaned underneath him, so coiled and tense now that any stroke
could plunge me into full orgasm. "And she opens her little mouth--open it,
Laura, that's it, hold it open for me--" he said and climbed to kneel beside my
head, presenting his glistening wet cock to my mouth. "And then she sucks it
all clean."
I lifted up to my elbows, not even looking at Birgitte: all I could see was the
blue of his eyes, the light shining off his cock, its wetness. He stroked my
temple, brushing my hair aside. "Don't you, my child?"
I slid my hands to my pussy and rubbed, rubbed, taking a deep breath,
deliberately pushing myself to the edge. "Yes, Daddy."
He nodded, his smile sharp and bright. "You have my permission."
I crashed into orgasm as I swallowed him, the twin sweetnesses of glycerine and
saccharine dissolving upon my tongue. I thrust my fingers inside of myself and
choked my scream on his cock, another scream, third as I came and came, riding
my hands, sucking my taste off him as if it was the sole thing my life depended
upon. And it was, it was; I was sure I would die without this intimacy, die
without this perversion, a pleasure greater than any drug ever invented. And
now he was presenting it, proudly, to an audience: I could hear Birgitte gasp
as she watched me; from the corner of my eye I could see her stare at us in
disbelief. And that look was what plunged me into another series of waves,
cascades, sparkles of ecstasy, all slick and wet and saccharine-sweet.
I had not even finished coming before he turned me around, so that I was on all
fours again, so that he was straddling my hips in that position both of us so
loved. My pussy made a farting noise as he entered my ass again, pushing air
out of me; I buried my face in my hands in shame and moaned, screamed as he
started pounding into me, eager for orgasm himself.
"Come here," he grunted to Birgitte, "beside the mirror. Look, both of you,
look--"
I looked over my shoulder as he took his cock out of me with a wet slurp,
presenting my gaping ass in the mirror for Birgitte to see. "That's what your
ass will look like, too, when I fuck you like this," he snarled and shook her
by the hair. "You want it, don't you? Want it gaping wide, open like this?"
"Yes," Birgitte gasped in shame, "yes," as Torsten pressed her face against my
hip and made her watch as he sunk his cock back inside of me, fucked me.
"And you want to taste it, too, don't you? Want to taste your shitty little
hole?"
At that, she mewled pitifully and closed her eyes from shame. She sobbed in
horror, in helpless arousal against my buttock as he kept on fucking me,
fucking me, fucking me so hard my vision blurred.
"Answer me!" Torsten barked.
"Yes," Birgitte sobbed, her tears running down my ass, now. "Anything.
Everything," she babbled. "Anything you want to give me, Master, anything, I
want it, oh, God, I want it so much, I want it--"
"Then taste my daughter," he growled and took his cock out, holding it out to
her, gleaming, clear, thick with the gloss of glycerine and mucus. "Taste her
ass."
Wailing, Birgitte closed her eyes as Torsten plunged his cock inside of her
mouth. "Taste it, taste it, taste it," Torsten stuttered, his voice high-
pitched, sharp. "Open your eyes, open your eyes, see what you're tasting, see
where it's come from--"
And her eyes as she opened them, oh, oh--her makeup completely smeared now, her
giant blue eyes red and wet from tears, staring in horror as she swallowed his
cock, swallowed me, swallowed the last of her own innocence. Torsten's moans
turned into screams, wails as he let go and shot his come into her mouth,
making Birgitte jerk back and gag, sperm bursting past her lips. Even while he
was still coming, he pulled his cock out and dipped it inside of my ass again,
then plunged it back into Birgitte's mouth, sharing his sperm between the two
of us, torturing her mouth with our tastes until he was sated.
Then, he finally let go of us, pushing us down onto the bed, gathering us
against himself in an act that would have been tender if it hadn't been so
controlling, so possessive: carefully, he kissed the breath out of both our
mouths, squeezed us against his chest. For a long while, the only noise in the
room was the soft tinkling of Birgitte's bell as she shivered; Torsten untied
her wrists, lay on top of her and kissed her until that sound, too, stopped. He
turned off the light and took the quilt, covered us all with it and again, lay
on top of us both, deliberately suffocating us a little until we had all calmed
down.
"Now, girls," he murmured, kissing our foreheads. "What do we say?"
I laced my fingers with his, utterly exhausted, utterly blissful. "Thank you,
Daddy."
Birgitte looked at him for a long while, smiling, an entirely new expression in
her eyes--I would have gone so far as to say it looked enlightened, in the
spiritual sense of the word. There really was no other term for that look
because of the joy, the knowledge, the realisation, the love in it. She took
his hand in hers and kissed it softly, then pressed it against her cheek.
"Thank you, Master," she murmured.
"That's all I wanted to hear," he sighed contentedly and kissed both our heads,
holding us close until we fell asleep in his arms.
***** Chapter 5 *****
We spent the next few weeks in an erotic dream, in a world of colours,
sensations, mental and physical states so intense that whenever we emerged into
the outside world, it seemed bleak, cold and unreal in comparison. Indoors, we
plunged into all kinds of sins imaginable, Torsten's hands, his tongue, his
cock, his whips making our flesh sing for him. I walked through the days in a
red, warm haze, my skin tingling with warmth from his blows, my mouth swollen
and sweet from Birgitte's kisses. I could feel where they'd been with each step
I took, and saw people staring at me even more than they had done before: even
if I wore sombre clothes and pinned my hair up, I was still glowing with
voluptuousness, and despite my careful toilette, I was sure people could still
smell the scents of sperm, pussy and glycerine upon me.
Torsten told me of an Arab love manual he'd read, one that stated that a man in
possession of several wives should always love each woman in a different way.
That it would be wise of him to perform different acts and positions with each
woman--not only to make each woman feel unique, but also to keep his erotic
life rich with variety. Yet Birgitte and I were so similar, he said, that it
was like having sex with twins, and this pleased him greatly.
However, he insisted that there should be one thing I never told Birgitte
about, and that was his homosexual side. Neither of us trusted her completely,
yet, and while affection between women was more easily brushed under the
carpet, the consequences he faced for his leanings were far more severe. This
made perfect sense, and while I missed that part of him--Birgitte didn't leave
us much time to have sex with others, let alone each other--I consented. In
turn, I begged him not to share our fetish for piss with her or anyone else,
just as before. That was something I felt vulnerable about, not because of the
dirtiness of the act, but because of what it meant to us. He agreed, and oh,
how we sealed this pact one night when Birgitte was away: I taking him slowly
with a dildo while he filled my mouth with sperm, with piss, continuing thus
for hours until we were both sated.
What I loved most about our encounters with Birgitte was the way she inspired
Torsten sexually, awakening a newfound vigour, virility in him. Taking her ass
for the first time was a feast for both of us; I'd shown her how to rinse
herself thoroughly so that we could work on her all night. Oh, the look on her
face when we gave her her first anal orgasm, two fingers from both Torsten and
I working slowly into her ass, her pussy quivering against my mouth! By the
time Torsten had inserted his cock fully into her ass, I was holding her in my
arms, and the shock in her eyes was incredible. She was shivering all over,
slick from cold sweat, her teeth chattering, yet her pussy kept pulsing and
dripping beneath my fingers, hotter and fuller than I'd ever felt it before.
"A little cock you've got right there," I'd whispered into her mouth, stroking
her gloriously swollen clitoris between my fingers. "No wonder you like being
fucked like a boy." But by then, she was so far gone she barely heard me: she
shouted louder than ever, an unnatural cry, that of a madwoman, orgasming so
violently it frightened me. She convulsed between us so that Torsten later told
me he'd feared she was going to snap his cock off, her pussy gushing into my
palm; oh, it was beautiful.
Yet my favourite, and Torsten's, was when he turned the sharpest point of his
cruelty upon us. It was an elaborate game, one he loved to start from a stage
where both Birgitte and I played innocent. He would spend long moments
hypnotising us, regressing us until we felt, acted and became little girls. He
loved nothing more than to sit and smoke on the scarlet room's sofa, the very
image of the dignified father in his pinstriped suit and polished shoes,
adoring his two little girls: his daughter and her best friend. We would kneel
at his feet in short, frilled dresses and white knee socks, with ribbons in our
hair, glowing with happiness, our cheeks flushed from the fire. He would give
us priceless, exquisitely sculpted dolls to play with--even if they were
nowhere near as pretty as we were, he told us--and we spent long evenings
playing with them, crafting stories for them while he sat and watched.
From those evenings, those trances I would always remember the scents and the
textures best: his brandy, his cigarettes, cigars; the scratch of his moustache
on my cheek as he hugged us and kissed us. The scraping sound porcelain limbs
made on porcelain limbs as we tied the dolls together when they were captured
by Indians, wizards, medieval tyrants. That's how the play always ended,
somehow, the dolls being tied up, whipped, spanked. Torsten, however, never
guided us to do so--that was the way Birgitte had always played with her dolls,
she told me, and I was astonished to find out that I had not been the only one.
In the waking world, we talked about this, sometimes--how strange was it that
we had both had these needs and desires from childhood, and how lucky were we
to have found him to fulfill them?
We were lucky, very lucky indeed as he knelt between us to play with us,
feeding us drugged candy, his hands lingering upon our soft little arms and
knees. In turn, we would coo at him, invite him to join our games. We'd tie him
into a chair and blindfold him--we'd captured the tyrant and danced a victory
dance around him, ululating, screaming, giggling madly in delight. We'd slap
him, tickle him, taunt him with kisses and bites; and oh, the way he panted as
he struggled, the way his erection rose in his trousers! We'd leave him loosely
tied so that he could lean forwards and snap his teeth at us, trying to catch
us: we made piercing shrieks of delight when his teeth caught our skirts, or
better yet, our skin.
Often, when we had tied him up this way, I would invent new games and whisper
the details loudly in Birgitte's ear. "Sometimes, Daddy likes to play doggies.
He lifts my skirt and sniffs me between the legs, saying it's how dogs
recognise each other. Shall we make him guess which one of us he's sniffing
this time?"
"Oh, yes!" Birgitte exclaimed, clapping her hands.
I could distinctly hear Torsten muffling a whimper; I saw him biting his lip,
sweat beading underneath his blindfold. His erection was now tenting his
trousers, and I fancied he must have been so hard it hurt. Good. That served
him right; he deserved a little teasing. So I dragged the coffee table over to
his chair and put my finger to Birgitte's lips.
"Now, we'll begin. But you must stay quiet, completely quiet, as quiet as a
dormouse."
And there, we took turns climbing onto the table, brushing our skirts, knees,
thighs against his nose, his cheeks, his hair; when I turned around and let my
panties brush against his nose, he moaned. He made to bite me, but I hopped off
and Birgitte took my place. She was bolder, pressing her buttocks, her pussy to
his face, rubbing her scent all over him. Torsten panted, choked and for a
moment, I feared he might have a heart attack. His face was red as Birgitte got
off the table, his chest heaving, and now there was a wet stain on his
trousers.
I waited for a while before I spoke. "Which one of us was which, Daddy?"
"I can't tell yet," he panted. "I think you need to try again; let me smell you
for longer," he said, licking his lips.
This time, both of us climbed onto the table and drowned him in frills, in soft
skin, in the scent of powder, candy and the sweetness of our pussies. I hooked
my leg around his shoulder, staining my thigh with his pomade as I held his
face against my pussy; the noise he made into me was inhuman, my hips now so
full of heat the vibrations of his moan hurt me. I could barely keep quiet as I
let go and let Birgitte do the same: again, she bent over and rubbed herself
over his face. But this time, Torsten pressed his tongue into her through her
panties, making her scream and lose her balance so that she toppled onto the
floor.
"Birgitte," he said, licking his lips triumphantly.
She had not hurt herself, but she slapped him nevertheless. "You cheated!"
I pulled off his blindfold and his pupils were wide from lust; he was hissing
from delight. "Yes, I suppose I did. But that's what you get for being so
naughty."
I slapped him, too. "Who are you calling naughty?"
He reeled back and groaned, his erection shifting in his trousers--oh, he was
drunk on this, drunk. "You two. But I promise to give you more candy if you let
me go."
We pretended to think about it for a while, then untied him, with kisses and
croons.
"Where's the candy, then?"
"Yes, where is it?"
"I've got it in a box underneath the sofa." He slid his jacket off and rubbed
circulation back into his wrists. "Go on, have a look."
The box was long, wrapped in glittering paper; greedily, we ripped the wrapper
to shreds and peeked inside. Inside the box, cushioned on a bed of satin as if
it were a piece of jewelry, gleamed a long, candy-pink rubber cock. Yet this
was no ordinary dildo: it was double-ended. I had never seen the like and even
in my wildest imaginations, I could not have come up with something like it
myself. It must have been about twenty inches long, beautifully sculpted with
raised veins and ridges running all over its length, each end culminating in a
wide, delicious glans.
Birgitte lifted it out of the box with two hands, raising it up to the light,
her eyes wide from astonishment. "Oh my God."
Torsten knelt between us and stroked our shoulders. "Do you like it? I had it
made especially, just so you two could play with it together."
We fell to hugging him and kissing him, climbing over him, drowning him in
delighted noises. "But how do we use it?" I asked, even if I had some ideas; I
knew he had bought the toy exactly so that he could show us.
"Well, now," he purred onto my lips, "I'm glad you asked."
Both Birgitte and I were so aroused from our games that we didn't need any more
warming up; we were so eager to get our hands on the toy that we whimpered in
frustration as Torsten laid us on the floor and insisted on licking both of us
first. Again, he stacked us like dolls, this time so that we were lying on our
backs on top of each other, so that he could cover two pussies in one lick, as
he put it. He'd only removed our panties so that when his licks got more
furious, we got to wrap our socks and frills around his face and shoulders
again, drowning him in sweetness.
"Please, Daddy!" I squealed and squirmed. Birgitte made noises underneath me
and I feared I would suffocate her if we had to stay like this for much longer.
He laughed and lifted his face; it was shining from us. "All right. Get on your
hands and knees, both of you. Face away from each other, that's it."
It took a while for him to ease the dildo inside both of our pussies, but when
we finally succeeded in taking it, we were both groaning from pleasure. Torsten
hadn't shown Birgitte any of our toys, and this was the first time she'd taken
an artificial cock inside of herself. Unlike so many of Torsten's toys, this
one wasn't oversized; in fact, it was a little thinner than his own cock, so it
didn't feel too painful either. I loved the way the glans felt as it slid deep
inside of me when I arched my back; the ridges of it massaging me on the inside
the way a real cock never could. I could only imagine what Birgitte must have
felt when that same shape moved inside of her in turn: I peeked from between my
legs and saw that her elbows were shaking a little.
"How does that feel?" Torsten asked as he knelt in front of her, giving her a
little kiss.
"It's so--so hard," she said, squirming a little.
"And it feels good, doesn't it?"
"I'm not sure."
"Then let Laura help you. Laura, would you move a little?"
"With pleasure." This was the true purpose of the toy, after all: made so that
two people could fuck each other while pleasuring themselves. And I, the fool
had thought that this was impossible for a woman, to get pleasure from fucking
another because she didn't own a cock! But here I was, giddy as I fucked
Birgitte with the dildo, fucked her with my pussy. She was still a little
stiff, but I could see I was dripping down onto the carpet in strings, ecstatic
from my realisation, ecstatic from the gift. "Thank you, Daddy," I murmured,
close to tears. "Thank you, thank you."
He chuckled and came over to kiss me in turn. "I knew you would love it," he
purred, kissing me over and over, watching my face with slitted eyes as I
fucked Birgitte, fucked myself. "Give her a little more."
I moaned into his mouth as I slid my hand to my pussy, stroking it, grinding my
hips down on the toy until with a wail, Birgitte's face and arms hit the floor.
Groaning deep in her chest, she took to stroking her pussy herself, moving back
on the dildo whenever I withdrew. "Don't stop, oh, Laura, please don't stop,
please don't stop--"
"I won't," I panted, now so wet my hand and the toy were making fast, slick
noises; and above it all, I could hear Torsten's low, low croon of adoration as
he knelt beside us and stroked our buttocks, urging us to move faster, faster.
"That's so beautiful, so beautiful," he said, grinning wickedly. "The first one
to come gets to put it in her ass first," he said, lightly.
That did it. Both of us burst out into spontaneous moans, fucking ourselves and
each other so furiously that now the toy started to chafe inside of me, hurt a
little as it hit my womb, but I didn't care. I would be faster than her, and I
would prove it to them both, prove it--
But it was then that he pushed a thumb inside each of our asses, sending us
screaming, and I couldn't believe it: Birgitte and I were plunged into
simultaneous orgasm, both of us gasping and grinding and spasming upon the toy
as he laughed above us.
Groaning pitifully, we both fell onto the ground, shaking; Torsten clasped the
middle of the toy in his hand as we both slid off it. Purring in delight, he
held its glistening length up to the firelight and sucked both of its ends,
savouring our tastes like fine wine. "Quite similar, quite similar indeed," he
murmured. "You know, I can't tell the difference any longer; it's like
comparing two fruits of the same tree."
"And our asses?" I ventured, pulling him into a kiss.
"Oh, we should definitely find out," he said.
"Me first!" Birgitte yelped, still in the mood of the greedy child. She sat on
the sofa and lifted her legs so that her hips were pushed off the seat, her
pussy and ass presented in offering.
Torsten just raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose you did come a split second
earlier..."
"She's a filthy liar," I laughed, "but let her have it."
"Mm." He kissed me, long, sweet, so passionate it made me moan, deliberately
letting Birgitte wait a while.
When we finally descended upon her, it was with kisses, soft caresses: for a
long while, Torsten just wanted to watch me kneel and lick Birgitte's pussy,
lick her ass, make them shine in the firelight. She couldn't move much, bent
double as she was, and this made torturing her all the sweeter; I had learned
to love the way her pussy clenched against my mouth. Torsten, in the meantime,
swallowed her noises of complaint with his own lips, squeezing and pinching her
breasts through her dress.
"Please," she murmured against his lips, her voice sugary, sweet. "Please."
"Please, what?" Torsten said, pausing to loosen up his tie, to roll up his
sleeves. "I thought you liked my daughter licking your little pussy," he purred
with a kiss, loving the way Birgitte had learned to tease him by now.
Birgitte bit her lip. "But I want to have it in my ass, Master."
"I'm sure you do," he murmured. He kissed me briefly and gestured for me to
move aside, then pushed two fingers inside of Birgitte's pussy, playing with
it. "You're so wet here, so wet," he said as he brought his slick fingers to
her ass. "Do you think you could take the toy with just this?"
Her eyes went wide, but I saw her hips twitching; as Torsten slid both fingers
inside of her ass, she threw her head back and gasped. "Oh, please--" the
little tart moaned as he began to move his fingers.
"It's going to hurt," he sing-songed.
"I want it to," she said as she spread her legs wider, still biting her lip.
"Please."
Torsten turned to me and laughed, shaking his head. "Did you hear that?"
"I think she is a terrible little slut," I grinned and gave her pussy a lick,
another, both of us pleasuring her until she moaned so loudly she shook. Both
Torsten and I sensed that she was on the brink of orgasm; we couldn't have
that. I stopped sucking her clitoris and touched his wrist, signalling for him
to stop. He stayed still for a while, watching Birgitte tremble, glare at him
hopelessly.
"Please! You're so mean."
"Yes, aren't I?" Torsten said, then lifted his fingers out, twirling them,
admiring the way her fluids glittered upon them. "But look at what a mess
you've made," he tutted. "Laura, have you got anything I could use?"
I smiled and opened my mouth, sticking out my tongue.
He hissed as he wiped his fingers on my tongue, my own pussy pulsing as I
tasted Birgitte's pussy, ass. The sweetness of it melted upon my tongue--she
was not as sweet as we were, yet, the saccharine being another secret we had
not shared with her--but her pussy was sweet enough, mingling wonderfully with
the taste of an ass that was now well-cleaned. I could only taste the mustiness
of sweat, of anal mucus, of flesh; we had taught her well.
She was now whimpering in jealousy, squirming, her pussy and her ass gleaming,
flushed. "Please."
"You do the honours," Torsten said, handing me the dildo. He himself sat on the
sofa beside Birgitte, watching over her shoulder, playing softly with her pussy
as I pressed the tip of the dildo to her ass. Immediately, she winced and
jerked in Torsten's arms.
"Are you scared?" he asked her, laughing.
"A little," she whispered, biting her lip.
"Good," he murmured, and she jerked again; I shivered all over in delight at
his sadism. Deliberately, I pushed the toy in a little faster than I should
have, so that Birgitte stiffened, so that another noise of pain burst out of
her mouth.
"Look at me," he said, his arm around her, turning her to face him. "Look into
my eyes as my daughter fucks you in the ass."
Oh, God. It was my pussy that clenched as he said the words, as he held her
gaze. I spat on the dildo and twisted it, twisted it to ease it in further, and
as the head slipped past the muscles of her sphincter, she wailed. She was now
shuddering uncontrollably, her knees quaking; yet her pussy was dripping onto
the dildo, slickening it up further. And all the while, she stared up at
Tosten, helpless, wounded, truly a lost child in the hands of a tyrant: she
never even blinked, so that tears soon streamed down her face, juddering down
them as I began to thrust. She was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, a little
doll for us to play with and take apart as we pleased.
As I continued to fuck her, she fell quiet from the pain and her breathing
became laboured, yet her pussy kept swelling and wetting even further. As she
jerked again, Torsten but laughed and slapped her pussy, slapped it so hard
drops of her sweetness sprayed on my face; I could not hold back a whimper,
shivering at the filthiness of it all. But the noise she was now making was
low, unlike that of a human, some deep, haunted cooing sound that frightened
me, disturbed me to my core. But I couldn't stop. Torsten's spirit possessed
me, commanded the actions of my hands: the woman in me might have stopped at
this point, feeling pity for her sister, but the Devil wished otherwise. Thus,
I kept fucking her, violating her, smearing the dildo with her wetness and my
spit until it was halfway inside of her, all of ten inches inside of her, her
anal muscles distended grotesquely around it.
I left it there and waited for further orders from Torsten. He looked from
Birgitte to me, still stroking her pussy, kissing her mouth, then kissing her
eyelids, hushing her. "Shh. Shh. The worst is over; I promise. You've been such
a good girl." The look on his face frightened me: it was so cheerful, so happy,
so excited, the very picture of the proud father. He looked twenty years
younger, his eyes wide, his smile splitting his face, his eyes clear as glass--
sometimes, I wondered if at moments like these, he was on the cusp of
psychosis. And yet, I shuddered as I recognised in him my own madness, the
sickening thrill of hurting Birgitte like this, most of this game of my own
making. I would follow him, follow him anywhere, even if that anywhere was to
be complete madness.
"Would you like to share the toy with my daughter, now?" he asked her.
"Yes," Birgitte murmured against his shoulder, but it's not as if she had a
choice; that's why she loved it so.
"Come on, then," he said and laid her down on the sofa so that she was lying on
her left side, the dildo hanging out of her ass like some bizarre tail. He
beckoned for me to lie down on my right, so that he sat in the middle between
us, both of our asses in his lap. "There. Are you comfortable?"
I certainly wasn't, but I wasn't going to protest. From the glass covering the
painting on top of the mantelpiece, I could dimly see our reflection, the new
work of art he had created from our bodies. The black stripe of his trousers,
the white patch of his shirt, the rest but a pink and white blur of frills and
flesh on either side of him, symmetrical, perfect.
He started to work wetness from my pussy into my ass, pushing his fingers
inside of me so easily, so fast I had to bite down on a whimper. He didn't even
ask if I wanted glycerine, and would not have given it even if I had requested
it, I knew this. And as he spat on my ass and started to ease the other end of
the dildo inside, it hurt, it hurt, but the pain brought with itself a great
relief. Now, I was only a recipient of his punishment, no longer a tool for him
to torture Birgitte with. I could lie here and be taken, toyed with, fucked, to
receive him instead of channeling him.
And gladly, I received him, held myself open: the ridges of the toy, so much
crueller than his cock could ever be felt so awful, so wonderful I trickled
through his fingers upon my pussy. I buried my face in the sofa, my tongue dry
against the green velvet as I panted into it, moaned into it, yet he kept on
rubbing, kept on thrusting into me. The pleasure-pain was so overwhelming, so
intense it threatened to force me into complete silence but I fought it, fought
it with a cry of "Daddy," sobbing it at him again and again, wanting to show
him just how much I loved this, loved him.
"Shh, my little child," he murmured with such perverse kindness, sweetness,
stroking my hair, kissing my hand. "Shh. Just an inch or two, now. Breathe for
me a little."
I didn't breathe so much as I groaned, forcing myself to relax, forcing my body
to yield to the toy. It was horrifying and fascinating at the same time; I was
not sure if I had ever taken anything this deep inside my body before. Yet I
had taken his hand, and Birgitte had taken the other half of the toy, so I
should be able to take it, shouldn't I? So I breathed again, focused on his
fingers on either side of my clitoris, focused on the soft murmurs and croons
that softened me, opened me up for his pleasure.
"There. There," he whispered, letting go of the dildo and stroking my hair
again. "Good girl. Good girl. Such a good girl."
But I barely heard him, that's how lost I was in the sensations, my vision
dark. Birgitte was quiet, too; in my haze, I fancied that if I looked around in
my trance realm, I would find her sitting there, too, in that same half-light
world I was now enspelled in. But I couldn't move; I was trapped in place,
suspended, weightless in the silence of the mystic, the pressure on my spinal
nerves having plunged me into a state beyond words, beyond ordinary
consciousness.
He let us lay there for a while, his hands on our buttocks, thighs; for long
moments, he kept caressing us, inspecting us, feeling for our pussies, tracing
his fingers around our stretched assholes. I felt precious, cherished; I hoped
Birgitte felt the same way, too. He might have paid hundreds of dollars for
those dolls, but I knew they were nothing compared to us, his living ones, ones
he had crafted with his own hands. I would have cried if I hadn't been beyond
tears; instead, I just swam in the sensations of the dildo inside of me, of his
lips upon my hip, of Birgitte's legs entwined with mine.
He woke us up by sliding both his hands to our pussies and stroking us softly,
then with more vigour, raising his voice deliberately to bring us out of our
trance. "Laura," he said, a little sternly, "Birgitte," like a teacher wanting
to make sure his pupils hadn't fallen asleep in class.
Thankfully, he was satisfied with mumbles, because that's all I was capable of;
the noise Birgitte made was even quieter. He smacked both our buttocks and
purred, that purr making my pussy clench, stir again as I wondered what he had
planned for us. He smacked us again and there, that got a yelp out of Birgitte,
too. He laughed and slapped us once more for good measure.
"You've been such good little girls, both of you. Now, I'm going to reward
you," he chuckled and slid his hands to our pussies once more. "I'm going to
let both of you come, but on one condition: you must do it simultaneously, just
like you did before. Shall we try that?"
I whimpered my agreement. It sounded nearly impossible, but it wasn't like that
was going to stop Torsten. He started to stroke us, softly, and now both of us
definitely woke up. I wondered if his arms were getting tired, but at the same
time, I relished the work he put into this, the pleasure he derived from
pleasuring us, from watching us squirm. It made him feel powerful, proving to
himself that he could take two girls at once, that he could drive both of us
mad with arousal simultaneously. And oh, how he laughed, oh, the look on his
face as we started to move more, rocking ourselves on the dildo, exchanging
wicked grins over our shoulders.
Birgitte looked drunk, tousled, her hair a messy halo around her head as she
lifted herself a little and pushed her hips down, with the deliberate intent of
making me moan. And I did, as much at the sight of her as at the pleasure. I
pushed right back, challenging her, fucking her in turn, both of us now moving
so fast Torsten had trouble holding onto us. He burst into laughter himself,
kissing our legs, our thighs. With a lecherous groan, he bent down between us
and kissed our pussies as much as he could between our thrusts, kissing and
rubbing them as we fucked each other faster, faster.
"That's it, that's it," he drawled, slapping both our pussies until we were
howling. "Get that cock all juicy, get it all tasty, come on."
That's what did it; I slipped my hand to my clitoris and rubbed, rubbed.
"Please, Daddy, I'm going to come--"
"Hmm? And you, Birgitte?"
"I'm not sure, I--"
He slapped her pussy, sending her screaming. "I'm going to count to ten. One.
Two. Three. Four."
I could barely hold back, taking my fingers from my pussy for the next counts;
my hand was shaking. At "seven," I finally slipped my hand back to my clitoris
and looked at Birgitte. She was staring into the distance, spasming, and with
each of Torsten's counts, I slammed my hips into her, forcing her towards
release. "Eight, nine, ten," each of these a blow, and at the last one, I
ground down on her one last time and let go. I screamed as I came, no longer
caring whether Birgitte had followed me into orgasm or not. Our limbs became a
tangle, kicking, both of us wailing: Torsten had to clasp us tight against
himself to keep us from falling off the sofa. Anal orgasm always did this to
me, always, so much stronger than anything my pussy could ever bring me, and I
sobbed dry tears into the sofa, ruining the velvet with my nails and I didn't
care.
When I returned to normal consciousness, he had lowered our legs so that we
were both curled up in a fetal position against him, the dildo still inside of
us. He held us there for a long time, clutching us against himself, captive.
Finally, he laughed and smacked both our asses. "Well," he said. "That was
quite something."
"Thank you, Daddy," I mumbled.
He kissed my hand. "Don't thank me just yet." He clasped the dildo in the
middle and addressed both of us. "Now, I want you to slide off this thing,
slowly, carefully. Don't hurt yourselves. That's it. Oh--" and the way he
laughed as he looked at our asses, at what he had done to them! I could only
see Birgitte's; a delicious, wet and black hole, spit and pussy-sap smeared
around its rim, and my mouth watered.
"Turn around, girls," he said, softly, then turned the dildo around, too.
"Taste each other," he said with a wicked tenderness, "Go on." He held the
dildo out, pink, gleaming, sparkling with our fluids, foam.
I leaned down and sucked the dildo reverently: it was warm, delicious, almost
like a real cock now, and I stifled the sudden urge to cry from sheer
fulfillment. But it was Torsten who cried out, now, such a vulnerable little
noise, something between a sob and a whimper: as if this truly was his cock
both of us were sucking, having taken both of us, his ultimate fetish now
doubled. I opened my eyes and it was at that moment that he leaned down between
us, lapping our tastes off the dildo, kissing us both, kissing and kissing, as
if he could never get enough. He groaned and forced our heads down on it,
forced us to fellate it for long moments, then sucked our spit off it in turn,
keening, drunk from our combined tastes.
As we all lay down on the sofa, panting, I realised he hadn't even taken his
cock out yet. I had never seen him like this with us; the only time he'd ever
denied himself for this long had been at the orgy in the brothel. But I didn't
press him, didn't want to ruin the beauty of this moment, us sprawled in a heap
of limbs upon the sofa, warm from fire and debauchery.
When he returned to the sofa, I realised I had fallen asleep--I hadn't even
noticed he'd been away. "Let's go," he said, helping both of us off the sofa,
ushering us into the bathroom. For some reason, he was carrying a thermos and I
thought to ask him about it, but was still too sleepy to do so. Once we'd
reached the bathroom, I made to take off my dress; I was definitely in need of
a shower.
"Not just yet, my child," he said, setting the thermos on the toilet seat. "I
want both of you in the bath, just like you were on the floor, ass against
ass."
As we did so, he opened the thermos and picked up the enema syringe. Birgitte's
eyes widened in shock as he filled the syringe with white fluid, drawing the
plunger all the way back. "Oh, yes," he said, conversationally. "I'm told warm
milk is very good for getting children to sleep," he said, the very
outrageousness of his words stunning me into silence. He couldn't possibly--
But he did; there was plenty enough milk in the thermos for him to fill both of
us up with it, one syringeful each. "Now, hold it in; only release it once I
tell you to. Do you understand?"
I nodded my agreement, even if I could hardly believe it. Despite seeing it
with my own eyes in the mirror, I felt as if this was some dream; the sight of
it was so absurd. Two girls dressed as dolls bent over in the bathtub, cramped,
holding our hands over our asses so as not to let the milk spill, and a refined
gentleman climbing into the bathtub with us, seating himself between us, taking
out his cock and stroking it. I would have laughed if it hadn't meant spilling
the milk; instead, I forced myself to be quiet, listening to his breathing as
he sat between us for long moments, masturbating, kissing our pussies, making
little noises into them. And by those noises I knew he was close: we had played
for well over an hour, it seemed, and his cock was so hard, so packed with
blood that it was purpling, its head a wet and sticky mess from pre-ejaculate.
"Laura," he breathed into my pussy, "Birgitte," he moaned into hers, smacking
his lips. Let go for me. As hard as you can. Now."
With a cry, a deep cry from my guts, I did: as Birgitte's milk splashed all
over my ass in turn, my cry turned into that of disbelief and delight. Torsten
keened, drinking from us, showering himself with us: I looked over my shoulder
and he was jerking his cock fast, coming, his cock spurting in time as Birgitte
and I sprayed him with milk, farting it all over him. It only took us a few
seconds, but he kept coming and coming, both Birgitte and I bursting into
hysterical laughter as he sucked the milk from us, licked it from us, lapped it
from our asses, he laughing into us in turn.
"You're insane," Birgitte cackled, her laughter sending one last fart of milk
over Torsten's face, Torsten groaning in delight.
"Quite insane," he nodded, panting from laughter, licking his lips. Still
squeezing his cock, he buried his face in my ass in turn, but now his moustache
just tickled me, sending me into another fit of screaming laughter.
The surreality of it, the endless, hysterical laughter of it--it's as if all of
us had been taking hashish. Soon we all collapsed together, howling, covered in
milk.
"Imagine--imagine--" I wheezed. "Imagine what the head of--the head of a
lunatic asylum would think if he saw us now."
Torsten let out a shrill giggle that echoed off the walls. "Oedipal. He'd find
this Oedipal somehow."
Birgitte tried to lift herself, but collapsed on Torsten instead, guffawing
herself. "Milk! Can't you see? Obviously that's a mother issue."
Torsten let his head loll in her direction. "Are you trying to say I just
fucked my mother in the ass? Twice?"
She nodded sagely. "Yes."
"And I wouldn't put it past you, either," I murmured, poking Torsten in the
ribs, Birgitte joining me in tickling him until he yelped and fell into
hysterical laughter once more. The only way he could get us to stop was to grab
us by the hair again; he kissed both of us furiously until we melted into his
arms. Finally, he let go and leaned back, sighing in utter contentment.
"Now, then. Who wants a bath?"
***** Chapter 6 *****
When summer finally arrived, we had to give Birgitte up, at least for the time
being. She had relatives to see in California and invited us to stay at her
house at Los Angeles, but I had to decline. I couldn't abandon the business and
her chatter had started to get on my nerves again. For a moment, Torsten looked
as if he was going to say yes, but I glared at him--however, I doubt it was
only my glare that made him reconsider her offer. He, too, needed a break; no
matter what his ego might have thought, satisfying two women several nights a
week had started to take its toll on him. He slept well into the afternoon now,
smoked more, drank more to fortify himself for the nights. Both of us needed a
holiday from her.
As the day of Birgitte's departure approached, she, of course, got more and
more hysterical. She kept begging us, pleading for us to come with her,
accusing us of hating her--and if she continued like that, I thought, we soon
would. The sex was still amazing, of course, but Torsten and I had to use much
harder methods to beat her anxiety out of her, sometimes literally. Even I
winced at the marks he left upon her with the rattan cane he'd bought for the
very purpose. He hadn't even used it on me yet and as he hit her, a fury
bordering on hatred blazed in his eyes, chilling me to the bone. When he
started to draw blood with his strokes, I had to persuade him to stop, then
hold Birgitte for a long while to help her recover.
When she had finally left, I took a few days off just to relax. Torsten and I
indulged in one of the greatest perversities imaginable to us: we made love as
normal people did. We did it slowly, kissing each other all throughout, with
such tenderness it hurt. No roughness, no harsh words, no fetishes; just his
cock in my pussy and nothing more. We relished this closeness, locking
ourselves up in our apartment, getting fully acquainted with each other again,
drunk on each other's looks, mouths, touches.
I'd never felt such possessiveness from him before, the man who had always
derived pleasure from sharing me with others, and soon I discovered that I
enjoyed it. I was grateful of the realisation Birgitte had inadvertently
brought us--a sense of how we truly functioned best simply with each other, how
much we loved each other. That nearly telepathic understanding we had felt from
the start, being of the same flesh and blood--how could anyone else ever
compare to another Barring?
He would clutch me to himself and cup me through my panties, whispering "Who
does this little pussy belong to?" and he would squeeze me, pinch me until I'd
breathed "You, Daddy" a dozen times, a hundred times, whispered it onto his
skin, kissed it into his mouth. I, in turn, would suck his cock for hours,
serve him until my jaw ached, ride him until I was sore.
One morning, I finally had to sodomise him. It had been such a long time since
he'd taken anything up his ass, and he sobbed into the sheets in ecstasy as I
used the double dildo on him. He was such an amazing sight whenever he fell
into the bliss of internal orgasms, shaking as a woman would, moaning as a
woman would, curling up on his side as he came, long strings of pre-ejaculate
dangling from his cock. I satisfied myself with the other end as we lay there,
then continued to fuck him long past his first orgasm, into another, a third, a
fourth until he finally clasped his cock and ejaculated all over his stomach.
"Thank you," he panted into the pillows. "Thank you."
"Mmm. You never did let me taste another man's cock from you," I murmured as I
kissed his asshole, kissed it as it slowly clenched shut underneath my tongue.
"I'd love to see you get fucked by men again."
He let out a low, whimpering noise from deep in his belly and clutched my head,
shivering against me. "Would you, now?" he grinned in narcissistic delight,
tightening his hand in my hair.
"Yes," I said, panting against his buttock.
"I think I know just the place."
***
The sex clubs of Stockholm and Paris were, of course, nothing compared to what
you could find in New York. There were at least a dozen you could access if you
only knew the right sorts of people, and we did. There were even single-sex
ones, ones we had both visited a few times, but since I was to join Torsten
this time, we picked the most prestigious one, one that catered to couples.
The Hermes Club had no fixed abode, but it seemed to have the richest patrons,
since its members always gathered in fairly luxurious surroundings. Tonight,
they hosted their event at an English baronet's house: I was amused to find the
club's membership seemed to mostly consist of nobility, ex- and otherwise. Even
as the monarchies of Europe had toppled like dominoes, here the spirit of the
depraved European aristocrat kept on thriving, as alive as it had been in de
Sade's day. As we walked through one sumptuous, Baroque room one after another,
I heard nothing but refined Russian, nasal French, plum-in-the-mouth English
and felt right at home.
The evening started with champagne and chatter. Just like at any fine
gathering, there were introductions--only everyone used mythological aliases
here, too. The only thing that set this event apart from ordinary parties was
the room itself. It was a high ballroom with mirrored walls, Rococo paintings
with oversized, gilt frames and chandeliers, yet the furniture was
extraordinary: there was a strange, many-armed contraption that was a genuine
Rococo sex chair, I was told, built for Catherine the Great herself. Other
pieces included padded leather benches not dissimilar to vaulting horses and
richly decorated, Oriental beds large enough for, well, orgies. In one corner
stood a rack full of various types of whips, crops and canes for the guests'
perusal.
"I could grow to like this," I said as I sunk into a giant, plush Louis XIV
chair with a glass of champagne in hand.
"It is quite impressive." Torsten lay down at my feet over some cushions, took
off my shoe and poured his champagne into it, sipping from it with exaggerated
delight.
I nudged his head with my toes, mussing up his hair a little. "Show-off."
"It's an expensive enough champagne," he murmured, capturing my ankle cuff and
bringing my toes to his lips. "Besides, someone's got to start with the
debaucheries. It always takes a while to get people going."
"Let's show them, then," I said and leaned down to kiss him.
Before long, we had swapped places. I knelt before him naked, he still in his
tuxedo and black tie. I took his cock into my mouth and laughed inwardly as I
could hear disapproving murmurs from some of the women--to disapprove, at a
party like this? It was hysterical. Yet soon enough, I heard those murmurs turn
into husky laughs, heard the sounds of people beginning to mate, following our
example.
I set out to worship Torsten with my mouth, using all my skill to show them how
to really suck a cock. I wetted him with my mouth thoroughly, using so much
spit he was gleaming, letting him fuck my throat, uncaring of the loud gagging
and retching noises I made. Whenever I drew back to breathe, I was coughing
mucus from my throat, strings of it dribbling down to Torsten's balls--and oh,
the shocked stares of the onlookers! Of course, both of us loved it, aroused
beyond measure by our own vulgarity. My own pussy was so wet and sticky I
jerked as it brushed against the cold, tiled floor; he was straining in his
seat as he looked down at me, moaning in abandon.
"Not even most whores know how to give a man a slide like that," he purred.
"You trained me well," I rasped, pursing a large wad of spit from my mouth onto
his cock, slicking it all over him with my hand.
"Yes, I did, didn't I?" he crooned and grabbed me by the hair, forcing his cock
deep into my throat. "My little creation," he hissed as he thrust into me,
using me, masturbating himself with my mouth. I was weeping by now, so aroused
I was shaking, my pussy spasming each time he made me gag. He kept me in place,
didn't let me breathe, didn't let me speak, but I begged for him with my eyes--
I wanted him to fuck me so much, so much. Yet I knew he wouldn't do so for a
while yet, knew he would make me wait, and it was driving me insane. I shouted
around his cock, groaned around it in despair and I swear it was that despair
that finally made him come, loudly, noisily: he pushed himself so deep I barely
even tasted his sperm as he poured it straight down my throat. Finally, he let
me pull off; I collapsed over his lap, gasping.
"Good girl," he murmured, stroking a stray drop of sperm from my lip, his eyes
wicked.
"You're unbelievable," I hissed under my breath as I pulled back and wiped my
mouth.
"And they love it," he purred, kissing me. "Croesus in particular."
I looked across the room at our host, a man otherwise known as Sir Cyril
Smythe. He sat in a high-backed Baroque chair watching everyone else, the king
of this court of voluptuaries, twisting and turning his silver-topped cane
before him. I'd seen him before at a society event or two and had always found
him a mystery, with something cold and dangerous about him, and not in a good,
romantic sort of way.
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/smythechair.gif]
Physically and temperamentally, he was the polar opposite of Torsten. He was a
short man of fifty, with a head of thick, graying hair; as usual, he appeared
infuriatingly calm. In fact, I had been surprised that such a cold fish would
ever host a party like this--my impression had been of such emotional
frigidity, such dispassion that it was hard to imagine him ever even having had
sex. When I looked at him, I wasn't sure whether he was pleased or displeased
with our behaviour: his mouth was downturned by nature, his eyes always half-
closed so he could easily have been bored; he didn't look unlike the haughty
pedigree cats he kept. He observed everyone coolly, detached, not a wrinkle on
his suit, not a stain on his mauve gloves.
"Now," Torsten said, tucking himself back into his trousers. He took out a
long, silver chain from his pocket and attached it to my collar, then got up.
"Time to go walkies. Come on." He patted his thigh as if to a dog.
"I will get you for this," I muttered under my breath as I went down on all
fours.
"I look forward to it," he said and ruffled my hair.
Of course, I loved it. He led me around the ballroom, chatting with people,
smoking, drinking with them, introducing me to everyone as his pet. "Isn't she
beautiful?" And I felt beautiful, cherished; I sank into my role fully, arching
my back, crawling slowly, moving my hips as sensuously as a cat. In fact, I
could swear Smythe's Siamese flashed me an angry, jealous glare from her
crooked eyes; that's how many caresses and compliments I received from
strangers. From time to time, Torsten would offer my pussy and ass for their
fingers, feeling for me himself as the guests did: I looked between my legs and
shuddered in delight as I saw my pussy dripping onto the floor, a wet trail of
my sap following us around the room.
At one point, five men and women were all fingering me at once, yet over all
their croons and laughs and hisses, I could only hear Torsten's soft laughter.
I looked up and he was glowing with demonic, fatherly pride as he smiled down
at me, his eyes sparkling. I could tell he was hard again, his cock of such
size it could not be easily hidden even under the loosest of clothing. He had
his hand in his pocket and was stroking himself through it, pleasuring himself
slowly, tilting his head to get a good look at what was being done to me. I
groaned as the guests pawed at me, a flurry of cologne, perfume, hands, skin,
beards, coiffed hair. My legs shook so violently from arousal I could barely
keep from collapsing.
"Should I let her come?" Torsten asked them, breezily.
He was greeted with noises of encouragement, even cheers. Thus, he put his heel
to the floor and lifted his foot, the way one offers one's shoe for a cat to
butt against. "Ask me nicely."
I shivered, so close to orgasm now; the very symbolism of the gesture had
pushed me to the point where the waves were already rolling through me, my
belly dipping and I couldn't breathe. "Please, D--darling," I begged, catching
myself just in time. Again we'd had to pretend we were husband and wife; I
couldn't call him 'Daddy' here no matter how much I wanted to. But I was sure
he could see the daughter in my eyes, see her as I nuzzled his shoe, kissed it,
adored it, looked up into my father's eyes with so much love I ached. "Please,
my love, please."
His laughter was so high from arousal it came out a giggle. "There's a good
girl." He was about to continue, but something diverted his attention. His, and
everyone else's--the people fondling me went quiet and all withdrew their
fingers from me.
Torsten just grinned and shifted his weight from one foot to another, slinking
his hips. "Ah, Mr. Croesus," he purred. "Would you like to join us?"
I looked over my shoulder and it was indeed Smythe. He said nothing, only
swished his cane angrily as if he was about to plant the greyhound-shaped
handle into someone's skull if they didn't budge. The people who had been
touching me scurried away like mice. Smythe may have been a small man, but
every inch of him was possessed of authority; a power that rivalled Torsten's
own, if colder, stonier in comparison to Torsten's sensuality and heat. Whereas
Torsten was the very image of the Devil with his seductiveness and wit, Smythe
was as rigid and as stern as an Old Testament prophet. That coldness, that
stoniness crept into my every limb; I stiffened, so frightened I was far from
orgasm, now.
Smythe glanced at me, smiling a little, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. He
turned to Torsten. "Continue."
I looked at Torsten and I could see he was thinking furiously underneath his
usual relaxed, rakish exterior. He acknowledged Smythe with a nod, then lifted
his shoe to me again. "You were saying, my dear?"
I opened my mouth to continue our play--did even I have a choice to stop, now?
I doubted it. But it was then that I felt something cold against my pussy,
something cold and hard and--oh, God. Smythe. He was pushing the silver
greyhound inside of me. I froze in shock, screaming against Torsten's shoe,
then quickly swallowed that scream, forced myself to stay quiet. Smythe was the
last person I wanted to offend; God knows what he might do if his little whims
were not indulged. But my pussy was full of cold metal, cold metal and I
shivered around it in terror, staring up at Torsten in shock. Smythe smacked
his lips and moved the greyhound in and out, its ridges hurting the walls of my
vagina, and I could feel the dog's nose nudging my cervix, oh, God, oh, God--
"Well?" he said to Torsten.
Torsten nudged my jaw with his foot. "Does it hurt?" he crooned in a mocking
tone.
"Please, my love, please," I continued, shivering, clawing at the floor,
butting at Torsten's shoe, panicking.
Torsten tightened my leash until he was strangling me, yanking my head up by
it. "Look up at me. There you are. Now, Mr. Croesus and I want you to come.
What's the matter, don't you want to?"
"I want to, I do, but--" the greyhound hurt so much and now one of Smythe's
gloved hands was on my ass, spreading me and I could feel his breathing against
my pussy. Despite myself, I clenched around the silver, that sick part of me
that needed to be hurt growing louder and louder in its cries, its demands for
more pain.
Torsten shook his head and tutted. "No buts." Yet he saw how scared I was; for
a moment, I fancied I saw true concern flash in his eyes. He offered his foot
to me again. "Lick."
And he knew, knew that with this act of worship he could offer me a
distraction. I sobbed in true gratitude as I began to lick, smearing my tongue
with the shoe polish I had applied myself this very morning. Smythe's hand was
on my pussy now, spreading it, inspecting it; he was breathing heavily, now,
smelling me. And he never stopped moving the handle inside my pussy, twisting
it this way and that, and I was not sure I could bear it for much longer. The
heat was rising in my hips again, but the pain was nearly unbearable by now.
What if he had caused my tissues damage already? What if--
But Torsten withdrew his shoe and knelt in front of me, undoing his fly. "Maybe
this will help." He lifted my head up by the chain and pushed his cock into my
mouth. It had softened a little; he, too, was nervous and I wanted to hide this
from Smythe, sucking Torsten into my mouth as quickly as possible. "Keep
looking up at me, my child," he said, with such tenderness, now, as he started
to thrust into my mouth, choking me with the chain, with his cock. "That's it.
Keep looking at me. Show us what a good girl you are. Come on."
It was then that Smythe lifted his cane, lifted me by it so that I was
screaming onto Torsten's cock. Yet Torsten smiled down at me knowingly. As he
let the first stream of piss splash into my mouth, I made an outraged noise;
yet I captured it, determined not to give us away. Torsten just stroked my
cheek and laughed, letting out a stronger stream now to challenge me, to make
me gulp him down faster. He tasted sweet, with a strange metallic aftertaste,
as if he had been taking some kinds of drugs again. But it tasted wonderful; I
was in such bliss that I wondered if the drugs weren't working on me as well,
now, and whether he had deliberately chosen this method to feed them to me.
And it was this mercy, the mercy of his salty-sweet piss swirling into my mouth
that made me finally come undone. The fact that he was doing it right under
Smythe's nose, the fact that he did it as an act of tenderness, of caring, of
solidarity in the middle of a situation like this--I would have sobbed if I
hadn't been so busy swallowing him down. Even through my orgasm, even through
my noises, I could hear Smythe laughing a little, sensed even a little warmth
in his voice. Perhaps the old patriarch had a soft spot after all? I was so
proud of myself, of Torsten, so in love with Torsten that I fancied we had
accomplished something other people hadn't; that only the level of perversity
we possessed was enough to stir a man like Smythe out of his frigidity.
Perhaps I was right; as Smythe removed the cane's handle from my body and
brought it to my lips, his smile did reach his eyes. I knelt at his feet and
sucked the greyhound lovingly, as if it were Torsten's cock--wasn't my Daddy
the one who had offered me this experience? Soft from my orgasm, I did not find
Smythe so frightening after all: there was genuine warmth to his eyes, now, and
I could see they were a light, liquor brown.
Smythe took his cane out and proceeded to dry it with a scented handkerchief,
mirth still dancing in his eyes. "Mr. Heliogabalus is right. You are pretty
little pet," he said, and I realised this was the first time he'd even
addressed me.
"Thank you, sir." I couldn't think of anything else to say, and from his look,
I knew I had given him the appropriate answer.
He pinched my cheek, and from that I knew it was my youth that had attracted
him; I did not find this surprising. I had not been introduced to him
officially, even if we had moved in the same circles, but I wondered if he knew
we were father and daughter. Perhaps that was the exact reason he had been
drawn to us; perhaps, just like Torsten, he was such a jaded old libertine that
only the idea of incest could stir his passion.
Again, he turned to Torsten. "Would you and your... wife care to join me for a
more private celebration?"
"Certainly, certainly," Torsten said as he helped me up. "We'd be honoured."
"This way."
***
Smythe's private bedroom was gigantic, crowded with equally gigantic Baroque
furniture, with a massive Rococo painting of a love scene on top of an
ostentatiously decorated fireplace. You could barely move for the furniture and
the exotic plants and the cushions upon which his cats lay: a grand display of
the Napoleon complex at its finest. Amidst all the pompous décor and walking
next to Torsten, Smythe seemed even smaller, barely coming up to Torsten's
nose, and even then I suspected his voluminous hair added a few inches.
What I wasn't expecting was that he would merely ask Torsten to take a seat by
the fire, and offer him a cigar. The men set out to exchange pleasantries, make
small talk, completely ignoring me as if I was a part of the furniture--quite
literally, in fact. For Torsten had the bright idea to use me as a footstool,
and I didn't let out a single noise of complaint as I moved to stand on all
fours between the two men, facing Smythe. It was a lesson in humility and I
relished it: again, I didn't have to do anything except serve, freed completely
from choices, responsibilities, everything that I loathed about being Laura
Erika Barring, heiress. And to serve Torsten in this way, to do it in front of
others, to be but a treasured possession of his--oh, bliss. I wanted to prove
myself, prove I was worthy of the status of an objet d'art, something displayed
to show off his magnificence. Thus, I held my head up proudly, adoring the
weight of Torsten's feet on my back, the way he would tug at my chain a little
from time to time.
Smythe took a puff off his cigar and nudged my chin with his foot, smiling a
little.
"So, Mr. Barring. Tell me, do you fuck her?"
I could feel Torsten stiffening, but he soon covered his surprise underneath
his usual, slick purr. "May I enquire as to why you're asking me that?"
"I know you're father and daughter; don't bother to deny it."
Of course. We hadn't fooled him for a second. My heart started to pound faster;
now Smythe was looking at me and the fire struck sparks from his eyes.
"Are you fucking her?" he asked again, still looking at me.
Torsten looked around himself pointedly. "Considering where we are, I thought
that much was obvious."
Smythe pursed his lips into a pout and set his foot down, leaning back in his
chair, eyeing Torsten. "I had taken you for an exclusive homosexual, you see,"
he said pleasantly.
Torsten let out a snorting, high-pitched laugh. "It's not an uncommon mistake.
Although--that reminds me." He yanked on my chain so that I was lifted into a
kneeling position, so that he could kiss my ear. "Tell the nice Mr. Smythe why
we came here, my dear," he purred in my ear. "It was your idea; it's only fair
you should be the one to tell him."
Oh, the bastard. He knew exactly what this was doing to me, the thrill of
exposing our perversities to others, the way blood surged to my pussy at the
very idea of it. Yet, this proved to be remarkably difficult. It had been so
easy to talk to Torsten about my desires in bed, with just the two of us, but
to form those words, to articulate those acts, those fetishes while staring
into the eyes of a stranger, a stranger I did not trust, someone dangerous--
Smythe laced his fingers and leaned forwards in his seat, his face inches from
mine. Like some curious Arab perfume, his scents were a cacophonic mix of
flowers, of tobacco and the scent of some exotic animal I could not place. His
eyes were still half-lidded, yet keen, dark, sharp. "I am listening, my dear."
I swallowed, licked my lips. "We came here to find him men."
Torsten yanked on my chain and smacked me on the ear. "Little bitch!" he
growled, grabbing me by the hair. "That's not what you said that morning in
bed," he sing-songed, "with your little tongue between my legs. Now tell him
why you wanted to find men for me. What you wanted to do with us."
I blinked tears of pain from my eyes, trembling, forcing myself to look Smythe
in the eye. "I--I wanted to watch him."
Torsten was about to discipline me again, but Smythe raised an eyebrow and
smiled warmly at me, lifting my chin with his hand. "Well, well. In that case,
you and I have something in common, my dear. I quite prefer watching, myself."
"You wanted to do more than watch," Torsten crooned.
My tongue was thick in my mouth; my pussy clenched between my legs again and
again. "I wanted to taste him," I murmured. "I wanted to taste other men's
cocks from his ass."
"Oh-ho-ho," Smythe laughed, leaning back in his seat, crossing his legs and
slapping the armrests. "Is that really what gets you going, my child? Well,
well. Are there any other... quirks I should know about?"
Torsten chose that moment to bring his other hand between my buttocks, pressing
on my anus with his fingertips. "She quite likes being sodomised herself. Don't
you, pet?"
"Yes," I gasped, shivering.
Torsten let go of my hair and grabbed my chain again, thrusting his fingers
inside of my ass so fast I couldn't not cry out. He kissed my cheek, laughing
into my ear. "Tell him you want a big fat cock in your ass. Tell him."
Smythe's mouth curled in a sneer and he waved his hand. "That's quite enough;
there's no need for such vulgarity."
"Please," I cried, had to let it out, the words tumbling rapidly out of my
mouth. "I want a big fat cock in my ass."
Smythe burst out laughing, shaking his head. "You are quite the little slut, my
dear," he said in a tone that made chills run down my spine. Whenever Torsten
had called me names, he had meant them as compliments, as things he relished.
With Smythe, I wasn't quite sure that was the case. But as usual, his face,
even when smiling, was a mask.
"However," he said, pulling a pair of glasses and a little black book from his
pocket, "I wish to strike a bargain with both of you."
Torsten pulled his fingers out and wiped them on a handkerchief. "We're
listening."
Smythe looked at him over his glasses, speaking rapidly like an overzealous
accountant. "I can give you what you want, you know, and more--a special
privilege granted to but a few, in a few moments. But in turn, I wish to see
you--" he pointed his pen at Torsten--"fucking her." He pointed his pen at me.
"As father and daughter. Not now, but at a more opportune time." He turned back
to his notebook. "I'm quite full up, but I think I could squeeze you in on the
weekend over the Solstice. The Saturday." He looked up. "What do you say?"
We were stunned. I had to look down to cover up my incredulous laughter--Smythe
probably noticed but chose to ignore me, waiting for Torsten's answer. I could
hear Torsten opening and closing his mouth, astounded.
"Well." Torsten drummed at the arm of his chair. "You won't have your period
then, my dear?" he asked me, deliberately vulgar to offend Smythe's
sensibilities, in order to buy himself time.
I did not mind the vulgarity; I was still too astonished at the surreality of a
man wanting to buy an incestuous peepshow from us. I shook my head. "No."
"That's settled, then," Smythe said, tucking his glasses and his book back into
his pocket. He extended his hand to Torsten, and as Torsten shook it, I
shuddered again, expecting lightning and thunder: if Torsten had a soul, I was
sure that he had just sold it, and thrown mine into the bargain. I scolded
myself inwardly, telling myself I was an idiot, that it was the drug talking,
that perhaps I was just jealous. Or perhaps it was because I'd so rarely seen
anyone overwhelm Torsten, bossing him around the way Smythe did--Torsten had
always been the most powerful man I had ever known. Yet I was sure he had plans
of his own for Smythe, nefarious ones, all running through his head at this
very moment. Perhaps he was only biding his time, ready to swallow up this
little Napoleon so that he could annex his empire.
I wouldn't mind having this house to live in, I thought to myself as I crawled
across the floor, following Torsten as Smythe led us through a secret
passageway behind the bookshelf. Of course there was a secret passageway, of
course: mercifully, Torsten allowed me to get up on my feet as we descended a
narrow flight of stairs into the cellar. I could hear the noises of sex above
us, but also below us, if fainter: the moans sounded like those of a young man.
The small room was lit like a photographer's darkroom, with only a single red
light. I could make out a chaise longue and a few cabinets and facing them,
something that looked like a hammock or a swing. A sex sling, then, something I
had only seen in pornographic drawings. For in it lay a young man--I could only
make out his youth by the firmness of his skin, of his muscles; I couldn't see
his face as it was thrown back, masked, his throat bobbing with his moans. And
the cause of his moans stood between his legs: my eyes flew wide in shock as I
realised the other man was easing his entire hand inside the youth. He must
have been working on him for a while, as I realised the youth's stomach was
spattered with sperm, his cock and balls bound, hard, dragging across his belly
as the other man moved his hand inside of him. The man never turned to us, he
was that focused on his task: I wondered if he had performed like this for
others before.
Smythe cleared his throat.
The man turned a little to look at us. He was middle-aged, heavily built, with
dark, slicked-back hair and a small beard. He was still clothed but had cast
off his jacket and tie. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows--I realised
both his hands were encased in leather gloves and that his forearms were
covered in thick grease. He said nothing, just acknowledged us with a nod and
turned back to the youth instead.
"Acheron. Takes you to Hell and back, you see," Smythe smirked with such
smugness that I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd come up with the nickname
himself. He walked over to the young man and petted his hair. "This lucky young
fellow here is, for the time being, only to be known by the name Acheron has
given him. He gives all his playmates names, you see. What is your name, my
lad?"
The boy let out the most awful, terrifying of moans, a moan of such shame and
pleasure it made me shiver. "H-Hole," he stammered.
I shivered again at the way the boy said it, at his joy of being humiliated so,
but also recognised that desire in myself--to be reduced to but a body part, to
be but a recipient of the desire of another, of someone greater than myself.
Was this what I, too, looked like when I abandoned myself, gave myself to
Torsten completely? For a third time, I shivered, swallowed against the pull of
the collar upon my neck.
"Yes, my boy," Smythe said, patting the boy's cheek. "A hole is all you are
tonight. Isn't that right, Acheron?"
"Quite right indeed," Acheron purred, and I was surprised to learn his voice
was that of an upper-class Englishman as well; deep, melodic. I'd taken him for
a commoner; he seemed like such a brute, like the rough trade Torsten preferred
for his homosexual exploits. In fact, he was a little too perfect. I turned to
Torsten and he was all but drooling: for a brief moment, I wondered if Smythe
had not been spying on us, having found Torsten someone who matched his
preferences exactly. And with his cruelty, Acheron had captivated me, too, even
if I was disturbed to admit it: the strength and the concentration with which
he moved his hand in and out of the young man reminded me of Torsten's own
power, of those two times Torsten had performed the same act upon me.
Yet this was far more violent a version of that act, and whereas ours had been
deeply intimate, this was presented to us as a performance, the presence of
onlookers a part of the young man's humiliation. Presently, Acheron twisted his
hand inside the boy and pulled it out once more. It was fully closed into a
fist; the boy sobbed hopelessly as it left his ass gaping open wide like some
grotesque, red flower, so awful a sight it turned my stomach. Lubricant
dribbled out of his distended ass and splashed onto the tiled floor; Acheron
stood there quietly, letting the boy's ass close further and further with each
of his sobs.
Smythe sprawled on the chaise and lit a cigarette, twisting his cane as he
watched. "Excellent work, old chap. Please, do continue."
Acheron glowered at him, clearly finding his presence an annoyance. Smythe must
have been paying him very well, I thought; perhaps the war had robbed Acheron
of his fortunes, too, like it had done to so many aristocrats. Deliberately
defying Smythe, he waited a while, dipping his hand into the bucket of grease
that stood beside the sling. He started to ease his hand inside again, but this
time, he leaned over the boy, whispering something to him so that we couldn't
hear. Whatever it was, it made the boy moan even louder. As Acheron's gloved
fist slipped inside the boy again and he turned his hand, I quivered all over,
my pussy pulsing again and again: the very sight was so overwhelming in its
intensity I felt as if I were the one in the sling, that it was my ass that was
being stretched so sweetly, so completely. The way Acheron rolled his wrist's
bones just inside the boy's sphincter made my breath stop, just as it did to
the boy: when Acheron slapped his cheek and reminded him to breathe, I jerked
as the boy did.
For long moments, we just stood there and watched. I had no idea how long we
had been there, isolated from daylight as we were; even as we had entered,
Acheron must have been at work for the better part of an hour. At some point,
Torsten moved to sit beside Smythe on the chaise: he was hard in his trousers,
yet I realised Smythe wasn't. I wondered if he was completely impotent, because
if this was not enough to bring on an erection, what was? What if our incest
wouldn't be able to stir him, either, and he would turn his wrath on us like a
Grand Guignol murderer, masturbating over our dead bodies? And I had thought
Torsten had been the potential passion killer, I laughed to myself
hysterically.
Yet it was now Acheron's low, chuckling, purring laughter that drew my
attention, adoration. He spread the boy's buttocks to show us he had inserted
his entire forearm up to his elbow. It was a horrific sight, yet so sublime it
was spiritual: the boy had gone completely quiet and his breathing had stilled,
as if he were asleep. Astonished, I watched as Acheron removed the boy's mask--
still shielding his victim's face from us--and kissed him into wakefulness. It
was such a tender gesture from a man who had his fist inside of another, but
again I remembered my own experience and how I had feared death then, how even
Torsten had turned tender, had had tears in his eyes as he had held my life in
his hand the way Acheron now held the boy's.
"Are you satisfied, Hole?" he murmured.
"I'm satisfied," the boy slurred, kissing him back. "Thank you, sir. Thank
you."
When the boy was fully awake, Acheron replaced his mask and withdrew his hand,
kissing the boy once more. Yet at that moment, the legs of the chaise creaked
and a high-pitched moan pierced the quiet of the room: it was Torsten, sliding
to his knees at Acheron's feet, insane, mad from despair. "Please," he begged,
his eyes feverish. He nuzzled Acheron's erection through his trousers. "Please,
please--"
"Insolent boy," Acheron growled and smeared his wet hand all over Torsten's
face. Torsten screamed, spasmed, jerking so violently that I was sure he was
coming in his trousers; he moaned and lapped at Acheron's hand, lapped at it,
smeared his hair and neck with it, sobbing in gratitude.
But Acheron shoved him down. "Stay there." He helped the boy out of the sling
and took him upstairs.
When Acheron had left, Smythe nudged Torsten with his shoe and tutted. "For a
so-called libertine, your manners are atrocious. Never interrupt a scene like
that if you are not invited to do so," he snapped. "Least of all at one of my
events." He gave Torsten's belly a light, but firm kick. "Do you hear me?"
Torsten groaned and dragged himself onto the chaise, taking out his
handkerchief to mop himself. As I had suspected, he had ruined his trousers;
when he took his cock out, it was still hard, not showing any signs of going
down.
Smythe chuckled and nudged Torsten's erection with his cane. "Impressive; I
knew you'd like Acheron. However, his pets need a little... tending before he
is ready for another round; we owe him that. He'll give the boy a cup of tea
and a few more kisses, then send him on his way."
"God." Torsten cupped his hand over his cock to shield it from Smythe; he
slumped back against the wall, still panting heavily. "One night is not going
to be enough. I--"
Smythe leaned his hands and his chin on his cane. "Not for a beginner, no. I am
told it can take weeks for the recipient to learn how to take an entire hand."
Torsten and I exchanged glances. Smythe was right; I had had enough trouble
inserting the dildo inside Torsten earlier that week. Did this mean Smythe was
going to ask us to fuck for him more than once? Or to perform some dangerous,
yet unheard-of fetish for him? I felt distinctly uneasy again, but Torsten was
so mellow from his orgasm he ignored Smythe's hints and lit a cigarette.
"Plenty of time before Midsummer," he said breezily and blew smoke rings into
the air.
Smythe said nothing, but from the look in his eyes, I wondered.
But it was then that Acheron returned, pulling on a fresh pair of leather
gloves. Without saying a word, he plucked the cigarette from Torsten's mouth
and threw him face down onto the floor, then sat on him, uncaring of Torsten's
screams and protests. He straddled Torsten's back, then yanked his head back by
the hair. "I thought I told you to stay on the floor," he said, calmly. He
prised Torsten's jaw open and inserted four of his fingers into his mouth,
suffocating him with them. "Or is it that you like to make me angry? So that I
will punish you? Hmm?"
Torsten gagged, choked, screamed his answer through Acheron's hand, and it was
in the affirmative. His face was red, his veins bulging; he was hysterical from
arousal and what looked like genuine fear. Torsten, the man who had paid
prostitutes for simulated rape; yet now that he had truly lost control, he was
shaking, quivering from lust. When Acheron spun him onto his back and started
to undo his clothes, Torsten's cock was harder than ever before, his balls so
firm and high I wondered if he wasn't going to come there and then.
When Torsten was fully undressed, Acheron got up and pulled him to his knees.
"What are you going to be for me tonight, boy?"
Torsten tried to mouth Acheron through his trousers again, but Acheron slapped
him, a hard slap that rang in the room, sending Torsten's hair flying. "Answer
me."
"A--a hole," Torsten panted, glaring up at him.
Acheron slapped him again, this time on the other cheek. "Wrong. I already had
a hole in here tonight. What will you be for me, boy?"
"Whatever you wish, sir," Torsten groaned, drunk from pain, now clawing at his
own thighs, presumably so as not to touch his own cock.
"Now, that is the right answer," Acheron chuckled, his voice lowering into a
melodic, feline purr. It was exactly the same way Torsten always spoke to me,
and I was sure Torsten had noticed, deriving incestuous pleasure from being
beaten up by a man who could have been his older brother, or even his father.
"Tell me, boy. Where do you want me to fuck you?"
Torsten licked his lips. "My pussy," he said, leering.
"Wrong." Acheron slapped Torsten so hard he crumpled onto the floor and sobbed,
sobbed hopelessly. Now he was truly out of his depth: I didn't know whether to
go and kiss him, take him away from all this or call for help. Smythe noticed
my distress and promptly, yanked my chain, pulling me to sit in front of him on
the floor, my head in his lap. My heart was galloping as I watched Acheron
cradle Torsten in his arms like a rag doll.
"There, there," Acheron said, bringing his hand to Torsten's cock--he was still
hard, his sobs and tears indistinguishable from those of pleasure, his face
twisted in perverse lust as Acheron kissed his tears away. "I mean to fuck you
like a man," Acheron said, cooing, talking to him slowly and clearly as if
explaining things to a child. "And what does a man have down there? Hmm?" He
brought his hand between Torsten's legs, and from the way Torsten's eyes now
bulged, the way he now gagged, I was sure Acheron must have inserted a finger.
"What's this dirty little place called? Where shit comes out from?"
"My ass," Torsten choked against his lips, his face visibly flushed even in the
red light.
"That's right," Acheron said in a condescending tone, moving his hand. "This is
not a sweet little pussy, is it? Not like on your lady friend, no," he
murmured. "It's a dirty little shithole, isn't it?"
Torsten wailed, sobbing into Acheron's shoulder. "Yes. Oh, God, yes--"
"And that's exactly why I'm going to fuck it," Acheron said softly, took his
finger out and licked it. "And that's what I'm going to call you, Ass." He
helped Torsten into the sling, talking gently as if he was a nurse and not a
torturer. "That's what you are going to be for me, aren't you, my boy?" he
asked and Torsten just nodded, whimpering. Again, Acheron did everything
exactly as Torsten would have done himself: I shuddered, yet my pussy was
making a wet stain on the floor again, each touch of Smythe's cane brushing
against my flank sending orgasmic tremors through me.
Acheron was beautiful, beautiful, and for a moment, I envied Torsten,
especially as Acheron now spread him open wide, kissing him on the mouth deep
and long. Again, I was astonished by the tenderness he was capable of: he now
compensated for the pain he had given, pleasuring Torsten with his kisses, with
a few, light caresses on his cock. When Torsten's moans had quieted down,
Acheron turned to me.
"And the little lady here?"
"She is to take part. A little bird tells me--" Smythe laughed. "No, my
darling. It's best that you tell him yourself. After all, you look so pretty
when you do."
Smythe let go of my chain and pushed at my back with his cane, gesturing for me
to crawl to Acheron's feet. Acheron lifted my chin, and from this distance I
could see his eyes were a striking, pale colour, too--to my knowledge, we had
no cousins in England, but he truly could have been one. He smiled widely, a
sharklike grin that unsettled me; it looked like he had too many teeth for his
mouth. Yet he was handsome, and just like Torsten, his sensuality and the power
with which he wielded it made me melt between the legs.
"Now. Tell me."
I swallowed. "I--"
"Yes?" he nodded, talking to me, too, as if I was a child.
"I want to taste him. After you've fucked him. I--" I cast my eyes down, trying
to stop myself from hyperventilating.
He lifted my chin again. "You want to suck my cock from him, girl? Taste his
ass? Is that it?"
I forced myself to look into his eyes. "Yes, sir," I whispered.
Without warning, Acheron dipped a finger inside Torsten, pushing it in to the
knuckle as Torsten wailed at the sudden intrusion, his body accepting it
despite the friction of the leather. Acheron worked his finger in and out for a
while, tilting his head, considering me. "What do you want to be for me
tonight, then, my child?"
I stiffened, fearing a blow. Yet he remained quiet, waiting for my answer, and
fearing he'd slap me if I didn't answer, I had to say something. "A mouth."
I closed my eyes and expected him to hit me. Instead, he laughed, a laughter as
warm as whisky, and painted my lips with the glycerine Torsten had slicked his
ass with. "And so you shall. Open up, little Mouth, there you are."
I opened my mouth and shivered in gratitude as I took his finger and sucked the
glycerine off it, adoring him, even if fear still coiled cold in my belly.
"Thank you, sir," I whispered as he took his finger out.
He patted my cheek and smiled, then turned to Torsten. Without a word, he took
his cock out, spat on it and started to push it inside Torsten's ass. Torsten
howled, clawing at the straps of the sling, forcing himself to breathe deep as
Acheron forced himself inside of him. Acheron's cock was by no means small: I
had heard whisper that no man under eight inches was admitted to the Hermes
Club on principle. I had helped Torsten prepare his ass myself, yet I still
winced at the speed and force with which Acheron now began to pound into him.
But Torsten, the old queen he was, had wanted to be ravished like a romantic
heroine, I knew it: he kept panting, gasping, moaning hopelessly as Acheron
took him, obviously loving every minute.
Soon enough, Acheron slid into him and out of him with ease. He took the sling
and used it to move Torsten back and forth on his own cock, groaning from the
bottom of his lungs with delight as he used Torsten's entire body to pleasure
himself. Our having interrupted his scene with the boy, he might not have come
at all yet; no wonder, then, that he now fucked Torsten furiously, taking his
frustrations out on him. He pounded into Torsten so angrily that Torsten was
hanging on for dear life, gripping the straps tight, keening, his head lolling
off the sling just as the boy's had done. He couldn't touch his cock that way,
and it slid over his belly, leaving wet streaks with each one of Acheron's
thrusts. I wondered how much sperm there was even left in his balls after two
ejaculations; yet the way Acheron now ground into him seemed to hit his
prostate every time, given how wet he was.
Yet I wanted to taste his ass so much, so much: I dared make a little pleading
noise.
"Hmm?" Acheron said, welcoming the pause, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Sir, may I please have a taste?"
He shook his head. "Only if you let me look at your pussy. Get on your back and
show it to me, spread it for me."
I laid down on my back and spread my legs, and nearly came the very moment I
spread the lips of my pussy, displaying myself to him. It was then that Smythe
chose to bring his hand to my pussy, too, spreading me even wider. Oh, I hated
him, hated him, yet trembled as he framed my clitoris with his fingers. "It is
a pretty little cunt indeed," he murmured, and I swear I trickled from sheer
horror as he gave it a little rub.
Acheron howled, digging his hands into Torsten's hips as he watched us, his
eyes flashing so that I could tell he was near orgasm. "Give me a taste," he
panted, "give me a taste."
Smythe let go; I got to my knees and rubbed my pussy, then lifted my fingertips
to Acheron's mouth. He keened as he tasted me, then bit down so hard I
screamed, afraid he truly would gnaw my fingers off. He shook his head like a
dog tearing meat off a bone; I was pulled against his hip and clung to him,
crying, begging for mercy.
"Please, please, let go, please; it hurts--"
He spat my fingers out and laughed, then pulled out of Torsten's body. "Open
up, Mouth. And put your hand on your pussy again. I want to see how much you
love it."
I did as I was told, so close to orgasm now I could barely move. Acheron held
his cock but inches from me, rich from the scent of glycerine, pre-ejaculate,
Torsten's ass.
"Please," I gasped.
He slid his cock into my mouth and oh, bliss, bliss--I savoured Torsten's
taste, tumbling towards orgasm when suddenly, Acheron withdrew and pulled my
hands off. "Did you really fall for that?" he tutted at me pityingly. "You are
not to come until I tell you to." He turned to Smythe. "Hold her arms back."
"Gladly," Smythe said, then hooked the handle of his cane into my wrist cuffs.
I moaned in despair but he didn't care; he put his foot against my back,
pushing me forwards, my arms straining, burning.
Acheron turned to Torsten, staring deep into his eyes as he slid himself back
inside. "Now. Have you got a little something for me here?" he said, rolling
his hips. "My pets often leave me little presents because they want to taste
them later. Just like your little princess here does."
"Oh, God--no, I'm sorry, no," Torsten stammered, panting into Acheron's kiss.
"I always clean up, I--"
He was apologising for the fact I'd cleaned him, oh, God. He wanted it, then,
truly wanted it.
"Perhaps I can still find something," Acheron said conversationally. "Maybe the
day I fuck you with my fist? Would you like that? Hmm?"
"Yes, oh, God, please, please, please--"
"Because that's what you are, isn't it? You and your girl," he said,
withdrawing, then walking around the sling and yanking Torsten's head down,
holding his cock up to his mouth. "Both little tasters, aren't you?"
"Yes," Torsten panted, trying to swallow him into his mouth.
Acheron pushed him out of reach. "Touch your cock."
Torsten did as he was told, masturbating himself furiously, his ass spasming so
that I knew he was close. "Please, sir, please."
"Is that you want? What are you? A little shit-licker?"
"Yes, sir, I am, please--please let me taste it, please--"
But his plea was chocked by Acheron's cock. With a deep groan, Acheron grabbed
the sling with one hand, Torsten's neck with another and shoved himself deep
inside Torsten's throat. Torsten coughed, gagged, and I could see Acheron's
cock as it moved into his throat: my own pussy pulsed again, again, and I
wondered if I was going to come right now, without touching myself. Yet it was
Torsten who came, now: he jerked his cock so fast his hand blurred on it, his
ejaculate now clear and watery, spraying all over his stomach. He was still
coming when Acheron pulled his cock out and began to fuck his ass again,
Torsten howling, his voice turning into high-pitched shrieks as Acheron buried
himself into his balls. He fucked Torsten furiously, his face beading with
sweat.
"Mouth," he barked over his shoulder and Smythe let me go. "Come here."
I made to suck his cock, but instead, he growled and took my by the hair,
pressing my face against his buttocks. "Lick it. Lick it so I can blow a big
load in your husband's ass."
I moaned as he let go, my hands shaking as I unbuckled his belt from behind and
lowered his trousers, his underpants. I nearly gagged as I saw, felt how hairy
his ass was, like an animal's: yet this was what I had wanted in some twisted
dream or another, I knew it. Secretly, I had wanted something that was the
opposite of Torsten's shaven ass, the asses of women, all of them clean and
safe. This was the unsafest I had ever been, and just like Torsten, I loved it,
the sick creature I was. Acheron's ass smelled of sweat, of must, and as I
spread his buttocks, I couldn't smell anything, see anything in the red light
of the room. It terrified me, yet that was exactly why I closed my eyes and
forced myself to lick his ass, lick it as worshipfully as I would lick
Torsten's, sobbing at his taste. It wasn't completely clean, but it didn't
taste like shit either--or how would I even have known what shit tasted like?
Because whatever it was that I was tasting, it was salty, dank but also somehow
rich, sweet, a taste entirely new to my mouth.
Acheron groaned loudly as he felt my tongue: for a moment, he pulled back just
so he could grind his ass into my face and I let him, pushed back in turn,
pushing my tongue as deep inside of him as I could, swirling it inside his
asshole. He let out an astonished, high gasp, then jerked, and I pushed harder,
fucked him with my tongue, fucked both him and Torsten with my face, moaning
into him like a madwoman. And from his next cry, I knew he had started to come
undone: Torsten, too, shouted as Acheron rammed into him with all his strength
in half a dozen short, sharp strokes, then stayed still.
I moved aside to kneel beside them, just as I had before, awaiting orders.
Acheron looked down at me, unseeing, then slid his cock out of Torsten's body.
I opened my mouth but he shook his head, then suddenly leaned over Torsten and
slapped him with all his might. Torsten screamed, his ass spasming, beading
with Acheron's come.
"Yes, that's what I want you to do," he purred at Torsten. "Shit."
He slapped Torsten again and the reflex itself pushed more come out before
Torsten did so consciously: rearing back from the blow, sobbing deep in his
throat, Torsten curled up, shitting Acheron's come out. His asshole looked
beautiful, a little swollen mouth pursing out sperm, dribbling it out in thick
chunks, bubbles. Splash, another splash as it fell onto the tiles, a massive,
voluminous ejaculation, Torsten whimpering quietly as Acheron stroked his half-
hard cock and crooned at him, coaxing the last of it out.
I looked at the puddle, knowing what Acheron wanted of me, but he made me suck
his cock first. It was, indeed, clean, yet tasted heavenly nevertheless: he
allowed me to touch myself again, too, and I cried out in joy as the waves of
orgasm were now free to roll through me. Yet the moment when he pushed me face
down into the puddle of sperm and put his foot on my neck did I reach my peak:
those waves turned into a tsunami, crashing and breaking through me, each lick
and each swallow forcing more cataclysmic tremors through me. As I drank in
Acheron's sperm, I drank in orgasm itself: I kept licking, kept swallowing, a
weaving line of fire surging from my throat to my pussy to my womb, making me
roll and writhe and gag on the floor in utter ecstasy. Another man's cock,
another man's sperm from the ass of my Daddy, my Daddy. I sobbed in gratitude,
sobbed and kissed Acheron's shoe as he released me, then kissed both his feet,
hugged them against my face.
"Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you."
He petted my hair. "You've been a very good girl, Mouth." He helped me to sit
on the chaise longue, then wrapped a blanket around me. "I will be with you in
a moment."
Torsten had already started to struggle out of the sling, but Acheron paused
him with a hand on his chest, smiling. "Where do you think you're going?"
Torsten glared at him, his hair in a mess, but didn't say anything as he lay
back in the sling.
"I'm not going to even attempt the full hand tonight," Acheron said softly,
"but I need to see how open you are for me, Ass. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Torsten whispered, sighing ecstatically into Acheron's kiss.
He began to work his hand into Torsten slowly--three fingers slipped inside
easily with just glycerine and sperm. After his orgasms, Torsten merely lay
there, happy and relaxed, his eyes closed, his mouth open, knowing he was the
one being worshipped. He smiled blissfully as Acheron scooped up some grease
and managed to get all four fingers in on the first try.
"My, my. You are open," Acheron murmured and kissed him again.
"Thanks to you, sir," Torsten crooned, laughing against Acheron's beard. "Oh--"
"That's it. Good boy, good boy. Do you think you can take it up to the palm?"
"Yes," Torsten panted, clasping Acheron's neck, now. "Please, sir. Please. Your
hand feels so good, oh, God, so good," he groaned, rubbing his sweaty forehead
against Acheron's. "Please don't stop. Please."
"I won't; I won't."
Acheron twisted his hand once, twice, three times and there, there: he was
inside Torsten up to his thumb. I trembled as I watched it, imagining those
knuckles as if they were inside of me, in my pussy, in my ass: Torsten
stiffened and stopped breathing, then let out a series of ululations as Acheron
began to fuck him a little with his hand.
"That's it, that's it," Acheron said, pushing his hand as deep as it would go
while his thumb still remained outside of Torsten's body, rubbing softly on his
perineum. "This is where we'll start, next time," he said, kissing Torsten
again, chuckling against his mouth. "Would you like that, Ass?"
"Yes," Torsten laughed, dizzy, his eyes crossed from delight. He covered
Acheron's mouth with kisses.
"Then make a mark," Acheron said, taking his hand out and lifting it to
Torsten's face. "Leave a little bitemark there, just there, to show me how deep
I got it."
Torsten did, but only after he had licked and sucked each finger clean,
lovingly, reverently. By the time he had started to nibble on the glove, both
men burst out laughing, far from a brutal dominator and his victim, now; their
joy infected me, too, and I felt myself growing warm, light with relief.
I glanced at Smythe and he was leaning back in his seat, smoking a cigarette,
looking very pleased with himself, the producer and director of this floorshow.
As Acheron helped Torsten out of the sling and wrapped him in a blanket as
well, Smythe blew a long plume of smoke into the air and stumped his cigarette.
"Time for tea and crumpets, I think."
***** Chapter 7 *****
Torsten and I approached the Solstice with trepidation, a mix of sensuality and
horror. If anything, the idea of performing for Smythe made our own encounters
even more intimate, private. At night, we fucked furiously, each of us making
the other swear they wouldn't share this position or that act with Smythe, with
Acheron. The pressure that was upon us spurred Torsten's creativity to new
heights: he bought new torture implements, new toys, studied new ways of tying
me up, just to see how much my mind and my body could take.
We pushed each other deeper and deeper into the darkest fetishes, pushing the
limits of what we considered disgusting or even dangerous. We dared risk the
deepest of anal explorations, going further and further each time. He gave me
long, luxurious enemas of water, honey, milk. He spent hours treating me,
tasting my ass, fucking it with his fingers and his tongue, his cock and his
toys. I learned to love pushing fluids out of my ass, that amazing feeling as
the pressure of a heavy enema got released, as it exploded all over my
buttocks, all over Torsten's waiting face. As he lay there, laughing, covered
in milk, I would pull him into my arms and kiss him, my heart light. "Daddy,
you're so silly," I would croon in my little girl's voice; I had never loved
him more.
And he, too, was learning. Each time he came home from his sessions with
Acheron, I would ritualistically kiss his ass, ask him how deep Acheron had got
his hand. He'd never managed to insert it completely and Torsten hated to admit
that; it was a dent in his pride, as if he was a courtesan priding herself on
her excesses. Sometimes he would groan in frustration, embarrassment in my arms
when I asked him. Yet I silenced him by kissing his ass, taking it with my
fingers as Acheron had taken it, demanding my share each time, reclaiming
Torsten for myself.
The elasticity of his ass, the control he now had over his anal muscles
astounded me: he could take much bigger toys, much more of my hand, now, but it
was at the art of the enema that he excelled. He preferred thick, heavy cream;
just as he had done to me, I would fill him up while stroking him lovingly. Yet
even at these games, he was the one dominant, submitting me to the worship of
his ass. He would tie me up, lay me down in the bathtub and tease me, torture
me: he could hold a full pint of cream inside of himself and present his
buttocks to me, fuck my mouth with his ass, but then withdraw just as I started
to suck the cream out of him.
"Please," I would beg, stroking his cock with my bound hands, desperate for
him. Yet he would play with my pussy, finger it, bring me to the edge of orgasm
before giving me a single drop. When he sensed I was close, he would purse
small beads, small trickles of the cream out of his ass to tease me. Sometimes,
the very sight of them sluicing out of the now-swollen bud of his ass was
enough to trigger my orgasm; often I was screaming before the cream even hit my
tongue. And it was then that he would release the entire enema, splashing,
pouring down my face until I was coughing, gurgling it out, sobbing in ecstasy.
My absolute favourite of his new toys was what was now tucked inside his
bedroom canopy, only to be taken out for our private games. He'd got an idea
for it from Smythe's bedroom, of the Rococo painting of a woman in a swing and
a man peeking underneath her skirts. Yes, it was a swing, and a very simple one
at that: two ropes and a narrow, polished plank of wood. Sometimes, he would
simply sit in bed and read a magazine as I swung above him in some pretty
costume or another. On those days he would be content to glance up at me from
time to time, adoring, perhaps blowing me a kiss. On others, he would lower the
swing and insist I sit in it with no panties on, so that he could kneel on the
bed and lick me each time I passed his face. It was always a slow play,
delightful, sweet; we spent hours amusing ourselves with the swing, both of us
taking turns on it, one admiring and pleasuring the other from underneath.
***
With June, my birthday arrived, and with it, the memories of our night in Paris
with Guillaume. "I haven't forgotten what I promised that time," Torsten said,
pulling me into his arms as I arrived home from work. "I've called Acheron over
tonight," he said, dropping little kisses all over my face, squeezing my
breasts. "So that we can give you a good seeing to."
I sighed into his kiss and wrapped my arms around his neck. "I should like
that. As long as I don't have to do much. I'm absolutely exhausted."
"You need to have a nap. You go to bed and I'll prepare you something."
I raised my eyebrow. "As long as it won't cut the pleasure. Or give me a
terrible hangover."
"You're nagging."
I let my head fall. "I'm sorry, Daddy. It's just that work is driving me
insane."
He sighed in exasperation, gathering me against his chest. "If you are not
going to appoint a new executive, I will. We can't let this go on; you're
destroying yourself."
"Says the man who's an expert on drug cocktails."
"Nagging, Laura."
I groaned loudly. "I'm sorry. You can take it out on me tonight. I could use a
good thrashing."
"Just promise me you'll appoint someone else before autumn."
"I will."
He sunk his fingers into my hair and lifted my head gently, staring into my
eyes. There was genuine worry in his eyes and I fancied he looked older, the
lines on his face deeper. "Don't just say that, Laura. Swear."
I put my hand over his heart. I was so weary, so tired of it all; the business
could go to hell for all I cared. "I swear," I said quietly. "On my love for
you, Daddy."
His face broke into a smile, his eyes lighting up, the lines around his eyes
soft, now. "That's my girl." He patted my ass. "Now, off to bed with you. I'll
wake you up well before he arrives."
I didn't have much time to enjoy the effects of the drink he gave me, as it
sent me to sleep almost immediately. What I do remember was a sweet lightness
that settled into my belly, a relaxation that felt spiritual in its depth; I
remember wishing I had pen and paper beside the bed so I could compose poetry.
I wasn't the poetic type at all; blearily, I wondered what the main ingredient
of his drug was even as I fell into a deep, luxurious sleep.
***
To my great surprise, I woke up refreshed, energetic, if still staggering a
little. Torsten helped me into the bathroom and we showered, shaved and rinsed
each other together. The water and the cleansing woke me up marvellously,
filling my hips with heat, making my movements more sensuous, languid. As we
stood under the shower together for one last wash, I sighed happily and held
him against my chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.
"What have you got planned for me, then, Daddy?" I murmured.
"Two men to discipline you, to fuck you, to make you beg for mercy, just as I'd
promised," he said and cupped my buttocks. "Do you think you could take it?"
"Absolutely," I purred, stroking his buttocks in turn. "When do we start?"
"We already have," he said and turned off the shower. "Turn around."
I was still so blissful from the drug, still so pleasantly sore from the enema
that I didn't protest as he started to finger glycerine into my ass. I heard a
scrape of metal and knew which toy he had picked up from the side of the bath:
it was a large, egg-shaped plug made of solid steel, as wide as my own hand. It
always took him a while before he could insert it into my ass completely; I
spent at least a quarter of an hour on all fours as he slowly eased it inside
of me, rubbing my pussy all the while. I begged for him to let me come, but he
stopped stroking my pussy and forced me to contain my orgasm, telling me to
save it for him, for Acheron. That was the worst torture of all: the drug was
of the sort that made self-control almost impossible, and I clawed at the
enamel of the tub as he kept stretching me, opening me for fucking.
Finally, the toy slipped fully inside. I jerked downwards from his touch, but
it was no use: the plug weighed heavily inside of me, its broad base nestling
between my buttocks as he let go. I was beyond moaning, only panting against
the side of the tub, not letting out a single noise even as he smacked both my
buttocks. I was frozen in place, shivering, cold.
"There we are," he said and stepped out of the tub, wrapping his bathrobe
around him. "Just one last touch and we're ready," he murmured and reached into
his pocket. He took out a chain, this time one longer and slightly thicker than
the leash he had used on me at the party, and attached it to the ring at the
base of the plug. "There. Come on." He gave me the end of the chain and held my
bathrobe out to me.
He warmed me up again by the fire, with kisses and caresses. It was hard for me
to sit with the plug inside of me, so I lay with my head in his lap while he
gave me sips of brandy from his mouth. The stretch from the toy, the drugs, the
alcohol and Torsten himself lulled me into a soft, relaxed state. I nuzzled his
hand and murmured happily. "I almost don't want him to come, now," I said.
He petted my hair. "You'll enjoy it. I promise."
"What if I call you 'Daddy' by accident?"
"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it. Somehow I doubt Acheron of all
people would find it all that shocking."
"I'm starting to think most people do know the truth." Yet they still refused
to speak about it. Funny how many things, awful things people were willing to
keep quiet about, simply because the truth was too horrifying for them to
contemplate. "Aren't you scared? That one day they will--"
"Take you from me? Lock me up?" he murmured and kissed my hand. "I'd be a fool
not to worry. But, as it happens, I know similar things about most of the
judges and can use those things against them. Did you know Hawthorne fucks his
sister?"
I burst into laughter. "Those two scarecrows? No wonder they had to turn to
each other. Probably would never have got laid otherwise."
He emptied his glass and set it down, smacking his lips. "Whatever happens,
they're not going to take me alive."
I squeezed the fabric of his robe with my fingers. "Then I'm going with you. I
can't bear the thought of living without you." My worst nightmare: being left
alone without my father, my only means of escape from the world. Whenever I
thought of our age difference, I shut down, pushed the thought from my mind.
Yes, speaking of things too horrible to contemplate--I was no better than the
rest, wanting to ignore that particular horror completely.
He lifted me and hugged me against his chest. "We'll be together in Hell, I'll
make sure of it."
"Like Paolo and Francesca?" I grinned.
"Like Salome and Herod," he murmured and pulled me into a kiss.
***
It didn't take long from Acheron's arrival until we were all over each other.
The men had exchanged a few drinks and a few kisses, but as Torsten had
promised, I was to be the focus of their attention tonight. So there we sat on
the living room sofa, I completely naked between them, both of them with a hand
on my pussy, stroking me, fingering me, all three of us kissing furiously. I
hadn't taken more than one man since the orgy at the brothel--that was six
months ago, already?--and was desperate, hungry for the two cocks I now held in
my hands.
Acheron still wore his gloves, pushing two fingers inside of my pussy, and God,
the seams hurt, the friction hurt, the plug hurt but I loved it. Little did he
know this reminded me of the way Torsten had taken my virginity, what the scent
of pussy on leather did to me and why I was now writhing around his fingers. He
stared into my eyes as Torsten was busy holding my head back, biting and
kissing my neck like some vampire. Acheron chuckled and moved his fingers
inside of me, his nostrils flaring at my scent.
"Your husband is right," he said. "It is a sweet little baby pussy."
I whimpered into his bearded kiss, whimpered louder as Torsten pressed on the
end of my plug, both of them fucking me at once.
"What's that?" Acheron purred. "Does the little baby pussy want to get fucked?"
"Only my cock goes in there, remember," Torsten said, pausing in his kisses to
look at Acheron, serious, now.
"I do, I do," Acheron said, not taking his eyes off me, curling his fingers.
"You said nothing about my hand, however."
I screamed, but Acheron swallowed this scream from me, sucking my spit from me.
Torsten pulled us apart to kiss me in turn, but Acheron took him by the hair
and spat my saliva into his mouth. Torsten's eyes flew open wide and he
coughed, gagged in shock; now it was Acheron that he grabbed, kissing him
furiously. "God," Torsten snarled. "Off to the bedroom with you both. I'm going
to show you something."
And that something was me. Torsten told me to climb into the swing and I did,
watching the men undress each other underneath me. As they got onto the bed to
admire me, Torsten finally revealed why he had chosen to attach the chain to my
plug: now, he tugged on it so that I was sent swinging, yelping.
"You bastard," I gasped, struggling for balance, the plug so large it stayed
firmly inside of me as Torsten used the chain to control my movements.
"Such language!" Torsten tutted. "I think we need to do something about that."
He handed the chain to Acheron. "Would you mind?"
"Certainly not," Acheron said and lay down right underneath me. Torsten left
the room and Acheron spent long moments tugging me, moving me to and fro,
admiring me from below. He was completely naked now but for his gloves, those
infernal gloves he always wore, stroking his cock lazily as he watched me. I
squirmed, struggling to keep the plug inside of myself, clutching at the ropes
of the swing, my knuckles white. I guessed where Torsten had gone, and also
knew he did this to give Acheron some time to work on me, knowing from
experience how well Acheron could pull his subjects under.
"Perhaps I should fuck your little pussy while he's gone," Acheron leered,
sitting up and pulling me so close he could skim his fingers across my slit,
dip them into his mouth for a taste.
Terrified, I jerked, kicked, but then had to hold onto the ropes again as he
loosened the chain and let me swing back once more. "He would kill you."
Acheron tilted his head. "Perhaps." He trailed his fingers down his cock, his
mouth a lopsided snarl. "But you wouldn't. Oh, no; your little pussy would like
this inside of itself, wouldn't it?"
It did, oh, God, it did, but I feared pregnancy too much, and Torsten most
definitely would have torn him to pieces. I was about to tell him that, but
then he pulled me closer, reached underneath the swing and licked my pussy,
lapped at it hungrily, noisily. His beard scratched me wonderfully and I
struggled for balance once more, but this time from sheer arousal. I wanted to
slip down from the swing and ride his face, have him fuck me with his hand, his
cock--
"Sweet, isn't she?" Torsten said as he entered the room. As I had guessed, he
was carrying instruments of discipline in his hands, throwing all except his
cat o'nine tails upon the bed. The cat he held on to, running its soft tails
through his left hand over and over. It was the least cruel of all his toys,
something to warm me up with for the longest, darkest of sessions, the most
extreme of whippings: I shuddered as I calculated the possibilities of whatever
it was they had planned for me.
Acheron pulled back and licked his lips, looking at me. "Sweet indeed; so sweet
I could put her in my coffee."
I groaned at that remark, yet Torsten laughed. "We'll turn her sweeter yet." He
lit a cigarette. "Cleo."
I craned my neck more to see him better; he was now standing at the foot of the
bed, a few feet behind me.
"Yes, Daddy?" I said, automatically, realising my mistake only as he hit me
with the cat; I yelped and nearly fell off the swing, mortified.
"A pet name she uses of me," Torsten explained, weaving his cigarette through
the air. "Isn't that sweet?"
Acheron burst into laughter. "Oh, if I had a daughter like this, you can be
sure I'd fuck her," he smirked, again with that smile that looked like he had
too many teeth. He spoke so slyly I wondered if he did know, and was but
humouring us.
But then I could not think as Torsten knelt on the bed, lifted his hand and
snapped something beside my ear. "Remember these, my love?" He held out half a
dozen wooden clothespins in his hand.
"No," I winced and closed my eyes. "I mean, I do--"
"She doesn't like them," Torsten crooned past my legs at Acheron.
Acheron nodded, purred. "And that's exactly why she needs them." He reached
beside the bed for his discarded trousers and lifted out something else: a pair
of vicious-looking metal clamps, attached to each other with a chain. Oh, God.
He snapped their teeth in front of my face, leering. "These will hurt even
more, of course. But you would like that, wouldn't you, my dear?"
I said nothing, just turned my face away from his unbearable grin, my hair
falling into my eyes. He was as bad as Torsten, surer of my perversions than I
was. I panicked as I wondered what Torsten had told him about me, of how far I
could be pushed, of what my body could take. Acheron specialised in breaking
people, Torsten had told me; Smythe kept him not to reward his guests but to
make people pliant, obedient so as to exert control over them more easily. A
fist inside the body worked better than any truth serum did, he'd said, and I
did not doubt that for a second.
Yet, Acheron did not use the clamps on me yet: he stood up so he could lean in
to kiss me, cupping my breasts in his hands. "We can't let you think you can
get away with rudeness, my dear," he murmured onto my lips and I wondered if he
could feel my pulse; my heart was pounding at the scratch of his kiss, at the
thick, wet weight of his tongue in my mouth, his hairy chest against mine. He
squeezed my breasts harder, harder, the leather of his gloves creaking as he
did so. Finally, he closed his fingers around my nipples and pulled so hard I
swung forwards, screaming into his mouth.
"That's better," Torsten said, stroking my pussy from behind. "Hang onto her."
Acheron did, and Torsten took my chain, pulling the swing back so that I was
stretched between them, captured between the two pains in my nipples, in my
ass; I held the ropes in agony, sobbing and panting into Acheron's mouth.
"Please, please--"
"Oh, so you do want more?" Torsten chuckled. "She really is a terrible little
slut for pain, you know."
"More than her 'Daddy'?" Acheron said over my shoulder, twisting my nipples,
ignoring my moans.
"Oh, I should say so," Torsten said, and at that, he attached two, three, four
of the clothespins to my inner labia. The last two he used to pinch the outer
lips at the top; he framed my clitoris with them, snapping them on with such
cruelty that currents of pain flew from my pussy into my hips, making my lungs
spasm.
I sobbed into Acheron's face, stiffening from the pain: but it was then that
Torsten stood up, too, lifting my head from Acheron's shoulder. "Look him in
the eye," he said, a parent telling a child how to behave in front of guests. I
did, and all I could focus on was the hungry, wet gleam of Acheron's teeth as
he attached the clamps to my nipples. The pain was indescribable; my vision
swum and I feared I would pass out. I couldn't even cry; the pain stilled me
and silenced me completely. I stopped breathing, even, but Torsten flicked at
the clamps with his thumbs, still speaking in a scolding tone.
"Now, what do we say?"
"Thank you," I mouthed, barely audible. My head lolled to my chest as Torsten
let go, blue-white pain lashing me from my nipples to my pussy, my pussy to my
nipples, all of me taut, become but pain itself.
I could only hear Acheron's voice faintly, not make out the words he said as he
tugged on the chain between my nipples and pulled me closer. My body was made
of lava, of gold, of heat, pain, pain, pain. As Torsten's cat o'nine tails hit
my back, that felt distant, too; the sensation was pleasant in comparison and
if I could've moved, I would have leaned back into it. Yet Acheron had to hold
me up as Torsten whipped me: he pressed my legs together and moved me further
back on the swing so that I could remain seated. Acheron nuzzled my head up,
kissing me and kissing me after each stroke; deep, gentle kisses full of
wetness, slickness, heat.
Torsten paused, and I opened my eyes. He was giving me a chance to quit, to
step out of this swing once and for all, to stop the game. Acheron, too, held
my chin up and looked into my eyes, his face serious rather than wicked, now. I
closed my eyes again, drew in a deep breath and clasped the ropes; a shudder,
another, third sparked through me as I realised I did not want to let go. I
nodded at Acheron and he nodded back at Torsten, who now resumed his whipping,
drawing the heat from inside my body onto my back until it, too, was on fire.
This was far worse than being bound; the only thing that bound me to my torture
was myself, my own desire, my own hands clutching at the ropes. A terrible
little slut for pain, a terrible little slut for pain, a terrible little slut
for pain, Torsten's words echoed in the furnace of my body. And I admitted it
to myself, giving in to it, to my truest self: inwardly, I cried, cried in
gratitude to him, the only man who had known me even before I myself did.
Acheron had noticed how tight I was grasping the ropes; he had let go and lain
down underneath me. The look in his eyes was adoring, that of awe; yet that
hideous, wicked grin of his was back--from this distance, it looked as if he
had fangs. And then I saw the reason for his grin: I was dripping over him,
strings of my arousal falling onto his chest with each one of Torsten's blows.
Somehow, a cry broke out of me through the pain, a cry of astonishment as I saw
myself bead, glimmer, sparkle upon the tight black curls on his chest.
For one last time, Torsten hit me; this time, I was pushed so far forwards my
sap now splashed over Acheron's face. He moaned out loud, then smeared it all
over his face, snuffling into his palm, his cock dripping in his fist. When he
took his hand off his face, his eyes were feverish, the muscles on his cheeks
rippling, as if my very taste had sent his entire nervous system into chaos.
He got up, so full of power and fury that I thought he was going to throw me
down on the bed and fuck me, there and then. Not even Torsten would've been
able to stop him, I thought, and for a brief moment I imagined Acheron forcing
himself into my pussy, spraying me full of sperm--
Yet it was the rattan cane that Acheron now picked up from the bed.
"No," I slurred, already in agony all over, my vision clouded from pain.
Torsten knelt in front of me and slapped my pussy, the blow tugging at the
clothespins so painfully I nearly fell off the swing. "Liar. If you can still
speak, you are not hurting enough."
"But Daddy, please, please--" yet he pushed his fingers inside of my pussy,
stilling me with them, fucking me with them. My pussy made sloshing noises,
disgusting, dripping into his palm. Yet even through my own noises, I could
hear Acheron swishing the cane behind me, deliberately taunting me with its
whistle as Torsten laughed into my mouth.
"He'll give you six. And only upon the buttocks tonight," he said, mock-
merciful. He looked past me at Acheron, his eyes as stern as his voice,
commanding Acheron as much as he was commanding me. "Draw blood."
I was about to scream again, but then the first of Acheron's blows hit: the
sharp, white agony of it pierced me completely, silencing me once more. I bent
double from the pain and Torsten withdrew from me, withdrew his warmth and I
panicked, about to reach out to him. Yet it was the riding whip he now picked
up: he raised his arm and echoed Acheron's blow with one of his own. With it,
he struck one of the clothespins off my pussy, sending it skittering onto the
floor. My eyes rolled back in my head and I lurched; yet Torsten and Acheron
continued, merciless, one blow of the whip for one of the cane, snapping the
clothespins off me one by one. I could feel something warm trickling down my
buttocks; as if from behind glass I watched, mesmerised as I dripped onto the
bed in a mess of pussy juice and blood. Delirious, I laughed inwardly; pussy
juice and blood, pussy juice and blood: what could have been a more perfect
summation of my state?
After Torsten's final blow, my hands at last fell slack and I collapsed onto
the bed, into his arms, into the softness of the sheets, into sweet
unconsciousness.
When I woke up, the clamps were gone, the plug was gone, the swing rolled back
inside the canopy; the men had captured me between their bodies, pressing
against me from both sides, drawing me into the waking world with kisses and
caresses. I opened my eyes and saw Torsten smiling at me, cupping my face
lovingly. How long was I out? I wanted to ask, but only a moan emerged from my
mouth; Acheron's hairy body rubbed against my ravaged buttocks. He snarled and
cupped my breasts; Torsten slid down my body and buried his mouth in my pussy.
With their hands, their mouths, they savoured the inflorescences of pain they
had left upon my body, sucking and grabbing and drinking the nectar from me
until I was sobbing.
"She has found her voice, then," Torsten murmured softly, his moustache
glistening from me.
Acheron rubbed his cock between my buttocks, hissing in delight. "I quite like
it. Does she grow louder when she gets fucked?" he asked Torsten.
"Why don't we take a look and see?" Torsten said, pushing me aside so that he
could taste Acheron. When I turned around, I could see Acheron's cock was
stained with my blood; no wonder Torsten was now sucking it with such abandon,
lapping it clean.
Yet Acheron pushed him away, and again, as if from previous agreement, they
moved together to arrange me into a position that suited them best. Acheron
lifted my behind while Torsten pressed down on my shoulders: I lay with my ass
in the air, my back curved like a cat's as they took their positions on either
side of my hips. And I did grow louder as they both started to finger me, taste
me. One moustachioed mouth, one bearded mouth lapping at my pussy, my ass;
long, bare fingers and thick, gloved fingers reaching inside of me, fucking me
until I was wailing into the pillows. I looked over my shoulder and presently,
Torsten took four gleaming fingers out of my ass and offered them to Acheron:
Acheron took them into his mouth reverently, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he
sucked my taste off them.
"God," he moaned, holding Torsten's hand, leaning his cheek into his palm. "If
her little ass tastes that sweet, what does her shit taste like? Syrup?"
Torsten laughed and dipped his fingers into my ass again, easily, offering them
to Acheron once more. "Perhaps tomorrow morning, we will find out," he hissed,
crooning in delight as Acheron sucked his fingers, bit them; I could feel both
men's cocks jerking against my thighs in unison. I buried my face in the sheets
and groaned, not sure if it was at Torsten's filthiness or the thought of
waking up between the two of them. Or the fact that both of them were now
twisting fingers inside my ass, I had no idea how many, Torsten's tongue fast
and slippery on my pussy. I was burning up; I wanted to be filled completely
and could no longer remain silent.
"Please," I moaned. "Please, one of you, fuck me, please, fuck me, please--"
"And that's my cue," Acheron said and nodded towards the plug that now lay
unused at the foot of the bed. "Use that on yourself," he said to Torsten,
"while I soften her up."
I was about to say that I was soft enough already, but then I saw Acheron take
off his gloves and rub glycerine on both his hands, coating them up to his
wrists. I had been expecting this, but even if it was no surprise, even if I
was warm from pleasure-pain and arousal, I still stiffened, my spine locking
itself up.
"What's the matter?" Torsten said, oh-so-softly, leering, the words dancing
upon his tongue. "You are being granted a privilege, my child," he said and
kissed me. "He's never taken me without the gloves; in fact, I am a little
jealous," he laughed. He gathered some pillows so that he was half-sitting upon
the bed before me, then took the glycerine and with it, started to ease the
plug inside of himself, masturbating with it as he watched us.
I peeked from between my legs and now saw Acheron was sitting cross-legged
behind me, his prick fat and red against his stomach. I wanted to suck it so
much, have it inside of me so much, but then one of his hands was in my pussy,
one in my ass and I lost all sight and hearing. I had imagined he would start
slowly, but no, no; he pushed in as many fingers as he could in both of my
holes at once, curling his fingers inside of me, and I screamed into the
mattress. I could feel Torsten stroking my hair with his feet, hear him
chuckling: Acheron curled his fingers against the front wall of my pussy while
hooking his other hand inside my ass and lifted me until I felt he was going to
tear me in two. The violence of it, the pain of it--oh, it felt wonderful. I
had never been filled like this, ever; he used his hands so lightly and so
easily, yet with such force and pressure behind them that my spine was melting.
He pulled his fingers out of my ass while he kept milking my pussy with his
other hand; I could hear smacking noises and he was tasting my ass again,
huffing into his hand, and the very sound made me clench around his fingers. I
wailed, pushing myself back into his thrusts, then stiffening once more as he
slid his fingers back into my ass, rolling them inside of me. I thought I was
going to die from that very touch: each roll of his fingers shot white bolts of
light through my hips, rattling my bones, and my eyes snapped open. I found
myself staring at Torsten, found myself trembling on the edge of orgasm.
Torsten just caressed my cheek with the back of his hand, sticky from
glycerine. "Now, how does that feel?" he asked.
"Wonderful," I slurred, not sure if he could even make the word out; my tongue
was thick in my mouth. I was sure Acheron had all four fingers in my ass, now,
yes, I could feel his thumb dipping into my pussy to join his other hand. And
it was then that Torsten groaned, his head thrown back: I saw his flesh give,
the distended ring of his ass swallowing the gray steel of the plug, sucking it
inside of his body entirely. I shouted, shouted and at each one of my cries,
each clench of Torsten's asshole around the plug a beautiful, terrible wave of
orgasm rippled through me, burned through me, scorched me until I was nothing
but fire, a flame writhing upon the bed, all white and red and white and
perfect.
I was all heat, all ass, all pussy, all hungry whore's mouth as I leaned
forwards to suck Torsten's cock, as I lifted my hips to invite Acheron's hands
further in. The waves of my orgasm seemed neverending; I deliberately gagged
myself on Torsten's cock to wring out each and every tremor, threw myself upon
Acheron's thrusting, impaling hands to force every last spasm to course through
my body. I cried onto Torsten's cock, now, my tears mixing with my spit, my
mucus, my nose and mouth leaking all over his cock, his swollen balls.
I could distinctly hear Torsten whisper "My daughter, my daughter," so quietly,
perhaps so quietly Acheron didn't hear it for the noise he was making with my
orifices. I shuddered one last time in pure incestuous joy, at my father giving
me this, sharing his pleasures, his lovers with me this way. I was the luckiest
little girl in the world, the luckiest, and as I pulled back for air, coughing
up spit, dribbling on my Daddy's thigh, he too looked down upon me with such
love it seemed as if he was in pain. My beautiful, beautiful Daddy; I took his
hand from his hip and kissed it, held it against my cheek.
And all the while, Acheron kept fucking me. I was so loose, so relaxed from my
orgasm, now, that he had sensed his opportunity and removed his left hand from
my pussy. With its slickness, he wetted his right hand and twisted it ever
deeper into my ass. His movements were so soft, so clever, so fluid as he
screwed me open, twisting his hand inside of me over and over, skimming my most
sensitive parts with his fingertips, beckoning inside of me, inviting my ass to
open, open.
"My, my," Acheron purred fondly and dropped a kiss on my buttock, then turned
to Torsten. "Come here. Look. I think she could take it all. Don't you think
so?"
"Oh, my," Torsten said, laughing, impressed, spreading my buttocks. "I do think
you're right. What did I say about envying you, my child?" he said as he paused
to kiss me, then picked up a jar of cream and handed it to Acheron. "Now,
breathe," he said with one last caress of my face.
I did as I was told, my ass suddenly empty as Acheron removed his hand to slick
it up even more. Both men groaned, crooned as they watched me gape open; I felt
a tongue inside of my ass and knew it had to be Torsten. He was eating me up,
eating me alive and my pussy clenched, clenched again, so violently I was
pushed forwards upon the bed. He licked me from the inside, swirling his tongue
inside of me, his chin pressed into my pussy: I jerked and jerked, and as he
brought his hand to my grotesquely swollen clitoris, I was plunged into another
orgasm, now much more sudden than the one that had preceded it, taking me by
surprise.
When I had finished moaning and shaking, Torsten smacked my ass. "You're a
hopeless slut, Cleo, that's what you are."
"And you've made me that way," I gasped, still out of breath.
But now Acheron was ready. He wedged his hand and pushed it inside of me; it
sunk into its widest part with only a few thrusts. But now he had Torsten to
help him, Torsten's hand still upon my clitoris, Torsten's fingertips on the
stinging welts the clothespins had left. And now those welts served to arouse
me even further, so that I was dripping onto the bed from between his fingers.
The pressure of Acheron's hand plunged me into such nervous overload everything
in the room felt incredibly bright, sharp. I could hear the ticking of the
clock from the living room, feel the minutest trickle of pre-ejaculate from the
tip of Torsten's cock as it pressed against my thigh, the hairs on the back of
Acheron's hand tickling the muscles of my anus.
And then he was in. In. His entire hand slipped inside of my ass and I
collapsed upon the bed, convulsing, staring at the thin striped patterns of the
satin, drooling upon them, unable to move. Torsten's hand had slipped off my
pussy, but I was well beyond pleasure, now, just as I was beyond pain. I could
feel Acheron's weight shift on the bed as he followed me down; as he leaned
above me and kissed the small of my back, he turned his hand and I went blind.
Only white and black and stars flashed behind my eyes; I jerked and jerked upon
the bed, covered in cold sweat, gooseflesh. It was the most magnificent feeling
in the world, and I wondered if God did, indeed, exist, and if this was it,
Him.
Yet it was the Devil who now murmured softly to me in my father's voice and
kissed me on the ear: "Good girl, good girl, good girl."
I lay there unmoving, unseeing: all I could hear was the jar of cream being
opened, a lighter weight--Torsten--shifting behind me. The pressure within my
guts eased and I moaned, forlorn as Acheron's hand left my body. Only
immediately, it was followed by a hand slimmer, longer, Torsten pushing his
inside of me in turn. At the realisation of this I stirred, clutching the
sheets with my hands so violently pillows fell off the bed; neither man cared
as they took turns plunging their hands inside of me, fucking my ass in a
steady rhythm. Torsten, Acheron. Torsten, Acheron. I had never felt so
stretched in my entire life, had never experienced anything like this, as if a
hundred orgasms now entwined themselves together and bound me, choked me,
squeezed breath and life out of me. And all of it thanks to these beautiful
men, their beautiful hands, slim and thick and hairy and smooth and masculine
and feminine, fucking me, taking me over and over.
My ass, my pussy now slurped, wetting my thighs, my mound, soaking the bed; I
let out tiny cries, yet the men didn't stop, now pushing two hands' fingertips
inside of me at once, tugging my ass open. Torsten cleared his throat and spat
inside of me, followed by Acheron until I screamed, sobbed from my humiliation,
from the perfection of it. They moaned, trembled themselves; I craned my head
and saw they were feeding each other with the taste of my ass, with the now
clear and liquid cream, spitting and fingering the fluids into each other's
mouths. I moaned at the very sight, my pussy clenching and clenching as Torsten
smeared Acheron's beard, as Acheron sucked his fingers avidly. Acheron, in
turn, shoved his fingers so deep into Torsten's throat that Torsten gagged,
drooled, coughing up thick mucus; Acheron laughed, then made Torsten spit the
mess on my ass to ease their way in once more.
They resumed fucking my ass with their hands; now they were reaching so deep
inside of my guts their fingertips played at the mouth of my colon. I was no
longer even capable of feeling revulsion at the idea, no; I was delirious from
a joy religious in its depth. It was sublime, transcendental being taken this
completely, filled this completely; I felt like an initiate of a mystery cult,
plunged beyond myself by what my heavenly Father and his lover were now giving
me. Torsten lifted his hand to my mouth and I licked it, too, a sacrament,
never having tasted myself this deep before. And I found that deeper, I tasted
even sweeter, somehow clearer, shuddering in ecstasy as I consumed this secret
off his fingers.
I barely noticed as they moved around me; I only awakened into full
consciousness when Torsten pulled me to lie down on top of him, his cock
slipping inside of my pussy, I now so wet and soft I could barely feel him. The
bed creaked as Acheron shifted behind me, pushing his cock into my ass in turn;
it slipped in just as easily and only now could I actually feel I was full. I
had never had two men do this to me, penetrate me this way at once, not even at
orgies, oh, God, oh, God--
But it was then that Acheron dipped his fingers into my mouth and gagged me
with them, forcing my ass and my pussy to spasm around their cocks. I screamed
into his hand, onto Torsten's as he shoved his into my mouth beside Acheron's,
them alternating just as they had done with my ass. I stayed still as they both
fucked me, fucked me with their cocks and their hands, fucked me so completely
I existed only for the pleasure of it, for theirs. Pleasure, all of me but
pleasure, liquid honey, ass, pussy and ass again, all thick spit trickling down
Torsten's wrist.
They were groaning now, racing each other to orgasm, their balls slapping
wetly, loudly together between my pussy and my ass. It was Torsten who won this
round, filled with steel as he was, with my weight on top of him; he wouldn't
stop screaming as he came, staring into my eyes, his orgasm long and violent.
He sprayed my womb with so much come it sluiced out of me as he kept fucking
me, Acheron bellowing like a bull as he felt it dripping over his balls.
Yet, Torsten was far from finished. He grunted, clawed at my arms, clawed at
Acheron's, slipping out from underneath me and turning us around so that I
could ride Acheron. Torsten forced my ass onto Acheron's cock, crushed my body
against Acheron's broader one, my sore nipples rubbing against the sharpness of
the fur on his chest. Acheron but grabbed my hair and laughed at me, lifting
his hips and pounding into my ass like some monstrous machine, his hips lifting
both of us off the bed. I was ululating, howling as Torsten's hand joined
Acheron's in my hair, as he bit into my neck and lifted the plug to my lips.
"Suck it, there's a good girl, there's a good girl," he crooned and shoved it
into my mouth. It was huge, so huge that it took several thrusts before he
could get it past my teeth. Once he did, I choked on it, barely able to
breathe, but Acheron loved it, loved the way my ass spasmed once again,
clutching him tight. Yet even that wasn't enough for Torsten: slowly, oh so
slowly, he started to ease his own cock inside of my ass beside Acheron's. I
screamed and I screamed; both of them filled me so easily, my flesh giving way
as if my ass had turned into one big pussy itself, a pussy big enough for two
thick, heavy cocks. I had not felt this whorish even as they had been fucking
my ass with their hands; all the hairs on my body stood on end and cold shivers
surged through me as Torsten began to thrust.
I felt faint, barely able to balance myself upon my hands, choking, coughing;
Acheron took pity on me and pulled the plug from my mouth, drawing me into a
kiss. But it was that kiss that undid me; when Torsten had filled my pussy, I
had been too stretched to come, yet now my pussy was free to clench again. And
Torsten knew me well enough, knew from the sounds that I was making that I was
close; he pulled me back from Acheron, twisting my head around to kiss me
himself. "Spray him," he said, his spittle flying over my face as he hissed
into my mouth. "Spray him, spray him, show him--"
And then Torsten's fingers framed my clitoris again, rubbing up and down,
squeezing, and I was gushing all over Acheron's belly. I always did this when
my ass had been played with long enough, always; yet I had never come like this
over Torsten's body and the sight of it was enough to turn me inside out.
Torsten kept thrusting into me so that I ejaculated violently over Acheron, so
voluminously it sprayed all over his belly, his chest, even hit his chin; his
mouth gaped open in awe, his eyes wide as I rode him and rode him, screaming my
release. And all the while, Torsten kept fucking me, snarling into my ear,
slapping my pussy so that my come spattered all over Acheron, my own belly, my
breasts, wetting us completely.
Acheron howled, jerked up on the bed with such force he nearly pushed both of
us off him, and Torsten pushed me over him, smearing my body over him, fucking
him through his orgasm. I kissed Acheron's magnificent chest, sucked his
nipples, sucked my own sweetness off him as he kept coming and coming, his
sperm now leaking out of my ass, slicking up Torsten's cock. On and on he kept
fucking me, jerking long after the peak of his orgasm, kissing both me and
Torsten hungrily, clawing at our hair. He kept on rutting into me until both he
and Torsten softened, until they both slipped out of my ass, until we all
collapsed upon the bed, senseless.
I could no longer keep my eyes open, my vision but red and black; I lay as
still as the dead, even as the men's come burst, dribbled out of my ass and my
pussy, staining my thighs. After a while, I could feel the softness of
Torsten's down comforter over me, felt him pour more of the drugged drink into
my mouth, felt the warmth and hairiness of Acheron's chest against my cheek.
And the sinewy, bony body now curling against my back was my father's, my
beloved father's. His lips were soft upon my ear, his voice husky from
satisfaction, full of love, tenderness, warmth.
"Happy birthday, my sweetest, sweetest little girl."
***
In the morning, Acheron was gone. I was too groggy to wonder why; all of my
body woke up to pain, limb by limb. Torsten seemed to have been awake for a
while; he lay spooned against me and his breathing was steady. He felt
wonderful, warm around me, but the more I woke up, the stiffer I felt; he
nuzzled my neck and I groaned in response.
"'mme go. I need the bathroom."
"As it happens, so do I. But it's much better to stay here, don't you think?
Where it's warm."
He pressed his cock against my buttocks, hard, heavy; I felt something slick
upon it and then he was pushing himself inside my ass. I jerked, cried out in
pain; the ring of my anus hurt so much I was sure they'd given it some minor
tears last night. God, I hoped I wouldn't get piles--there I was, thinking of
piles as he fucked me, still not completely awake, my body yielding to him
easily. My insides hurt even more than my buttocks and my back did; the sting
of the welts was nothing compared to the ache Torsten's cock now awakened
inside my guts as he slid in and out. Yet that was an amazing ache, amazing;
each of his strokes awakened me further, the pressure on my bladder making my
clitoris swell. Yet I felt a drop, two of piss trickling out of me; I buried my
face in the back of my hand and whimpered.
"Please. You don't want me to piss here. We can go to the bathroom together, I-
-"
"We're not going to the bathroom. Turn around."
He pulled me on top of himself and made me ride his cock; I humoured him for a
while, but each time I sat down on it I felt an acute pain in my bladder.
"Please."
He pretended surprise. "But, my child, why don't you piss?"
"You're joking."
"Do it." He leered. "Wet the bed. Daddy will clean it up for you; all good
parents do, don't they? Come on."
"I--oh--" I trembled on top of him, from the pain in my guts, my hips, from his
sheer perversity.
He brought his hand to my pussy and lifted its lips apart. "Let me have a look.
You sprayed him so prettily last night, but I want more than that," he groaned,
his cock now even harder inside of me. His smile, his eyes sparkled in the
morning light; he would have looked tender if it weren't for what he was now
demanding.
"Come on. Drench me," he said.
"I can't. You're so big--" I groaned, biting my lip, trying to pull off him a
little, to angle my hips. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my urethra,
tried to focus on pissing, but I couldn't. He was filling my pelvis so
completely, my pussy still swollen and sore from last night. The pain in my
bladder was acute, now, like a knife into my pussy each time he moved inside of
me.
"We'll do it together," he said, boyish, mischievous. "Can you feel that?"
I cried out, astonished as I felt a new pressure inside my gut. He was pissing
inside of me, no small trickle this time, but a full, voluminous morning piss.
I staggered, and there, it started to flood out of my ass; I collapsed on top
of him, sobbing in shame.
"Come on, come on," he whispered as he pushed my shoulders up.
His piss now pooled underneath us, warm, bitter, sharp; I had no choice but to
lean back and let go. Wailing, I focused all of myself on my bladder once more
and pushed, and there, there: the first sprays hit his belly. As I pushed out
with more pressure, pissing in a strong, heavy arc over his chest, he was the
one sobbing, whimpering through his teeth.
"Laura, Laura, oh, Laura;" he shuddered underneath me, now fucking me harder,
pushing his hips up into me, still holding my pussy open. "Give it to me, give
me your piss, give it to me--" he stuck out his tongue and leaned forward.
Shuddering in disgust, in disbelief, in delight I sprayed his chest, sprayed
his eyes, sprayed his moustache, his trembling tongue. With a high-pitched
wail, he fell back on the cushions, staring up at me, my piss glittering upon
his eyelashes, fucking me furiously as I emptied myself over him. My piss
flowed down his chest, pooled in the hollow of his throat, streamed in rivulets
down his shoulders. I squeezed out every last drop for him, a sweetness to
match his bitterness, mingling our piss, a sugary scent now filling the room.
Finally, I collapsed on top of him while he still rutted inside of me. My knees
were now wet; we lay in a puddle of our own making. Yet he kept on fucking me,
his thrusts frantic, now; he took my hair in his wet hands and devoured my
mouth. "I can feel it," he groaned, "you're dirty inside, I can feel it, feel
it, tell me you want to taste it, tell me you want it, it's so perfect now,
this morning, don't spoil it, please tell me--"
I screamed into his shoulder, clawing at his shoulders in hatred of him because
he was right. I wanted to, wanted to finally make true that orgasm trigger of
his. Again he had plunged me into our first sin, the first shock of the nature
of his love for me, to the filthiest end of all perversions. This was us
exactly, even more than last night's fetishes had been, when he had fucked me
as a rake and not as a Barring. And in that moment I felt how fleeting this all
was, felt the passage of time, the preciousness of life so acutely it tore at
my heart. Yes, amidst the filthiest of human secretions I was keenly aware of
how unique this moment was, how unique we were, the only time the Barring curse
had incarnated as two people at once. A man and a woman, one young and one old,
one soft and one thin, one pussy, one cock, smeared with piss, with--
"Let me taste it, let me taste it, let me taste it," I whimpered, like a child
begging for candy, making myself tinier in his arms, squeezing my ass around
him. "Why are you keeping it from me, Daddy?"
"Say it, say it--" with a moan, he pulled out, still holding me by the hair,
kneeling in front of me. His cock bobbed in front of me, slapped against his
belly, shining. It was clear, stinking of piss, with just the tiniest, thinnest
white streak of foam, of anal mucus, and in that streak, a yellow tint, a brown
diluted, like a drop of flavouring in cream--
I looked up into his eyes and encircled the root of his cock with my hand,
lifting it nearer, nearer. "Piss and shit and come," I simpered and swallowed.
And oh, it was sweet, sweeter than ever before, that thick foam spreading upon
my tongue. It did not taste at all like I had expected it to; the taste was the
same as before, only sharper; but then he was shouting, thrusting so deep into
my throat I gagged and his piss burst out of my ass, spraying down my thighs.
He was coming, his come thin, watery, far more bitter and less pleasant than
the foam. To think that my dirty ass tasted better than his sperm, oh, to think
that even now I wanted more, that I could never go back now, the sick craving
in me stronger than ever before. This realisation horrified me, made me
delirious; I screamed so hard that I inhaled his come by accident, coughing,
sperm now running out of my nose, yet he kept holding onto my head, fucking my
throat until he was sated.
"Now, how did that taste?" he asked as he held me in his arms, in the puddle
that was still spreading all around us.
"I hate you," I said, tracing the piss now drying on his sternum.
"That good?" he chuckled.
"That's not what it should have tasted like. It was sweet," I said, shuddering.
"I know it's probably just the saccharine, but how--"
"You'll have to let me sample it myself the next time," he said and kissed me,
trying to suck the traces of the taste from my tongue.
The next time. When? And where would all this lead to? Would we soon be
wallowing in our own shit, like pigs? What would be enough for him? For me? Was
there such a thing as 'enough' for us? He frightened me, I frightened myself
and as I lay in his arms upon the piss-drenched bed, I wondered if I was
finally going completely insane.
***** Chapter 8 *****
It was a Canadian I appointed as the executive of Barring Industries. Herbert
Alistair was, to be frank, a complete and utter bore, but the only one capable
of wrangling the chaos, I thought. He was all tweed and white walrus moustache
and Victorian values, but he was also good at keeping a tight rein on all the
smaller bosses. So far, so good, I thought, and poked my tongue at the office
as I left it for the last time as an executive.
The freedom was giddying, and for a few days I felt restless, strange, my moods
swinging from elation to crushing depression because I had so little to do
during the day, now. Torsten wanted his freedom and I wasn't going to infringe
upon that, so I rarely followed him to the horse races, occult bookstores,
cafés and whatever other places he frequented. I had to invent things to do, so
I threw myself into vanity--beauty parlours, hairdressers, shopping--but still,
there was something missing. So I picked up the telephone and called Birgitte,
still on the West Coast, marathon calls that lasted all morning.
She was doing fine, she said. She'd come back in July or August, and then we
would have a whale of a time, she said--I could tell she'd been missing me more
than I'd been missing her. Soon enough, I knew all about the social life of Los
Angeles, knew who was having affairs with whom, what the latest fads were,
which exotic pet this and that movie star had bought. It was all so frightfully
amusing, Birgitte said, while I was bored out of my wits. She only ceased her
twittering when I had the idea of seducing her through the telephone, telling
her in exact detail what I would do to her once she got back. I told her to
masturbate and going by her rapid breathing and other, less subtle noises, I
was successful: once I told her I was going to slip my entire hand inside of
her, I could hear the little broken sobs that I always recognised for her
orgasm.
At least I got some satisfaction out of that, I thought as I replaced the
receiver. Yet I wasn't even very wet, feeling somehow distanced from it all. I
wanted more than this, wanted the sorts of adventures Torsten had, jealous of
his liberty. He could go to places where no woman was safe, at least not while
wandering on her own; he could pick up men wherever he wished. I wish I'd had
that, the simplicity of anonymous sex, of just bending over in the right sort
of establishment with a guarantee I would be fucked hard, no questions asked.
Whenever he came home smelling of strange men, I would pounce him, sniff him,
lick the taste of those other men off him, try and suck traces of their sperm
from his mouth, his ass. On other days, I would lock him in and make him fuck
me all day, urge him into creating the most elaborate plays and seductions just
to fill the emptiness.
I still visited the office once a week to stay on top of what was happening.
Business was still going strong--our saw mills, smelters and hydroelectric
plants were still the most profitable in Sweden, and through Alistair's
connections, we were about to expand into Canadian timber as well. I was
overjoyed--any concerns I'd had about Alistair's skills were rapidly
dissolving.
"Oh, and there's an investor looking to join forces with you," Alistair said.
"Big money. He's offering to buy the majority of the shares in exchange for his
distribution network and marketing."
"Ignore him," I said, smiling, still giddy. "I'm not selling."
"You haven't heard his price."
"I'd need to hear his name first."
"Smythe."
I burst into laughter. "Definitely not selling." The gall of the man! He had
more money than he could spend in a lifetime, making Torsten and I look as poor
as church mice.
However, I was no longer laughing as I walked home. Smythe didn't seem like the
sort of man you would want to say no to--not without consequences. Yet I found
it odd that he should see us as some sort of threat, because we certainly
weren't. In that case, it could be nothing but neurosis, some sort of mad
jealousy--I wondered if this was what all millionaires ended up like, gluttons
for money, needing to swallow others up even if they had a fortune to retire
upon. Simply because swallowing was what they'd been doing for years and could
not stop swallowing, deriving a sadistic pleasure from the act. I was guilty of
the same thing and admitted it to myself freely; Torsten and I celebrated the
fact. The heady rush of another merger, another small company incorporated into
the sprawling leviathan that was Barring Industries--oh, always an occasion for
celebration.
Yet even we were not as obsessed with power and control as Smythe was. Not for
its own sake, anyway--we much preferred to gorge ourselves on its fruits. What
would be the point of riches if you could not spend them and indulge all your
senses within this ridiculously short lifespan you had on this earth? Yet there
Smythe was, a miser in his mansion, his fancy furniture reserved for his cats,
hosting orgies but never taking his prick out himself. Therefore, his
perversity was greater than ours, distanced as it was from the world of the
senses--he bought beautiful things, brought in beautiful people simply to look
at them, never to touch them, to fuck them. I remembered the art collections of
the Pope and wondered if Smythe had been brought up Catholic: it would explain
his love of ostentatiousness paired with terrible self-denial.
Oh, but what was I psychoanalysing him for? I could keep guessing and
theorising until kingdom come and it still wouldn't change the facts. Smythe
was after us; and for a man of his position and wealth, he could use whatever
means necessary to get what he wanted. My heart was pounding in my chest as I
stepped into the elevator; my hands were shaking as I took the cup of coffee
Ulla brought me. I told her to brew another large potful and sent her home
early. I needed time to think. The coffee, however, only made me jittery, and I
was halfway into total hysteria by the time Torsten arrived.
He was in a cheery mood, whistling--probably had made a profit at the racetrack
again--but as he joined me on the sofa, he finally noticed the state I was in.
"Do you want to tell me?" he said, sipping from his own cup calmly, relaxed,
rocking his foot.
"You won't like it," I said, shaking my head. "It's Smythe. He wants to buy us.
The company."
He burst into laughter. "Whatever for?"
"I laughed, too, when I first heard about it," I said.
"He has bigger fish to fry, surely? What's he playing at?"
I set my cup and saucer down; by now, my hands were shaking so that the
porcelain made an infernal clatter against the silverware. "It's personal; it
has to be. But why us? We haven't stood in his path." I squeezed the bridge of
my nose with my fingertips. "He barely knows us. What is there about us, or the
company, that's so special that he would want to snatch it? I've been thinking
about it all day and I still don't understand it."
"Perhaps he's in love with you," Torsten quipped. "Or me."
"Stop it. You know he's frigid, impotent."
"Jealous of our sex lives, then," he offered.
"Torsten."
That shut him up. He was no longer smiling and set his cup and saucer down
beside mine. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, smoking quietly for a long
while, thinking.
I just kept wringing my hands. "Whatever it is, we've got to do something," I
said.
"I presume you rejected his offer outright?"
"Yes."
"Well, then. I'm sure he wants to re-negotiate. Perhaps he's going to tell us
come Saturday."
I shuddered. "I'm not performing for a man who wants to eat me alive."
Torsten stumped his cigarette. "What makes you think he wants to eat us alive,
anyhow? Perhaps it would be better if we just took the money and ran. Forgot
about the company, ran away to California, spent the rest of our lives in the
sunshine."
I stared at my hands, thinking about Forssa. I had hated the estate when I'd
been a child, but now it seemed more precious to me than anything else: why,
Smythe had probably never even been to Sweden. He wouldn't know how the forests
would look like, right now, lit by the perpetual dusk of the midsummer nights;
the way the colours of the sunset flickered upon the river like flames. The
joining of fire and water, the roar of the falls, the very landscape from which
the Barrings had risen to glory; the whisper of the Devil upon the leaves. The
mere thought of some dry Englishman adding all of it to his fortunes, as just
another name in his books--
"I'm not going to sell," I said quietly, with my hands clenched into fists.
Torsten lifted his hands in a gesture of retreat. "I'm going to remain neutral
on the matter."
I hated him, then. "You coward."
"It's what's kept me alive," he snapped. "That man--" he leaned towards me, as
if to make sure we weren't being listened, even if there was no one but us in
the apartment. "You know there have been rumours."
I rolled my eyes. "Hoffmann committed suicide."
"Or so they said."
"I don't believe this," I groaned and buried my face in my hands. For a moment,
Torsten's idea of running away, of leaving everything behind tempted me. Was I
being a sentimentalist? Attaching too much value to names and places? It was a
weakness I had often mocked in others, and now I was succumbing to it myself.
What had happened to Laura the empress, the goddess, the lioness?
"Have I become soft?" I asked, quiet, my throat creaking from fatigue.
He looked at me, then, long; his face unreadable. "I suppose only time will
tell."
"Please." I slumped in his arms, my head in his lap. "You're going to have to
help me. Help me stand up to him."
"On one condition."
"What's that?"
"We give him--and ourselves--time. See what sort of man he is before we decide
what to do. Perhaps it was all a whim, or even a joke. He still wants to watch
us, so I can't see him wanting business to get in the way of his pleasure." He
kissed my hair. "Who knows, maybe the sex will soften him up."
"If he hasn't murdered us in our beds before that," I murmured.
"Don't be silly," Torsten said, but in his voice, I could hear a croak of
doubt, of fear.
***
"Tonight, we'll astound him," Torsten declared over our Solstice lunch. "We'll
seduce him, bring him out of his monkish torpor." He poked at the air with his
fork. "If you and I of all people can't do it, no one can."
I took a long sip of my Chablis and shook my head. "He wouldn't let us touch
him."
Torsten shrugged. "Then we'll make him touch us. Make it impossible for him not
to. And then--" he stabbed his fork into his quail--"we fuck him senseless. To
the point where he will be begging to sell his fortune to us."
"I like the sound of that," I chirped, flirtier, now, cheered by the wine and
his conspiratorial tone.
"I thought you might. But first, we'll have to give him the show of a
lifetime."
I ran my foot up his leg. "And how do you propose we do that?"
He mopped his mouth. "I've got it all planned out. Now, listen."
***
Despite myself--or exactly because of myself--I was aroused, the act of going
against my best instincts stirring a perverse abandon in me. I was humming,
buzzing, flowing, as clear and as light as the wine itself. By the time Smythe
arrived, I was purring against Torsten, snuggled up in his lap in my
schoolgirl's outfit, languid, voluptuous. I wasn't annoyed even when Smythe
wrinkled his nose at his surroundings, because I'd expected him to do so. He
looked at our apartment with such disdain it was clear he thought it too much
in the style of the nouveau riche, then cast a scornful glance at us, too, as
if questioning the authenticity of our titles.
Yet I knew something he didn't, and that gave me more confidence than the wine
ever could have. "I had an interview with him last night," Torsten had told me.
"Asked about his preferences. They run very young, just as I had suspected.
'Twelve is the ideal age,' he'd said, 'still too young to yield like a whore,
old enough to keep quiet about it'. Yes, charming, I agree. You should have
seen his face when I told him that twelve was the age at which I'd first
claimed you! I saw his pupils dilate, saw his hands gripping his chair more
tightly. He was imagining you at that age, his lust finally stirred. And the
moment I told him I was a skilled enough hypnotist to make you twelve again,
well. Of course, he wished to see it."
So there I sat in our living room, a little girl, following the movements of
Torsten's hands, falling into his eyes. Only a light trance, he'd told me,
enough to loosen my inhibitions. I was to signal to him if I wanted to go
deeper--it was Smythe we both focused on ensnaring, now, and my playing the
part of the subject would distract him from noticing how he himself was being
manipulated. Torsten made a performance of the hypnotism, but little did Smythe
know that Torsten was feeding him sounds, shapes, concepts to pull him under. A
slightly altered pronunciation of a word here, a repeated mention of a colour
there, subliminally feeding him the syllables of the single word to control him
by, a trigger word he had planted into Smythe's brain the previous night.
As I slid deeper into my relaxation, I watched Smythe sink deeper still: he sat
in a chair next to us, cigar in hand, completely alert, oblivious. I, however,
became happier, even lighter than I had been, all worry and stress leaving me.
Torsten was opening me to my very core so that now I was filling with warmth
and love, a Laura happy in the company of her cherished father. Oh, I loved
this, loved becoming the child, the child who had waited for her father
forever. And now that father had taken her on a trip to a big city, to a big
apartment, everything so big--I felt myself shrinking in the room, feeling as
small as that child. Wide-eyed, I looked around myself, the adult Laura's
consciousness shrunk to a miniscule size, only aware enough to feel a thrill at
the perfection of my voice as it spilled out of me again, completely that of a
child.
"Who's that gentleman, Daddy?" I asked, kicking my feet a little against the
foot of the sofa--somehow, my feet didn't even reach the floor, now.
"That's Sir Cyril Smythe. He's a very important man, Laura; we're very honoured
to have him here tonight. And guess what?"
"What, Daddy?"
"He's come all the way here just to see you."
"Me?" I asked, a little too loudly, the exact way I would have at twelve. My
heart was pounding--some important gentleman to see me? But that excitement was
soon crushed by worry. I'd been restless at school, unable to concentrate, and
the schoolmistress had told Grandfather. And perhaps Grandfather had told
Torsten. "Mister Smythe has not come to take me away, has he?"
Torsten laughed, warmly; he, too, was entranced by the magic of this play. I
knew and he knew that no matter how many people we slept with, no matter what
drugs we took, no matter what fetishes we indulged in, nothing could ever give
him--or me--the sublime satisfaction the play of Laura the girl and Torsten the
father did. Would anyone have believed me had I told them our love, twisted as
it was, was the opposite of Smythe's desire to abuse? We were not just playing
characters, not just acting out fantasies: during scenes like these, we brought
forth our deepest selves, our deepest desires, primal ones, desires so old they
had existed in the aether before we had arrived to clothe them in flesh and
blood. As the Turk knows God has written his destiny down in his book, so we
knew the Devil had written our destiny down for us, instilling in Torsten a
lust for me in the womb, long before I was even born.
Torsten lay his hand on my bare knee, hot, sweaty; I could see his cock stir a
little in his trousers. "Sir Cyril is here to see you, literally. He found you
as beautiful as a doll and wanted to look at you. And that's what he will do.
Look at you."
"Is he a doll-collector, then?" I asked.
Torsten laughed once more. "You could call him that." He looked over his
shoulder at Smythe. "What would you like her to do, Sir Cyril?"
Smythe lifted his cane a little. "Play with her," he said, seeming unimpressed.
"As we agreed to."
I squirmed in delight. "Oh! I know lots of games we can play--"
"Quiet," Torsten said, sternly. "This is a very serious matter, my child."
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said, casting my eyes down, but immediately looked back
up at him. "But I don't understand. He just said he wanted us to play?"
Torsten lifted my chin with such gentleness, with such lascivious languor in
his eyes that a shiver ran straight from my jaw to my pussy. "He wants us to
play a very special game, my child. A serious one, one only adults are allowed
to play. But you are a precocious child, aren't you, Laura? Big enough to play
grown women's games? Even if it might hurt a little?"
Now his eyes grew colder, hungrier and the shivers that ran through me turned
into those of fear. Pretend rape, Torsten had said. He can't get it up if the
girl doesn't resist. That fear now twisted inside of me, strangling my innards.
Torsten could truly hurt me if he wanted to, and I had no doubt whatsoever that
he would; the adult me and the child me were both worried about what he would
do to give Smythe the show of a lifetime. And yet, the child-whore in me, the
masochist in me, the slave in me now howled inwardly in her lust, her pussy
tightening into a little girl's so that her Daddy could invade it, claim it,
deflower it once more.
"No," I said, yanking my chin up. "I'm not going to play."
"You are being very rude towards our guest, Laura. You're bringing shame upon
the family."
I felt tears spring to my eyes. How many times had I been accused of that as a
child? Been told to obey adults, been told to prove myself worthy of the
Barring name? And now he was offering to beat that shame out of me, to let me
be the black sheep I was, even flaunt it in front of a stranger. More than
anything, Smythe's presence heightened the thrill of our incest, affirmed the
bond Torsten and I shared, celebrated it. Why had I not felt this with Helena
or Birgitte? They had known we were father and daughter. Was it perhaps because
they hadn't cared? For them, our incest had not been a fetish and neither had
my youth stirred Helena especially; they had only been flavours, spices in the
world of flesh she had always devoured so voraciously. For the men at the
brothel, I had been a prostitute playing the part of a man's daughter. Never
had we had the chance to display our incest so openly, to revel in it, to
wallow in it, to present it to a connoisseur as a rare delicacy.
And now, in our living room sat a genuine molester, a genuine monster--a man
only capable of deriving pleasure from this level of sin, perhaps something he
had always dreamt about but had never had a chance to accomplish in life. As
far as I knew, Smythe had little family, no daughters or nieces to ruin--
thankfully. To him, we were a rare luxury, a treasure, something money could
not buy. I derived a satisfaction from this, from our own preciousness, rarity,
uniqueness. This pleased the coquette in me, the courtesan in me--I yearned to
seduce Torsten, to spread my legs for him right now.
But that wouldn't do. Thus, I continued to feign shame. "I don't want to play
if it hurts," I said to Torsten, stuttering a little.
"How do you know whether it's going to hurt if you've never tried it?" Torsten
laughed.
"You just said it might!"
"Yes, might," Torsten said, pulling me to sit in his lap. "Or it might not.
There, is that better?"
I nodded. I felt safer in his arms, against the warmth of his body.
"Now," Torsten said, kissing my forehead. He slid his hand up to my thigh, as
if rubbing warmth into it, his thumb playing at the hem of my skirt. "Will you
let Daddy play with you?"
I bit my lip. "Maybe."
He slid his hand between my legs, rubbing against my panties. "'Maybe?' Doesn't
this feel good?"
I yelped, my eyes widening as he dragged his knuckles against my slit. "I-
I don't know."
He tutted. "But, Laura, you're soaking! Are you so scared you've wet yourself,
my poor child?" he laughed. "Come on. Take these off. Let Daddy have a look."
As I did, I noticed he couldn't resist sniffing his fingers: I glanced at
Smythe and saw that his nostrils were widening, too, and that he was leaning
forwards in his seat. I was about to drop the panties onto the floor, but
Torsten took my wrist. "Now, give these to the nice Mr. Smythe."
That unsettled Smythe. His eyes widened as I hopped off Torsten's lap and
handed him the panties. He stared at me furiously, as if we had gone mad, yet I
saw a tremor fly across his cheeks, a tremor of arousal as he smelled me.
Without a word, he held out the handle of his cane. I hung my panties upon it
and couldn't help but smile at him; the child in me was amused by this game,
the adult in me delighted at the way we had caught him off guard.
Torsten rearranged me in his lap so that I was sitting sideways in it, facing
Smythe. Torsten held me close, nuzzling my face, then slipped his hand between
my thighs once more. "Now. Do you want to know what this game is called, my
child?"
"Please tell me, Daddy."
He tickled my slit with his fingertips. "It's called 'pulling the sugar.'"
I all but fell off his lap at his caress; I wrapped my arms around his neck for
balance. "What--what's this got to do with sugar?"
"Because this is how you make webs out of sugar," he said, dipping his fingers
between my pussy lips, swirling them. Then, with absolute, slow precision, he
pulled a long string of wetness from my pussy. "There," he murmured against my
cheek. "Just like that."
"Oh--"
"Do you want me to do it again?" he murmured, his smile as sweet as my scent as
he held his fingers up to my face.
My pussy pulsed; my voice was now quavering. Anything to have his fingers, my
father's beloved fingers in my pussy again. "Please."
So he did, spending a long time lifting strings of sweetness out of my pussy,
and each time they became thicker, heavier, glimmering in the air between us.
He continued until his entire hand was wet, until I moaned each time he dipped
his fingers into my slit, until the entire room smelled of my arousal.
He chuckled in my ear and looked at Smythe. "Beautiful, isn't she?"
Smythe twisted his cane; his smirk never reached his eyes. "Quite the little
slut."
"I don't like him calling me that," I said, burying my face in Torsten's
shoulder. And I meant it; the way Smythe had said it was again cold,
frightening me, an icy terror clutching at my stomach.
"We'll call you whatever we like, my child," Torsten said, matter-of-factly,
and curled his fingers inside of my pussy.
"No!" I squealed. "Stop it, Daddy! That hurts!"
"Oh?" Torsten feigned surprise, his eyes wide, his voice hideous, mocking,
pitying. "What's the matter? Don't you want to play with Daddy any more?"
"No! Take them out!"
"But I so want to play with you, my child," he crooned, sugary, merciless.
He pushed his fingers in harder and I screamed, from genuine pain. I sobbed
into his shoulder, knowing we were doing this because Smythe seemed displeased.
Now, Torsten and I were giving him the rape he had come here for. I squinted
and caught a glimpse of him: finally, he seemed to stir a little, twisting his
cane with such force that my panties were now swinging upon it. Yet all of my
horror was not pretense: Torsten was so rough waves of nausea rolled through
me, making me pant against his neck.
"Please, Daddy, please, please take them out, I'll do anything, I--"
"Anything?" he said, pulling his hand out so fast my pussy made a disgusting,
slurping sound. He sucked on his fingers and made a delighted noise. "Mmm.
Perhaps Mr. Smythe would like a taste?"
Smythe lifted his hand and shook his head. "Not for me, thank you." Yet I could
hear a hesitance in his voice; his prompt refusal was exactly like an alcoholic
refusing a drink, teetering upon the brink of a relapse. I could not see if he
was hard, yet, but he was flushed, clearly flushed; unconsciously, he adjusted
his tie.
"A look, then," Torsten said. He patted my rump. "Go on. Over the coffee
table."
Smythe didn't protest--just before I turned my back, I could see him
stiffening, gripping his cane so tight my panties fell off it. He was still
wearing his mauve gloves, but I was sure his knuckles were white underneath
them. I made sure to look reluctant, afraid, shivering a little as I knelt and
leaned over the table, balancing my torso on it, burying my face in my arms.
"Please don't hurt me," I said.
And from the way Smythe's breathing stopped, I knew that he would. My pussy
clenched as I thought of it, clenched again as Torsten flipped up my skirt and
sat next to me, presenting my ass to Smythe.
"There," Torsten said, the word wet and soft in his mouth. He stroked my
buttocks, spread them, kissed the small of my back. "Pretty, isn't she?"
I heard the armchair creak as Smythe leaned closer to me. I could feel his
breathing against my pussy and I stiffened; I feared he would push the cane
inside of me again. I was terrified and aroused at the same time, my mind in a
chaos: why was my father doing this to me? Hurting me, then presenting me to a
stranger? Had I been that bad? I wanted to cry; I swallowed a sob in my throat.
It was then that I could hear Smythe inhaling, smelling me. "Very pretty,"
Smythe admitted. He smelled me again, deep and long, just as Torsten had done
to me on the train. That seemed like a lifetime ago, now; I had never been as
afraid of Torsten as I now was of Smythe. Torsten was my beloved dirty old man;
Smythe chilled my bones to the marrow.
Yet, his chair creaked again; he withdrew. "Although I would go so far as to
say your household is lacking in discipline."
"Oh, do you think so?" Torsten chuckled. "Then I must prove you wrong."
I heard the sound of Torsten's belt buckle. His belt buckle, my father's belt
buckle; the sound I loved so much it had sometimes been enough to bring me to
orgasm on its own. I loved it, I hated it, and never more so than now: I was
not afraid of the pain so much as I was of my reaction, that I would break from
my role, my innocence and that the whorishness--which Smythe so hated in a
child--would spill out once more. I panicked inside, digging my nails into the
coffee table.
But it was then that I remembered the word we had agreed upon, the word by
which Torsten had agreed to put me into a deeper trance. "Mercy," I said,
quietly.
Torsten swished his looped belt in his hand, then walked around the table to
lift my chin with it, looking into my eyes. "I'm going to give you twenty. And
I want you to count on each one," he said, smiling at me conspiratorially.
"One, two, three..." he snapped his fingers. "Do you understand?"
At the count and the snap, my head fell. A hot and cold rush went through me,
making me shudder all over as it washed more and more of my consciousness away,
dragging me down with its undertow. I sank deeper into that stream, the stream
that was little Laura's consciousness, the older Laura watching her from
somewhere far away. When I finally lifted my gaze, I was looking at him with
complete obedience, my lip quivering from genuine fear as I nodded. "Yes,
Daddy."
He tapped my cheek with the belt. "Good girl. Now, I'm going to make your ass
all red and pretty for Mr. Smythe. You'll be a present for him; it's not
something ordinary girls get to be. Now, Laura, what do we say?"
"Thank you, Daddy."
"Good girl," he said again and kissed me.
He did not give me time to think before the first blow landed. It was not a
playful blow, either, no warm-up, this; he put the full force of his arm into
his strokes. I shrieked in genuine horror at first, thrown against the table,
not even having time to gasp for breath between counts as the blows kept coming
and coming. He had not left marks upon me after our night with Acheron, had let
me heal so that I would look pristine for Smythe. He'd even made me go unshaven
for a week to make sure my pussy was at its smoothest when he'd shaved it for
tonight: that's where he laid the last three of his blows, and I could only
mouth the numbers for my pain. My arms fell slack, off the table; my skin was
covered in cold sweat and chills and flashes of heat ran all over me, all
surging to my pussy, to my abused ass. I was glowing, glowing and shimmering
from pain, unable to even cry.
Torsten let the belt fall to the floor and spread my buttocks swiftly,
violently, his fingers on either side of my pussy. He crooned softly as he
rubbed my pussy lips, pushing them together, pulling them apart again. "But my
dear girl, you are dripping! Is that why you disobeyed me? Because you like it
when I discipline you? Hmm?"
The only noise I could make was a tiny gasp.
"I shall take that as a yes," Torsten said, dipped his thumb into my pussy to
wet it, then plunged it straight into my ass, making me shriek. "You've got
candy in here, too, I can feel it. Slick and wet and sweet," he said, audibly
panting through his laughter. "Are you going to give Daddy a taste?"
I moaned against the table. "Whatever you want, Daddy."
"See? She is so very obedient when you know how to handle her," he purred at
Smythe. "Would you like a sample, now?"
Smythe didn't answer in words: I could hear him leaning close again. I could
feel the cold metal of his cane against my pussy and I stiffened. Yet he didn't
dip it inside of me, but--I craned my head and saw that he was licking me off
the cane, sampling my taste with just the tip of his tongue. It was a massive
concession to lust from him, massive; briefly, he closed his eyes and trembled,
savoured what he was tasting.
But within seconds, his calm mask was back in place, his voice matter-of-fact,
analytical. "Tell me, is she always this wet?"
Torsten tutted. "Oh, no. Only when you play with her ass."
My pussy clenched again; yet I wondered why the men had broken from the play
so. Was I not meant to be a virgin? Yet as soon as Torsten had said the words,
he plunged both of his thumbs into my ass and spread me open wide. The sudden
stretch sent flashes of pain through my hips; yet, true to Torsten's words,
they wetted my pussy unlike anything else in the world. My father playing with
my ass, my greatest pleasure, greatest. I whimpered against the table, trying
so very hard not to lean back into Torsten's caresses.
"Now," Torsten said, his voice thinner, higher from lust. "Would you like to
watch me fuck my daughter?" he said, with deliberate vulgarity.
"If you please," Smythe said, his voice light from irony.
"You heard the man, my dear," Torsten said and ruffled my hair. "Get up.
Undress me."
Slowly, reverently, with fear in my heart and my pulse racing in my ears, I
undressed my father.
I knew he wanted me to make a show of it, so I did; my hands were shaking and I
barely looked into his eyes as I started to remove his clothes, the shame of it
all so real, now. He had plunged me so deep into my trance that this felt like
the first time I had done this. My body was shaking--I didn't know if I was
holding back sobs or something else, but I felt that I was holding back
something that was about to explode, awaiting the loss of my virginity. As I
unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his undershirt, revealing his thin
shoulders, his wiry arms with their thick, vinelike veins, I wanted to run. But
I couldn't, I couldn't: I forced myself to adore him as he should be adored.
With my gaze and my hands, I worshipped the feminine redness of his nipples,
the curves of his ribs as they shone through his equally feminine, soft skin.
He had shaved his pudendum once more--the child Laura half expected to find a
woman's slit at the bottom of his mound instead of a penis. Yet, there, between
the sharp bones of his hips, it sprung at me, thick, firm; I yearned to taste
its gleaming head but forced myself to concentrate on freeing him from his sock
garters and shoes first. When he was finally naked, I knelt at his feet, my
hands on my thighs, looking up at him patiently, awaiting orders.
"Do you like what you see, my child?" he asked me.
"I--I don't know, Daddy," I said, terrified at the size of his cock. That was
going to go inside of me? "Are they all this big?"
He burst into laughter and ruffled my hair. "Let's just say you can consider
yourself a very lucky girl. Now, take off your clothes." He stepped aside. "In
front of Mr. Smythe, there's a good girl."
I staggered so much that Torsten had to help me up. It took me forever to
unbutton my blouse; my hands were fumbling on the buttons so much. But pearl by
pearl, I managed to undo them; I shrugged my jacket off with the blouse.
Smythe chuckled as he saw my brassiere, then poked it with the tip of his cane.
"Aren't you a little too young to be wearing those things?"
"I--" I cast my eyes down, ashamed of my breasts, always exposing me to
unwanted attention from men.
"She developed early," Torsten said as he unhooked the brassiere from behind,
kissing my shoulder.
Instinctively, I covered my breasts with my hands. I could feel myself
flushing, my face glowing as much as my ass did, now. My hands were too small
to cover my breasts entirely; flesh spilled from between my fingers. Torsten
saw my hesitance, and gently, firmly pulled my hands back and used my discarded
bow to tie my wrists.
"There. Let Daddy help you."
My nipples hardened, the air seeming far cooler than it was. Smythe dragged the
handle of his cane down my sternum, across my breasts. He stroked each nipple
with the greyhound as if to make him bite both; I jerked but dared not move
from my spot. There was a little warmth in his liquor eyes now, yet not enough;
but then I was gasping as Torsten unzipped my skirt, the very sound of the
zipper making my pussy pulse between my legs.
With a flourish, Smythe dragged his cane down and yanked my skirt off my hips,
leaving me bare. "There we are."
"Thank you," Torsten said, warmly, peeling my socks off, and as he got up again
I could feel his erection dragging up my back. "Now. How do you like her, Sir
Cyril?"
Of course, Smythe had seen me naked before, but he was enjoying the game too
much to break from it. He dipped the greyhound into my navel, his smile
widening as I flinched from the touch. "Good enough to amuse oneself with," he
purred. "Tell me, is she tight?"
"As tight as a twelve-year old can be," Torsten said, and as he ran his hands
up my ribs, I shivered in disgust, in shame, in hopeless arousal. My pussy
clenched again and again as if his words were his cock, penetrating me to the
depths of my body, penetrating me to my soul's darkest, filthiest core. I had
read of this in books, had dreamt of it, being seduced by powerful men, shared
by men, and now it was happening, now I was being presented to a sadistic lord
as if a slave girl in a fairy tale. My own father my pimp, about to deflower
me. I wanted him, wanted this so much I shook, even if at the same time I
wanted to be sick.
In the setting sun's light, Smythe's eyes seemed even beadier, gleaming with an
unholy fire. How many girls had he molested? How many boys? How many had he
made scream, destroying their lives forever? Had he impregnated a girl, made
her die in childbirth, her pelvis too small to push out a child when she was
but a child herself? He revolted me, revolted me as he now slid the greyhound
to my pussy, rubbing at the top of my slit with the dog's head, and again I
wanted to run, run and hide where they would never find me. Neither Laura in me
was convinced Smythe would not join in--I was sure he was perfectly capable of
killing someone through sex.
Yet Torsten sensed my fear--oh, the way his erection hardened even further
against my spine as he felt the goosebumps on my skin! He put his hand around
my throat, pulling me close so he could drag his teeth along my cheek. "Come,
now, Daddy's little sweetheart," he crooned. "There's nothing to be scared of.
I'm going to make you feel so good, so good."
"I'm scared," I blurted, scared of Smythe, scared of Torsten, scared of myself,
of my own lust and its deafening pulse in my veins and in my pussy. "Please,
Daddy; I don't want to do this."
"Oh, but you'll have to," Torsten murmured as he cupped my breasts, rubbing his
cock against my back. "It wouldn't do to disappoint our guest. Please, Sir
Cyril, remind my daughter of why you are here; I think she has forgotten."
Smythe leaned back in his chair, one hand on his cane, one on his lapel.
Finally, finally I could see he was erect; his cock had made a fat swelling in
his trousers, the very curve of it a threat. And God help me, I wanted it in my
pussy, didn't I? I hated him, and that's exactly why I wanted him, wanted to be
taken by a monster, the child in me who had daydreamed of ravishments. In that
moment, I loathed myself and cast my eyes down, shivering as Smythe let me wait
and wait and wait.
Finally, Torsten snatched my head up by the hair. "Look him in the eye," he
snarled. "Ask him."
I opened my eyes. The swelling in Smythe's trousers was now greater; he was now
skimming it with his mauve fingertips, rubbing it with his mauve knuckles. I
swallowed. "Why did you come here, sir?"
Smythe's voice was low, now a little husky from desire, his diction crisp,
eloquent, sharp. "To watch your daddy fuck you, my child. Do you know what he
promised me?" he said, lifting the tip of his cane to the hollow of my throat.
"What did he promise you, sir?"
He pressed the cane against my windpipe, stopping my breath; his eyes were
flashing with malicious delight. "He promised to make it hurt."
At that, I cried out, but Torsten was already turning me around, shoving me
down over the coffee table. He grabbed my hair and pushed my face into the
table's surface to cut off my screams, smacking my ass with his hand, smacking
me and smacking me until I was sobbing.
"Please, Daddy, please, don't, please--" I writhed and kicked, my head
thrashing in his fist. My heart was about to burst out of my chest; my entire
body shook in complete panic. As Torsten put the tip of his cock against my
pussy, I screamed; I clenched around it in horror. "Please, Daddy, it's wrong,
please, don't, please," I wailed, tears streaming down my face.
"Scream all you like," Torsten growled, as hard as rock as he began to push his
cock inside of me, shaking himself from his frenzy, from his arousal. He roared
as he plunged himself inside of me, matching each one of my cries with one of
his own, brutal, ramming in so fast he truly hurt me. The blows to my womb made
me curl up, stiffen in pain as if this was a true deflowering; I went quiet and
Torsten noticed that, slowing down a little. And it was at that that my heart
broke; that despite the depth of the play, he showed a little mercy for me,
perhaps wanting to prove himself a better man than Smythe. So he masked his
pause as the need to adjust his position, spreading his legs further, curling
against my back.
"Does it hurt, then?" he crooned, but I could hear the care in his voice, in
the fatherly firmness of it.
"Yes, Daddy," I said, panting a little as briefly, he pulled completely out of
me. But for a few seconds, he allowed me to breathe, then slid halfway back
inside of me, not yet touching my womb. I let out a series of pained sobs, but
to Torsten they were thank yous, and to me they were a letting go. As he began
to fuck me again, I continued to sob, the pain leaving my body through my
mouth, my awareness once again dissolving, giving way to the child who adored
her father. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him.
He murmured softly, speeding up a little, now. "Do you like Daddy's cock in
your pussy, my child?"
"No," I snapped, even as I got wetter and wetter, slicking up his cock,
allowing him to slide in and out of me with ease, now.
"Liar," he crooned in my ear and slapped me on both of my cheeks. And oh, the
groan he let out as I clenched around him; the way Smythe himself gasped as he
saw how we both shook. "This is what you've always wanted, isn't it?" Torsten
said. "Daddy's cock in your fat little pussy. That's why you kept your pussy
from boys, isn't it? You were saving it for me, saving it for your old Dad," he
panted as he began to thrust into me harder.
I only wailed in response, hoping Smythe would take that noise for one of
shame. But shame was now leaving me just as the pain was, pooling out on the
table in the form of my ululations, my little child's pussy wet and hot around
my father's violating cock. I was so aroused I did not even need to touch my
pussy to reach orgasm, now: I pressed my thighs tight together and Torsten
noticed this, pacing his thrusts, angling his hips so that he hit me as deep as
he could, groaning deep in his throat as my pussy clenched around him.
"Fuck," he cried out, "fuck!" as I swallowed him whole, and then I no longer
heard him as I was coming, coming violently around his cock, drowning his
noises with my cries.
"Daddy," I shouted against the table as he kept on fucking me, shrieking,
screaming from my orgasm like a maniac, my cries snapped into pieces by the
brutality of his thrusts.
Shouting himself, he pulled out fast, and I knew he did so in order not to
follow me into orgasm. "Fuck," he snarled again, smacking both my buttocks. He
spat on my ass, scooped up wetness from my pussy and shoved several fingers up
my ass, making me howl in pain. "I'm going to fuck you in the ass," he panted,
"fuck you right here, where it really hurts."
"No, Daddy, please, no, no--"
"Shut your mouth," he spat. "I don't think you understand. This little hole
belongs to me," he growled, twisting his fingers, lifting my hips with them.
"And I will fuck it as I please. Fuck it every night if I want to. And you'll
keep it open for me, clean and shitless for me, slicked up for me. For me, and
for my friends."
Friends, friends, the trigger word Torsten had talked about. Even if I couldn't
see him, I could feel something in Smythe snap. I could hear his chair creaking
again, could hear him take a few steps so that he was either behind Torsten or
beside him. Even through the pleasure-pain of being pulled open, I managed to
turn my head just enough to see his green velvet jacket sliding off his
shoulders; I was drunk from joy as I saw his velvet-clad knees hit the floor.
Yet Torsten ignored him and curled his fingers again, again until I was dizzy,
until I nearly fell off the table. "You are to obey your father in everything.
Do you understand?"
"Yes," I cried out, this time in delight. "Yes!"
And then Torsten was squatting over me, squatting over the table, pressing his
cock into my ass. I howled, my teeth scraping the table as he penetrated me. I
prised my eyes open just enough to see Smythe: he was now kneeling behind us,
staring at us, his hands on my thighs. I couldn't see his face, so it must have
been only inches from my pussy, from Torsten's ass, from his balls. Perhaps he
was even licking Torsten, and as if the very thought had not been enough,
Torsten brought his hand to my pussy and rubbed, forced me into another orgasm.
Always so fast, anal orgasms, always so hard to hold back, and now I didn't,
too ecstatic to do so: I screamed and felt myself gushing, heard Smythe
choking. Oh, God, oh, God, I was coming all over his face, spraying his face,
more ejaculate pushed out of me at each one of Torsten's thrusts. I was
wailing, my ass and pussy now so open they made slurping, farting sounds as
Torsten kept pounding into me.
When Torsten slowed down, I thought he, too, had come; but as he untied my
hands and turned me onto my back I saw that I was wrong. He gave me a kiss, a
wet, sloppy kiss, his smile that of a Praetorian guard about to stab his
emperor. "Stay there."
When he moved aside, I saw Smythe was on the floor on all fours, staring at me,
transfixed: his face was dripping from my fluids, his pupils so wide they had
turned his eyes entirely black. His face was red from shame, from dishonour,
from his subjugation to lust; he had pulled his trousers down to his knees and
was now masturbating furiously, unable to stop, as if it was an itch he had to
scratch. His eyes were wide from horror; he was no longer in control of his own
body, Torsten in charge of its every movement.
"That's it, Smythe," Torsten said, ruffling Smythe's gray mane. "I've only left
you your tongue and your eyes. Everything else is mine to command," he said
pleasantly. "How does it feel to be helpless, for once?" Without waiting for an
answer, he pushed Smythe's face into my pussy. "Now, lick."
The noise Smythe made was horrible, animal; I shivered in horror as he began to
lap at my pussy clumsily, messily, clearly never having condescended himself to
perform such an act before. And behind him, Torsten, pouring a long, long
string of glycerine onto his cock, trembling like a hound from the effort to
hold still. Finally, he set the glycerine down and noticed Smythe's cane. He
smirked and picked it up and as he saw me blanch, he lifted his finger to his
lips. I knew what he was going to do with it, knew it--and the scream Smythe
made into my pussy as the silver greyhound entered his ass was miserable, like
that of a man dying.
"Don't act so shocked," Torsten crooned as he fucked Smythe's ass with the
cane. "This was what you were going to do to my daughter's business, weren't
you?" he said pityingly. "Screw her over and think you'd get away with it?" He
pulled the now-dirty cane out and sneered at it, then tossed it aside. "Well,
then. We just thought it was about time we showed you who is screwing whom,
here," he said brightly and started to push his cock inside Smythe's ass.
Again, Smythe screamed, his panic reaching its peak: the veins on his temples
swelled, his entire face puffed and red, his eyes bulging out of his skull. He
looked like some Tibetan demon, and I should have been horrified, but then I
thought of what he had wanted to do to me, what he had done to others before
me. Snarling as brutally as Torsten himself, I sunk my hand into Smythe's hair
and fucked his face, fucked it, forced him to lick my pussy and my asshole,
rubbed them all over his face until it was shining. I fucked his face as
Torsten fucked his ass, taking each and every one of his screams inside my
pussy, and never had I felt as satanic in my life. As Torsten looked down at me
with pride, his eyes zenith-pale, wide, I rushed into the first true sadistic
orgasm of my life. I never took my eyes off Torsten, not even as I shook so
violently tufts of Smythe's hair came off in my hands. At that moment, we two
Barrings merged in our evil, one coming inside their enemy's ass, one in his
mouth, us impaling him upon the twin wraths of our sexes, and I fancied our
fluids were hot, burning, scorching him from the inside, like lead poured down
a traitor's throat.
Torsten cried out, shaking in his release, clawing at Smythe's pale buttocks as
he emptied himself inside of him. Torsten leaned over me and offered me his
mouth; I pulled off Smythe and kept kissing Torsten through the rest of his
orgasm, drinking victory from his lips.
Smythe collapsed at our feet, trembling, his eyes rolling, his mouth foaming,
his hand still jerking on his cock, now covered in his own ejaculate. He
panted, his face still red, his veins still swollen, and I wondered if he would
have a heart attack. Strangely, it seemed natural to me that I was not repulsed
by the idea: all we would've had to worry about was the disposal of the body.
Yet this was to be a warning for him, and as such, I was sure it would suffice.
I slipped a sedative into Smythe's mouth and forced it down with water as
Torsten tucked him back into his clothes. We got dressed, tidied ourselves up
and cleaned the living room so that no one could have known what had taken
place. We seated Smythe in the chair in the hallway, as if he had just been
putting his shoes on, as if he had just been about to leave.
"Now, listen, friend," Torsten said to Smythe, in the calm tone of voice he had
used upon me earlier. "Your body belongs to you once more. You are to take a
taxi home, and will not remember who you are until you are at your own front
door. You will not remember the details of what happened here, but will
remember not to give the Barrings trouble ever again. Each time you even think
of meddling with our affairs, you will feel this same pain in your guts, this
same humiliation, and will cease to think of us at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Smythe mumbled, wiping his mouth, as if he had just tasted something
metallic.
Torsten handed him his cane and patted him on the back. "Good. Off you go,
then."
As we watched Smythe through the window, staggering into a taxi and driving
off, we looked at each other and could not help but burst into laughter. And it
wasn't a laughter of joy, either, but purely hysterical, chaotic, damned--we
both knew this, yet couldn't stop laughing at the madness of it all. If Smythe
were ever to find out, he would kill us, so we laughed as if we were going to
the scaffold; I was still laughing as we collapsed upon the sofa and Torsten
poured us large glasses of whisky.
He raised his glass in a toast. "To Salome and Herod."
I shook my head; history now knew of people far more satanic. "To Torsten and
Laura Erika Barring."
He kissed me and laughed into my mouth. "Skål."
***** Chapter 9 *****
For the next few weeks, we were drunk on our own evil. Was this what successful
murderers felt? That they could get away with anything? Because that's what we
now felt, and set out to test our limits--if Torsten had had a taste for public
sex before, it was now refined, elaborated into a symphony of transgressions.
For my part, I made myself into sex. No matter what the event, I would saunter
in like Mae West herself, wearing the most flamboyant dresses, some of which
Birgitte had tested for shock value in Los Angeles and sent to me. It would not
do to appear at more than one party in the same dress, and she didn't want such
works of art to go to waste. So the finest of hotels and restaurants--and their
prestigious patrons--saw plenty of me, literally, and I loved every minute of
it. A daring costume was always sexier than complete nudity and I knew it; some
of my dresses were so sheer they were little more than fig leaves. And Eve had
brought down all of humanity, hadn't she?
For the Swedish-American charity ball, I chose a dress of white satin,
perfectly plain and simple at the front, but so open at the back it exposed the
dimples at the small of my back. Torsten, with his fetish for all things ass,
had been so stirred by it he'd crooned his appreciation before we'd even left
for the party.
"One inch lower and one could see the cleft," he hissed into my ear in the
taxi, caressing the edge of the dress at my lower back. "Two inches lower and
one could sodomise you."
"You never know," I said, purring against his cheek. "If they bring a fierce
enough jazz band and if I get carried away by the dancing, the dress might even
slip a little."
The noise Torsten made through his nose was hideous, exquisite. "And if it
doesn't, I'm taking you out of here to the smallest, rattiest Negro café so you
can dance to your heart's content."
"I'd much prefer that," I mumbled as we stepped out and had to paint fake
society smiles on our faces. "At least on that side of town, they're more
honest."
For it was true that part of the reason we behaved the way we did was our
mutual scorn and hatred of high society, particularly in America, the land of
artifice. Even the normally modest and honest Swedes we met at events like
these had become more fake, more shallow, abandoning true refinement for the
sake of big cars, big apartments, big dentist-crafted smiles. At times, we felt
like we were the last two of a dying race, the last of the true depraved
European aristocrats. American depravity focused on show, on vulgarity, on
shoving things into your face, whereas we both preferred a deeper, darker
sensualism. We were fascinated by the psychology of seduction, of sadism and
masochism--the Gothic Romanticism and spirituality of it, the yearning to be
dissolved by pleasure-pain.
Even when we were at our filthiest, there remained an intellectual aspect to
our practices--why, just the other day I had been flicking through one of
Torsten's copies of Crowley and the old devil's discussions on breaking through
taboos. "And to think that in order to reach realisation, the initiate is to
consume the excrement from a biscuit--Torsten, doesn't that biscuit strike you
as... softening it too much, disguising it too much?"
"Somehow less pure an experience?" he said. "If you can call it that," he
laughed.
"No, that's exactly what I mean."
Wasn't what we were now experimenting with, now heading towards, much purer a
shock? No biscuits, just honest sodomy, all our secretions consumed off the
genitals, the sources of life itself? Purity, absolutism even in filth? I told
him this, and he agreed. We were more than just initiates; we were adepts,
going beyond everything that could possibly shock us and finding serenity on
the other side. This never ceased to fascinate me, never ceased to turn my mind
inside out. The old Beast had been right; there was nothing like breaking
taboos to expand one's mind, one's consciousness, to find enlightenment where
fools only saw depravity for depravity's sake. And that was exactly why we had
been repeatedly disappointed by the occult circles in both Sweden and in New
York: for so many, rituals pagan and diabolical were just an excuse for
parties, for orgies, nothing you couldn't find in brothels. Well, at least the
brothels didn't pretend to be deep or mystical.
So we continued to live out our own bacchanalia, to explore our own erotic
abyss without the assistance of others, because they only stood in our way. And
at parties such as these, we were both radiant with that sexual vitality, the
libidinous life force, and we wielded it with ever-growing skill. Whereas other
women sat and danced with locked, cramped hips, never having experienced a
single orgasm in their lives, I swung and gyrated mine shamelessly. With equal
sensuality, Torsten rocked his hips in turn, unlike the stiff and cold
heterosexual--or self-denying--men who had never been fucked, had never thrown
themselves fully into the experience of both sexes.
And at our table, when there were fewer others sitting at it, all of them
engaged in mindless chatter with each other, Torsten slipped his hand inside of
my dress. The heat of his hand, the skill of it, the knowledge of it as it
traced my vertebrae, as it slid down my tailbone--my pussy, my womb were jolted
with heat, a heat that wanted to erupt from my mouth a moan, but I bit down on
it at the last minute. That's exactly what he wanted, wanted to see how well I
could control myself, how obedient I could be. Even as he reached lower and
dipped a finger into my ass, pushing it past the muscle, tugging at it at an
event with three hundred people in attendance, with only the back of my chair
shielding the act. I covered my mouth with a napkin so I could bite it, pant
into it as he fucked my ass with his finger, a cigarette in his other hand,
looking casual.
"Oh, I'm so sorry." He knocked my knife off the table, and on this cue, I too
leaned down, slipped underneath the tablecloth with him. Even in the shadows, I
could see him smirking, and in the blue of his eyes, the Devil. He took his
finger from my ass and held it out to me, his mouth open, his lips and teeth
gleaming with saliva. I could not see if his finger was clean and that was it,
that was the point exactly. I closed my mouth around his finger and sucked,
something dissolving on my tongue; I tasted but sweetness.
What I felt in that moment of transgression was stronger than orgasm; terrible,
sublime. When I sat up I felt dizzy, the liquid fire in my veins burning up the
oxygen in my lungs. I smacked my mouth, choosing a glass of mineral water
instead of wine so as not to drown out the taste, to intermingle other
sweetnesses with that of my own. With the water, the sweetness sluiced down my
throat and pooled in my belly, and I knew I wanted more, had to have more. I
had, in fact, cleaned myself that night, and cursed myself for having done so.
Now I picked up my wine glass once more and poured its warmth into myself, into
my guts, mixing with the heat rising from my pussy and ass, both still pulsing,
needing to be taken. It was one of those premenstrual days when I wanted
nothing but sex, all morning, day and night, and for once, Torsten could keep
up with me, his virility fortified by his conquest of Smythe. I wanted to fuck
and he saw it in my eyes; he, too, was stirred more than usual, shifting in his
seat in the way that indicated he was hiding the beginnings of an erection.
"Let's go," I whispered in his ear.
He shook his head and glanced around himself. "We can't, yet. Hemming wants to
introduce some couple to us."
I rolled my eyes and swore under my breath. I could not care less, and neither
could Torsten. If I had to stay still for much longer, I was afraid I might
just snap, slide to my knees and suck his cock into my mouth in front of
everyone.
But it was then that Hemming arrived. He was an old, kindly man who reminded me
of my grandfather, and I didn't have the heart to disappoint him. He had been
the one responsible for getting us in contact with many influential people, and
while the couple he now led towards our table looked plain--
"Ah, here you are. Here's Mr. Stirling, freshly arrived from Britain, and his
wife--"
My eyes flew wide.
"We've met," Anita said as she shook my hand, uneasy, yet curious, amused.
But it was Torsten who now looked astounded as he shook the handsome young
man's hand. "The utter, statistical improbability--"
"It's nice to meet you again, too, Mr. Barring. Small world, isn't it?"
Torsten shook his head and laughed. "This is my daughter, Laura--Mr. Stirling--
"
"Robbie, please," the young man said, a curl of his blond hair escaping onto
his forehead as he bowed to me.
Torsten looked from him to me, then to Anita. "And you know this lady, too?"
"Anita Cortés," I said, and saw Hemming leaving with a bemused expression on
his face. "It is indeed a small world," I murmured, "miniscule."
"I've heard so much about you," Anita said to Torsten, flushing a little as he
kissed her hand. I knew Torsten must have used his special kiss, one that
involved his tongue, exactly because he knew it would unsettle a woman like
Anita.
"Well, well," Torsten leered; "I see my reputation precedes me." He turned to
Robbie. "But Robbie, you old devil! You never told me you had such a beautiful
wife."
Robbie's cheeks flushed; he looked so much like a little boy, then, and I knew
exactly what Torsten had seen in him. "We only married at New Year's. People
still mistake us for honeymooners," he said shyly and took Anita's hand.
Torsten raised his eyebrow and looked Anita up and down lasciviously, insulting
Robbie as he did so, obviously confident that the young man wouldn't dare say
anything. "No wonder you two look so radiant," he said. "Learning the arts of
love together..." he purred, and as he turned to light his cigarette, I was not
so sure Robbie wasn't going to punch him.
I cleared my throat and gestured towards our table. "Would you like to sit with
us?"
Awkwardly, they took their seats, too polite to refuse. A few bottles of
champagne later, their tension had eased: finally, I saw that sensuality I had
first sensed in Anita come to the fore, even if it was still so very coiled, so
very locked up inside of her. I looked at Torsten and wondered the same thing
he must have been wondering: if we should seduce the two together, if this was
the prelude to an orgy. Yet, remembering the fiasco that spring, I felt little
more than pity towards Anita, so I directed the conversation towards work. "Any
new interesting patients?"
"Oh, it's always the same issues," she said, then clasped Robbie's hand. "If it
weren't for Robbie here, I would have gone insane myself, a long time ago. I've
been branching out into hypnotherapy just so I wouldn't have to listen to
everyone's mommy stories day in, day out."
"Well, now, that's very interesting," Torsten said. "I'm a bit of a hypnotist
myself," he said, the private joke making him grin widely.
"Do you have a practice?" Anita asked.
"No, no, no, no," Torsten said, weaving his hand through his cloud of cigarette
smoke. "Everyone should have a hobby, something they only do out of love," he
purred. "And hypnotism is so much like seduction, isn't it?" he said, pouring
himself another glass. Quickly, he flicked his eyes, fluttered his lashes at
Robbie, but I noticed; saw the way Robbie's hands tightened on his napkin.
Robbie laughed nervously. "And you wouldn't need the money, either," he said.
Oh, that was a clumsy thing to say; I could see Anita frowning as he
inadvertently implied they were poor. And I was sure they were: Robbie's tuxedo
sat so poorly upon him it looked rented; Anita's dress was worn at the seams.
In fact, now, Robbie shifted a little; I wondered if she was kicking him
underneath the table.
Anita twisted her face into a chirpy smile. "I have acquired a client who pays
very well; a multimillionaire, as a matter of fact," she said. "Who knows;
perhaps in a while we can retire on the profits."
Torsten nodded sagely. "The rich are often the most neurotic."
"And the most perverse," I said casually, sipping from my wine. "Tell me, is it
true what they say about the British?" I threw the question at both of them,
seeing if I could disconcert them further. "That they are obsessed with sodomy
and the lash?"
At the mention of sodomy, Robbie choked. "I--I wouldn't know much about that,"
he stammered. "That's more of an English thing. Naval tradition and all that."
"The millionaire is an Englishman," Anita said, downing her wine, bolder, now.
"Full of control issues. I wouldn't be surprised if he did keep a birching
horse somewhere."
Torsten and I exchanged looks. "What's his name?" I asked.
Anita poured herself another glass of wine and looked at me, mock-stern. "You
know perfectly well that's confidential."
"Shame," I said with exaggerated flirtatiousness. "I like a good pervert; I
would have loved to have met him."
Yet Torsten was not in the mood for flippancy. "It's dangerous to go rummaging
around a man's head, is it not?" he asked, masking his nervousness under a
laugh. "You never know what you'll find," he said, affecting charm, but I saw
his hand was shaking a little, scattering cigarette ash on his plate.
"Quite," Anita said, now halfway into her fourth glass. "But I have my methods,
for sadists and masochists alike."
At that, Robbie got up so fast his chair creaked loudly. "Come on. It's time we
went home."
Anita glared at him, but said nothing. For a moment I did wonder if she was an
alcoholic; if Robbie's blundering had just given her away, implying she'd had
too much to drink and that this wasn't the first time.
"It's late," I said, looking at my wristwatch. "We'd better get going as well."
And at that, Torsten launched himself off the table like a cheetah, bade quick
goodbyes to the Stirlings and dragged me towards the coat room.
"If she--if Smythe finds out, we're dead," he hissed in my ear.
"I know. And what are we going to do about it?"
"We'll have to wait and see," he said, gritting his teeth at the very idea. "To
make sure it really is him."
We sat quietly all throughout the taxi ride home; the driver must've thought
we'd been quarreling. Even the alcohol had not completely suppressed the panic
that now flowered inside of me.
By the time we got home, we copulated like two people condemned; frenzied,
animal. He whipped me, I whipped him; he pressed me face down into the sheets
and fucked me, clutching me tight against himself, as if to stave off death.
The sobs he made were terrible; even after his orgasm, he was distraught by
fear. "Please, please," he begged me and I fucked him with my hand, but could
never get it inside of him completely; I was sure I could have done it
otherwise, but he was so tense I could only insert my hand up to my palm. Yet I
served him, milked him, loved him until he was too wrung out from his orgasms
to think. We fell into each other's arms, yet even as he spooned me, fast
asleep, the moonlight kept me awake long into the night.
***
July: from elation into chaos. Torsten plunged himself into his occultism,
casting spells, performing rituals to bind enemies, to protect himself from any
malicious intent. He even studied astrological charts, sacrificed wine and
drugs and sperm to long-forgotten demons in his cowardice, in his terror.
Yet I was not going to sit there and wait for some supernatural being to
intervene. Were we not our own gods, I asked him? Smythe was not going to get
in the way of our destiny, I told him, and that was that. I left Torsten to his
incantations and began to spend my days at the office again, even hired a
private detective to find out whether Smythe was planning another takeover, or
if he was after us in any other way. However, I still suspected that his
revenge would come in the form of destroying our business, our fortune;
ordinary humiliations weren't his style. Even if he wanted to murder us--and I
would have, had someone done to me what we had done to him--he would go after
Barring Industries first.
What I found curious was that Acheron had left Smythe's service. What was that
a sign of? I invited him to a bar with us, one that afforded us enough privacy,
yet it was hard for him to keep his voice down. He was furious with Smythe,
absolutely furious. No longer a henchman, then. He said Smythe, who had been
his landlord, had refused to extend the lease on his house, leaving him
practically homeless. He was now sleeping on people's floors--he, who had grown
up on an estate!--and said he would leave for England as soon as the war was
over.
I set my private detective after Acheron to find out if this was true, and it
was. He saw Acheron coming out of houseboats, out of houses of ill repute, out
of cars--he was being put up by friends and clients, now little more than a
street whore. After a few weeks of this, I felt pity for him and bought him a
small apartment a few blocks away from us. But I told him there was a price: he
was to tell us all he knew about Smythe.
"Oh, I will," he huffed, his voice full of hatred as he poured himself another
glass of our whisky. "Anything you want to know, milady, and some things you'll
wish you'd never heard."
He was right--what he told us about Smythe and the children made Gilles de Rais
look like a sweetheart. About five minutes in, I raised my hand to stop him and
reached for the whisky myself. "Please. I get the picture."
"I apologise. But as you can see, there was a reason why I preferred to work
downstairs, with adults. Even then, he always complained that I was too much of
a gentleman with the clients. But he didn't know of anyone else who could do
what I do with these," he said and lifted his hands, "so he kept me."
"Was it just sex?" Torsten said. "I know you said he wanted you to manipulate
their loyalties through sex, but did it go further? Were you extracting
information out of them?"
"Sometimes," Acheron said. "A bit of blackmail, a bit of squeezing here and
there."
A log snapped in the fire; none of us said anything for a long while. It was
strange to see Acheron like that, such an imposing man in such a dusty suit,
his face swollen from sleepless nights and alcohol. If it weren't for his
accent and for his manners, you could have mistaken him for the lowest of the
low, the grunt of a gangster. And I hated Smythe even more, then--not because I
cared that much for Acheron, but simply on principle; that he could waste a
talent, a fellow perverse aristocrat like that. Or was I a hypocrite? Had I
been in Smythe's place, wouldn't I have done the same? I had used and squeezed
people before, then cast them out once I'd wrung them dry. Was it because this
was the future Torsten and I were now facing that made me roil in such hatred,
such disgust?
Whatever it was, only my hatred mattered. "What does he know about us?" I asked
Acheron, quietly.
"Your rules--no vaginal sex, no pissing. Your exclusive fetishes," he smirked,
"vaginal sex and pissing. And that you are father and daughter." So Acheron,
too, had known. Well; that was hardly a surprise.
Torsten smacked his lips and put his drink down. "Is there anything he could
use against us that'd actually stand up in court? Apart from rumours?"
"That would depend on the judges, wouldn't it?" Acheron said, leaning back in
his chair. "He has enough money to bribe every single one, and appoint the
exact ones he wants as well."
I rolled my eyes. "Shit." Yet, funnily enough, neither man scolded me for being
unladylike.
"Why are you so obsessed with him now, anyway?" Acheron frowned. "He does this
to everyone. You aren't the first people he's got a file on. He's been doing it
for the better part of a decade. What makes you think he's after you two in
particular?"
Torsten and I exchanged glances. Neither of us was willing to tell Acheron why;
therefore, I only gave him half the truth. "He wants to swallow up our
business."
Acheron shrugged. "Happens once a week. It's what he does."
"But not to the Barrings," Torsten barked. "Tell us what you've got on him, any
evidence we can use against him. I promise to double what he was paying you."
Acheron burst into laughter. "Bold words."
"Would you rather starve?" I snapped. "Keep selling yourself to the highest
bidder?"
"Oh-ho-ho, I will, I will, if the price is right. What are you offering?"
***
Acheron told us everything he knew; yet, now that he was removed from Smythe's
service, he had to ask his clients--he still received the precious few he
enjoyed fucking. And he had enough connections among Smythe's staff so that he
could give us details of Smythe's comings and goings. By now, it was nearly
August, yet we had heard nothing. I'd gone to see Anita, but she'd remained
tight-lipped about Smythe; if she had indeed broken through the amnesia Torsten
had given Smythe, wouldn't Smythe have destroyed us already? Or was he simply
biding his time?
At the start of August, Birgitte returned. She was as chirpy as ever, made even
chirpier by the Californian sun. The people there had made her even more
shallow and vain, but right now, I found her a welcome distraction. The sex was
amazing, too: just as I had promised, I taught her how to take my hand, making
her come over and over as Torsten, sometimes even Acheron, watched.
Acheron was in our pay, and had decided to throw sexual services into the
bargain--I never quite knew where he drew the line between prostitution and
pleasure. However, the moment he had seen Birgitte, he had been so taken by her
that he probably would have paid her for the privilege of fucking her. Birgitte
more than liked him, declared him her type exactly, and soon they were madly,
passionately in love. The tender way he looked at her when he fucked her
astounded me: gone was the cruel torturer and the gentleman started to come to
the fore. Even as he drove himself into her body as hard as he could, he did it
with such precision and care it made me tremble in envy. But they were still
glad to share; we drowned countless nights in champagne, drugs and fucking.
August became a series of erotic miniatures in my mind, vivid images forever
burned into my memory. Of Torsten and Acheron pounding into us from behind,
then changing places, using us until they were sated. The ecstasy I felt
sucking the combined tastes of Birgitte and myself off Torsten's, Acheron's
cocks. Torsten and Acheron lying on the bed with their legs up, Birgitte and I
licking their asses in worship. Birgitte and I whipped into ecstasies, sobbing
around the men's cocks in our mouths, pussies, asses, all of us a pile of
writhing flesh upon the bed, all of us tasting each other, drunk on pussy-sap
and sperm.
Yet, neither Acheron or I could ever get our hands inside of Torsten fully;
around the same time, I realised I was no longer capable of ejaculating.
Acheron and Birgitte noticed this, but said nothing: they were too busy
enjoying themselves, Birgitte spraying Acheron's beard as he sunk his fist
inside of her ass for the first time. Oh, Torsten and I could still orgasm, of
course, but this partial frigidity filled me with--pardon the pun--impotent
rage. Smythe, whether he remembered his rape or not, had blocked the deepest
reaches of pleasure from us with his very existence. For that, I hated him,
hated him even as I plunged myself down on Torsten and Acheron's cocks, fucking
so hard to forget, but I never could.
But I needed to forget, absolutely needed to. That's why, one day, I suggested
a more complex game for Torsten, Acheron and myself to play. Birgitte was out
of town for the weekend and I needed something intense, with myself as the only
woman in the scene. Again, I wanted the two men fucking me, but this time, I
begged for Torsten to hypnotise me, to purify me, to render me into a state
where I would question nothing, worry about nothing. So that this time, I would
be able to enjoy everything I was given, orgasm violently no matter what was
being done to me. And he knew, just as I knew, that implicit in that request
was the option of coprophilia, finally; to my surprise, he vetoed it.
"I mean what I say," he said, after he'd told me he was a little weary of group
sex himself. "The day we cross that line, I don't want anyone else to be
present. I don't care if he knows what we do, but those acts are to be between
you and me only. Have a wash, just as you normally do."
"But, Daddy," I said, burying my head in his chest, completely sunk into the
little girl's role now. "It's not that I don't want you separately. I just want
it to be hard, and two men are better for that, isn't that right?"
He stroked my cheek. "Then I shall take you dirty some other time. I promise."
"You've promised me that all year," I pouted.
"Very well, then," he chuckled. "Let's set a date. After Birgitte's party."
"Which one?" There was hardly a week when Birgitte didn't throw one.
"The last week of September. There, does that satisfy you?" he said, squeezing
my ass through my skirt.
"Yes, Daddy," I murmured against his lips. "But tomorrow, you will hypnotise
me, won't you? Just make me forget him. Make me forget everything. Please."
"Anything for my little girl," he said and kissed my forehead.
***
On Saturday evening, Acheron came over. He was in a dark mood; yet after a
sniff of cocaine and a stiff drink, he finally started to unwind. "The bathroom
tonight, I think," he said as he stripped down to his waist. "But first, let me
see you relax," he said and pulled me into a kiss.
Torsten arranged us so that while Acheron lay on the sofa, I lay in his lap, my
bare back against his hairy chest. I was completely naked, Acheron still in his
trousers, Torsten in his finest--and fatherliest--pinstriped suit. Slowly, with
his hands and his words and his kisses, Torsten pulled me under, Acheron
petting my hair, caressing my breasts all the while. Acheron had never seen me
in my full trance state, my childhood state; this added to my thrill. This was
a gift of intimacy we were sharing with Acheron, someone who could truly
appreciate it, instead of Smythe, who had only thought to abuse it.
I told them this, but Torsten told me Smythe did not exist, and after he
repeated this statement thrice, Smythe truly did cease to exist. I tried to
look for him in my mind and found but a blank space--I saw mauve gloves, a
jaunty hat, a silver-topped cane--but no face, no name, no memory of the man
himself. I did not know who he was or whether I loved him or hated him; my mind
was empty of him.
"You are to enjoy every moment, my child," Torsten said, as if from very far
away. "Everything that is given to you tonight, you will take pleasure in. Even
if it is something that you might be scared of, even if it's something that
might give you pain. You will orgasm when you are told to do so, with your
entire body, with your entire soul. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy." I nodded with the eagerness of my twelve-year old self, curling
my toes. "I love you, Daddy," I said with equal eagerness and honesty, because
that was all I could feel in that moment: pleasure, and how much I loved him,
adored him for showering me with gifts like these.
He slid between my legs and kissed my pussy, then; it was a kiss reverent,
sweet and long. When he lifted his face he was smiling warmly, his mouth
gleaming from me. "There's a good girl. Now, are you ready?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good. Uncle Acheron said he wants to take you first, and suggested I should
watch from the mirror room. Daddy quite likes that idea. Do you?"
I bit my lip and smiled, caressing his groin with my foot. "Only if you join in
eventually, Daddy," I said.
"I promise," he said with a pussy-sweet kiss.
Once we were in the bathroom, Acheron pulled me further into my trance with the
ritual of the enema, filling my guts with warm milk, washing me over and over.
Daddy had taught him well, knowing exactly how many rinses it took to render me
soft, pliant; how to stroke my pussy as I expelled the milk. And on the other
side of the mirror, I imagined my Daddy with his hand on his cock, arousing
himself to the point where he would have no choice but to pounce me,
deliberately building up his desire so he could unleash its full violence upon
me. The thought in and of itself made my pussy slippery under Acheron's hands--
again, he wore his gloves--and made my ass open as he filled it with dollop
after dollop of his favourite grease. The same grease he used for boys, he
said; he saved it for special customers.
"And if this isn't the prettiest little ass I have ever seen on a twelve-year
old," he crooned. "You do like to tease older men, don't you?" he asked and
smacked my ass. "To drive them wild with your tits and your ass, so they simply
have to fuck you?"
"Yes," I moaned, drunk from his words, from his caresses. I was now standing in
the bathtub, he on the floor behind me, one hand stroking my pussy, another's
fingers twisting in my ass. He was speaking the truth, the truth about Laura at
all ages. I loved teasing men, teasing women; I loved to walk around in naughty
dresses and naughty heels, pushing my ass and my tits out, taunting them with
what belonged only to my Daddy and his friends.
"Hmm?" Acheron took his hand off my pussy and painted my lips with my
sweetness. "Would you say you were a little slut, Laura?"
"Yes, sir," I said, choking on his fingers as he pushed them into my throat,
now fucking me from both ends of my spine, forcing me into convulsions. Another
act my Daddy had taught him, shared with him; stars sparked in my eyes as he
made me cough on his hand, drool on it, hooking his fingers in my ass as it
spasmed and spasmed. Soon, my mouth and my pussy were dripping, dribbling; when
he allowed me breath and let my head loll down, I saw I was dangling in strings
of spit and sweetness from both ends, all over my breasts, my thighs. Like
jewelry, I thought dizzily, my head spinning from the sudden onrush of oxygen,
he's making me pretty for Daddy. I sobbed, gurgled, coughed; he just scooped up
the mess and used it to slick his hand up further.
He returned his hand to my ass, sliding it in easily up to his palm; by now, my
pussy was burning, aching as if inflamed. It felt like an illness, a terrible
disease I wanted to be healed from, that ache. And only friction could heal it,
the sweet friction of fingers, cocks. "Please," I begged, "please fuck me."
"Oh, no. Not just yet. But you could come for me, my child. Would you do that
for me?" He stepped aside a little so that Daddy most certainly had an
unimpeded view of my behind. Acheron began to stroke my pussy again, twisting
his hand in and out of my ass. "Will you come for your Daddy and me?"
"Yes--" I dragged in heavy lungfuls of air, holding it, holding it--
"Come," Acheron crooned, and before he'd even let the entirety of the word
leave his lips, I was there. I felt weightless, the orgasm simple but still so
intense I would have fallen over had his hands not held me up. Oh, it was
wonderful; I was not gushing yet, but that didn't matter. The release was
perfect, a tension that had lasted for days now finally being loosened from me.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," I sobbed as I shook, warm pulses
rippling through each one of my muscles. I lay my face against the coolness of
the wall and Acheron held me through the very last waves of my orgasm, letting
me drool it out, drip it out, moan it out until I was done. "Thank you," I
gasped once more as he lifted my head up by the hair and kissed me.
"My pleasure," Acheron murmured as he tied my hands behind my back with a
length of rope. "Now. I've got a little surprise for you, if you would care to
see it. Do you like surprises, my child?"
"I love surprises," I laughed, happy, light.
He smiled against my mouth. "Then, stay there for a while. I will be back in a
minute."
"Yes, sir," I said and caught my reflection in the mirror: I was flushed, a
mess, but so happy, my eyes glowing with such joy I had not known its like in a
long while. And on the other side of the mirror, my Daddy; I fancied he was
looking at me with similar happiness and love.
Yet it was then that I heard, very distinctly, the sound of a key being turned
in a lock. A thump, another--was Acheron getting something from one of the
unwieldy, huge closets in the back room? Another thump, and then I heard
shouting--it was Daddy. I could not make out what he was shouting, but he was
distraught, panicking, the thumping now more frantic.
My heart started to beat faster, reaching a gallop within seconds. "Daddy?"
With great difficulty, I tried to turn towards the door. "Daddy?" I cried,
louder. "Acheron?"
"You just stay right where you are, my dear."
My heart stopped; my lungs stilled. It was another man, a man I did not
recognise, a short man with a jaunty hat and mauve gloves, twisting a silver-
topped cane in his hands.
"Save your breath," he said, waving his hand dramatically, swanning into the
bathroom as if it were a salon. "Yes, I remember everything; yes, it was Anita,
yes, Acheron let me in." He stepped closer, his small eyes but cold, black
holes sucking me under, his breath sickly-sweet against my neck. "And yes, my
dear, now you are going to pay."
"Pay for what?" I did not understand. I had never seen this man in my life and
he terrified me, implying I had wronged him somehow. Yet I was sure Daddy and
Acheron had meant for him to be here, had meant for him to say those words.
Briefly, Daddy's pounding stopped and now I could hear him screaming again; the
thumps grew louder and I was sure he was trying to break the door, to force his
way out. Was it another part of the play? Like the time he had wanted to be
raped by gangsters? Because the two men I now saw in the doorway looked like
gangsters. They exchanged looks, then turned to the man with the cane, who
seemed to be their boss.
"Make sure he stays there," the man said.
I remained in place, frozen. Even if my heart was pounding, even if something
in me knew I should run, I stayed still. I had been told to stay still, had
been told to love whatever I was given, whoever gave it. But my mind rebelled,
screamed as this strange man hooked his cane around my neck and pulled me
close. He was out of place, but I did not know where to place him. I was but
chaos inside, knowing I should know, like on those days when I was struggling
with the crossword and only needed a few letters to complete a word I knew
existed somewhere in the back of my mind.
"All sorted out, Mr. Smythe," Acheron said as he returned, then turned to me.
"I'm so very sorry, my dear," he grinned, that awful, awful shark's grin that
chilled me to the bone. "But he pays me better."
"What's going on?" I asked. This was a game, an elaborate game, just as Acheron
and Daddy had said it would be, but I was not sure of the rules any more. Daddy
was screaming again; a terrible noise that turned my stomach but which seemed
to please Smythe. Perhaps he was one of my Daddy's men; perhaps this was one of
those torture games Daddy enjoyed from time to time. Daddy pounded on his door
once more, and now I could tell his voice had turned into a sob. Despite
knowing of his tendencies, I couldn't help but worry. "Please. Tell me what's
going on."
"She is in a trance, you see," Acheron said to Smythe, wiping his hands.
"That's why she isn't moving. I wouldn't have even needed to tie her up, but
she looks prettier all trussed up, doesn't she?"
"She does indeed," Smythe said, pulling my head down so that we were at kissing
distance. He smelled of exotic flowers, of musk; he had been eating something
fruity, sweet. His right eye was a little crooked, twisting further as he
regarded me, his nostrils flaring as he smelled me. "My, but I can smell your
pussy from here," he hissed, the words hard, dry, sharp between his teeth.
"I took the liberty of making her wet for you," Acheron said jovially as he
took Smythe's cape, hat and cane.
"That's most kind of you."
"Oh, and it's the mirror room Mr. Barring is currently in. If you face this
way, he will have a good view of the proceedings."
"Thank you, thank you." Smythe turned to me again and laughed. "My, my, he is a
worthy hypnotist--look, the little slut hasn't moved an inch!"
Acheron turned to me, too, feeling my arm. "You know, I think she is still
trembling from arousal. Would you like to play with Mr. Smythe now, my dear? He
is a friend of your Daddy's and mine, and we wanted to surprise you. He's come
to do some very special things to you tonight."
Smythe undid his fly and took his cock in his gloved hand, stroking it lazily.
"What were the Barrings' rules again? I forget."
"No vaginal sex, no pissing," Acheron purred. "I think that's your cue to step
out of the tub, my dear."
Acheron guided me to stand with my face against the mirrored wall. Behind the
mirror, I could hear Torsten screaming, screaming so loudly the mirror
vibrated, yet I obeyed Acheron. Perhaps Daddy was being fucked really well
right now, a big cock sliding inside of his pussy, just as Smythe's was now
sliding into mine? Oh, but it was a wonderful cock, thick and fat; just what
I'd wanted in my pussy, relieving the awful ache in exactly the way I had
wanted. And if Daddy had sanctioned this, if Daddy was watching, it meant he
accepted it, didn't he? The way Daddy now moaned, he must have been enjoying it
as much as I was.
But it was Smythe who now moaned louder, his face red as he fucked me,
tiptoeing to push in deeper, deeper. He was around the same height I was,
perhaps even shorter: I had never been fucked by such a small man before. But
oh, was he ever so big where it counted! This made me giggle against the
mirror, giggle in delight--I knew Daddy liked to see me enjoying myself. Smythe
looked furious, angry as he fucked me, just as Daddy and Acheron always did,
and it made my pussy hotter, wetter.
"How does it feel?" Smythe snarled, wiping his forehead on his glove. "How does
it feel, hmm?" he grunted and shoved his cock as deep inside of me as it would
go, hitting my womb so that I moaned in pleasure, steaming up the mirror with
my breath.
"It feels good, sir," I panted, "so good." I had wanted another man's cock in
my pussy for so long, secretly held out hope that Daddy would let another man
fuck me this way, and now he'd found the perfect man for it, perfect. A man
aggressive, his prick so hot and so big I too had to tiptoe so it wouldn't
split me in two. It felt so wonderful tears prickled in my eyes and I pushed
myself back on it. "Please, fuck me some more, sir, please fuck me some more."
"Oh, I will, my dear, I will." He sunk his fingertips into the hollows of my
hips so that it hurt, slammed into me so deep it hurt, threw me against the
mirror so hard it hurt. And I loved the pain, loved each blow, wetting the
mirror with my tears, howling in sweet agony.
"Does it hurt, then? Is that why you thought you could keep this little pussy
from me? Too big for you, am I?"
"No, sir, I--I love it, I love it." I was babbling, so aroused I was now
wetting him completely; I could hear it from the way his balls slapped against
my pussy at each of his strokes.
He shoved in again and pulled my head back by the hair. "Who does this little
pussy belong to?"
"My Daddy," I answered automatically.
Roaring in rage, Smythe yanked my head further back and spat on my face, spat
on it again, smearing my face with his glove, with the stench of cigars and
flowers. He shoved inside of me brutally, so brutally I screamed from the pain,
yet he kept pulling my head back, bending my back like a bow. "You're wrong, my
child, so wrong," he snarled in my ear as he speeded up his thrusts. "You see,
every little girl's pussy in this town belongs to me," he said, wrapping his
other hand around my throat. "Including yours. Say it."
"Sir, please--"
"Say it!"
I sobbed. Perhaps this, too, was a part of the game--wouldn't Daddy punish me
if I disobeyed, if I let him down? He always said that whenever he shared me
with other men, I was to think of them as extensions of himself. All men were
Daddy, he'd said, all men, if he but wished for them to be so. Ashamed,
trembling around Smythe's cock, I made my voice as meek, as humble as I could.
"My pussy belongs to you, sir," I croaked, his hand so tight around my throat I
could barely speak. My head was about to burst from the blood he'd trapped
there, my eyes bulging from my face, a grotesque Laura now staring at me from
the mirror. "As every girl's does," I whimpered.
As he let go and as the oxygen rushed back into my lungs once more, I felt the
hot, dark waves of the deepest of orgasms rising in my hips, and never had
those waves felt as painful as they did now. My entire pelvis was packed with
blood; I had to come, I had to, or else my womb would tear itself apart. I was
so close, so close, yet I needed more. "Please, sir, please. Please let me
come, please let my pussy come, it's yours, it's yours--"
"Come, then, and I'll come inside you," he snarled, rolling his hips, heaving
behind me. "How would you like to bear my child? Hmm? A little girl for me, so
I could fuck her, too? Take you both at once? Both of your little pussies split
by my prick?"
It was at that that I screamed, my pussy gushing: I burst in rivulets down my
thighs, shaking as I ran down Smythe's balls, down his expensive suit. And it
was only after that that the orgasm followed; I was but red and black waves,
sucking him inside of myself, hungrily, my pussy and my womb convulsing so hard
they sent my entire body spasming, the mirror rattling in its hinges. Smythe
was groaning something indistinct as he kept fucking me, as he too pulsed
inside of me, filling me with warm, delicious sperm. Yes, sperm, what I was
hungry for: sperm to make a child, to duplicate me, to divide me so that I
could be fucked by all these men that were my Daddy, the crime of incest
multiplied. I was delirious with it, could feel my womb sucking his sperm
inside of itself; I laughed hard, harsh, sharp, that laugh shattering into a
thousand pieces as it echoed off the tiles.
And from the sound of my Daddy on the other side of the mirror, a sound like he
was dying, I was sure he must have come, watching me ejaculate, fucked by one
of his instruments, an avatar of my God, my Father. I laughed, smiled, radiant
as Smythe grunted behind me; laughed in utter delight as he pulled out and his
sperm ran down my legs, thick, abundant.
"Get the funnel," Smythe murmured as I slid down onto the floor, still in a
smiling heap. I had no care in the world--but what was this about a funnel?
I discovered soon enough: I jerked as Acheron put the cold metal to my ass.
"What are you doing?" I asked, but somehow, I knew not to be scared--he had put
all kinds of things up my ass before. Perhaps this was what the enemas had been
for; perhaps he was about to give me another one.
"Just stay where you are," Acheron said after he'd guided me to kneel with my
face down on the floor, my rump in the air, the funnel holding my ass open.
"We're going to give you something else that's very special. Can you hold still
for us?"
I nodded.
"Good," Acheron said, then sat down on the floor cross-legged and offered me
his cock. "Now, suck it, there's a good girl."
I obeyed, grateful. Acheron's cock was wonderful, too, so thick and salty; I
hoped that he would be allowed to fuck my pussy tonight as well. Yet now, I
choked, and not because of Acheron's size: it was because I could feel a warmth
inside my guts, like that of another enema. I drew back for breath and looked
behind myself. Oh, God, oh, God, it was just as I had thought: Smythe was now
sitting on the toilet with his cock in his hand, directing an arc of bright
yellow piss into the funnel, into my ass, into my guts. I screamed, screamed
because this was wrong, completely wrong; even through my trance, I knew this
was out of skew. Even if Daddy had allowed this, I hated it; hardly ever had I
had to stop one of our games, but now I had to, absolutely had to.
"Torsten--" I cried loudly so that Daddy would hear, cried out the signal of
his first name, his cue to stop. "Torsten!"
Yet I only heard another moan, which I took for Torsten's acquiescence; oh, he
was a cruel bastard, cruel, letting someone violate this act, this special act
of ours. The most intimate thing we had ever shared, now claimed by another?
What had I done? What had I done to deserve this? Was Daddy teaching me a
lesson about my lust for other men? As Acheron shut me up by pushing his cock
into my mouth, I burst into tears.
I deserved it, I deserved it, the terrible little daughter I was, the terrible
little slut, the one who was always teasing men, always greedy. So, so greedy
for sperm and piss, so greedy that she had forgotten her Daddy; my tears wet
Acheron's balls as he fucked my throat, as Smythe kept filling my ass with more
piss. It felt like the stream of it, the horror of it would never end, and I
wondered how much Smythe had been drinking--this was no impulse, this was a
premeditated punishment. I imagined my Daddy offering Smythe beer, coffee,
making his bladder swell just so they could teach me this lesson, to fill me so
that I felt like I was a balloon about to burst.
Finally, Smythe sighed and I could no longer feel him pissing inside of me. I
heard the toilet seat creaking, heard the sound of a cigarette being lit. "Now,
hold it in for just a moment, my child," he said as he pulled the funnel out
and moved to stand in the doorway, where he could watch us.
Smythe let the funnel clatter onto the floor. "Now."
Brutally, Acheron thrust into my throat. I screamed as Smythe's piss burst out
of my ass, spraying all over the toilet, spraying the wall itself, spraying the
floor. Acheron cried out deep in his belly, his cock pulsing, flooding, choking
me with sperm. He was still coming, his cock still spurting as he pulled back
just in time, as the puddle of piss spread from underneath my knees to where he
had just been sitting.
I was in too much of a shock to think any longer; I just lay there on the
floor, coughing, crying, soiled, each one of my orifices hurting, leaking sperm
and piss.
"Aren't you going to clean it up, my girl?" Smythe said, mock-outraged. "You've
got a perfectly good little tongue in your mouth. Go on. Chop chop."
Still sobbing, I licked up whatever trails of piss had not flowed down the
drain yet. I gagged as I neared the drain itself, threw up a little in my
throat, coughing out sperm and piss. "Please, sir. I am sorry. I have learned
my lesson and I am so sorry--"
It was Acheron who now came and filled a bucket of water, first flushing the
floor with it, then filling another and splashing it all over me. When he was
done, I was still weeping quietly; Daddy had gone completely quiet. I worried
that he disapproved of me, and nothing else mattered to me at that moment: I
had hurt my Daddy somehow, and now I had not even atoned properly, perhaps; it
broke my heart. "Please," I cried, not knowing who I directed that prayer to.
Perhaps to God and his angels, perhaps to the Devil, but in that moment, I knew
I wanted nothing more than someone to pick me up from the floor, someone to
hold me, someone to just tell me it was all right.
Yet Smythe walked up to me and lifted my chin with the tip of his shoe. "And
that's just a warning, my child. Any more trouble from you, and I shall have
your head."
"Yes, sir," I mumbled, but so quietly I wasn't sure if he had even heard. I lay
there on the floor, catatonic as I heard the men leaving, heard two locks
opening, heard two doors opening, closing.
And at the bathroom door, my Daddy, so upset he was shaking.
"Laura, Laura--" he staggered through the door, then fell next to me on the wet
floor in his pinstriped suit, his hair loose, his face wet from tears. "What
have they done to you? What have they done to you? My child, my beautiful
child, my beautiful child--" he sobbed and held me against his chest.
I was tired, so tired and so confused. "So you don't hate me, Daddy?" I dared
ask.
"Hate you?" He was so shocked he was trembling, his eyes red from weeping. "How
could I ever--"
"That was to punish me, wasn't it?" I said quietly, shuddered as I felt another
trickle of piss escape my ass. "I've learned my lesson, Daddy."
"Oh, Laura," he held me and rocked me, rocked me, rocked me. "I love you. I
love you so much. I would never, ever--God. Come, let's wash."
He spent a long time showering me, flushing my pussy, murmuring over me; I
realised it was one of his spells, one to stop the life force of an enemy. "I
will not have him make you pregnant," he murmured, "never while I live."
I still didn't understand. "Did I pass the test, Daddy?" I had enjoyed it, at
least most of it, just as I had been told to. He had seen me orgasm, hadn't he?
"Don't say things like that," he said, pale as he picked me up and carried me
to the scarlet room. He brought me his special drink, and soon, I felt no worry
at all, only happiness, elation, a deep peace as he pulled me into his arms. "I
love you, I love you, I love you," he murmured, sobbed in my ear, and I could
not understand why he was so upset. But he loved me, he loved me and that was
all that mattered. I silenced him with kisses, soft kisses and told him I loved
him, too. Relieved, I leaned back in his arms and finally fell asleep.
***** Chapter 10 *****
I was glad of Torsten's drugs, of his hypnotism over the next few days as he
nursed me back to health and revealed to me just small glimpses of what had
happened. Vast swathes of my memory were black; the little slits of light in
the darkness where Smythe's and Acheron's actions shone trough blinded me with
revulsion. When Torsten told me I might be pregnant, I threw up on our living
room floor from sheer horror.
"I'm not. Fuck. I'm not." I clutched at my belly, clawed at it in a fit of
madness, very little of it brought on by the opiates. "Fuck."
"If you are, I can fix it for you. I promise," he said, agitated, furious.
"Even if I have to rip it out with my bare hands."
"Don't. Don't even talk about it," I said, wiping my mouth. I swore I could
feel my cervix, my womb curling up on themselves in disgust. "Fuck. Give me
another drink."
"Gladly," Torsten said, filling my glass with double the whisky. "What time of
the month are you in?"
"The worst." I had to put the glass down before I'd even sipped from it: I
retched again. This was too early to be morning sickness, but the fact that it
reminded me of it didn't help. "We've got two weeks to find out."
It turned out to be three weeks, then four. With mounting horror, I felt my
moods swing up and down, felt my breasts grow sore, and all the while, I wanted
to eject the worm, the parasite I was sure was now eating away at my womb. I
asked Torsten to kick my belly, took all kinds of disgusting herbal drinks, as
many drugs as I could, cried my eyes out every night. Needless to say, I didn't
let Torsten take me--this had been the longest we had gone without sex, and it
devastated me even further. Smythe had stolen my body from me, enslaved it to
his will, taken away my greatest joy, my very life itself. "I'm going to kill
him, I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him," I said, stabbing at pillows
with pen knives, shattering plates, screaming out my rage.
Until at the end of the fifth week, I bent double with pain and crawled to the
toilet as fast as I could. My period had started, only with double, no,
quadruple the pain. Even as I slid off the toilet seat onto the floor, covered
in cold sweat and speechless from pain, I was weeping from joy on the inside.
Smythe's parasite, Smythe's poison, Smythe's monstrosity bled out from between
my legs a gory mess, and I had never felt as blessed in my life. Delirious from
pain, I swore to offer tributes to the Devil just as Torsten had done.
And the very next day, still bleeding, I knelt in front of the statue of the
Devil Torsten kept in his study. I smeared the Devil's grinning face with my
blood, smeared his prick with my blood, sobbing in gratitude, the whisper of
birch leaves gentle and sweet all around me. And when I invited Torsten to fuck
my ass that night, we both marvelled at the last of the blood now flowing out
of my pussy, adored it. We smeared each other with it, drank it, ate it,
painted the sheets with it, our fucking frantic, ecstatic.
After, we lay together for a long while, not unlike two warriors bathing in the
blood of an enemy.
"We have to leave this place," I said and laced my bloodstained fingers with
his.
He kissed my hair. "I know. I've started to make arrangements. I just didn't
want to tell you earlier."
"When's the earliest we can leave?"
"After Birgitte's party."
Less than a week, then. This very Saturday. I let out a sigh of relief, but
only halfway. "What if he gets us before that? What if he does something to
you?"
"Don't say that," he said and hugged me close.
"Will you do something for me?" I whispered, tracing the blood drying on his
chest.
"What is it?"
"Wipe away what you showed me. Wipe away all the details, all of them."
"I will once we are in California."
"No, Torsten. I want you to take them away, now. When I walk into that party, I
don't want to be a woman who's been--" and it was then that I burst into sobs,
the terror and the exhaustion of it all flooding out of me, my violent
hiccoughs pushing more blood and tissue out of my pussy.
"Shh," he said, and I wondered if I had ever seen him so terrified, his eyes
liquid from sorrow, and they were pulling me in, pulling me in. "I can't take
all of it away now, but until California, I can take away everything that
happened in the bathroom. But not the things that happened after."
"Better than nothing," I sniffled.
"Now, breathe; look into my eyes and breathe."
He gathered the black velvet swathes in my mind and obscured the lights,
obscured the slits, the rips that blinded me; I was stumbling in darkness but I
preferred it to the glaring horrors. Yet, I remained aware that I had been
raped, even if the event itself was a blank page in my mind. It would have been
impossible to forget it had happened because of the blood still flowing from
between my legs, but for the next few days, I softened the pain with all the
drugs we had at our disposal, knowing that the more I took, the less I would
remember even of my bleeding.
I only let Torsten fuck my ass, but he did so furiously, with all the passion
he was capable of. Yet none of it was truly violent this time; the only
violence he committed upon me was that of tenderness, almost too much
tenderness. We didn't fuck as father and daughter, only as two adults, as a
grown man and a grown woman terrified of death.
***
Outside, I had to face Birgitte as if nothing had happened. I was just a little
ill, I said; bad period, that was all. Birgitte showered me in cooing and
tenderness and tea and cupcakes; I shut up and let myself be pampered. I
couldn't walk for long distances, so we just visited the hairdresser together:
she insisted that they make our hair exactly alike. "Like two sisters," she
said, clasping my hand, "just like old times."
For the rest of that appointment, I let myself be drowned in her aimless
gossiping and giggling; I could shut my brain down and let her chatter lull me
into a torpor. As we walked into the taxi, however, a sudden fear clutched at
my stomach. I was an idiot. An idiot.
"Birgitte?"
"Yes?"
"Are you still seeing Acheron?"
"I haven't seen him for almost six weeks, now. The cad. Have you any idea
what's happened to him?"
She was a poor liar, always had been, I thought. How could I have ever imagined
she was not involved? Or was she? We had been wrong about Acheron, too,
disastrously wrong. I did not know whether to trust even myself, now. Fuck.
"No. I haven't seen him since August, either," I murmured, staring out into the
street.
"Oh, by the way. The bathroom's bust again," she moaned theatrically and rolled
her eyes. "Could I use yours before the party?"
"Sure, why not?"
Torsten and I were staying at a hotel that night anyway. We hadn't told anyone
we were leaving New York and had left the apartment as it was: I hated the idea
of being parted from so many of the things I loved, but Torsten insisted we
could have it all shipped over. We had managed to bring our most important
possessions over from Sweden while there was a war on, hadn't we? The most
important thing was to get ourselves out of here, as fast as possible. First a
car, then a series of private planes, sparing no expense, to somewhere near San
Francisco, he told me. Well, I'd rather be killed by an earthquake than Smythe,
I'd quipped, but honestly, I couldn't wait to get away. Tomorrow, tomorrow we
would put it all behind us.
But there was still the party tonight to struggle through. When Birgitte and I
stopped at a café to have a quick lunch, I peeked into her handbag while she
was in the toilet. There was a small, red notebook in there, marked with all
kinds of names and dates, with some notes on what Birgitte, Torsten, Acheron
and I had been doing in bed. The hairs on my neck stood on end. I had been
right, right--or was I imagining it? Perhaps this wasn't her spying on us;
perhaps this was just an ordinary diary she kept for herself, something she
wrote half in code? After all, quick flick-through revealed there were no
mentions of Smythe in it at all.
But the most terrifying thing was that no matter whose side Birgitte was on,
the notebook I was now holding was evidence of the real nature of my and
Torsten's relationship. She was a witness, a key witness Smythe would be able
to use against us, and I had no doubt whatsoever that Acheron could persuade
her to do or say anything.
Fuck. And why had I started to swear so much? Even in my head? I could barely
light my cigarette, my hands were shaking that much. I only managed to slip the
notebook into my own bag just in time before Birgitte returned. She made an
exaggerated pitying face and took my hand. "I shouldn't have kept you so long.
You go and have a rest before the evening; you look like you need it."
I glared at her, but forced my gaze to soften, even if inside, I was thinking
You bitch, you bitch, you stupid bitch. I should have known better than to ever
get involved with someone like her. She didn't have a malicious bone in her
body, but her simplicity made her so easy to manipulate she could turn against
us any moment. As we walked out of the café, I wanted to push her underneath
the nearest car, I did, I did--
Yet I squeezed my hands into fists and didn't. Tonight; I thought to myself, I
will make it through tonight. And tomorrow, I will run so far away I will never
have to listen to your shrill laughter ever again.
***
Torsten arrived at the party a little late--some last-minute business, he said-
-but Birgitte herself was almost an hour late, now. The guests were starting to
get nervous, but since it was a party organised by a winery--just inherited by
a handsome young bachelor Birgitte had set her eyes on, in fact--the drinks
were free and nobody was in a hurry to leave.
"Do you think her car has broken down?" I asked Torsten from behind my third
glass of white wine.
"She wasn't at the apartment yet when I left, that's the curious thing. You
know how she takes hours to doll herself up." He sipped from his own glass and
sprawled in our alcove. "You never know, maybe she did her eyeliner wrong and
had to start all over again," he drawled.
"We should go check on her."
"By which you mean I should go check on her, yes?" he lolled his head lazily
against the corner of his seat.
"She designated me co-hostess," I smirked. "Besides, I've got four more
varieties to sample," I said and lifted my glass. "It wouldn't do to upset our
host."
"Oh, all right," he grumbled. He got up to kiss me goodbye and whispered in my
ear. "Remember what I promised to do to you tonight," he purred.
"If I'm not too tired," I said, pointedly, implying I was. His face fell, so I
immediately took his hand. "I'm sorry. It's just that I am too worried about
her to think about sex right now." And I didn't say so out loud, but I was
angry at him for presuming I was ready for that kind of sex yet. Perhaps once
we were settled down in California under new names, new identities; perhaps
then, we could pick up where we left off. As tired as I was, I forced myself to
flirt with him, if only to defy my own traumas, to snip them in the bud. "Bring
her back safe and there's a long, wet suck in it for you," I said. "Long, as
in... shall we say thirty minutes?"
"Forty-five if I make it back in less than an hour," he purred, his eyes
brightening once more.
"Done," I laughed and shook his hand.
It took twenty-four minutes and three seconds for a waiter to approach me with
such haste it was as if his apron was on fire. "There's a call for you, Miss.
Your father. Says it's urgent."
Torsten was frantic. "Don't stay at the party, please, you've got to leave the
party," he yelled down the line. "Get here now! I don't have time to explain,
and I can't; not on the telephone." His voice was high-pitched, quavering,
shrieky from hysteria. "Please, Laura. Get here as fast as you can." And at
that, he hung up.
Fuck.
Eighteen minutes of speeding and a well-bribed taxi driver later, I arrived at
the apartment. Torsten was sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands, his
tuxedo rumpled. He didn't even look up at me.
"The bathroom," he said, quietly.
I knew what had happened before I even stepped inside. I closed my eyes before
I opened the door, then forced myself to look.
Slouched half out of the bathtub, naked, lay Birgitte. Her cloud of blonde
hair--hair exactly like mine--was now covered in blood. I stepped closer and
saw that the back of her skull had been bashed in, and not by just one but
several blows: brutal, brutal blows, fragments of brain and skull scattered all
over her hair. But it was only when I had finished throwing up, panting over
the toilet that I saw what was peeking out from her skull, half covered by hair
and brain and blood.
It was a short length of silver. At first, I thought it was a piece of jewelry,
but as I wiped my mouth and crawled closer, I recognised it and reared back in
horror.
"Torsten," I croaked, then louder, "Torsten."
He stood at the door with his hands in his pockets. "Yes. I saw it, too."
It was the head of a silver greyhound, only its ears and its neck peeking out
of Birgitte's brain. It had obviously come off while Smythe had assaulted her,
and I wondered if it was before or after he'd realised he'd got the wrong girl.
Before he'd had to run, run so fast he would rather risk leaving evidence than
get caught. And the shame of having murdered the wrong girl--oh, yes, that
would have been the worst thing, of course.
That had been meant to be my skull, my blood, my brain all over the floor.
I threw up again, threw up until no more wine would come out. Torsten made a
move so as to rub my back, but there was no room in the bathroom for Birgitte's
corpse; the coward he was, he flinched away from it and stayed where he was.
So I washed my face and mopped my mouth, splashing cold water all over my face
and chest. "I am not touching it," I said.
"I think we should leave that to the police, anyhow," he said, holding his
scented handkerchief to his mouth, looking like he was going to throw up
himself.
I laughed, completely hysterical, now. Perhaps it was the surreality of the
situation, perhaps it was the delirium of a woman who had just escaped death.
"Oh, yes. Our good friends, the police. Shall we call them before or after we
have got the hell out of here?"
I didn't give him time to answer before I had stormed out of the door.
He ran after me. "I'll send them a telegram--"
"You just do that." I buttoned up my coat. "Come on."
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
We checked out of the hotel immediately even if it might have made us look
suspicious; we didn't have a minute to waste. Despite our innocence, despite
the evidence, I didn't want to hang around for questioning, afraid that Smythe
would still somehow be able to turn it all against us. That would have been
even more satisfying for him--to have us not on trial for incest but murder. I
shuddered at the very idea as we climbed into our car and told the driver to
take us to a small, seedy hotel on the outskirts of the city, halfway to New
Jersey. The driver probably thought we were an eloping couple and smirked at us
through the rear view mirror, even winking at Torsten knowingly.
We did not fuck that night. We held each other like two babes, unable to sleep
for most of the night. It was preferable to the nightmares: I would dream of
licking Birgitte's pussy, Torsten's ass, and they would both be dead, but
somehow still pushing bits of blood and brain and skull fragments into my mouth
from their dead orifices. I had to keep swallowing, choking, and the blood and
the brain and the bone would never end, scraping my throat and my stomach,
suffocating me.
No, I much preferred to stay awake, clutching at Torsten and soothing him
between his own nightmares. If anything, he was more distraught than I was, it
seemed: I had grown up so fast during the past two months that it felt as if I
were the adult and he the child. All the shocks had made me harder, colder out
of sheer necessity, the need to keep myself together.
We paid extra for a private plane to leave westwards as soon as it was light.
We managed to get some more sleep on the plane out of sheer exhaustion, and
spent the rest of the day in a torpor, stirring only for food and for fuel
breaks. And thus we continued for the next day and a half, finally reaching San
Francisco--or its outskirts--on Monday night. It was so dark I did not pay
attention to my surroundings much; all I knew was that our new home was an old
Spanish villa and that I could hear the sea outside. All fine by me, I thought;
we collapsed and finally, finally my fatigue was so deep that I slept without
dreaming.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Our first week in California passed me by in a haze; the sun showered me with
sparks that danced underneath my eyelids and all was brightness, silence. I did
not feel like myself, but that was only a good thing, I suppose, as we had to
go out under assumed names. We did not enter the Californian society yet--the
plan was to lie low until the dust had settled, until we could be sure we were
no longer suspects. Therefore, we had to become new people, at least for the
time being. Torsten shaved his moustache and spoke slowly to try and eradicate
the last of his accent; I dyed my hair red and wore plainer clothes, no longer
those of the femme fatale.
The first time we looked at our new selves and each other in the mirror, I
burst into tears. He held me from behind, following me onto the floor as I
slouched onto my knees, not letting go of me no matter how much I struggled.
"What's the matter?" he said.
"That's not Laura," I said, wringing a hand in my hair, the scent of henna
bitter and unpleasant in my nostrils. It felt like an invasion, Smythe imposing
his will on my body again from a continent away--it was thanks to him we'd had
to do this, annihilate ourselves. But I did not want to annihilate myself. I
wanted to keep on being Laura, wanted Torsten to remain himself, my father--yet
it was no longer Torsten I saw in the mirror, either. "And that's not my
Daddy," I said, more quietly, now.
"Don't say that," he whispered against my cheek. "I can't bear you saying that.
Now, more than ever, we need to stay focused, remember who we are."
"Why can't we go back to Sweden? He wouldn't follow us there."
"You know perfectly well why. We're safer here."
"I don't want this," I said, bursting into tears once more. "I didn't ask for
this." I just wanted to be small, the child in my father's arms, even less able
to cope now after all that had happened. I desperately wanted to return to the
state of innocence I had not visited since Smythe had done what he'd done. "I
only want you," I said, wiping my nose.
"And you have me," he said.
"But not this way," I said, shaking my head, well on my way to hysteria. "Not
like this."
He took my hair in his hands and held my head up by it, lifting me until I felt
but a rain of needles down my entire body. "You have me, Laura," he said, more
sternly, now. "I haven't gone anywhere."
I should have been grateful for this, of his giving me pain to numb my
hysteria, but I wasn't. "Let me cry. Please. Allow me that at least," I said,
choking on my tears.
"Then, cry."
He let go of me so fast I slumped onto the floor in a sobbing heap, not least
because of the scorn I'd heard in his voice. He stood up and made to leave.
"Please, don't leave me," I said, clutching at his legs. "Please. Just let me--
"
And he let me; he did not move at all, but he let me. I cried it all out, cried
out all the horrors and the stress of the past two months, cried and sobbed and
screamed until I was exhausted.
When I was finally quiet, he picked me up from the floor and without a word,
sat in his armchair and spread me across his lap. And there, he took out his
belt and whipped me with it, beat me with it until I was swimming in a red sea
of pain, of relief. We exchanged no words; dirty talk would have shamed this
act. It was sacred, holy.
And sacred, too, was the moment he lifted me to the bed and entered me. He had
not whipped me, had not taken my pussy since Smythe; but now, with his hands
and his belt and his cock he reclaimed me, took me until I was vibrating all
over with pleasure-pain, sobbing in pure joy. Tears fell down my cheeks at each
one of his thrusts, a river, a flood of all the agonies I had suffered pushed
out of me by his love.
"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," I sobbed into his ear, clutching him with all my limbs,
shaking underneath him in orgasm. And again he became my Daddy for me,
whispering "Laura" in my ear over and over, fucking the pain out of me, fucking
the hurt out of me until it ran down over his balls, smeared all over our
thighs. This was yet another deflowering, a broken and bruised Laura being
slain, and I squeezed my pussy around his cock so that he would stay there
forever, the only man who had ever been worthy to claim me this way. With his
sperm, he washed my violation out of me; with his tongue, he kissed my pussy
into bloom and took it again, again until we were both exhausted, spent.
"Laura, Laura," he whispered into my ear as he lay on top of me, an
incantation, a spell, a summoning of my true essence. One crowned with laurels,
his empress, his queen, just like he'd always said. And with his kisses he
crowned my brow anew; with his cock swimming in sperm and my sweetness, he re-
anointed me; with the weight of his body he enthroned me. A restoration, a
resurrection, the sound of water and leaves whispering around me and he the
very forest itself, the darkness we had sprung from, he a Sweden alive and
humming in my arms.
"Thank you," I said and kissed him, the sweetest of kisses, the most innocent;
the child-empress crowning her champion in turn. My emperor, my father-lover,
the incubus saturating me with his evil once more, grounding me, making me
whole. "Thank you, Daddy."
We lay there for a long while until our sweat had dried, until he finally
slipped out of my body. It was so warm here we didn't need to pull the quilt
over us; he played with the pearlescent strands of sperm caught on the curls of
my pussy. "You'll have to start shaving again," he said, grinning. "So that
they will take you for a natural redhead."
I traced his shaven upper lip, sticky from my sap, the bareness of it still so
strange. "And you should assume the part of a woman," I murmured. "You are
certainly pretty enough."
He laughed softly and scooped up our fluids from between my legs. "Have you
thought about our new names yet?"
Names were power, and we had decided our new names should represent things we
wanted to both draw to ourselves and to project outwards, to embody with our
lives. We had made a list of suitable surnames, then whittled it down to three-
-all of which he had liked so much he had left the final choice to me. And
here, I had soon realised, we had our chance to choose names truer than the
ones they had given us at birth. To discard those ones with which others had
sought to bind us to their expectations, to the Church and Jesus Christ.
"A new baptism," I murmured, tracing the cruel curve of his lips. And in that
moment, I knew, knew the only name we could ever bear.
"Morgonstierna," I said and smiled. Morning Star.
And bright, beautiful, damned he glowed as he traced an inverted pentagram on
my forehead with our fluids. "In the name of Lucifer and all the legions of
Hell, I baptise thee Morgonstierna."
I daubed my fingers with the wetness at the tip of his cock and drew the same
sigil on his forehead. "In the name of Diana and all her witches joyous and
proud, I baptise thee Morgonstierna."
I kissed his forehead and he pulled me into a deeper kiss, sighing into my
mouth in satanic delight. "And first names?"
"Mmm. I quite like the sound of Diana. But what about you?" I tapped his nose.
"Whatever could be devilish enough for you?"
"What is it the English call him? Old Nick?"
"I am not calling you 'Nick'."
"'Nicolas,' then. Spelled the French way. More refined, I think."
"And profoundly effeminate," I quipped. "And therefore, perfect," I yelped,
cackled as he tickled me in revenge.
***
We did not leave the house; he had hired enough staff to enable us to remain
indoors. The servants did not stay long; Torsten told them he needed peace and
quiet, as he had business to attend to. And that business was me. Confined as
we were, we focused on recovering what was left of our old selves, creating
ourselves anew. The ghosts of Smythe and Acheron still oppressed us, but even
if I had unexplained moments of panic, flashes of things I could not quite
remember, I never asked Torsten for details. Each night, I thanked the stars
for having been spared the worst blows of what had happened, the experience
itself; the aftermath had been traumatic enough. Each night, I thanked Torsten
for having removed the worst from me, thanked him with my mouth, my pussy, my
ass, my entire body.
One day, he wanted to piss inside of my ass as foreplay, and gladly, I yielded.
Yet, as he pushed a funnel inside of me, I felt a sudden flash of horror, as if
some sort of seizure, my entire vision going white for a moment. And from the
way he stiffened, from the way he stopped moving completely, I knew. He wasn't
doing this just because it was our oldest and dearest fetish; it was to do with
something that had happened to me. It had to be. He was too nervous, too
uneasy, and in the mirror above the bathroom sink, I caught a glimpse of his
eyes, the haunted look in them.
That cold flash went through me again and I felt nauseous. "Don't tell me," I
snapped. "Whatever you do, don't you dare tell me a thing." That way Smythe
could not claim this, could not take this, could not steal what had always been
ours. I turned to look at Torsten over my shoulder and kissed his hand, my
voice quiet, now. "This belongs to us," I whispered. "Please, Daddy."
"Yes," he said, stroking my cheek. "Only you and me, my sweet child," he said,
and I could see he was choking back tears as he let his piss flow into me,
filling me with sweet warmth. "Only you and me."
The very next day, he elaborated on this fetish; he was so obsessed with
possessing me, filling me with himself that every time he needed to empty his
bladder, he did so inside of me. Sometimes, he would use a plug to stop my ass,
make me lie down in bed with his piss inside of me as he kissed me, caressed
me; sometimes he would make me suck his cock as I sat on the toilet, expelling
the urine enema. We had never been dirtier, yet had never washed each other
clean so completely, so perfectly, submerged in a warm, golden sea of bliss. At
the end of the day, he refrained from pissing for so many hours so that when he
filled me for one last time, I could offer it all for him to drink, shitting
his piss into his mouth while he stroked himself into a violent orgasm
underneath me.
We hugged in the shower, still delirious, I sobbing from exhaustion, he from
relief: finally I felt empty of Smythe now, somehow, my subconscious knowing
the reasons why while my conscious mind remained blissfully ignorant of them.
Torsten even took to photography, saying he wanted a pictorial record of his
reclaiming of me, of him possessing his daughter anew. He had a private
darkroom installed, so that he could develop the photographs himself; no shop
would have. He hung each photograph of me in an alcove of his bedroom--where a
statue of the Virgin Mary had been kept, I suppose--adding a new picture every
few days until it resembled his old wall of miniatures. By day, he hid this
work from the servants' view, locking the alcove's brightly painted wooden
doors; by night, he photographed new material to complete the set. After a
month had passed, he had created the most beautiful work of art, something I
had never even thought him capable of, such was the adoration now present in
the display. It was a prayer niche to me, to us, an altar to an extraordinary
love taken to extremes few people ever reached, of two sinners twisted and bent
like Renaissance saints pierced by arrows of ecstasy.
The first photographs were of me naked, at his feet; then, with his cock in my
mouth, my pussy, my ass. And little by little, the images flowed with more
sperm, more piss, more strings of wetness lashing my thighs; there, my ass
gaping wide, a rivulet of his sperm running down between the lips of my pussy.
Then, his hands spreading my ass, first two thumbs, then eight fingers; and at
last, the shock of his entire fist inside of me, my face out of focus in the
background, staring into a world only I could see. It was an act of butchery,
one of love. With one particular photograph, I was in some strange way reminded
of Birgitte's corpse--I was bent over, hanging from ropes in the ceiling,
whipped into unconsciousness. I looked dead, but serene; the image did not
terrify me at all but filled me with a strange sort of calm, a detachment. It
was only in these pictures, while looking at what we did from the outside, that
I finally, truly, viscerally realised the sublime, numinous, transcendent
beauty of the love we shared.
Had anyone in the world ever felt like this, except in divine union, in some
sacrifice to a heathen god? I asked him this as he held me in front of the
altar, in the light of the candles he'd lit around it.
"No one in the world will ever love as us," he said, his voice solemn, lost in
thought. "Perhaps the Barring curse will die with us; perhaps we are the last."
And I felt a strange comfort in this; it set us apart from the others, affirmed
our uniqueness, made us sovereigns of perversity. I felt grateful even to
Smythe, because had it not been he who had pushed us into this, without
realising he was doing us a favour? If anything, he had reaffirmed our power,
our strength, the bond we shared.
***
It was the very next day Torsten let out a high, incredulous noise as the
newspapers arrived. He ran to me, knocking my coffee over without caring that
he'd burnt his arm. He held the coffee-stained newspaper out to me, so agitated
he was short of breath. "Look! Look!"
MILLIONAIRE MURDERER DROWNED
"Sir Cyril Smythe, 50, accused of murdering socialite Birgitte Lind, 16, was
found drowned in the Hudson River on Thursday night. The police searched
Smythe's house and found a suicide note and a confession to the Lind murder,
both written in his own hand. While the police still suspect foul play may have
been involved--"
I let the paper fall from my hand, stunned. "Well."
"Isn't it fantastic?" Torsten exclaimed. He pulled me bodily up from my chair
and danced me around the kitchen until I was yelping, stumbling.
I laughed with him, but still, I had my doubts. "Can we be sure it's so
fantastic? What if they suspect it was us?"
"We have an alibi, don't we? We're on the other side of the country, for crying
out loud!"
"They might still think we hired someone to get rid of him. Who do you think it
was, anyway?" I could not imagine Smythe killing himself; suicide note or not,
I was sure he had been pressured into it.
"Acheron springs to mind. He really did have a soft spot for poor old
Birgitte."
I closed my eyes and could still see the silver greyhound sticking out of her
skull; feel the flesh that had been so warm underneath my hands cold, clammy,
dead. "I would have killed him for it," I whispered against Torsten's chest.
"It's almost a shame I was robbed of that privilege."
Torsten sighed and kissed my hair. "You would've had to fight me for it."
"So, what do we do now?"
"We celebrate."
***
For the first time, we left the house, although even now, we were only skirting
the underworld, far from high society. Or perhaps we were closer to it than we
thought, I mused as Torsten led me to a very respectable-looking, opulent
restaurant. Only what happened in this restaurant was far from respectable:
while the patrons wore the most beautiful designer gowns and the most
exquisitely tailored tuxedoes, inside each gown slinked a man and inside each
tuxedo, strode a woman.
And no one slinked as beautifully as Torsten did. I was grateful of the
simplicity of my tuxedo; it meant all eyes were on Torsten. Some were adoring,
some were jealous, but all of them were rapt, curious. He wore sapphire satin
wrapped tight about his body, swishing around his legs in torrents of blue, the
cut of the dress emphasising the femininity of his hips. How on earth he'd kept
the costume from me, I did not know; I had not seen him in women's clothes
since we had left Europe. But that was Torsten: he had been anticipating a
victory as any queen would have, had taken time to plan his dress for the
moment our enemy finally lay dead.
And the most arousing part of it all had been his transformation: I had
approached it with as much reverence as he had. We hadn't spoken much as I had
shaved him all over, tightened the laces of his corset, applied his wig and
makeup, entranced by the process. But all throughout, he had been erect and I'd
known he could smell how wet I was; now I was shaven, too, just for tonight, my
pussy slick against the silk underpants I'd borrowed from him. So I had
powdered him and painted him, zipped up his dress, and finally, had wrapped my
diamonds around his neck and wrists, possessing him with them the way he'd
possessed me with his silver.
And now he, my beautiful queen was the star of the show, commanding adoration
wherever he went. I did not talk much, preferring to drink, smoke, bask in the
way Torsten had perfected his femininity, lounging more sensually than any of
the women here did. He no longer exaggerated it at all; this was a state more
natural than masculinity to him, I thought, a rare chance for his true nature
to show through. And he had a ball, dancing many men, some women until he
finally collapsed at our table, complaining of how his feet hurt from the high
heels.
"No beauty without pain," I said, laughing from behind a cloud of smoke.
He leaned back on the sofa and blew me a theatrical kiss. "You'll have to fight
three duels in a bit, by the way."
"Oh?"
"Three young Swedes, just arrived," he leered. "All desperate to have me. So
desperate they might even agree to share."
"Oh, no," I said, shaking my head. "Why should I duel them when I could watch
them?"
Torsten's face lit up at that. And my heart broke a little: he had perhaps
expected me to deny him, but if our last affairs had been disastrous, wouldn't
it only be appropriate to replace the bad memories with new, pleasanter ones?
"There's a private room at the back," I said and nodded towards the bar. "They
told me it's available for a price."
"Then take it," he said, leaping up in his seat.
"I already have," I grinned and took his mouth with a kiss.
I didn't know the three young men's names, and I didn't care. They were brawny,
blond, healthy-looking lads, somewhere in their twenties, I presumed. And to my
great delight, they all seemed to like women as well as men. Torsten and I
abandoned ourselves to their caresses, to their noisy, wet kisses. For a brief
moment, I had thought of just sitting and watching as they fucked Torsten, but
no, no: I was horny as hell, desperate to finally re-enter the world of
promiscuity, to be my own whore-self again. So when they bent us over the same
dining table, the same white tablecloth and started to fuck us both we moaned
in unison, laughing and kissing each other between their thrusts, giving them
the time of their lives.
They circled around us, taking turns with our asses, our mouths. "I've never
done anything like this before," the youngest man gasped incredulously as I
sucked his cock into my mouth from Torsten's ass. He was so sweet, so much
younger than I was in his way, looking very much like a confused, yet ecstatic
little boy as he ejaculated into my mouth. I laughed around his cock, his sperm
bursting through my lips, and all through the night, the sperm kept on flowing.
We were bathing in it, smearing ourselves with it, sucking and fucking,
frenzied in our heat, our excess.
Even as the last of the men collapsed, utterly exhausted, I slipped down from
my table and leaned between Torsten's legs, spreading them wide. His ass looked
beautiful, once more a pussy, a distended, swollen little cunt; he hissed as I
told him this, as I asked him to let me taste it.
And in front of those three strangers, Torsten kicked me down onto the floor,
lifted up his dress and squatted over me.
"Beg."
"Please, please," I moaned, my hand on my pussy, my other hand's fingers buried
in my ass. I was masturbating furiously, shaking: the sight of his ass hovering
above me, his beautiful pussy now beading with come pushing me to the edge in
seconds. "Please, let me taste it, please shit it out for me, please, shit it
in my mouth, please, please--"
And my last "please" turned into a cough, a gurgle; now he was on his knees,
shitting three men's come into my mouth. Six ejaculations' worth of sperm,
white and a little yellow, oh God, oh, God--I stuck my tongue out as far as I
could, determined to watch even as drops of sperm flew into my eyes. That's how
hard he was pushing it out, farting it out, thick chunks of it sluicing out of
his ass into my mouth, warm, delicious. It was revolting, horrifying and one of
the men groaned in disgust: the other two swore loudly in surprise, not
believing their eyes. And those noises of disgust were what made my orgasm now
tear, ravage its way through me; I sobbed, sending the chairs clattering on the
floor as my legs kicked helplessly, Torsten still shitting sperm all over my
face. I screamed, screamed like a madwoman, and then I was suffocating as
Torsten sat on my face, forcing his ass onto my mouth. And gladly, I drank,
swirled my tongue in his asshole, licking him on the inside, sucking out every
drop, huffing and panting into his ass in gratitude.
Torsten keened, jerking on top of me; he turned around and swiftly, pulled me
to lie on top of himself. I knew what he wanted, knew it exactly: the men
groaned in disgust once more as I spat, dribbled whatever sperm was left in my
mouth into Torsten's. The alkalinity of the sperm, the saltiness, the
bitterness, shot through with the sweetness of that trace of his saccharine-
flavoured shit: he was beyond ejaculating now, but shook underneath me in
complete and utter fulfillment, his eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. Behind us,
I could hear the three men dressing, leaving us; they slammed the door behind
them and I kissed Torsten, laughing breathlessly into his mouth.
"You are outrageous."
"And so is my daughter," he purred proudly and licked one last drop of sperm
from my chin.
***
At home, he was still heated and so was I; we continued our celebrations in his
bed. I undressed in seconds, yet he never took his costume off, and I adored
the way the blue of his dress spread out over the blood-red, Latin bedcovers.
His dress looked like a flower, and I wanted to make him into a flower, too, I
said. I glanced at the jar of cream on the bedside table.
He said nothing, understanding my meaning immediately. He looked at the jar,
then at me; he nodded and spread his legs.
I had hoped for this, had anticipated this, and so had he. Before I had dressed
him, I had filed my own nails short, buffed them, letting him watch as I did
so. That must have been why he had taken three men, knowing he needed something
more than usual tonight, more than our toys, more than my fingers. He, too,
needed to wash away the memory of Acheron; Acheron, who had never inserted his
hand into him fully. I knew and Torsten knew that this must have been
psychological; that some strange part in him had saved this act for me and me
only, because he trusted no one else enough. Enough to take his life into her
hand the way I now did, sliding all of my fingers inside of him; in awe, I felt
the pulse of the great vein beating inside, the walls of his guts so thin.
Tissue-thin, I had been told; I couldn't not think of that as I slowly fucked
him with my hand, held his entire body with my palm.
And now, it was I who was crying as I opened him, crying drunkenly, from sheer
happiness as I got my hand into its widest part: I was possessed of such
tenderness that it split me in half, making me shake from what he was now
giving me. We could do it, tonight we could do it, finally, finally; I felt his
body pulling me inside.
"Daddy--"
Even if he, too, was shaking, his eyes glazed, he was still able to stroke my
cheek, speak to me in the most tender of voices. "Shh. My child. Daddy loves
you. Can't you see?" he laughed.
"I love you too, Daddy," I laughed through my tears.
I kissed his cock, now half-hard over his stomach. I clasped it and took it
into my mouth, sucking it into hardness, less firm than it had been before, now
a gentler erection in comparison to his violent lust at the club. His head fell
back, his fingers trembled against my cheek and his throat bobbed; from the way
he licked his lips, I knew he was swallowing tears. He drew in a shivering
breath, two, three, and there, there: my entire hand slipped inside of him,
settling inside of his body as if it had always been meant to sit there, the
muscles of his ass wrapping themselves tightly around my wrist.
I had done this with Birgitte but had not loved her, oh, God, I had not loved
her. But the way Torsten now howled, howled as if he was dying, a feminine wail
of utter surrender--it terrified me, it broke my heart, it made me sob in turn.
He lifted his head and he looked more drunk than he'd ever been from the wine
tonight, drugged, lost; without his moustache he'd looked so much younger, but
now his face was but a mass of wrinkles as he frowned, winced, shook in his
shock.
"Laura, Laura, Laura--" he fumbled for my hand; I laced my fingers with his.
"Laura--"
I let his cock slip from my mouth, fat, wet, thick; the heat around my hand was
unbelievable, feverish, his very body a furnace around my hand. And that vein,
oh, his lifeblood now beating so strongly against my touch--I followed the
pulse of that vein and fancied that if I only reached deep enough, I would be
able to hold his heart in my hand.
"You feel amazing, Daddy," I said, and my voice was again smaller, that of a
girl adoring, mad with joy from a new pleasure her father had revealed to her.
But it was not a silly voice, not a meek voice, not playful at all: it was that
of a child religious, filled with a child's faith.
Only mine was faith in my Father. "We made it, Daddy," I whispered, kissing his
cock.
We'd made it out alive, we'd made it here, here onto this bed, my little body
penetrating his. And it was a miracle, a beautiful, perfect miracle. A reversal
of the man taking the woman, an inversion of childbirth, something a man had
never been meant to experience; another mystery unveiled.
"We made it indeed," he murmured in awe, the corners of his mouth twitching in
ecstasy as I twisted my hand a little. "Would you kiss me?" he asked me, quiet,
fragile.
"Anything for you, Daddy," I whispered. I moved around very carefully, so that
I could sit a little to his side and keep on playing with his ass as I kissed
him. And we kissed forever, it seemed; I did not look at the clock, only
counted the pulses of the vein inside of his body, his steady breathing, his
rapturous little murmurs. He sucked my tongue, I sucked his; sometimes it was
he who rocked himself upon my hand, sometimes I who twisted her hand so that he
broke the kiss and moaned into my ear. And all the while, I murmured "I love
you, Daddy," entranced by the beauty of his smeared eyes, smeared lipstick, the
diamonds glittering with each trembling breath he took. My father, my mistress,
my everything; I could not ask for anything more than this.
Yet he wanted more; he keened into my mouth, then pulled back, clasped his cock
and bit his lip. "Please."
I slid down his body and took his cock into my mouth once more: the very idea
of taking my hand out hurt my heart, even if my arm was sore, even if both of
us desperately needed sleep. But we needed this, needed each other more than
anything else in existence. Steadily, I lengthened my thrusts until I could
give him that tug, the sweetest of tugs upon his anal muscles, plunging in and
pulling out of him again and again. Just as he had done to me, I hooked my
fingers on each tug as I pulled out; curled them just as I brushed past his
prostate, making him howl into the ceiling.
He stared at me, furious, mad, beautiful; he twisted his hand in my hair as I
sucked his cock and kept staring into my eyes even as he came undone. I moved
my fingertips just to the outer muscles, now, forcing his orgasm out of him,
fucking it out of him; again, he howled and finally, he spilled into my mouth.
It was a thin, short ejaculation but I had never seen him orgasm so violently
before: for a moment, I worried I might have killed him, torn something in him,
that's how shocked he looked. He froze in place completely, his face entirely
red, twisted like a monstrous mask: yet that horror melted into a convulsion,
two, and finally he fell slack.
"Please, please--" his hands hovered around my head, my hands, gesturing for me
to let go.
I did so gladly, my hand trembling from exhaustion as I slowly pulled it out
and wiped it clean. But even then, I had to pull his dress off him, pull the
diamonds off him, the stockings; I did not let myself collapse beside him until
I could hold his entire body against mine naked, skin to skin. He was too tired
to even weep; his sobs were dry, happy, his arms around me those of a man
drowning.
I, too, clung to him; I drew the bedcovers around us and hugged him tight, his
head against my heartbeat.
"I love you so much, Daddy," I sighed, kissing his head, holding him close
until we fell into a deep, soft sleep free of tyrants and corpses.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Every day, I felt blinded by the sun, the strangeness of an October filled with
sunshine and flowers; every day, I became more restless. I was desperate to
call Alistair, to ask him how our business was going, but it was too early.
Even if I trusted him to keep our secrets, to keep funneling our money to us
through a network of secret accounts, I was still afraid we would be found out.
Even if, of course, we had done nothing--but I was still not convinced the
police felt that way. I suspected even the servants, that one of them was in
the service of the FBI--I didn't even know whether the FBI were after us, but I
couldn't afford not to be paranoid. Oh, hell, why hadn't we just stayed and
confessed that we'd only discovered the body? They might have let us be! And
even if they had decided we had committed the murder, there would have been
closure. This waiting was driving me mad; I was not ready to become a hermit
just yet. I had been a prisoner all my life when I had been confined to Forssa.
My life had only just begun and I wasn't going to give it up just yet.
I had to do something, so I started to work on the house instead. Torsten
laughed as I began to decorate our surroundings, to tend to the garden, to
devour mail order catalogues for new furnishings. He said I was in danger of
becoming a housewife, but sometimes he joined me in the garden because it was
not as if he had much to do himself. In this climate, he soon realised, he was
able to indulge his love of exotic flowers and spent many an hour tending to
them, guarding them with a nervous jealousy. His books had been shipped over by
now, but he wasn't satisfied with them; the fact that he couldn't go out
partying as much as he wanted to made him uneasy. Therefore, to compensate for
the bourgeois nature of our new hobbies, we had even more sex than usual,
played out scenarios that sometimes lasted for days.
And our sexual play was the key to our happiness, as it always had been: our
exile, our isolation brought out our true natures, honed them, sharpened them.
Just like the previous winter, we now fell into a period where we absorbed
ourselves in our play twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But this
time, we were not surrounded by snow and frost; oh, no, the climate made more
elaborate games possible. Now, he could order me into going around naked all
day, preferably on all fours, while he remained fully clothed. He gave the
servants days off and had me serve him instead--thus, giving me something to do
and the passion, the dedication to do it with. And for this, I was grateful; I
had never felt such peace during our stay here. Whenever I could kneel at my
Daddy's feet, collared and leashed, offering him his brandy, his cigarettes,
the noise in my head was finally quiet, my entire body still.
And he, too, enjoyed his fatherhood once more, turning it into his own kind of
service. For isn't even the most tyrannical of kings endowed with
responsibility for his subjects? Thus, with his care and his power he
subjugated me, suffocated my fears, crushed them in his fist.
There were moments when I could barely see, barely hear from my trances of
pain, and tonight was no exception. He'd strung me up with rope so that I was
hanging from the ceiling by my wrists, tiptoeing upon the floor as he let the
cat o'nine tails sing upon my skin. I had lost all sense of time; all I knew
was the sweet, throbbing warmth of pain cocooning me, the white glimmer of his
crooked smile.
By the time he had finished, it was dark, the only light in the room that of
the candles and the flickering All Hallows' lanterns outside. His features were
swallowed by the shadows; I could only see the shape of his lashes, the curve
of his mouth, the curl of smoke he now let escape through his lips. He stepped
closer and the thin light beams from the lanterns struck his eyes, refracting
from them as if from glass.
He smiled at me. "Come, my child. Daddy's got something he's wanted to show you
for a long time."
This was it, I thought. Tonight we were going to do it. Despite the pain-
trance, a shiver went up and down my spine, fluttering through my pussy. He had
not let me rinse myself tonight, had not fucked my ass for days so that it
would be succulent for him, he'd said. The night the veil between the worlds
was thin, the night sacred to all witches--was there a more appropriate holiday
for finally indulging in the filthiest of all sins?
That's what he'd told me as he had laid me down in his lap and prepared me.
He'd taken the steel plug once more and coated it in glycerine, then had
sprinkled, sugared it all over with cocaine dust. Once he had inserted the plug
into my ass, the cocaine entered my system so fast I swooned, falling
completely slack in his arms as wave upon wave of euphoria washed through me.
And even as he had lashed me, made me dance for him, the euphoria had not
faded, the plug had not fallen out, clutched even more tightly by my ass at his
every stroke. With his drugs and his toys and his whip he was inside of me,
outside of me, binding me, holding me forever, perfect.
So when he finally untied my hands and told me to follow him to the storage
closet I obeyed gladly, adoring him as I walked beside him on all fours, like
the most loyal and loving of dogs. "Is it a present, Daddy?" I asked, my heart
light from joy.
"You could call it that." He opened the door and gestured to one of the
suitcases. "That one. Open it."
The light in the room was dim, as yellow as the firelight. The lamp always kept
flickering and I had been nagging at him to get it fixed; I was sure it was
about to die on us any moment now. But now I ignored the flickering, knelt upon
the floor and snapped the suitcase open, just as he had told me to. It was
empty but for one thing: at the bottom lay a stick of polished, dark wood. My
heart beat faster; my pussy pulsed. Something new to beat me with, something
thicker than his rattan cane, something to bring me more bruises, more
beautiful flowers to decorate my skin with--
--except that when I picked up the stick, I realised it was not intact.
Something had been attached to the end with nails and had now come off, and in
the bare, white heart of the wood, there were thick, dark stains.
Blood.
I knew immediately what this object was, and that's exactly why I didn't let it
fall from my hands. To let go of it would have been cowardice. There was some
perverse logic to this, some meaning; it was symbolic of something. Perhaps it
was a test. Perhaps he wanted me to confront my fear, or even better, prove to
him that I had conquered it, that I had let go of that gruesome day.
But he just stood there, smoking, waiting for me to ask him, so I did.
"A souvenir? But why, Daddy? Are you mad?"
He stumped his cigarette, then leaned against the doorframe with his hands in
his pockets. "Evidence, my child. Why would I leave it there when it had my
fingerprints all over it?"
At first, I didn't understand what he meant. But then I remembered what he'd
said as he'd arrived late for the party.
Some last-minute business.
No. He couldn't have. He couldn't have.
"But you didn't--"
"You think not?" he said, laughing, wiping a streak of cocaine off his nose.
When I said nothing, he squatted in front of me, took my leash and pulled me
close, pursing his mouth at me with a mocking croon. "Ooh, Torsten Barring, the
effeminate, cowardly, limp-wristed faggot. He wouldn't be capable of such a
deed, would he?"
And now, I finally let the cane clatter into the suitcase; I was trembling too
much. I was looking into the face of a murderer, a murderer. The midwinter of
his eyes poured down me and I shivered, froze, every hair on my body standing
on end. He looped the leash around his fist and brought me ever closer, staring
at me, drinking in my fear, horror, disgust. And yet he had saved us, he had
framed Smythe, he had done it for us, had not hesitated to slay an innocent to
save us--
"D-Daddy," I stammered. My heart was about to burst out of my chest, my ribs
were about to crack; I was about to break, break into a thousand pieces.
He tilted his head, too cold, too swift, too inhuman; still, he kept on
smiling. "Yes?"
My father, my murderer, my Devil; again, I stuttered, the words a jumble in my
throat. "W-when the time comes--" I said, choking, too overwhelmed to even cry.
I struggled to breathe, had to swallow again and again, force my lungs to work
once more. "If it ever looks like they will catch us, either of us, if they'll
ever try to part us--"
"Yes?"
"Promise me--promise me you will do--do the same--the same thing to me."
He threw back his head and laughed, a barking, high-pitched faggot's laugh;
above us, the lightbulb crackled and died. We were plunged into complete
darkness, the darkness of Hell itself, and within it, his embrace was tender,
loving, warm.
"I will, my child," he said, kissing my hair, "I will."
***
I don't know how we got into the bedroom, whether I crawled there with him or
whether he carried me, but I do know that when he lowered me onto the bed, I
was still shaking from shock. I was crying, laughing, crying and laughing
again; the roughness of the woollen bedcovers a sweet agony against the welts
now blossoming upon my back. They hurt even sweeter as he, now fully undressed,
laid himself on top of me and ground against me. The weight of his body made
the plug feel awful inside of me, but it was how he wanted it, how I wanted it.
"Tell me," I panted into his shoulder. "Tell me how you did it, Daddy, tell
me."
"Afterwards, if you're a very good girl," he said. He stopped to light one of
the bedside lamps and laid himself down beside me, tracing his fingers across
my belly. "And tonight of all nights, I don't want us to be in a hurry. Do you
understand, my child?"
"Yes, Daddy."
And there was nothing more natural for me than to fall, to slip into complete
trust and girlhood once more. He was not hypnotising me and that's what made my
heart ache, to know he trusted me this much. Even as the older, bitter,
swearing Laura now faded into but a voice in the background, I realised I had
not felt this young and small since August, that I had finally reclaimed that
state of innocence I had lost. And it was exactly because of his monstrosity,
his darkness so much greater than mine; it was nearer to how we had been on
that day on the pier, the child who'd possessed but a fraction of her uncle's
evil. And I loved it, loved feeling so virginal in his shadow, the cocaine
singing whiteness, purity through me as he kissed me over and over.
I had meant what I had said in the closet: I wanted to be together with him
until the end of my days, to die by his hand. I had fantasised about this
before, but now that I knew he could go through with it, I shuddered in
orgasmic joy as I felt his hands upon my body. His murderer's hands upon my
breasts, my waist, now encircling my throat as he lay down on top of me once
more, his murderer's cock gliding against the bareness of my child's pussy. My
eyes rolled back, fluttered shut as he pushed his cock inside of my pussy, his
thumbs upon the hollow of my throat; This is how I will slay you, his hands and
his eyes and his smile were saying, his murderer's hands, his murderer's eyes,
his murderer's smile.
Yet, as soon as he had entered me, he left my body with a kiss. "I've
worshipped you for so many days, my child," he murmured, stroking my chin.
"It's about time you worshipped your Daddy a little, don't you think?"
I nodded eagerly, stealing another kiss. "Please," I said, my voice, my pussy
sugar-soft, sweet. I would do anything for him, always would have, but never
more so than tonight. I was the only one he had trusted with his most terrible
secret, a sin far deadlier than those of the flesh. And I wanted to repay him
for that, show him how much I loved him for it.
And with love, with reverence he prepared me. I hated the clamps, hated them
but he applied them to my nipples nevertheless; he said he wanted me to remain
in place, remain on all fours upon the bed.
He wouldn't have needed to command me: the agony from the clamps froze me in
place, dragged me into a stupor of pain, a complete and utter obedience. This
is how they calm down animals, I thought, remembering the way Wickman had put
an iron upon a horse's lip to keep it from thrashing as it was being shoed. And
I was grateful for this, grateful as Torsten cupped my face in both hands and
kissed me long, deep. It was a gesture of tenderness, but I knew he was
drinking in my pain, my submission, intoxicating himself with them.
"And now, I am going to prepare your mouth," he said, his lips gleaming from
the kiss, his eyes lazy from pleasure. "Stay there."
He took out a new toy, one I had never seen before. It was another double-ended
dildo, made of a white rubber, unlike any other toy we'd played with before.
Oh, God, the colour was deliberate; everything would show on the white surface.
I remembered all those times when we had both been revolted by what could get
caught on our dildos, and now he wanted me to see all of it. Or perhaps it was
because he wanted to see all of it, to shock himself, exactly because he had
always been the one of us more afraid of shit, to the point of hysteria--the
hypocrisy of a man homosexual!
"I had it made especially for us," he murmured as he displayed the toy for me.
"But here is the pièce de résistance." From the bedside drawer, he pulled out
an arrangement of leather straps and buckles. "This part goes here..." he said
and pulled the dildo through a thick leather ring in the middle of the
contraption, so that two thirds of the dildo stuck out from one end, the last
third from the other. "Can you guess what it is yet?"
I shook my head.
"Open up." He grinned and held it out to me. "Open up, there's a good girl," he
said: he pushed the shorter end of the dildo into my mouth and as he started to
buckle the leather straps around my head, I screamed in terror, sure I was
suffocating. He'd gagged me before, but never had it been anything this big; I
choked on the dildo, coughing and drooling before he had even finished closing
the buckles.
"Can you breathe?" he said, but I wasn't so sure he was all that concerned,
going by the wicked glint in his eyes. "Try and breathe, but calmly," he said,
now taking the chain of the clamps into his hand. Even his brushing it with his
fingers froze me in agony once more, and when he pulled on it lightly, I hurt
too much to even moan. He forced me into silence, forced me my breathing to
still, stars of pain dancing in my eyes.
"Now. Nod if you can breathe."
I shook my head.
"Ah, well; more for me, then," he said and loosened the strap that bound the
dildo to the mouthpiece. He pulled the dildo towards himself about an inch or
so, then reattached the mouthpiece. "Is that better?"
I nodded, but even nodding was agony, sending the chain swinging, so I stopped
immediately.
"Good. Then we can begin," he said, kissing my forehead.
And then he was kissing the cock, chuckling as he traced its head with his
tongue. It wasn't just a gesture; he set out to truly fellate the toy, to tease
me with it, to drive me absolutely mad. I shook, moaned as I realised this,
forced to stay still as but an object, a living extension of the dildo he was
now pleasuring himself with. And he had always derived such an exquisite
pleasure from sucking cock, from what he could do to men with his mouth,
submitting them to his erotic skill. And now, for the first time, he turned
that power on me, making me into one of his anonymous cocks, slurping around me
hungrily, wetting me with his saliva. Yet this time, he enjoyed it even more
than usual, I was sure of it: I could not derive any pleasure from a penis made
of rubber in my mouth, so while he got to enjoy all the pleasure it could give
him, I was only left with the torture, the teasing, the desperate need to be
touched.
This was exactly what he had wanted, and he made himself beautiful in his lust,
something for me to crave, adore, something I wanted desperately to possess. He
rocked his hips as if he was being fucked, moaning, and as he swallowed the
cock into his throat and choked himself upon it, I saw tears glimmering upon
his eyelashes. The warm light of the bedside lamp danced upon the long, lean
muscles of his back and shoulders, the wide curves of his hips as he lifted his
ass out like a cat desiring to mate. The faggot fellating his daughter, the
very absurdity of that thought like a Buddhist riddle in my head--another
reversal of the world order, another realisation through an experience denied
to the plebeians, the meek. And in that realisation, in the ache of my face, my
teeth, I floated; in the thrust of the cock into my throat I swum, ecstatic in
his service.
Now I could not call him "Daddy," so I had to use my body to say it, break
through the pain of the clamps to manifest it with my movements, each one of
his moans becoming inextricably entwined with my agonising pain. But I bore it,
I bore it for him; after a while, the pain reached a plateau and I became more
aware of the rest of my body. I realised just how much I was drooling, all the
way down my neck, my chest; I realised how aroused I was underneath the pain,
my pussy so heated its pain had merged with the greater pain from my nipples.
But I could not touch myself; he hadn't given me permission, gifting me with
the pleasure of denial instead, and it was that pleasure that now stirred my
limbs into action. Gradually, I regained some control over my muscles and used
each and every one to fuck him back, to give him what he wanted, the thrust of
the cock into his throat over and over.
He had become Heliogabalus again, but now even more so, not just the man-woman
but the murderer, the slayer of his enemies. And he slew me, too, as he had
slain me every time he had turned his sadism upon me: at each dribble of saliva
he left dangling off the cock, at each one of his greedy, whorish gags, all
intended to stoke my lust, he slew an anxiety, a fear in my belly.
He slew me with his beauty, his perversity and I was flowing down my thighs,
all sweetness and heat, my pussy sticky as honey. The numbness from the cocaine
had receded a little and the plug now felt warm in my ass as I pulsed, swelled
around it. My womb was heavy, heated against it, but now I felt my entire body
was but cock at the same time, all of me existing purely for him to sate his
lust upon. He forced the dildo down his throat again and again to slick it with
thick mucus, his own cock dripping at his gagging; his hand was twisted behind
his back so that he could finger his ass, the long muscles of his arm straining
as he prepared himself for fucking.
Finally, he keened, pulling off, his eyes glazed, fat strings of his spit
hanging between the cock and his mouth. Laughing, he scooped them up with his
fingers and smeared the spit on his ass, kissing the tip of the cock, the cock
that had now become me. "And now, you get to fuck me," he whispered, grazing
the head of the cock with his teeth. I shivered; my pussy pulsed as I truly
felt that scrape and at the same time, yearned to penetrate him.
He turned around and spread his ass out for me, pulling the rim of it open with
his fingers, so pink between the paleness of his buttocks. I coughed on my
drool, unable to suppress a moan as he teased me; he loved that moan and coaxed
more from my mouth as he slicked his ass with spit, with mucus, pulling it so
open it was gaping a little. My pussy pulsed again and again and I leaned
forwards, aching to be inside of him, aching for my cock to be enveloped by
that tight, pink flesh, that pussy, that ass. He just laughed and rubbed his
anus against the tip of my cock, letting the glans dip in and out a little,
opening him further.
"Show me how much you want it," he crooned, grinning at me over his shoulder.
"Show me how you will fuck me."
Deliberately, he pulled away so that I would have to move forwards a little,
the chain swinging heavy between my breasts, making my stomach dip and spasm in
agony. As he saw the pain on my face, he hissed in delight, wrapping his slick
hand around his cock, stroking it softly. "What's the matter? Doesn't my little
girl want to fuck her Daddy in the ass?"
I tried to say 'yes' around the gag but coughed; now I was near tears. With one
last effort, I took one more step forwards and pressed the tip of my cock
against his anus, pleading for him with my eyes. The pain, the need for him was
so strong in me that I fancied I could project it into his mind via telepathy:
therefore I made the entirety of my mind into but the phrase Please, Daddy.
Please, Daddy, I begged him over and over. Please.
And his mouth opened, the lips smacking apart, quivering, his eyes but sharp
blue slits as he lowered himself onto my cock. He moaned as the head dipped
into his ass, moaned as he adjusted his position to find the best angle to take
it from. I helped him as best as I could, staying as still as possible,
offering him my cock, my entire self. And he took it, took every inch of the
blood and the bone and the muscle I was now channeling into that cock, took all
of me until we were both trembling, until my penetration of him was complete. I
saw, felt his ass pulsing around me, now, the muscles of his pelvis clutching
me, tugging at my cock, moving it a little in my mouth. Even as he began to
move his ass back and forth on the dildo, it was I who was groaning in delight
as I sank into his body, his warmth, his slickness.
"Does that feel good?" he cooed over his shoulder, the very image of the boy-
prostitute stirring his customer with dirty talk. "Do you like the way my ass
feels around your cock? Hmm?"
I whimpered in agreement and pushed my head forwards as best as I could,
fucking him harder, now; strings of my own spit mingled with his, brushing his
perineum, a glittering cat's cradle suspended between his ass and my face. He
snarled and fucked me back, throwing his hips down upon my cock, his moan
turning into a long wail as he stroked himself. He fucked my face, ground
himself down on me furiously, punishing me with his ass. And at each one of his
thrusts, my pussy clenched, now so violently I was afraid the plug would slip
out, and I had to slow down, hating it, hating being confined this way.
Torsten, however, seemed to like my stilling; it was he who was controlling
this fuck, taking me with his ass. But then I could not think as--oh, God. I
could smell it now. His shit. I gagged from the smell, choked from it, even if
it was by no means overpowering: I could only see the tiniest hint of yellow
upon the dildo, upon the ring of foam now forming at its root, but an inch from
my mouth.
It was then that he groaned deep in his guts and pushed his ass down, deep
down, burying my face in his buttocks. I screamed, screamed but he pushed
himself even further down, stopping my nose with his ass, that ring of foam now
smearing all over the mouthpiece, all over my lips. And yet I screamed,
screamed with the last of the air in my lungs, shaking from arousal, disgust;
my pussy convulsed so that the plug finally fell out of my ass with a wet
slurp.
He turned around to look at me and just laughed, laughed; he pulled himself off
the dildo, then took the plug and held it out next to the dildo, both of them
now streaked with yellow. I closed my eyes and whimpered, not wanting to look
at them, but he waited, waited silently until I opened my eyes again.
"Now. Which one of us do you want to taste first, my child?" he asked. "Nod
once for yourself, twice for me."
I nodded twice. Firstly because the dildo looked cleaner; second, because I was
desperate to have at least some part of him to myself, jealous of the rubber. I
wanted to wrap my mouth around that dildo, wanted to suck his taste off it,
swallow him into myself. "Please," I moaned, choked through the gag, and I was
sure he could make out the word.
And chuckling sweetly, cruelly, he replaced the plug inside of me, shaking his
head. "Did you really think it was going to be that easy?" he said, slapping
the end of the plug as it slid inside my ass.
And before I could even groan in answer, it was he who bent down before me and
sucked the dildo into his mouth. Greedily, he swallowed it, moaning around it
as he tasted the white and the yellow, the soiled foam of his ass. He clutched
my head with both hands and whimpered around the dildo; I could hear his own
cock slapping against his belly as he did so. My pussy clenched and clenched
again, yet unable to come because of the way the plug was now stretching me,
and I screamed back at him in my frustration, my disgust as he sucked, licked
every trace of his dirty ass from the dildo. All that he had smeared over my
lips he now licked off, too, stealing that taste from me, his noises now but
little sobs in his throat as he savoured each drop. I hated him, I loved him, I
hated him; I screamed it all out at him until I was out of breath, until he
withdrew, licking his lips.
"Delicious," he purred, "so very delicious," he said as he unbuckled the gag
from around my face.
He hadn't given me permission, but I collapsed upon the bed, sobbing. "You are
a monster, Daddy."
"Mm-hmm," he said, smacking his lips as he settled back upon the pillows and
spread his legs. "Come here. Come on. Don't you want to taste Daddy?"
I shivered around the plug, shivered; he leaned further back so that he could
spread his buttocks, offer me his asshole. As I crawled close to it, I was
possessed of the desire to vomit, to come at the same time and feared that the
cacophony of this duality, being torn by these two extremes simultaneously
would snap me in half, rip me apart. I laid myself down on my belly, my face
inches from his ass; yet at the same time, my stomach churned with sickness.
He just chuckled and petted my hair, then reached into the pocket of his
discarded trousers for a small silver box. The cocaine; he spent a long time
sniffing it from his fingertips, then offered me several fingerfuls, too, then
set down the box.
"Come here," he said, pulling me into his lap for a kiss. He reached for my
breasts and as he removed the clamps from my nipples, the pain exploded through
me, the chemical rush of it sending the cocaine surging through my body in one
sirocco blast. I screamed into his mouth, screamed more as he pinched my
nipples, pulled on them, my pussy clenching again and again and again; the plug
fell out of me once more. The white-hot waves rose in me, fanning out from my
hips like an iridescent peacock's tail--
"Don't you dare come yet," he snarled, pulling me up by his fists in my hair.
"Don't you dare."
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said, but he slapped me, slapped me again, slapped me
until I collapsed between his legs once more, sobbing.
"Finger your ass," he said, now stroking his cock and spreading his legs. "All
four, come on. There's a good girl. Stroke your pussy with your other hand.
I'll let you taste me, now, but you are not allowed to come until I tell you
to. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said, shivering as I picked myself up. I stroked myself slowly,
keeping my hand only to the lips of my pussy; I was so close that I knew the
moment I touched my clitoris, I would come undone.
He smiled and crooked his finger at me. "Come on. Lick Daddy's ass."
His ass looked completely clean; whatever yellow I had seen had disappeared,
blended into the colour of his skin, the shadows I now sunk my face into.
Emboldened by the cocaine, I began to worship him, lick each and every drop of
wetness from him, bathing him with my tongue. He clasped the back of my head
and shifted his hips forwards, groaning in delight as I opened him anew with my
tongue. His asshole pulsed against my tongue with his moans; as he brought his
hand to his cock he clenched even more violently, fucking my face with his ass.
And I loved him for it, loved this gift I was being given, whimpering as I
started to taste the sweetness of saccharine once more. And instead of disgust,
I now craved more, more; I pushed my tongue as deep as I could, between his
fingers now pulling his ass open for me, making it gape for me, red and
gleaming and delicious.
I pulled back for air and he was louder, now, breathing heavily, his belly
rippling. Hissing between his teeth, he took the dildo once more and with but a
few, swift thrusts, buried it inside his ass. "Going to make it dirty for you,"
he panted, "a little treat for you. That's what you want, isn't it? Isn't it?"
"Yes," I mewled, rubbing my face against the bedcovers. My jaw ached so much,
my mouth hurt so much and with my hands on my pussy and my ass, I couldn't hold
myself up. I could only lie there, watch as he fucked himself with the dildo,
faster and faster, moaning uncontrollably now, his balls high, tight. And
there, there, I saw it, saw it: a thin, brown streak upon the underside of the
dildo, the thinnest. I screamed at him, stroking my pussy faster, frantic.
"Please, Daddy, please let me taste it, please."
"Taste what?" he snarled, stroking himself faster, his arms trembling from
exhaustion. "Taste what?"
"Your shit, Daddy," I cried, the very word sending a bolt of heat from my brain
to my pussy, another as I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. The first time the word
"shit" wasn't but play, the first time it was there, real and brown and liquid
before me. "Please let me taste your shit." I had to have it, I had to, had to
finally have it.
With a howl, he tugged the dildo out and threw it away; he grabbed my hair with
both hands and forced my mouth onto his ass. "Come," he growled, "come."
And as he pushed, pushed foam and spit and shit into my mouth, I came so
violently I ceased to exist. For one brief, shining moment I was hollow of my
self, the filth exploding into purity within me, a freedom from all that would
confine me. I expanded, limitless, outside of my body and into his, my tongue
and my moans flowing into him as he flowed into my mouth. And as consciousness
slowly, slowly returned with the final, violent contractions of my orgasm, I
howled in disbelief. Because it should not have tasted so good; shit should not
taste this good, so completely unlike it smelled. Perhaps it was the
saccharine, but it was still wrong, the paradox of it threatening to plunge me
into nonexistence once more. I could not feel anything solid upon my tongue,
just wetness, so perhaps that was it; perhaps it was exactly because it was
liquid that it was so different to what I had imagined. The taste was light,
sweet, bright as that of herbs; I had expected mustiness, the way the glands
around his ass turned the taste of his flesh there dark, dank. No matter what
he had eaten, this should not have been possible, yet it was.
I sobbed, howled again, trying to understand it, but he snatched me up by the
hair. "Lift up," he snarled, now masturbating faster, his fingers fumbling in
my hair. "Give me your fingers; show me your tongue. Show me how brown it is.
Show me."
I slipped my fingers inside of his ass; he could take three easily, but the
noise he made when I opened my mouth, the noise he made as I stuck out my
tongue--it was a scream, shot through with hysteria. His belly dipped and he
stared at me, his eyes bulging out of their sockets; "I can see it," he mewled.
"Fuck--" he snatched up the silver box to show me, and in the dull reflection I
saw it, too. Just the faintest trace of brown, but it was there, there, my
tongue covered in my father's shit and at the sight of it, I collapsed into
another orgasm, grinding over my hand, sobbing against his belly. He howled,
howled and he came all over my cheek, my hair, some of his come pouring down my
ear; his ass clenched violently around my fingers. Yet even that hand, he
wrenched out of his ass and brought to his mouth; as he sucked my fingers
clean, his noises were pitiful, as incredulous as mine had been.
Perhaps at that moment, even he ceased to exist, I thought as I trembled my
last on top of him, nuzzling his sperm onto my skin. He lay there whimpering,
clutching at the bedcovers as I sucked his cock clean, lapped all of his sperm
off his balls, washed his ass with my tongue. And as he finally opened his
eyes, I thought I saw a new man, someone who had seen the other side, beyond;
he clutched me to himself and kissed me, still whimpering as he sucked his
taste off my tongue.
I was exhausted, but it was he, so much like a woman, who still wanted to
continue. "And now for yours," he murmured as he turned me onto my stomach and
slipped his tongue between my buttocks. He lapped at my ass and I wished I
could have seen it, wondering if he saw what I had seen on his; but I could
only feel him, the familiar tickling sensation of his tongue. Yet I was still
not used to how his kisses felt without the moustache: at that moment, a sudden
sorrow fell through my chest like a leaden weight.
"Will we ever be able to go home, Daddy?" I said, swallowing tears in my
throat.
"I don't know, my child," he murmured. "But we must stay together, must," he
groaned and laid himself on top of me with all his weight, kissing my
shoulders, lacing our fingers.
And as he penetrated my ass, finally, finally, deeper than the plug had been,
touching that deepest part in me that had yearned for him all night, hot tears
fell to my cheeks. "Don't ever leave me, Daddy," I sobbed as he began to fuck
me, "don't ever leave me."
"Never, ever," he said, rolling his hips to punctuate his words, setting off
waves deeper, darker, redder than ever before. "Never going to leave my
beautiful girl, never, ever."
Until the day you kill me, I thought, crying out into the bedcovers from the
joy of it, pushing my ass back into his thrusts. I was safe, safe, forever safe
with him, safe in our madness, safe in our sin, safe in our death. "Then, fuck
me," I cried, "fuck me, Daddy, fuck me."
With a roar, he pulled out of me and flipped me over, and swiftly, he snapped
my bracelets and anklets together so that I lay spreadeagled upon the bed,
clasping my ankles. He folded my thighs against my body, all of me now so bent
that when he entered my ass again it was tighter, much tighter, and oh, it
hurt. The plug had bruised my ass, and now the cocaine numbness was again
fading, yet he kept on fucking me, even as I screamed underneath him, my face
contorted, twisted in pain. He laughed, laughed so hard his spittle fell on my
face, fucked me so hard drops of my arousal sprayed onto his belly. In this
position, he kept hitting the curve of my womb, hurting me so much it turned my
stomach; I wanted him to get past that curve again, to the place that always
turned me into honey. Yet he was so big, his thrusts so fast and brutal I was
unable to relax my muscles, to even breathe.
"Please, Daddy, you're hurting me," I cried.
"Mm-hmm?" he smirked, slowing down a little, pausing to see for himself, taking
in my gooseflesh, my paleness, delighting in them.
"Please rub my pussy, Daddy, please, please."
He leaned down to kiss me, rutting into me slowly, lazily. "And what will you
give me for that, my child?
I sobbed as he hit that curve again; he had so rarely taken me unrinsed that
the pressure in my guts made the pain worse. "I'll suck it, Daddy, I'll suck
it, please rub my pussy, please, please."
He chuckled deep in his chest, that chuckle bubbling out into a long, warm
laugh. "I think you would do it anyway, wouldn't you, my pretty little thing?"
he said, fondly, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand. He took that
hand and brought it to my pussy, dragging his fingertips softly in my wet slit.
"I think you would, my dear; I really do think you would."
"Yes," I moaned, closing my eyes in shame, and there, there: he started to rub
my clitoris and my body opened for him, melted for him, allowing his cock all
the way inside of me. He groaned in delight, stayed still as his hips met my
buttocks. There, he kept rubbing me, rubbing me, relishing the way my pussy and
my ass now spasmed, clenched around him, my flesh sucking upon his cock. My
eyes were barely open; the heat I now felt was so wonderful, so sweet and
gentle in comparison to the pain and the cold, sharp, electric orgasms from
before. For a moment, we hung suspended in a moment of tenderness, he kissing
me softly, fucking me with long, sensuous strokes, never ceasing in his
pleasuring of my pussy.
"I can feel it, you know," he said, his mouth panting open against mine. "Right
there," he murmured as he dipped in all the way, balancing on his knees to
press me into the bed. His eyes were wide from excitement and he was trembling
again, trembling from fatigue and arousal. He groaned deep in his chest and
rolled his hips, rolled them, then took my mouth with a kiss once more. "A soft
little cushion of shit," he kissed into my mouth, licking my howls from it,
"all nice and sweet for me."
And I kept howling, and he kept flickering his tongue in my mouth, making a
point of digging his cock as deep as he could. So that I would not be able to
ignore it, so that I would feel it, feel something dragging inside of me
alongside his cock, oh, God--I looked down at myself, at him and even upon the
dark red flush of his cock, I could see it. I saw the brown smear, bigger than
what he'd left on the dildo, moving upon his cock with his thrusts. I screamed,
panicked, my head thrashing upon the pillows. "No, Daddy, no, no--"
"Yes," he drawled, long, fucking me smoothly, easily as my pussy betrayed me
and dripped over his cock, slicking him further. "You said you would taste it,
my child, and now you shall," he said, and his hand, his giant hand hurt my
aching jaw as he prised my mouth open. "Open up," he said, the consonants
smacking in his mouth, dribbling upon my lips. "Open up, there's a good girl."
I cried out in horror, in gratitude, so glad that he had removed the choice
from me. When I had tasted his dirty ass, it had been through the mania of
cocaine. But now, as he pulled his shit-streaked cock out and lifted it to my
lips, he was holding me down, forcing my mouth open and I had no choice but to
obey. As he entered my mouth and I felt it, felt my shit dissolving upon my
tongue, I screamed. This was worse, oh, so much worse, and not because it was
disgusting; no, it horrified me because again, it tasted delicious. And that's
why I gagged, rejecting it, trying to spit him out of my mouth, trying to
dribble him out. But he wouldn't let me, scooping my spit from the corners of
my mouth to taste it for himself, shuddering in delight.
"How is that possible?" I panted when he finally slipped out of my mouth. It
was wrong, so wrong, and the sinner in me was disappointed, having expected
something horrible, something she could feel depraved about. But how could you
feel bad about something that tasted sweet? I had wanted to be violated, to
taste the most awful thing I could imagine tasting, and yet the taste still
lingering upon my tongue was pleasant. Just as Torsten's, the taste of my shit
was almost fresh, not just saccharine; the fact that it tasted herbal of all
things turned my mind inside out. Perhaps it was the flavoured cigarettes I had
been smoking, perhaps some of the vegetables we had eaten the previous day, but
I couldn't understand it.
"I don't know," he laughed as he entered my ass once more. "But trust you to
taste even sweeter than me," he groaned as he started to fuck me again, kissing
the taste from my mouth. "Or do you think we should try again?" he said, his
laughter now a giggle. "Two out of three?"
"More," I said in my sweetest, wickedest little girl's voice, smiling up at
him. "More," and he brought his hand to my pussy again, I now so wet I was
dripping well past his cock, all the way around my ass, down to the small of my
back.
He shook his head, kissing me again. "Let me see you come. Get it even tastier,
come on."
"Please, please, please--" I threw my head back on the pillows and trembled
from how much I wanted it.
He kept on rubbing my pussy and it didn't take him long to make me come; the
very thought of tasting my ass again made me spray his hand. And he continued
that way, plunging his cock into my mouth, into my ass, then back into my mouth
once more until I no longer knew what I was tasting, no longer knew where one
orgasm ended and another began. My ass was so hot, my mouth so hot, now both
equally dirty, equally slick, and it made me delirious. I became but one mucous
membrane rubbed by his cock, his fingers, his tongue, dripping with fluids
white and yellow and brown, all slickness, all friction, all heat. Until his
cock made my very throat into another ass, until it felt my throat, too, was
coming, my gagging pushing me into hysterical, unstoppable convulsions.
And all through these things, all through my wetness, my dirtiness, my
sweetness he kept on fucking me; I was light-headed, losing knowledge of myself
once more. That's how deep he was inside of me, now inseparable from me, as if
his movements followed the wishes of my mind, so intuitive, so perfect. And as
he put his hands to my throat and squeezed, stopping my breath until I spasmed,
I came for one last time, with him. He roared as he flooded my ass, roared,
fucking me so hard the welts on my back were now bleeding, and as he released
my throat I shook in death throes, drowning.
Upon seeing this, feeling this he cried out even louder, gathering me against
himself, coming for so long and so hard his sperm leaked out of me with each
thrust. And at each of those thrusts, with each wet sound of our flesh, with
each of his wet whimpers, but four words echoed through my mind: My father, my
murderer. He would be my end, my final resting place, just as he now rested
inside of my body, and I was at peace, peace.
He replaced the plug inside of me, then pulled me into his arms, drowning me in
exhausted kisses. We dozed off for a while, but the remains of the cocaine
prevented us from falling into true sleep; we stirred again and again for
kisses, caresses, wine. I clasped him in my hand, sucked him, but he was too
tired to grow fully erect; I loved him nevertheless, sucking each last taste of
myself off him. He turned me around so that we could pleasure each other with
our mouths; soon I was even more restless, awakened completely by his sucking
of my pussy. He just chuckled and pulled me to sit on his face; he sighed in
adoration as he kept on licking my pussy, massaging the plug in my ass.
"There is one more thing we haven't done yet," he said softly, smacking my
buttocks.
"What is it?" I said, grinding my hips down, desperate to have him kiss me some
more.
And of course, of course: within minutes, we were in the bathroom, kneeling in
the tub. He was so soft he barely had any time to piss inside my ass before it
closed down on him and pushed him out, but he managed a small trickle. And now
it was he who was begging, moaning, pleading for me. "Piss and shit and come,"
he cried his mantra, a shrill cry as I shat it all into his mouth, bursting all
over his face. He groaned into my ass as he drank it from me, repeating the act
over and over until he was dripping wet, soiled, sated. And without shame, I
turned in his arms and kissed him on the mouth, our perversion satisfied,
perfected, complete.
***
"How many fetishes do we even have left?" I asked as I leaned back into his
arms in the tub, after we'd showered, after we'd drawn a bath.
He hugged me to himself and laughed, pushing the bath foam aside so that he
could see my breasts, cup them. "Should we care? I'm sure we can always find
something. What with the way technology is developing these days, who knows,
soon we will be having orgies with machines."
I craned my head so that I could rest it upon his shoulder, rub my cheek
against his stubbled cheek. "When are you going to tell me?"
Immediately, he knew what I meant. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather hear it
tomorrow?"
"Now, Daddy."
He was quiet for a while, playing with the foam. He must have been thinking of
how to tell me this ever since he had committed the murder, how to describe it
best--and knowing of his penchant for drama, I let him have his dramatic pause.
"It was hypnosis, of course," he murmured in my ear, kissing it. "Anita."
"I knew it."
"Interrupting me already. Bad girl." He pinched my nipples until I yelped.
"I'm sorry," I laughed, breathless, protecting my sore breasts with my hands.
"Go on."
"As I was saying, it was Anita. I told her what Smythe had done to you and the
rest was simple female solidarity. She was quite keen on avenging you."
"I'm touched," I smirked.
"That, and I paid her better. Smythe, the old fool, trusted her completely.
Once she'd put him under, she made him write the confession, made him 'forget'
his cane at her apartment, and everything from that point on was sheer luck.
Well, Acheron drowning him at least," he said, bringing his hand to my waist.
"That one, I had not planned on--I had planned for Smythe to go to the police
himself. But it was quite nice of Acheron to play into our hands that way,
wasn't it?"
"So he really did love Birgitte," I said, clasping Torsten's hand and kissing
it.
"Very much, I expect." He nuzzled my cheek. "Do you want to hear about the
murder itself?"
"Not in particular, but I know you want to tell me. Go on."
"There isn't much to tell," he shrugged. "It was all over in a few minutes."
"Did you feel any remorse?"
"Define 'remorse'."
"That settles it, then," I murmured, kissing his ear. "You are incapable of
feeling it."
He winced a little. "I felt it was a waste. But you'd shown me her notebook.
And after what Smythe had done, the sacrifice was--" he waved his hand. "Pshh.
It was no sacrifice at all."
His cold-bloodedness aroused me. I remembered the portrait of Eva Barring, the
woman who had murdered her husband, the ancestress of our line. Was it her
blood, her spirit that still lived on in him, in us? At times I believed the
Barring curse was a myth, nothing more, an entertaining romance, but I wondered
if it wasn't somewhere in our genetic makeup. Like a physical trait that
disappears for a generation or two, but then resurfaces, having lain dormant
for years, waiting for the right person to incarnate it once more. Again, I
wondered if this was why they had sterilised Torsten, if there had been
something in his youth that had manifested that curse that he had not told me
about. But tonight was not the night to ask him that question.
"Had you ever killed anyone before?"
"No," he said quietly, lost in thought. "I felt strangely detached about it,
you know; distinctly technical. I had expected her struggle to take longer, but
like I said, it was surprisingly quick."
"Were you really nauseous afterwards or did you just pretend?"
He shook his head. "It was real."
I had nothing more to ask. I was empty of everything now, it seemed, and so was
he, having made his confession.
"Come. Let's go to bed."
We dried off and dressed in silence; by the time we made it to the bed, it felt
as if we were finally tired enough to sleep. The last thing I saw was the
flicker of the lanterns as they died, leaving us in complete darkness. I curled
up in his arms and laid my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"Daddy?" I asked, my voice quiet in the dark.
"Yes?"
"There's something I need to tell you."
I could feel him smiling. "What is it, my child? Tell me."
I laced my fingers with his and kissed him. I let him wait for it, kissing him
thoroughly, kissing him long; once I had finished, I drew back with a sigh of
utter contentment.
"Torsten Barring, you are a magnificent bastard."
He pulled me into a kiss and laughed, his laughter as soft and as warm as the
night.
***
END
***
Chapter End Notes
     Collage post illustrating the entire fic here. (Very very NSFW.)
End Notes
     Should you want to rec the fic, there's a rebloggable announcement
     post on Tumblr here, and a more Hiddlestastic version with Robbie
     here.
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