
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4122298.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
  Fandom:
      A_Woman's_Face_(1941), Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Torsten_Barring/Laura_Erika_Barring, Torsten_Barring/Laura_Erika_Barring/
      OCs
  Character:
      Torsten_Barring, Laura_Erika_Barring, Gustaf_Segert, Original_Female
      Character(s), Original_Male_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, incest_(consensual), Uncle/Niece_Incest, Daddy_Kink, daddy/
      daughter, Underage_-_Freeform, Age_Difference, Older_Man/Younger_Woman,
      BDSM, Hard_BDSM, Submissive_Female_Character, Dominant_Male_Character,
      POV_Bisexual_Character, Bisexual_Female_Character, Bisexual_Male
      Character, Queer_Het, Het_and_Slash, Slash, Het, Femslash, Bisexuality,
      Homosexuality, Lesbianism, Anal_Sex, Oral_Sex, Ass_to_Mouth, ass_to_other
      person's_mouth, Watersports, Scat, Bondage, Whipping, Caning, golden
      showers, Dubious_Consent, Ageplay, Androgyny, Crossdressing,
      Genderbending, Genderfuck, Sexual_Roleplay, Anal_Fingering, Vaginal_Sex,
      Anal_Plug, Tail_Buttplugs, Costume_Parties_&_Masquerades, extreme_anal
      play, Femdom, Prostitution, Brothels, Psychiatric_Abuse, Sexual_Abuse,
      Past_Sexual_Abuse, Healing_Sex, Trampling, Strap-Ons, Fisting, Anal
      Fisting, Vaginal_Fisting, Humiliation, Degradation, Public_Sex, Gangbang,
      Group_Sex, Threesome_-_F/M/M, Foursome_-_F/F/F/M, Exhibitionism, Period-
      Typical_Homophobia, Period-Typical_Racism, Period-Typical_Sexism,
      Recreational_Drug_Use, Edgeplay, glamour, glamour_fetish, elegance,
      elegance_fetish, Tuxedos, Suit_Porn, costume_porn, Costume_Kink,
      Bestiality, Necrophilia, Pyromania, Rough_Sex, Slapping, Face_Slapping,
      Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Rimming, Anal-oral, Felching, Comeshitting,
      Comeplay, Female_Ejaculation, Breathplay, Choking, Bloodplay, tattooing,
      Torture, Violence, Gore, Impact_Play, Daddy_Issues, Mommy_Issues,
      Romance, Historical, World_War_II, dubcon, Rape, Orgy, Sex_Toys,
      Oversized_toys, Genital_Shaving, Bathroom_Sex, Snowballing, Pederasty,
      Frottage, Voyeurism, Enemas, Anal_pissing, Double_Penetration, Double
      Anal_Penetration, occultism, Seduction, Older_Woman/Younger_Man, Gigolos,
      Spit_Kink, Mental_Illness, Dirty_Talk, Confessions, Blasphemy,
      Clothespegs, Graphic_Violence, Cannibalism, Institutions,
      Institutionalised_violence, Revenge, Rape_Fantasy, Genital_Torture,
      Leashes, Masturbation, Mirror_Sex, Wet_&_Messy, Drooling, Lesbian_Anal
      Sex, striptease, Phone_Sex, Out_of_Body_Experiences, Horny_Teenagers,
      Poison, Opium, Luxury, Older_Man/Younger_Man, Smoking_porn, Switching,
      Power_Dynamics, can_be_read_as_a_standalone/original_fic, Hair-pulling,
      Spanking, Blindfolds, 1940s, Sex_Club, Anal_Gaping, toilet_sex, 24/7_
      (temporary), Pinching, Dancing, Slow_Dancing, Prison, Dreams_and
      Nightmares, Decadence, Romanticism, Fetish, Makeup, Perfume, Office_Sex,
      Couch_Sex, candlelight_sex, Tenderness, Gentleness, Violent_Sex,
      Spiritual_sex, Rape_Recovery, Anal-oral_fetish, Suit_Sex, Stripping, Rape
      Roleplay, Terminal_Illnesses, Suicide, Suicide_Pact, Love_Letters,
      Farewells, human_urinal, Corsetry, Murder, Pegging, Semi-Public_Sex,
      Cruising, Androgynous_male_character, heterosexual_anal_sex, Heterosexual
      Anal_Sex_(female_receiving), Heterosexual_Anal_Sex_(male_receiving), Dark
      Het, Darkfic, Period_Attitudes_Towards_Sexuality_and_Gender, Hurt/
      Comfort, Diablerie, Dominant_Androgynous_Male_Character, Intelligent
      Submissive_Female_Character, Female_sexual_agency, No_knowledge_of_source
      media_needed_for_reading, Anal_Sex_(female_receiving), Literate_Perverts
  Series:
      Part 3 of Devilry
  Collections:
      Conrad_Veidt
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-13 Completed: 2015-07-10 Chapters: 15/15 Words: 100147
****** The Fall of Angels ******
by Snowgrouse
Summary
     Once Torsten and Laura know their song is coming to an end, their
     lust and their rage are unstoppable. Together, they set out to avenge
     themselves against a society that had sought to suffocate their
     desires--and to enjoy each last one of the world's pleasures to the
     fullest.
     Torsten was the Devil's gift to me, the greatest blessing I had ever
     known. He was the older, male half of my own self, the most perfect
     father, brother, friend and lover I could ever have hoped for. It was
     true that he had brought me up in his own image, but as it was an
     image that was identical to what had already lain dormant in me, he
     had been serving but Nature itself, serving my best interests, and I
     couldn't have been more grateful.
     In his sickness, he had been the healthiest alternative for me; in
     his perversion, he had protected my inborn deviant nature; in his
     insanity, he had been the only thing that had kept me sane.
     He noticed I was shivering and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Laura."
     I clutched at my father's pale hand, the hand of beauty, the hand of
     power, the only hand that could set me free. "Bind me."
Notes
     Explicit porn trailers for the fic here, and a worksafe teaser here.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/thefallofangelssmall.jpg]
I, who alone have understood thee,
Find in thy heart my mercy seat,
My shrine, mine altar; I have wooed thee,
To lay my glory at thy feet.
Give me thy love--for thee is waiting
Eternal life for earthly span,
For I in loving, as in hating,
Am great like God--not weak like man.
And I, free son of ether, take thee
To far dominions high above
The stars of Heaven, and I will make thee
Queen of the world, my deathless love.
-The Demon, Mikhail Lermontov
***
I am seven years old.
I am seven years old, and I am just returning home from school. It's been my
very first day at school, in fact; bewildering, exciting, strange. I am
exhausted, so exhausted as I wipe the dust of the road off my clothes, off my
too-short hair that I don't like. I was a big girl now, they'd said as they'd
cut my hair--that awful pageboy bob all Swedish girls wore then--and dressed me
in new clothes. A white piqué shirt and a short white pleated skirt, so well-
cut the other children had jeered at me, telling me this was a school, not a
tennis court.
I am in a black mood as I enter through the door, slouching as I drop my
backpack and begin to undo my shoes. Yet something makes me pause: it's an
unusual smell, as if of cologne and perfume combined. I am greeted by the
lightness and sweetness of fruits and flowers, which then become submerged by
the masculine blue freshness of musk and bergamot. When I look up, there's a
light fedora on the hat shelf, and a massive coat hanging from a peg underneath
it: this is where the scent emanates from, and now the smell of cigarettes
joins it.
Grandfather only ever smokes a pipe; this flavour of tobacco is lighter, far
less dark and bitter, the type of cigarette women smoke. I think upon it,
think, deduce like a detective would as I undo my shoelaces, swish, swish, and
my ankles hurt from the day, from going up and down the stairs at school. I
take off my socks, and true enough, my ankles have been rubbed raw.
The floorboards creak, and I turn around to see who it is, but then I am being
lifted from behind, up, up, spun in the air. I am frightened out of my wits,
picked up by this strange man, shrieking as he spins me and spins me as if I
were a doll.
"Let me go!"
He just laughs and sets me down, turns me to face himself. "What's the matter,
Laura Erika? Don't you recognise me?"
And as he laughs, laughs at me he reveals teeth crooked, eyelashes so long they
make his eyes appear kohled, his eyes the blue of midwinter dawns.
"Uncle Torsten!"
He smiles and cocks his hips, bounces his weight from one foot to another in
that funny way that always makes me laugh, the way that always makes
Grandfather glare at him sternly.
"Is it the moustache?" he asks.
He does look older. But his moustache isn't Grandfather's bristling walrus
moustache; only the sort you would see in film magazines, invariably on the
sorts of men they call cads. I had asked Grandfather what a cad was, but he had
snatched the magazine from me and told me he would explain later.
He never did. But Torsten never behaves this way with me, never keeps secrets
from me, never thinks I am stupid because I am not a grown-up. He will tell me.
"Are you a cad, Uncle Torsten?"
He purses his mouth in an exaggerated pout and flicks up his eyes, pretending
to think, in a way that always makes me laugh, too. It makes him look like a
pin-up--another word Grandfather had refused to explain to me--those women who
make strange expressions as they pose in small swimsuits and whose sharp
breasts look as if they are about to poke through their jumpers. And Uncle
Torsten loves amusing me so: in this, we have our own, secret language;
something the ordinary, boring adults are not party to.
"Ooh, perhaps," he finally answers, thrusting his hands into his pockets,
smirking like the Devil. "But only very naughty men are called that. Depends on
how naughty you think I am."
His grin makes me uneasy, making something in my stomach tremble in fear and
delight. If he is naughty, then I must be naughty, too, because we are so
alike. But naughty or not, I like it. We are different from the others, and as
such, we should stick together: I don't think I will make any friends at
school.
"I'm hungry," I tell him and slip my hand into his, dragging him towards the
kitchen. "Let's get some sandwiches."
He laughs, laughs from the bottom of his belly and follows me.
When he leaves, my happiness leaves with him. He says he has to discuss
business with Grandfather, says he will be back later in the evening. He kisses
me on the cheek, and his moustache sends a strange tingle down my body, like a
tickle but more intense, something I have only rarely felt.
For hours, I try to focus on my new textbooks, but they frustrate me. I already
know how to read, and the chapters seem too short, too condensed in comparison
to the books I have already been reading on biology, geography, science. I feel
suffocated within these books; they are too small for me, trying to drag me
down to the level of the other children, most of whom seem several years
younger than me, far below myself in intelligence. This is one of the first
memories I have of that feeling: the realisation that I am older than most,
smarter than most, more passionate than most. I feel a terror and a gloom
settling over me: this is what I will have to be doing every day from now on,
enduring school, enduring other children, tyrannical teachers until the day I
turn eighteen.
I set my books down and leave for the living room, still restless. There's
nobody there; there hardly ever is. The plush, brown sofa is far softer than my
bed is, and the way it faces the windows always makes it incredibly warm in the
evening light. So many afternoons and evenings have I slept curled up upon it,
completely buried underneath a blanket, imagining I was safe in the nest of a
great bear, held in his soft, brown, golden warmth. I wouldn't have to emerge
for months and months from my winter sleep, I thought, a thought that always
consoled me. Sometimes I would even steal honey from the kitchen and eat it
with my fingers underneath the blanket, and the servants tolerated this,
Grandfather only smiling at my play.
But now, I don't want to sleep. The tickling Uncle Torsten has left inside of
me, this tickling, tingling inside of my belly and in my spine is growing
stronger, like an itch I can't scratch because I can't reach inside of my body.
It has never been this strong, and there's only one thing that's helped a
tingle like this before: therefore, I straddle the arm of the sofa. I spread my
skirt carefully around it, so that I won't ruin the pleats, and begin to rub
myself against the hardest part of the arm. And the shudder that goes through
me, now, makes me shake; I have to bite my lip so as not to moan. I know what I
am doing is naughty, forbidden, something Emma always smacks me for, pulls my
hair for. Yet she doesn't understand that I must do this, that this is a
medicine, a relief for an internal pain that's far greater than that of any of
her punishments. I hurt down there, hurt, and only this will dissolve the ache.
A shadow falls upon the yellow squares of light from the windows; it's that of
a man smoking a cigarette, leaning against the doorframe.
"Laura, Laura," Torsten tuts, but his voice is warm, not truly scolding; he
seems amused.
Gasping, I stop, my heart pounding. I don't know what to say. Will Torsten
understand? Would he understand? He might be the only one who could understand.
He just stumps his cigarette and sits next to me on the sofa, looking at me, a
strangely admiring gaze, taking in my body. No man has ever looked at me that
way before, and a strange sort of pride uncurls within my chest, a strange
tremor joining that of the tingling.
He flicks his fingers idly through the hem of my skirt, then smiles at me
gently, sweetly, lost in thought. "You're going to break so many hearts one
day, I can tell."
I don't know what to say to that, either. I just sit there, embarrassed, yet I
don't want to leave him, the warmth of his gaze.
"Come," he says, patting his thigh. "It'll feel even better if you sit on
this."
"You've done this?" I blurt out. "But I thought--"
"Boys do it, too. It's just a little different. Come, and I'll help you. I
promise not to tell anyone."
I knew Torsten would understand! My heart skips, leaps in delight, and I almost
kiss him--I know that's what a grown woman would do. He sighs happily and leans
back as I balance my knees on the sofa and straddle his thigh. It's a thigh
bony, hard, thin underneath his pinstriped suit, the woollen fabric rough
against my own bare thighs.
"Comfortable?" he asks, his hands soft upon my hips, his eyes sparkling with
mirth.
I am flushed all over; my chest feels as if it's about to burst and I can't
breathe. My pulse pounds in my ears so loudly I can barely make out my own
words. "Yes."
"Rub yourself against me. Ride my thigh, just like you rode the arm of the
sofa; that's it, go on," he says.
And the look in his eyes as I do so--oh, I am going to die here, that's how
happy his smile makes me. It feels wonderful to do this against another person,
against the warmth of his body; I love it, and he loves it, too, the afternoon
sun glittering in his eyes. He understands this game nobody else understands,
doesn't think me bad for it and I love him for this, adore him for this. We
have found a new game, another secret game that sets us apart from the others,
above the others.
"You know the best games, Uncle Torsten," I laugh, and now my rocking brings me
so close to him I can feel the heat of his face and chest against mine.
"Naughty people always do," he says, and now his hands steal underneath my
skirt, toying with the front of my panties. "Do you know what naughty people
call this thing girls have down here, this thing you were rubbing?"
I don't want to seem stupid. They certainly won't call it a 'wee-wee' like the
adults do, or a 'fanny' like an English nurse had once called mine, or a
'vulva,' like the medical books do. And I am sure he is about to tell me. "No."
"Well, on a grown woman, it's called a 'pussy,'" he says, that word wonderfully
wet, slithering sweetly out of his mouth, sticky, juicy. "But since you are
just little, still all smooth..." suddenly, he bounces his knee so violently I
am thrown against his body; I have to brace my hands against his chest so as
not to fall off. "Do you know what a cad would call this thing?"
"Stop teasing me!" I tell him, tossing my hair from my face.
He lifts up my skirt and looks at my panties, and a veritable convulsion goes
through him. He closes his eyes and inhales, sighs in ecstasy.
"Candy." He opens his eyes and they glimmer with wickedness, with happiness.
"That's what you've got down there."
Oh, God. This is wrong; I know this. This is utterly wrong, this is something
an adult should not be doing to a child; I have heard of candymen, and perhaps
this was what they'd meant by that word. But I can't stop; I hurt too much to
stop. I enjoy this too much, oh; I can't stop now. This must be one of those
things grown-ups were wrong about, tried to keep from me because they didn't
understand how good it felt. I look down at myself, at the round mound of my
sex pressed against his thigh, the way I am rubbing myself against him, and
shudder.
Candy. This makes sense--it smells sweet, so sweet, and it has tasted sweet
whenever I've rubbed it with my fingers and then held my fingers to my nose and
my mouth.
"Candy," I say out loud, laughing in his lap.
He moans in delight, pulls me against himself, his other hand stealing to my
buttocks. "That's right," he croons. "And I'm going to make your little candy
feel so good," he says, "so good."
"Torsten," I gasp, because I can barely breathe, but I don't want him to stop.
The tingling is now unbearable, the way he crushes me against himself with one
arm, his other hand still playing at my panties, and I think I'm going to
faint. "Please, please, don't stop; please do something. I'm hurting. Please."
"Are you aching?" he pants, and there is something hard in his trousers,
something that's not his wallet; he is now rubbing himself against me, a
caricature of an adult bouncing a child on his knee, violent, frantic. "Because
I'm aching, too, Laura," he groans feverishly.
"Yes," and now I want to cry, clutching at his jacket.
"Then, don't stop, my child," he growls, and now the hand that had but played
at my panties reaches between my buttocks and presses there, presses against my
anus through the cotton, the strangest of sensations. "Does that help?"
But now, I am falling, shouting into his suit, the tingling swirling into my
entire body and this helps, it does, but I can't tell him; I am shaking too
much. I sob against his chest, and I can smell something unpleasant, something
like lye, and his fingers are hurting me, but I am free. All tension leaves me
and I fall slack in his arms, fall slack into his embrace, still swirling,
pulsing, humming, but I feel so much better.
There's a wet stain on his trousers, and he looks down at it and laughs, short
of breath. "I think you helped me, too."
"Can I see it?" I ask, because now I am curious, want to see where that smell
comes from, the thing that had grown so hard in there.
He kisses my cheek and pulls out his handkerchief. "I would love to show you my
candy, too, but we don't have time. Your grandfather would find out, and you
must never tell him we did this, or he will send me away forever. Do you
understand?"
"I do," I mumble, hanging my head. His haste hurts me, but I know he's right:
it's late, and Grandfather usually comes down around this time to sit and drink
by the fire. And I would not have him send Torsten away, so I climb off and
straighten out my skirt, straighten out my hair.
Torsten looks down at me and in the evening light, I am sure I have never seen
a man so handsome, a man as beautiful as a woman. He strokes my cheek and looks
at me with such happiness in his eyes it makes me ache.
"My little accomplice. I promise to come back for you one day, and take you to
Stockholm, and then we'll have some real fun together, you and I."
"You swear?" I am holding back tears again, my lower lip wobbling.
He kisses me, right on the mouth, swift but sweet; a kiss that tastes of
cigarettes and cognac. "I swear."
***
I woke up in a bedroom not my own: not the familiar red, Latin warmth of the
bedcovers and tapestries enclosing me in their womb, but the harsh, stark,
clinical white of a hospital, I the babe torn out of its mother's body.
And like a newborn, my first instinct was to scream. Yet my throat was dry and
very little sound would come out, and when I tried to move my hands, I felt
straps around my wrists, ankles. Straps, straps--a new game invented by
Torsten, perhaps--no, no, Torsten was in jail, and that was the last thing I
remembered. Oh, my head, my throat, my head--all dry and rough and full of
pain, my memory smashed to pieces. I remember the mobsters, I remember their
oversized suits, I remember the police raiding the nightclub. Torsten, Torsten!
I had told him not to get himself mixed up with the mob, had told him not to
gamble, but he had, he had, and--
"Good morning, Mrs. Morgonstierna."
There was a man at the door, a doctor going by his white coat and arrogance,
and now he nodded to a fat nurse who proceeded to relieve me of my straps.
What's the meaning of this? I wanted to scream, yell; who gave you the right to
treat me like this? Don't you know who I am? But even in my delirious state, I
realised the gravity of the situation and knew I had to protect myself at all
costs.
"Where am I?" There, a neutral enough question.
"At the Frith Institute." The doctor smirked in a self-satisfied manner. "You
were very lucky to have ended up here. I like to think that our methods are
more... modern, shall we say, than those practiced at most sanatoriums."
An asylum. I was in an asylum. And they must have drugged me, I realised; I
should have been more shocked and my heart should have been galloping by now,
yet I took in all of this as if from behind a thick wall of glass. And I
couldn't remember a thing about what had happened after the raid, after they
had taken Torsten away.
"How did I get here?" I mumbled. "Why can't I remember?"
Again, that awful, smug smirk spread on the doctor's face. He sat next to me,
and from his badge, I could read his name: Dr. Segert, Director. He was
somewhere in his forties, bland with a nondescript, pudgy face, thinning hair
and a neatly trimmed moustache. His manner was that of the hero-doctor, the
type who knows it all, the type who talks down to everyone he meets, thinking
himself smarter than everyone else as he administers poisons, kills his
patients with his hubris.
I loathed him immediately, and sure enough, he saw this; he looked down upon me
with the condescension of a teacher observing a problem child.
"The therapies we employ here often cause minor amnesia. Sometimes this is only
beneficial if a depression has been caused by trauma or if a manic would rather
forget the things he did during a relapse."
"And which one am I?" I snapped. "Tell me. I have the right to know."
He kept on smiling to himself; I could not help but think his lips were the
hideous, glossy purple of an old man's penis. "Overdose. Your maid called the
ambulance. We found you collapsed on your living room floor. Once we were sure
the drugs had left your system, we employed deep sleep therapy, combined with a
series of electroshock treatments. Our standard procedure in such situations.
And I must say, you look all the better for it."
The bastards. They must have thought I had been suicidal, but now it all came
back to me. I had been hysterical after Torsten's arrest: I had been drinking
heavily, consuming all the drugs we had left in order to calm myself down. I
had not been eating for days, and had miscalculated the doses. I had been so
stupid, so stupid, just as Torsten had been so stupid, and now we were both
paying the price.
"It was an accident," I said quietly, staring at my hands. "I wasn't trying to
kill myself."
Of course, Segert didn't believe me. "I'm sure you didn't. Nevertheless, we are
keeping you here for close monitoring."
I could practically hear a prison door closing behind me, keys being turned in
a lock. I swallowed. "How long?"
He laughed a little in his throat, incredulous, as if my asking this had been
preposterous. "Until I deem you fit for release."
Of course, of course. I glared up at him. "Is this because of--" I almost said
'Torsten,' but held my tongue at the last minute. "Is this because of my
husband? I swear I know nothing."
He raised his eyebrow. "Mr. Morgonstierna is still awaiting trial. However, the
police and I are in agreement that you were a danger to yourself and others.
You assaulted an officer, in case you have forgotten."
"But you can't do this!" I exploded, throwing the covers off myself. "I am
innocent, and so is he, I--"
Segert nodded to the fat nurse. With a wrestler's strength, she pinned me down
as he administered an injection. I stared up at her moustache, at the mole on
her upper lip, so dizzy I couldn't even cry even if inside, I was howling,
weeping, wailing like a banshee. I was still howling as the drug swirled into
my veins, golden and soft, like a pillow being held over my face, silencing me,
suffocating me.
"I want my Daddy," I murmured, in Swedish, and my eyelids were too heavy to
stay open.
"Orphaned," Segert said to the nurse, the voice of a scientist making an
observation, devoid of empathy. "Bring the catether. I'm putting her back on
Somnifen." He turned to me and petted my hair, talking to me in Swedish: "You
rest now, young lady. In another three days you should be right as rain."
The room swam around me; I barely felt any pain in my urethra before I passed
out again, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
There is no calendar on the wall; I don't know how many days I've been asleep
for, but I know I have lost weight. The bathroom mirror shows me a woman
crumbling, the construct of Diana Morgonstierna peeling and cracking, revealing
the shadow of Laura Erika Barring underneath. I see long blond roots in my hair
where my henna has grown out, and I am paranoid that it will give my true
identity away, even if I know most women dye their hair for non-sinister
reasons.
I had a friend here, Therese, a beautiful young negress. She was schizophrenic,
they told me, yet I found her lucid; when she was swimming in the euphoria of
sedatives, she told me of her child. Of how her white boss had raped her,
repeatedly, how she had defended herself against him, how they had thought her
mad, delirious. How she had given birth to a beautiful baby boy--she still
remembered him, despite the procedures they had performed on her, she said,
tapping at the scar upon her temple.
"Da colour of cream coffee, he was, but dey says I was pollutin' da race,
y'see," she said. "Took 'im away, like dat. Took my womb, too," she said, "like
dat," making a snipping movement with her fingers. "But the Lord's callin' to
me, and I know he'll be reunitin' me an' my boy real soon. Real soon, Diana,
you just wait an' see."
And sure enough, they took Therese from me. They had found us embracing,
kissing; had found us touching each other, clinging to each other for warmth.
They said we were perverts, said that she was a bad influence on me, said that
this matter would be taken care of. They took her away and gave me more shocks,
punching more holes in my memory, erasing a kiss here, a touch there, saying
they would soon have burnt the stain of sexual deviance from me. Now, I no
longer remember whether I had known Therese for days or weeks. But every time I
close my eyes, I can still see her brilliant white smile, hear her humming her
favourite hymn, of the Heavenly Father coming to take her home.
When is my Heavenly Father going to come and take me home?
Segert tells me I'm making progress, that I'm a model patient, and soon he
takes a liking to me; he stares at my breasts as he tells me these things. He
takes me to his office and tells me about himself, of how he used to be a
plastic surgeon--and how he soon saw most of his patients were more deformed on
the inside, so he took to psychiatry and neurosurgery instead. Creating a face
anew was nothing when you could resculpt, reshape a person's soul, he said. In
this, he said, he was doing God's work, bettering society, ridding it of
unwanted elements.
Proudly, he shows me his case files, of gibbering maniacs pacified through
leucotomies, of homosexuals and masturbators cured through castrations,
newspaper clippings declaring 'Gustaf Segert' a byword for progress in Germany.
I sit there and listen to him quietly, just as I lie underneath him quietly.
His penis is too small to give me acute pain, his new miracle drugs soon curing
the infections he gives me ("cystitis is quite normal after extensive
catetherisations," as if it wasn't his stinking bush of pubic hair, his own
lesioned, spotted cock that gives me these infections over and over), and now
there are scars on my lower belly. I have been given a salpingectomy, he tells
me, a removal of the Fallopian tubes, for as pretty as I am, as Aryan as I am,
I am unfit, too feeble-minded to reproduce.
At night, in my bed, I laugh inside, for this Frankenstein, this Caligari, this
puppeteer who thinks himself a demiurge has liberated me. In sterilising me he
has given me relief from my greatest fear: that of pregnancy. I cry into my
pillow in thanks as I await my Heavenly Father's return. Silently I weep, as
silently as I play with my pussy, pushing a finger inside my ass. It's the only
way I can orgasm, now, the barbiturates having numbed my clitoris so much, a
finger curling in my ass, the only place Segert hasn't taken yet, curling until
it's dirty, so I can taste it to remind myself of my Father.
My ass no longer tastes sweet; they are giving me sugar instead of saccharine.
I grow fatter, lazier, but that makes Segert cut down on the sedatives,
declaring I no longer need deep sleep therapy. Yet I still hear him using the
word "unfit" behind my back, and now that they have removed my silver
bracelets, my collar and my cuffs, it is my abnormality I decorate myself with.
Each declaration of myself as "unfit," each "feeble," each "pervert" sets me
above the rest, and I wear each one like a diamond, stringing them into
garlands upon my neck to replace the ornaments they stole from me. And in my
perversion, I sparkle and shine bright, bedecked in cascades of jewels like an
ancient courtesan.
Sometimes I pretend to pray in the hospital chapel; they use myrrh in their
incense. Myrrh, the fragrance of incest; in my mind, I recite the myth I had
learned by heart from Grandfather's books. Myrrha, just like I, just like I--
she desired her father, Cinyras, bore Adonis for him. The gods took pity upon
her, changed her into a tree. And still she stands, weeping fragrant tears for
her forbidden love, and this scent, the scent of incest, the Christians think
sacred! I laugh out loud in the chapel, and oh, if they only knew why!
I hallucinate Torsten so often it's hard to tell whether the few news I hear
from him are things I dreamt up or true. I spit on my pillow at night and rub
my face in it as I masturbate, imagining my spit his sperm, his sweet,
delicious sperm. I write letters to him, calling him Nicolas, darling husband,
begging for him to take me home. I dream of him at the train station at Forssa,
the way he had laid his hand on my shoulder and kissed my head, the day he had
come to rescue me from my imprisonment.
So when I hear his voice on the telephone, I can not quite believe it. His
voice sounds older, more broken, but it's him, it's him; I can barely speak for
my tears. I want to say so many things to him, but can't; Segert is listening.
But Torsten tells me he's had a good lawyer, has been declared innocent, and
all charges have been dropped. He is free, and he is on his way to take me
home.
Segert hits me that night, jealous, takes me until I bleed. I only close my
eyes and think of Torsten's blows, how he would hit me much harder, how he
would make me come with his hands, his blessed hands, his cock so much bigger,
harder, brutal at the root of my womb, where Segert never reaches.
Soon, you will be home, Laura Erika, soon; just one more night.
The morning is wet, misty, filled with smog. Pale, Torsten appears at the
wrought iron gates, so thin underneath his huge coat and his hat; his eyes are
full of sorrow. He looks ten years older, and my heart lurches as I lurch,
stagger towards him, not having worn my heels for weeks. Will he be able to
save me this time? Heal me this time? Some scars are forever; some things
cannot be mended once they've been broken--how much of me is there to salvage,
now?
"Laura," he whispers as he wraps his coat around me and holds me tight, and I
can feel he is shaking.
"Call me that again," I murmur against his chest. For had it not been Diana who
had overdosed, Diana they had drugged, shocked, violated? Not Laura, no, never
Laura Erika, never this little girl now weeping openly in her father's arms.
"Laura, Laura, Laura," he says with grave solemnity, understanding this
perfectly, telepathically, calling me back to myself.
Laura is still far away, just as she had been when Segert had been inside of
her, watching everything from outside her body, from somewhere high above. But
now, this blonde girl in her father's arms lifts her head and listens. This
body feels cold, full of pain, but the ghost of Laura forces it into movement,
forces it to respond to her father's embrace.
"Never leave me again, Daddy," she whispers, "never, ever."
"Not until the day I die," Daddy says, wiping his tears with his sleeve.
Chapter End Notes
     A NSFW illustration of Laura dreaming of Torsten in the hospital
     here.
***** Chapter 2 *****
There was a numbness, a haze that characterised our re-emergence into life from
our respective imprisonments. Neither of us initiated sex for the first few
days; we were too busy learning how to eat, wash, sleep, too busy resettling in
our home. We slept in the same bed each night, holding each other, but fully
clothed in our pyjamas; both of us too cold, too fatigued to even think about
sex.
I knew Torsten had his reasons. I knew what they did to men like him in prison,
knew only trauma of that level could make such a flamboyant man turn introvert,
and this terrified me. Torsten had been the force that had been holding me
together each and every time I had broken down, but now he had been broken
himself--and at the present moment, he was still picking up the pieces.
When he came into the bathroom and saw me bleaching my hair, he smiled; he
began to shave and I realised he was not touching his upper lip. With little
things like these, we reclaimed ourselves piece by piece; I had missed the cad
with the thin moustache as much as he had missed his little blonde girl. True,
these were superficial things, yet they were essential parts of the Torsten and
the Laura that had gone missing, signposts on the road back towards our true
selves.
I kept myself busy, served him because this helped me forget my own pain: I
gave the maid days off and polished Torsten's shoes, ironed his shirts myself.
He, in turn, spent entire days in the garden tending to his flowers, rescuing
what he could from the ravages of neglect.
And then there was the music, the endless music. He would spend hours playing
the grand piano, hammering out the most tempestuous, Romantic pieces with
vigorous fury. He would not talk to me about what he had gone through, but let
it all out through the music, sometimes playing long into the night.
At first, I adored it, but soon the music began to overwhelm everything,
suffocating me underneath itself and depriving me of sleep, and I knew we
couldn't go on like this.
I stormed into the living room in my nightgown; it was one o'clock at night. I
took him by the shoulders and spun him around, plucked the cigarette from his
mouth and stamped on it.
"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" I shouted in his face.
"But I thought you liked Chopin," he said, and his smile was awful, dead, the
sky of his eyes gray.
"Not when it's the middle of the fucking night."
His eyes flashed at my language--oh, finally, finally, a reaction! A spark of
realisation, an old pattern he recognised, an old trigger.
"What have I told you about the F-word, Laura?" he said with a dangerous
softness, and while his powers were not at their peak, I could see Torsten the
father emerging, shaking off his slumber.
Yet I was not here to tease him; I truly was furious with him. "I need to
sleep." I slammed the lid down over the keys.
He lifted the lid. "And I need to play."
I slammed the lid down so hard the entire piano rang. "Fuck. You."
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, my head ringing, my cheek aching
from the force of his slap. I was so happy I could have cried, then; could have
wept from joy, but I had to be sure.
"Fuck you!" I spat out at him.
He but slapped me again, now on the other cheek. Panting, I regarded him and
there, there: the blue breaking through the gray as his smile finally reached
his eyes. His laughter was broken, yet there was a little warmth underneath it,
yes, the heat of the Torsten I used to know. "I have told you to only use that
word in bed, Laura," he warned me, then squatted in front of me. "Are you going
to apologise?"
I wiped my mouth, delirious as I saw his cock moving within his pyjama bottoms,
half-hard underneath the blue silk. And for the first time in months I felt
alive, felt my pussy so warm that that warmth now surged into my entire body,
hardening my nipples, making all the hairs on my body stand on end.
"I'm waiting, Laura," he sing-songed, his voice finding its tone, the father
slotting back into the shell of the man he had been. Overjoyed, I watched as
his old power filled his limbs as his blood filled and lifted his cock, and he
seemed to grow larger, taller. A man made of potency itself, of power, ready to
take, to conquer, just what I wanted, just what I needed, his true self as he
should be.
I brought my face close to his, braced my hands on his knees and smiled; my
voice, too, found its little girl's pitch, that of the sugary, wicked little
brat. Playful, as if a four-year-old who had just learned a dirty word, seen
its effect on grown-ups, testing what she could get away with, I grinned at
him.
"Fuck you, Daddy."
With a roar, he grabbed me by the hair and smacked me, both cheeks, over and
over until my head rang once more; he laughed, choked from his joy. "Laura,
Laura," he crooned, fisted both of his hands into my hair and pressed my
burning face to his crotch. "Laura, you have to apologise; otherwise you won't
get dessert."
I heard my laughter, like that of crystal breaking, from somewhere far away, my
face wet from tears, his cock twitching against my cheek through the silk.
"Never," I giggled, inside of myself and outside of myself, shuddering as I
undid his pyjamas and took out his cock, suppressing my revulsion at his pubic
hair, a sign of his too-long celibacy. It reminded me of Segert, because
Torsten and I had always been shaving ourselves for pleasure; I felt myself
splintering once more, a schizophrenic thought of only Diana would be afraid of
this, only Diana would have been afraid of this swirling through my mind. I
pushed Diana aside, cast her out, and swallowed Torsten's cock into my mouth.
He gave up all pretense of sternness, a violent sob making his belly undulate
as he curled over me, holding my head to his groin with shaking hands. Was he,
too, doing the same thing I was now doing, casting out his abused self, the
Nicolas who had been made to serve other prisoners? He must have, he must have,
and that's why I didn't play at his ass like I normally would have; I only
served his cock as the very picture of the little girl he so loved, the little
girl I needed to again become to retain what was left of my, of our sanity.
"Daddy," I gasped against his cock as I pulled back for air, stroking him in my
hand, tears running down my face, his shaft.
He cupped my face in his hands, shaking, all the muscles on his face rippling
as he thrust into my hand. "Laura, Laura," he keened, heavy tears dangling off
his eyelashes, his hips moving reflexively into the pleasure of my hand. As I
continued to caress him, he moaned in his throat, shook his head. "I thought I
would die there, Laura. I thought I would never see my little girl again," he
choked. "I--"
"I'm here, Daddy," I told him and took him into my mouth once more, I'm here, I
told him with my tongue, my hand, and at that moment I feared I would die, my
chest, my very heart crushed by the enormity of my love for him. But he was
coming, now, coming so fast and so soon, and there, that woman's sigh he always
made during orgasm: there was not a sweeter sound to my ears in the entire
world.
I took him to bed. I lit two red candles in the altar alcove which I now opened
for the first time since our return, just as our relationship had been
reopened. Our previous selves were still there in the photographs, twisted and
lax, hard and wet, soft and fierce; patiently, they had been waiting for us, to
remind us of what was at our core. The true, demonic force of our passion, the
Barring perversity that knew no bounds, a love so true, so dark, so fathomless
few mortals could ever even hope to experience anything like it.
He wanted to lick me, wanted to take me, but I asked him to wait until
tomorrow: it had to be done right. He understood me, just as he had always
understood me, again sliding into that telepathic, overlapping consciousness I
remembered sharing with him ever since childhood, the conjoined mind an
identical twin shared with her sister.
We took opium together, lay there for long hours, the drug taking the worst
edge off the pain of our memories, enabling us to finally tell each other of
our experiences. Boldly, we probed each other with questions, lancing the
boils, squeezing, sucking, kissing out the pus, rubbing love into the wounds,
cauterising them with our twin hatreds for the society that had inflicted them
upon us. It was as I had expected: he had been used by other men, even though
at times he had even enjoyed it, so used to perverting abuse into pleasure when
other boys had bullied him, used him as a youth.
The opium made my face feel heavy; his eyes no longer stayed open, but he
continued to speak. "You asked about the scar, so I might as well tell you. I
was in a similar institution in Stockholm--I was very lucky to escape with just
a vasectomy." He laughed, a dry, barking laugh interrupting the monotone of his
voice, as if he were narrating a film about someone else. "It was always like
that at school, at university--mostly, I was the victim rather than the
predator, but I behaved more like a girl, so that's why it was I who was
punished, as if I was somehow more homosexual than the others. Boys relieving
tension, they could understand, but not tenderness; it was the sight of me
kissing, not sodomising another boy that made them decide I should be locked
up."
I shuddered. "I am not surprised."
"Your grandfather, bless his soul, intervened. They were this close to
castrating me completely, but he pleaded on my behalf. He agreed I wasn't
completely normal, but that marriage might tame me; however, the hospital had
decided I shouldn't pass my genes on. So they reached a compromise." He made a
snipping movement with his fingers, just as Therese had done; the déjà vu of
this made me shudder, thinking of just how many hundreds, how many thousands
had suffered a fate similar to ours. How many had made that same gesture in
their hospital beds, unsexed simply because the world thought one should love
only one sex, only one's own race: it turned my stomach.
"Incidentally," Torsten continued, "that's why old Magnus never truly believed
I was touching you; he thought I was only interested in boys."
"When did they let you out?"
"When I lied, just like everyone else does. Did you not lie; pretend you were
cured?"
"Absolutely," I murmured, astonished at how well he knew these things; yet this
was to be expected. "I told Segert I no longer had visions, no longer saw you
standing at the door. And I lied to him about Therese, too; I told him it was
she who had seduced me and not the other way round. He believed me, or at least
I think he did, because he believed negroes were more promiscuous."
Torsten nodded, washed down another pill of opium with tonic water. "I, in
turn, married a lesbian. She needed an alibi, too; after a couple of years they
stopped chasing us and we went our separate ways. Your grandfather thought she
had died, but she went to Berlin instead."
"You, a married man?" I laughed incredulously, hysterically. "And they believed
it?"
He gave me a mock-insulted pout. "I have always been a good actor, don't
forget."
"I gave Segert the performance of a lifetime, too," I said, lacing my fingers
with Torsten's. "He said I was his masterpiece. A fallen girl made wholesome in
just a few months, he said. That's why he gave me the penicillin; he said it
was more precious than gold, that he could have saved entire lives with it,
spared limbs with it, but that he valued my body above those of others."
Torsten ran his hand over my hip, stroking it through the silk of my nightgown.
"It is a very beautiful body."
I choked on my tears, shaking my head. "It wasn't his to take."
Torsten kissed my forehead. "He never took your soul. I can feel it, Laura. He
never took my little girl," he whispered against my cheek. "Never, ever."
"Promise me you will take me tomorrow," I said, squeezing his hand. "I don't
care if you injure me. Just erase him, erase all of him."
"I promise." He kissed my forehead again.
"I feel like a fraud. Here I am, asking you to mend something that I don't even
know can be mended, I--"
"Laura."
"And what about you? Would you ever allow me to--" To fuck you, to take you, I
meant to say, but I was crying too much to speak.
"Yes to everything," he said, then closed my mouth with a kiss, a hard,
devouring kiss. "I insist on it. Now, quiet."
He slid between my legs and sucked my clitoris until I had stopped crying. I
didn't count this as proper sex, not yet, just a relieving of tension; his
fingers hurt as they entered my body, but I might as well have been
masturbating, that's how well he knew how I needed to be touched. Tomorrow,
tomorrow he would reclaim me, I thought as I sobbed and came on his hand;
tomorrow I would again be my Daddy's, my Daddy's alone.
***
I lay beside the pool, sunbathing naked in the afternoon sun when Torsten's
shadow fell over me.
"You look golden," he purred, stroking his fly, "but not golden enough."
And as he let out a golden stream of piss over me, showering me with its
sweetness, tears of joy stopped my throat. My golden hair, my golden skin
dripping with his gold, I laughed and stretched luxuriously as he bathed me,
Zeus reclaiming his Danaë.
"Come inside," he said, licking his piss from the peaks of my breasts; "Daddy's
got a surprise for you."
***
When he took me to the bathroom and washed me, he had never been as tender, as
reverent. We washed each other, shaved each other's genitals carefully, gently;
as he knelt before me and kissed the scars on my belly, I jerked involuntarily.
"It hurts," he said, matter-of fact.
I clung to the side of the bath and knelt before him; the horror of it all made
me feel faint. "It hurts," I nodded, strangling a sob that tried to escape my
throat. "But it hurts more here," I said, taking his hand and placing it over
my heart. "It hurts, Daddy, it hurts so much--"
And now I broke down, broke down completely because of his tenderness; oh, how
I wished he had started with violence instead, had beaten this horror out of
me. But he let me weep it out, held me even if I beat him with my fists;
patient, he allowed me to thrash in his arms. Firmly, he held me as he rinsed
my ass for sex; briskly, he dried my hair and wrapped me up in a thick
bathrobe.
Yet something in me still struggled, struggled more than I had ever struggled
at the hospital; he had to hold my arms until I had screamed, shouted, hurled
abuse at him for at least half an hour. I knew how long it had been because he
looked at the clock on the wall, then back at me.
"Have you finished?" he asked, calmly.
"No," I spat, a petulant child.
"It makes Daddy very sad to see you like that, Laura," he said, and hearing
this frightened me: he had never said anything like this before, had never
admitted to weakness when playing the father to me. He sat on the bed in his
bathrobe, I kneeling at his feet, naked among the shards of a vase I'd knocked
down and broken in my fury.
"Then hurt me," I said, staring at my knees.
He lit a cigarette. "I will. But first things first. Where are your collar and
your cuffs, my child?"
I still couldn't look up at him. "Segert took them." I somehow felt it was my
fault I no longer possessed them, that I had mislaid them, that I had been a
bad daughter. This was absurd, but I couldn't help it; I wondered if he would
punish me for it.
"Then we are going to have to make sure that won't happen again. Don't you
agree, Laura?"
I nodded, quiet. "Yes."
He lifted my chin; his eyes were dark from grief, but his expression was firm.
"I am going to make it all right for you, Laura. But you must let me do it. If
you don't believe in Daddy, it will never work, and then Daddy will not be able
to help you. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said, tears running down my face once more. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. I
want to trust you. I want to."
"But you still have your doubts," he nodded and put out his cigarette. "And
it's my fault. I admit I've been behaving like an idiot," he said, and he hated
saying that, I could tell; he turned his gaze away from me and swallowed his
pride, his bitterness, hissing through clenched teeth. "I have been careless."
He turned back to me. "But I know now that this is far more important than any
thrill that could be had from some brief game of poker. You and I are more
important."
His eyes were wet from sorrow; when I didn't respond, he didn't seem to know
what else to say, so he kissed me. His kiss was salty from tears, his salt and
his sorrow mingling with mine; I sighed softly and kissed him back, swallowing
the moan he made into my mouth.
"I believe you, Daddy," I said, because I knew he had to hear it.
But he had to prove his sincerity to me--and I had to prove I trusted him. We
were at an impasse.
He regarded me, regarded the room until his gaze fell on the shards of glass.
He bent down to pick one up, lifting it to the light, hissing as he tested it
for sharpness; it cut his finger immediately.
"Turn around."
I just stared at him.
"Don't you trust me?" he said, now stern, and I had no choice: I feared that I
would break him if I did not do as he asked. And I couldn't bear that; couldn't
bear to see my Daddy in pieces, shattered like the pieces of glass that I now
brushed away as I knelt with my back to him.
My heart pounded, yet I forced my voice higher, back to a child's register.
"What are you doing, Daddy?"
Gently, oh, so very gently he lifted my hair from my neck and over my
shoulders, revealing the nape of my neck. "I am going to mark you, my child,"
he murmured, solemn, reverent.
And as the glass cut into my neck, I screamed. A shudder went through my body,
hardening my nipples even as the agony made me clench my hands into fists. Yet
I had to stay still, absolutely still as he carved, tattooed his mark upon my
neck: I bit my teeth together, keened low in my throat from the pain but I had
to endure it, bear it, stay still so that I wouldn't ruin it.
In but moments, it was over: the pain was so diffused I couldn't tell how large
a mark he had made, but even now I knew I would be able to hide it underneath
my hair, under collars, necklaces. I swallowed my tears and with a child's
eagerness, I asked him.
"What is it, Daddy?"
"A star," he murmured, marvelled, kissing the mark he'd made, licking up my
blood. "Come; I will show you."
He led me to the dresser and made me hold up my hair as he showed me the mark
through the twin reflections of the dresser mirror and a hand mirror. It was a
tiny star, tiny, a downwards-pointing five-pointed star, reminiscent of the
pentagrams I had seen in his occult books, signifying the powers of black
magic, darkness and animal lust. But when it was this small, it reminded me
even more of the sort of star lesbians and homosexuals would have tattooed on
their wrists, only in blue, so they could hide it under wristwatches and reveal
it when seeking like-minded company.
I asked him which one it was.
"Both," he said, smiling with his bloodied lips, then kissed the cut once more.
"Do you want it to be blue?"
I kissed his hand. "Yes." Blue as his eyes, blue as the lake he had first
claimed me upon, blue as the ocean of joy I was now floating in, drunk on the
pain, the exquisite beauty of it all.
He mixed my blue eyeshadow with ink and smeared it into the star--such a
primitive method of tattooing that it aroused me in its savagery. This, I would
forever be carrying underneath my designer clothes, underneath my carefully
coiffed hair, underneath the pretense of civilised refinement: a symbol of the
dark beauty of human nature in all its perversity, its ritualism, its
lustfulness. The sign of the witch, the sexual deviant, the wild-woman;
everything Segert had tried to erase in me.
With a cry of joy, I leapt into Torsten's arms, hugging him tight, covering him
in kisses. "Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. It's beautiful, so beautiful."
He lifted me so that my legs were around his waist and he spun me, spun me and
kissed me until we fell onto the bed, laughing, tussling. "You can mark me
tomorrow."
"You really mean that?" I said, genuinely astonished.
"Mm-hmm," he nodded.
I shook my head. "Not tomorrow. Now, Daddy." I needed to complete this, to seal
this bond perfectly; the ritualism of it required it somehow, and he seemed to
understand this, his sense of ritual even stronger than mine.
"Very well." He picked up the shard of glass. "But on the small of the back,"
he said, throwing off his robe and lying down on his belly upon the bed. "No
naughtiness!" he yelped when I kissed his buttocks, settling down between his
legs.
But he loved me for it. Soon, I had cut a similar star between the dimples of
his hips, just above the cleft of his buttocks. "It's like a blue anemone," I
murmured as I smeared the blue paint into it. "Those will be blooming in Sweden
soon," I said, then bit my tongue at my sentimentality.
But he forgave me that, gathering me into his arms for a kiss. "We'll go back
this year, if you want us to. As a matter of fact, I am getting sick of
California myself." He slapped my buttocks. "Now, show Daddy the drawing you
made."
And as he looked at his back in the mirror, I could no longer help it: I buried
my face in his buttocks in front of the dresser, he adoring the sight of
himself so worshipped. I had missed this taste, had missed the metal-salt of
his ass for so long I sobbed, but now they were dry, tearless sobs of delight;
it was he who trembled more as he grabbed my hair and ground his ass into my
face.
"Laura, Laura," he keened, and I could hear the soft slap of his cock against
his belly. "I still have that surprise for you, in case you have forgotten."
I pulled back and licked my lips, offering my mouth for him to taste. "Show
me."
He took a flat box out of the closet and laid it on the bed. My heart woke up
from the sweet torpor the pain had lulled it into; now my pulse was fluttering
fast in my throat. A costume, a costume; a pleasure I had not had a chance to
indulge in for months. I swallowed and looked up at him.
"Go on," he smiled. "I will get ready myself. It's a special occasion, after
all."
He was gone before I had a chance to say anything; I busied myself making
myself beautiful for him, for myself. Before I opened the box, I sprayed on a
light perfume and brushed the last of the wetness out of my hair, fluffing up
my curls. I did not apply make-up yet, wanting to make sure that whatever I
wore matched the costume.
When I opened the box, I nearly passed out from shock. In it, lay a white piqué
shirt and a perfectly pleated, white skirt, along with a pair of white socks
and panties. But he--oh, God. I held my hand to my mouth. I had only recalled
that particular day on the sofa when I had been in the hospital, you see, after
the shock therapy had brought out the suppressed memory, but... he hadn't
forgotten.
Torsten had never forgotten.
And for him to have brought out this costume, today of all days--oh, I could
have died from joy there and then. He wanted me innocent, wanted me even before
that day he had claimed me upon the pier, wanted the Laura prepubescent so that
he might possess me before my breasts had even budded, before the knowledge
they had brought me of men and their ways. My hands trembled as I dressed, the
act itself rendering me younger, as if no time had passed, as if the evening
sun was the very same that had shone through the living room windows.
And in the light of this bedroom's window stood Torsten, silhouetted in the
warm light, immaculate in black tie and tuxedo, cigarette in hand.
"You look beautiful," he murmured.
I blushed and looked at my socks, curling my toes. "You look very handsome,
too, Uncle Torsten."
He just laughed at that--he did not punish me for not calling him Daddy, as he
usually did; he just offered me his hand. "Come."
And what better place indeed than the living room? The long windows bathed the
entire room in golden light, and it felt warmer here, warm as I sat into his
lap, inhaling his perfume, his cologne. Always the flowers and the musk, the
masculine and the feminine luring me in, drawing me to him through this
Ariadne's thread of scent, of instinct, the Barring blood rushing through my
veins to meet its kind.
Naturally, easily I straddled his thigh, sighed joyous against his chest. "That
feels good, Uncle Torsten."
He brushed his hand through my hair, lifting strands of it to the light,
admiring its new blondness in the evening sun. "Call me 'Daddy.'"
I looked into his eyes, and he sensed I carried some nervousness within myself
still; it would take more than one night to heal me and we both knew it. But I
wanted to try, for him; just as he was trying so very hard for me. His
fatherhood was all he had, now; the child Laura the only place I could escape
to, the only body, the only psyche of mine that remained unviolated. The adult
Laura and the playboy Torsten, the constructs of Nicolas and Diana had too much
blood on their hands, were covered in too many scars, were hounded from all
corners. This, this was the only safe harbour left for us, this play that we
now both clung to with unprecedented fervour.
I drew in a deep, shaking breath, trying so very hard not to cry. "Daddy."
He sunk both of his hands into my hair and tightened his fists, lifted me by my
hair until it hurt so much tears sprung into my eyes. Gravely, solemnly he
stared into my eyes, observed my face, observed my body's stiffening.
"You need pain," he said.
I tried to say "Yes," but the only noise that came out of my mouth was a croak.
I swallowed; my mouth was dry. "I need more than that, Daddy," I said, a
terrible, greedy, needy confession to make, one I hated myself for, but I had
to tell him, had to make sure he knew how much I needed it.
His eyes flickered, but what took my breath away was how he suppressed his
emotion; calmly, he simply brought his other hand to my throat and squeezed,
squeezed. For a long while, he held me thus, and I did not signal for him to
stop, did not display any of those eyelash-flutters or finger-taps we had
agreed upon to stop this kind of play. I wondered if this terrified him,
wondered if he cared, until my vision started to fade.
Finally, he let go of my throat and I heaved on top of him, my pussy clenching
and clenching as the orgasmic onrush of oxygen shook my body. I felt euphoric,
and would have begged for more had he not immediately brought his hand to my
throat and started to squeeze once more.
Yet I had to tell him. I had been violated, had been hurt so much that I needed
something stronger than what others had given me, needed Torsten's violence to
triumph over the violence of others, my father the only man who could truly own
me, conquer me, lay waste to me.
He let go, let go of hair and throat, and I collapsed against him, rubbing my
pussy against his thigh frantically. "Make it worse, Daddy," I sobbed, clawing
at his chest. "Be worse than they could ever be," I panted against his
shoulder, masturbating angrily with his body, as if trying to break myself open
by throwing myself against it. "Rape me."
He stilled.
Yet now, I meant what I had said, truly having known the horror of rape, so
unlike that girl who had but used the concept as a twisted thought-game when
her father had first deflowered her.
Torsten shook, groaned into my shoulder, and I feared he would break; he clawed
at my thighs, pulled up my skirt and tore at my panties. "I shall," he growled
as he turned me over his knees so that he could spank me, angry, furious. I
burned with his words, his touches: each cry of his, each blow of his was full
of spite at the men who had done this to me, at the men who had tried to
destroy both of us, the blows of his hand burning each one of their maiming,
soul-disfiguring touches off my skin.
"Please, Daddy!" I shouted, the very picture of the child crying out for mercy,
tears now running down my cheeks as he ripped off my panties and let his hand
sing over my buttocks. His ring cut into my skin and it hurt, yet that was not
enough for him, not enough for me: he clawed at my buttocks until I was sure he
was drawing blood, and as I looked over my shoulder, he had removed a cufflink
and was now holding its sharp edge against my ass.
"This hurts me more than it hurts you," he said, and my pussy pulsed as he said
it: I convulsed in his arms as he scratched my buttocks with the cufflink, then
threw it aside so that it skittered loudly across the floor. As he resumed his
blows, I could no longer even weep; I felt his hand was wet, wet from my pussy,
wet from my blood, wet from his tears. His tears, his tears; even those he used
to punish me, smearing their salt into the welts. This, this was how much he
loved me: I lay splayed over the altar of his body a sacrificial offering,
breathless, joyous, ecstatic.
He drew back to breathe, and I saw he was looking at his smeared hand, panting,
his hair falling loose to his temples. My heart pounding, my pussy so swollen
moving around hurt, I sat in his lap once more and took his hand, held it
against my cheek.
"I have the best Daddy in the whole wide world," I said, kissing his hand again
and again as I undid his fly; "the best, the best, the best."
He was so tired from his exertions, so tired he did not resist, no, only adored
me as I sat on his cock, like I should have done so many years ago. My pussy
hurt so much, even if I was dripping wet; I hadn't taken anything this big
inside of myself in months. I sobbed from the pain, sobbed from the pleasure of
it, of the shame of having forgotten the true shape of a cock, the one and only
cock I would ever recognise as real: my father's. All other cocks belonged to
fools or boys, were but weapons or substitutes; only this beautiful phallus
would I ever worship at, only to this prick would I ever willingly offer my
body in sacrifice.
"It hurts?" he said, combing my hair from my face, tender, sweet, nuzzling my
face with his lips.
"It wouldn't be right if it didn't," I said, shaking my head, cupping his face
in turn, covering his mouth with my kisses. "It feels so good, Daddy. So good."
He brought his hands to my buttocks, whispering sweet honey against my lips.
"It will feel even better if you ride it a little, my child. Remember what I
taught you about riding? This was what I would have shown you, had we had the
time," he grinned.
I burst into laughter, a laughter innocent and wicked, my heart so light that
my ribs ached. "Daddy, you're naughty."
"And naughty people always know the best games, don't they?" he said, licking
his fingertips, then bringing his thumb to my clitoris. "Go on. Ride me. You
always did want a pony, didn't you?"
I laughed even louder now, at the utter ridiculousness of his words; soon we
were both cackling like the maniacs we were. And I rode him, laughing, howling
as he bit my lips, my neck, stroking my pussy even when his size hurt it, rode
him until I was dizzy.
His hair was now a mess, his bow tie undone, his trousers completely smeared
from my pussy. "Laura, Laura," he shook his head. "Look what you've done," he
said as he looked down, lifted a string of wetness from my pussy, then lapped
it off his fingers.
"You don't look displeased, Daddy."
He leaned back on the sofa, soft and languid from pleasure. "How could I be?
It's the sweetest little piece of candy in the world," he said and brought his
hand to it again, a gentle caress that made such a violent jolt of pleasure
surge through me I nearly fell off him. "The sweetest, sweetest little thing."
I pulled off my shirt and offered my breasts to his mouth. "Please, can I have
some more?" I asked, in my sweetest, youngest voice.
"Certainly," he said, lifted me up by the buttocks and carried me to the
bedroom as if I weighed nothing, he as strong as ever. This act always broke my
heart with its power, filled me with adoration, and he adored being adored, the
bigger, older man sheltering the little, feather-light girl. And oh, how many
times he had broken me thus, how many times he had poured his dark liquor
sweetness inside of me, a drug greater than anything we had ever smoked,
swallowed, injected.
But now I was crying out, curling up in pain as he laid me down on the bed,
pushed me backwards onto it with the force of his hips, his cock hitting the
root of my womb. He fucked me across the bed until my head hit the headboard,
but I loved the pain; stars danced in my eyes, danced as his body danced on top
of mine, as he freed himself of his clothes. Only when he kicked off his
trousers and pulled off my skirt did he leave my pussy; I tensed in horror as
he spread my legs and I saw the full length of his cock, so enormous against
the smallness of my mound. And yet I wanted this, wanted the discomfort as he
entered me, the pain that soon unfolded into pleasure. My nightmare had
rendered me into a cold, dead virgin who was now being brought to life, brought
to blossom, brought to heat and life by his virility.
He lifted my legs onto his shoulders and laid himself on top of me with his
full weight, rolling his hips. I howled onto his lips, whimpered: he was now so
deep inside of me he was impacting my internal organs with his blows, our
movements pulling at the long scars on my belly. Yet, I clawed at his hair,
clawed at his scalp, sobbing "Inside of me, inside of me," wanting to pull him
into my body entire, to make my flesh into his throneroom, to have him reign
there forever.
And with a groan, he pulled back. His eyes were now a blazing gas-flame blue;
drops of sweat were dangling off his hair, beading upon his moustache. "Laura,
you're here, you're here, you're here--" he groaned, as if shaking off a dream,
tearing through clouds of terrible visions, memories. "You're real and you're
mine, mine, mine," an endearment turned into a possessive snarl, then an
ululating howl as his hips lost all rhythm, as his passion lost all sense.
"And you're mine, Daddy," I snarled back at him, clutched at his back with my
legs, throwing my hips up into his thrusts, delirious from the pleasure-pain
every time he hit my cervix. I did not know if I was going to pass out from
pain or orgasm and I didn't care; I had to have this, had to have it all. "Take
me, Daddy, take it, take it, all of it, kill me."
He brought his hand to my throat and squeezed. My eyes flew wide and I jerked,
wondering if this was it, if he would really do it, if he would snap my neck,
and oh, oh: had he done it now, I would have died happy.
Yet he let go with a kiss, gifting me with life-breath from his own lungs,
shuddering himself as I convulsed around him, not just my pussy but my entire
body spasming in love-death throes around him. He was murdering Diana, just as
he was bringing Laura to life, I knew this; again, he tightened his hand on my
throat, beat the root of my pussy, my cunt with his cock so that my vision went
white.
The moment he let go, I left my body.
The ghost of Diana saw us from above: Torsten's long, lean back and the sweat
pooling in the dip of his spine, Laura's soft, fat thighs spread wide around
him, her hair a golden halo, her head slack in the grip of his long, thin
fingers. A dark beast devouring white and pink flesh, undulating into her
listless body; the cry of his orgasm echoing off the ceiling as he poured his
sperm into me, his buttocks trembling, the sweat sluicing down the star above
his buttocks to kiss its twin, the pulsing pink star of his anus.
And it was in the judders, the shockwaves of orgasm that Laura snapped back
into her body, Diana exorcised from her: I dragged in a drowning breath and
arched off the bed so violently that he lost his balance, almost falling off
me. Keening low in my throat, bellowing, I clutched him with my arms, my feet
slipping in the sweat of his hips; my pussy sucking, drinking his sperm with
its contractions. Now I was as blissfully, as completely sterile as he was,
laughing in delirious delight at the gift we had been given, these acts that
had been meant to tame us having turned us into the perfect libertines instead.
More than ever, I now wished to swim in his sperm, drown myself in it. I pulled
off him and scooped his come from my pussy, painted my breasts with it. He just
laughed and scooped some from my pussy in turn, painting my face with it. He
laid himself down and offered his cock to my mouth, and in utter blissful
adoration, I sucked out the very last, bittersweet drops of him, welcoming each
one, soaking each one into the loving darkness of my flesh.
The desire to speak, to say something rose and then died in me as we lay there,
mouthing each other's sexes, drinking from each other. Father feeding upon
daughter, daughter feeding upon father, Barring feeding upon Barring, an
incestuous ouroboros. We became sated, saturated from each other, yet we were
merely feeding upon ourselves, the self we saw reflected in the other person,
the one human being, the primordial Torsten-Laura split into two now rejoined.
I fell into his darkness, plunged into his abyss as he had plunged into my
body, curled up in his arms until there was no more Laura, no more Torsten,
only the dark primal sea we had both sprung from.
***** Chapter 3 *****
We lounged there upon the bed for long moments, not touching each other; it
always took a while for one's sweat to dry in this climate. I went and opened
the window a little, not bothering to pull a dressing gown on, knowing we were
far from finished.
I saw Torsten was watching me, so I let him. Gladly, I posed for him,
stretching luxuriously in the moonlight, letting it bathe my body. Tonight was
the first time I had started to feel at ease within my body for a long while;
tonight I was a Laura repainted, remade. First I had been filled out with the
gold of the sun, the gold of his piss; now I was being outlined by white, the
white of the moon and the pale, pearlescent streaks of his sperm upon my
breasts.
He lit a cigarette and watched me in silence, leaning on his hand and rocking
his hips the way a teenage girl would when dreaming of her favourite movie
star. And underneath the sheet he had pulled up to his belly, I could tell he
was caressing his genitals with his thighs in that way he so loved, slowly
stirring himself into fresh arousal.
Torsten was an extraordinary man in that he was hardly ever sated with just one
orgasm; most men were completely spent after they had ejaculated once and would
fall asleep immediately, or simply lose interest. This had been the strangest
of revelations back when I had been playing with others; I had soon realised
this insatiability, this erotic stamina and imagination were characteristics
usually found in women. Women, I found, could play all night, maintain
curiosity and creativity and playfulness for hours on end; only women were
invigorated rather than fatigued by orgasms.
But never so with Torsten. With him, sex was never a mere physical urge, a need
to empty his balls, no matter how animalistic and brutal he got. There was
always a psychological aspect to his sexuality, a divine afflatus, an
unstoppable drive towards creation that ran through all his forms of erotic
play. Torsten the composer, the mad scientist, always looking for new scenarios
as if he were inventing musical or chemical formulae; Torsten the poet, the
painter, coaxing out rhythms from his victims' moans, arranging his subjects
into sadistic tableaux to please his eye.
Yet now I shuddered, remembering how this same, frustrated, twisted male urge
for wombless creation had driven Doctor Segert. Whereas Torsten's creations
gave pleasure to those he played with, involved an interplay of power that
satisfied all participants, Segert had viewed people as but raw matter,
something to carve in his own image. Torsten, on the other hand, had seen my
true nature and had sought to cultivate it, having recognised its darkness, its
ruthlessness and its lustfulness for something that should be encouraged rather
than suffocated.
Segert, however, had sought to surgically excise these qualities from me, erase
my self from me, to make me into his ideal woman--the perfect little housewife,
someone he could present to his colleagues as a work of art, the culmination of
the rational male will imposed upon the irrational female. He had made me
perform housework in the hospital's kitchen, in his office and had then brought
in medical students, other doctors to admire my progress as I had dusted his
cabinets, served tea and coffee. The degenerate reformed, you see, just the
sort of little mother the world needed right now to uphold society, to get it
through these difficult times. His pride and joy, he had called me, had made me
parrot phrases about how I wanted to belong, how I wanted a good husband,
wanted to adopt children, how I wanted to be just like everyone else.
Last night, I had told Torsten all of this, and he had been so furious he had
stabbed his pillow with a pen knife as if it had been Segert himself. "I am
going to kill that bastard!" he had shouted, tearing the pillow to shreds, then
attacking another one, another until we had run out of pillows. And I knew this
for not just a father's protectiveness, not just a lover's jealousy, but the
rage of a genius insulted: Laura Erika Barring had been his work of art, his
masterpiece, and now this butcher Segert had tried to destroy everything he had
worked so hard to build in me.
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlaurakillthatdoctorsmall.gif]
Torsten had been my emperor and I his Rome, Segert the barbarian at the gates;
Torsten had clung to my shoulders and keened against me, vowing he would never
let me be taken, that he would rather burn me like Nero to try and save me from
the Christians. This madness of his had aroused me; I had sucked his cock again
to calm him down, his rasping breaths and fluttering fingers upon my back
mimicking flames, destruction, falling rubble. He had closed his thighs around
my throat and squeezed, squeezed until my face had turned purple and I had
nearly passed out, and I knew this was how it would end. Yes, I would rather
burn with him than go back; I had told him this, had again vowed to die with
him rather than submit to the tyranny of fools. I could not imagine living one
more day without him; now that I had experienced the horror of it, I knew I
would rather kill myself.
This knowledge did not terrify me; it filled me with a serene calm, rather. And
it was strange, I thought as I lay there quietly, clutching the quilt around
myself, that these two men were not that dissimilar in the end. It had been
clear to me from the start that I should have hated Torsten for what he had
done, that his perversions should have appalled me--had anyone known of what
went on in our private life, they would have seen it as abuse, pure and simple.
Even as a child I had known this.
Yet to me, it had never been abuse, quite the opposite--no, no; what the world
saw as goodness would have destroyed me. Had I been brought up by wholesome
parents, had I had to suffocate my sex drive, my taste for the lash and the
pussy, had I never been allowed to use drugs, wear lingerie, had I been made
into someone's housewife, someone's baby machine with no will of my own--oh, I
would have ended up committing suicide, I knew it.
Torsten was the Devil's gift to me, the greatest blessing I had ever known. He
was the older, male half of my own self, the most perfect father, brother,
friend and lover I could ever have hoped for. It was true that he had brought
me up in his own image, but as it was an image that was identical to what had
already lain dormant in me, he had been serving but Nature itself, serving my
best interests, and I couldn't have been more grateful.
In his sickness, he had been the healthiest alternative for me; in his
perversion, he had protected my inborn deviant nature; in his insanity, he had
been the only thing that had kept me sane.
He noticed I was shivering and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Laura."
Despite the heat of the night, my teeth chattered; I could not stop shaking
from the horror, from the waves of panic hormones rushing through me. I had
emerged from that hospital as a man emerges from a war, one of the walking
dead. I was a soldier who had barely escaped with his life, his bones rattling
from shell-shock.
I clutched at my father's pale hand, the hand of beauty, the hand of power, the
only hand that could set me free. "Bind me."
He pulled me into his arms and held me tight, deliberately tight so that he was
crushing the air out of my lungs, so that I could not weep. "I shall."
***
I lay on the bed in a fetal position, on my right side, my ankles and wrists
bound together with silk rope. Torsten stood at the foot of the bed in his
dressing gown, smoking, admiring his handiwork in the warm yellow light of the
bedside lamp.
"They bound you at the hospital."
I nodded, still shuddering a little. "Yes."
"But not in this position. Only on your back, is that right? So that you
couldn't masturbate?"
"Yes."
He ground his cigarette into the ashtray and sat beside me, caressing my hair.
"It's going to be all right now, my child. I will only ever bind you for
pleasure, and that's what I want you to think of every time you feel this," he
said and tugged upon the ropes. "Every time you feel pressure around your
wrists and ankles, you will think of me. Now, I am going to help you remember
that in a moment, but there's something I need to show you first."
I swallowed and focused, flexed my hands and my feet to feel the pressure of
the ropes. The pressure of love, love, love--but again, the horrors rushed back
into my chest, no matter how hard I tried. Again, I swallowed and forced my
voice into that of the little girl. "Show me, Daddy."
A little sorrow flashed in his eyes; I wondered if he was holding back tears,
never having seen me like this. Even after Smythe I had been angry, furious,
full of energy from my hatred; now I was struggling to move, the trauma having
frozen my limbs. To think that so soon after Torsten's lovemaking I had
descended into this state--or perhaps that was exactly because of it, the
stimulation of my genitals sending out confusing signals because for so long, I
had only been touched against my will, had only felt horror at sexual contact.
And even if earlier tonight, I had felt pure pleasure in my body and in my
animal mind, on the physical and instinctual level, my rational mind was still
struggling to process sex as pleasure, still trying to find the old pathways to
joy and happiness, to clear them of this rubble they were buried underneath.
Torsten reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. "I started
writing a letter to you," he said softly. "But I knew they would never let you
read it, so I never sent it. I kept waiting for this day, you see," he said,
caressing my hair, "kept waiting for the right moment. I want you to read it
now, so that you will not forget it."
I choked a little in my throat as he unfolded the letter and supported it
against the quilt before my face so that I could read it. I looked up at him,
not at the letter, and he paused to kiss me, a little noise escaping his mouth.
He smiled wistfully as he pulled back. "Remember what I taught you about pain
and pleasure making our memories stronger, imprinting them on our minds through
intense sensations? Now, I want you to wait until you feel me giving you pain;
then, start reading. Do you think you can do that?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said and closed my eyes.
"Then we'll begin."
I heard a snap and opened my eyes. He was grinning at me, holding wooden
clothespegs in his hands. "Remember these?"
"Oh, God."
He laughed, a laughter warm, wicked as he stripped and settled behind me. "Now,
read while I prepare your pussy. Begin."
I had barely read the first few words--enough to see that it was a love letter-
-when a sudden pain made my vision flash with white. He had snapped one pair of
pegs around my inner labia, pinching them together.
"So I won't fuck your pussy even by accident, you see," he said and kissed my
buttock. "I'm going to focus just on your ass for the rest of the night, just
like you deserve," he murmured, groaning as he gave the cleft of my ass a
hungry lick. "And so Daddy can munch on his favourite candy."
"You're sick," I whimpered, and knew he loved my saying it, as much as I loved
feeling it. I stiffened in pain as he applied more pegs all across my folds,
closing my pussy entirely with them, yet the pain had the strangest effect: it
cleared and sharpened my mind, helped me focus on the words of the letter more
acutely than I would have been able to otherwise. His handwriting was crisp,
beautiful, precise; the paper fragrant from his lighter floral perfumes of lily
and tuberose, a perversely virginal surface for the filth that had been poured
upon it.
I have missed you so much, my child, he spoke. I could feel his eyes upon the
letter as he worked on my pussy, him reading the words he had written,
psychically echoing them into me with his touches as we read them off the
paper.
I miss the scent of your skin, the softness of your flesh, the sweetness as I
bite into it--oh, I am hard as I write this, my little baby girl; that's how
much your Daddy misses you. Do you know what I am going to do to you once
you're in Daddy's arms once more?
He slapped my ass and I whimpered.
I am going to taste you, my child.
Softly, softly, he brought his lips, his tongue to my pussy's lips, to the top
of my slit, kissing all that he had not closed with the pegs, scratching my
inner thighs with his moustache. With each nudge of his nose, with each huff of
his breath against my vulva I trembled, sucked in another word as he sucked in
the taste of my pussy through the letter and through his mouth.
I am going to lick that little slit of yours, suck the salt of piss from your
folds, the honey that starts flowing from your entrance as I play there. But
don't think I'm going to stop there: I am going to dip my tongue into your ass,
too, oh, yes, swirl it deep to see if you have left me a crumb, a streak, a
treat.
And at that, I broke into a howl, as he was doing it right now, panting,
snorting, fucking my asshole with his tongue; when I twisted away from him at
the intensity of the sensation, he but turned the page.
"Read on, my child."
My pussy pulsed with pain and arousal; I thought I was going to pass out,
clenching so violently the pegs shook, clattered, bringing me yet more pain.
But Torsten kept on tongue-fucking me, rubbing my asshole with his thumb,
urging me on.
Oh, how I love to lick your little girl's ass, even with that juicy pussy right
there. Fingering, sucking the taste off my fingers before the glycerine ruins
it, and the days when you can take me with just pussy juice and spit--oh, my
child, you taste like heaven.
And then, the shock-sweat, the bitter cold mist of pain upon your skin as I
begin to push inside your ass, oh, that I will lap up off your back, from all
your hairs standing on end, the feel of your gooseflesh upon my tongue a
pleasure licking straight up my balls.
And now, I had finished the bottom of the page--but he took out another leaf!
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot this one," he said casually, chuckling as he placed
it before me. "Enjoying it so far?"
"You are a bastard, oh, God--"
He slapped my buttocks, slapped the welts, sending the pegs swaying again; now
I was in so much pain I could not even sob, my pussy dripping across my thigh
onto the sheets.
"Keep on reading."
Shall I list all the colours I love on you?
Do you know, I think I shall. First, the paleness of your skin, the way the
blue of your eyes mirrors mine, the gold of your hair. The way everything about
your appearance seems so nice, so sweet, that of the girl next door. Few would
ever expect the whore I have known underneath.
Another pin snapped around my folds and now I could no longer moan, panting
into the sheets from my agony. I could feel his eyes on my back, forcing me to
continue; he ran his hand across the pegs until I spasmed.
"Go on." He smeared his wet hand over my lips.
And underneath those clothes, yes, beyond the paleness such a candy store
awaits me--the pinkness of your pussy, your little baby pussy, sweet like
cotton candy. The way it grows a darker red when I lick it, the way it swells,
even more when I play with your ass, fuck your hole a little with my finger.
And then there's the delicious, delicious darkness of your ass, the way you
mark me as I pull out my cock. The way you marble its length with your anal
slime, that mucus I have trained your ass to produce, my little sodomite, my
little faggot. And then, if we have rushed, or if it has been one of those days
when nothing else will suffice, my greatest delight: the mouth-watering yellow
and brown swirling into the slime, gilding my cock, crowning me king. And
there, once I am past the second gate behind the curve of your womb, once have
penetrated you to the deepest part of your body, my reward: your little pussy
spraying my balls with its sugar, just as your ass has left a lovely caramel
streak winding around my cock.
Oh, but Daddy loves your caramel, my child, so sweet, so rich; when will he get
to taste it again? When will he get to make his little girl come by smearing it
upon her naughty little tongue, her hungry little lips?
"Please!" I moaned with the last of my strength, but then the letter was
finished and he was pushing his cock inside of me, into my ass with just pussy
juice and spit and it hurt, hurt, hurt.
He was hurting himself, too, trying to force himself inside this way; huffing
deep from his chest, he relented and brushed a little glycerine across my ass.
"Fucking virgin tight," he growled, angry at himself, yet I loved this in him:
he turned even a complication into something he could derive erotic delight
from, this obstacle but enhancing his reconquest of me.
And like a virgin, I screamed, screamed as he forced his way in with deeper and
deeper dips, thrusts; he ravaged me just how I needed to be ravaged, hurt, the
burn in my ass the most wonderful thing I had ever felt. He hurt me more than
Segert's small, pathetic cock ever had, fucked me where I could truly feel it,
this the only true way in which I could be taken. All other possessions I had
ever experienced became unreal when he slid deep inside of me and touched the
entrance to my colon; his cock so enormous its stretch blinded me even more
than the pain from the pegs had done, this violation burning away all other
violations, this the rape I had wanted.
"He never fucked you here, did he?" Torsten snarled, tugging my head back by
the hair, rolling his hips.
"No," I sobbed, "no."
"That's because nobody knows how to fuck my girl like I do," he said, clutching
me tight against himself, licking my cold sweat from my shoulder. "Nobody knows
how much you like this," he hissed, punctuating his words with hard and sharp
thrusts, "Nobody knows how dirty you are, knows how much your little pussy
drips when I fuck you in your little shithole--"
"Yes!" I cried, would have clawed him towards myself if I could have, my hands
clutching the air as he fucked me so hard the bed creaked, my ass loosening the
way it always did just before climax, the anal orgasm always so fast, so sharp,
so quick. "Please, Daddy, I'm coming," I sobbed, and now I burst into tears
because I was afraid he would stop, that he would want to be cruel, that he
would want to wait. "Please, don't stop, I will die if you stop, please let me
have it," I howled, wetting his letter with my tears.
He slipped his hand between my legs and found my pussy; the smallest of touches
upon it was agony. I screamed from the bottom of my lungs as he pinched my
clitoris with his fingers, the pegs clattering against my thighs.
"Come for Daddy, Laura. Come for me like you come for no one else, no one
else," he moaned, rubbing my clitoris violently, each rub an asterism of red-
hot pain through my pussy, meeting each white-hot thrust of his cock, my entire
womb, my entire pelvis now white, white. "Come for Daddy," I heard as if from
far away, the signal of a distant radio station drowned underneath white noise-
-and there, there. I jerked in his arms, gushing and gushing as the whiteness
climbed up my body, slamming through my spine, exploding in my head. First the
loosening, then the gush, and then, the final orgasm: I howled, screamed so
loudly I hurt my throat, juddering as he kept on thrusting into me, beating my
orgasm out of me. The white flashes behind my eyes like the flashes I had felt
after shock therapy, only now bringing back memories instead of erasing them--
Torsten on the pier--Torsten on the sofa--Torsten, my father, with his big fat
cock buried balls-deep inside of me--
And now, my father, undoing the ropes around my wrists and my ankles, snapping
the pegs off so quickly I had no time to protest; sending me sobbing, rolling
into a ball on the bed with each snap, the red shockwaves of pain forcing
another, subtler orgasm out of me. For long, long moments I lay there,
convulsing, my ass spasming around the thick, hard stake of his cock impaling
me, so enormous I felt he was pushing my guts aside, pushing through my lungs,
and in my delirium, I wondered if he would not soon come out of my throat. The
red waves upon the white flashes crashing, crashing through me, his body the
bedrock against which I was shattering, my body still trembling uncontrollably.
"Father," I croaked, not 'Daddy,' so quiet, so like a child, such a young
child, and perhaps I had been like this in my mother's womb, dreaming of this,
dreaming of my beloved Uncle Torsten inside of me. Had he pressed his ear to my
mother's belly and listened to me? Had he heard me? Had he thought, Yes, I am
going to take this child?
I was no longer sane, thinking these things, if I ever had been; so I patted at
his body, clung to it, tried to turn my head around to see his face.
"I'm here, my child," he said, spooning me against himself.
He rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of himself so that I was lying
sprawled over him, facing the ceiling, his cock still inside my ass.
"Hold on," he murmured. "Hold on to the sheets."
And I did, I did; I was a little fatter, softer, now, so my weight held me in
place over him; I anchored myself to his cock, clutched at the sheets in my
hands. And now I understood why: this mimicked the spreadeagled position I had
been tied to upon the hospital bed, deprived of pleasure, the position he would
have known from his own asylum stay.
"I dreamt this," I moaned, my head lolling down beside his; I could no longer
hold it up. "That you were underneath me, Daddy," and now my tears were rolling
into my sinuses, making me swallow salt and phlegm. "That you would come to
take me, that you would help me when I wasn't allowed to come. I felt so awful,
so awful and they had taken away my only relief, my only relief--"
"Shh," he said and kissed the tears from my temple, bringing his hands to my
pussy, massaging it, spreading my legs so I could better balance upon him. "I
know. And I am here now, aren't I? Right here. In my little girl's ass, right
where she wanted me. My hands on her little pussy, just like she wanted them,"
he said and squeezed its lips together with his hands, rubbing my clitoris,
"just like my little girl wanted."
"I love you," I murmured, "love you, love you," my whispers dying, sinking like
stones into the deep waters, the deep waves of his slow rhythm, his slow
calming of me this way, he barely moving inside of me. The weight of his cock
felt wonderful, and as he smeared my wetness all over my pussy my tears dried
little by little, the increasing heat of my body evaporating all tears, all
grief. "I love you," I whispered again, and I did not know if I even said it
out loud, or if it was but a psychic whisper, but I knew he heard it, felt it
through the beat of my veins around his cock, through the pulsing of my pussy
against his hands as he cupped me, held me in his palm.
"And I love you, my child, my sweet, sweet child," he said, his voice soft,
thick from emotion. "Lie down, now, my child, lie down, now, on your belly, and
I will make you feel so good, I promise, I promise."
I felt weightless, as light as air as I rolled around onto my belly, glad of
his weight above me, the way it anchored me to the bed, or else I might have
floated, dissolved completely. The dawn had begun to creep through our windows,
that early, early light that always felt so unreal to me, this moment suspended
between sanity and insanity, flesh and spirit, night and day.
Yet there he was again, once more entering me through my ass, now slicked with
more glycerine, penetrating me ever deeper. When he laid his entire, entire,
entire weight upon me and laced his fingers with mine, slid the head of his
cock past the back of my womb, I died. For a moment, my heartbeat stopped, my
breathing stopped and I was outside of my body once more: another soul-skin,
another sheath was being sloughed off me, another hurt version of myself calmly
floating above us, witnessing the scene from the ceiling, then dying away.
Torsten moved inside of me, and I awoke, awoke to my pussy trickling, spraying,
gushing, and perhaps I was pissing, perhaps that was what made him chuckle in
my ear so sweetly. My pussy clenched so violently it made him groan, clenched
and clenched once more. "Torsten," I moaned, "Daddy," a broken "more" as he
stayed still, too still inside of me.
But oh, that warm chuckle, again, he now awakening, too, becoming warmer as my
body found its warmth once more, as my blood started to rush through my veins
again, my heart pounding in my ears.
"Do you like that?" he purred, knowing how much I loved his dirty talk, "Like
it when I fuck you like that?" He rolled his hips slowly. "Like that, hmm?"
"Yes!" I howled, tried to spread my legs but he was too heavy on top of me, now
thrusting into me so hard he pushed the air out of my lungs. "Fuck me, Daddy,
please, please," I cried, and pulled my hands free. I had to come again, was so
close again, so soon; I reached underneath myself and ground my pussy against
the heels of my hands, fucking myself as he fucked me. "Please."
Again, that slither-chuckle, that rattlesnake-roll of his hips, he a serpentine
beast atop me, huffing hot, wet, moist evil in my ear. "It's almost a shame I
cleaned you up, my child," he crooned, "but perhaps, if you push hard enough--"
I howled, howled at his intent, pushed back at him with the entire force of my
body. Oh, I wanted to soil him, dirty him, make this as filthy as possible to
elevate it above normal sex, above the pathetic, mechanical, frigid ruttings of
normal people. "Then let me come, Daddy, and maybe, maybe--"
Now, his laughter bubbled out of his throat bittersweet; he licked the sweat
from my spine, brushed aside the hair from the nape of my neck, exposing the
star he had carved into my flesh. "Then, come," he said, closed his mouth
around the tattoo and bit me.
I shrieked as I came, shrieked and gushed, my ass now so loose it was slurping
around his cock, making hideous, farting noises, glorious noises, noises that
made his mouth smack off my neck, plunging him into his final rut. He shouted
into my neck, and past my cheek, I could see blue-black blood dripping from his
lips onto the sheets; my eyes rolled back in my head and I jerked with him,
taking each of his spasms, errant thrusts inside of me. I was still coming as I
felt him lifting his hand, heard him spitting upon it, felt him twisting his
hips--oh--he was doing it again, fucking his ass with his fingers to come more
intensely, more voluminously.
He had not washed himself, however, had he?
"Let me taste it," I screamed, trembling at the edge of another tsunami-wave,
the ripples in my hips rising, rising. "Please, smear me, please, Daddy, please
let me taste your shit--"
At that, he let out a high keen, the noise of a woman, and I knew he was done:
he fell on top of me, pushed his head against mine and shoved his fingers into
my mouth, fucking my tongue with them until I gagged. And I did taste him, did
taste that herbal sweetness I had not tasted in an age, his shit, his shit. My
asshole spasmed with each one of my gags, drew his orgasm out of him, my body
greedily drinking it from him as he howled and he howled and he howled. I could
feel his come pouring into and out of me, his teeth clashing against mine so
violently I saw stars as he sucked his shit off my tongue, shot his sperm
inside of me.
Howling like a savage, still, he pulled back and pumped his cock, fluid still
pulsing out of it as he buried his face in my ass. "Give it to me, Laura,
please, please, give it, give Daddy the candy, give Daddy the caramel--"
And I did, I did; I pushed with all my might, farted, sprayed him with his own
sperm, laughing deliriously as I showered his come all over his face. Little
streaks of brown, of yellow were his prize, his belly dipping and spasming as
he shuddered in aftershocks, licking my filth off his moustache, snorting,
grunting into my ass.
"Laura," he groaned, clutching, jiggling my ass against his face, "Laura,
Laura, Laura," he whimpered as he rutted against the sheets.
"Daddy, you're silly," I giggled a child insane, turned away from the wet spot
and gathered him into my arms.
"Feeling better?" he asked me later as we lay face to face, he brushing my hair
from my cheeks, kissing my mouth.
"Much better," I nodded with the eagerness of a four-year-old.
He rested his forehead against mine and tightened his hand in my hair. "And
even if you weren't, know that I will never give up on you." He swallowed.
"That would be like giving up on myself, Laura. Whatever hurts you hurts me
also, deeply, so deeply, and if the worst came to worst--" He closed his eyes,
unused to putting such sentiments into words. "Do you understand?" he
whispered.
I hugged him tight, so tight I knew I was hurting him. "I do, Daddy. I could
not bear it if--" now it was my turn to swallow. "Should anything happen to
you." I laced my fingers with his. "Remember what I said when you told me about
Birgitte. How if they should ever find us--" I buried my face in his chest,
speaking against his heart. "Promise we will go down together, Daddy, promise."
"In flames, my child," he said and hugged me back. "In flames."
***** Chapter 4 *****
As winter turned towards spring, we became bolder, leaving the house once more,
emerging from our monkish seclusion for concerts, for dinners. Yet we still
kept a low profile: had we tried to enter the Californian society proper, our
ruse would soon have been given away. Alistair kept channeling our money to us,
but we knew this could not last; we made plans to leave for Sweden this very
summer, war or no war. We'd spend my eighteenth birthday in Forssa, Torsten
promised; then, the family fortune would pass entirely into my hands and we
would be untouchable.
Yet I felt restless, torn. I wanted to go to nightclubs again, to fuck
strangers, to prove to myself that I was still my own woman--Laura the
adventuress, not a victim. But finding more robust diversions was difficult,
now that Torsten had made enemies in the underworld. Torsten was far more
cautious, now, and I had not seen him play with other men since he had been
released from prison; he seemed older, more tired and this broke my heart.
I wanted to change that.
Thus, one night, when Torsten and I were returning home from the theatre in a
taxi, warm and bubbly from champagne, I whispered a dare into his ear. "Let's
seduce him."
The taxi driver was a handsome young man, Latin, well-built, the type I knew
appealed to Torsten. I had seen Torsten looking at him, caressing his broad
shoulders with his gaze, his eyes straying to the crotch as usual, always
measuring whatever he could see of other men's cocks.
Torsten laughed out a plume of cigarette smoke, leaned back and spread out his
arms over the top of the seat, crossing his legs and rocking his foot. "Be my
guest," he purred.
I knocked on the driver's window. It was a long way to our house, far away in
the countryside as it was, and I explained to him that I needed to answer the
call of nature.
A little shocked at a lady being so direct, the driver nevertheless stopped. We
were miles from the city, on a dusty road framed by orange trees. It was a
moonless, cloudy night; the only light came from the car's glaring headlights.
Now, I could have crawled amidst the trees to relieve myself, could've torn my
stockings, muddied my shoes, but why should I have? No, no; I squatted right in
front of the car, exposing my buttocks to the men--I wore no panties, of
course--and began to piss. I delighted in the idea of what the driver must have
been thinking right now, the erection that must have risen in his trousers.
Laughing, I glanced over my shoulder, still pissing, and saw Torsten was
leaning in next to the driver, so close the man must've felt Torsten's breath
on his cheek.
I saw Torsten's lips form the words "Do you want to fuck her?" and the
theatrical way he tugged his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, mock-casual,
as if this was the sort of thing we did every day.
I shook my ass, wiped myself off with a tissue, making sure they saw my pussy
was shaven, saw me part its lips, saw me give myself a little rub. I tugged my
skirt down, walked back towards the car and made sure to jiggle my hips, my
breasts; I was now so aroused I ached between my legs.
I leaned through the window like a prostitute, smiling widely at the driver.
"What's your name?"
He adjusted his cap, looked from me to Torsten, then back at me, swallowing
thickly. Oh, but what a strong neck he had, firm and golden. "Antonio. But--but
my friends call me Tony."
"Tony," I grinned, slinking my weight from one foot to another the way Torsten
always did. "Has my old man been giving you trouble?"
Flustered, Tony lifted his hands from the steering wheel, then grabbed it
again. "No. Absolutely not."
Torsten grinned like the Devil and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I merely
noticed he was looking at you. Did you like looking at my daughter, Tony?"
"Well, I--"
I unzipped my dress and let it fall off my shoulders. When Tony saw my breasts,
his eyes flew wide and threatened to pop out of his head; stunned, wordless, he
watched as I walked around the car in but my stockings and my heels, my dress
slung over my shoulder, strutting over to the passenger seat. I opened the door
and sat in next to Tony, resting my hand on his thigh.
"How about now?"
Tony looked to Torsten. "What are you playing at? Is this some trick? You from
the FBI? I swear I know nothing--"
"Nuh-uh," Torsten tutted and shook his head, pulling Tony back against the
seat. "I think my daughter likes you, that's all."
I did indeed. I unzipped Tony's trousers and Torsten's admiring gaze had been
right: Tony's cock was full, beautiful, filling out to a good seven or eight
inches as I stroked it with my hand. And how thick it was! Rarely had I seen a
cock this fat. I could hear Torsten's breathing growing faster; he was
practically drooling.
"That's a beautiful cock you've got there," Torsten murmured, and Tony
stiffened in terror; the poor man attempted to say something, but I silenced
him with my mouth on his cock. I could only fit the head of it into my mouth,
that's how big he was; I adored this, adored the way he choked me, filled me
with just one mouthful. His balls were big and heavy, too; I cupped them in my
palm and already they were so firm I feared he would come if I continued a
moment longer.
I lifted my head and tossed my hair from my face. "I think you'd better join us
in the back seat, Tony," I said, wiped my mouth and retreated.
I felt as if we were initiating a virgin into an ancient mystery rite; I doubt
Tony was a virgin, but he felt like one as we accepted him into the sensual
darkness of the Barring embrace. Torsten remained clothed all throughout,
content to watch as I sucked Tony's cock, sat on it with my pussy--now that I
didn't have to fear pregnancy, now that I had more bad memories to erase, I had
decided to let other men take my pussy and not just my ass. Torsten had no
problem with this, as long as he could watch: he peered between my buttocks and
adored the sight of my pussy lips spreading around Tony's cock. And all the
while, Tony was trembling in terror, jumping each time Torsten touched his
knees, each time Torsten smacked my ass, each time Torsten leaned close to
steal a kiss from me.
Yet at each jump, I felt Tony's cock was leaping, too; he pretended to pant
into my shoulder but I saw him stealing glances at Torsten, the beauty of
Torsten sprawled out in his tuxedo, his hand caressing the bulge of his cock. I
rubbed my pussy and rode Tony furiously, milking his cock with my muscles; I
turned around so I could ride him in the reverse position, preferring as I did
to be penetrated from behind. His cock had been too big to hit the right spots
immediately, but now I could glide down on him with ease; just after a few
bounces I was coming, shrieking against the driver's window, trembling on top
of him, my knees quaking.
I collapsed into Torsten's lap; Tony had not come yet, his cock bobbing,
gleaming in the warm night air.
Torsten stumped his cigarette. "Ever had a man suck your cock, Tony?" he asked,
casually.
"No, I--"
Tony made to tuck himself back into his trousers, but Torsten was quicker; and
oh, the noise he made as Torsten swallowed him into his mouth! He had enjoyed
my pussy, had been rock-hard when I had been riding him, but now he truly was
lost, crying out in shock, not knowing where to put his hands as Torsten sucked
him noisily, wetly, slurping my pussy juice off his cock. He patted at the
seats, patted at Torsten's back but soon moved his hands to the seats again as
if he had been burnt, as if he could somehow make this less homosexual if he
wasn't the one doing the touching.
Little did Torsten care: I adored him as he finally sated this part of himself
and sucked cock like the old faggot he was, worshipping Tony's length and girth
with his mouth, humming in utter contentment. He lifted Tony's balls in his
hand and sucked them, too, Tony's cock drawing a gleaming stripe across his
cheek; the poor boy whimpered as Torsten looked up at him.
"How do you like that, then?" Torsten asked him, sucking the skin at the root
of his cock, his eyes glimmering in the darkness with wicked delight.
"I--oh, I--you two are insane, insane."
"Correct," I said and kissed him, laughing into his mouth. "Would you like to
come in my Daddy's mouth?" I asked, angelically.
"If you insist," he laughed and even in the dark, I could tell he was blushing
even further, aroused even more as I kissed him. Torsten began to suck him
again and I guided Tony's hands to my breasts, sucked his moans out of his
mouth as I sucked his tongue; soon, I heard Torsten choking, groaning in
delight as Tony filled his mouth with sperm. On and on, Torsten kept sucking,
lapping, slurping each and every drop into his mouth with the thirst of a man
who had been lost in the desert. I was even happier for Torsten than I was for
myself, that I could give him this: a happy, pleasant homosexual experience
after all he had been through. As he had been healing me with his debaucheries,
now I was healing him, too--and what a delightful way to go about it!
Tony provided plenty of fun for us for the rest of the night. He was still hard
after Torsten pulled back, clearly up for another round, but feeling
capricious, I forced him back into his suit and told him to drive us home. We
asked him to stay for the night, but he had to go back, he said; therefore, we
pounced him at the door and fucked him on the patio. He had never fucked a girl
in the ass before, and when I offered him mine, he went absolutely wild, wild;
so wild he did not even mind Torsten offering his own cock to his mouth. I did
not even have time to come before Tony had shot his seed into my ass, so unused
he was to the tightness, so shocked from the taste of a man's cock in his
mouth.
We took pity on him, bundled him into his car and sent him off with an
astronomical tip. As he drove off, I laid in Torsten's arms on the patio, half-
dressed, wrapped only in a thick woollen shawl; we cackled like crows, kissing
and kissing.
"You didn't let him finish you off, I see," I murmured against his cheek,
stroking his cock.
"I have been a little tired," he said apologetically.
I turned around and sat on him, guiding his cock into my pussy, wrapping the
shawl around us, moving him so that he could rest comfortably against the wall.
He was only just hard enough to stay inside of me, but I did not mind; I don't
even remember if either of us came. All I remember is that we sat there for
long moments, I riding him, he undulating into me, kissing and kissing until
the stars came out, until the moon came out. I had not felt such peace in what
felt like aeons; I knew he felt the same.
"Did you have a good time tonight?" I asked, like a husband asks his wife.
"The most perfect of nights, my love," he answered, like the wife, the
moonlight glimmering through his eyes, upon his lips. "Thank you."
I hugged him tight, tight; so full of love and contentment I could have died
happy, then, died there with him inside of me, crowned by the moon and the
stars.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Whenever my mood was unstable, Torsten offered me the gift of servitude;
whenever he veered towards too much introversion, I would lure him out with a
slap so that he would pounce me once more. It invigorated him, too; in my
submission, I returned to him the power that had been taken from him, the only
power he had ever wielded: that of sexuality. With great enthusiasm, he studied
new ways of tying me up, ordered new toys from private artisans, trained me
into the sexual champion I had been before they had taken me away. Indeed, had
sex been an Olympic sport, we would have been multiple gold medalists; with
ingenious straps, devices and potions we sustained marathon orgies that
sometimes lasted for days.
Entire days, I spent in sexual hazes, dreaming with him: he took cream in his
morning coffee from my ass and ended the day by drinking his sperm from it. I
woke up to his cock in my pussy, fell asleep with it still nestled inside of
me. And just as he trained my ass to take his entire hand once more, I trained
his waist with my corsets until it regained its true, feminine shape.
Yet there was still something in him that was cold, stiff; some part of him
that his old fire had not warmed yet. He was sinuous once more, but not yet
fluid when it came to his expression of sensuality; there was a part of him
that was frozen still. I knew exactly what that part was: it was the most
deeply homosexual part of him, the most deeply feminine part of him that had
been so yielding before, so receptive before, so fiery in its passion. That
part had been hurt the way women are hurt by male violence; thus, no living
male could ever begin to undo that damage. He still didn't trust men, the way
an abused woman cannot even be touched by a man. Yet deep within, there was a
hunger inside of him, a hollow place within him that could never be satisfied
by his claiming of me, by his taking of me, by his pushing into my body when
what he most needed was to be filled himself.
Therefore, I set out to do what no man could.
I rang the leatherworker Torsten ordered his toys from and had something very
special made for myself: a harness like Helena's, fitted especially for me. It
was a brilliant piece of engineering, with rings and buckles at the front that
allowed me to attach a variety of rubber penises to it.
"Developed by the boot-girls of Berlin," the weasel-like shopkeeper told me
when I visited his back room, beaming with pride as he demonstrated the dildos.
"The smallest one is for inexperienced folks, or for light play; that eight-
incher's for a proper, nice fuck, and this one, well." He leered at me. "Not
everyone can take this feller," he said as he lifted out a grotesquely
oversized dildo, heavy, made of black rubber, as thick as a man's arm.
"I'll take it," I said, beaming. "Can you make one in white?"
He had probably thought I was a lesbian and that I would damage a woman with
such a monstrous thing. True, I would not want to take this thing inside of me,
I thought as I unwrapped the final product and held it in my hands, and most
definitely not in my vagina. But Torsten... well. I had seen him take my hand,
and I wanted to give him something more this time, something he would not
forget. This was exactly the sort of thing that he would approach as a
challenge, as a matter of whorish pride and I knew it.
Yet I had to do this right, to give it the ritualism he needed, the drama, the
psychological play that was essential to our sexual satisfaction. Just as I had
done with Birgitte, I now needed to become like Torsten himself, become the
man, the seductor, the one dominant; yet now that it was Torsten himself I was
after, I had to become even stronger than him. Essentially, I had to become
more Torsten than Torsten.
I felt a strange satisfaction at this, as it allowed me to step away from my
female body, my female soul, the part of me that had been so deeply scarred. In
a sense, I felt that I had healed more rapidly than Torsten had, and this
change I now underwent only underlined the fact. For does not any painter need
to step back for a moment to see the whole picture, in order to make the
details blend together seamlessly? Does not any true mystic need to embrace a
total androgyny, to truly live as both the male and the female in order to
attain the full human experience? It was Torsten himself who had given me my
first experience of true sexual fluidity; it was his transvestism I had
mimicked on my path to freedom, and it was time I let him feast upon the fruits
of that gift, used them to bring his soul back to its true, undivided,
hermaphroditic state.
That morning, Torsten was away on business--well, he said it was business, but
I suspected he had travelled to town to replenish our drug supply. I only hoped
he wouldn't return drunk; I had told him I had a surprise waiting for him when
he got home, hinting that it was of the sexual sort. God knows that if we
hadn't had our sexual play, both of us could have become complete drunks,
complete dope fiends; at times, we had fought off the cold sweat of withdrawal
by sheer, animal fucking. Sex had always been our greatest drug, and I wanted
it to remain that way.
Thankfully, my tuxedo still fit me; I had lost a little of the weight I had
gained at the hospital. The hardest part was trying to tuck in the dildo I had
attached to the harness--only the medium-sized one for now, the toy that was
more or less the same size as Torsten's own, if formidable cock. It wouldn't
have to remain inside the trousers for very long, which was a relief; I didn't
want to crease them up, so I just let the cock stick out of the fly for now,
laughing a little as I walked about the house with my newfound erection. Thank
goodness I had let the maid off early today, I thought to myself, mad from
glee: if she came back for a lost bag or if anyone else came to visit, they
would faint from sheer shock.
This felt wonderful. I always felt a little more virile whenever I neared
menstruation, but never more so than now; the blood that weighed down my hips
and made me so restless this time of the month now seemed channeled into the
dildo as I stroked it a little, warmed it in my hand. My cock was wonderfully
heavy, elastic, the rubber still so new it shone. I even carried a set of
realistic balls, now, and cupped them, stroked myself the way I had seen
Torsten stroke himself, sprawling back on the sofa as I awaited his return.
It was a shame the dildo wasn't flesh-coloured, but I wanted to hit Torsten's
perversion at the core, to show him exactly where he had been fucked, to allow
him his ultimate, dark, fragrant fetish. Since our reunion, we had not indulged
in dirty ass-tasting play all that much, having realised how often it resulted
in stomach upsets, but I knew he still yearned for it, especially when he
needed the most intense of fucks, the sort that would turn his mind inside out.
And soon, I would give him that, soon, soon; I recalled the way he had sucked
the filth off the white mouth gag dildo and I shuddered in delight. Torsten,
Torsten the cocksucker, the faggot, lapping up his caramel; soon he would be
lapping it off my cock. I had to spread my legs; my pussy was so swollen and so
wet I was ruining my trousers, ruining the leather but I didn't care. I moaned,
leaned back on the sofa and moved my hand rhythmically on the cock's shaft so
that its contoured root rubbed my clitoris just right, so that my swelling
seemed extended into the cock, so that even a soft roll of my hand at the tip
sent a glorious tremor through my hips.
Oh, yes, I was ready.
It was then that the telephone rang, right next to the sofa; I almost had a
heart attack.
It was Torsten. "I'm stuck with the Rothschilds," he sighed. "I'm afraid I've
got to play the millionaire for a while yet, my dear."
"You are a millionaire," I laughed. "When are you coming home?"
"God knows," he moaned. "We just had a break for lunch, and even that, they
insisted on buying me; I'm still at the restaurant. But I can't let this
opportunity slip--you know how well-connected they are."
"I know." Damn and blast; he might not be back until evening, or even late at
night--we didn't brown-tongue anyone but the select few, and the Rothschilds
were among those select few. And the political situation being what it was, we
were at a huge advantage here. Sweden had been one of the few countries that
had remained neutral, and as wily as the old Jews were, they were more likely
to trust us more than they would trust many other European families right now.
Yet if Torsten couldn't give our real name away, forging said trust might be
difficult. And what if he had told them who he was, desperate for recognition?
Oh, now my mood was plunging into darkness and worry. I had to do something
about this, had to.
"What are you wearing?" I asked.
"Pardon?" he laughed, knowing exactly what I meant, and in his voice, I
detected his utter delight at my outrageousness. I could see him, now: looking
around himself in a telephone booth, a little flustered, trying to mask his
arousal. Step one in the playing-Uncle-Torsten game, then; I had acted exactly
as he would have in a situation like this.
I grinned and gave my cock a little stroke. "You heard me perfectly well. What
are you wearing, my dear?" I asked, my voice a perfect imitation of his own
cadence, his purr, his twin now making love to him through the telephone line.
He groaned, a noise I had learned to associate with a twitch in his cock. "It's
funny you should ask that. Did you check to see whether there was anything
missing in the laundry today?"
"You didn't!" And to think I had scolded Juanita for mislaying my best black
lace panties, the ones I had bought in Paris!
"They still smell of you," he sighed with wicked delight. "Still had a pretty
little stain on, right down the middle, from when I pulled them off you."
I burst into laughter. To think of it, that he had chosen this day, the day I
had thought to take him as a woman to feminise himself--oh, our telepathy never
ceased to amaze me. I was sure he didn't know of the harness and the dildos,
however; they had only arrived today.
I squeezed my cock and ground its root down over my clitoris, purring into the
receiver. "How do you feel wearing them?"
"Sensual, quite sensual," he said breezily, the perfect coquette. "These are
the only ones that can hold me, for a start. All nice and snug."
God. I hissed through my teeth. He must have been half-hard all day, I knew it.
"Have you been touching yourself?"
"Mmm. Perhaps." He could barely hold back his laughter--I could hear he was
grinning like a maniac.
"You haven't forgotten about that surprise I promised you, have you?"
"Oh, no," he said.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back. "Touch yourself. Now."
He laughed. "I'm in a public phone booth!"
"I don't mean the front," I leered. "Turn around, slip your hand behind your
back and touch your ass. Do it."
There was silence at the other end of the line. Finally, I heard him draw in a
shuddering breath, heard a smacking sound as he swallowed, opened his lips.
"And now?"
"Rub your pussy," I said, a sharp snap, a command, in a voice that would not
take 'no' for an answer. Just like him, just like him.
"God--" his voice trembled.
"Are you doing it?"
"Yes," he hissed, a little irritated from embarrassment, but his heart must
have been pounding; I could practically see the veins on his temples bulging
from excitement.
"Good girl," I crooned.
He drew in a sharp breath of surprise; I could hear his moustache scratching
the receiver. "What's gone into you?" he drawled, mock-scolding. I had rarely
assumed control in sex when it was just us two; never had I truly dominated
him. And now that I was doing it, he was boiling over with desire.
"I should have thought that was perfectly clear," I said in my best fatherly
voice. "You have gone into me. You've been such a good Daddy; I thought it was
about time I returned the favour. Are you complaining?"
"Not at all," he purred, then let out a frustrated sigh. "But I must go. I will
try to get home as soon as possible. I'll feign an illness or something."
"You'd better," I said, stroking my cock. "Do you know what I'm going to do to
you when you come back?"
"Laura..." he groaned, and I was sure he was looking around himself, squirming-
-oh, to have been there! Yet, he loved it. "Tell me."
"I'm going to lick your pussy. Lick that little pink slit of yours, open you
up. And do you know what I'm going to do, then?"
He moaned, now, his voice wet from want. "Tell me."
"I'm going to spread you out on my bed and fuck you."
His only answer was a suffocated cry.
"But only if you play nice. Are you going to be a nice little girl for me?
Hmm?"
"Yes!" he cried, far too loudly.
"See you soon, then," I said brightly. "Bye-bye!"
I hung up, barely able to replace the receiver from my laughter. Oh, this was
magnificent, beautiful, glorious. And damn the tuxedo! I kicked my trousers
off, unbuckled the harness and took out the cock; I had to fuck myself now or
die. I had to relieve this tension in order to be cool and calm for Torsten
when he returned; I couldn't let frustrated arousal get in the way of my
masterplan. I was so wet, so hot I could slide the cock inside of my pussy with
just two thrusts; rubbing my clitoris furiously, I rode the dildo right there
on the sofa and came within seconds. My clitoris was massively swollen,
distended like those of some lesbians I had seen, a miniature cock in and of
itself; I squeezed it between two fingers and groaned at the sight.
I could not stop riding the dildo, thinking I was now baptising it, truly
charging it with the power of my orgasms, my pussy irradiating it with the
force of my desire. This, I would take him with, this, I would push into his
little pussy, this I would hold up to his mouth as reward--oh, God. Again and
again, I made myself come until I was so sore, so wrung out my legs no longer
supported me and I collapsed onto the sofa a shuddering ball.
I was going to give him the night of his life.
***
It only took an hour or so until I heard his car approaching the house.
Perfect. I had just been putting the finishing touches on the bedroom and on
myself, tying my hair into a ponytail, even drawing a little moustache on my
upper lip in homage to his.
I poured out two glasses of liqueur, lit a cigarette and sprawled on the living
room sofa, waiting.
"Well," Torsten laughed as he took in the sight. Yet I could tell his hand was
shaking a little as he set the keys on the dresser.
I ran my hand across the bulge in my trousers. "You're late," I scolded him
playfully.
"I am so sorry," he crooned with his hands in his pockets, slinking his hips.
"But I believe we have a new business partner in the Rothschilds." He nodded
towards the drinks. "I see you were expecting a triumph."
"I am quite impressed, I must admit," I said, again stroking my cock, and now
he definitely noticed it. "But enough of business. Come give Daddy a kiss."
"Daddy?" he laughed incredulously. Yet his eyes widened into that stare he
often had when a male had taken his fancy; a wide-eyed excitement at the idea
of having found someone who could give him a good manhandling.
I crooked my finger in a come-hither gesture. "Yes; Daddy." I spread out my
legs. "Come give me a kiss, right here."
He hesitated for a moment, but oh, the flash of arousal in his eyes; the way
his throat bobbed! He loosened his tie and strutted over to me, his hips
swaying like those of a prostitute. The girl in him had awakened; I had not
seen her in months and this filled my heart with a sudden tenderness. As he
knelt between my legs and clasped my knees, I trembled; yet I forced myself to
remain calm and stroked his head.
"That's more like it."
He kissed my palm. "Show me."
"Maybe. It depends. Have you been a good little girl?"
He laughed again, shaking his head. "I can't believe you're doing this."
"And you love it," I said, clasping his jaw, caressing his mouth with my thumb.
At that very gesture, I could see his cock jerking in his trousers; I tugged on
his lower lip. "Open up."
Still laughing, he opened his mouth and sucked my thumb. Oh, God. His teeth
sent an electric jolt through my pussy, through my nipples; the way he closed
his eyes and sucked in delight made me shudder in arousal. He fellated my thumb
lazily, swirling his tongue around it, daring me.
And I did dare. I unbuttoned my fly and lifted out my cock.
He spat out my thumb and reared back. "My, my," he laughed a little nervously
as he saw the size of my cock--I grinned to myself as he had no idea of the
bigger one I had stashed away in the bedroom.
"Go on," I said, clasping my cock, stroking it, holding it out to his mouth.
"I've been keeping it warm for you all day," I murmured tenderly, "all nice and
sweet for my little girl."
He keened through his teeth and squeezed his cock through his trousers. "You
are an evil little bitch."
I raised my eyebrow. "I learned from the best. Now, give Daddy's cock a kiss."
But he kissed my mouth instead: he pinned me to the sofa, devouring my mouth,
sucking my tongue, rutting against my cock. Oh, it felt wonderful, yet I knew
this was a challenge, him testing whether I could truly assume power, truly
remain in control.
I shoved him back so violently he landed on his ass. "Down."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fury flashing in his eyes. "Well!
What brought this on?"
"You did," I said, more serious, now. "Because you need this."
He remained quiet, but resumed his position between my knees. There was a
softness in his eyes, now, but he couldn't bring himself to admit I was right.
Yet he listened, acquiescing with his silence, it seemed.
"I want to see you take this," I murmured, stroking my cock, offering it to him
once more. "I want to see you enjoy yourself," I said, now choking a little in
my throat. I felt like an idiot, a little girl trying to discipline a grown
man, even if I knew this was what needed to happen. No, no, Laura Erika, you
must stay calm, you must. Thus, I steeled myself and continued. "Because you're
the most beautiful girl I know, and I can't bear to see you miserable."
His mouth trembled a little; he glanced down at the cock, laughed a little
wetly and looked back up at me. This was an offering, more than just a little
game; I had become what he needed out of my love for him, to mend him as he had
mended me, and I wished with all my heart that he understood it. But if he
didn't--
I was consumed with a sudden anger. "Don't you dare ruin this."
"I won't," he said, "I won't." He slid down, down, nuzzled my cock; I fancied I
could see his eyes were a little wetter than before. He changed his voice from
playful to serious, clasping my cock against his cheek. "Thank you."
And as he closed his eyes and swallowed me into his mouth, I knew he had
understood. The gratitude in his eyes, the playfulness in them, the way he
rocked his hips in lascivious display; I had lit a new fire in him, opened a
door into a chamber that had been frozen, and he slithered into action. A
danseuse hearing the first beats of her opening number, twirling, swirling out
onto the stage, he captivated me with his skill, his grace, his charm. I was
but the orchestra, the stage upon which he--she--could now unfold, spread the
myriad-coloured skirts of her beauty open wide; with my dominance, my prick his
pivot. As he pressed down, down, so far down he gagged and pleasured my pussy
with the pressure, I choked on a sob, ecstatic from my triumph. I had to clasp
his head, had to claw at his hair, caress it, overcome by emotion.
"Suck it," I hissed wetly, swallowing back tears. "Suck it like the little slut
you are," I laughed, my voice cracking with a delirious joy.
"I will," he chuckled, and I laughed with him, sparkled with the sparkle in his
eyes, moaned as he swallowed me once more.
And he made it beautiful, more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. He
restrained himself for me, submitted himself to me as if he would to a powerful
man: almost demure, he never took his cock out of his trousers, delaying his
own pleasure, only gifting himself with a few strokes now and then. I had only
ever fucked him with toys held in my hand, had only had my pussy licked and
sucked by him, but now I could finally experience what his men did, and it took
my breath away.
He looked up at me, knowing exactly how beautiful he was with his mouth so
filled, how beautiful his eyes were when he held them open wide and looked into
mine; knew how beautiful his hands were as they stroked my shaft. And all the
while, perhaps from his experience with Helena or from instinct, he knew how to
press on the balls, the root of the toy to rub my pussy. It was contoured to
cup me just right, with dips and ridges in just the right places, so that now
it truly became an extension of my clitoris--and the work of art he made of
this blowjob was what aroused me to a frenzy. I was so swollen, so wet I had
dripped to my asshole; I undulated my hips, thrusting into his mouth, the
beautiful, glossy red mouth of my little girl. I could never have believed it
would feel this good, that I would get such satisfaction out of this, but by
the time my cock was gleaming from him, I had reached the brink of orgasm.
It was time for me to give him his true surprise, something he would not have
expected, not in a million years. All my hair stood on end; my pussy pulsed,
and I even felt a little swirl of disgust in my belly at the ruthless act I was
about to perform. Yet the thrill of it was greater, far greater; the exact
sadistic delight he himself would have felt at a moment like this.
"Daddy's going to come in your mouth," I whispered, looking into his eyes,
rolling my hips, rolling them, watching my cock slide in and out past his lips.
"Mm-hmm?" he purred with a lazy, languid-eyed curiosity, stroking the root of
my cock, never ceasing in his sucking of the head.
"There, there, hold it, hold it," I murmured, just as he did when he was about
to fill my mouth with come. And little did he know what I had planned for him,
little did he know of the hollow tube running through the cock, of what could
be done with this toy if I held the cupped root across my pussy just right. I
pressed down on the balls, focused, focused--I had to get this right--
And oh, the scream he made as the first splash of my piss hit his mouth! In
shock, he coughed a little, but kept sucking, his eyes wide, and now he was
screaming around my cock, a gurgling scream, drops of my piss dribbling down
his lip onto the carpet. He sobbed, swallowed, sobbed again and from the way he
juddered, from the way his hips now bucked, I was sure he had come in his
trousers. Here, the very same fetish he had initiated me with, his favourite
way of subjugating me, offered to himself as reward. The significance of this
did not escape him; worshipful, he looked into my eyes and moaned, sucking out
every drop, even as I stood up so I could empty whatever had caught inside the
toy into his mouth.
And now, I could not stop thrusting; I could smell his sperm--yes, yes! I laid
back on the sofa and cupped his head, fucked his mouth, ground myself against
him. "Take it, take it, take it," I howled, throwing my head back, now groaning
at the ceiling in my own orgasm, groaning as low and as deep as a man each time
the head of my cock hit his throat and sent a wave of pleasure radiating
through my pelvis. And the tears that now ran down his cheeks, the spit, the
piss; I shuddered in joy as I took his mouth and fucked it, fucked it, fucked
it.
With a ragged gasp, he pulled back, no longer able to bear it, even his
breathing hoarse. I gathered his head into my lap and stroked it as he panted
against my thigh.
"You're unbelievable," he groaned.
I tucked a wisp of loose hair behind his ear. "Did you come?"
"I think I did," he muttered into my thigh, like an embarrassed teenager.
"Shame," I said breezily. "I was going to fuck you in the ass."
He bolted up at that. "That's no excuse!"
I picked up one of the glasses from the table and leaned back. "Take your
clothes off, then."
"All right," he grumbled.
I smirked into my liqueur as I watched him huffing and puffing. "Slowly."
Yet he was well aware of his beauty; he was the vainest man I had ever known,
and now sought to avenge himself on me by teasing me with that beauty. He
turned even this into something of a strip-tease, and I fancied that with every
masculine garment he removed, more and more of the female Torsten came to the
fore. He was stripping away the protective shell of the well-cut suit, that
armour of male power and pride, something he had wrapped about himself to hide
the hurt faggot, the one who had been punished for his love of penetration, for
his femininity.
And he came to love this, was aware of the multiple layers, the emotional
meanings of every gesture the way women are. Happily, he cast aside jacket,
tie, shirt, vest; the arcs of his hands becoming softer, his movements gentle.
Like a pin-up girl, he sat on the coffee table and lifted his feet into the air
to remove his trousers; luxuriously, he slid them off his long legs, an act
that made both of us laugh, laugh like sisters at a shared game. In this
moment, I was party to that part in him that was almost innocent in its
softness, its purity, an essential sweetness inside of him; I was reminded of
the times Birgitte and I had played together, doing the things teenaged girls
did together.
"You're beautiful," I murmured. "The most beautiful girl in the world." And I
meant it. There was nothing more beautiful to me in that moment, him revealing
his entire, undivided self to me like this, trusting me like this.
He flushed at that; he clasped the edge of the coffee table, sitting there with
his legs closed like a woman, still wearing my lace panties.
"And now?" he said, rocking a little, the very picture of the impatient
schoolgirl.
"Turn around. Show me your pussy."
And oh, the jolt of heat that went through me as I said that; the way he
shivered visibly! The strangest of expressions flickered upon his face, an
admixture of incredulousness, laughter and tears.
Yet, he obeyed. Slowly, turning even this into a dance, he bent over the coffee
table and began to lower the panties. Sensuous, sinuous he rolled his back, a
serpentine dance where he tugged the panties a little higher at times, then
lower, lower. When I hissed in irritation at another one of his teases, I had
to start stroking my cock once more, feeling every inch the man: I wanted to
pounce him, savage him, surge into him, claim him, spend myself inside of him
until I had taught this little minx a lesson.
"You little slut," I hissed, and at that very word, his buttocks clenched, his
hands slipped a little on the panties. "Do you enjoy teasing men like that?" I
said, pressing my cock down the way I had seen him do when masturbating. "Like
making us all hard, all hot and bothered, so we'll fuck you real good?" I
drawled.
He tossed back his head--the vamp!--and let out a bubbling, crooning laugh.
"Perhaps." He let the panties fall, kicked them off with a dainty foot and bent
over the table, offering his ass. "Do you like what you see?"
"Perhaps," I countered. "Keep doing that."
"This?" he said, arching his back, pushing his ass out so that I could see the
pink slit of it, the pink pussy-seam of his perineum, the pink bud of his anus.
He must have shaved himself last night or this morning to be so smooth; to
better feel the lace of the panties against exposed, sensitive skin.
"It is a very pretty little pussy," I said, and now I had to join him, still
fully clothed myself, making sure I strutted with the swagger of a young man,
my cock swaying as I moved to kneel behind him. Two could play at this teasing
game: I cupped his buttocks with my hands, stroked them, massaged them, spread
them; I adored his asshole as it pulsed and pursed with my strokes, the way his
cock moved at my touch, never having completely softened. "You little tart."
"Guilty as charged," he crooned, but his voice was creaking a little with
frustration.
I spread his ass once more and again it pulsed between my thumbs; I adored
this, the way it reminded me of my own arousal. "It clenches like a little
pussy, too," I murmured, stroking his cleft with my thumbs, never touching his
anus. "Just like a little pussy that needs to be filled up," I said, letting
the words pop wet out of my mouth.
He jerked violently at that, groaning, rubbing his face against the table.
"Please do," he moaned, taking his hand to his cock.
I slapped his hands off. "Ask nicely."
"Please."
"Please, what?"
For a while, he hesitated, stiffening, then relaxing a little; he was about to
take the final plunge.
"Please fuck me," he groaned, and something was loosened in him as he said
that, a great need undammed; he sounded as if he was in true physical pain as
he repeated it, rocking his hips, whispering "Fuck me, fuck me," saying it with
his whole body, trying to suck me into himself, into his very soul with his
movements.
I had thought to tease him more, but I took pity on him: I took his ass with my
mouth.
And the groan he made, echoing off the wood and the glass and the metal of the
table--he shuddered as I lapped at his ass with my tongue. Now it was no mere
act of him humiliating me, no, no; I was acting out of my own greed, my own
need to taste each and every fold of this beautiful, pink pussy, for the woman
to claim her kind. I wanted to lick and suck and kiss this ass until it became
a vulva, became red and wet, as open and as vulnerable as I was at moments like
these, a red flower unfurled so that I might better feast upon its nectar. And
he pushed back into me, wanting this, needing this, and there, there: that
amazing pulse of the ass opening, stretching wide in extreme arousal, exposing
more of its insides to my tongue. The salty, bloody, metallic taste that
greeted me made my head spin, more intoxicating than any liquor; my pussy ached
at what I was now tasting.
"I'm going to take you dirty," I hissed, panting against his ass, my tongue
hurting. He howled at that, but I continued. "I'm going to fuck this ass, shove
my cock so deep inside of you you won't be able to escape it, will know where
it's been when I lift it to your lips; you'll feel it, taste it--"
At that, he let out such a pitiful cry I knew I had no time to waste. I reached
into my pocket and took out a tin of vaseline--the sort that was thick, yet
tasted completely neutral--and smeared a generous amount on my cock and a daub
between his buttocks, perfect for a good slide. I didn't ask him if he was
ready; I knew it, and the moment I touched his ass with my cock he lifted his
hands to spread his buttocks, inviting me inside.
"That's it; good girl," I crooned, loving the way he reacted, sighed against
the table as I began to push in. Having normally only taken him with dildos
held in my hands, it was a strange new experience for me to now have the weight
of my hips instead of my arms behind me as I fucked him; I realised I still
needed my hands to hold the cock in place. I had to hold it just underneath the
glans to help dip it inside of him, and it was with little dips that I began to
stretch those stubborn muscles, just as I had learned to do with myself. In and
out, in and always out whenever the resistance seemed the strongest; then a new
attack, a push harder, slowly seducing the ring of muscle to slacken, to yield
to pleasure instead of this brief delusion of pain.
Torsten breathed deeper, pushed his ass back onto my cock, forcing himself to
relax even if he was in a little pain, I could tell. He hadn't been taken in
such a long time, and I knew how much harder a rubber cock was in comparison to
one of flesh and blood; yet I kept on dipping, kept on pushing until the head
finally slid in.
And there, he stiffened, jerked; reflexively, he pulled away from me at the
overwhelming sensation of penetration. Yet I followed him, using my weight to
remain inside of him. A little sob cracked against his teeth; I stroked his
sides, the way he so often did to me at this stage, crooning softly in his ear.
"Good girl, good girl, good girl."
"Fuck me," he said, rubbing his face against the table, furious. He must have
been angry at himself, at whatever emotions now ran through his mind, whatever
fears now rose to the surface.
And I did as he asked. I pulled back and began a steady rocking of my hips,
again dipping in and out of him, yet now deeper, deeper, each slide forcing his
muscles into opening fully, accepting my weight and length within his body. I
felt a stab of pain in my heart at his stiffness, at the way he jerked a little
from pain, still; yet I knew that if I stopped now, he would never forgive me.
Just as I had needed him to take me harder than any of my abusers had done, he
now needed me, needed this unnatural, too-hard penetration of the artificial
penis to triumph over the memory of his own violations.
Yet this did not feel right; he was still too stiff, far stiffer than he
usually was at this stage. By now, the pain should have turned into pleasure;
yet it was obvious this was not the case with him. He was simply too quiet, too
passive. Therefore, I stopped moving inside of him and smacked his ass.
"Turn around," I said, sternly.
And true enough, he was crying. Tears had streaked down his cheeks, and they
were not completely from joy, even if some gratitude still flickered through
his remembered horror, that gratitude now present within the way he obeyed me
immediately. There was a hatred in his eyes, yet it was a hatred turned
inwards, a hatred at his own weakness, and perhaps, perhaps a ghost of all the
voices that had told him his tendencies were depraved and wrong.
In short, he was a mess. He broke my heart in that moment, and I knew what I
had to do, knew the only way to bring him out of it.
I lifted my hand out beside his face, palm wide, looking at it meaningfully,
then at him.
He nodded.
I slapped him, then, slapped him so hard his hair flew and he staggered back;
he howled like a woman, howled and kissed me violently. "Again," he moaned into
my mouth, pulling me towards himself by my shirt. He laid down on his back over
the coffee table, guiding my cock inside of himself. "Again!" he hissed.
I was filled with fury, hatred at the men who had done this to him, ruined my
beautiful Daddy like this; now I truly understood how Torsten himself had felt
when he had been healing me with his blows. I smacked his face, smacked his
chest, smacked his belly and his thighs until he was red all over, until my
hand was stinging. And all the while, I kept fucking him, fucking him as tears
flew from his eyes with my slaps, as beads of wetness sprayed from his cock as
I slapped it, too, like a primitive witch-doctor exorcising the demons from his
body. And when my hand hurt too much, shook too much, I did what I had seen the
thugs do to him in the shed: I spat on his face, spat on it and smeared my
spittle all over his face with my hand.
And by now, he was wailing, his cock jerking completely hard across his belly;
he was holding up his legs like a woman possessed, screaming out all his
anguish, all his hatred. "Fuck me!" he shouted, his voice ragged, his face
gleaming from spit and tears, all his veins standing up on his temples, his
face twisted in a thousand wrinkles. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"
I but roared and did so. As much as it hurt my back, I threw my entire weight
into the fuck, now, balancing to give him the deepest, the longest of strokes,
making the table itself shift and creak with the power of my thrusts. Power,
power; I became that power that had been taken from him, now passing it back
into his body with my cock, pouring my own, woman's passion into him through
it. I looked down between his legs and saw how his ass had distended,
stretched, the way it rippled around my cock; greedily, I pulled out entirely.
"Hold yourself open," I spat and knelt lower, tugging his buttocks apart, my
cock swaying. "I want to see inside of you," I said and stroked my cock,
pleasuring my pussy, my thighs now wet from my own arousal.
And he let me, he let me: I shuddered in delight at the sight of the star-shape
now made by the distended muscles as they tried to close, a curl of pleasure-
disgust licking at my guts as I could see all the way inside of him, see the
red, gleaming, heaving walls of his rectum. And there, just a little dash of
yellow, just a little--with a moan, I sank my tongue inside and swirled it in
his hole. He keened at that, his ass pulsing and clenching so violently he soon
pushed my tongue out, but I offered it to him as I climbed over him again and
began to fuck him once more.
"Taste it," I hissed into his mouth, giving him a sample, a hint of what was to
come; joyous, he sucked my tongue, turning even his mouth into a little pussy,
letting me fuck it in time with my tongue. He moaned, swallowed me, groped me
with his hands and his legs, the way I always pulled him to myself in my greed
at the brink of orgasm.
He pulled his mouth off mine and panted, sneaking his hand to his cock; I let
him. "Let me come," he snarled, his hand flying on his cock as he tried to get
more of my cock inside of himself, tried to get me to penetrate him more fully.
"Please, please, God, fuck--"
I slapped him again, then yanked his hand off his cock. "Get up."
There was still a little tension in him; I knew I needed to inflict more
violence upon him to truly burn this coldness off him. It was then that I hit
upon an idea: I picked up his tie and tied it around his neck, a makeshift
leash. He trembled, so maddened from arousal, so close to the edge; when I
shoved him off the table, he practically tumbled off it. I did not even give
him time to get up; I pressed my foot against his back and ground him into the
carpet with my entire weight.
I yanked on his leash. "To the bedroom." On a cruel whim, I stepped on his back
with both feet, rocking upon him a little, crushing the breath out of his
lungs. "But I'm taking you there. Don't you dare get up on your feet."
And there we were, little me dragging a six-foot-three man across the floor to
the bedroom by his tie, choking him, his face red, his cock dripping, purpling
from arousal. He coughed, grabbed at the tie; yet I had left enough slack in it
so as not to strangle him completely. His love of this, my discovery of my
utter, natural sadism frightened me and aroused me beyond measure; I could feel
my pussy juice dripping so far down my thighs it had reached my knees.
Finally, we reached the bedroom, and he saw what I had left upon the bedside
table: the oversized dildo, as big as the lamp beside it. He stared at it,
stared, drew in shuddering, wheezing breaths as I let go of the tie. I tugged
his head up by the hair and guided him to the bed; his eyes never left the
cock. "That's going inside of you later, if you behave. And you do want to
behave, don't you?" I said.
"Yes."
I smiled and I kissed him, kissed him long and sweet, warm. For a little while,
I held him, hugged him, squeezed him with my arms, making sure he knew he was
loved; I cut the tie off his neck and waited until his breathing and his
heartbeat were as normal as they could be under the circumstances.
"And now, I'm going to let you come," I promised, my voice gentle, reassuring.
"Turn around; I want you to watch yourself."
I laid down on the bed and guided him to sit upon me, so that he was facing the
mirror on the dresser. I had angled it just right, so that he would be able to
see all of himself in this position. To see his own beauty, the beauty of the
man-woman who now sat upon my cock, this gorgeous creature whose whorishness
was so great he could now take this magnificent prick inside of his body with
ease.
"God--!" he cried.
"God's not here, remember?" I said, reminding him of his own words, my thumbs
playing at the star on the small of his back. The morning star, the star of
Lucifer the defiant, the most beautiful of all angels. "Now, make yourself
come. Go on."
If he had been weeping before, now he burned from pure passion, no sorrow left
within his fury at all; in his pure, lustful heat, he writhed on top of my
cock, enjoying his penetration fully. I knew how it felt to discover the
enormity, the shocking expanse of pleasure sodomy could bring, the intensity of
the anal orgasm after a long break: little cries of disbelief broke from his
lips as he satisfied himself with my cock.
"You're so beautiful," I murmured, watching his reflection in the mirror,
"beautiful, beautiful."
"Laura, Laura--" He supported himself with one hand on the bed, stroking his
cock, manic; he howled in desperation.
"Come for me, my girl," I said, the proud father full of love. "Let Daddy see
you come."
He jerked on top of me, so violently he nearly fell off my cock; as the first
pulse of sperm left his cock he was silent, but as more began to pour out, his
moans became louder, louder. Even if he had come earlier, his ejaculate was
voluminous, thin, almost clear as it always was when his prostate was
stimulated in this manner; even in his wetness, he was like a woman. He flowed
over his fist in glistening rivulets, his belly rippling, his face twisted in
beautiful agony like a dying martyr's. But what was dying in him now was his
shame, his hurt; just as a saint would be lifted into glory and to the heavens,
Torsten now blazed with the heat of sin, the flames of Hell, welcomed back into
the Devil's fold, my body and my cock bearing him home.
For a long while after, he worshipped me by sucking my cock in gratitude,
savouring the taste of his ass, of the glycerine, of the tiniest hints of
yellow and brown. I had thought to tease him with this, to offer it to him as a
final orgasm trigger, but now it became a sacrament: he swallowed his filth,
the traces of my piss into his mouth and this completed, rounded out his
satiation. Like a cat, he lapped at my cock and my balls, so completely, so
thoroughly that I didn't have the heart to pull him off me even if the straps
had, by now, rubbed me raw.
Later, he rested in my arms, I still fully clothed, spooning him, my cock
nestled between his buttocks. He kept his eyes on the dildo on the bedside
table, and I could tell he was measuring it with a mixture of trepidation and
greed.
"I was going to offer it to you later," I said, chuckling into his shoulder.
"Not tonight."
"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed," he murmured, then turned
around in my arms. He caressed my face with his hand, soft and warm, tired,
happy. "Thank you."
And finally, finally, my masculinity started to thaw from me; I kissed him and
brought his hand to my bow tie. My voice was soft and high, now, again a little
girl's; my entire body honey underneath his hands.
"Anything for my Daddy," I said, melting into his embrace.
***
It took me a week, in fact, to work him into a state where he was ready. And
with each passing day, he became more at ease with himself, embraced his body
more fully, just as I embraced mine. I made sure nobody disturbed us so that he
could spend each day completely at home, completely dressed and made up as a
woman. He even shaved his moustache that week, shaved two or three times a day
to keep his face as smooth as possible, powdered himself until he was glowing.
I continued to tightlace his corsets, now deriving even more satisfaction from
the sight of his nipped-in waist now that I performed this act dressed as a
man, with a cock between my legs.
And on the seventh day, once he saw that I now wore the larger cock in my
harness, so large I could never have hidden it inside my trousers, he melted.
Never had I been able to lace his corset so tight, never had he applied his
make-up as perfectly as he did now, even donning false eyelashes and false
nails for the purpose, swanning about the house in the sparkliest of evening
dresses and a cloud of floral perfume.
I looked at my creation in astonishment. "You truly are the most beautiful
woman I have ever seen, and I mean it," I said, sprawled as I was on the sofa,
smoking one of his cigars.
He beamed, his eyes never more devilish as he took my hand and led me to the
floor. He had put on the slowest, dirtiest jazz record and was now the one
leading me in the dance: he took the woman's role, but still guided my body,
seduced me with his hips, his legs, the stuffed brassiere pressed against my
breasts. And it was the strangest thing to experience: the more power he
regained, the more he started to flow towards his usual role--that of the
seductor, the one dominant, the one who was doing the taking. I felt distinctly
like a private detective led into a trap by a femme fatale, and told him this.
He threw back his head and laughed, a Garbo laugh, his full black wig tossing
about his shoulders. "A dream fulfilled! You know, I used to fantasise of being
both."
"So did I. And we've done that, now, haven't we?" I smiled up at him, playing
with his pearl necklace.
"To us!" he cried and dipped me, pressing a kiss to my breasts, smearing my
tuxedo front with his scarlet lipstick.
It was a perfect night, filled with candlelight and fragrance, with exotic
flowers blooming all around us. He had arranged all of this, too, like the most
expensive of mistresses; I crowned him with diamonds for his efforts, poured
champagne into his mouth from my own. I was possessed of a furious desire,
furious. "How can it be possible that I want you so much, after all this time?"
I asked as he bent me down on the sofa and pulled off my trousers.
He looked up from between my legs, a little insulted--again, with the keen
emotional sense, the emotional paranoia of a woman. "What should I even answer
to that?" he laughed as he licked up my cock.
"I'm sorry. I meant it as a compliment," I laughed. "Come here."
"No, no," he said as he lifted up his skirt, lifted his own cock out from
between his silk stockings. "I have sometimes asked that myself. And I think
this is it, my dear," he laughed as he dipped his cock into my dripping pussy,
wet it there. "That you are the prettiest, naughtiest, sweetest little slut of
a girl," he groaned and then guided his cock to my ass, "and the most perfect
little faggot."
"Eloquent," I laughed at his coarseness, at his vulgarity even at a moment like
this, even as I shuddered from the penetration. "Coming from a faggot."
He growled at that, growled and bit my breasts, fucking me so hard the cushions
fell off the sofa, until we finally ended up on the floor. He fucked me, fucked
me in the ass long and sweet, fucked me until his clip-on earrings fell off,
until there were runs in his stockings. And all the while, he stared at my
cock, at its heavy weight bouncing between my legs, fucking me until I came not
once but twice, punishing me for what I was about to do to him.
And I gave him what he wanted, the words he needed to hear. "I'm going to fuck
you so hard for this, you little slut," I hissed as he pounded into me, "fuck
your pussy so hard you'll scream, fuck--"
With a wail, he pulled out, his cock bobbing, slapping against the blue sequins
of his dress. He clawed at his rumpled stockings, shuddered as he tried to
breathe in his corset. "Bedroom."
And in the bedroom, I fucked him, ripped and tore the dress off him, fucked him
in the ass in front of the mirror like dogs, his cock swaying with each one of
my thrusts. And he adored himself, adored the sight of me, the way I smeared
his lipstick all over his face with my hand, fucked his mouth with my fingers.
Now, he hadn't cleaned himself, the dirty bastard, and I was a little sickened
at the smell, yet he whimpered in his chest as he smelled it, too.
"Time for dessert," I said, pulling out of him, signalling for him to stay
still, and he did, his eyes fixed upon my cock, the brown and yellow streaks
upon its whiteness, the ugly smear caught on the glans. I scooped up a little
cream and began to twist my hand into his ass--I had fucked him for so long
that now I could fit it inside of him with ease. And what I saw, then, oh, God,
oh, God. I swallowed, then forced myself to purr, just like he would have, just
like he would have.
"A little bracelet of caramel, you've given me," I crooned, and he let his head
hang, howling in shame; that he should feel shame at a moment like this was my
greatest reward. "Such a dirty little girl you are," I continued. "Which one do
you want in your mouth? Hmm? My hand or my cock? Which one's going to make you
come?"
He sobbed, tugged on his cock and sobbed, looking at me through the mirror, his
eyeliner smeared, his whore's face ravaged from his need. "Your hand," he
croaked. "Please."
I did not let him have it until I had inserted my cock fully once more; I
fucked him slowly, shallowly, lifted him up on his knees so that he could see
his cock, see his body. I wrapped one arm around his wasp-waist, holding my
dirty hand up to his face. "Is it this you want? Hmm?" I asked as I held him so
that he couldn't taste it yet.
"Please!" he cried once more, and I could see his balls lifting as he feasted
his eyes on the gleaming ring around my wrist, his hips shuddering against
mine. He was on the edge of orgasm, dancing upon the precipice of it, and it
was I, who with but a little push of my hand, would make him fall. I was drunk
on power in that moment, had never felt as powerful before: I lifted my hand to
his lips, my gleaming fingertips his reward.
"Suck."
And he did, he did: with a greedy howl, he sucked my fingers into his mouth,
lapped at my wrist, his entire body shaking from his orgasm so that we nearly
fell over. He sprayed my arm with his sperm, sprayed the mirror with it as I
fucked his orgasm out of him, fucked him onto my hand, shoving it so deep into
his throat tears flowed down his cheeks. On and on I kept fucking him, smearing
his mouth with his shit as I had smeared it with his lipstick, fucking him
until he was wrung dry, so slack in my arms he barely breathed.
And in my arms, he collapsed, sliding off my cock, my hand; I held him there in
front of the mirror, a twisted Pietà. Yet it had been the abused Torsten who
had now been slain, and Hermaphroditus had come to life in my arms; I kissed
him and kissed him, his mouth, his cock, stripped us both and gathered him into
my arms.
"I love you," he said, in a voice like a child's, sucking on my breasts like a
babe as we lay upon the bed.
"And I love you, Daddy," I said, guiding his half-hard cock inside of my pussy,
holding him inside of my body, sheltering him, keeping him safe.
We fell asleep thus, a decadent, exquisite sculpture of flesh that had
transcended male and female, floating into sleep suspended in the mist of
candlelight and perfume.
***** Chapter 6 *****
He is in prison.
Torsten is in prison and I am walking towards his cell, escorted by guards. I
can hear the sea, I can hear seagulls; perhaps this is Alcatraz, and we don't
live so very far away from there, now, do we? The corridors are long, the
lights harsh, the guards whistling at me, one patting my ass as he ushers me
into Torsten's cell. I know this is a dream as they leave me alone with Torsten
in the cell; they would never allow this otherwise.
I know they are about to execute him soon; I know that I am here as his angel
of death, know that I am to take him before they do.
"It's time," I tell him.
He looks at me, and the sea in his eyes is pale, placid, calm.
He fucks me, fucks me for one last time in the cell, in the narrow, yellow
cell. I love him so much, gather the last of his love into my body, whatever is
left of Torsten the man, the woman, my Father as I hold him inside of my flesh.
We orgasm in unison, and for a moment, there is sunlight, sunlight shining upon
our faces, the seagulls crying out in triumph, and we are free.
But then it's over. He holds out his hands. I undo my belt, a rope that's been
looped about my waist multiple times. His hands, his long-fingered, beautiful,
pale, feminine hands tie it deftly into a noose, and my heart is pounding in my
ears. He smiles at me, tears in his eyes, telling me I have been such a good
girl, always there for her Daddy, all the way until the end.
I help him attach the rope to the lamp-hook in the ceiling, help the rope
around his neck and kiss him, kiss him.
"See you in Hell, Daddy," I whisper.
He smiles and he smiles, angelic, radiant, light; he blows me a kiss and lets
go.
The rope snaps his neck instantly; Hell has heard his prayers. I tug on his
legs to make sure, to make absolutely sure, and he is purple, he is limp, he is
dead; his erection brushes my ear through his uniform.
Angel lust. I undo his fly and suck his cock, suck out all the sperm and the
piss that now leave his body as it loosens, slackens, becomes a corpse. My
Daddy, my Daddy: I eat him, imbibe the last of him, swallow the last remains of
my Beloved; sucking his very soul into my body, warm in my belly even as his
flesh grows cold.
"Laura!"
The guards are after me. I must be quick. But I have forgotten something. I was
sure I'd brought a poison, a dagger, and now there's not enough rope--no, no!
This is not how it's supposed to end. I must die with him, die with my Daddy.
"Laura!"
Torsten was leaning over me, shaking me awake. My heart was pounding, still,
and even as I recognised him, I screamed, just as I had been screaming in the
dream.
"Laura!" he kept on shaking me by the shoulders, and finally, when I would not
stop screaming, he slapped me. "Calm down!"
I shuddered, curled up into a ball, my heart still pounding in my ears. The
dream had been real, so real; my entire body was rattling with shock, my blood
awash with all the chemicals of panic. "Hold me."
He grumbled a little; he was half-dressed and now he had to take his trousers
off so as not to wrinkle them. His noise of protest hurt me more than his slap
had done; I was weeping by the time he climbed into bed in his vest, sock
garters and underpants.
"You don't understand," I said through chattering teeth. "I dreamt you in
prison, I--you died."
"I'm right here," he murmured, hugging me tight against himself. "Alive and
well, as you can see."
"Don't go. Please."
"I have to. Doctor's appointment, remember?" he kissed my hair. "My back's been
acting up, probably from fucking you so much," he laughed. "I'll ask him to
prescribe something for you as well; for the nightmares."
I shook my head. "No psychiatric drugs. Ever again." I'd rather die than touch
a barbiturate again.
"Opiates, then," he said and hugged me again, then planted a kiss on my cheek.
"You've always loved those. But I really must go, now. The Rothschilds want to
see me after, for an antiques auction. I'll see if I can buy something nice for
my little girl to make her feel better." He clasped my chin. "All right?"
"All right, Daddy," I sighed.
But I wasn't all right. I was developing cabin fever: as the day progressed, I
wished I had asked Torsten to take me to town with him, so I could have gone
shopping to distract myself. I'd already had a morning swim in the pool, had
busied myself by cooking myself a hefty breakfast to exorcise the demons of the
night, and now I was bored out of my skull. The radio didn't interest me--all
the daytime dramas were dull and toothless housewife fare, and I was not in the
mood for music. I thought of reading, but only one third of our books had ever
made it to San Francisco; I had already given up on ever seeing the rest of
them again. Most of the books in Torsten's office were his occult tomes, ones I
had gone through already and found lacking.
Yet now I found a volume on oneiromancy that I had not read before, not having
had that pressing an interest in dreams. I hoped it would tell me a dream about
death merely signified a major change, a letting go of a part of one's life,
the same way the Death card of the Tarot symbolised a rebirth of sorts. But
since it was one of Torsten's Hindu scriptures, full of hysterical pessimism
and superstition, it remained adamant: a dream of death meant that physical
death would result in six months.
I slammed the book shut and groaned. Death. Of course. To Torsten or I, I
wondered? No, I was not that superstitious; Torsten had always been the one of
us more reliant on astrology, on omens and talismans, on the unseen world. But
my mood hadn't been helped by the book; I pushed it back between its gloomy
sisters and resolved to take a bath. Perhaps even a full colonic rinse, to get
toxins out of my system, to force myself to relax with something physically
intense now that Torsten wasn't here to whip me into shape.
I was still running the bath when the phone rang.
"I've found the most exquisite of presents for you at the auction, my child,"
Torsten purred, his tone of voice making it clear that this present was of the
sensual sort. "I suggest you make yourself ready for when I return."
I burst into laughter--again, we had been telepathic. "I was just about to have
an enema. It seems I knew already."
"Why am I not surprised?" he said. "Listen, how about I bring some friends?"
"You don't have any friends."
He made a pretend-insulted noise, a pitying little croon. "Laura, Laura. I was
thinking of... playmates. Girls. Quality girls."
"What sort of auction was this?" I laughed. I had an absurd image in my mind of
an Orientalist painting, of Torsten in a turban and robes, haggling for nubile
girls in the marketplace. "And why wasn't I invited?"
He chuckled into the receiver. "I was only told it was a private event. All the
items were of an erotic nature, from the estate of some rich eccentric."
A shudder went through me. "Not Smythe's, I hope."
"They never told us. But I made some... connections, shall we say. A very
refined German widow gave me her business card. I asked around and apparently
she is the best, most creative madame this side of the continent. Ran a
successful business in Berlin before the Reich forced her out--their loss, our
gain. She had a few of her girls with her. Very charming little creatures,
exactly your type; soft, voluptuous, feminine."
I wanted to say I was too tired, but I was tempted. He was making an effort for
my sake, and I didn't have the heart to say no. And I sure as hell needed a
distraction. "All right. As long as I don't have to play the man."
"I remember," he said, scolding me a little. "Which is exactly why I think you
will like them."
"I've got to go. The bath's running over."
"See you in a few hours," he sing-songed and hung up.
I sunk into the bathtub and wondered what he had meant about the girls having
been my type. Soon enough, my hand strayed to my pussy, and my subconscious
elaborated, embroidered upon the dream of the painting I had seen in my mind.
As the relaxing herbs of my bath soaked into my flesh, my mind floated into
visions of orgies on silken beds, Torsten the cruel lord holding court over a
mass of soft, naked female bodies, whip in hand. Much more preferable than
dreams of prisons and death, I thought; into this sea of flesh I sunk,
Torsten's satisfied chuckle curling at the back of my mind like a cat's tail.
***
"Erotica!" Torsten cried as he waltzed in through the door, carrying a heavy,
gilded book under his arm. "Come and have a look."
"Where are your friends?" I asked him as I followed him into the office. I was
only wearing a light green silk kimono and the lightest make-up, with my hair
pinned up; I wondered if he was disappointed at my not having made more of an
effort.
But he only looked at me up and down and smiled a little; he was in great
cheer. "The girls are coming later. But first, I want you to look at your
present."
He laid the book down on the desk, sat in his chair and pulled me to sit in his
lap, chuckling as I yelped, trying to balance on his reed-thin thighs. His
happiness was infectious; I found myself laughing with him, the twinkle in his
eyes warming my heart and my belly.
"Stay still!" he laughed, clutching me tight.
"I am!"
"Now, then," he said and turned to the book, as if he was opening a storybook
for a bedtime tale. "Daddy bought this book especially for you. It's got lots
and lots of pretty pictures. Shall we begin?"
"Yes, please," I said, my voice lighter; a great weight fell off my shoulders
as I could again slide into the persona of the child.
It was a book on the history of erotic art, some extremely rare, private
commission printed by hand. It was filled with a staggering variety of people
from all periods of history having sex in all its forms, a cavalcade of bodies
rutting before us in engravings, paintings, lithographs, daguerreotypes. And
what's more, whoever had compiled it had had an eye for beauty. Here, the
crudest, ugliest types of pornographic drawings--the sorts that always reminded
me of the dirty doodlings of schoolboys--were absent. Here, an etching of
Casanova's prick watercoloured in in delicate pink Rococo hues; there, a saucy
French postcard of two women in a lesbian embrace and here, a Mughal miniature
of a mistress being lowered upon a sultan in a swing-like contraption expressly
designed for sex. Even the most perverse of acts were depicted in style, with
great invention and artistic skill: this book elevated pornography to a true
art form.
"But this is beautiful!" I exclaimed.
"It is," he said, kissing my neck, the scratch of his moustache hardening my
nipples. "Now, Daddy wants you to read it while he goes and freshens himself up
a little. And when I come back, I want you to tell me what you liked the most.
Do you think you can do that?"
I nodded eagerly as I slid off his lap. "Yes, Daddy."
He pinched my cheek. "Good girl. When I come back, I want you to tell me
everything. How you touched yourself, what you thought of, and what you would
like Daddy to try with you. All right?"
"All right," I said and kissed his cheek.
Half an hour later, he found me hunched over the desk, my kimono thrown open,
my hand between my legs. I had been torturing myself, desperately trying not to
orgasm yet, saving it up for him. I had come twice while having a bath, so I
wasn't as frustrated as I could have been; now, I had but maintained a steady,
warm, humming erotic glow that burst into flame as he entered the room. Whereas
I was hot and sweaty, some of my hair having come loose, he was now freshly
shaven, washed, pomaded, barefoot in his blue silk pyjama bottoms and a scarlet
silk dressing gown.
I leaned back and looked at him lazily, adoring. "Welcome back, Daddy."
"I see you've been enjoying yourself." He chuckled and cupped my bare breasts
from behind; I leaned my head back into his silks and inhaled his perfumes of
musk and sandalwood. They were exotic, masculine perfumes, them and the silks
returning me to my Oriental fantasy once more. And if he was about the play the
master to a harem tonight, well, it was only appropriate.
"How many girls are you bringing, Daddy?"
"You greedy little thing! It's a secret. You'll find out. Now, show me your
favourite pictures," he said, pulling me to sit in his lap again, his hand
cupping my belly, his fingertips playing at the top of my mound. "Whatever has
made you smell this sweet, my dear?" he laughed.
I flicked through the book to my favourite page. It was a realistic colour
painting depicting a man sinking into a woman's ass from behind, so that we
could only see their asses, their genitals, in all their flushed and gleaming
beauty.
"Very nice," he crooned, dipping his fingertips lower, brushing them across the
top of my slit. "Now, tell me what you like about it, my child."
And oh, the psychological game of this--he knew I needed something this
intense. That he should ask me to vocalise my desire, to break through all the
barriers of chastity laid in front of girls and women--it was never easy to
speak of what one's mind and body wanted, needed, felt. There were hardly any
words for these things; so few women ever spoke of lust and sex, and even fewer
outside the whorehouse. I had found it easier to describe my desires, my
fetishes in my letters to him, to act them out as games. But to speak of them
out loud always felt difficult, no matter how complete a debauchee I was by
now.
And he wanted to break through that, just as I had wanted to break through his
traumas regarding homosexuality: even as he framed this as a dominant act and
derived pleasure from it as such, he was doing this to help me. He knew I
needed this, needed it as a form of therapy to bring out the true Laura I was,
the true libertine, the true harlot he saw in me. I tried not to cry, focusing
on my arousal instead, analysing what it was exactly that my eyes, my soul and
my body found pleasing about the picture; whatever it was that made my pussy
pulse and wet at the sight.
"Well, I love it, because..."
"Yes?" he said, kissing my ear, making my pussy clench so that I lost whatever
words I had managed to gather up.
"Stop distracting me, Daddy!"
"Oh, I do apologise," he purred. "Go on."
"It's because I love it when you fuck me like that," I said quietly, feeling
like such a fool, but he urged me on with his fingertips, slipping them between
my folds and wetting them before he brought them to my clitoris. I shuddered in
delight, bit my lip and continued. "Because you can get so deep in that
position, hit just the right spot, so that I lose my mind."
"Mm-hmm?" he continued, licking his fingers, savouring my taste. "Daddy likes
fucking you like that, too," he said, and I could feel his cock hardening
against me. "It feels good for me, too, to be that deep," he sighed, "all the
way."
"I also like how you can see everything," I murmured as he started to rub me
again, now determined to be articulate, to defy shame with each detail I
described. "The way they're both shaven, just like you and I, so you can see it
all, so you know how good every touch feels against the bare skin. And you can
see just how aroused they are, how wet and hard they are."
He chuckled deep in his throat. "I much prefer to see it from this angle
myself. I can never see your pussy or your face in that position, and it's such
a shame. I like seeing both," he sighed, bringing his other hand to my breasts.
"And these lovely big tits here, too."
I whimpered, so close to orgasm now. "I like seeing her pussy, too."
"That's what I was thinking. You do so love looking at pussies, don't you?" he
leered. "Much more than you enjoy looking at naked men."
"Yes," I whispered.
He was right. Every time we had been out to sex clubs, I had enjoyed looking at
beautiful men, watching the homosexual floorshows, but it was the women who had
always made me crazy from lust. There was just something about the softness,
the curves of a woman's body that I responded to, a femininity that I also
responded to in men. Yet I knew I was not a complete lesbian, nor did I respond
to overly masculine women. Now, I forgot about my arousal, this confession
bringing out my neurosis, that one part of myself I had always felt strange
about. Whereas other people were uncomfortable with their homosexual urges, I
always felt I was somehow not homosexual enough to be a true deviant, and this
bothered me.
"But you know I prefer you, Daddy," I whispered. "I can't explain it. I can
look at a naked woman, touch her, taste her, but as soon as I have to take
her... it turns psychological rather than physical. Even as I took you, that
happened. I loved you psychologically, was aroused psychologically and that was
what pleasured me, but I could never come the same way I do as when I am
underneath a man, penetrated by a man," I huffed, angry at the unfairness of
this. "I can't come fucking a woman because I don't have a real cock. I just
don't have pleasure nerves in what I'm taking her with; I can't come through my
tongue or my fingers or a penis made of just rubber," I blurted, so frustrated
now it hurt.
And now he was about to bring me women. I felt like such a failure and hung my
head; I even grabbed his wrist and stopped his hand, this close to tears. "I'm
sorry, Daddy."
"Don't; don't," he crooned, caressing me despite my resistance. "I know."
"There's something wrong with me. I just prefer being taken. Like a normal
woman," I spat.
"Stop that right now, Laura." He turned me around in his lap and hugged me
tight. "There are receptive men like that, you know. Even if they have
perfectly functional cocks, sometimes huge cocks," he said a little bitterly,
"they don't enjoy being the dominant partner. Some people are more feminine in
their desires than others; you know that. And I love you like that, as it
happens."
"It still bothers me," I mumbled into his shoulder. "I don't want to be
normal."
"You've described what you are rather well, I think. You like touching and
tasting women, lying with women, yes?"
"Yes."
"But prefer to have a cock inside of you, yes? Prefer to be dominated, fucked?"
"Yes," I grumbled, and this conversation was the most absurd one I'd ever had,
even beyond the times I'd been psychoanalysed. I had to laugh, a laughter
touched by hysteria. "If that helps any."
"Well, that's what I want to give you tonight, my child," he said, pulling back
so that he could look at me, my arms still around his neck. "Bathe you in
women, the luscious, sweet softness of women, and you won't have to act the man
at all."
A suave bath, scented with ointments, the bath of femininity, the androgynising
force to which Baudelaire had credited his genius. Torsten craved this bath,
that much was obvious. I wonder if he had, in fact, touched a single woman
after Birgitte; I doubted it. Both of us could use a little pussy to soften
things up, that was true, so I knew his desires weren't altogether altruistic.
"And this would have nothing whatsoever to do with you wanting to have an
orgy," I smirked, now rubbing my pussy against his erection a little.
He tilted his head and made a mock-pout. "A little." He smacked my ass with
both hands. "It'll cheer both of us up."
"I hate to say it, but I'm tired."
"I have just the thing for that." He made for his briefcase and took out a
little snuffbox. "Restocked our cocaine supply." But before he could cut a line
for me, we heard the sound of an approaching car. "That'll be the girls," he
said, pecking me on the cheek and tying up his robe. "You'd better hurry."
Gladly, I snorted the cocaine, grateful for the energising rush of it, all of
my limbs filling with power, my blood rushing hot, molten. What had I been so
anxious about? It was ridiculous. I, too, tied up my kimono and hoped the wet
stain wouldn't show through the back; I fixed my makeup in the mirror and went
to greet our guests. As the cocaine surged through me, I felt as if my veins
rose onto my skin like golden vines and crowned me, vines of heat, of lust,
lianas of desire curling all around my arms and legs and snaking out of my
pussy. At that, I laughed deliriously as I realised Torsten must have put more
than just cocaine into the powder--some sort of mild hallucinogen, perhaps. I
didn't mind this; I didn't mind it at all.
A living Art Nouveau maiden of vines and silk, I flowed, sashayed into the
living room. Torsten had rented three girls for the night, it turned out: we'd
never had sex with that many women at once, and I thought the idea titillating.
Torsten poured all of us champagne and clinked glasses with all the girls--all
very smartly dressed, one of them a blonde, one of them a redhead, one with
hair as black as ink. All three girls had the creamiest, softest skin; each one
was a little plump, voluptuous. Oh, he knew me too well; the girls were so
perfect this heightened the dreamlike mood I was in.
"To women," Torsten purred, sprawling on the sofa, his eyes sparkling with
lust, sparkling like the champagne, his voice bubbling with laughter. "Ash,
Cherry, Ebony, meet Cleo."
I threw back my head and laughed; this was a dream and I was well down the
rabbit hole. "Don't I get named after a tree?" I smirked at him.
"Willow, perhaps?" he said and undid my robe, "for the softness of your pussy.
Take a good look at it, girls. But don't touch her yet."
Soon enough, the girls had all surrounded me on the sofa and on the floor,
devouring me with their eyes. Three pairs of eyes, blue, green, brown, and I
wondered why the girls hadn't been named after gems instead of trees, so
brightly their eyes glittered, a row of jewels about to wrap about me and choke
me, a new collar for Torsten to strangle me with.
"She is pretty," the blonde, Ash, crooned; the other girls concurred, all with
true lesbian lust burning in their eyes. That, or they were marvellous actors;
I now knew what Torsten had meant about them being the best courtesans money
could buy. Or, knowing him, he had summoned them here through some ancient
rite, had invited Lilith and her kind in for a party; I laughed a little to
myself, my head lolling against the back of the sofa.
"These are very special girls," he chuckled, running his fingertips up and down
my neck, making me swoon. His eyes were glimmering with Babylonian delight as
he kissed me. "Now, I have told them about you and your inclinations, and have
told them to play accordingly." He sank his fingers into my hair, then
tightened their grip, pulled my head past the back of the sofa until sparks of
sweet pain flew down my vine-veins, pain hardening my nipples, pain blossoming
in my pussy. "You see, my dear, it's not that they're going to be our
playthings," he whispered into my ear, moist, hoarse, animal. "Oh, no. It's you
who will be serving us."
I gasped, spasmed on the sofa, all my reactions heightened, made more dramatic
by the drug, as if I was lost in some surrealist silent film. I wanted to
scream, but he aborted my scream with his mouth, his beast's maw. I tried to
get up, tried to run, a sudden panic kicking me in the stomach, but he pinned
me to the sofa, taking me by the throat. And at my feet, oh, at my feet the
girls but laughed, crooned again, in lamia voices that terrified me, chilled me
to the bone. I wanted to tell Torsten to stop, that he did not know the depths
of sadism women were capable of, knowing how much more pain other women could
take.
Torsten pulled back and let go of me completely, looking at me pointedly,
challenging me, his vast eyes a blue wall I could not get past. My body and my
mind sank into a chaos; I was torn apart by desire and terror, a whirlwind of
heat and chills, sweat beading upon my brow. I was hyperventilating, staring,
clutching at the sofa, hysterical even as I wanted this, even if my arousal
hurt me by now, a molten-lead weight at the bottom of my pelvis. But I couldn't
stay still, couldn't; I made to get up, made to say something.
Torsten but raised his eyebrow. "Chase her."
I ran. And sure enough, the girls came after me, shrieking in delight, hungry
like bloodhounds; I wondered if they had been taking drugs as well. I knew
where each door was, thought of locking myself in the bathroom, but they were
surrounding me from all sides, their neatly coiffed hair coming loose, their
eyes gleaming and their faces flushed, their dresses riding up their thighs.
This was a maenad chase, and Torsten Dionysos himself, leering and sipping his
champagne as he watched us, one arm draped over the back of the sofa.
I made a lunge for the living room, at Torsten, not because I thought he would
have mercy upon me, but perhaps if I slapped him, he would end this game. I was
too terrified, I--
But then the girls were upon me. They tackled me onto the floor right in front
of Torsten, and now I was screaming, shouting, kicking, slapping, clawing at
them; yet Torsten had taught them well. They slapped me back with equal force,
tearing my kimono off me, pulling at my hair until I was mewling, panting as
they dragged me to my feet. From the corner of my eye, past the flurry of the
furies, I could see Torsten nodding at them.
Cherry yanked my arms behind my back and huffed against my ear gleefully, her
heavy breasts pressed against my back. "Aren't you going to apologise?"
"What for?" I whimpered, now so wet my thighs were sticking together, whimpered
ever louder as Ash came to stand in front of me to pinch my nipples, pulling on
them harder and harder until my breasts were but pain, pain, pain.
Ebony took my hair and lifted me up by it until I was on my toes, until I could
no longer make a noise for my agony. "For disobeying the Master."
Torsten wove his cigarette through the air, his dressing gown sleeve sluicing
down his arm like arterial blood. "You shouldn't hold this against them, my
dear. They're only obeying my orders. Although in this case, we are of the same
mind: you have been a very naughty little girl and need to be punished."
"That's right," Ash said as she stopped torturing my breasts, kneading them
instead, and her teeth were white, her canines so sharp that in my delirium, I
fancied her a vampire; that she might bite my breasts and suck me dry.
"But what shall we call you? Hmm?" Cherry said, tucking her chin over my
shoulder, rutting against my ass, her eyes an absinthe-louche green. Oh,
Torsten, Torsten and this damned drug! I felt I was in the middle of a horror
novel, he Dracula--with his widow's peak!--and they his brides, about to drain
me of life for his pleasure.
"Yes, what shall we call her?" Ebony echoed, tugging me by the hair with the
firmness of a dance tutor, forcing me to sway in front of Torsten on my toes, a
sadistic ballet.
Torsten took one last drag off his cigarette and stumped it, deliberately
prolonging the moment. He strolled over to me casually, his hands in his
pockets, looking at me up and down, relishing the sight. Ash moved aside as he
caressed my cheek with the backs of his fingers, his crooked teeth sharp, the
smile of a wolf. "I think there's only one thing we can call her," he said,
with mock-regret. "Whore."
He pulled back his hand and slapped me so fast, with such force I blacked out,
would have fallen down had Ebony not been holding me up. "Because that's what
you are, aren't you?" he said softly, perversely like a mother cooing to a baby
as it calls it a sweet little thing. "Yes, you are!" he said, his voice a near-
giggle as my eyes refocused on him in front of me.
I could no longer cry, could no longer fight; the pain had pushed me into a
state of stillness, introversion, a dark calm. He was right, yet even if the
realisation of this usually made me sob with gratitude, with the hysterical
devotion of a religious madwoman, I was now perfectly tranquil on the inside.
In silence, I watched as a bead of blood fell from my lip onto my naked
breasts, then another, my signature as I consigned my soul to the Devil once
more.
"Yes," I murmured.
Torsten drew his finger across my chest, tracing an inverted pentagram across
my heart with the blood, echoing our tattoos, a ritual of acceptance, an
acknowledgement of my neophyte having passed yet another trial. Again, I wanted
to weep, weep from my love for him, but the pain held me in a catatonic, numb
state of inertia.
Torsten noticed this, licked his fingertip and gestured for the girls to let me
go. "Under the coffee table," he said to them while holding me up by my arms,
"get undressed while you are at it."
From the corner of my eye, I saw he had given the girls our toy box; now that
the pain had lessened, I shuddered once more. Yet he gathered me into his arms
and held me tight, crushing me against his chest the way I so loved, kissing me
deeply until I woke up a little. "It's going to be all right," he murmured into
my mouth, caressing my breasts, my buttocks, my belly, my back even as the
girls picked up whips and dildos from the box. In this manner, he kept enjoying
my skin while it was still unmarked, white, smooth. "We'll make it so good for
you, my little whore," his words flowed into my mouth like honey, thick and
slow and sweet. "So good."
"Thank you, Daddy," I whispered against his lips, not opening my eyes, swooning
into his embrace.
"Good girl. Now." He turned to stand behind me and presented me to the now-
naked girls. "Tell them what you like about women."
All three girls rose up lithely like dancers; my vision was still so distorted
from the drugs their limbs left pale traces in the air, under the harsh ceiling
lights--Torsten often wanted to see every detail as we fucked, but now the
light nearly blinded me. I still felt a small curl of shame as the girls stared
at me, demanding a worship of their beauty; knowing how sensitive women could
be about their looks, now I was under even more pressure to be not just honest,
but passionate about what it was that I found attractive in them.
"I like breasts," I murmured, realising as soon as I'd said it that I had
sounded blunt, idiotic, drunk, like a teenaged boy. "I'm so sorry," I said and
hung my head. "But you are beautiful; I mean--"
All three girls moved closer to me, as if choreographed; I wondered how closely
Torsten had instructed them, as if he had given them a list of all my possible
reactions and how to deal with them. They began to touch me in unison, kissing
my hair, my neck, my shoulders, pressing their breasts against me, offering
them to my mouth, brushing them against my cheeks. A bath of women, a bath of
women, a bath of women. Drunk, I reeled, Torsten's silk-covered erection a
brand against my back.
"What else?" he prompted me and let go of my hands, guiding me to return the
girls' caresses.
"This softness," I murmured and leaned down to kiss and suck at the three pairs
of breasts, avidly, stroking them, cupping them, squeezing them until the girls
made the sweetest noises, those noises sending pulse after pulse of pleasure to
my pussy. "So sweet, so fresh, so warm," I sighed, enveloped in their perfumes
of lilies and roses and gardenias, a soft, white and pastel gentleness in
contrast to the dark virility of Torsten's colognes.
"Mm-hmm," Torsten purred, now kissing each of the girls in turn as they
divested him of his clothes, kissing them deeply, passionately so that they
trembled. Silently, I wondered about that: if there was a man who could make
even a prostitute respond, to take joy in her work, it would have been Torsten;
his handsomeness, his skill obviously pleased the girls to the point where they
were not just play-acting. He must've bitten Ebony's tongue, for she drew back,
her eyes flashing, and she slapped him lightly: he but groaned in delight, his
erection rutting wet between my buttocks. "Good girls," he continued, "good
girls."
"What else do you like?" Ash asked me, flushed with arousal, her pupils so
enlarged her eyes were now the colour of blueberries. She stepped away and
stretched luxuriously, obviously competing for attention, offering her body to
my eyes.
Naturally, inevitably I was drawn to the cleft between her legs; all the girls
were clean-shaven the way we preferred it, and I wondered if Torsten had shaved
them himself, or if they had been using razors on each other, arousing each
other in this manner before they had arrived. I could smell their pussies, my
own, the air now heavy and thick from the sugar of arousal; Ash's inner labia
peeked from between the round, full pale lips of her mound, swollen a dark rose
red.
"I like pussies," I said, even if it felt absurd to say that, but oh, how
liberating it was! Slipping from Torsten's grip, I fell to my knees and adored
all three pussies, now, nuzzling each girl between the legs, dizzy from the
scent. "Pussies," I sighed in awe, giving each one a little lick, the girls'
laughter like bells in my ears.
"And what do you like doing to pussies?" Torsten said, petting my hair.
I turned to him, asking permission. "I like to kiss them."
"But is there something you like even more?" he said, moving to stand behind
Cherry, spreading the lips of her vulva for me, massaging it until she moaned.
"Yes," I laughed, "I like to watch."
Abruptly, Torsten let go of Cherry and slapped her on the ass, making her yelp
in delight. "And so you shall. But we must get you ready. Get up."
I staggered to my feet, licking pussy-sugar from my lips, now so aroused moving
hurt. Yet Torsten pretended to be insulted at the clumsy way I rose, smiling as
he curled his hand around my throat. "I said 'up,' whore."
"But--" I croaked, but he cut off my breath. My heart kicked into a gallop and
I struggled, trying to prise his hand off my throat, but he held me with
superhuman strength. Such a thin man, so feminine and yet so strong, so strong
as he lifted me onto my toes with the force of but one arm, tilting his head in
that awful, awful, reptilian way of his as he observed me. "Up."
I panicked, fearing he would snap my neck, my eyes bulging from their sockets.
But it was exactly then that he slackened his grip a little, letting me draw in
a little breath. "There's a good whore. Now stand very still. Ebony."
Ebony pretended to consider various toys, holding in her hands both the medium-
sized white dildo and the wide steel plug. "Which one, Master?"
Torsten tsked and shook his head. "Neither," he crooned. "Look for the biggest
one," he said. "She needs to be taught a lesson."
"No!" I shouted as I saw Ebony pick up the giant dildo, the way all the girls
seemed shocked at the size of it, as thick as a man's arm.
Torsten tightened his grip and lifted me once more, squeezing my throat, my
jugular veins until my vision went purple and white. "What's the matter,
whore?" You used it on me, didn't you? his voice was saying, and now it was
clear to me he had been planning this for a while, his laughter high from sweet
vengeance. "You won't get to lick a single pussy until you've taken your
punishment."
I choked, trying to say no, even as my pussy betrayed me, pulsing and pulsing,
smearing my inner thighs completely. Ash noticed this, slapping my legs apart,
tapping my pussy with her hand from behind. "She wants it. Can you hear how wet
she is?" she laughed, slapping me harder and harder, the wet sounds of me
ringing in the room, and I wanted the earth to swallow me.
Torsten shook his head. "She's always like that when she knows she's going to
get fucked in the ass," he said fondly, letting go of me again. "Aren't you,
whore?" he snapped and slapped me again.
"Yes," I sobbed, because did I have a choice? I had taken that enema
beforehand, had masturbated with some fingers in my ass earlier, had even taken
Torsten's hand a couple of days before, but I was still terrified. "But not
immediately, not yet, oh, please--"
Torsten pretended to consider and addressed the girls. "Should we have mercy on
her?"
Cherry weighed the plug in her hand. "Perhaps. I've never seen one of these.
How do you use it?"
"It's for stretching the ass," Torsten drawled. "Very well. Bring it here. But
first, warm her up a little more."
And before he had even finished, I heard the swish of his cat o'nine tails: Ash
barely had any time to duck as Ebony lashed me across the buttocks. She struck
me hard the first time, and I hated Torsten for this, hated him and would have
been swearing in his face had he not been choking me again, holding me up with
his hand as Ebony drowned me in pain once more. She must've been an experienced
domina to be wielding the whip with such force, such precision, from just the
right distance; going by Ash's wet noises, by her licking of her lips, my
juices must have sprayed her mouth.
"You, too," Torsten said to Ash and Cherry, moving back a little while still
holding me by the throat. "Slap her. All over. As hard as you can."
And they did, they did: I was surrounded by pain from all sides, the girls
raining blows upon me mercilessly, their hands singing upon my flesh, their
nails dragging down my ribs, their hands pinching my pussy and my breasts. I
was glowing all over, not even aware of when I was breathing or not breathing,
even if I could tell whenever Torsten loosened his grip; all I could feel was
the red, red, red heat of the pain, the blue, blue, blue of his eyes, boring
into my soul, he holding me still with his gaze as much as he was holding me
still with his hand.
I could feel the steel plug being pressed into me, dipped into me; I could not
tell which one of the girls it was who now fucked my asshole with it, forced
the muscles to stretch, relentless, inescapable. Nor could I tell which girl's
hand it was that now rubbed my pussy, which girl now spat on my face, spat into
my eyes and smared my makeup with her hand until kohl-stained spit ran down
Torsten's wrist; I was blind, blind, blind. "Whore," they kept repeating at me,
with the full hatred of the prostitute who had been thus scorned all her life,
"Slut," they yelled in my ear as they spat in it, smacked it, again "Whore," as
they lashed and clawed at my buttocks so violently I could tell they were
drawing blood. I could not even sob, could not even cry; I hung upon Torsten's
hand, lifted up and surrounded by this whirlwind of pain, impaled upon the
heavy steel now penetrating me, their insults gliding down my body like
caresses.
Finally, finally my body swallowed the plug: I jerked and Torsten thrust me off
himself so that I fell onto the floor, motionless, lifeless. My eyes rolled
back in my head; the weight of the plug, the pain all over my body having
pushed me into a trance state from the nervous overload.
I could feel them moving around me, inspecting me, caressing my hair, my ass,
my pussy.
"I've never seen an ass like that, so distended." Ash.
"See how much she likes it!" Ebony. Perhaps it was she who now dragged her
fingertips through my pussy, scooping up my honey.
"Such a good little pet." Cherry. Cherry kissing my hair, kissing the welts
upon my back.
"And we've barely even started," Torsten. Torsten lifting my head with his
foot, tickling my chin with his toes, grinning down at me.
I opened my eyes and he was beautiful: only now did I realise he was wearing
one of his steel rings around the root of his genitals so as to extract more
pleasure from each touch, so as to keep himself hard for hours, the favourite
tool of the orgiast. The tip of his cock was wet, pre-ejaculate streaking all
the way down his shaft, a sign that he had not even touched himself yet,
choosing to drive his arousal up to its highest peak before he let himself go.
His self-control, his natural-born dominance never ceased to astound me,
awakening a spiritual reverence, a latria of the flesh within me. My father, my
master, my everything; I kissed his toes in supplication, humbled by his
majesty, by this gift he was now giving me.
"Daddy."
He smiled a little, tenderly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a dark
happiness. "I think she's ready for the big one," he murmured, wiping a stray
strand of hair from my face with his toes. "Cherry, you lick her pussy; Ebony,
you do the honours."
I mumbled something indistinct; my tongue was thick in my mouth. I convulsed
upon the floor as the plug was pulled out of me, as it landed on the floor with
a heavy thud. I could hear Torsten interrupting the girls for a brief moment so
that he could bring them more glycerine: a little mercy at last, even if it was
only to serve his cruelty, his revenge. My breathing stopped, my entire body
stiffened as Ebony began to ease the giant dildo inside of my ass, as Torsten's
large hands held me open. I could barely feel Cherry's tongue upon my pussy,
could not make out the soft words Ash crooned to me as she took my head into
her lap and stroked my hair. As the head of the dildo slid past the deepest
gate of my sphincter muscles, I went into full convulsions, exactly as I had
when I had overdosed, afraid I would have to go back to the hospital--
"No," I moaned. "No, no, no--they're going to take me away, Daddy, no--"
He was kneeling beside me in seconds, cupping my face in his hands. "Shh.
Breathe."
"I can't," I mouthed, silently, my entire body locked up, the heat now gone
from me.
"Yes, you can," he said, and Cherry sucked upon my clitoris more violently, and
I was sure she could sense it had retracted, shrunk, because I felt colder even
down there, now.
"Daddy--"
"Shh. Almost there, almost there," he crooned, kissing my eyelids, kissing my
tears, drinking them in his sadism even as he comforted me, his erection
shifting against his belly with his pleasure. "Then you'll get to play with us.
Just a few inches more. There you are, there you are."
I don't know how long I lay there; despite the drugs, despite my arousal,
despite my relaxation this was harder than taking Torsten's hand inside of me,
even if his hand was a little wider than the toy. But I steeled myself, wanting
to prove myself to him, wanting to prove I was as much of a pervert as he was,
as much of a faggot as he was, able to take such a monstrous cock inside of me.
A girl-faggot, his girl-faggot, the one he so loved for enjoying sodomy so
much, the one who enjoyed being pleasured by her own sex as much as her father
enjoyed being fucked by men, oh, oh--
Sexes, fetishes, orientations no longer made sense to me, and how could they
have? I was floating in a sea of cock and pussy and breast and ass, ass, ass,
my ass stretched beyond its natural capacity by the ferocity of desire itself,
that law of the all-devouring life force Torsten and I had sworn to uphold.
This was his bath: not just that of woman, but of man, of sex itself, of the
phallus and the vulva and the anus all intermingled, more than the sum of their
parts, the same bath of holy androgyny, holy hermaphroditism I had offered him.
I was so grateful, so grateful, and made to thank him, but as soon as I opened
my eyes, he slapped me again. "Get up," he said, trying to sound stern, but
there was a beautiful father's pride in his eyes, a warmth he could not
disguise. "On your hands and knees, girls."
He waited until all the girls had arranged themselves in a row: Ash on the
left, Cherry in the middle, Ebony on the right. Three perfect asses, three
perfect, pink, gleaming, swollen pussies presented to us. My pussy pulsed
despite the heaviness of the dildo inside of me; Torsten held the toy inside of
me as he arranged me to sit on it, to squat on it, sitting close to the girls.
"Now. What was your favourite position again, my child?" he grinned.
Oh, God. "When a man--when a man takes a woman from behind," I stuttered, my
heart beating faster as the girls laughed and glanced at me over their
shoulders, rubbing their pussies, eager for Torsten to finally take them.
"How?" he said, kneeling beside Ash, stroking her hair as she nuzzled his cock,
she stealing a taste by sucking on the head.
I licked my lips; my throat was parched. I wanted to taste him, too, wanted to
taste all these pussies, these honeyed, fragrant pussies, the gorgeous pink
flesh-stars of these asses. "When he squats over the girl. And fucks her in the
ass," I added, deliberately vulgar, knowing how much this would turn the girls
on.
Without warning, Torsten took a hold of Ash and pushed his cock into her pussy,
making her scream. She was so wet he slid halfway inside immediately,
straddling her hips, pushing her head and shoulders into the ground. "What's
the matter?" he asked, laughing cruelly as he began to fuck her with hard,
violent thrusts straight away, pushing as deep as he could. "I have to slick
myself up somehow," he purred.
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," Ash wailed, and it wasn't fake; I wondered how
many men she had taken recently, whether she was still sore from others,
knowing how much Torsten's size could hurt no matter how aroused one was. Yet
she seemed not to be in too much pain as she was not stiff, no; she could
barely hold on as Torsten began to pound into her, her pussy so wet it made
sloshing noises, smacking noises as Torsten's balls slapped against it.
I moaned, struggled to stay on top of the dildo, had to rub my pussy to
alleviate the pain of it, the intensity of it somehow. Despite the sight before
me, I was still struggling against pain, to even stay conscious because of the
way the dildo pressed on my spinal nerves and sent cold, white sparks of nausea
through me. I was already so full, yet half of the dildo was still sticking out
of my body so that my buttocks didn't even touch the ground. Ash's screams were
the only thing I hung on to, the noises of Torsten's cock, his grunts as he
fucked her into the ground; she shook so violently, the ample flesh of her
thighs jiggling, her hand flying on her pussy with such intensity that she must
have been orgasming already.
Ash's shrieks grew higher and higher, and the moment they started to die out,
Torsten pulled back, her pussy making a sickening slurp as it remained open,
her folds gleaming, beading from her fluids, Torsten admiring her pussy as if
it were one of his exotic flowers.
"There," he said, spreading her pussy, spreading her ass, then shoving four
fingers mercilessly inside of her pussy, fucking her until she sloshed and
screamed again, the other girls visibly aroused, near orgasm themselves as they
watched. "Did you all clean yourselves up, the way I told you to? Just water,
no glycerine?"
All girls made noises of agreement.
"Good," Torsten said and unceremoniously, spat on Ash's ass and pushed two of
his wetted fingers into it, to the knuckle. She wailed, yet I could see her
pussy spasming a little; I wondered if she, too, could ejaculate.
Torsten turned to me. "Now, this is what my little whore here likes. Don't you,
whore?"
I shivered at the cruelty of his smile, yet my mouth grew wet from the sight of
his long, beautiful fingers sliding in and out of Ash's ass. "Yes," I said.
"Tell them," he said, tugging on Ash's ass so that it gaped a little, the sight
making my pussy clench, clench again, and I had to rub myself harder. "Tell
them what you like to do with pretty asses like this."
Oh, God. "Taste them," I whispered.
"I can't hear you."
"I like to taste them," I whimpered, now louder, leaning closer, so close I
could feel Ash's body heat, Torsten's elbow brushing my arm as he kept on
fucking Ash's ass with his fingers.
Torsten ignored me and spat on Ash's ass again, now pushing two more fingers
inside of her from his other hand so that she stiffened from pain, Torsten
ignoring that, too. He stretched her, tugged her open the way Helena always
opened her women up, fucking Ash like a lesbian does. "What do you like to
taste, whore?"
"Ass," I said.
"Mm-hmm? What's inside an ass?" he said, spreading Ash so wide I could now see
inside of her body, see the heaving, yawning redness of her flesh, deep inside
her rectum. It was clean, yet I knew what he wanted me to say, the sick
bastard, knew he wanted me to confess. Yet I delayed, perversely wanting to
prolong this.
"Mucus," I murmured. "Anal slime."
He spat on my face. "Wrong."
I jerked so hard I nearly came there and then from the shock, not knowing
whether to moan or cry. I wiped my face and stared into Ash's ass, enraptured
by the exquisite skill of Torsten's hands, the way they slid into her and held
her open for me, the black hair at the backs of his hands glittering wet.
"Well?" he said, and his voice was creaking, his balls twitching; he could not
wait to fuck her, and I rejoiced in my having frustrated him, denied him a
little.
I looked him in the eye, the first ripples of orgasm spreading through my hips
as I rocked myself on the dildo, beginning to truly fuck myself with it. I
paused as long as I could, then threw his trigger word at him. "Shit, Daddy."
He moaned, all the girls moaned; in shock or arousal or both, I did not know.
He held his fingers out to me, glistening, gleaming, rich from the insides of
Ash's body. "Again."
"Let me taste her shit, Daddy."
He let out a huffing little laugh, his eyes slitted, and bared his teeth. He
brought his fingertips to my lips, but at the last moment, sunk them into his
own mouth, moaning in exaggerated delight. "Mmmm. Delicious."
"You bastard!"
He just slapped me for that, laughed and straddled Ash, pushing his cock into
her ass with just spit and pussy juice. Ash screamed, screamed and he couldn't
get even halfway in no matter how he tried; yet he grabbed her hair and kept
fucking her, rutting into her, clearly too desperate to stop now.
"Master!" Ash shouted.
"Hmm? Am I hurting you?" he growled, shameless, merciless.
"Yes!"
"Then my little whore here can help. Come on."
And he knew how difficult it was for me to move with the dildo inside of me; it
took me a while to drag myself so close to Ash I could lick her pussy, draw her
fluids from it so that I could slick Torsten's shaft with them. I anointed him
with them, with my own pussy juice, with my spit, his balls smearing my face
completely as Ash's body yielded and allowed him deeper.
He repeated this with each girl's ass, dipping from one hole into another,
ignoring their pussies completely, so that I had to pleasure them instead, had
to serve each pussy as I served him. My face ached, my tongue hurt, yet he kept
on fucking, fulfilling his dream of the harem, wanting to prove his sexual
prowess to four women at once. He must have been in pain in his back even more
now, yet his lust triumphed over that, too: he keened as he spread each girl's
buttocks, gazing upon their beautifully gaping holes, spitting into and
fingering each ass between fucks.
Yet whenever I tried to taste their asses, he stopped me, knowing I would be
plunged into orgasm immediately; even in his sexual greed, he made sure to deny
me the taste I so craved. Now, he knelt in the middle, fucking Cherry in the
ass while pushing his hands into Ash's and Ebony's asses on either side,
filling them, thus sodomising three women at once. He was majestic, sublime,
triumphant; as I could not come, I satisfied myself not only by looking at the
girls' pussies but him, the glory of his form, the man whose every cell was
pure sexual power. His hips were as wide as Cherry's, his fingers unerring as
they hooked and pressed and fucked the others; Ebony wailed, spraying the
carpet with her ejaculate as Torsten fucked her palm-deep. All girls howled,
rubbing their pussies violently, he devouring their pleasure, devouring their
orgasms, his ego lapping up the satisfaction of making not one but three whores
respond at once.
But this whore needed to come, too. "Daddy, please."
He tugged his hands out of the girls' asses and sucked on his fingers like they
were lollipops, smacking his lips, rolling his tongue. "What's the matter? Does
the little whore want a taste?"
"Please."
He tilted his head. "Perhaps."
"Please, Daddy," I whined, deliberately using the child's register, rubbing my
pussy; I was now sore, so sore and my clitoris was rubbed raw. "Please let me
come."
"Come closer. There. Just there," he said, guiding me so that he could hold my
cheek against Cherry's buttock, so that I could watch his gleaming cock sliding
in and out of her. "My cock should be a little dirty by now, shouldn't it? Hmm?
Three asses? Do you think you could take that taste?"
I nodded eagerly. "Yes, Daddy."
He pulled back almost completely, the muscles of Cherry's ass dragging across
his cock; she moaned, surely sore herself by now. "Tell Cherry. Is it dirty?"
I looked at his cock, and could see white mucus, white foam, a little yellow;
my pussy clenched so violently the waves of orgasm began to rise in me once
more, now unstoppable. "Oh, God, yes. Yes." And to think when this had been the
greatest taboo for us, the girls having no idea how truly filthy we were in
private; this was merely the level of filth even the cleanliest of sodomites
would have been familiar with. Anal foam, with just the tiniest tint of dirt:
yet I craved it, craved the flavour of it, curious as to what it might taste
like from another woman. I had not tasted this since Birgitte and I needed it,
needed to worship Torsten as the god of sodomy, needed to worship the taste of
a woman's flesh.
"Please let me taste it, Daddy," I prayed, "please let me taste her shit,
please, please."
He grabbed me by the hair and guided me backwards a little. "Lick my ass. Lick
my ass so I can give you a nice big load, my child, come on, come."
Gladly, I did, and I had barely sunk my tongue into the delicious salt-metal of
his ass when he came with the loudest of groans, having held back for so long.
Oh, but I loved this, the way his asshole sucked on my tongue, squeezed it,
kissed me back as he bucked his hips and came and came; he moaned and shivered
for so long he must have truly filled Cherry up.
"There," he said, gesturing for me to move. "Daddy gave you a little cream with
your caramel," he laughed as he pulled out, his hair falling onto his cheeks,
and he was staggering, nearly falling over from exertion. "Cherry, push."
And oh, oh: this must have been why he had chosen Cherry, since she was the
fairest, palest of them all: her asshole was such a perfect, dark rose red, a
candy-red as it opened into a perfect O, Torsten's sperm still inside of it,
juddering as her insides pulsed. She strained, groaned in shame as she pushed
and pushed, and finally the sperm sluiced out, in a pearlescent, white-yellow
stream over her pussy. I sank my mouth into her like a woman dying of thirst,
lapping up the sperm, showing off to Torsten even as I satisfied my own
perversion, even as I started to come undone.
I gave him and Ebony and Ash the performance of a lifetime: I pulled strings of
Torsten's sperm from Cherry's ass with my tongue, spat it back only so that I
could slurp it out once more, fucked her with my tongue, moaning, howling into
her in my orgasm. That I was now displaying this fetish, my own orgasm from it
to others, other women in this manner made my release even stronger; I blazed,
as if wings of fire had erupted from my back, shuddering and jerking upon the
dildo, spraying my hand.
With a final, delicious, outrageous slurp I swallowed the last of his sperm
into my body and collapsed onto the floor, moaning, the dildo sliding out of
me. I lay there, panting, heaving with dry sobs, rivulets of sperm and spit and
pussy juice streaking down my face.
Torsten but laughed, gathering the girls to himself, making a bed of them,
resting his head on Cherry's belly, his hands on Ebony and Ash's pussies. "She
is quite the performer. Do you think the madame would hire her?"
"Oh, absolutely," Ebony said, wiping her mouth, the girls curling up with
Torsten in a satisfied heap, laughing.
"There's one more thing," Torsten said, crooking his finger at me. "You forgot
to suck me clean, my child," he laughed hoarsely. "You wanted it so much and
look at you now, half asleep! Come. Come and taste your reward."
So I did, kissing, sucking the white and yellow foam off him, shuddering in
glorious aftershocks as the tastes of three beautiful women's asses dissolved
upon my tongue. A gift precious, delicious, sweet and salty and alkaline and
dank, so perfect I sobbed in my joy. Thus, I mouthed him until he softened,
massaging him, adoring him until I could slip the ring off him. "Thank you for
everything, Daddy."
And the last thing I remember of that night was his laughter, his hand ruffling
my hair; three pairs of eyes of absinthe, blueberries and whiskey all twinkling
at me, and I, the sultan's favourite, lounging upon his bed of flesh.
***** Chapter 7 *****
We continued to play with the same girls for a while, indulging in orgies once
or twice a week. These encounters were less violent than our first; lighter,
yet utterly filthy--the girls soon picked up our fetishes and relished them.
Whether this was because of Torsten's charm, his skill as a lover or the
amounts of money he paid the girls, neither of us knew for sure; I suspected it
was a combination of all three. The girls took especial delight on those
occasions when Torsten but sprawled back on the bed and told them to satisfy
themselves on his cock, riding him all night. He was sore afterwards, so sore
he couldn't fuck me the next day, but his ego had never been as sated. He had
not become an emperor yet, he said, but he admitted he was most content ruling
over an empire of pussy instead.
I should have rolled my eyes at this, but it was hard to do so when I had his
entire hand inside of my ass, his mouth on my spasming, dripping pussy. His
grandeur was no delusion; I knew he could never fulfill his dreams of
dictatorship anywhere except in the bedroom, and there, I served him gladly. I
was not jealous at all, no: he made sure I never had to dominate the girls but
would always be dominated myself. Thus, every time I licked a pussy my face was
pushed into it forcibly; every time, I was spanked, fucked, subjugated in the
way I so adored. I was the one who got penetrated the most, after all: every
time, he offered my pussy and my ass to the girls, their hands, their toys as
if I were the prostitute and they my customers. There were nights when he would
simply lie down underneath my pussy as I sucked his cock on all fours and
Ebony, Cherry and Ash all took turns sliding their little hands in and out of
my ass, dipping their fingers into his mouth for a taste, fucking me until I
sprayed his face.
The girls all laughed, cooed in delight every time Torsten arranged them into
the now-familiar row for sodomy, dipping his cock into each and every ass in
turn, now using my mouth to clean up his cock every time he pulled it out. I
adored this ritual, fell into a trance of worship as he choked me with his
cock, drowned me in the taste of ass, pussy juice, sperm and foam, his croons,
susurrations of pleasure hypnotic in my ears. Ass to mouth, ass to mouth, ass
to mouth, mouth, mouth--I was all mouth, all-devouring, all-serving, completely
sated, perfected by this rite. For it was through this, this rhythm of filth
and ecstasy that Torsten fulfilled my heterosexual, lesbian, masochistic and
fetishistic desires all at once and I wept, wept in utter joy and surrender.
But there were times when Daddy needed his little girl all to himself.
I will never forget the day he took me to an amusement park, he smart in his
fedora and pinstriped suit, I dressed as a little girl. I wore no makeup, only
a frilly dress, socks, Mary Janes and a bow in my hair, the perfect innocent--
and I felt innocent. For an entire day, we kept up the play--to us, the
reality--of a loving father treating his daughter to a day out. He held my hand
on the ghost train and through the maze of funhouse mirrors, clutched me tight
as I screamed on the rollercoaster ride, adored me as he watched me riding a
carousel horse. We gorged ourselves on ice cream until I was sick from the
sugar, stealing bites from each other's cotton candy, laughing, giggling, he
ruffling my hair.
By the time it was evening, I was so tired he had to carry me to the car,
carefully tucking the plush rabbit I'd won underneath my arm. He'd rolled down
the top so that when we arrived home, we could lie together in the back seat
underneath the stars, crickets chirping all around us.
"Did Daddy's little girl have a good time?" he asked, holding my hand, his eyes
tender.
"Yes," I said. "I love you, Daddy."
He looked at me wistfully, as if he was committing all of this to memory, a
strange sadness dancing upon his face: for a moment, it looked as if he was
going to cry. He squeezed my hand tight, so tight it hurt, but I let him; he
kissed my head. "Daddy loves you too, my child. So much. Promise me you will
never forget me."
"How could I?" I whispered, now deeply hurt. Did he mean the girls; that I
would run off with one of them? Or some young man, perhaps? It was absurd; I
was so utterly devoted to him that I had no idea why he would even think that.
"There will never be another man for me, Daddy." I squeezed his hand back and
kissed it. "Wherever you go, I will follow," I said, now choking back tears.
He gathered me into his arms and hugged me close, his suit scratching my cheek,
filling my nose with his perfumes of musk and rose, the mother and the father
in the same body now holding me tight. His voice was trembling a little. "It's
just that I'm so happy tonight, Laura. So happy that I fear losing it," he
whispered.
"Shh, Daddy," I said, still in the voice of the innocent, with the
determination of a child. "Don't be silly; don't ruin it."
He laughed softly. "I won't; I won't."
***
It was only two days later, when I was sorting out Torsten's paperwork--what a
mess!--that I discovered why he had been so anxious. It was a complete
accident; I was arranging his personal papers into a pile separate from his
business ones, when an X-ray fell onto the floor from between the leaves of
paper. He'd had one taken because of his back, that I knew, but as I picked it
up, I noticed something else, something that made my blood run cold.
His lungs.
There were cloud-like bursts on either side of his breastbone, where no organs
should be, where only his ribs should have been showing through. And now I
remembered his coughing, how I'd had to sleep in my own bedroom because he kept
waking me up at night, a cough no syrup would suppress. And then there were
those strange maladies of his that had weakened him for days, ones I had first
mistaken for colds. Yet I had been wondering why I hadn't caught any of these
recurring colds, wondered why he wasn't truly feverish, so I had presumed the
illness was psychosomatic, a result of his prison trauma.
But now all of his treats to us made sense: the prostitutes, the increased
amounts of drugs to numb his pain; the way he had been too cheerful, forcibly
cheerful, the man who knew his life was ending and who wanted to live every
last moment to the fullest.
I don't know how I ended up on the floor, but as I came to, I couldn't even cry
from my shock, from my horror. It was as if I had been looking at an X-ray of
myself: my heart was so heavy, my chest so constricted it was as if a cancer
had been spreading in my own lungs. But worse was the cancer of despair, of
utter hollowness, of the finality of it all: death, death, death.
His death would be my death also. I had made up my mind long ago: if anything,
this revelation hardened my resolve to follow him to the grave. Death was not a
difficult thing to understand, to come to terms with if one had the time and
the means to prepare for it, to make peace with oneself. Yet the suddenness of
this, the fact that he hadn't told me filled me with fury.
By the time he got home, I was fully drunk. I greeted him with a cry of rage, a
glass of whiskey thrown against the wall, shattering beside his head.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I shouted, waving the X-ray at him. "Why?!" I
clutched at his shirt, shook him, screamed and screamed at him. "I had the
right to know!"
"Oh, Laura," he said, having no excuse; he knew it. "I tried..."
"You tried to protect me. Is that it? I told you I would follow you anywhere!"
I yelled at him. "Don't you dare try and stop me. Don't you fucking dare."
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlauratragedybig.gif]
"I was going to tell you," he said, slouching forwards on the sofa, his hands
between his knees. He didn't look at me, just stared at the carpet. "It's not
exactly an easy thing to talk about," he spat.
"You could've told me earlier so I would have had more time to prepare."
"To prepare for what? How? Laura, even I don't know what to do." There were
tears in his eyes, now; his hands shook as he lit a cigarette. "I don't know
what to do, and I didn't want you to see me weak and indecisive." He buried his
face in his hands.
For a moment, I thought of plucking the cigarette from his hand, thought of
telling him those things were killing him, but he knew that already. Instead, I
picked up the packet and lit one myself, because what did it matter, now? I'd
never heard of anyone who had survived lung cancer. There was no cure.
I poured him a whiskey, yet he said nothing as he accepted the glass. Was this
another one of those hateful times where I had to assume control, to guide our
destiny? It damn well felt like it. Dead man or no, I simply couldn't let him
spiral out of control like this. "We must draw up a plan."
He laughed, a dry, hacking laugh, and I fancied I could smell death on his
breath. "A plan?"
"Yes, a plan. How many months did they give you?"
"Laura!" finally, he looked up at me, outraged.
"I mean it," I said, pouring myself another drink and downing it in one gulp.
"We are not going to show up at Hell's door without a good résumé."
"You're serious," he said, nodding, and I couldn't tell if his smile was that
of bitterness or awe.
"I've never been more serious. How long have we got?"
"Six months, they said," he mumbled. "Although it's impossible to predict. I
might--" he sighed. "They said I might deteriorate rapidly."
I nodded. "And you've already elected to commit suicide."
"My God!" Torsten leaned back and slid into a slouch on the sofa, staring at
the ceiling. "You're worse than I am."
"It's why you love me," I said, pouring myself yet another whiskey, swirling it
in my glass. "But I mean it. When we go, we'll go together. I am not going to
be spending a day without you in this world, do you hear me?"
"Yes," he said, lost in thought. "And I don't--" he swallowed. "I don't want to
become decrepit, waste away in a hospital bed." He turned towards me once more.
"But I want to die in Sweden. Don't you?"
"Yes," I said, and now I was perfectly calm, having slid into my calculating,
hardened businesswoman's mindset once more. This, I could work with; as long as
I could apply logic to it all, I knew where I was going. And I was not going to
let panic or depression chain me down. No, no, not now; we were about to enter
the most important time of our lives. "We could get away with anything, now," I
said. "Even murder."
"I thought of that, too. There's nothing more dangerous than a man who knows
he's going to die. Shame I can't think of anyone I'd want to murder right now,"
he quipped, intending it as a joke.
"I can," I said, quiet, serious. "Segert."
Torsten sat closer to me and leaned his head against my shoulder, such a
strange composition: the tall, grown man leaning upon the teenaged girl,
drawing strength from her. "The worst thing is that I know you mean it. And
that you would be even more ruthless about it than I was about Birgitte."
"You never hated her, nor did I," I murmured. "She was just a casualty."
"We have to set a date for this murder of yours, then," he said breezily. "But
before that," he said and laid his hand on my thigh, "fucking. We must draw up
a list of everything we haven't tried yet. If I am to go, I am going to go
well-fucked, so that even de Sade will faint away when he sees my ass."
"The worst thing is that I know you mean it," I laughed dryly. "If we leave at
the end of May, we'll be in Forssa by my birthday. Will that do for you?"
He just stared at the window. "The day we were supposed to inherit everything,"
he said quietly. "We were supposed to rule the world." And now there was anger
in his voice. All these years, he had nursed these megalomaniacal fantasies and
I had never known how serious he had been about them. That he'd align himself
with the various fascist governments of Europe and raise himself to glory--with
me as his strength, as his guide. Yet it would never work, never, ever; I had
always been the more rational one of us and he the delusional Romantic. It was
time to return him to the real world.
"We can still rule our own fate. Few people are ever offered a chance to decide
how and when they will leave. Torsten, I--" I set down my glass, stumped my
cigarette and curled up against him. "I want us to go down in flames, Daddy," I
said, "a blaze of glory. Promise me that."
He turned to me so that he could kiss me, chaste, a kiss ritualistic, a pact
sealed. "I will make sure of it." There was a new, sky-bright glow in his eyes,
the glow of the fanatic, the madman given free rein. I had only had to nudge
him a little to open this door in him, to show him the possibilities, to
finally let the beauty of the Barring madness reach its natural conclusion. And
now that the door had been flung open wide, now that he felt the wind of
absolute freedom upon his face, just as I did, he seemed to grow stronger,
darker, bolder than he had ever been.
He curled his hand around my throat and squeezed. "We shall burn bright as we
fall," he recited against my lips, "so bright our death will shame the stars."
***
The following evening, we orchestrated a ritual to mark the beginning of the
rest of our lives. Torsten had bought an almost life-sized, ithyphallic bronze
statue of a sitting Pan from the erotic auction and now we installed it in the
cellar, the room he used for all his occult practices. We stood naked in the
room lit only by red candles, concentrating, focusing our wills on our work for
the following months, our Great Work as Crowley would have called it. Our
life's work, one of unbridled hedonism, of sin, of evil: to this, we now
dedicated ourselves once more, swearing to live out our philosophy with utmost
vigour.
Torsten pissed a ring around us and the statue, marking the concrete floor; I
followed him by tracing a pentagram within it with my menstrual blood. We
staggered from wine, drugs, bellowed out loud drinking songs as we revelled in
the circle; we had written out a carefully scheduled plan of all the things we
were going to do and now signed it in our blood. We swore allegiance to the
Devil, to the ravishing, devouring life force of the libido once more, kissing
Pan's lust-curled lips.
Torsten lit incense, lit more candles as we began to fuck the statue to imbue
it with power.
The enormous bronze cock hurt me, yet I forced myself to orgasm upon it,
slickening it with my pussy juice and blood. I charged it with the power of my
lust, giving to it of my cunt, and Torsten followed suit: snorting like an
animal, mewling, he licked and sucked the giant phallus, worshipping it with
his whore's mouth. I took him by the hair and forced him to choke on it, and he
loved that, loved my fingers in his ass as I prepared him, he making
disgusting, crude noises. Passionately, he embraced the statue and rode it,
too, howling as the cock sunk into his ass; I was not sure if he had hurt
himself, but just as I had done, he continued until orgasm, until he had
sacrificed himself unto the statue entire.
He shook as he fell off the statue, his stomach spattered with sperm, and I
caught him in my arms; for long moments we lay there, I sucking his cock, he
licking my pussy until we were both sweaty, dirty, spent.
"To our new life," he said and toasted me with opium wine, once more drawing
blood from his arm and squeezing a few drops into the goblet; I scooped blood
from my pussy and stirred it into the mixture. Deeply, we drank, drank until we
were sick, drank and fucked until we passed out upon the floor, Pan leering at
us in approval.
***
From that day on, we were truly unhinged. Before, we had restrained ourselves
from time to time simply for medical reasons, but why should we care about
illness or injury now, if we were going to die soon anyway? We could live as
wildly, take drugs as wildly, fuck as wildly as we pleased. Besides, I had
stolen some of Segert's miracle drugs, knowing I might need them, had been
saving them up in case I developed an inflammation from excessive fucking or
should either of us catch a venereal disease. They could easily last the two of
us for the next two months; now, we could fuck whomever we wanted and however
we wanted. Even the great beast Syphilis wouldn't have time to truly ravage us
in such a short time period--had any libertine in the history of the world ever
been given such complete licence, I wondered?
"They do call Death the great liberator," Torsten murmured as we lay together
in the bathtub after a particularly scatological bout of sex.
I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw a new, cold brightness, a new
illumination in my eyes, my gaze as sharp as Lucrezia's daggers, as blue as her
poisons. We would build a monument to ourselves from the mountain of bodies we
had left behind, the bodies we had fucked, crown this mausoleum with the bodies
of those we had slain. And I wanted that mountain to be high, a shining beacon
of our sin; I wanted to experience everything before we reached the final
summit of murder, of suicide.
"Have you booked the tickets yet?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "The plane tickets, too. We are leaving for Sweden through New
York, the last week of May."
"New York?"
"Yes. Japan and Russia are off limits. I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"That's only reasonable," I said.
"I'm surprised you didn't mention Acheron before, actually. We have a full day
in New York before we leave, you know. We could sort him out if you like."
I turned around in his arms and kissed him; the way he spoke of murder so
casually aroused me, made my pussy tighten in pleasure. "If we have time. I
barely remember him, you see. It's odd. You did such a good job of erasing him.
And I thought he'd be in jail by now."
"Maybe he is. I'm not sure. I'd just hate to leave him unpunished."
"You take Acheron, then. Segert is mine."
"I know," he leered, his cock stirring between my legs. "And I can't wait to
see you in action, little princess."
I smiled and rested my forehead against his. "But fucking first, just like you
said. No limits, now. I want to share everything with others."
"Even the piss?" he murmured, searching my eyes. "And what we just did?"
"Everything, Daddy."
"You know my answer to that," he said, cupping my breasts. "As long as I can
watch."
"Of course. And I want you to join in. Has another man ever pissed in your
mouth, Daddy?"
He burst into laughter. "Little pervert. And the answer is 'no.'"
"It's about time you tried, then."
"Very well, but you first. I think I know just the place."
***
That place was a public toilet. I shivered as I knelt on the concrete floor,
blindfolded, with my arms tied behind my back, my dress knotted crudely at the
front so that my breasts and my pussy were exposed. I was terrified, frightened
out of my wits, yet I had asked for this myself, hadn't I? But now I had second
thoughts, still hung over and nauseous from our drinking last night, trembling
in withdrawal, Torsten not having allowed me to soften this experience in any
way whatsoever. He stood beside me, holding me on a dog's leash, leaning back
against the wall, smoking. He had told me it was a toilet popular with
perverts, with homosexuals looking for a quick suck, and that added to my
terror: I had seen enough woman-hating homosexuals to fear they might just beat
me up, and Torsten most certainly wasn't built like a bodyguard. Yet, I had
acquiesced to this even as I had understood the danger of it: it was exactly
because there was still some part of me that feared something that I needed to
do this. I did not want to feel fear, wanted to conquer fear, whether it was
that of beatings or rape or any other form of abuse. This was a test I had set
for myself, and I was going to pass, no matter what.
The toilet, of course, stank to high heaven; the sharp smell of male piss stung
my nostrils like needles, the smell of shit making my nausea even worse. The
concrete had ruined my stockings and my knees hurt; we had been waiting for
someone to enter for a long while now. Torsten had given me Coca-Cola to drink
so that my bladder was full, so full that I was hurting, the way the cola
enhanced my circulation making my pussy ache, too.
"Please, Daddy."
"Please, what?" He laughed and shifted; even when I couldn't see him, I could
feel he was slinking his hips.
"I need to piss."
"Only when I allow it."
It was then that we finally heard someone approaching. "Stay still and open
your mouth," Torsten said, stumping his cigarette. "And don't speak unless I
tell you to."
Going by the gasp I now heard, the man who had just entered the toilet was
young. His feet stopped, scraped the floor a little, as if he was going to turn
away.
"There's a perfectly good urinal here, sir," Torsten drawled. "Go on. Free of
charge."
The man's feet shifted again; he was still hesitating. "I just came here to
piss," he blurted.
"Then piss in her mouth, right here. She likes it, you see," Torsten purred,
and I shivered as he lowered my dress at the shoulders to lift out my breasts.
"If you give her a really big mouthful, who knows, she might even give you a
little suck."
My entire body was covered in gooseflesh as Torsten let go of me to step aside
a little, so as not to seem so threatening to the young man. I could hear
arousal in Torsten's voice, hear his breathing growing heavier and not just
from his illness; I wondered if he was erect.
"What do I--" the young man started.
"You can put your cock in her mouth, if you like," Torsten said casually. "Or
if you're feeling adventurous, you can keep it outside and test your aim." I
could hear the leer in his voice. "She won't mind getting a bit wet. Now will
you, my dear?"
I just made a noise, a noise I hoped sounded like agreement, not being able to
form words with my mouth held open thus. I feared I would faint this very
moment, no longer from terror but from sheer arousal.
The man came closer, fumbling with his fly; I could feel his body heat, his
bare flesh now so close to my mouth, could smell the sweat and the musk of his
pubic hair. Yet he hesitated, his hands hovering around my head, not sure if he
was allowed to touch.
"Go on," Torsten purred.
I had held my mouth open for so long I was drooling all over myself, now; I
could feel my spit falling onto my breasts. But there, there it was: a half-
hard cock, the skin of it so soft, tucked into my mouth. No one had ever put a
soft cock into my mouth like this; only Torsten had, whenever he had wanted to
perform this same act. For a moment, the young man found it difficult to piss,
still so shocked from this erotic dream he had walked into. Meanwhile, I
savoured the feel of his cock, the youthful smoothness of his skin, the
firmness of it, such a contrast to Torsten's looser skin, his more prominent
veins. I gave this cock a little suck, another, relishing its salt, and he
moaned. But I knew how hard it was for a man to piss while erect, so I stopped
before Torsten could chastise me.
And it was the young man who now cried out as the first spurt of his piss
flowed into my mouth; I answered his disbelieving noise with a moan of
pleasure, sucking down his piss with practiced skill, and I had never felt as
whorish. This, this was my specialty, this the fetish Torsten had made me the
queen of, and as I swayed a little, my pussy was so wet I dragged slickly
against the concrete.
And I was serving Torsten even now, was I not? Submitting my body to his will,
acting as his sexual instrument, become his perfect harlot, his masterpiece of
whoredom's art.
I was saddened when our guest pulled out. I swallowed, yet a little piss
dribbled out of my mouth onto my breasts; I shivered, wondering if I could
orgasm without touching myself, so aroused I was, now. The man didn't even say
'thank you,' just buttoned up and ran, ran as fast as his feet could carry him,
Torsten's laughter echoing at his heels.
"What a marvellous performance, my dear," Torsten purred, leaning in to kiss my
mouth, licking the piss from the walls of my cheeks, lapping it up from my
palate. "Such a good little slut, such a good little slut," he sighed, slapping
my pussy with his open hand, tapping it, tapping it until I was squirming,
howling into his mouth.
"Can I piss now, Daddy?" I asked.
"Not yet. After the next man, perhaps."
I groaned, whined at him, yet he only had to slap my face to render me quiet,
to gift me with the balm of pain to soothe my chaos. His hand left a wet stripe
on my cheek, and now my pussy and my bladder were burning. I prayed to all the
devils of Hell that another man would arrive, soon.
My prayers were answered almost immediately. It was another man, a heavier one
this time; he laughed as he saw us and strolled right over.
"Open your mouth, darling," Torsten said. "We have a new customer."
"How much?" the man asked, middle-aged by the sounds of it, his voice rough
from tobacco and alcohol, his accent Irish, working-class.
"Piss is her reward," Torsten said, and I could tell from his voice he was
attracted to the man. He made some gesture at the man, I felt, something men
would make at each other when they were seeking sex. "Unless you came here for
more than that," he said.
The Irishman chuckled, a chuckle full of phlegm; he disgusted me. I could never
understand Torsten's taste for the uncouth, rough types, but I had no choice: I
had to serve this man as well. He did not hesitate for a moment, shoving his
fat cock into my mouth, stuffing me with it, even pushing at me with his hips
so that I was choking on his belly. I screamed onto his cock, but he held me
still; Torsten did not make a move to stop him. And since my mouth was now so
completely full, his piss started to burst out of me, dribbling past my lips
and over my chin, drenching the front of my dress completely. I sobbed in true
terror, but the man's only answer to that was to pull his cock out and shake it
dry in my face, so that my entire face was sprayed with his stinking, bitter,
alcoholic piss.
I let my head fall; my chest was heaving from lack of air, and as I panted
there, I expected Torsten to slap me again, to punish me. Yet I heard a thud
next to me and realised he had fallen to his knees and was now sucking the
Irishman's cock, going by the sounds of it; the shameless bastard. Torsten
mewled, a greedy fairy's noise, screamed in delight as he too was choked,
stuffed full of the stinking, piss-wet cock. The man came so fast I didn't know
if Torsten had had time to orgasm at all; this man, too, left swiftly, Torsten
dusting his knees as he got up.
"Daddy, now, can I--"
He grabbed me by the jaw and prised my mouth open, spitting the other man's
sperm into my mouth, spitting once, twice, three times, then closed my mouth
with his hand. "One more man. Now, swallow."
Even his sperm tasted disgusting, much soapier, much more alkaline than
Torsten's. But since it was Torsten who offered it to me, it underwent a
transubstantation in my mind, turned into my beloved Father's sperm as well.
This man could not hurt me; no man could hurt me because now all the men in the
world were my Daddy to me, all violations his acts of love towards me. I told
Torsten this as I licked my lips, sobbed this against his face, and he kissed
me more tenderly, laughing into my mouth.
"That's right. You have learned so well," he said wistfully, stroking my jaw,
my neck. "Remember when I still had to remind you of this? But now you know the
entire world is your Daddy," he said in a cooing, paternal voice, stroking my
hair. "And here comes another Daddy. Open your mouth."
This man was shocked, too; he stilled, shifted on his feet. Yet he never said a
word: Torsten must've been gesticulating to him, and he held my head out to the
man in offering. Perhaps the man didn't speak English, perhaps he was one of
the many Chinese migrant workers here, I didn't know; but soon, his cock was in
my mouth, too. His piss was the most voluminous of all, and even if he didn't
deliberately choke me, I coughed up more of his piss than I could swallow, my
belly now so full I was struggling not to be sick. He held his cock in my mouth
for so long I realised I was weeping, weeping from my fatigue and from how
overwhelmed I was by it all, and finally, he took pity upon me and pulled out.
He said nothing as he walked out, leaving me coughing, retching, vomiting half
of his piss out.
"There, there," Torsten crooned, rubbing my belly, holding me from behind,
staining his own suit. "Now, you can piss." He began to slap my pussy again,
violently, smacking it so hard I swayed on my knees.
"Daddy!" I shrieked.
He slapped me even more violently, so loudly his slaps echoed in the room.
"Come on. Piss."
But I had already dribbled out a little piss from the force of my retching; now
I truly let go, sobbing in shame and disgust as I pissed into his slapping
hand, down my thighs, Torsten spraying my piss all over me, himself. On and on
I pissed, now creating a puddle around myself, completely ruining my skirt and
my stockings, nothing but a piss-soaked whore. No, no, even lower than a whore,
since I had not been paid a penny: this was my reward, this complete
destruction of the pretty, innocent young girl, the utter submersion of myself
into the lowest level of sexual slavery. The slavery I had yearned for myself,
brought on by my own lust, Torsten my pimp, giving me what I had always wanted.
I could not stop sobbing now, hysterical, bent double as I breathed in the
ammonia and the sugar of my piss.
Finally, Torsten pulled off my blindfold, wiped his hands on it and lit a
cigarette. "Good girl."
"Can we go home now?" I asked, the child who was wet and cold, the child who
hurt everywhere, the child who needed a long, warm bath.
"In a moment."
He took his cock out and I knew it, had known he was going to do this: he
pissed all over my face, my chest, my back as he walked around me, completely
soaking me from the back and the front, not even aiming for my mouth. Drops of
his piss flew into my eyes, and through their sting I could see his eyes were
wide, hysterically wide, mad, his crooked grin gleaming in the shadows: the
alpha beast marking his territory, drowning other males' scents with his own.
"Almost done." He threw his cigarette into the puddle we were now both standing
in, then yanked my bound arms and pushed my face into the concrete, rubbing it
in the piss, the vomit, the cigarette stumps. He put his foot on my neck,
grinding my face into the mess. "Now, drink it."
"Daddy--"
"Drink it," he said, outraged that I had even thought of protesting. "We're not
going home until you do."
I howled, howled as I began to lap up the mess, retching, vomiting some of it
back, but he held me down until I had swallowed enough of it for his liking. He
laughed, a dry, high, broken laughter that echoed off the tiles, then splashed
onto his knees behind me and pushed his cock into my pussy. And there, he
fucked me, grinding my face into the floor and the piss so violently my cheek
was scratched raw, fucked me until I was howling, fucked me until my howls were
drowned by my utter subjugation. Just as he had used me as his aphrodisiac
before, he now used my pussy to bring himself to completion and I responded
like never before, coming almost as soon as he entered me. My pussy burned from
him, clutching around him and I sobbed my orgasm into the piss and the shit and
the stench, my howls sluicing down the drain. And at that moment, as my entire
body burned underneath his hands, burned around his cock, I was
schizophrenically certain no other woman had ever been as completely taken, as
completely torn apart, butchered as I now was by him.
"You have killed me," I mumbled as he untied me, as he undressed me, as he
dragged me to the nearby shower cubicle to wash. "You have killed me and you
have eaten me and I am you--"
"Yes, you are, my child," he murmured into my mouth underneath the shower.
"Yes, you are."
And in my madness, I fancied that I had merged into his body, that it was his
belly all this piss was now sloshing in, that it was now his pussy that was
being washed by his own hands, only one person standing underneath the shower.
The heat of the water made me swirl into him, just as he swirled into me, both
of us now so deeply dissolved by the fluids of sin we became mixed together
like two different colours of paint, transforming into an entirely new hue.
There was no Torsten, there was no Laura Erika, but only the one man-woman,
only the Barring hermaphrodite, bearing breasts and a cock just like those old
woodcuts of devils I had seen in his books.
I passed out in the shower, passed out from my fatigue and shock and only woke
up in our bed, he around me, fresh and warm. I listened to his heartbeat as he
slept, to the rattling in his lungs, to the fugue of death in them, speeding us
towards our end. And I felt an elation at this, the same lurching euphoria I
had felt on the rollercoaster ride as I plunged towards my death with him, like
a pair of gyrfalcons plummeting down from the heavens towards the molten core
of Hell.
He awoke a little, smirked at me, then squeezed me into a little ball in his
arms so that I was dwarfed by his height, his beauty, swallowed up in the
warmth of his flesh. And there I slept once more: in the dark, warm amniotic
sweetness of his sin, the womb of wickedness we had both sprung from, dreaming
of the whispering of birches.
***** Chapter 8 *****
There were days when I woke up filled with doubt, weeping before I even opened
my eyes. The sun shone into the bedroom, painting Torsten's body with the hues
of life and warmth; he lay naked beside me on his belly, having cast off the
sheets in his sleep. He had bent his left knee so that his ass lay exposed, his
genitals soft and tender between his legs. I adored that pink line of his
perineum, the smoothness of his ass, so much like a boy's the way he'd shaved
it, the way the flesh of his buttocks was still firm even when he was nearing
fifty. It seemed like such a waste to lose all this beauty so soon, when he
could have still enraptured so many women and men, could still have proven to
the world that there was indeed such a thing as the perfect lover.
And what about me? I thought. Was this all I got, after having supported him
so? It was I who had pulled him out of his debts and his aimless drifting, I
who had worked my fingers to the bone to resurrect the Barring empire so that
we might enjoy its fruits. It was I who had established our high standard of
living, I who had paid for the servants, the sportscar, the champagne in the
cellar. Where was my reward? I deserved more than the mere two and a half years
we had been lovers, wanted more couplings, more ecstasies, wanted to keep on
drinking from this well of beauty for as long as I could. I squeezed my hands
into fists and raged against the injustice of it, at the mindless waste of it,
cursing Nature.
I crawled up to Torsten and kissed the curve of his buttocks, rested my head
upon their softness, wrapping my arms around the beauty of his hips. "I don't
want you to die," I whispered when he stirred. "I just want to keep on making
love to you forever." I swallowed, my tears now running freely down my face.
"It's not fair."
He kept his eyes closed and sighed into the pillow. "I know," he croaked, his
voice thick from sleep, and immediately, he was seized by a coughing fit. "I'm
sorry," he groaned between coughs as he had to pull away from me for a moment
to have a drink of water. When he had caught his breath, he pulled me to rest
beside him, laid my head over his chest and petted my hair. "If I had a spell
to make us both live forever, I would have cast it by now."
I said nothing; the rasping breath in his lungs poisoned my ear and I wept
again in silence, only lying there until my tears had formed a pool on his
chest. And never did he tell me not to cry, knowing how futile it was, since if
there was something worth crying about, it was this.
"We mustn't waste time," he said, coughing again.
I knew this very well and wanted to snap at him: I had been sick for four days
after our adventure at the public toilet, down with a stomach bug from the
filth I had swallowed. He had just insisted that urine was sterile and that it
must've been something else that had made me ill, had even had the bright idea
of helping me vomit by forcing me to gag on his cock. For the first day, he had
been but watching in perverse fascination as I had shat and vomited my guts
out, but on the second he had softened and started to tend to me, feeding me
with Alka-Seltzer, salt and soup. Yet even then I had felt that he was
impatient, as if I hadn't been impatient myself, guilty for my body having
betrayed us when we had so little time left to enjoy the rest of our lives.
I felt a little better today physically, but mentally, I was still feeling
awful. "Let's just spend today at home together, Daddy. Please."
He kissed my hair. "As a matter of fact, I think I could use a little rest
myself," he murmured. "Start easy, then work our way up to the usual
debaucheries," he said cheerfully, then slapped me on the ass. "Off to the
shower with you."
We bathed together; the hot water and his heartfelt, tender embraces helped my
mood. "I've never seen you with your natural hair, you know," I said as I
worked shampoo into his hair. "Don't use the pomade today. I just want to see
what it looks like when it's not all slicked back."
"It looks ridiculous," he grumbled. "But all right. As long as I don't have to
leave the house."
It took several washes to get his hair completely clean; I had sometimes felt a
little embarrassed for the amount of hair cream he used when other men allowed
a little more wave to show through these days. The fiercely slicked-back look
made him seem old-fashioned, like he was still stuck in the Twenties, and I was
sure the way he combed it flat with such violence was what had made his
hairline recede so fast in the first place.
"I look like a tramp!" he exclaimed when his hair had finally dried and I was
brushing it out in front of the dresser mirror. "Like some drunk bohemian poet
who can't take care of himself."
I kissed his cheek. "I think you look like a Romantic hero, as a matter of
fact. It suits you." Because now his hair fell across his cheeks to brush his
jaw, the natural waviness of it even making it look more voluminous than usual.
"And you look ten years younger," I said. "You look much balder when it's all
glued down against your scalp, you know," I said and ruffled it a little,
despite his protests.
"You little bitch!" he grabbed me, tickled me and pulled me to sit in his lap,
trapping me between the dresser and himself, undoing my dressing gown. "And
what shall we do with yours? Put bows in it?" He lifted bunches of my hair on
top of my head. "Or give you a Rococo pouf?"
"There's only one poof here and I'm looking at him," I giggled and screamed as
he attacked my breasts with his mouth. "Not here, Daddy! In bed."
He carried me to the bed, dropped me onto it unceremoniously and took me while
we were both still in our dressing gowns; we had to shower again right after,
but I didn't mind. It was a day of pure pleasure, easiness, laziness; he took
well to the idea of it. I tended to him like a wife would have, cooked us good
food, made sure we only took minimal amounts of alcohol and drugs to keep
withdrawal symptoms at bay, allowing our bodies to rest and recuperate.
We never dressed or bothered with self-grooming, spending the day like savages
on our own little desert island, falling into a relaxed rhythm of pleasure and
rest, one following the other like waves. I even caught Torsten admiring his
hair in mirrors from time to time, admiring his naked body as he walked past.
When we made love, it was slow, sweet, neither of us in a rush towards orgasm:
we spent more time caressing each other, keeping up a steady heat, a steady
flow of pleasure instead of plunging headlong towards the depths of depravity
the way we so often did.
To an ordinary couple, a night of perversity would have been an exception, an
adventure; to us, this was a holiday, a break from our usual excesses, a day
upon which we rediscovered the true depths of our tenderness towards each
other. I ran my hands all across his body to commit the feel of his skin to
memory, the softness here, the coarseness there; he held me, crushed me so
tight as he took me it was as if he wanted to weld himself to me, merge us so
completely we would become but one human being. In awe, I watched the way his
head fell back, the way his lashes trembled, the way his pulse fluttered upon
his neck as I pleasured his ass with my mouth; he made me go on all fours and
licked me and fingered me, refusing to fuck me until strings of my sweetness
had touched the bed.
After, he groaned deep from his chest and pulled me to lie spooned in his arms,
his cock still nestled inside of me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to be
sentimental at you," he sighed into my shoulder.
I rubbed sweaty hair from my face against the pillow and smiled. "Go on."
"Well. I just meant to say that Laura Erika Barring, you are the perfect fuck."
I burst into laughter at his bluntness, and he just hugged me tighter against
himself, his cock stirring a little in my pussy even now. He chuckled in my ear
and kissed it. "It's true. I've never met a woman who enjoyed sex so much, for
a start."
I turned my head a little to kiss his nose. "Runs in the family."
He gave my cheek a little mock-tap. "Don't you dare interrupt me when I'm being
sentimental, girl. I mean it. It's the way you respond," he groaned in delight,
rocking his hips into the softness of my ass. "The way you answer each and
every caress, the way you listen to me and pick up my cues, the way you just
slide into such complete submission and service. You play off me like a good
actress does, the way she reads other players and reacts accordingly, inspiring
them in turn. I've never had that," he said, with wonder in his voice, and this
made my ego swell: his women would have been innumerable.
But soon, my pride gave way to pity--I felt a little stab in my heart as I
realised how lonely he must have felt for so much of his life. I wondered
whether this, in fact, had been the reason for his donjuanism: that he had been
looking for a lover who shared his own sexual voracity, his own sexual
curiosity and creativity, and had never found his match.
"So many women are just so passive," he continued, confirming my theory. "They
think all they have to do is to just lie there, and it's not just the good
girls, either. Sometimes I've barely been able to keep it up because once I've
seduced them, they've just turned lifeless, like I was fucking a corpse. But
never you, Laura... never you." He reached for my front and played at the slit
of my pussy, sighing against my neck. "I can feel how much you want it, right
here. You always answer me, deep down in the body, so I know it's genuine. Do
you know how awful it is to push into a cold, hard pussy, with just glycerine
to ease the way, knowing she isn't enjoying it? I've never had that with you,
no matter how rough I've been with you," he murmured, and now his voice was
trembling from love. "This little pussy's always so wet, as soon as I kiss you,
so ready for me. And so soft, so swollen," he purred, making my flesh flutter
around him, "so fucking delicious around my cock."
I moaned and leaned back, kissing him on the mouth, squeezing his cock with my
pussy until he was moaning, too. "It's because you're such a good lover. I
thought of that this morning, you know. How you're born for it," I gasped as he
framed my clitoris with his fingers. "God, you just know how to touch me, what
to say, and you drive me insane, I--"
"Mmm-hmm," he murmured, licking my wetness off his fingers before returning
them to my clitoris. "That must run in the family, too. You frightened me a
little at first, you know. You weren't just a precocious child, but sexually
precocious, the perfect little coquette before you even knew it. It was as if
you carried that knowledge within your body even when you were still a virgin,
the way it seemed like you knew how to fuck even before you'd tried it, how it
ran in your blood. The way you moved your body even when you were little, like
you were always seeking pleasure from everything, sniffing my cologne, rubbing
up against me, twinkling your little baby blues at me."
"That's because you were there," I said and turned around, straddling him,
sitting on his cock, rocking my hips like a belly-dancer to massage him with my
pussy, coaxing him into hardening inside of me. "I could never get enough of
you," I kissed against his mouth. I laced my fingers with his, wanting to get
as much of him inside of me as possible, summoning the last dregs of potency
from his body. "I just want to keep on fucking you forever," I groaned,
punctuating my words by riding movements, taking him properly, now, mad from
greed.
"Then fuck me," he growled and reached for my ass, pushing two fingers inside
of it to make me howl, jacking his hips up even if he must have been in pain by
now. "Fuck me, little girl, fuck Daddy with your pussy." And in his words I
heard how he wanted to prove himself, now more than ever, forever the Daddy,
forever the master lover, defying time and age and death itself with his
virility. People come and go, but fuck never dies, he had told me; desire
itself never dies. I remembered a book he'd shown me, with pictures of herms
and lingams, phallic pillars that had signified time, power, magic, standing
firm unto eternity. And like an ancient priestess I now worshipped his phallus
as the source of all life; like the yoni I encased his power and contained it
within my flesh, riding him until we held sway over death itself, until we were
both completely, utterly exhausted.
Even when we were too tired to move our limbs, we kept mouthing each other,
licking each other, touching each other as much as possible, skin blending into
skin, warmth blending into warmth. We were trembling by the time the sun set,
our jaws aching, our limbs hurting so much we could no longer move. Then, we
but lay there together and watched as the candles started to flicker out,
painting long shadows upon the walls.
"Have you had a good time?" he asked me and hugged me, sated, content.
"Yes, Daddy," I said, kissing his hand.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm going to take you out tomorrow night."
***
I thought he would take me to a brothel, but this place was going to be far
more dangerous: it was a society party, hosted by other Scandinavians.
"Are you mad?" I asked him when he showed me the invitation. "We'll never get
away with it."
"Read the rest. It's a costume party. We'll all be wearing masks, so it'll be
quite safe."
"But we haven't got any costumes! Oh, I wish you'd told me in advance." I
panicked, now; I didn't have anything to wear for a society party, let alone a
costume one. And I couldn't get a well-cut dress made in just a day, no matter
how much money I had.
"I got you one. I took the liberty of taking one of your trouser suits to
Ricky's, and had a similar one made, with some adjustments."
Ricky's. The specialist tailor who made Torsten's dresses, oh--I knew where
this was leading. The bastard. He wasn't as interested in the party itself, I
was sure; only in a new chance to play with danger, to play another erotic
game. "Do I want to know?"
But of course I did. When he presented me with the outfit, I fumed at him
because it was a work of genius, and I told him so--and also how much I hated
him for it.
He, of course, just slinked his hips and blew a series of smoke rings into the
air. "Try it on."
The costume was very simple, as close-fitting as that of a sailor. The jacket
and the slacks were skin-tight, a pure white, indecent, leaving nothing to the
imagination. But the genius of the costume lay in the slit crotch of the
trousers, consisting of two overlapping flaps--and what went inside of it. For
Torsten had had the idea of dressing me like an arctic fox: in a hat box upon
the bed lay a mask made of real fox fur and underneath it, a great, fluffy
white fox tail. The tail itself was attached to a rubber contraption I could
only presume was meant to be inserted into the body: it was some strange hybrid
of an anal plug and those balls Chinese women used to tighten their vaginas. It
consisted of two heavy spheres--metal, I presumed--one on top of another, each
the size of a golf ball, encased in a firm sheath of rubber. The spheres were
loose enough to jiggle inside of the plug, to vibrate against one another; my
pussy tightened as I imagined what they would feel like inside the body as one
moved.
Torsten took the plug from my hand and waved the tail playfully. "Care to give
it a try?"
"I hate you," I groaned as he started to ease the plug inside of me, even if my
pussy was wet as soon as he opened the flap and reached for my ass. I leaned
against the bed and moaned as he worked the beads inside of me with only the
tiniest stroke of glycerine, telling me that any more would make the toy slip
out. And oh, the damn fabric of the trousers was so tight it rode up between
the lips of my pussy, chafing me, torturing me. By the time the entire plug had
slid into place, I had soaked the entire crotch; everyone would be able to tell
how aroused I was.
"You total and utter bastard," I groaned into my crossed arms.
He just smacked my ass. "Get up. Try and walk around with it."
But moving hurt; this toy wasn't as enormous as his steel plug, but it was
still not exactly easy to walk while wearing it. And the vibrations, oh, God,
the vibrations: I nearly fainted from the way the heavy metal beads rang
against each other, sending tremors through my rectum, vagina and womb. My
entire pelvis was ringing, humming, my each step turning me into an instrument,
my very body making music for his pleasure. I wanted to panic, wanted to pull
the plug out, that's how intense the sensation was at first, reminiscent of the
first few times Torsten had used toys in my ass. Even if the plug was by no
means as large as his hand, the constant stretch, the constant movement of the
beads against my spinal nerves sent me into a nervous overload. How on earth
was I going to wear this for hours on end?
"Torsten," I moaned, collapsing against his chest, panting.
He just chuckled and held me in his arms. "That good? Do you think you can hold
it in?"
I tried to push the plug out a little, but the end of it had been designed so
that it narrowed just around my sphincter and then flared out both inside and
outside: the tightness of the trousers took care of the rest, securing the plug
in place.
"Yes. For a while at least, I think. What are you going as?"
He opened another hat box and pulled a large, black wolf mask over his head.
"Arooo!"
"I don't believe this," I groaned and buried my face in my hands.
"If it helps you at all, I'm going to be wearing one of these, too," he said
and lifted out a similar plug, with a thick black wolf's tail attached to it.
"But one more thing before we go," he said, removing the mask and sitting down
on the bed, patting his thighs. "Come, kneel here, that's it. You said you were
out of perfume, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Then let me give you the most special perfume of all," he said and took out
his cock and his balls.
He began to rub his genitals against my neck, my face and my throat and I
laughed out loud: this was perfect. Because how different was this, after all,
from the usual scents of musk, civet, castoreum, hyraceum? All these fine
society ladies who sprayed themselves with secretions from animal glands,
smelling like piss and dung, thinking themselves refined, paying hundreds of
dollars for the real thing, and now I got it for free. The true scent of sex,
the animal must of the human rut; I shivered in delight as the wetness at the
tip of his cock, the mixture of seminal fluid and piss and sweat dipped into
the hollow of my throat.
"God, I love you," I laughed, shaking my head.
He chuckled, cupped my head in his hands and kissed me. "I knew you didn't
truly hate me."
"I still do, a little, you know."
"Then I'm just going to have to fuck you all the harder for that tonight,
aren't I, my little vixen?" he laughed against my lips.
***
Arm in arm, wolf and fox we strolled into the ballroom, our tails a-swinging.
Torsten's tuxedo jacket and the fluffiness of my tail were enough to cover the
flaps in our trousers; no one could have told our tails did disappear inside of
our bodies, and we relished this. I could feel his erection as we danced
together, feel that he was even more aroused than usual; his body was at times
trembling against mine, the way he was always so overwhelmed every time his ass
was stimulated in some manner. In fact, I was jealous of how much more amazing
the beads must have felt inside of a man's body, knowing how much more
sensitive his anus was, how sensitive his prostate, when even my own
experiences of anal pleasure had always been sublime. I adored the way the toy
felt inside of me, the thrill of wearing it in public, the way its constant
vibrations made me shimmer, glow with desire.
"These beads are a work of genius," I purred against his neck, my pussy heavy,
rich with sap. "Can you smell me?"
"We've got to find someplace to fuck," he groaned in my ear, the soft fur of
his mask brushing against my neck. "I'm ruining my trousers."
"This early?" I laughed and ground my hips against his, thinking to tease him a
little. "We haven't even been introduced to all the guests yet."
But it was then that an awful, shrill laugh pierced the air behind us. I turned
to see who it was, and it was a redheaded woman in a pink cat costume,
pretending to be clumsy so that she could get men to mop champagne off her
breasts, giggling in a most vapid manner. I hated her immediately, hated her
childishness and the squeakiness of her voice, hated her affected manners. But
we didn't manage to dodge her in time: now, she fell over us, spilling her
champagne all over Torsten's tuxedo front.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" she giggled. "This stuff makes me so tipsy, you see," she
said, snorting a little as Torsten began to wipe us clean--I could tell he was
not happy and wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible.
"Please excuse my manners," she cooed, offering her hand for kissing. "Mrs.
Vera Segert. I can pay for the dry cleaning bill. My husband always says I
shouldn't drink at all--he's a doctor, you see--"
My heart stopped and crashed through the floor. Vera Segert. Vera Segert. The
wife the bastard had been telling me about, the wife he had told me he was
about to divorce, suspecting she had been unfaithful to him. No wonder, I
thought: her costume was even more blatantly sexual than mine, revealing more
of her breasts and her back than it hid, her manner vulgar, cheap, that of a
woman not of breeding but who had only got far in life because of her looks.
Segert deserved her, I thought, with some sick satisfaction; I was really not
surprised he was the type to marry such a stupid little doll. Nor would I have
been surprised had it been she he had acquired his venereal diseases from.
I was stunned for long moments, only barely heard Torsten introducing us to her
by some false names--Hans Walter? What an awful name, the name of some pudgy
blond German boy in lederhosen! He was clearly running out of ideas. And did I
truly look like a Roberta?
"Where's your husband?" Torsten asked Vera pointedly, but of course, she was
completely oblivious to the barb.
"Oh, dear, sweet Gustaf! He stayed at home to take care of Stefan--the poor
thing had that flu that's been going around--but he knew how important this
party was and how I couldn't possibly miss it--they're probably going to come
and pick me up soon, and I so hate to leave early--"
"You have a son?" Torsten asked. Torsten turned to look at me and what I saw in
his eyes horrified me, thrilled me; even through the eye-holes of his mask, I
could see he was smiling. In that moment, he was no longer pretending to be a
wolf, oh, no; he was a beast all right, and had scented a fawn.
"Oh, yes, and he's just at that age when you can't control them, you know, the
storms of puberty and all that, and we should be looking for a job for him this
summer, but all he wants to do is play baseball!" she tittered.
Half of her words passed me by; I kept staring at Torsten. Gustaf Segert had a
son. The bastard had a son. Oh, this would be so much better than just
murdering Segert, so much more satisfying. Now, we could truly make him suffer.
Torsten's cock shifted in his trousers, and Vera assumed it was at her, but I
knew it was our shared inspiration that he now stirred at, our shared evil that
aroused him so.
Slowly, carefully, Torsten tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. "What a
coincidence. I have been looking for a secretary, you see," he purred at Vera,
slinking his hips. "Nothing too demanding, simply the posting of letters, that
sort of thing."
"Oh, but he's much too young for office work," Vera lisped, wringing her hands.
"And he simply doesn't understand letters or numbers," she snickered, "takes
after his mother."
"A pool boy, then," I said, half-jokingly.
Vera clapped her hands together and cried out in delight, her mouth an O, her
eyes wide. "But that's perfect!" she cried.
I could not believe what I saw, as if I had fallen into some absurdly awful
farce, but her reaction was genuine. Torsten and I looked at each other,
astounded. Finally, he cleared his throat and bowed. "I'll see to it." He gave
Vera one of his business cards, and I could see him going through several, so
that he gave her one that matched the name he had given her. "But now, if
you'll excuse me, my wife and I must dash."
"Of course!" she squeaked. "Thank you ever so much, Mr. Walter." Smiling, she
skipped back to her admirers, jiggling her buttocks and her breasts.
"I don't believe it," I murmured as Torsten took me by the arm and dragged me
out of the ballroom. "What just happened?"
"I don't know, but I am feeling all Greek all of a sudden," Torsten laughed, a
laughter so high it had turned into a shrill giggle by the time we had reached
the nearest broom closet, just behind the cloakroom.
"We haven't even seen the boy yet, and already you've seduced him! Do you think
he's as ugly as his father?"
"Or as terrible a slut as his mother?" Torsten cackled as he tore off our
masks, devouring my mouth with furious force. He couldn't wait and neither
could I; we groped, squeezed each other violently, desperate for release.
"Fuck--!" he groaned and slammed me face against the wall, lifted the flap
underneath my tail and pushed his cock straight into my pussy.
I screamed, but he clapped his hand over my mouth; I was shocked at how little
it hurt to be fucked even with the plug inside of me, that's how wet I was. Our
criminality, our utter evil drove our lust to a fever pitch; he pummeled into
me with such force I was lifted onto my toes, my face burning against the brick
wall. I clawed at the wall so violently I broke two nails, howled into his hand
as with each one of his thrusts, the spheres vibrated inside of me, making me
gush wildly over his balls, wetting my thighs. He was moaning in my ear,
drooling in its whorls, panting, disgusting; his sperm so voluminous it burst
out of my pussy, yet he kept on fucking me. He tore at my breasts, spun me
around on his cock so that he could kiss me, lifting me up so that I was held
up only by his arms, his hips and the wall.
"You pederast," I moaned into his mouth, clawing at his hair as I held onto
him, milking him with my pussy as much as I could. "You molester, you candyman,
you--"
And now he roared into my mouth, biting my tongue until my slurs turned into
screams, his hips beating into my buttocks, my head hitting the wall so hard I
saw stars. "It's what you made me into, you little slut," he hissed, "showing
off your little baby pussy, jiggling your tits, your sweet little candy ass--"
"Fuck me, Daddy," I panted against his mouth, my mouth drawing a bloodied
stripe against his moustache. "Fuck me like you'll fuck that little child; fuck
me, fuck me," I howled, he pounding into me with such rage I came on and on
around him, the vibrations enveloping my entire body, enveloping him, rings and
rings of pleasure cascading around us both. I was sucking him inside of myself
with my contractions, my Daddy so deep in my pussy, my little baby pussy,
filling the entire closet with its sweet scent.
He slapped me, hard, and pulled back so fast I fell into a heap on the floor.
"Get up," he said, jerking his cock, licking my blood off his lips, rocking his
hips. I could tell he was clenching his ass around his tail, his cock entirely
wet, slick in his fist. "Face against the wall, ass up, just like that," he
said and lifted my tail to rest across the small of my back. "Fuck. You should
see yourself."
But I could imagine it: my entire body encased in tight, white fabric, only the
pink wetness of my full, flushed pussy sticking out of it, and I shuddered.
"You should take a photo when we get home," I said, rocking my ass at him,
biting down on a moan as a rivulet of sperm pursed out of my pussy and splashed
onto the floor.
"I will," he groaned as he began to ease the tail out of me with little dips
and thrusts, snorting between my buttocks as he licked every inch of the plug,
hissing as he adored my gaping flesh. "But now, quiet," he said and brought the
plug to my mouth, "or someone will hear."
Greedily, whorishly I moaned around the plug, so sweet and warm and slick from
my ass, shuddering around the taste. But oh, oh, the pain as he spat on his
cock and started to push it inside of my ass, the walls of my rectum so sore
from the toy, from its curves: I was glad of the plug and bit down on it hard,
screamed into it so that now the spheres were vibrating inside my skull.
And it was because of my screams that I didn't at first hear it, the creak of
the door; the flashes of pleasure had so blinded me I did not realise there was
more light coming in through now, that we were being watched.
But Torsten had noticed, and now, he stopped, and I craned my head to see who
was at the door.
I could see the silhouette of a scrawny, adolescent boy, the yellow light of
the corridor glancing off his ginger hair.
"Stefan! Stefan! You're not supposed to go in there! Come on, we're leaving!
Hurry up!" Vera's shrill voice rang in the cloakroom.
Torsten snorted and burst into laughter, a laughter wild, raucous, awful; the
boy leapt in fright and ran.
***** Chapter 9 *****
It was decided. We were going to seduce a child. I marvelled at how natural
this felt to me, how I had no qualms about it, having discovered sexuality as a
child myself. They said that people who had a taste for the young had been
taken at a young age themselves, didn't they? Torsten said that in this, too, I
was thinking like the homosexual: he did not know a single one who hadn't once
been molested by older men. The only thing that felt wrong to me about this
endeavour was that I was convinced the boy was going to enjoy himself--it would
only be Segert himself who would feel violated at us having corrupted his son.
And as having sex with an older woman would be nothing but a feather in a young
man's cap, it was essential that we seduce the boy into homosexuality as well;
that we awakened in him the very perversions his father despised and wanted to
eradicate from the world.
And what a pretty little debauchee our Stefan would make. He was just about to
turn fourteen, and had already started on his growth spurt; he was a little
taller than me, all thin and gangly. His eyebrows and eyelashes were
surprisingly dark, dark gray and mahogany, so that he did not look as eerily
colourless as most redheads: his eyes were wide, blue-green, excitable. But oh,
how fair he was, how translucent his skin: every time I gifted him with a kind
word or a smile, it wasn't just his freckled cheeks that flushed scarlet, but
his neck and chest as well.
He wasn't the brightest of lads, but not completely useless either, so in
addition to cleaning the pool, he would run small errands for us, handle
Torsten's correspondence, take calls from our business partners. We paid him
handsomely for it, made sure to treat him with excessive kindness so that he
took a liking to us, practically worshipped us. He looked up at Torsten in awe,
said he wanted to become a businessman just like him--the irony, when Torsten
knew more about grooming than business and I was still the one who handled most
of our affairs!
And it was in grooming that Torsten educated the boy the most: he showed him
how to apply pomade (with my protestations ringing in their ears!), even had a
fine, dark blue suit made for the lad, the first one he'd ever worn, he told
us.
"I've never had a boy that young, in fact," Torsten said as Stefan left the
office, whistling in delight. Torsten lit a cigarette and leaned back in his
chair, sighing happily. "But there's a first time for everything."
"He's older than I was when you first had me," I said and lit a cigarette
myself, sprawling on the office sofa, already assessing it for seduction
purposes. It was a heavy, sturdy Chesterfield upholstered in blood-red leather,
perfect for fucking. "Was I the youngest you'd ever had?"
"I think so, yes. Berlin was full of child prostitutes, you know. Thousands of
them. They would jump you at the train station, try and drag you into alleyways
by your sleeve wherever you went. I regret never having given them a try; I was
too busy enjoying all the grown men on offer. Everything you've ever heard
about that place was true; it was Heaven if you wanted another man's cock in
your ass. All gone, now, of course."
"Your first time. How old were you?" I asked, realising I had never asked him
this before. It was hard for me to imagine Torsten ever not having been sexual.
He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, lost in thought. "Depends on what you
count. Fumblings with other boys, or being taken?"
"Being taken."
He thought of it for a while, then grinned widely. "I must have been around
twelve, I think. 1905. God, now you're making me feel old," he laughed. "The
doctor's office at school. I was a very beautiful young boy, you see," he
drawled. "They tested whether we had reached sexual maturity by doing this
thing with a cold spoon where they cupped our balls, to see if our genitals
would react to touch."
"Really?" I sputtered.
He nodded. "Yes, really. Standard procedure."
"I just had a nurse peeking into my panties to see if I had grown pubic hair,"
I murmured. "And asking if I'd been bleeding yet."
He laughed, revelling in his telling me this tale, twisting sensually in his
chair, leaning out of it like a girl gossiping with another. "He was surprised
to see how big I was already. And would you believe it, he sank down onto his
knees and sucked me!"
I rolled my eyes. "Unbelievable."
"You wound me."
I shook my head. "I apologise. I should no longer be surprised at all. Go on."
"I'd already been fingering myself when masturbating, you see, and knew how
these things worked. So I just bent over and offered him my ass. It hurt a
little at first, but with a few dollops of vaseline, he was in and I had the
biggest orgasm of my life. Completely ruined his desk with it, too, I'm glad to
report. There's probably still a medical file on me in a cabinet somewhere,
stained with my come," he laughed and blew smoke out of his nostrils.
"What about women?"
He stumped his cigarette. "Ah, now that's a longer tale, and a more complicated
one at that. I'll tell you some other time."
"As long as you do, Daddy," I said, kissing his cheek as he sat next to me and
put his arm around me. "Was it an older woman, too? Because if it was, you have
to tell me. I need to know what to do if I'm going to seduce a boy."
He rested his hand on my thigh and rubbed it. "Just appeal to his natural
instincts. He's at an age where he'll be stiff just from seeing a woman, or
feeling a gust of wind on his fly, trust me. No complicated seductions are
needed; stir him a little until he's hard, and then you can just take him by
the prick and lead him wherever you want."
"You talk like Mae West," I laughed.
He hooked his finger into my collar and pulled me close. "Why don't you come up
and see me," he drawled, and I laughed into his kiss.
***
I stretched out on my lounger beside the pool, grinning to myself as I
contemplated the scene, the lady of the house teasing the pool boy. It was
straight out of a pornographic pulp novel, this entire setting, and Stefan was
playing into my hand beautifully. I was wearing my skimpiest swimsuit, all
white and with no skirt part, so that my nipples and the curves of my pussy and
my ass could easily be seen through it. Little Stefan was nervous already as he
fished debris out of the pool, working more slowly so that he could keep on
staring at me; I pretended to focus on my book and tried not to laugh out loud.
When he finished, it looked as if he really didn't want to go, hesitating with
his tools, not taking them to the shed yet.
"Stefan," I crooned, smirking at him.
He dropped his net so that it clattered onto the concrete. "Yes, m'am?"
"Come here," I said, turning to sit on the side of the lounger so that as I
moved my legs, he could see the outline of my pussy. I took out a jar of suntan
lotion and held it out to him. "I was going to put some on, but it's hard to
reach my back. Would you mind?"
"Oh, it's not a problem, m'am, not a problem at all," he said and walked over
to me. He was flushed all over again, the flush disappearing into the collar of
his short-sleeved shirt, and I fancied I could see a little tenting in his
shorts already. He nearly fell over as he couldn't decide whether to sit next
to me on the lounger or to remain standing, not sure of what would have been
more appropriate.
"Sit," I said, patting the lounger, and casually, slid down the shoulder straps
of my swimsuit, turning my back to him. I bit my lip as I pulled the swimsuit
even lower, so that now he could see I had bared my breasts, but he couldn't
see them: the perfect tease, giving him just a little but not enough. "Just the
back, go on."
"Y-yes, m'am," he said, and the way he fidgeted with the jar, I was worried he
would break it.
But as his hands, his fumbling, long-fingered boy's hands touched my back, I
was charged with an exquisite sense of power. I had never felt so grown up, so
much a woman of the world before, an experienced seducer, taking what I wanted
and using my voluptuousness as my weapon. Is this what Torsten had felt when he
had taken me, I wondered? The initiator, the priest about to perform the sacred
rite of deflowering as an offering to Venus and Priapus? Because that's how I
felt, taking this boy by the hand and leading him to manhood, my breasts
swelling, my nipples crinkling, a soft warmth spreading from my pussy into my
hips. I even moaned a little, groaned in delight as he kneaded my back, smiling
over my shoulder at him.
"That feels good," I said, my voice thick from lust, the exact same croon I
gave to Torsten over my shoulder whenever he was fucking me deep, deep, deep in
the ass.
But now Stefan had run out of skin to rub cream into and he held his palms up,
not knowing where to put his hands. Without further ado, I turned around, my
breasts still bared, and began to dry his hands with my towel.
"What's the matter, Stefan?" I asked. "The cat got your tongue?"
He just stared at my breasts and swallowed. "N-no, m'am."
"I saw you looking at me earlier," I said, mock-scolding--and oh, now the boy
was terrified! "You are a naughty little peeping Tom, aren't you, Stefan?"
He now stared at the towel instead. "I'm sorry."
I laughed and tossed the towel aside and brought his hands to my breasts. "You
can touch them if you like. Have you ever been with a girl?"
"No," he mumbled, now fascinated by my breasts, encouraged by my gesture:
definitely erect by now, he squeezed my breasts a little too hard, a little too
eagerly, testing the way they felt in his hands.
"You have to be a little more careful with them," I said. "But you can pinch
the nipples, like this. Try."
He did, far too fast, far too sudden, and a jolt of heat went into my pussy at
his clumsiness; I was swooning against him, my breathing rapid, now, and I
nuzzled his nose with mine. "That hurts, Stefan," I grinned, "but keep going."
"Do you like being hurt?" he blurted, astounded, and immediately let go of my
nipples.
I just brought his hands back to my breasts and dropped a little kiss on his
lips. "Many women do, if it's the right sort of pain," I murmured, moaning as
he pinched me again. "Oh, you're learning. Just like that. Feels really good in
my pussy, too."
He moaned against me, his cheek so soft, his lips such a fresh, glossy pink as
he nuzzled me back, too scared to initiate a kiss, so I did it for him. He
didn't know where to put his tongue, of course, so I just took his mouth with
mine, sure that this was his first kiss, too. Such a delicate, slick, fresh
little mouth, and soon Torsten would fuck it with his cock: I chuckled in
pleasure into his mouth, drunk from my own evil.
"Let's see what you've got here," I crooned and undid his fly. His cock stood
up hard, as hard as only a teenaged boy's can: sadly, it was as small as his
father's, and I doubted it would ever grow much past its current length. My
palm covered the entirety of his shaft, the head of his cock bright, rosy,
shining as I slid down his petal-soft foreskin. "Do you like that?" I asked as
I began to stroke him.
"Yeah," he whimpered, his voice breaking, his hips jerking against me, he
losing control completely. "Oh, but that feels so good, m'am; please don't
stop, please."
"I won't, if you promise not to tell anyone," I said, as if Torsten wasn't
hiding behind us in the bushes, listening to us this very minute. "Then we can
do this again. Do you promise?"
"I-I promise," he whimpered, but then he was coming, gasping, moaning, spilling
all over my hand. "I'm sorry; I really am, I'm so sorry," he muttered and
started to mop up the mess with the towel.
"Never mind," I said and tucked my breasts back into my swimsuit, my pussy now
having soaked through the fabric. "But you must go home now; it's already past
five. I don't want your parents to get worried."
"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asked, now a little bolder; I found this
adorable.
I stroked his cheek and gave him a slow, deep kiss. "I will. Hans will be away
all day, and I have so many things to show you. It'll be our special day, I
promise."
He was beaming. "I'll see you tomorrow, then!" he said. He even kept looking
back at me several times as he left, not believing his luck.
"Now, that was exquisite," Torsten said after the sound of Stefan's bicycle had
retreated into the distance. "A seduction worthy of the Barring name," he
purred as he slid off my swimsuit and buried his face in my pussy. "God, I
could smell this from seven feet away," he groaned.
"And I learned all my tricks from my Daddy," I said, pushing my pussy into his
face, now blind from frustration. "God, I can't wait any longer; the little
bastard drove me mad. Fuck me. Hard."
"With pleasure," he murmured onto my lips with a pussy-sweet kiss. As he rocked
himself inside of me, his cock was as hard as rock even if he wasn't wearing a
single ring or strap, so aroused had he been by the sight. But oh, his cock,
his cock, just what I had wanted, the cock of a grown man, just as big as I
needed it to be, he taking me with such force I screamed.
***
The next day was to be office duty for little Stefan; he arrived wearing his
suit--and far too much cologne. This filled me with a sickening revulsion
immediately, as the cologne was his father's; it nearly killed my desire dead.
"You shouldn't wear that awful stench," I said, blunt from the force of my
shock, trying to suffocate my traumatic flashback underneath a confident tone
of voice. "It doesn't suit you."
"Really?" his face fell.
"Yes, really. And it gives me a headache; I can't stand that particular smell.
Reminds me of hospitals. I will let you have a look at Hans's colognes later;
his taste is very refined. But we'll get to that once you've sorted out the
paperwork; then we can play. All right?"
Stefan nodded. He'd never gone through the papers as fast as he did today: he
was done in under an hour. I strutted into the office, carrying a tray of
coffee and biscuits, wearing a tight dress of black satin with a very short
skirt. His awkwardness immediately made me feel better: in fact, the scent of
the cologne served to remind me of who it was that I was now truly subjugating
with the force of my body, my sexuality. That the son should be swallowed by
the exact thing his father hated--oh, bliss. Again, I deliberately flashed
Stefan as I sat down on the sofa; I crossed my legs so slowly he could get a
good look at my stocking tops, perhaps even a glimpse of my bare pussy
underneath.
"All done?" I said, sipping from my coffee, glancing at him slyly from
underneath my lashes.
He turned around in Torsten's chair, dipping the pen back into the inkwell with
a flourish. "Yes, m'am."
"Call me Roberta."
"Roberta, Roberta," he said, sitting next to me on the sofa, quivering like a
hound from his excitement.
"Please, have some coffee, Stefan."
"Not now," he beamed, "I'm only interested in you, Roberta." He was unable to
tear his eyes off me, adoring my face, my hair; I was quite taken by this. Was
this what normal girls of my age felt, being courted by teenage boys? He was
only four years younger than I, after all.
"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," Stefan said, his voice
breaking a little again; he forced it to a lower register, trying to sit up
straight, eagerly rushing towards manhood now that I had led him to its
threshold. "Why on earth--and I apologise if I'm insulting you, Roberta--" he
clasped my hand with his.
"Yes?"
"Well... it's just that you're so young and so beautiful. Why on earth did you
marry an old man?"
My heart fell. I had been expecting that question; I knew he was going to ask
it, yet I still hated him for it.
"You are insulting me."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Never ask a woman that. Even if she had married an old man for his money, you
would still be implying she was prostituting herself. It's rude. Incredibly
rude."
"But was that the reason?"
I pulled back my hand, now truly angry. He was such a stupid, stupid child. "I
should slap you."
"I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that, but you're not. Stefan, you've seen Hans--you
practically adore him. Why, then, would it be so hard for you to understand
that I love him? Because I do. From the bottom of my heart," I said, hating
myself for getting so emotional, my throat dry, constricted.
But it was Stefan who now cleared his throat. "Then what are you playing at? I
might be just a kid, but I'm not stupid." And to my great astonishment, he took
my hand and laid it over his erection, a vulgar, awful act, something I would
only expect from a dirty old man. A man like his father, in fact. And with
similar arrogance, similar laconic matter-of-factness, he now addressed me,
squeezing my hand around his little prick. "You might love him, Roberta, but
you wanted this, and you still do."
In order not to punch him, I shut him up with a kiss. He responded
passionately, so I considered the matter closed, kneading his erection just a
little too hard to punish him a little. The little bastard was so full of
energy, so full of health; I felt so jealous of him that this jealousy now
twisted like a basket full of snakes in my gut. I wanted not only to fuck him,
but to tear into his beauty and suck him dry, to take his health and give it to
Torsten. Oh, what a fool I'd been, never having found vampire myths that
interesting: now that I had the shadow of death hanging over me and my
happiness, I truly understood how someone might want to become one. If this
boy's blood could make us live forever, or even give us a few more years of
health, I'd exsanguinate him immediately, and I knew Torsten would do the same.
Speak of the Devil: for it was now that Torsten chose to manifest himself,
clearing his throat pointedly, and we saw him lounging against the doorframe
with his hands in his pockets.
"Mr. Walter!" Stefan squeaked, taking his hands off me as if he had been burnt.
"I can explain, I--please don't tell my parents, I'll do anything you say--"
Torsten quirked his eyebrow. "Anything? I might just take you up on that offer,
young man," he chuckled, his smile jagged, hideous, sending a chill down my
spine. He pushed himself off the doorframe with his hips, slinking into the
room with an exaggerated feline laziness. "Now. What am I going to do with
you?" he purred, obviously relishing the chance to use that phrase.
I pulled my skirt down a little; his stern manner frightened me so that I
didn't have to act shocked. In seconds, Torsten was upon me: he grabbed me by
the hair and yanked my head back violently. "Did you really think you could get
away with it, you little slut?" he laughed, his chuckle cold, his smile never
reaching his eyes. But now, he turned to Stefan instead, still holding me by
the hair, shaking me a little in the way he knew would make me wet. "She's a
nymphomaniac, you see. Do you know what that word means? It's a woman who can't
get enough sex. You aren't the first one she's tried to seduce."
"I'll never touch her again, I promise," Stefan said, moving backwards on the
sofa.
"Ooh, no, no, no," Torsten tutted, pouting. "But that's exactly what I want you
to do," he said and shook me by the hair again. "Roberta here is going to do
what she set out to do and you're going to do likewise." He let go of my hair
and slid into his chair. "And I am going to watch."
Stefan looked at Torsten, then at me, then at Torsten again, his mouth gaping.
"I--"
"Do as you're told, and you might keep your job. I told you I'd make a man out
of you, Stefan, so we might as well go all the way," Torsten said and gave his
groin a little stroke.
"You're a disgusting pervert," I spat, my entire body now in a chaos of hatred
and lust. The way Torsten sprawled in his chair and leered at me made my pussy
squeeze hungrily; at the same time, I wanted to slap him. There were so many
things about Stefan that put me off him, and I knew Torsten derived more sexual
satisfaction from this than I ever could.
Yet I knew we had to go through with this. Therefore, I was determined to get
some pleasure out of this at least, and that meant that I had to become the
sadist, had to twist this entire scenario into something that gave me
satisfaction through simple revenge alone.
Torsten nodded. "Show me how you were going to seduce him. Go on."
"What if I refuse to play?" Stefan said.
"Refuse?" Torsten laughed, as if what Stefan had just said was one of those
quaint little utterances parents so adored in their children. "I don't think
you want to, do you? I mean, look at her. She's a delicious little piece of
ass. And you wouldn't want me to tell your parents that I caught you fondling
her, now do you? Therefore, you," he pointed to Stefan and then me, "fuck her,"
and then he pointed to himself, "I'll watch and we'll all keep quiet about it,
and we'll all benefit. Is that such an unreasonable arrangement?"
"No," Stefan murmured, and he was still erect; it's as if his fright had
aroused his desire even further.
"Then let me help," Torsten purred, his voice now soft, fond. "We'll take her
together, like men," he said and stepped out of his chair, ruffling Stefan's
hair. "It'll be our little secret. Now." He began to undo Stefan's tie, and
Stefan had never quivered more: Torsten's touch froze him, widened his pupils
even more than the sight of my breasts had done. "We'll need this to tie her
hands behind her back so that she won't squirm too much, you see," Torsten said
and did so; "I am going to show you how to maintain discipline in your
household."
Oh, God. I hadn't expected this, but of course, Torsten was never going to do
anything halfway. I screamed as he dragged me away from the sofa and sat in his
chair, draping me over his lap for a spanking.
He lifted up my skirt and whistled, pretending to be surprised. "Would you look
at that! No panties whatsoever! Now, Stefan, what do we call a girl like this?"
Stefan swallowed. "I--I don't know."
Torsten let out a snorting laugh and danced his fingertips across my buttocks,
each one of his chuckles making my pussy clench over and over. "Come on. Begins
with an S."
Stefan still hesitated a little, as if I was about to explode at him if he used
that word, as if Torsten was going to explode at him if he didn't. "A slut?" he
croaked, finally.
"Right the first time," Torsten said, then gave my ass a hearty smack. "Here,
come closer." He positioned us so that my ass was now inches from the sofa; I
could feel Stefan's body heat. "I want to show you something. Ever looked at a
woman down here? No? Not even in photographs?"
"Some," Stefan murmured.
"Bet you've never seen a shaven one," Torsten said as he spread my buttocks
with both hands and displayed my pussy to him. "Take a look at that. All
smooth, just like a little girl's. Turns her on, you see. To play a little girl
to an older man. Doesn't it, my dear?" He smacked my ass once more.
"You bastard," I groaned, still playing my part, even if my insult was
heartfelt.
He just took my hair and shook my head by it again, his other hand's fingertips
over my pussy, pressing against the opening of my vagina. This way, he could
feel me clenching at each shake, my masochist's body hopelessly responding to
the pain with keen arousal; I could feel his cock shifting against my belly
from his own sadism in turn. "She loves this, too," he crooned, lifting strings
of my wetness out for Stefan to see. "That's how wet a girl gets when she's
really aroused, you see. Here, you give it a try."
Stefan said nothing; even if I couldn't see his face, I could feel his
adolescent curiosity, the way his body was drawn to mine by the pull of his
hormones, by the sheer erotic magnetism of my bare sex. I could feel his breath
on my pussy, and there they were, his clumsy, fumbling boy's fingers: he
skimmed my slit at first and I pulsed again. Torsten must have been guiding
him, however, because soon he was pushing two fingers inside of me, far too
swift, so roughly it hurt: I cried out and kicked reflexively, trying to shake
him out of me.
"Stop!"
"What was that?" Torsten laughed and shook me by the hair once more. "You
wanted a boy's fingers in your pussy, and now you've got them. If anything, you
should be thanking me for being such an understanding husband. Stefan, fuck her
with them."
But Stefan hurt me; his long, hard fingers seemed endless as they probed me,
explored me, withdrawing and then pushing deeper again: I cried out in true
pain, howling and kicking in Torsten's lap, but he held me still. "I can't hear
you," Torsten sing-songed. "Where's my 'thank you?'"
"Thank you," I moaned, just so that he would stop; the very moment I did, he
gestured for Stefan to withdraw.
"Taste them, go on," Torsten said. "Sweet, isn't she?"
"Oh, my God!" Stefan said, genuinely astounded.
"Not all women taste as sweet as she does, so you are a very lucky young man. I
don't share her with just anyone for this very reason. I want to keep her pussy
fresh, you see," Torsten leered, his tongue smacking wetly in his mouth,
disgusting. "Let's see if we can make her even sweeter," he said and slapped me
across the buttocks, then, a dozen hard strokes, burning my ass so sweetly that
my arousal rose once more.
"Stop!" I moaned again, knowing how much this would turn Torsten on; he gifted
me with half a dozen more slaps, my vulva now so swollen each one of his
strokes met it. He kept on smacking me, now hitting me directly over the pussy,
so that his hand was completely smeared from my juices. But he wasn't sated
with that: finally, finally he pushed his fingers inside of my pussy, his
heavenly, skilled fingers, the fingers that knew exactly where to press and
rub. He fucked me with his hand, fucked me so perfectly I spasmed in his lap,
so close to orgasm now, feeling as if my head was about to explode from all the
blood that had rushed to it, the way I was now hanging off him.
"Please, please, please," I cried.
But I should've known he wouldn't make it so easy for me. With a nauseating
slosh, he yanked his fingers out of my pussy, then sucked them, moaning around
them theatrically. "Mmm. Delicious. Go on, my boy," he said, his own voice now
reedy from desire as he spread my pussy out for Stefan to see. "Taste it. Give
it a little lick. Every woman loves that, but it's the sluts who love it the
most."
I expected Stefan to hesitate, but Torsten had barely finished his words when
the boy's knees thudded against the floor and his face was buried in my pussy.
A child's face in my pussy, lapping at me; I was reminded of one bizarre
drunken night when we had stayed at Helena's and one of her dogs had started to
lick my pussy mid-sex. And Torsten had encouraged the dog, just as he was
encouraging Stefan, now: I braced my hands against the arm of the chair and
looked over my shoulder, and Torsten was caressing Stefan's head with what
almost looked like tenderness. Torsten, with his cock hard against my belly,
his fingers carding greedily through the red gold of Stefan's hair: it was this
sight, the sheer perversion of it that aroused me far more than Stefan's tongue
did. Finally, I started to relax into this, now that I had fully become an
instrument of Torsten's once more, the wicked smile he flashed me sending
ripples of heat all throughout my hips. He was using this child as a sex aid,
moving his head on my pussy as if he would a toy, and this was what brought me
to the brink of orgasm, an orgasm of sheer hatred and spite--
But it was then that he yanked Stefan's head back by the hair and kissed him.
Stefan screamed into his mouth, jerked in his grip, clutching at my thighs, the
chair: it was a beautiful cry, a deflowering in and of itself, a pederastic
rape in a simple kiss. I moaned, wave after wave of pleasure washing through my
womb as I watched Torsten sucking on Stefan's tongue, smearing his face with
his spittle and the fluids of my pussy. I writhed, so desperate to come, trying
to rub myself against Torsten's legs, trying to squeeze my thighs and my pelvic
muscles to make myself come, but I couldn't, I couldn't.
At that, Torsten let go of Stefan and licked his lips. "Get your dick out. I
want to see you fuck her pussy," he groaned, his voice thick from lust and
phlegm.
It hurt me to try and look over my shoulder, positioned as I was, yet I had to
see this: Stefan fumbled for so long that Torsten became impatient and undid
his fly himself, taking his little cock in his hand and stroking it. "There we
are," he murmured at Stefan and I wondered what he thought of as he felt it,
touched it, its small size making Stefan seem even more like a child; I could
feel Torsten's cock jerking against my belly again.
"That's right," Torsten continued to croon as he guided Stefan's cock inside of
my pussy; I was so wet and he was so small I could barely feel it, only just
past the entrance to my body, not even touching the most sensitive parts inside
of me. A child, a child; I was being fucked by a child, a child that now
responded to Torsten's kiss, to Torsten's hand stroking his buttocks as he
rocked himself into me.
"Please, please, please," I moaned at Torsten, because Stefan wasn't deep
enough, and I needed more, needed Torsten to complete this circuit of
wrongness, needed him to release me from this torment.
"She wants you to rub her clitoris, you see. Do you know where it is?"
"Hmm?"
"Never mind," Torsten laughed and slipped his hand around me. He closed his
hand into a fist and rubbed his knuckles against the top of my slit, grinding
hard into me. "Is that what you want?" he asked as I arched in his lap,
quivering, teetering on the brink. "Hmm?"
"Yes, yes, yes," I howled, tossing my head like a madwoman, "Please, please,
Daddy, please," and as he spat on two fingers from his other hand and pushed
them into my ass, I was finally set free. I howled, howled in gratitude, in
sickening delight as my pussy spasmed around Stefan's tiny, child's penis,
Torsten's hands pushing at me from either side, using my pussy to milk the boy,
oh, God, oh, God. Stefan's voice rang shrill in my ears as Torsten squeezed him
thus, he shivering behind me, thrusting into me with the shortest strokes I'd
ever felt. With our flesh, we now consumed him, took him in, baptised him with
our perversity: the greatness of Torsten's hands, the fatness of my pussy
enclosing his smallness, my pussy now sucking, swallowing up his voluminous,
thick sperm.
Torsten laughed and held Stefan, kissed him as he shivered his last, stroking
his ass. "How does it feel like to be a man?"
"I--oh, God--!" Stefan slid out of me and collapsed onto the sofa.
Torsten had mercy on me and untied me with a kiss, helped me onto the sofa
beside Stefan and then spread my legs. "Look at that, Stefan. You blew quite a
big load, didn't you?" he said, drawing strings of Stefan's come from my pussy,
tasting them, visibly shivering as he feasted on his virgin sperm. Deliriously,
I wondered if he thought of bottling it so that he might use it in one of his
satanic rituals; I wondered if he indeed thought he was nourishing himself
right now, feasting as he was on Stefan's youthful vitality. I lay there and
closed my eyes, feeling, listening for them, Stefan's still-rapid breaths,
Torsten's heavy, rasping ones.
"Come, give her a kiss," Torsten said, guiding Stefan towards me.
Stefan's mouth was warmer, now; he was relaxed, less awkward, sweet as he
kissed me, laughing shyly, a little apologetic. "It's an awful lot. I always
make such a mess; I'm sorry."
"I don't mind," I said and pulled him into my arms, undressing the rest of him
as I continued to kiss him, knowing exactly what Torsten had in mind. I pulled
Stefan's still-hard cock inside of myself again and locked my ankles around his
waist, rocking my hips against him; he penetrated me a little more deeply in
this position so that now I could feel something at least. And the very moment
he cried out in shock, I knew Torsten was upon him: I heard a snuffling,
slurping noise behind me and realised it for that of Torsten's mouth sinking
into Stefan's ass. Stefan clung to me, whimpering in his surprise, his hips
jerking and jerking, his cock twitching a little inside of me as Torsten fucked
him with his tongue; he was clearly horrified, but enjoyed the sensation too
much to stop moving.
"What are you doing?" Stefan asked, his voice so high, now so very confused,
the poor child completely out of his depth. I held his face between my hands,
his cheeks now so full and flushed he looked no more than ten, a babe lost in
the woods of sin.
"Eating your ass," Torsten hissed, smacking both his buttocks, pushing him into
me, using him to fuck me. "Your delicious little ass, God--!" he groaned, and
now I could hear him undoing his belt, heard the metallic sound of a tin of
glycerine opening.
"But it's dirty," Stefan moaned, yet still the little tart kept on moving, now
slipping completely out of me the way he pushed his ass back onto Torsten's
tongue. "Oh--" and now he even farted, yet Torsten laughed raucously into his
ass, lapping up that fart, snorting, grunting in disgusting delight. "I'm so
sorry; I'm so sorry," Stefan sobbed, but soon he could no longer protest as I
slid underneath him and sucked his cock into my mouth.
He would need it for what was coming: roughly, Torsten arranged us so that I
was sitting on the floor, sucking Stefan as he knelt upon the sofa, facing the
wall. From between Stefan's legs, I could glimpse the monstrous beauty of
Torsten's cock, greased up, a gleaming dark red, poised to take. Now this, this
aroused me beyond measure, the pain, the damage we were about to inflict on
him, the sweet cruelty of it swirling hot into my veins. I had to shove three
fingers into my pussy, rub my clitoris with my other hand, reaching for those
places Stefan hadn't reached; I timed my strokes so that the moment Stefan
cried out in pain, a judder of ecstasy went through me.
"Please, please, please, oh, God, what are you doing?" So hopeless, so
helpless, so confused--oh, his whimpers were nectar to my ears; I could see
Torsten's balls jumping from our shared delight.
"I should have thought it was perfectly clear, Stefan, my dear," Torsten
grunted and shoved Stefan against the sofa, dipping his cock into his ass, not
even managing to insert the head yet. "We're fucking you."
Stefan screamed, now, clawed at the leather of the sofa, but I kept on sucking
him: had I been kind, I would have told him to breathe, to relax. But I enjoyed
his stiffness, the way all the hair on his body stood on end, the way his cock
softened completely in my mouth. I drank in his pain like fine wine, my pussy
squeezing around my fingers as I could feel the psychic waves of misery this
moment would send reverberating throughout time. This very moment, this very
act and what it did to little Stefan would break his despicable father's heart,
just like the bastard deserved.
I drew back for breath and adored the way Torsten forced Stefan's ass to yield,
that tiny, milky white ass now impaled by the dark red brutality of Torsten's
cock. That little red ring of flesh looked like an open wound--perhaps there
was a hint of blood, the way Torsten now forced himself inside of him with such
haste, such greed, having waited long enough; I relished the way Stefan's
screams turned into sobs, then died out completely as he could no longer speak
for being so overwhelmed.
Stefan's little, wet cock drooped sadly in front of my face; the only sound in
the room was Torsten's heavy breathing, his puffs as he dipped in and out of
Stefan, so big he could only penetrate him halfway. The brightness of the desk
lamp burned my eyes; my fingertips were now crinkled, so long had I kept
masturbating, mesmerised by this sight.
Finally, Stefan crumpled, fell onto the sofa; the saddest, highest of laments
rose from his throat as he yielded. I could see his cock stiffening again, a
little drop of wetness spurting from its tip as Torsten started to glide in and
out of him more easily. This was what I had been waiting for: not just seeing
him violated, but the horror at his realisation of how good it felt, the way he
was now becoming aware of his own prostate for the first time, the way each
stroke of Torsten's sent another drop of pre-ejaculate dangling from the tip of
his cock.
I rolled my hand around his cock, spreading that sap all over it; I chuckled
against his balls. "How does that feel? I purred.
Torsten rolled his hips, a deep roll, making Stefan howl. "Answer her."
But he couldn't; the poor boy was now crying, weeping, his forearms wet from
where he had been leaning his face into them. "I--I--"
"Am I hurting you?" Torsten asked, as if he cared, rolling his hips once more.
"Hmm?"
"You--you're so good to me, Mr. Walter," Stefan whimpered, hiding his face in
his arms, his flushed, red arms, his shoulders and chest scarlet, his cock
dripping into my hand. "Oh, God, oh, God--"
"Does it feel good?" I asked, kissing the down of his belly, its quivering
muscles.
"Yes," he whispered, his teeth grazing the soft skin of his arm, "yes."
"Then move back onto me," Torsten said gently, "and it'll feel even better.
Angle your hips; show me where you want my cock."
Of course, Stefan keened at that; but I was astonished at the way he now dipped
and curled his back, arched it like a cat, the same way I did whenever Torsten
fucked me in the ass. He moved more loosely, more fluidly, letting out little
noises whenever Torsten hit a spot that gave him pleasure. He was a natural, a
natural, just as we had hoped for, with enough homosexual tendencies in him to
get him addicted to anal penetration for the rest of his life. This was the
true poison we were pouring into his veins: not that of mere molestation, but
the awakening of a desire he would be haunted by until the rest of his days.
"Just like that, Stefan," I crooned at him, stroking my clitoris as I stroked
his cock. "He fucks me like that, too, and it feels so good in the ass, doesn't
it? So good once the pain passes. Like a drug."
"Yes, oh, yes," he sighed, now undulating back into Torsten's thrusts,
Torsten's cock sliding almost all the way in now, absolutely beautiful as it
split him in half. I had to adore Torsten, had to suck his balls, had to lick
his cock as it sunk into this tiny ass, my arousal rising once more; all the
while, I kept stroking Stefan, too. But the poor thing was too overloaded by
sensation to come just yet, I was sure, so I took a break: I needed to be
penetrated myself.
We'd brought the toy box here just in case we should need it, and I took out
the ridged white dildo from the mouth gag, desperate to feel something
intensely contoured against the walls of my neglected pussy. And there I lay,
beside them on the sofa, giving Stefan a good view of my pussy as I masturbated
with the toy, coming fast as I pounded myself with it, coming once, twice.
Soon, Stefan was keening in his throat, clutching his cock, struggling as he
still couldn't come, not while trying to stroke himself and balance on the sofa
at the same time.
"I think you should have mercy on him," I said to Torsten, teasing Stefan by
sucking my juices off the dildo.
"Perhaps," Torsten said, stealing a suck off the toy himself. "Come. Let's turn
around."
And there, we finally gave our catamite his first true anal orgasm: Torsten
sitting on the sofa, Stefan bouncing on his cock, now howling as he sunk onto
it far deeper than before. And I had the best view of it all: Stefan facing me,
impaling his little body on Torsten's cock over and over, his pale thighs
shaking from the strain as he satisfied himself. I only had to kneel at their
feet and suck Stefan's cock into my mouth and he came so hard he nearly fell
off: Torsten had to clutch his hips, grind him hard down onto himself to keep
him still. Even if Stefan had already come once, he still gave me an amazingly
rich, thick mouthful; his sperm tasted sweet, far milder and fresher than
Torsten's.
Of course, I wanted to share this with Stefan, too; I stroked his cock and
kissed that sperm into his mouth. "So, Stefan. How do you like being fucked?" I
asked him sweetly as Torsten kept on rocking into him.
"I--I--" but then his head lolled to the side and he fell back into Torsten's
arms in a dead faint.
At first, I was alarmed, but Torsten just burst into laughter and kissed
Stefan, stroked him into wakefulness. "That happened to me, too, one of my
first times," he said as he caressed Stefan's cheek, still slowly undulating
into him. "Lots of nerves down there, and you get overwhelmed when you aren't
used to it," he said with a fatherly warmth. "But you're all right now, aren't
you?"
"Yes," Stefan smiled and kissed him back, drunk from happiness. "It feels so
good, Mr. Walter, so good."
"I think you can call me 'Hans' by now, my boy," Torsten chuckled and stroked
Stefan's belly. "Now, go and lie down on the floor, face down, that's it. I'm
going to make it feel even better for you," he said.
And oh, but the sight of Stefan's ass--it did not even gape as he slid off,
that's how tiny, that's how tight it still was, but a dark pink slit. I just
curled up on the sofa, perfectly relaxed as I watched Torsten sink into
Stefan's body, now intent on satisfying only himself. It was one of the most
shockingly erotic sights I had ever seen in my life: Stefan's tiny body
entirely covered by Torsten's tall frame, his thin legs clasped together as
Torsten fucked him from behind. All I could hear from Stefan were his
ululations, his little animal howls of shock as Torsten sunk into him deeper
than ever before, no longer holding back his thrusts.
It was a brutal sight, a glorious sight, the beast taking his prey, no longer
just playing with it: the ripples that went through the long muscles of
Torsten's back and buttocks so exquisite I could feel them in my own body. He
threw his hips into his thrusts, long, sweet, then short, spasming, and I knew
he was coming: I adored the way his balls jumped once, twice, thrice as he
poured himself into Stefan's ass, Stefan hiccoughing little sobs into the
carpet as he was thus filled.
They rested on the floor for long moments: I was reminded of the paintings on
old Greek vases, of grown men embracing little boys. Stefan lay curled up in
Torsten's arms, entranced, breathing softly, smiling angelically, his skin
translucent, aglow from his pleasure. Even Torsten did not have the heart to
awaken him from his reverie; he but stroked the boy's arm with his fingertips,
revelling in the softness of his skin, and from his face I could tell he was
lost in his own boyhood memories. And it struck me that he had come full
circle, now, had reached one more milestone in his life, now passing on his own
experiences of older men to the boy in his arms, letting him inherit these
special pleasures men shared with each other.
But that only reminded me of why we were here, of whose son this was, and I
could no longer hold back my disgust. I had come, yes, but what little pleasure
I'd derived from this had been thanks to Torsten's sadism, and my enjoyment at
having corrupted this little brat. I had not felt any true desire for the boy
and I felt cold inside, wanted to cry: this had been but a little detour as far
as I was concerned, but the first step on our journey towards the destruction
of Segert.
Segert. I had the sperm of another Segert inside of my body. I shuddered and
excused myself, rushing into the bathroom so that I could rinse myself
thoroughly.
***** Chapter 10 *****
I am fourteen years old.
I am fourteen years old, and I am just returning home from school. As I open
the door, a gust of wind blows a cloud of birch seeds against my legs, swirling
around my hips and gliding over my breasts. Like sperm, I think; I am being
bathed in plant sperm, the Devil upon the wind scattering his seed all over me,
marking me as his.
I drop my backpack and unlace my shoes, and there's a man in the hallway behind
me, a man in a dark, pinstriped suit, his perfume a woman's.
"Ah, there you are." The man turns around and it's Torsten, Uncle Torsten. Even
if it shouldn't be, couldn't be--he's here too early, he hasn't taken me yet,
not until another year has passed.
Yet it is him. My heart leaps in my chest, but he is upon me already, pressing
me against the wall, his hand sliding up my skirt. I try to scream, but his
other hand comes over my mouth just as the other one reaches my panties.
"My, my. What have we here?" he purrs, and I knew he would say those exact
words before he even uttered them, as if I'd heard him say them in a dream
before, and now I am shivering with déjà vu. He purrs and he purrs, edges
closer and closer. "Will you let Daddy have a taste?"
But he's not my Daddy yet, no, it's all out of skew, or perhaps he has always
been my Daddy, has always been here and I just haven't realised. A part of me
screams and asks what the hell I am doing as I run away, run up the wooden
stairs. It's the part of me that's still scared of him, the part that will
always remain pure, the part he will never cease to chase.
And as I run up the stairs, flight after flight, panting, almost in the attic
now, he follows after. Yet he does not run, no: he just walks, calmly, his
fingers drumming a tattoo against the banister. "What's the matter?" he grins,
his teeth wolf-sharp. "I know what you're hiding underneath that skirt, my
child," he says and licks his lips, his whorehouse-red lips, his always-
gleaming-wet lips.
My heart is pounding, pounding--I am panting, yet he is calm, collected, not a
hair out of place, advancing towards me. I turn and dive through the attic
door, try to hold it shut. I lean against it with all my weight, but with
supernatural strength, he pushes it open as if it were lighter than a feather.
I stagger back, turn around, cobwebs wrapping about my face, my breasts,
suffocating me. Coughing, I am pulled back against the wall, fixed to it by the
cobwebs, the flags, held against it by the spears and the swords, the attic
itself pinning me in place.
The floorboards creak under his feet; his smile flashes in the dark. "Laura,
Laura," he sing-songs, and his steps creak nearer, nearer. And now he is close,
so close, his breath hot upon my face. "What's the matter, what's the matter?"
he sings still, slipping his hand between my thighs. "Daddy only wants to taste
a little piece of your candy."
I scream, but he catches my scream with his mouth. His hand meets my pussy and
I--I am no longer wearing panties, oh, God--I am smooth, I am wet, my pussy
slick underneath his hand.
"There you are, there you are," he croons, taps at my pussy, slaps it. "You
were waiting for me, weren't you?" He brings his hand to his mouth and laps at
it, his tongue wide, an animal's, sucking his fingers, his eyes slitted in
delight. He returns his hand to my pussy and presses, rubs harder. "Your little
pussy all sweet and wet for Daddy."
"Yes," I cry into his mouth, his teeth clashing against mine. "Yes," I scream
as his fingers curl inside of me, as I tremble upon him, against him, coming,
coming. "Yes, Daddy."
He sucks the life out of me as I come, sucking the light of my orgasm out of
me, beginning to glow, turning whiter, whiter. I fall onto the floor like an
old, moth-eaten dress, billow, billow, billow out into dust.
He shines, glows in the darkness of the attic, the white shape of a man, a
white god. The flags unfurl around him and billow as I had billowed, the
cobwebs are swept away; the swords and the lances rattle restlessly. War. He
wants war, he wants to devour, wants to conquer, wants to become whiter,
vaster, swallow the entirety of the Earth within his belly; wants to glow, glow
on until he outdazzles the sun. My Sun-King, my Heavenly Father, my most
radiant: I sing inside of him, now, uncurl inside of him and lift his limbs,
rise from his back a pair of white-hot wings. I sing, sing louder, higher,
higher, a dying soprano, soar as he unfurls his wings and steps forward, and
underneath his feet, nations are crushed--
"Laura! Laura, wake up! You're having a nightmare again. It's not real. Laura,
do you hear me?"
I juddered into wakefulness, my heart pounding like cannon fire. Torsten was
looking into my eyes, holding me by the shoulders, his eyes pale, his face pale
from his illness; I must have awoken him. My pale god, my white god, the
ceiling behind him white, the sheets white.
"Torsten," I slurred, trying to focus on his eyes, my limbs still too heavy so
I couldn't caress his face, even if I wanted to. "I dreamt of you," I
whispered.
"Was I that terrifying?" he laughed a little dryly as he laid down beside me.
But now, I was finally able to move, and I clutched him tight, so tight. "Not
to me, you weren't. But you were terrifying to everyone else. All the time, I
knew that I should be terrified, but I wasn't. We were in Forssa, we were in
the attic--" I frowned; it was so hard to describe the dream. "You kissed me,
and you swallowed me, and then I saw you become a god," I whispered.
He laughed, but that laughter was interrupted by a cough, a cough so violent
and wet he had to reach for his water, his pills.
"Please, not yet," I said, clasping his cock with my hand. "I want you." I knew
the opiates would affect his virility, would make it harder for him to reach an
erection, to have an orgasm for the next few hours or so. "I'm sorry, Daddy; I
know I'm being selfish. But it's as if every day, I need you more and more."
He sipped his water with great difficulty, still coughing. "I understand. But
Daddy's chest hurts very much," he said, hating himself for having to admit it,
using his fatherly tone to be kinder to me while at the same time grasping for
some sort of authority, control. "Let me take them now and I'll do something
about it later tonight, all right?"
"All right," I murmured, hurt, even if I knew he must have been in pain,
feeling deprived and ashamed at the same time.
He swallowed his pills and held me as he waited for them to take effect. "My
poor child. You know I would fuck you all day if I could," he said hoarsely,
his breathing still hitching in his chest. "It's not that I don't want to,
Laura. God--if anything, I want to just swallow you up all the time, even more
now. It's only this fucking pain that stops me," he spat, throwing the sheets
off himself; he was sweating from it. "And I hate you seeing me like this," he
rasped, wincing, closing his eyes.
It was true: I was frightened, seeing my Daddy crumble like this; it was as if
I was crumbling with him, he having been my strength, my inspiration, my love,
my everything. Perhaps my dream had given me what my subconscious needed from
him, feeling it was deprived of both the predation and the strength I so adored
in him. As our mortality crept closer and closer, as the ticking of the clock
grew louder and louder, I became more desperate, wanted each and every one of
our encounters to be like the first. I wanted to be molested by him, consumed
by him, just like in the old days.
And oh, how jealous I had been of Stefan, the way Torsten had turned his
perversion on him these past few weeks. We had even given the boy perfumes and
makeup, had taught him to wear women's underwear, had drugged him and taken him
to a club of ill repute. In fact, we had only just let him go: when we had got
him sufficiently used to drugs and whores, had helped him befriend older
homosexuals, he had sworn he would run away from home--exactly what we had been
hoping for. The night I had seen him in the lap of an old, rich man, squirming
like a girl, off his little head on cocaine, I knew our work was done.
And now, we were once again alone. Always alone, always just the two of us, the
Barrings against the world, and now even this defiant swansong was coming to an
end. We only had a week left in America. A week, and within that week, we were
to dispose of our fortune, murder Segert, leave for New York, then Stockholm.
Then, Forssa. Then, death. Nothing more. The end. I felt I was loose, drifting,
not entirely present in this world any longer, and I knew he felt the same, yet
bitterness still swirled acidic in my chest.
"I read somewhere that love tends to die after two or three years," I whispered
against his chest. "Perhaps this was meant to be; that we were to die before
that could happen, before we would become dull, staid, trapped in old routines
like normal people. Hating each other. Just like all married couples."
"One: we are not a married couple. Two: I strongly doubt whippings and sodomy
could ever be called 'routine.' What we have is far more than that," he said
and kissed my head. "We've talked about this before. I don't want us to bewail
our fate and wring our hands, to be miserable about things we can't change,
when we should be enjoying ourselves instead."
I snorted. "You know as well as I do that it isn't easy, considering."
"You're young," he sighed. "It's easier for me to let go, I suppose; I've had
nearly fifty years. It's easier to become philosophical about it; fifty is more
than some people ever get. It can't be easy when you're just seventeen,
though." He nuzzled my hair, lost in thought. "Perhaps I should release you
from your vows. To let you run off with some nice young man, to live a long and
happy life. Who knows, you might live to a hundred."
"Never!" I screamed, now looking up at him. "It's as if you want to be rid of
me," I spat, wounded to the heart, tears welling up in my eyes. "I haven't had
enough of you as it is, and now you are driving me away when we have so little
time left. I won't have it, I won't!" I shouted, pinning him down to the bed by
the shoulders. "Do you hear me?"
"You're being hysterical." He turned his head and coughed.
"That doesn't mean I'm not right!"
"But you aren't," he growled and yanked my hands off him, flipping me around on
the bed so that he could press me into the mattress with his weight. "If you
think acting like a brat will get me to fuck you right now, you're wrong."
I swallowed tears and phlegm. "Do you want to be rid of me, then?" I asked,
softly.
"No," he said. "I hate myself for saying this, but there's--God--" he laughed,
glancing up at the ceiling. "I must be getting soft, but there's a part of me
that only wants what's best for you. Call it fatherhood, whatever you will. But
I don't want you to be miserable, and that's that." He reached out to caress my
cheek with the backs of his fingers; a gesture so tender that it made me
tremble, tremble the way his cheeks now trembled. "Not my Laura."
I took his hand and kissed his palm. "Your Laura will never leave you and you
know it," I murmured. "There's no going back for me now. I've thought of it so
many times, and all the alternatives horrify me." I would either become a dull,
ordinary person and suppress my natural urges, slowly suffocate myself to
death, or become an alcoholic, a drug addict, an asylum inmate. There was no
future for me, not after what I'd gone through. "There's only one happy ending
for me, and it's with you, Daddy."
He hugged me and sighed deep from his chest, rocking me upon the bed. "Laura,
Laura. I just wish I could give you more. I wanted to give you the world, to
show you everything."
"You have," I said quietly. "I've seen more in three years than most women ever
will in a lifetime. I've just gone through mine faster than most."
"I suppose so," he said, lost in thought.
"Make it special tonight, Daddy," I whispered into his shoulder. "I want to
forget about it all. I just want to be swallowed by you, just like in my
dream."
"I will," he murmured and kissed my mouth.
***
Torsten needed to escape into our play as much as I did: once more, we fell
into the sort of sexual trance I knew would last for days. Even as his body was
slowly dying, he was growing in the soul, becoming more spiritualised,
transcending the limitations of his flesh. We made love more slowly, with an
intense focus, stretching out caresses, tortures, orgasms as if we could
stretch time itself, bend it and shape it, submit it to the service of our
pleasure. It was strangely like those stories I had heard of Oriental monks
approaching death, the ones who would spend more and more time in meditation,
refusing food, spending more time in the spirit world than they did in the land
of the living. And we did exactly the same: we gave away our possessions one by
one and concentrated only on each other, on building ourselves a Heaven through
the erotic, creating for ourselves a Paradise on earth.
When night fell, we no longer turned on the electrical lights in the living
room unless we had to, surviving by candlelight and the light of the fireplace;
he said it helped his aches and pains to be suspended in darkness and warmth.
We had definitely become vampires, I told him, and he hugged me and laughed.
Every night, I built us a roaring fire, making even that into a ritual of
letting go, using old letters, old papers as kindling, burning a part of our
past each night. It was strangely purifying to let go of all the luxuries, the
excesses we had been swimming in for all of our lives--something this spoiled
little brat could never have imagined. Soon, we only owned a few sets of
clothes, a few books, only the minimum amount of furniture.
Yet he would not give up the piano. Each night, no matter how much pain he was
in, he would force himself out of bed and play at least a few of Chopin's
Nocturnes. And there I lay, on the rug in front of the fire, tears rolling down
my face at the beauty of the music, watching our photographs being devoured by
the flames: our smiles, touches, sexes disappearing as smoke into the night
sky. These, we offered to the stars as sacrifice, sending our beauty out into
the heavens, every single one of our pleasures remembered with fondness and
pride, with no regrets.
And tonight, on the eve of murder, we burned the last of the photos: the ones
that had been gracing our altar. We talked about each photo, of what we had
felt when it had been taken, remembering what had brought about each yielding
of the flesh to each extreme penetration, what we had thought of during each
rapturous expression captured by the camera. We shared wine--only one glass
each, so as not to dull our senses too much--and toasted our pleasures,
celebrated our courage, our pagan heroism in the face of a society that had
sought to suffocate our natures.
He wore his corset and his silk stockings; his lipstick left marks on his
glass, his cigarettes. I wore nothing, not even the smallest dab of makeup, my
curls a wild cloud around my shoulders. I smiled at his vanity--I had given up
my lingerie, given up all my erotic costumes except the one I was saving for
our last day, but he insisted the corset helped with his chest, his posture.
"And the stockings?"
He made the moue of a courtesan. "It's because they feel fantastic, you little
trollop. Perhaps I will go to my grave wearing these."
"But we agreed--"
"Yes, yes. I'm joking. I've packed the tuxedo," he smiled and nuzzled my face,
then sighed wistfully. "I guess it's the last time I'll get to feel like a
lady, then," he said, toasting the fire. "I'll drink to that."
And I loved him like a lady: I caressed his face, his chest, his genitals the
way I would caress a woman, adoring his paleness by the flickering flames. I
took him with my mouth, took his ass through his black lace panties until he
was clawing at the rug and gasping at the ceiling, tears running down his
cheeks.
"Laura," he groaned, a cry of desperation, of helplessness.
"I'm here," I said and lifted out my hand, letting him watch as I poured
glycerine on it, letting the drops glisten upon my fingertips in the firelight.
He took all of my hand that night, lying quiet, beautiful there on the rug,
coming countless times before ejaculating. And I let him cry it all out, let
him bid farewell to the woman in him, weeping myself as I watched her die in my
arms. He curled up into a ball as he came for the last time, stroking his cock,
his entire face smeared from kohl as he cast this part of his life, too, into
the flames. I took his cock into my mouth and drank him in, lapped up each
drop, as if by that I could keep Torsten the woman alive for a little longer,
using my fingers to press the last spurts of her out onto my tongue.
"She lives inside of me, now," I murmured as I pulled out my hand and laid it
on his hip, laid down beside him and kissed the tears from his cheeks. "I've
swallowed her. She's safe."
And he cried hysterically after, in the mood swing I recognised so well from my
own anguish after at this act, from having to crash so suddenly into normality
from such an exquisite, heavenly joy. It was no ordinary post-coital tristesse,
it never was, but now he truly broke down, only the corset containing his sobs
as he clung to me, the six-foot-three man curled up in the arms of a girl. The
amounts of opiates he had been taking did not make it any easier: he had not
taken any since the morning and was now crashing into withdrawal, shivering in
my arms, his lacquered fingernails tapping a distress signal against my back.
I only left him to bring some warm water and towels; I washed him there in
front of the fire, undressed him, gave him one of the last shots of morphine we
had left.
"Thank you," he groaned as he collapsed onto the floor, his limbs finally
unfurling in relaxation as the drug rushed into his veins. "Come here," he
slurred and pulled me into his arms. "You should have a shot yourself. Please.
For my sake."
I calculated the doses. We had enough to last us until Sweden, I supposed, but
only just. "But what if you get worse?"
"You wanted me to make it special for you tonight," he said, now so soft and
languid from the drug he didn't sound irritable. "Dream with me, Laura. And
bring the last of the hashish as well. It's in the elephant on the mantelpiece;
I've been saving it up."
To hell with it. I took the morphine, took the last few crumbs of the hashish
with him, and lay beside him. And I was glad I did: I could now feel each one
of his kisses so acutely it sent words, thoughts, colours scattering all
throughout my being; his love, his poetry being poured into me with each and
every one of his touches. We were too lazy from the drug, he too soft to truly
take me, but now we took each other's skin, took each other's psyches, so
completely entwined in each other I did not know where Torsten ended and where
Laura began. I had swallowed him, hadn't I? I giggled, and now he had swallowed
me, too, echoing my giggles, laughing as freely as a child around me, I curling
in his belly, somersaulting there.
He lifted me out of himself, laid me down on the rug, now stirring a little; I
was surprised to see he was half-erect. "And now, it's time for me to truly
swallow you up, my dear," he laughed from between my legs, giving my pussy the
softest of licks.
And each one of his licks curled deep inside my pussy, snaked into my womb, I
thought, curling and swirling up my spine, shooting out of my breasts,
vibrating out of my mouth as moans. I didn't even know if I had come, because
the tremors, the contractions of my muscles were so subdued in the body, yet
enhanced as they passed into my brain, all entwined into one endless,
arabesquing tapestry of pleasure. He licked my body all over, as if he could
see those lines of pleasure, those curlicues, those vines, licking each one of
my veins, each curve and contour of my body, setting me afire.
"Swallow me," I murmured, ruffling his hair, his unkempt hair, his beautiful,
Decadent poet's hair; "eat me, Daddy; eat me up."
And he began to bite me, sending me howling, tossing upon the floor; he had
never bitten me this violently before, bruising me, making my body red all
over. And I adored him, fear but peeking out of the windows of my mind and then
dying as I realised I no longer had to worry about anyone seeing those marks,
about surviving past this week and the next. I was flowing into Paradise
already, into the Paradise of my Heavenly Father's mouth; the sparks of my
pain, the sparks of the fire now glimmering, dancing in his eyes. His cock was
so soft he could only just insert it into my pussy, but he fucked me
nevertheless, undulating into me sweetly; we rolled around on the floor,
enjoying each sensation, stretching each caress, each tremor of the muscles
into eternity.
But he wanted more, always more. He pulled my legs over his shoulders and ate
my pussy, truly ate it, sucking on my folds, biting the lips until I was
sobbing, tossing, twitching upon the floor. Where his cock had been soft, his
fingers weren't; he took the glycerine and eased four fingers into my pussy. He
had never been able to insert his entire hand there because I had found it too
painful, too painful even for him to get pleasure out of my suffering, but now,
with the analgesia brought on by the morphine, I knew he was going to do it.
I had resisted before, had been so afraid, this the last part of me that hadn't
completely surrendered unto him yet. I sobbed at first, yet I knew I had to
yield, like this was some reversal of childbirth in its inevitability. Just
like a child would have come out my body whether I wanted it or not--my
greatest phobia before my sterilisation--Torsten must now enter my body, the
wayward son I had gestated into fatherhood reaching his full, final spiritual
maturity within my flesh. I would not leave this world without having taken him
entire, and I breathed, breathed until I was sure my soul had left my body once
more, had gone, disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling, into the shadows
and lights painted by the dancing flames.
I only came to when he brushed his lips against my clitoris, kissing my mound
reverently. "Good girl." He fluttered his fingertips a little.
"Is it in?" I slurred.
"Yes," he breathed in soft adoration, turning my thigh very gently so that he
might gaze upon my sex better. "It's beautiful, my child. So beautiful, so soft
and tender," he said, "like a--oh, Laura--like a flower around my hand," he
whispered, his breath trembling in awe, his eyes glimmering with tears.
"It hurts," I whispered, yet I did not want him to stop. "It hurts, Daddy."
"Then let me make it hurt less," he said and took my clitoris with his mouth.
He poured more glycerine onto his hand, never ceasing in his sucking of me as
he began to take me with his hand. I could not even breathe, yet I realised I
wasn't holding in my breath either. I was but lying there, completely still, my
chest barely moving: if I drew in deeper breaths I hurt myself, and I did not
want that. I was in a trance state, the mystic rapturous, barely breathing, in
complete, ecstatic union with her God the Father. Thus, I let myself be slain
the way I had slain him earlier that night, as still as a corpse around his
hand. I wondered if he thought of that, and he must have, the way he lost
himself in his tasting of me, his feeling of me, my silence drawing him into a
complete, mystical stillness as well.
Yet, as if terrified by what he had seen, he began to twist his hand, began to
move it more, began to curl his fingers inside of me against the parts he knew
gave me most pleasure. He reached for the back of my vagina behind the womb,
pressing downwards with his fingers, his knuckles rubbing the front wall behind
my clitoris: I cried out a little as I could feel myself trickling into his
mouth.
"Good girl, good girl, good girl," he purred. "Is that piss or come?"
"C-come, I-I think," I croaked through chattering teeth. My entire body awoke
to that caress, now spasming, and I was horrified I might have overdosed, that
I was going into convulsions.
Yet he pulled out his hand entirely, and the convulsions stopped: he pushed
back in and fucked me more gently, only fingering me the same way he usually
did when he wanted to make me come. "You know I wouldn't mind either," he said,
kissing my belly.
"I'm sorry, I can't--"
"You can't what? Piss or come?"
"I don't know!" I groaned, laughing, because that's all I could do, now, laugh,
laugh as he kept on fucking me with his hand.
"Then let me decide for you," he laughed into my pussy. "Come," he said and
sucked my clitoris between his teeth, whipping it with his tongue.
And at that, at the unbelievable pressure of his fingertips behind my womb, I
had no choice but to come: I sprayed his mouth, his chin, he drinking me in
just as I had drunk my fill of him, flowing into his belly, my very soul
pressed into golden honey-wine by his ministrations, flooding him with my love.
The opium elongated my convulsions so that I felt I was orgasming in slow
motion; a slow wave retreating far onto the sea before it came crashing down on
me, blinding me, making me arch off the rug over and over. I laughed
hysterically between my howls, my groans as it went on and on and on, Torsten
scooping it, cupping it out of me with perfect precision, the way only he knew
how to time his thrusts, his finger-curls to my body's tiniest flutters. I
soaked him, washed over him, dyed him deep with my love; still, I shuddered as
I took his wrist and begged for him to take his hand out.
My teeth were still chattering as he hugged me, pulling both of us closer to
the fire. "That was beautiful," he murmured against my forehead; "absolutely
sublime."
"It's because you are," I whispered, not having found my voice yet. "There
never has been and never will be a lover like you, Torsten Barring," I sighed
against his neck, "no matter what anyone says."
He lay quiet, at first surprised that I had used his name instead of 'Daddy,'
but he understood the significance of it, pondering it in his heart. Finally,
he looked into my eyes, solemn, his entire face trembling from emotion. "I'm so
glad I found you," he sighed, and I could hear there were tears in his throat.
"I never would have become that man otherwise." He kissed my eyelids, kissed my
cheeks feverishly, now, his tears wetting my face. "Never, ever, had it not
been for my wonderful Laura, the most amazing little girl in the world."
And I laughed in his arms, laughed and wept, shared in his tears of happiness,
of release, of utter gladness at the beauty of this perfect night, so happy to
be alive.
***** Chapter 11 *****
I was sitting on the patio, waiting for Torsten to get ready when a rustling
noise alerted me: underneath one of the cypress trees lining the driveway, a
cat was torturing a sparrow to death. A good omen for tonight, I thought;
domestic cats rarely wandered this far from the city. I relished the way she
swatted at the bird's wings, tearing them apart and stunning the bird with her
kicks before finally gobbling it up.
The sparrow had it easy: we weren't going to be nearly as merciful to Segert.
I squirmed a little. Torsten had insisted we should both be wearing the plugs--
mercifully, he had taken the tails off them this time--and the cocaine we had
just been snorting now made me restless, anxious to get going. It was almost
five o'clock, and Stefan had told us his father always worked late on
Thursdays, staying at the hospital long into the night. It had been then that
I'd remembered that yes, it was on Thursdays that Segert had usually invited
his doctor friends to visit the hospital, wasn't it? When he had showed me and
the other patients off to them as his creations, like some taxidermist creating
an illusion of life from creatures he'd emptied on the inside. So it was only
poetic justice that tonight, just like in horror stories, the mad scientist's
creation should turn against her creator.
But what if Segert hadn't invited his colleagues in tonight? What if he should
finish early tonight? What if we were late already?
"Torsten!"
"Coming," he said, turning a bottle of oil in his hands, smacking his lips as
he screwed the cap back on.
"What's that for?"
"You'll find out. How do I look?"
I straightened his tie and wiped a dash of cocaine off his moustache. "Like a
pervert."
"Perfect," he grinned and looked at me up and down, his gaze caressing my
curves through my black satin dress. "I could say the same of you. Shall we?"
He opened the car door for me.
"I thought you'd never ask," I purred at him as I slid into the red leather
seat, my limbs buzzing from anticipation. Forget about Bonnie and Clyde, those
miserable little rats: we were going to do this in style, turn murder into a
work of art. Just as we had done with sex, just as we had done with all our
excesses, our entire lives; even this we would turn into a scene worthy of a
Renaissance master, painting it with bold, precise brushstrokes of shadows and
gore.
And in the chiaroscuro of the afternoon light, I adored Torsten, his long
fingers steady upon the steering wheel, the way the sun reflected off the
chrome of the car and threw its scattered lights through his irises. He turned
to look at me now and then, he himself coiled tight from excitement, so full of
life now that he knew we were to sup upon another's. My father the vampire, his
very profile that of a dark prince with its refined, straight nose and cruel
eyes, and underneath the sharp, thin lines of his moustache, his mouth a
gleaming stripe of blood. I stroked his thigh and it was trembling underneath
my touch; I skimmed my fingertips past his groin and he was half-erect,
murmuring happily and spreading his legs in invitation.
"Keep your eyes on the road," I said, smiling, pulling my hand off his thigh. I
reached into my handbag, past all the little instruments of death I had
gathered up for the night, avoiding their sharp edges to take out my lipstick
and my mirror. It wouldn't do to arrive at the hospital looking pale: I was to
enter a whore, just as Torsten had decided to enter a faggot. He'd worn his
lightest, most tightly cut suit, a pink tie and a pink buttonhole, had drenched
himself in his sweetest, most floral of perfumes. I smelled of musk, of
vanilla, of pussy, having daubed my own wetness on my pulse points after we had
been playing with the plugs. I pulled my skirt up so that the tops of my
stockings would show when I moved, pulled my neckline down low enough for a
little cleavage to show. This way, I looked more indecent than a prostitute: on
a sudden whim, I ruffled my hair a little, smudged my eyeliner a little,
painted my lips over the edges a little so that I would look freshly fucked.
There. Now we were the paragons of everything Segert hated, his anathemata, his
bêtes noires: the homosexual and the nymphomaniac, the deviant and the whore,
about to show him exactly how powerful human desire was despite his attempts to
annihilate it. We were lust, libido, greed, hatred made flesh, the
psychiatrist's nightmare, all that swirled dark and black and sticky in the
cesspits of the human subconscious.
Don't the psychiatrists say that the harder you try to repress something, the
more power it gains over you, eventually swallowing you?
Because that's what we were going to do. We were Nature, about to abort this
child who had thought he could fight it, who had thought to rebel against his
mother, to spay her, rape her.
I closed my eyes and snapped my handbag shut; I shuddered as I could still feel
the stink of Segert's pubic hair in my nostrils, his sweat in my eyes, his
purple, fat lips pressed against my cheek as he grunted on top of me.
"Drive faster," I sighed, swallowing the poison in my throat, concentrating my
hatred, sharpening it like a knife.
"We're nearly there," Torsten said, throwing his cigarette out of the window.
The hospital was situated on a high, rocky hill on the outskirts of the city
like a penitentiary; we could see the bay from here, and the higher our car
climbed up the winding road, the more suffocated I felt. How many had gone up
this road and never returned? How many had returned mutilated, turned into
drooling zombies? I saw Torsten glancing at me, worry in his eyes. Was he
thinking of what he had gone through in prison? Because the hospital looked
like one, and I wondered if Torsten's scar hurt him at all, whether he felt a
tightness there at times the way I now felt a tightness in the scars on my own
belly. I was glad we had worn the plugs--we both carried so many traumas from
sex that we needed the plugs to keep us grounded, needed them to constantly
remind us of pleasure, of how we were at each moment in charge of our own
bodies, now, despite entering a zone that represented nothing but violations.
We parked inside the hospital grounds; I was shocked at the ease with which
Torsten and I were let in by the guard. Torsten just told him he was a friend
of Segert's, giving him the name of a doctor and flashing him a card of some
kind. Probably something he had asked Stefan to steal for him, I thought, my
heart pounding in my chest as I pulled my hat low so that the guard wouldn't
recognise my face.
Once we had entered the hospital, it was I who led Torsten up to the wing that
housed Segert's office. Segert was talking to someone by the sounds of it; we
stood at the end of the corridor and waited. We ducked behind the wall as the
door opened and the smoke of pipes and cigars billowed out into the hallway; I
could hear German being spoken, could hear congratulations, even someone
calling Segert a genius for some new leucotomy technique he had developed.
The guests said their goodbyes and left; only the fat nurse remained at the
door. "Aren't you going home, Gustaf?"
"You know how the Germans are. They want punctuality, and this report will have
to be in tomorrow before they leave. Otherwise I'll lose the deal. It's only a
couple of more pages."
"Night night, then," the nurse said and left.
We waited for long moments, a pair of cats about to pounce: only when
everything was quiet did we finally make our entrance.
"Good evening, Doctor Segert," Torsten said as he strolled in through the door,
flavoured cigarette in hand, swaying his hips like a chanteuse entering a
nightclub.
Segert looked up from his papers, blanching. "Who are you? Diana? What are you
doing here?"
I slung myself over Segert's desk and spread my legs, planting the sharp heel
of my shoe upon his chest. "He's my father."
Segert stuttered, stared at my bare pussy, then looked up at Torsten. "Your
father? What's the meaning of this?"
Torsten slinked his hips and swanned around Segert, putting a companionable arm
around him. "It's all very simple, my dear fellow," he smiled. "We're here to
kill you."
And with a quick, sharp punch to Segert's neck, Torsten stunned him.
When Segert woke up, we had already tied him up, gagged him and brought him to
the hospital morgue. He screamed pathetically as he realised where he was, as I
fired up the incinerator. The great furnace in which they disposed of
everything diseased and unwanted: tumours, amputated limbs, aborted fetuses.
"It's only fitting, don't you think?" I grinned sweetly at Segert, the silver
cuffs and the collar he had stolen from me now glittering around my limbs and
neck once more. "Because let me tell you what you are, Gustaf," I said, kicking
his temple so that his head bounced off the cold chamber doors he was propped
up against. "You are nothing but a cancer, a canker, a pustule, and we're here
to remove you."
Torsten lit another cigarette and squatted before Segert, stroking his own cock
through his trousers. "She was very adamant about that. She told me you had
cured three hundred homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, deviants. Is that right?"
Segert jerked his head; the noises he made were those of confusion, as if he
didn't know why we were asking him that.
"He told me so himself," I said as I took out the hypodermic needles, counting
them. Thirty. "He would never stop boasting about his operations, how by
removing just a few pieces of tissue he could neutralise the danger a deviant
posed to society. So many ovaries, testicles, frontal lobes--so many human
beings you've chucked down this oven, haven't you, Doctor Segert? So many
personalities, so many artists, so many geniuses you've destroyed," I spat,
"just because you were afraid of pleasure."
But the bastard had the audacity to drown out my speech with his screaming:
Torsten had dug out Segert's tiny, withered, diseased cock and balls and now
displayed them for me. When he wouldn't stop screaming, Torsten broke his nose
and finally, Segert had to stop screaming and start swallowing so that he
wouldn't choke on his own blood.
"Now, if you would allow us to continue," Torsten said pleasantly. "As you may
have gathered, the deviants from your past have caught up with you, and we have
a score to settle." He patted Segert's genitals. "You see, I don't think we've
been introduced properly." He pointed to himself, then me, enunciating clearly
as if talking to someone feeble-minded. "I am Sodomy, and my daughter here is
Whoredom. I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying."
I squatted next to them and held the needles up to Segert's face. "One needle
for every ten women, every ten faggots, every ten negroes. It's much less than
what you deserve for your genius, I know," I grinned.
And now, Segert's screams turned into howls and he started tossing, writhing in
his bonds, trying to get up. I was glad we had tied him to the cold chamber
doors; he kept slipping on the floor, sobbing, twisting, and we watched him for
a while, letting him waste his energy.
But after a while, Torsten got bored of this display. He hit Segert again to
still him, then leaned back against the autopsy table, lighting a cigarette and
gesturing to me. "Go ahead, my dear."
I lifted Segert's cock into my hand and poised the first of the needles at the
tip of his cock. "Any last requests?"
"Please!" I could hear Segert screaming through his gag, and then something
that sounded like "I have money. I can pay you anything you want, just spare
me."
I pretended to consider, my voice mock-surprised. "Do we want money, Daddy?" I
asked Torsten, who was now sprawling back and enjoying himself, smoking,
masturbating. Torsten shook his head. I turned back to Segert and giggled; a
high, broken giggle. "We don't want your money!" I jeered in his face, taunting
him like a schoolgirl. "You see, we are mil-lio-naires. And we only want
revenge," I said and stuck the needle into his urethra.
He screamed at first, screamed each time I stabbed a needle through his cock,
his testicles, piercing them through like a pincushion; finally, he was in too
much pain to even make noise, cold sweat running down his temples, his eyes
rolling back in his head.
"He looks like he's about to pass out," Torsten said.
"You're right. I think he needs a little refreshment." I stuck the last needle
in and squatted over Segert's head. It was hard to piss with the plug inside of
me, but after a little squeezing, I managed it: he let out a delightful cry of
horror as I drenched his face.
"There you are," Torsten laughed and pulled his own plug out of his ass,
waltzing in front of Segert. "Ever seen homosexuals fuck? Hmm? Seen cocks go
into asses? Because I think you might like them," he cooed, waving the dirty
plug in front of Segert's face. "Men like you always hide a little faggot
inside," he said and smeared Segert's moustache with his shit, dipping it into
his nostrils, and as Segert retched in disgust, my pussy clenched in delight.
"Do you want a really good taste of my ass? Hmm?" Torsten said, now fingering
himself roughly. "How about it?"
"I think you should show him, Daddy," I cooed, now realising why he had been
taking the oil.
I took a step back and brought my hand to my pussy, rapt with satanic awe as I
watched Torsten squatting over Segert, letting out an explosive, liquid shit
over his face, his chest, his pierced genitals. A laxative, that's what the oil
had been: I should have been horrified, but I was trembling against the autopsy
table, so close to orgasm, my pussy dripping down my thighs.
"Oh, my God, Daddy," I simpered, shaking my head, biting my lip at this amazing
gift he had just given me. "Oh, my God."
And Torsten saw me, leering at me. "And now you get to see me fuck my
daughter," he said gently, patting Segert's cheek.
Torsten took me right there on the table, fucked my pussy and my ass, showing
Segert everything he had been missing out on, the beauty of our incest, the
frenzied joys of utter insanity. I laughed into Torsten's ear and thought this
sight was too good for Segert--we were being so kind to him, weren't we? We
both came in but moments, too high from our sadism, too high from our triumph
to last; Segert was no longer even sobbing as I shat Torsten's come onto his
ugly, bloated face. His face looked better with the shit and the sperm, I
thought; I wondered how his wife could've ever kissed a man so ugly. And now--
to think of it!--we were liberating her to fuck all those men she wanted to
fuck, liberating his son to be as perverse as he wanted, weren't we? We were
benefiting so many people by doing this that it made me sick.
"And now, for the coup de grâce," Torsten said, lifting out a tourniquet and a
surgical saw.
"I wouldn't call it that," I said and grinned as we bound Segert's genitals and
pulled the needles out one by one. I didn't know where to put the needles at
first, so after a moment of consideration, I decided to stick them into
Segert's cheeks. "I would have stuck these in your eyes," I said with a pitying
croon, tilting my head, "but we want you to see this."
And there, as he watched and howled in disbelief, we sawed off his cock, his
pathetic little cock, making sure he would not bleed to death, would not pass
out yet. As I roasted his cock over a Bunsen burner, Torsten took out a hip
flask full of champagne, along with a tube of mustard. "Sex always makes us a
little peckish, you see," he laughed.
We dusted our little sausage with cocaine and mustard and fed it to each other
in tiny little slices, kissing after each bite. I had never tasted anything as
delicious in my life; I worked the plug in and out of my ass as I swallowed the
last of Segert's cock, rubbing my pussy, screaming my orgasm into Torsten's
mouth. "Thank you, Daddy," I cooed, the sweetest, the sluttiest of little
girls, my enemy's life now swirling warm in my belly.
Speaking of our enemy, he had lost consciousness once more, and it was such a
shame. But we'd had our fun. Now, all that remained for us was to take him to
pieces--it was faster when there were two of us working on the body. Segert
gurgled a little as we hacked and sawed him into neat chunks, jerked a little
as we pulled him apart. I could not tell when he finally died, but I do
remember the way I held up his head, as proud as Salome with her prize,
silhouetted against the incinerator's flames.
"Ring the bells and make cheer, the tyrant is slain," I recited, and with
sublime joy, I cast Segert's head into the flames. I cast aside all such men,
all such monsters, our monstrosity so much greater than theirs. Nature had won;
woman, faggot, deviant had triumphed over conformity and normalcy.
We cleaned up the place of fingerprints, turned off the incinerator, hosed down
the floor and left. The guard asked us no questions, even winked at Torsten
knowingly, thinking we had been fucking.
We raced each other to the shower, fucked under the spray, screaming our lungs
out, mimicking Segert's cries: his blood ran down our legs, ran down the drain
as we fucked and fucked, celebrated, delirious from our victory.
"Did my little girl have a good time?" Torsten asked as he carried me to bed,
every inch the strong hero who'd slain a dragon.
"I had the best night of my entire life, Daddy," I giggled onto his lips,
kicking my feet, squirming in ecstatic delight.
***** Chapter 12 *****
"Done?" I asked Torsten as he arrived at the harbour.
He lifted a pair of black leather gloves out of his pocket and threw them into
the sea. "Done."
"I was starting to get a little worried," I said; our ship was just about to
depart.
"Acheron didn't take that long," Torsten said, lifting out his hand and miming
a gunshot to the head. "It was over in seconds. It's only that some friends of
his were arriving as I went down the stairs. It took me a while to... persuade
them to leave."
I rolled my eyes; I thought I had been able to smell sperm on his breath.
"You're hopeless."
"You would have done the exact same thing," he said, leering widely as the
porter took our suitcases.
"Yes," I murmured as we ascended the staircase to the luxury deck; "yes, I
would have." I was nearing menstruation and wanted to fuck the entire world;
now that we had got away with yet another murder, I felt I could do anything,
possess anyone I wanted. "To your right. The girl in green. What do you make of
her?"
Torsten took in the family whose luggage was just being transferred into the
suite next to ours; the father and the mother looked very respectable, very
conservative, but the daughter--sixteen? Seventeen?--looked as if she had a
rebellious streak. She wore a little more makeup than was proper for a woman
under twenty, her chestnut hair coiffed as if she was going to a party, and she
wore an outrageously huge corsage of gardenias over the chest of her tight,
well-cut dress.
"Well, well," Torsten purred. "I can't tell if she's the daughter or his kept
woman."
"The daughter. She only just showed up, too. Her parents almost turned their
backs on her after they saw what she was wearing; must have been a surprise.
They tried so very hard to not make a scene, but I heard every word."
"She's ripe for it," Torsten said and licked his lips.
And as if on cue, the girl turned in our direction and measured Torsten with
her eyes from head to toe, devouring him with her gaze. Torsten acknowledged
her with an elaborate court bow, twirling his handkerchief in his hand.
"Stop it," I said and kicked his ankle. "We've got plenty of time."
Torsten followed me into our suite, tipped the porter handsomely and smacked me
on the ass. "Shall we go up on the deck to bid goodbye to the US of A? Or
fuck?"
I stroked the front of his trousers. "Let's try for both."
The atmosphere on deck wasn't particularly festive; this was to be the ship's
last journey as an ocean liner before it would be refitted to serve as a troop
ship. A battle cruiser would follow us all across the Atlantic; it would
probably take us over a week to zigzag past all the U-boats before we reached
Southampton. Unless we were sunk before that, of course--I saw plenty of grim,
wan faces on the deck. Now it wasn't just Torsten and I who were prepared to
die; we were on a ship full of people who were all risking their lives with
this voyage. Most probably didn't even want to leave for the nightmare that was
Europe right now, but were forced to do so for some reason or another.
The most miserable faces I saw were in first class, pale underneath its gilded,
painted ceilings; this was the end of an era of opulence and glamour, the war
the final death blow to the European aristocracy. Even here, I saw mended
dresses, moth-eaten fur coats, people pretending a little too hard to be all
right when they weren't.
Yet this denial, this defiance also led to a decline in manners, a devil-may-
care attitude; gentlemen were less gentlemanly and ladies weren't as ladylike.
I saw lustful glances being shot across the deck, people drunk in broad
daylight, pupils dilated from drugs.
As the people packed tightly against the railing to watch the ship's departure,
Torsten lifted up the skirt of my dress. I was wearing nothing underneath; I
did not feel even the cool wind upon my buttocks, so closely was I pressed
against the man behind me. I felt him shifting, stiffening, heard Torsten
chuckling a little.
Oh, my God. He was going to do this. He was going to do this in a crowd of a
hundred people--
I felt Torsten's glove upon my buttocks, felt him undo the fly of the man
behind me. I gripped the railing, and couldn't look behind myself: it would
have ruined this, would have ruined it all. I shivered, shook as Torsten
stroked the stranger's cock, rubbed it against my buttocks, then finally guided
it inside my pussy. I only heard the man's soft gasp of breath; I could not
tell if he was blond or dark, tall or short, thin or fat: he was but a cock,
pure cock, pure sex and nothing more. A wonderful, full and hard cock now
filling my pussy, gliding inside of me, he pressing up against me, the fabric
of his suit rough against my buttocks.
My pussy welcomed his cock, fluttering around it, pulsing around it: I daren't
move my body, but I squeezed his cock with my muscles, drawing him further
inside of me. He could barely move either, only rocked a little inside of me so
as not to give us away, and I shook in frustration around him, my body yearning
for longer thrusts, more friction, a deeper peneration.
The ship's engines hummed, rumbled underneath us, the vibrations of the ship
transmitted into my own body, into the stranger's; from the corner of my eye, I
could see Torsten's smile as he pretended to watch the retreating harbour. His
eyes glittered pale underneath the shadow of his fedora; I could feel he was
reaching back towards the man, perhaps caressing his back in encouragement.
Yet in but moments, it was over: the man stiffened behind me, a little noise
escaping his throat as he spent himself inside of me, his sperm flooding my
pussy. He disappeared as soon as he had arrived; swiftly, Torsten pulled down
the skirt of my dress and wrapped his arm about my waist. I stood there,
shivering, my knees quaking, my feet wobbling in my heels as the stranger's
sperm ran down my thighs. I was coiled, bow-string tight from my frustration,
vibrating, vibrating, panting as I leaned my head on Torsten's shoulder.
"You son of a bitch," I whispered.
He just smiled.
He had to hold me up as we walked down the stairs to our suite; I had to lean
against the balustrade so as not to fall. My entire pelvis hurt so much, my
pussy was so swollen I was staggering; I was sure people thought I was drunk.
The moment we made it to the suite, Torsten threw me down on the floor and
fucked me, fucked me so hard my face was rubbed raw from the carpet. I screamed
into its red, plush weave, screamed insults at him, howled as his cock swam,
sloshed in the still-warm sperm in my pussy, as I angled my hips up into his
thrusts to get more, more, more. I came around him so violently he howled,
snarled and told me that I'd almost snapped his cock off, and I delighted in
that, at having caused him a little discomfort at least. I told him to shut up
and keep on fucking me, and he did; my pussy was raw by the time he'd finished,
but I had come three times by then, so full of sperm that I was slurping,
leaking as I got up.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked and took me by the arm.
"The bathroom."
"Not yet," he said and guided me to squat over his face; he forced me to push
out all the sperm from my pussy into his mouth, scooping it out with his
fingers, milking my pussy through two fingers in my ass until I had given him
each and every drop.
Finally, I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the water as loudly as I could to
drown out his coughing, the way he always had a fit after sex these days. I
didn't want to think of him dying, didn't want to think of days like these
coming to an end; I stood under the scalding hot shower and forced myself to
sing. Yet I realised the only notes that came out of my mouth were of that hymn
of Therese's, of soon being taken up to Heaven, of soon being taken home.
Torsten stepped into the shower with me and held me from behind, now soft and
mellow from sexual contentment, from the opium linctus he had swallowed. "Let's
save water," he murmured into my shoulder and washed my breasts, washed me
between the legs; I moaned into his kiss and melted into his body, the water
enclosing us in its embrace.
***
All throughout the voyage, we sought out chances to live out a few more
adventures, feverish in our need. We scouted the restaurants, the pool, the
casino, even the hallways for anyone willing: we met a few eager couples, the
odd girl and had some pleasant experiences with them, but Torsten failed to
seduce a single man. In fact, he'd barely avoided being locked up, the way he
kept approaching the men more and more aggressively: more often than not, I had
to intervene at the last minute so that we wouldn't have a fight on our hands.
But tonight, we weren't the ones fighting: it was late at night and we were
catching a breath of fresh air on the deck when we heard two men arguing. They
were behind the corner from us and hadn't seen us, trying not to raise their
voices and failing. From what I could make out, one of the men had been paying
the other for some favour or another, but not enough: he had only agreed to
follow him on this trip because he had been promised a fortune, and now it
turned out the other man couldn't pay even for his dinners.
"Our contract is over," the betrayed man bellowed, his voice low, deep,
menacing. "You can go and shove a cucumber up your ass for all I care. And now,
if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and take my chances at the casino."
The man stormed out, but he had to turn the corner and walk past our chairs to
reach the door. And there, Torsten stopped him with his bamboo cane.
"Excuse me," Torsten drawled, straightening himself out with a flourish, eyeing
the man from head to toe. The man was tall, dark, muscular with bushy eyebrows
and pale eyes, as strong as a bull and just as fierce: Torsten's type exactly.
"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," Torsten purred. "You see--and
this is a long story, but I will be brief--today, I made a vow to help out a
person in need. To atone for old sins, shall we say. So, if there's anything I
can do for you, my dear fellow, speak."
The man took Torsten in for a while, seeing exactly what kind of man he was,
and his full, voluptuous lips curled in a sneer. "A good Samaritan, are you?"
Torsten leaned on his cane and crossed his legs, tilting his head. "You could
say that. Come, my dear fellow; join us. My name is Nicolas Morgonstierna, of
Morgonstierna Industries," he said, and that made the penniless man perk up,
"and this is my wife, Diana."
The man sat into the deck chair beside me, now very interested indeed. In this
day and age, it was the industrialists who owned all the wealth; a once-noble
name meant nothing these days if there wasn't a corporation behind it. "How do
you do," he said pleasantly and kissed my hand. I was immediately given the
impression of a man of lower class, of someone who had learned good manners and
refinement while climbing the social ladder, and the good thing about that was
that the people who were still climbing were always eager to please. He looked
at me, then Torsten. "Randolph Aretino," he said.
I could barely suppress my laughter at his name--such an awkward mix of Anglo-
Saxon and Italian that it had to be an alias. "After the Renaissance
pornographer?" I said, raising my eyebrow.
"You are a learned woman, I see," he said, smirking at me. "A woman after my
own heart."
"Aretino, Aretino... he loved both women and men, didn't he?" Torsten smirked
and lit a cigarette, sitting smoothly beside him. "A man after my own heart."
"Please, call me Randy," he said, giving Torsten a long look, signalling that
he had got the hint immediately.
"Randy," I laughed, no longer holding back my amusement. "You're a gigolo," I
said, bluntly, even if this annoyed Torsten a little, Torsten having thought he
could expose him first.
"I guess you could say that," Randy said and leaned back, spreading his hands
in an 'I cannot help it' gesture. His smile was charming, boyish even if he
must have already entered his forties: even if I sensed a little danger, I
liked him immediately.
"And you're out of cash," Torsten said, never taking his cigarette from his
mouth as he took out his wallet. He threw a big wad of notes into Randy's lap,
right over his crotch. "How's that for a start?"
Randy pretended to be calm as he collected the notes, but his eyes were just a
little too wide, betraying his astonishment. No wonder; a man could live with
that sort of money for months.
He looked up, immediately a little suspicious. "You're perverts, aren't you?"
he said quietly, looking at me, then at Torsten with a neutral look upon his
face. "You want the special stuff."
Damn and blast. He was going to be no fun if he didn't enjoy this; perhaps we
had miscalculated. I glanced at Torsten, whose mouth twitched a little in
irritation. "And what if we do?" he said, tossing his cigarette into the sea.
Randy smiled; his teeth glinted white in the moonlight. "Oh, it's just that I
haven't been able to indulge in a while," he said, and swiftly, calmly, easily
took Torsten by the throat, straddling him in his deck chair, grinning in his
face. "If this is the kind of thing you're looking for," he said sweetly,
tilting his head a little. "Is it?"
I shot up in my chair, terrified, yet aroused at the same time by his violence,
by the perfect way in which he assumed control. Everything about him told me he
was exactly what we had been looking for: someone who could dominate us both.
Torsten's eyes were bulging out of his head; he must have been as hard as rock
underneath Randy. "Yes," he croaked.
Randy threw back his head and laughed; he let go and got up, now companionable,
holding his hand out to Torsten. "It's a deal."
Torsten coughed into his handkerchief while shaking Randy's hand. "One more
thing," Torsten managed to rasp out--I was right, he was sporting an erection.
"The little lady's in charge. She'll tell you what to do."
"Well!" Randy smiled, lighting a cigarette of his own. "I shall look forward to
it."
We took Randy to the restaurant with us. It turned out he did not, in fact,
have a penny to his name. The man who had hired his services for the trip had
not only bought him his ticket but had also paid for his clothes, his grooming
kit, everything he carried with him. He wasn't happy to go to Europe,
especially as his mother had been Jewish, he told us. I wondered if he was
spinning us a tale, trying to elicit our sympathy, and all the while he
reminded me of Acheron somehow. It was not just his heavy build or his
profession, but he was one of those men who were born hustlers, no matter which
class they came from, always living off other people. Not all that different
from Torsten, I thought, had Torsten been born with a spine, had he had an inch
of masculinity in him.
But then, I was lost in the absurd, hilarious vision of Torsten as a
professional dominant with men--that would never happen!--and nearly choked on
my wine. He might have been the perfect, most skilled and most commanding of
lovers with women, but with men? He'd immediately be buried under a pile of
grunting, bearlike thugs, screaming his head off, his stockings torn.
"Share it with us," Torsten said, raising his eyebrow.
"Later," I said and turned to Randy. "Would you like to dance?"
This was another way for me to keep Torsten on his toes: if I was to tell Randy
what to do, I was most definitely going to keep the details secret from
Torsten. I knew how Torsten loved anticipation, knew how he loved danger, not
being sure of what another man would force him to do: I told Randy of this, of
the extreme forms of humiliation Torsten so enjoyed when he was taken by men. I
also told Randy Torsten had been in prison, and he understood this immediately:
he said he'd heard the same story before and knew how to handle such men, knew
how to turn those experiences to his advantage and create something new,
something pleasurable from them.
"And women?"
"Well," he said, moving his hips and his abdomen into my curves with what
seemed like genuine pleasure. "It depends. Do you want the gentleman or the
brute?"
"The gentleman brute," I said.
He laughed; I adored the strong tendons of his neck, the beginnings of stubble
upon his jaw. "You're not the first one to ask for that, either."
So I told him of our psychological games, our rituals, the dirty talk, all the
means through which we achieved ultimate surrender. This, I knew, Torsten would
need tonight, would need to articulate in order to reclaim his true self as a
man who loved other men.
Yet, when the time came for me to tell Randy of our more extreme fetishes, I
hesitated a little. Nevertheless, I knew this was going to be essential to the
experience: Torsten and I had agreed to share everything with others, now, and
there were only a few things he hadn't done with other men yet. And since this
was going to be one of the last, if not the last chance for him to enjoy
another man, it had to be done right. I had thought of a few ways in which we
could satisfy Torsten's desires, a few specific acts and positions that would
do the trick; when I described them to Randy, he thought of it for a while, but
didn't even pretend to be shocked.
"And the two of you would be on the receiving end?" he said.
I nodded. "Absolutely. It all hinges on that, you see. Neither of us will get
any pleasure from it otherwise."
"Then I see no problem with it," he said diplomatically. "I must confess I'm
rather looking forward to it, in fact," he purred, rubbing his erection against
my hip. "As I'm sure you can tell."
"Mm-hmm," I purred right back at him. "I think it's time we retreated to our
suite, don't you?"
"I've got to get ready first. Give me the number of your suite, and I will be
there in an hour or so."
"All right," I said.
***
In my gut, I didn't trust him. Perhaps this was because of Acheron; yet, I
didn't care. The same way I had defied abuse at the public toilet, I now defied
anything Randy might do to us; perhaps this was what Freud had meant about
self-destructive tendencies, about the death-drive. Perhaps it was the complex
interplay of Eros and Thanatos--oh, but listen to yourself, Laura; you were
being far too complicated about a simple fuck.
Therefore, as Torsten and I refreshed ourselves with stimulant drugs, I cast
all such pretentious philosophical debates aside. I wanted to be fucked, wanted
to be turned inside out just as much as Torsten did; wanted to see Torsten get
fucked by a man, wanted to be manhandled by two men just like in the old days.
Tomorrow would be our anniversary; tomorrow I would have Torsten all to myself,
but tonight, I wanted something wilder, more expansive, in order to make
tomorrow's celebrations all the more intimate.
"Did you tell him about my illness?" Torsten asked as I changed into my
négligée, as he slipped into his silk dressing gown with nothing but his Arab
strap underneath.
"I did. I told him to be careful with your throat and your chest. But I also
told him you liked it rough," I said, powdering my cheeks.
He lifted my chin and looked into my eyes, kissing me softly upon the lips.
"Thank you."
I rose from my chair and hugged him tight. "It's the least I could do." It was
so strange that even in this, I had to be the one who guided our actions: I did
what I did because I wanted good things for us, happy things, pleasurable
things. But this also made me crave submission, a complete surrender even more,
and I knew Randy could give that to us. "If anything should happen, know that I
love you, Daddy."
He kissed my hair. "It's funny. I'm not so sure about him myself. But what can
he do? We have enough money in the bank to get to Sweden even if he should
knock us out and rob us."
"Or perhaps we're just being paranoid," I said. The stimulants didn't help with
that; I shivered a little. "Listen to us. We were supposed to be bold and
adventurous, devouring life, sucking out all its juices, and here we are,
hesitating."
"It'll be fine," he said, but before he could say anything more, there was a
knock on the door.
I shouldn't have been so worried. At least that night, Randy turned out to be
the most considerate, skilled, attentive of lovers, worthy of the power we laid
in his hands. He had been doing this sort of thing for years, he told us, and
he knew how to be a gentleman about it. He and Torsten agreed that with men,
unless they had terrible anxieties about their tendencies, sex was usually easy
and simple, but with women and couples, there were always tremendous tensions
involved: excessive guilt, morbid jealousies, painful insecurities. That's when
I chimed in and cursed such things to the lowest of hells: such hypocrisies
always got in the way of women being able to enjoy themselves.
"And that's what makes Diana and I different," Torsten sighed happily and
kissed my head. "It's like the Greek ideal of the love between man and youth.
No nagging, no jealousy, no screaming children in the way; just a simple
understanding between lover and beloved."
"Now you're making me jealous," Randy murmured, gazing at me hungrily.
I laughed and kissed his cheek. "Tonight, you won't have to be."
Thus, in such a manner we sat there and chatted for a while, smoking, drinking,
when Randy suddenly looked at Torsten and patted his thigh.
"Come here."
And oh, the way Torsten quivered at that! He sat in Randy's lap in the armchair
beside the window; I lay on the bed beside them, moving a little so that I
could see them better. Randy began his seduction with such exquisite tenderness
that it hypnotised us both, kissing Torsten deeply, passionately, kneading his
back and his hips, not even touching his cock even if it was pointing straight
up between their bellies.
"Your wife told me you were a naughty little boy," Randy purred, his voice so
deep, so refined it pooled warm in my womb, made Torsten sigh in his embrace.
"Is that true?"
"Perhaps," Torsten said, kissing Randy's full, sensuous lips as if he couldn't
get enough of him, rocking in his lap.
Randy slid Torsten's dressing gown off and pressed at his shoulders. "Down."
Torsten loved this, loved showing his obedience with the fluid, elegant way he
slid down onto the floor between Randy's legs. He undid Randy's trousers and
took out his cock, undulating his hips and his ass, showing off to us both. As
formidable as Randy's cock was, I was lost watching Torsten, the pink slit of
his ass, the raised red bud of his anus, again like a little pussy between a
woman's pale, wide hips. So many times, I had adored him like this, but now
each time might be the last: I bit my lip and rubbed my clitoris, determined to
commit this sight to memory. Torsten, Torsten the androgyne with his pretty
little pussy, reaching out to suck another man's cock: there were few things in
the world as beautiful as this.
Yet Randy stopped Torsten with a hand on his shoulder and tutted. "Not so fast.
You're going to have to tell me what you like," he said, stroking Torsten's
cheek with his fingertips. "And what you want me to do to you. Do you
understand?"
Torsten let out a little noise at that; this was exactly what I had told Randy
to do, knowing how much both Torsten and I loved being forced to not only
admitting but articulating these things, these desires the world saw as
shameful in us. Rituals such as these lifted those sins out into the light and
celebrated them, turned them into things of beauty, into laurels to crown us
with.
Torsten's eyes gleamed from delight, their corners crinkled from pleasure as he
uttered the words both Randy and I so wanted to hear. "I want to suck your
cock," he pronounced perfectly, sweetly, passionately.
"Is that so?" Randy asked, his chuckle making my pussy clench in delight. "Do
you like sucking men's cocks, Nicky?"
Torsten moaned; no one had ever called him that, such an insulting, effeminate
diminuitive it made the hair on his arms stand on end. "Yes," he purred with
relish, caressing Randy's shaft, measuring it with his hand. "I love sucking
big, fat cocks, just like this."
Randy sunk his fingers into Torsten's hair and grinned. "Talk's cheap, faggot.
Prove it."
Now, Torsten moaned even louder, but that moan died as he closed his mouth
around Randy's cock, sucking on it hungrily. He had not been fucked by a man
since prison, as far as I knew; he had only been sucking a few cocks now and
then, and was more than ready to be taken again. And now that he had found the
right man for the job, Torsten worshipped Randy's cock, the way I always
worshipped his: I took great delight in observing how he used some of my own
tricks to arouse Randy, the way he used a great amount of spit to slicken up
Randy's cock so that he could give it a smooth, glorious slide. Very few people
knew about that trick; Randy groaned in surprise and delight, his legs falling
completely open as he relaxed and let Torsten pleasure him with his mouth.
I wanted a closer look, so I stripped and moved to stand beside the chair,
leaning over it so that my breasts brushed across Randy's head. "Do you like
the way my husband sucks your cock?" I asked sweetly, exactly because I knew
what those words did to Torsten. "He's such a hopeless little slut sometimes."
Randy grinned and looked up, pinching both of my nipples until I yelped. "He
said the same of you, as a matter of fact. Told me you liked all kinds of dirty
things, too," he panted, and I didn't know whether to look at his face or at
the glorious sight of his thick, gleaming red cock sinking into Torsten's
mouth.
I leaned down so that I could kiss Randy, breathe in his sighs at Torsten's
ministrations, so that I might suck the lovely fullness of his lower lip. "I
want to see you fuck him," I said, hissing as he squeezed my nipples again.
"I think I'll cuckold him first," Randy said and pulled me into his arms with
such force that I was stumbling, yelping. "He told me you had a tight little
pussy and an even tighter little ass," he purred and nuzzled my face.
"She does," Torsten said, standing up behind me, rubbing his erection against
my back. "And I, in turn, would love to watch you fuck both."
"All in good time," Randy laughed. "Undress me."
Torsten spent more time sucking Randy's cock than he did undressing him; I had
to do most of the work. But by the time I reached Randy's ass--a well-muscled,
athlete's ass at that--it was Torsten who was jealous at the noises I got out
of Randy. I had told Randy of our fetish for shaven genitals, and that's what
he must have been doing before he arrived: his ass was smooth and still wet
from when he'd washed it. Yet he had not fingered his ass clean the way Torsten
and I did whenever we played with others, and I was thrilled by that: there was
a wonderfully rich, musty taste lingering between the folds, an earthy taste
that made me shiver in delight. Ass, ass, dirty ass: perhaps he had left
himself unrinsed exactly because of what I had told him of our special stuff.
Again, I had to slip my hand to my pussy, so aroused was I by his boldness.
But Randy had noticed I was touching myself. "None of that." He turned around
and lifted me up, smacking me on the ass. "Get on the bed, you naughty little
minx," he laughed. He climbed in next to me--we had what was probably the
biggest bed on the entire ship, a huge four-poster, complete with cream and
gold canopies. When Torsten got up, Randy looked at him, then me. "What do you
want me to do with him?"
I piled up some pillows behind my shoulders and spread my legs, eyeing Torsten
like a queen toying with a serf. "Have him kneel on the bed, I should think," I
said. "So he can watch."
Torsten did as he was told, and Randy didn't waste this opportunity to tease
him a little: he arranged Torsten to kneel against one of the bedposts, kissing
him hungrily, tightening the straps around his cock and his balls.
"Should I tie him up?" Randy asked me over his shoulder, as if Torsten wasn't
there.
"Nu-uh," I said. "He might come in useful."
Torsten flashed an indignant glare at me; I loved that. Randy turned back to
him and took him by the wrists, gesturing for him to cross them behind his
back. "And keep them there. Don't move until I tell you to, or I'm not going to
fuck you," he said pleasantly.
And this was far more arousing than had he tied Torsten up: I could hear
Torsten whimpering a little, his chest heaving as he knelt at the foot of the
bed, his cock hard and purpling against his belly, adoring being so tortured.
"And you," Randy said as he crawled over me, kissing his way across my belly
and my breasts, grinning in delight, "you do the same." He took my wrists and
pinned them onto the pillows as he kissed me, kissed me with such skill and
such passion that I moaned into his kiss, wrapping my legs around his waist,
trying to rub my pussy against his cock. "Keep them there," he told me as he
let go of my wrists, so that he could lean against the mattress with one hand,
guiding his cock inside of me with the other.
So few men had ever taken my pussy: I cried out as he entered me faster than
Torsten usually did, especially as he wasn't poorly endowed either. "Oh--"
"My, but you're tight," Randy laughed, and I drew in a shuddering breath as he
slowed down, controlled his hips, rolled them a little. "I haven't had a girl
in a while, you see," he said, "so I'm going to enjoy myself; going take my
time. I don't think you'll mind, will you?"
"No," I laughed onto his lips, breathed deeper to allow him higher inside of
me, breathed and breathed as my flesh relaxed around him, opening for him. Oh,
but this was the strangest, freshest of sensations: another male lover whose
touch I enjoyed, whose cock now filled me with pleasure. I tried so very hard
not to cry as I realised most men who had entered my pussy had done so without
my permission; I swallowed a sob at the sheer joy of now being able to accept a
man in this way through my own choice, and finally without the fear of
pregnancy. Yes, this was a rare delight, rare and sweet; a male lover skilled,
fulfilling, giving me such exquisite delight from his very first strokes inside
of me.
Thus, with my father's blessings, he adoring us as he knelt beside us, I
accepted this friendly stranger into my body. With my kisses, I beckoned Randy
deeper, caressing him with my legs as I wasn't allowed to move my hands; with
my pussy, I welcomed him, massaged him, enjoying the feel of his skin against
mine, his fresh sweat filling my nostrils. With little noises, I encouraged
him, little laughs as he undulated into me and penetrated me deep, so deep, so
soon; I unfurling wet and warm around him, so happy, relaxed.
And Randy adored me in turn, his eyes twinkling with wicked delight: I thought
of what Torsten had told me of how rare it was to encounter a woman who truly
enjoyed sex, and I wondered if this was what Randy was now thinking of, too. He
spent long moments squeezing, caressing my breasts, drinking my kisses from my
mouth, pressing his body into my softness; as if with his skin he could drink
in my very femininity into himself, take his fill of my flesh with every inch
of his body and not just his cock.
But oh, what a divine cock it was: with each stroke, my pussy grew hungrier
around it, my womb yearning for more blows, and I whimpered a little underneath
him, begging for more. Randy just pulled back a little so that he might spread
my legs and watch my pussy as he was fucking me, groaning through his teeth as
he watched his cock sliding in and out of me, clutched by my flesh as he drew
backwards.
"God. It's like a child's," he sighed in awe-filled delight, "so tiny, so soft,
so bare, oh, God."
"It's because she is a child," Torsten purred, "technically speaking."
"Hmm?" Randy kept staring at my pussy, staring at his cock, his breathing
hitching in his chest as he lost himself in my flesh.
"It's true," I said and squeezed my pussy around him, warm and drunk from
pleasure. "I won't turn eighteen for a week. And I'm afraid we lied about being
man and wife, too," I said, sighing happily as I sunk into the mattress with
his thrusts.
The bed creaked a little as Torsten edged closer, moving upon his knees and
leaning in to see better. "You see, Randy, she's my daughter," he purred, his
own cock swaying in pleasure as he said those words, a string of his arousal
lashing around his shaft.
Randy threw back his head and laughed in disbelief, not protesting as Torsten
greeted him with a kiss. "Perverts. I knew it. From the moment I saw you, you
filthy bastards."
"Are you complaining?" I cooed, in my sweetest little girl's voice. Now, I had
woken up a little, and now that we had told him the truth, I wanted to see if
this voice worked on Randy as well as it worked on Torsten, pouring sweet sin
into his ears. "Don't you like my little baby pussy?" I asked, in a mockery of
a child who'd been scorned.
"God!" Randy howled at that and let go of my legs, bracing himself on his
hands, trembling inside of me.
"Do you like it when I say that?" I teased him, stroking his back with my toes,
again breathing deep, deep so that his cock would reach the very bottom of my
pussy, my sugar pussy. "Like fucking my tiny little girl's pussy, you naughty
man?" I crooned.
"Yes," Randy groaned, taking me by the hair and devouring my mouth, now truly
beginning to pound into me. I cried out onto his lips, gasping for air between
his kisses as he took me; this was so different from Torsten, so fast and wild
and animal, Randy's fucking driven more by instinct than the intelligence that
always guided Torsten's sexuality. Randy was so much heavier than Torsten,
probably twice as heavy as he was, throwing me into the bed so that my spine
was opened; oh, I adored him. Swiftly, easily he wrapped my legs around his
shoulders as he drove into me over and over; I howled underneath him, loving
the friction of his cock, but I needed to touch my clitoris, needed to.
"Please, please, please let me come," I shouted, my pussy fluttering around
him, my womb rippling, yet each and every time my orgasm could have begun,
Randy retreated or shoved in so hard the chain of tremors was interrupted. He
fucked me so greedily, to his own rhythm, taking, not listening out for my
reactions, and I knew he did so deliberately, wresting control from me. A
revenge for my having teased him, perhaps; now, he was driving me insane.
"Please, Randy."
"How do you come?" he asked and rested his weight on top of me, anchoring me
down with it, staying completely still deep inside of me. He stroked my wrists,
running his fingertips down the sensitive flesh of my forearms, making me jerk
underneath him. And oh, the way he smiled as my pussy pulsed around his cock,
the way my very nervous system panicked as he pressed against my womb with such
force, my flesh palpitating around him. "How does this little girl's pussy
come?" he smirked. "Hmm?"
"It'll come if you let me rub it," I gasped, still in a child's voice to spite
him, and a shiver went through me as I said such a thing out loud, articulated
my exact preferences in a way no good girl ever should. "Or if you let me ride
my hands."
"The first, I think, then," he said, pulling back and rolling his hips. "I want
to see this little pussy, you see," he grinned, "and want to see your face as
you come. I insist."
I bit my lip, maintaining the girl's demeanour even as each one of his
undulations struck sparks of heat from my womb, sending my entire body
shivering. "Can I please now rub my pussy?" I asked him, like I was begging for
a sweet dessert.
"Yes, my child," he said, kissing my mouth, grinning mischievously. "If you
tell me how my cock feels inside your pussy."
I shuddered in near-orgasm as he said that, as he punctuated his command by
burying himself in me up to his balls, the head of his cock rubbing the very
back of my vagina with such wonderful pressure, the entire weight of his body
behind it. Bastard, I wanted to call him, but I didn't. "It feels so good," I
moaned instead and started to stroke my clitoris, "just like that, when you
really press in deep and slow, like that, oh, just like that."
"Mm-hmm?" he said, now controlling his movements with absolute precision,
focusing on but my reactions, the same flash of ownership, of gratification
Torsten always had in his eyes when he could control my pleasure in such a
fashion. "What else do you like about my cock?"
"It's so big," I said, now with my eyes open, looking at Torsten instead of
Randy, relishing the way Torsten trembled at his humiliation, the way his cock
jerked in jealous delight. "Feels so good in my pussy when you fuck it with a
big cock like that," I crooned, the exact ritual words both men wanted to hear,
the exact words that drove me higher and higher towards the peak.
"Yeah?" Randy said, blowing stray locks of hair from his face, the firm muscles
of his belly rippling as he paced his thrusts, holding my legs either side of
his hips.
"Yeah," I moaned as I kept on stroking my pussy, biting my lip in a mockery of
coyness. "So good. Please, Randy, more."
"Louder."
"Please, fuck me!" I cried, staring straight into his eyes, again forcing
myself towards orgasm with deep breaths. "Please, please, just like that,
please don't stop, oh, God--"
"Are you going to come?"
"Yes, yes, God, yes, please--" and now my pussy was so wet each and every one
of his thrusts was a noisy slap, so wet I was flowing down to my asshole, my
clitoris so swollen, my entire vulva pulsing underneath my hand. "Keep doing
that, exactly that," I moaned and he did, he did; that wonderful, long drag,
that wonderful heaviness of his body, the ease with which he threw his entire
mass into his thrusts, ramming into my womb so gloriously, his flesh become but
power, but fuck.
"Come," he barked, and slapped my cheek--I could not even scream from my shock.
Torsten must have taught him this, from the way he now laughed behind Randy,
oh, the bastard!
"Come!" Randy shouted again, slapping my other cheek, fucking me so hard his
thrusts pushed me back on the bed, sent me ululating, the sheets being pulled
off the bed as he plowed into me.
My hand flew on my pussy and I arched underneath him, screaming out my orgasm
as he pounded it out of my body, I not having any choice whatsoever. I had been
climbing up towards climax at my own speed, but now he slammed into me with
such force, his voice, his hands so full of command I was thrust into full
convulsions as swiftly as if this had been an anal orgasm. I screamed and
screamed again as he slapped my cheeks, my breasts, my belly, beating each
tremor out of me with his strong, beautiful, heavy hands.
"Please," I twisted underneath him, pulling his hands to my mouth and kissing
them, sobbing, my pussy pulsing and fluttering and clenching in aftershocks
around his cock.
"Please, what?" he laughed and kissed me, taking hold of my wrists once more.
"That was--" I gasped. "That was wonderful."
Again, he rolled his hips, smiling with genuine delight, the perfect row of his
teeth flashing white in the warm yellow light. "I aim to please."
"You did," I laughed, panting into his kiss. "Very much so."
"I also heard something about you liking it up the ass?" he said playfully and
flipped me onto my stomach. His cock slipped out and he rubbed it between my
buttocks, again pinning me down with his weight, chuckling at my squirming.
"And you really do seem to like being held down," he said. "Don't think I'm not
going to be rough with you, girl; I've only just been warming up."
"She loves it in the ass," Torsten purred, now too tired to kneel; he was
sitting cross-legged beside us, his hands still clasped behind his back. He
peeked down to nuzzle my face. "Don't you, my child? Tell the nice gentleman
what you like."
"I love being fucked in the ass," I said, but looked at Torsten as I said it,
shivering, offering this confession to him, to my Daddy, to his pleasure,
adoring the way his mouth twitched at my words. My liberation belonged to him,
this wonderful, vertignious joy I felt at again being able to put my desire, my
pleasure into words. Randy would never know how important this was to me, would
never know how they had tried to take my pleasure, my libido, my sexual will
away from me with electric shocks and injections, how triumphant I felt each
time I could reclaim my body and my soul like this.
Torsten knew; the tenderness in his eyes spoke more than words--but I felt
Randy was waiting for something more, a cue to continue. I rolled my hips,
knowing the way Torsten loved the way my buttocks undulated around his cock
whenever he was frotting in my cleft in this manner. "I love the way a cock
feels in my ass," I murmured, my pussy, my heart rushing full of joy and pride
at my abandon, Laura the child speaking in simple facts of sensation. "It hurts
so good, and then it feels so good, so good."
"I can see that," Randy laughed as he pushed a finger inside of my ass and then
pulled it out, realising I had prepared myself. "Do you want my cock in there?"
"Yes," I said, now lifting my ass into the air and clasping my buttocks,
pulling them apart the way Torsten had taught me to, even pushing two fingers
into my ass from either side to spread it open. It hurt, but I loved this,
loved being able to shock him with the gape Torsten and I so loved, the
shocking sight of pleasure having hollowed one's body open wide. "I'm ready.
Can't you see?"
"We can see you're a little slut," Torsten hissed and spat on my ass, making me
shriek into the pillows.
"Please!" I cried.
Randy slapped Torsten on the cheek. "You wait your turn."
Torsten breathed heavily from that, resting his head on the small of my back; I
knew what he was after. "I'm at your service," he purred at Randy and opened
his mouth.
"God!" Randy groaned, his control snapping completely at Torsten's audacity; he
pushed his cock into Torsten's mouth and choked him with it. "Suck it, then,
you miserable old fag. Suck that cock," he growled. "Slicken it up so I can
fuck your daughter's ass, fuck, yes, that's it, that's it," he snarled,
grinding Torsten's head into my ass. "Use your hands. Hold her open for me."
"With pleasure," Torsten rasped, his throat rough from fucking, his voice thick
from desire. He pulled off, spitting on my ass again. "Ever fucked a girl in
the ass?"
"No, as a matter of fact," Randy laughed as he started to push inside,
deliberately brutal, making me clutch at the sheets as I tensed against my
will. "God, but that's tight."
"Just fuck her like a boy," Torsten said, spitting on Randy's cock, his spit
sluicing down onto my pussy, both men ignoring my moans. "Use her like a boy,
hard and fast."
Randy shoved in deeper and I fell silent from shock, his penetration so fast it
made me black out for a second, two. All I could hear were his grunts and
Torsten's infuriating, purring laughter. I shook, barely able to move
underneath Randy's thrusts, twisting my hands underneath myself so that I could
touch my pussy, to somehow ameliorate the pain. And that did the trick, as it
always did: the moment I reached my clitoris, the moment I could give it a good
rub, the pain started to melt, thaw, liquify into pleasure.
And it was as liquid pleasure that I now undulated, flowed in moans against the
pillows and the sheets, against Randy's body, gloriously whorish; I pressed
back against him so as to take him truly deep inside of my body, so that he
could feel how full and how wet my pussy was against his balls.
"Oh, so you like that, is that it?" Randy taunted me, digging his fingers into
my hips, shifting upon the bed to find a good angle to thrust from.
"Yes," I moaned out of spite, my head now upside down, and from between my
legs, I could see I was dripping down in strings, flowing down his balls. "I
love it when you fuck me in the ass," I hissed, our dirty talk now a scourge to
drive us faster, faster, another ritual oblation to raise the flames higher,
higher. "Please, please--I'm going to come again--"
But Randy ignored me, choosing to grind Torsten's head into the small of my
back instead. "This is how I'm going to fuck you," he crooned at Torsten and
rolled his hips to punctuate his words, "fuck your little faggot ass,"
relishing the way Torsten whimpered at his words. "Going to push all of this--
" he pulled back so that only the head of his cock was nestled inside my ass,
demonstrating its no doubt gleaming length to Torsten, "so deep in your ass
you'll scream," and he shoved inside with such brutality I howled.
"Please do," Torsten hissed, his voice thick with phlegm, greed.
"Rub her pussy, and I will," Randy said. "Make her come around my cock."
I would have said something, but now Randy snatched my wrists and pulled them
behind my back, beginning a deep, slow fuck with such strength and ease it made
me feel like a doll in his hands. Just what I had wanted, to be so completely
taken, used by a man stronger than Torsten, but oh, God, Torsten. Now, he was
slapping my pussy, smacking it rapidly, violently with his hand, vicious, cruel
as he hissed into my ear. "Such a wet little pussy," he purred, licking my ear,
biting it. "Such a wet little slut when you've got a big cock up your ass,
aren't you? Hmm?"
"Yes," I cried, but then my voice turned into but a hoarse scream: my vision
went white, each one of Randy's thrusts a huge shock through my body, an
earthquake, my internal organs juddering from the force of his blows. I was
terrified, feared he might kill me, might tear something in me, but the way
Torsten now pinched my clitoris and rubbed it, I had no choice but to come
despite my terror. Torsten, Torsten, my awful, my beautiful Devil forcing me to
come despite everything, dragging my orgasm out of the depths of my body with
his perfect, perfect fingers, his slippery, wet, disgusting words slithering
into my ear.
"That's it, that's it; that's how Daddy's little pissy pussy comes," Torsten
crooned, and even through the din of my orgasm, I realised I was spraying his
hand, hearing my own howls from somewhere far away, my pussy spasming violently
underneath his hand.
Randy made a noise of astonishment--from what Torsten had said, he must have
thought I was pissing, but he kept on going, his shock having pushed him too
far to stop now. I could not stop either; my entire body came around him, each
muscle, each cell, drawing him into my orgasm, and soon enough, he was
bellowing into the canopies, grunting so low from his belly I feared someone
would come and interrupt us. He remained kneeling, huffing, growling, thrusting
in and out of me until his sperm dribbled out over my pussy, Torsten hissing in
delight as he played with it, rubbing it all over my vulva.
"God!" Randy groaned, and as I turned my head to see, Torsten was licking
Randy's come from his palm, showing off to him, making Randy shudder in
aftershocks at the sight. "The two of you are impossible," Randy moaned as he
slipped out of me, collapsing onto the bed. "A pair of beasts; animals."
"Thank you," Torsten purred, sucking his fingers, his lips gleaming with sperm.
***** Chapter 13 *****
I curled up next to Randy and nuzzled his broad chest, languid, my body warm
and heavy, saturated from pleasure. It was strange how much more tired I was
from having had sex with Randy rather than Torsten, from the sheer impact
Randy's body had had on me; sleepily, I reasoned that my muscles had been under
far greater a strain simply from trying to hold my body together underneath his
blows, having been used to being taken by a man half his weight. But this was
wonderful, simply wonderful, I thought; now I felt the way I usually did only
after a long swim or a much heavier fuck, the sort that involved whips and
chains. I was so utterly sated, so blissful and carefree that I was ready to
fall asleep where I lay.
But Torsten, having been denied all night, now demanded his share. In moments,
he was upon me: hungrily, he ate Randy's sperm from my ass, lapped it up from
my pussy, stroking his cock as he did so.
"Did I tell you you could touch yourself?" Randy said, quirking his eyebrow at
Torsten playfully, even as he was still catching his breath.
"Punish me, then," Torsten grinned, licking his lips.
Randy shook his head. "No. Not yet. You'd enjoy it too much. Come here."
Torsten made to suck his cock, but Randy stopped him from doing that, too, with
a firm hand on his shoulder. "Lie down between us, that's it. On your back."
Torsten just purred, glad that he was finally the centre of attention. He
crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back against the pillows. "Go on,
then," he said with a twinkle in his eyes; "have your wicked way with me."
Randy laid his hand on Torsten's belly, just above his cock. "Keep your hands
where they are," he said, gently, looking into Torsten's eyes, and even that
soft, lazy murmur of a command was so powerful Torsten stilled a little.
Randy continued to stroke Torsten's chest, his belly, his flanks; he caressed
Torsten's body all over apart from his genitals, now so purple in their prison
of leather that I wondered if he wasn't causing himself damage. But I didn't
dare move: I only lay silent beside Torsten, anchoring him with the softness
and the weight of my body against his. I sensed that he needed me, needed to
rest against me in order to take Randy's gift without breaking; for this touch,
this tender touch of another man took him completely by surprise.
Randy knew exactly what he was doing, using soft, gentle touches to ease
Torsten back into sex between men. He caressed Torsten the way a man caresses a
woman, with the confidence of a man dominant, the man who with his very touch
reassures a woman that there is no turning back, now; that the conquest had
been made and that all fear should now flee in shame, that this flesh
underneath him was now free to yield and unfold in pleasure.
Upwards towards pleasure, he called Torsten's body; pleasure with each one of
his touches, with the surety of the bridegroom; yet, at the same time, never
forgetting the body underneath him was male, cupping every sinuous muscle,
measuring every hard curve of bone and flesh with his touch. I remembered what
Torsten had told me about affection between boys having been seen as far
greater a sin than a quick fumble to relieve tension: this, this soft,
mesmerising pattern Randy wove with his touch across Torsten's body, this
blanket of tenderness he now enwrapped him in was far more perverse than just a
simple suck or fuck.
With this touch, Randy put Torsten back together piece by piece like some
ancient physician setting limbs, and I was jealous of this. Should I not have
been the one to put him back together again, the way Isis had done with Osiris?
I hated my female body at that moment, the fact that I could not, by the sheer
force of my passion, transform myself into a red-blooded male to let Torsten
feel such a body against his: that I couldn't take him the way a man could,
lacking the heaviness, the strength, the living cock now stirring full against
his thigh.
But it was then that Torsten turned to me, cupping my face, gazing into my eyes
with such gratitude and awe upon his face that he broke my heart. Randy slid
down his body and took his cock into his mouth, and Torsten keened through
clenched teeth, his eyelashes falling to his cheeks, shining black with tears.
Yet Torsten forced his eyes open again, coaxed me closer so that he might kiss
my lips, his breathing uneaven against my mouth. "Thank you," he whispered,
looking at me with such adoration, such happiness that I was ashamed of myself:
for was it not I who had brought him this experience, I who had told Randy to
give him this in the first place? Because it was me Torsten was now thanking;
it was me Torsten was now sacrificing this painfully vulnerable moment to. And
as Randy spread Torsten's legs and began to lick his ass, Torsten sobbed, his
hand clutching mine, his bent knees trembling as he lay spread out on the bed,
open, open to the pleasure another man was now pouring into him.
"Are you ready?" I asked Torsten softly, smiling at him.
"Yes," he laughed, a little embarrassed.
Randy lifted his head from between Torsten's legs and slapped his thigh. "Turn
around."
Torsten did as he was told; Randy guided him onto all fours, spreading his ass
with his hands. He didn't ask about the tattoo, even if seeing one on a
nobleman must've surprised him; he soon focused his gaze on Torsten's anus once
more.
"It's a beautiful ass," he murmured reassuringly and caressed Torsten's
buttocks. "Did you say you had something to open this with?" he asked me,
smiling.
I was a little surprised at first, but realised this was because Randy truly
wanted to do it right: Torsten was still a little nervous. I dug around in our
toy box--one of those few possessions of ours we had not yet given up--and
handed Randy a simple black rubber plug. "Will this do?"
"Perfect," he said, then gestured for me to come closer. "Here. Let's do it
together," he said, kissing one of Torsten's buttocks. "I can see it's an ass
that won't be easily sated," he chuckled, running his fingers across the
swollen, pursed bud of it, delighting in the way Torsten shivered at the touch.
"I meant what I said about him being a hopeless little slut," I said warmly and
scooped wetness from my pussy to slicken up the plug.
"I can see that," Randy said as he began to ease the plug into Torsten--it sunk
inside almost immediately, Torsten keening into his crossed hands as the flared
end of the bulb slipped inside of his body.
"That was quick!" Randy laughed.
I slapped Torsten's ass. "That's nothing for him. Wait until you move it inside
of him," I said and ran my hand across Torsten's cock, softly, gently, adoring
the way his ass clenched around the plug, the way he whimpered through his
nose.
"Is that so?" Randy said and took a firm hold of the plug, spitting loudly,
messily over Torsten's ass, loving the way Torsten shivered at the filthiness
of the act. "Do you like it when I do this to your ass?" Randy said, pulling
the plug out so that the muscles of Torsten's asshole spread around it in
beautiful, pink whorls. But he didn't give Torsten time to answer before he
plunged the plug in again, then tugged it out, fucking him with it, the
suddenness of it all making all the hairs on Torsten's arms stand on end.
"Answer me."
"Yes," Torsten panted, his tongue trembling against the pillows. "Oh, God."
"Would you like something bigger in there? Hmm?"
"Please!"
"This ass had better be clean, you know. She told me you pretend to forget
sometimes, and she also told me why."
And at that, Torsten closed his eyes, clutched the sheets and mewled.
Randy just smacked his ass. "Tell me. Did you clean up?"
Torsten buried his face in the pillows, shaking, his cock now jerking in my
palm. "No," he said quietly.
That shocked even me. But it made sense that he would take this risk, knowing
this might be his last time with a man, knowing how much he needed it. I knew
that even if Torsten hadn't taken an enema--and he wouldn't have had the time
to do that tonight--the rectum itself was usually empty. I knew that if he had
something in there it'd only be a trace, nothing a man used to penetrating
others wouldn't have encountered before. Yet I sensed even our old hustler
hesitating, his natural revulsion stilling him, probably because he remembered
what I'd told him of Torsten's fetishes. Now he wasn't as keen to pull the plug
out of Torsten's body again; he was only rubbing the flared base with his
thumb.
I knew I had to intervene. Gently, I moved Randy's hand aside from the plug and
kissed his palm, then kissed all around the plug, licking the raised rim of
Torsten's ass, showing Randy there was nothing to be scared of, Torsten himself
whimpering underneath my kiss. "He needs this," I told Randy and looked into
his eyes, begging for understanding. "I'll clean up if there's a mess."
"No," Randy said and shook his head, kissing my forehead. "He'll do it," he
said, grinning at me, then at Torsten. "Won't you, my boy?"
"Yes," Torsten whispered quietly, his ass clenching around the plug, clenching,
clenching.
I laughed and rested my head on the small of Torsten's back, over the tattoo,
just as he had done to me. "We'll do it together. Go on. Let me taste him. Make
sure he's clean enough for you."
And oh, the look in Randy's eyes, their dark flash, the wideness of his pupils
as he leaned down to play. He grinned at me, nuzzled my face, kissed me,
teasing me by pretending to pull the plug out only to push it back in again. I
purred onto his lips, devouring his breath, my pussy clenching and clenching;
God, I wanted him to fuck me, wanted Torsten to fuck me, so aroused was I by
this game. Torsten breathed heavily underneath me, straining as Randy forced
his ass to open around the plug, the muscles of it unfurling like a dark pink
flower. The Chrysanthemum Gate, the Chinese called it, dilating and expanding,
moist from our spit, from glycerine, hot and wet and delicious.
"Please," I whimpered before Torsten did, "please let me taste it."
"Mm-hmm?" Randy said, pulling the plug out slowly, slowly, watching as the
muscles of Torsten's anus clung to it, as if they did not want it to leave. The
plug was dark, shining, and it looked perfectly clean; it only smelled like the
blood-metal of flesh, a little dank, and again my pussy clenched violently.
"Please."
"Here you are," Randy said softly, yet as I closed my mouth around the plug and
sucked, it was Randy who moaned, his cock that now jerked and slapped against
his belly, even harder than it had been before. The plug tasted mostly of
rubber, of the sweetness of glycerine; I was a little disappointed that Torsten
had slickened himself because of the way the glycerine overpowered the taste of
flesh, but he must have been afraid of pain. Yet I wanted more, more: I sunk my
tongue into his asshole and licked him on the inside, rubbing my pussy as I
finally got to taste the deep, dark salt-must, the herbal richness I had been
looking for, shuddering in delight, almost coming there and then, almost,
almost.
But now Randy pulled me off by my hair, spat on Torsten's ass and started to
push his cock inside: Torsten moaned as if stabbed, his entire body stiffening
at the suddenness with which Randy entered him.
"What's the matter?" Randy said with a perverse lightness, cupping Torsten's
hips. "You are a little faggot, aren't you?" he grinned, a perfect, ravishing
grin. "You know how to open up. Come on. Let me in. Show me what kind of a man
you are."
Torsten whimpered at that, adoring Randy's words, the words themselves an
absolution, the most beautiful thing another man could've said to him at a
moment like this. He breathed deep and pushed back against Randy, yet his body
was still straining, despite the fact that he wanted it, wanted it desperately.
He panted, gasped as he began to rock himself onto Randy's cock, punishing
himself with the penetration, and I took pity on him: I slid underneath him and
kissed his mouth, spread my legs for him. Randy got the hint immediately and
pressed Torsten's body down, so that Torsten could penetrate me as he was
penetrated.
"How do you like that?" I asked Torsten, drawing him deeper into my pussy,
closing my legs around both men.
Torsten laughed, kissed me clumsily from his joy, rocking his hips to relish us
both. "The bisexual's dream," he slurred, his cock so hard inside of my pussy,
so wonderful.
"Don't tell me you've never done this before," I laughed, adoring his face as
Randy began to move into him, fucking him into me, fucking both of us at once
with a marvellous strength.
"Never with a woman I loved," Torsten said, kissing my mouth; he clutched me to
himself and moaned as Randy, jealous at that comment, rammed deep inside of
him. "And you're not bad either!" Torsten shot over his shoulder to Randy, and
I could feel him squeezing his ass around Randy's cock, fucking him back with
his hips. "Fuck me."
Randy ignored him and turned to kiss me over Torsten's shoulder. "Shall we,
m'am?"
"Yes, let's," I grinned and slipped my hand to my pussy. The position was so
awkward I didn't know if I was going to be able to come, yet Torsten's cock was
so big that I only needed it to move a little inside of me to get enough
friction. There, there; if I angled my hips just right, I would perhaps be able
to come right here, the way Randy was now undulating into us both. Because now
I was greedy, greedy for another orgasm, my body so aroused from the emotional
intensity of Torsten's surrender that I was aching.
"Fuck him," I purred at Randy over Torsten's shoulder, "fuck his little faggot
ass."
And Randy did: I loved being able to witness all the emotions, all the
sensations that flickered over Torsten's face as he was penetrated, to feel
each and every thrust of Randy's hips in my own bones, each jerk and pulse of
Torsten's cock within my pussy as Randy fucked him to orgasm. Torsten always
looked so beautiful when he came internally; his first orgasm was dry and so
was the second. I was astounded at how easily he came undone inside of me,
without ejaculating, soon so wrung out that he had to clutch the sheets, clutch
me in order to stay in place. I came before he ejaculated myself, grinding my
pussy into him, milking him with my pelvic convulsions as he was being fucked,
swallowing him within my body as he was swallowing Randy inside of his. And
after I had come, I held him in place with my legs and my arms and my pussy,
trapping him, holding him still as Randy took his pleasure of him: Torsten's
moans turned into meaowing little wails as Randy started to lose control, to
truly pound into him, so violently the entire bed creaked.
"Make him come," I told Randy, holding Torsten's head in my hands; "fuck him so
hard he'll blow a big load in my pussy," I hissed, never taking my eyes off
Torsten.
Torsten just puffed, whimpered, his entire face red and scrunched up in a
thousand wrinkles, his veins standing upon his temples: oh, the glorious sight
of the vainest of men having completely lost his dignity thanks to the pleasure
of a big cock in his ass.
"You heard the lady," Randy said, and between us, we fucked him, pussy and cock
engulfing and penetrating him, man and woman entering and enveloping his body,
drowning him in our flesh. Torsten jerked and lost his grip as he started to
come; he nearly slid out of me completely as he shot his sperm into me, Randy's
thrusts so wild he was pushed backwards and forwards upon me, slipping,
trembling in our sweat. I clutched him still, took him with the muscles of my
pussy, drinking his sperm, drinking Randy's thrusts.
"Good boy," I whispered into Torsten's shoulder and grinned at Randy, nodding
at him so that he knew he was now free to let go.
"God--" Randy groaned and pulled out, flopping back on the bed, his cock still
hard, slick, only the slightest hint of yellow and white upon it. "Come here,"
he said, gesturing to Torsten. "Sit on me. It's about time you did all the
work."
Torsten was shaking in every limb, but he obeyed: he climbed on top of Randy's
body, braced his hands on his broad chest and began to ride him. Fatigued or
not, he made sure to make even this ride into a performance: he undulated on
top of Randy lasciviously, rocking his hips like a belly-dancer, milking him
with his ass just as I had been milking his cock with my pussy. He cast his
strap aside and let his half-hard cock, his soft balls bounce free between
their bodies as he took his time riding Randy, kissing him, thanking him with
his body. I adored him, kissing the rivulets of sweat from the dip of his
spine, then lay beside them and masturbated slowly, satisfying myself with
their beauty: the way the muscles on Torsten's belly moved as he rode Randy,
the way he leered in delight, having come himself, knowing exactly how
beautiful he looked, the faggot triumphant.
It looked to me as if Randy was holding back simply for his own sake, now that
he'd satisfied us both: this must have been a special night for him as well,
the way he smiled with genuine happiness at this extraordinary creature riding
him, Torsten enjoying himself so thoroughly. For a moment, all hardness and
roughness were gone from him, both men consumed with youthful delight, playful
as they kissed and moved together in this dance of ecstasy. How on earth could
anyone have ever thought this joy was unnatural, the greatest of all sins? To
me, it was the most beautiful, magical of sights, seeing two grown men let go
of their pride and letting emotion, pleasure flow free. I adored the way they
cast aside the limitations, the artificial rules set for the sexes, breaking
through the limited range of movements prescribed for male bodies--God forbid a
man should let his body move like a woman's during sex!--and allowing
themselves to move with warmth, with fluidity, extracting every drop of
pleasure their bodies were capable of producing.
But now, Randy was tired of mere play; he caressed Torsten's cheek. "I'm going
to come, soon. Are you going to taste it, then?" he rumbled, deep in his chest,
lazily.
"Mm-hmm," Torsten murmured, licking Randy's mouth.
Randy sunk his hand into Torsten's hair, tugging upon it a little. "Ask
properly."
"Will you let me taste my ass?" Torsten purred, a dark, soft whore's churr.
"Again," Randy said, sucking Torsten's mouth with a hungry kiss. "What do you
want to taste? And why?"
"I want to taste my shit," Torsten snapped, shuddering, all of us jerking a
little as he said it, "because I like it."
"Little slut," Randy hissed, then shoved Torsten down, never taking his hand
out of his hair, kneeling before Torsten, now, holding his cock out to his
mouth. "Suck."
And now it was Randy I was looking at, as was Torsten, adoring the strength of
him, the beauty of him; the way his stern command melted into a sigh of
exquisite pleasure-shock as Torsten sucked his dirty cock into his mouth. His
broad frame, his every muscle trembling from exhaustion and thrill as Torsten
worshipped his cock, licked it, sucked it, huffing, whimpering, satisfying
himself with his taste, his mouth smeared with the yellow and the white.
"God!" Randy cried as he fucked Torsten's mouth, going faster and faster;
"You're such a dirty bastard, you--oh--"
But then he was coming, Torsten keening, choking, gagging on his cock as Randy
held him down, Randy fucking his mouth so violently tears streamed out of
Torsten's eyes, so that a little of his sperm burst out of Torsten's nostrils.
It was a disgusting sight, amazing; I had to push my fingers into my pussy and
fuck myself with them to stop my body from spasming so. I couldn't come any
more, but I moaned still, kneeling on my hand and grinding into it as I
watched. And once Randy pulled Torsten's head back, his face gleaming in the
lamplight, exquisite, I had to kiss him, had to drink Randy's sperm from him.
Randy grabbed my hair as well, grinding our faces together around his cock,
both of us sucking, drooling, snorting around its glory like filthy animals,
drunk on the taste of foam, shit and sperm, replete in our sin.
"You're unbelievable," Randy groaned as he fell back onto the bed, his chest
heaving, gleaming from sweat.
With his tongue, Torsten pulled a string of Randy's sperm from my cheek and
slurped it in, noisily, theatrically, making me shiver in twisted delight. "And
we're very pleased with your services," he purred, pulling me down with himself
so that he lay nestled between Randy and myself, still greedy for our warmth.
***
"That was exquisite," Torsten sighed after a while, caressing Randy's chest
lazily with the back of his hand.
"I'm glad," Randy said, nuzzling Torsten's temple before getting up.
"Where are you going?" I said.
"I just need the bathroom."
It was then that a wicked, wicked inspiration struck me. "Oh, no, you don't," I
said, and dragged Torsten out of bed. "Not when there's a perfectly good urinal
right here," I purred, Torsten's eyes widening in realisation. "Come on."
Both men were too tired, too wrung out from fucking to protest: soon, we were
all laughing like maniacs as we wrangled Torsten into the sort of position
where he could best take Randy's piss inside of himself. I hadn't brought the
funnel, so eventually I made Torsten lie back in the bathtub knotted up like a
fakir, balanced on his shoulders, his ass pointing towards the sky. I knelt
over his face, holding his legs back and spreading his ass with my hands,
tugging him open with my fingers.
"Now, then."
"I can't believe you're making me do this," Randy laughed, at first far too
nervous to piss, still half-hard from arousal; to be frank, Torsten's ass
looked so delicious I couldn't blame him.
"I can't either," Torsten groaned, mock-outraged, sending me yelping as he bit
my legs in revenge.
"Go on," I laughed, squealed. "He won't stay open for much longer."
And finally, finally we managed it: Randy could insert just the tip of his cock
into Torsten's ass, and from the soft, choked noise Torsten made, I could tell
he was finally pissing inside of his body.
"Oh, God," Torsten sighed, his ass twitching so that a little dribble of piss
escaped it, but Randy soon pushed deeper inside. "Oh, God, oh, God, Oh, God--"
Randy laughed, a little incredulously. "I'm finished. What do I do now?" he
asked, looking comical with his cock still inside of Torsten.
I took out the plug we had been using before. "Pull out slowly just so I can--
that's it--" I managed to insert the plug with hardly any spillage at all; I
smacked Torsten's ass and let go of him. "There. How does that feel?"
"Amazing," Torsten slurred as he curled up on the bottom of the tub like a cat,
laughing in disbelief. "Warm."
I kissed him, kissed him deep and hugged him. "You're very silly, Daddy."
"With the silliest little daughter in the world," he laughed, gradually
climbing up to a sitting position. "How long were you planning on keeping me
like this?"
"For a while, perhaps." I looked at Randy, at the way his cock was hardening
once again. No wonder he had chosen this profession; with stamina like that, he
would've been wasted in any other occupation. "Care for another round?" I
turned on the shower and embraced Randy underneath it, kissing him.
And there Randy and I stood, washing each other, kissing each other; a lazy,
sweet and slow fuck under the spray as Torsten watched, his guts full of
Randy's piss. Torsten just lay there, with a blissful smile on his face as he
watched us, his cock hardening and then softening as he stroked it. He was not
in a rush towards orgasm, merely enjoying his enema, enjoying the sight of us,
not having to work for his pleasure at all. When he knew he could not hold it
inside any longer, we held him between us, standing together underneath the
shower and gently, I took out the plug. We swallowed up his groans of delight
as he expelled the enema over my legs, kissing his pleasure from his mouth,
rubbing his belly as the warm water sluiced us clean.
"Thank you," he murmured and kissed us both, hugging us tight; I knew how much
this meant to him, how glad he was not to have to go to his grave without
having experienced it. Randy was mostly amused, but he hugged Torsten, too,
probably used to his clients being emotional afterwards.
When we finally returned to bed, Torsten was so tired he fell asleep in
minutes; he didn't wake up even as Randy dressed, gave me a goodnight kiss and
left--with an extra tip in his back pocket.
I didn't have the heart to wake Torsten up, so I just pulled the bedcovers over
us, undid our bathrobes so I could press my skin against his, nestling into his
warmth.
The clock on the wall told me it was twenty past one; we had been together for
three years. I was too tired to feel melancholy about this; so warm and so
happy that I was made of but contentment itself. They had been perfect years, I
thought to myself; three perfect, perfect years.
"Happy anniversary, Daddy," I murmured into the warmth of his chest, and from
the corner of my eye, I could see he was smiling in his sleep.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The following day, we learned that the girl in the suite next to ours had
jumped overboard and drowned. The beautiful, vivacious young girl we had been
lusting after but days earlier, the girl we had been meaning to seduce. I lost
all interest in my breakfast, excused myself, and by the time I reached our
cabin, I was in tears.
It was because that girl could have been me, and the realisation of this--
especially on the anniversary of Torsten having rescued me--plunged me into
horrid grief. She and I had not exchanged a single word, yet in my hysteria, I
imagined her to be everything I was: a young girl eager for adventure, for sex,
held back by her parents, held back by a society that abhorred a woman with a
will of her own. Everything about her had spoken of a rebellion fuelled by
sensuality and imagination, of fighting against everything that chained her.
Yet she had broken under the pressure, because she had not been able to escape,
had not had anyone to help her become what she truly was. What an artist of the
erotic she could have become, what a great mistress, what an adventuress--oh,
it broke my heart.
Thus, I lay there on the bed, weeping for all such girls, weeping for all such
young lives wasted and lost, inconsolable.
Torsten arrived a little later, never one to omit breakfast. The way he sat on
the bed beside me and smoked, waiting for me to come out of my grief seemed
callous; I snapped at him, too.
"Don't you understand? Had it not been for you, it would've been me at the
bottom of the sea!"
He nodded and stumped his cigarette, blowing smoke out of his nostrils like a
dragon. "If we'd fucked her, she'd still be here today."
"If you choose to put it like that," I huffed, wiping my face with my
handkerchief.
"It's a waste," he said and shrugged, "a waste of a fine piece of ass."
"Stop it."
He turned to me, more irritated than anything. "The fact of the matter remains
that you are not at the bottom of the sea. You're wasting precious time again,
being miserable."
I slapped him for that; too sick and tired of him not caring. "Shut up!"
That slap sent him into a coughing attack, and this time, to my horror, he
coughed up blood. Finally, he wiped his mouth with his hand and looked at it,
his eyes blazing with cold fire as he regarded me. It was a look of a man who
felt betrayed, the blaze of a madness similar to what I felt right now, both of
us now coming undone because of impending death.
"You'll be sorry for that," he said, calmly, in a voice that made my blood run
cold.
I looked at my hands, terrified, the hair on the back of my neck standing on
end. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
"I'm not awake enough yet to beat you up the way you deserve," he murmured.
Yet he slapped me hard, hard enough to make stars dance behind my eyes, to send
me flying back on the bed.
"Will that do?" he asked, his voice tired, that of the father weary of having
to put up with an unruly child. "I'm too tired to fuck you," he groaned, "even
if that's what you wanted, was it not?"
"No," I sulked, burying my face in the pillow.
"Oh?"
"I don't want you to fuck me," I mumbled.
"All right," he said and unbuckled his belt; "then, I will."
"No!"
I screamed at him, kicked at him, hit him, tried to push him off me, but he
wouldn't listen. He caught my wrists in his hand, pulled up my skirt, spat on
his cock and pushed it inside of me. He had never done this before, had never
truly forced me because I had always been curious about even the most twisted,
the most brutal of his desires. But perhaps this was exactly what I had wanted
deep down inside: to be beaten by him, raped by him, truly torn apart by him.
As he panted and grunted on top of me, hurting my pussy, crushing my body
underneath his, I wondered whether there was any difference between sex and
violence for us any more, because even this made a twisted sort of sense to me.
It was what I needed, what both of us needed: could I ever have truly said no
to him, truly hated him for this? Because I wanted him to hurt me, wanted him
to tear me to pieces like tissue paper, wanted him to destroy me so that I
wouldn't have to hurt any longer.
So I drank in each thrust, a blunt, metallic hammering in my too-dry, too-hard
and cold pussy, unable to even breathe underneath him; I lay passive, absorbing
his sperm as he finished inside of me within moments.
"There," he huffed into my shoulder, still lying on top of me in his rumpled
clothes, his greasy hair falling onto my neck. "Is that enough?"
"You did that to serve me," I said quietly, staring out of the window, refusing
to look at his face. "You bastard."
He groaned and pulled off me. "It's funny," he said, fumbling for his
cigarettes, lighting another one. "I thought I might enjoy that, but I didn't."
"You don't hate me enough to enjoy it," I said, still staring out of the
window, at the endless blue-green sea, the gray sky.
"That's true," he said, offering me the cigarette he had lit, like an Indian
offering a peace pipe.
I let him put the cigarette between my lips. I pulled down my skirt and curled
up in his arms, smoking, sighing. "And I couldn't hate you, no matter what you
did. It's too late now."
He took the cigarette back from me. "This wasn't the way I expected we'd
celebrate today," he said, but with such self-deprecating humour, such a soft
laughter that it did not hurt me. "Let's do something fun. Just the two of us.
What do you say?"
"Let's stay in today, Daddy," I sighed. "I'm sick of other people. I'd rather
just focus on us," I said, looking up into his eyes, serious. We would arrive
in Southampton in two days; we could fuck plenty of others in that time.
"Please."
He stumped the cigarette and kissed my cheek. "All right."
He slid his hand down between my legs, now asking for permission with his eyes,
and I granted it to him. I opened my legs and he kissed me softly,
apologetically, caressing the short, damp hairs of my vulva. "Did Daddy hurt
your little pussy?"
"You did," I whispered against his shirt, and I did not know if it came out as
an accusation or as a mere statement of fact, as an acknowledgement that these
things happened. I still felt cold, and wanted to be drawn out of that
coldness.
"Then let me make up for it," he said and slid down to kiss my pussy.
As he undressed me, I burst into tears; he swallowed all those tears with his
lips, hushing me, the father consoling the broken daughter, just as I had
wanted him to. He mouthed me, fingered me, fucked me, made love to me until
that heat began to unfurl within me once more; he dived deep into my soul
through my flesh and lifted Laura out of the depths of the sea to resuscitate
her with his love. And in his lovemaking, he clung to me with such desperation,
such devotion it awakened a fierce tenderness in me, so that I clung back, took
him with my hips, answered his passion completely. The way it should have been,
the way it always had been.
After, I rested in his arms, both of us now naked, peaceful. "It's like Tamara
and the demon," I whispered, playing with the sparse hairs on his chest.
"How so?" he asked, half-asleep in my arms. "It's a long time since I read that
one. Refresh my memory."
"He offered her everything. Power beyond that of mere mortals, domain over
earth and sea, more than any ordinary woman ever got. And when she responded to
his embrace, ready to become his queen, the power of his kiss slew her." I
looked up into his eyes. "That's you, Daddy. I wanted you and all that you
offered me, and for that, I will be slain." I did not say this to accuse him: I
had accepted it long ago, with a perfect calmness.
"But you forget something. In that story--I remember it, now--the demon was
forever doomed to wander the earth, alone, when Tamara was taken up to Heaven.
Theirs wasn't a happy ending. But we," he said and laced his fingers with mine,
"we shall be together forever."
"Promise me you'll fuck me in Hell," I whispered against his hand, "show them
how it's done."
He laughed, nestling his still-wet cock against my pussy. "I shall. And then
I'm going to go up to Satan himself, fuck him in the ass and assume the
throne."
I burst into laughter. "Do you know, I think you would."
***
The rest of our journey became a spiral of disintegration: periods of sensual
inebriation transpierced by vertignious moments of weightlessness, gunpowder-
flash realisations of how nothing had any meaning apart from our love, the eye
of the storm around which everything else was pulled and ripped apart. Whirling
and whirling around this pole-star, this fulcrum of our togetherness, our
bipartite male-female body spun human beings and animals, intoxicants,
deliriants, blood, excreta, sperm.
We no longer had our camera to immortalise these images of our fornications; we
were burning them onto the surface of the world, imprinting them onto it as
light and shadow draw shapes upon film, one picture following another in an
endless cavalcade of debaucheries.
The deck.
I accidentally spilling my glass of red wine over Torsten; he just laughing and
asking for more. I taking the whole bottle and pouring it all over him as he
sat in his deckchair, everyone thinking us mad as we kissed and kissed under
the red shower of it, drinking the wine from each other's mouths.
Our cabin.
Torsten bringing in a girl, a girl young, perhaps too young, dominating her,
tying her to one of the bedposts and slapping her pussy until she wept. She
sobbing and telling us how much she wanted to be fucked, but how she wanted to
save up her virginity, so desperate until we showed her all the other ways in
which a woman could be taken. Her begging for Torsten not to stop as he fucked
her ass, and my feeling that we were saving a life, preventing her from
drowning even as I drowned, suffocated my face in her dripping pussy. Torsten
bending her over in that position I so loved, the tenderness in his eyes making
me weep as he offered me the taste of her from his cock, the foam-marbled
beauty of it. My last taste of another woman's pussy and ass, my very last: I
weeping until I was hysterical, Torsten sitting on my face until I was quiet,
the lack of oxygen forcing my heart to still.
Randy's cabin.
Torsten and Randy having sex face to face, Torsten holding his knees up,
trembling from his emotion. Soft, wet, deep kisses, the slow, slow dance of
Randy's hips, as close to love as these two men could get. Torsten staring into
Randy's eyes, forlorn, so desperate, so chaotic, his thoughts of mortality writ
clear upon his face. The quietest little ah-ah-ah noises escaping from his lips
as Randy took him, the way it looked like he simply could not take any more, so
overwhelmed that he seemed close to tears. His cock and his balls shifting free
upon his belly, free from all straps and rings, hard and soft and then hard
again as his desire rose and fell. Randy caressing Torsten's cock with the
backs of his fingers, hushing him, hushing him with genuine tenderness. And
Torsten orgasming simply from that, gasping for air through his tears, gulping
for breath, his cock pulsing and pulsing as if it were lamenting as well, the
plant releasing its seed before withering, dying.
The ship's restaurant.
Torsten hiding me underneath a round dinner table and eight men sitting around
it, I quietly serving each man's cock with my mouth. The men trying to pretend
they were at ease so that no one would notice, aroused by this twisted knot of
self-control and abandon; most coming fast. One man blending into another until
I no longer knew whom I was serving, and how this was exactly what I had
wanted, wanting to serve but cock itself, swallow but sperm itself. One man
taking longer than the others to finish, pushing so deep into my throat it was
hard not to make noise; his fingers cruel upon my scalp as they pulled at my
hair. I feeling for his body and recognising wide, wide woman's hips, their
sensual sway. Torsten. Always Torsten, always the cruellest, the most
beautiful; it was upon his cock that I deliberately choked myself and came as I
rode my hands.
Southampton, a brothel near the docks.
Torsten walking me around on a leash, asking everyone in the brothel to push a
finger inside my ass, to sample it, the saccharine sweetness of it. Torsten
blindfolding me, locking the cuffs on my ankles and wrists together and laying
me down on a bed, then letting men fuck me for free. Torsten fully clothed in
his tuxedo, holding my head in his lap, brushing my hair with his fingers and
kissing me as I was fucked raw, my father drinking in my sobs like wine. I
losing count of the number of men I had served, my pussy and my ass slurping
with sperm from my sobs, Torsten only asking them to stop when I had nearly
lost consciousness. Torsten picking me up in his arms and carrying me to the
taxi, carrying me to our hotel room, injecting me with morphine for the pain.
The ship to Sweden.
Torsten not fucking me for two whole days after the orgy, seeing how I could
barely walk after having been so used, his face soft with tenderness as he told
me how proud he was of me. I dressing in my little girl's outfit and leaning
against him as we set off for Stockholm, drugged with morphine from morning to
evening, spending the entire trip as father and daughter, innocent, sweet.
Torsten spreading out my fur coat upon the bed so that we could lie upon it, he
wrapping us in thick blankets, drawing them over our heads so that we were
immersed in darkness, just as I had done as a child when playing bears. Torsten
feeding me honey with his fingers, honey and then more morphine, curling up
around me and holding me tight. The sweetest of hibernations, being so
swallowed by this soft, warm womb of opium and honey, completely isolated from
the world. All of me swimming in love, a love made even more all-embracing and
euphoric by the opium; in those moments, I felt a happiness so complete I had
not felt anything like it since childhood. Those warm summer afternoons that
would never end, when you thought you would never die, the perpetual midsummer
sunlight making the very thought of winter seem absurd. And always, always at
the centre of my summers, always at the centre of my happiness, my beloved
Uncle Torsten, my Daddy, his cad moustache tickling me until I was giggling,
giggling so much I felt dizzy, falling joyous into his arms.
Stockholm, the Peacock.
A leather bench expressly designed so that upon it, one person could be tied
down and used by others. Torsten lying on his back upon this bench, I watching
from the closet as several men fucked him. For I had wanted to experience sex
between men in all its brutality, just as I had done in the shed, with none of
Torsten's men knowing they were being watched. Torsten with his ankles cuffed
to his wrists just as I had been, bent double, his ass bare, offered. Torsten
making noises, shocking noises with his mouth and his ass, slurping, farting as
the cocks pulled out and pushed back in again. Cocks sliding out of his ass to
push slick into his mouth, then out of his mouth and back inside his ass, his
ass gaping pink and wide as he lapped up his juices. Torsten's cock, his balls
trapped in leather, tortured by clothespegs, the pegs swaying as he was fucked.
Torsten kissing the men as they fucked him, the men kissing Torsten, with
sloppy, wet noises, spitting upon his face and his chest, slapping his face,
his chest, his genitals until he spasmed. The men twisting his cock, biting
him, hurting him until he came from the pain, spilling over their hands, over
his belly.
The gurgling groans as cocks were stuffed into Torsten's mouth and down his
throat, the sounds and sights of him coughing and spitting fluids. Two men
taking Torsten's ass at once: one man underneath him, one on top of him, two
cocks pushed into his ass, making him sob between them, and it sounding to me
as if he was afraid of dying, so awful and terrible it sounded, even as he
ejaculated so violently he hit his chin. Torsten's head lolling to the side as
another man pulled his cock out of his mouth, Torsten weeping from having been
choked so, used so, satisfied so. His lashes sharp and dark wings against his
cheeks, rivulets of sperm pouring down the sides of his mouth, white streaked
with caramel. And after the men had gone, Torsten's heaving chest, a pool of
piss trembling upon his sternum, trickling down over his shoulders with his
exhausted, phlegmatic sobs.
And finally, finally, those sobs breaking, dying as I leaned down between his
legs and drank this libation to Priapus from his overflowing ass, drank it all
in orgasmic joy.
Stockholm, Helena's apartment.
Calling on Helena and learning she was not home, but the janitor knowing
Torsten and letting us in. Torsten and I getting bored waiting for her to
arrive; so bored that we took a daring combination of drugs, going wild. The
dog playing with us eagerly and both Torsten and I giggling like children,
shrieking like witches as we knew exactly what we would do with him. "Good
boy," we called him and took off our clothes, offered him tastes of our
genitals, letting him lap at us as we fucked. Torsten's hysterical, red,
grinning face, he shaking his head at our outrageousness as I worked the dog's
little, red, pointed prick, the dog whimpering happily into Torsten's ass. The
dog's sperm thick, salty, rich as Torsten and I lapped it from my hand, still
giggling, deciding that it must have been truly nourishing, full of proteins
and vitamins. Helena still not having arrived at three o'clock in the morning;
us having to leave without having had the chance to say goodbye, yet
triumphant, giddy with our own madness, at having ticked yet another taboo off
our list.
Disjointed--cannot remember where--many places and nowhere at once.
Torsten and I masturbating side by side for three hours, watching each other,
not allowing ourselves to come, then attacking each other with violent fury the
moment the three hours were up.
I sucking Torsten's cock in a club of ill repute, people assuming I was merely
fellating him when I was drinking his piss.
A big, strong man--was that Randy?--arranging Torsten and I on all fours side
by side, just as Torsten had arranged the girls for me, fucking both our asses.
We could peek at ourselves from between our legs to see our asses reflected in
the mirror at the foot of the bed: we were gaping beautifully like cored
apples, both having the time of our lives. Us tasting the man from ourselves
and each other, thanking him with our mouths, Torsten and I kissing each other,
laughing.
"Daddy's brought you chocolate," Torsten purring as he reached inside my ass
with a long silver spoon, scooping the mess out onto a bowlful of ice cream, us
feeding it to each other with relish.
Torsten lying down in a bathtub in his most expensive, most well-tailored suit,
masturbating. Six men surrounding him, all with their cocks out, calling him a
faggot, a whore, a shit-licker, a piss-sucker, inflaming his desire with his
favourite insults, driving him into a frenzy. The moment Torsten cried 'Now!'
and all six men releasing bright, golden arcs of piss all over him. Torsten's
howls turning into gurgles as he drank the piss into his mouth, the men ruining
his suit, Torsten whimpering pitifully as he came and he came, ecstatic. The
men cutting, ripping, tearing the suit off him, fucking him, filling his mouth
and his ass with piss and come, forcing him to taste his shit off their cocks,
forcing him to lick and suck their hairy asses. Torsten a torn, panting wreck
in the bathtub after the men had left, lying in a mess of tattered cloth and
filth, sobbing, weeping from his joy.
Us breaking into a chapel and defiling it--or was that an opium dream?--drunk
on communion wine, fucking on the altar, soiling its pristine white cloth.
Dream or not, I can still remember the bitterness of the wine, the way it stung
my mouth as I licked it off Torsten's belly, the way devil-worshippers use the
body of a naked woman as their altar.
I lifting the drowned girl from the sea and kissing her, licking her until she
breathed again, her little pussy fluttering against my tongue as life quickened
within her once more. Torsten and I fucking her into life, into heat, into a
fully blossoming fury, a goddess blazing with beauty, as it should have been.
Stockholm, the railway station.
Torsten playing an old folk song upon the out-of-tune piano in the bar, just
before our train was to leave for Forssa. "Woe is me, woe is me, what I now
see," Torsten singing quietly, a song of death, his voice slurred from
morphine, his eyes glittering with tears. "I see my daughter, she's walking
towards me--"
And I took his mouth, took his tears, swallowing them. He was murmuring of how
I must have been a valkyrie come to claim him, reminding me of how they only
chose the greatest of heroes to dine in Valhalla, and perhaps that's where we
would end up, drinking and feasting.
"Perhaps," I laughed as I helped him up.
He picked up his coat and his hat; they were dusty. I was down to my last pair
of stockings; even those, I had mended three times by now. It was late in the
evening and the sun shone in through the windows, silhouetting him in their
light; specks of dust danced around him in the sunbeams, adoring him the way I
now adored him.
In the distance, a train whistle blew.
"Come, Daddy," I whispered and took his hand. "It's time to go."
Chapter End Notes
     The most beautiful translation of "The Demon" by Mikhail Lermontov
     can be read here, and the folk song Torsten plays upon the piano is
     this_one.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
I squeezed into Torsten's bunk in the sleeping car; we lay there spooned, fully
clothed, too restless to sleep. "You never told me about those older women,
Daddy," I murmured. "When you were young."
He pulled his coat over me and kissed the star on my neck. "There's not much to
tell."
"Tell me anyway."
"Are you sure you want to hear it?"
I was surprised to hear a hesitation in his voice. "Why not, Daddy?"
"It's just--well." He played with the coat's buttons. When he finally answered
me, he spoke slowly, warily. "All right, I'll tell you. But it's not an easy
matter to talk about."
"Must've been some woman," I quipped.
But he didn't laugh with me. "She was," he said quietly. "She's dead, now, you
see. She was only a few years older than me, married to someone I knew well.
I've never told anyone about it, in fact," he said. "We had to keep it a
secret, or it would've destroyed us both. It nearly did."
Words still clung to his throat; he took a long while to find the right ones.
This seemed more like an awkward confession than anything else: I couldn't hear
the slightest trace of the pride with which he usually described his exploits,
Torsten the ladykiller always so keen to boast of his sexual conquests.
"What was her name?" I prompted.
Torsten remained quiet, too quiet.
"What's wrong?" I asked, turning around in his arms so that I was facing him.
"You've never kept secrets from me before." In fact, I was upset, now; that he
should act like this, that something was left unsaid between us even on the eve
of our death. "Why can't you tell me?"
"Forgive me," he murmured. "Before you, there was but one woman in my life that
mattered anything to me, you see, only one I thought I loved, and I thought
this woman was the one. But she wasn't, and it all went terribly wrong for both
of us," he sighed. "I hate telling you this, because I don't want you to be
jealous," he said.
But even then, I felt he was not being honest. "You don't have to tell me her
name," I lied, even if I was burning to know, now; know the name he had drawn
upon his heart and then erased, the palimpsest upon which he had carved mine.
"What did she look like?"
The corner of Torsten's mouth twitched with bittersweet mirth. "Fair.
Voluptuous. Piercing blue eyes, and a lascivious look in them whenever her
husband wasn't watching. Very much like you, in fact."
"And her husband found out."
Torsten shook his head. "He never did, actually. I don't know how we got away
with it, but we did. We slept together even at his family cottage, when he was
away; we fucked like animals and barely had time to dress before he came back
from his hunting trip."
"How old were you?"
"I was a grown man, actually. Thirty. I'd had some adventures with women
before, but she was the only one who took time to teach me, made me appreciate
a woman's desire. She's the one who taught me this," he said, taking me by the
throat, squeezing me by it, adoring my face as he observed the way I flushed,
stiffened in arousal. "That sort of thing, you see," he said and let go,
caressing my hip, as if he could feel the lust now stirring, swirling in my
pelvis. "All my skill in that particular art, I owe to her."
"A woman?" I laughed. "A woman made you a sadist?"
"She looked so beautiful when she begged for me to dominate her," he purred,
now curling up a little against me, finally relishing the tale. "So I had to
learn quickly."
"So none of this came from men?"
Torsten tutted pityingly. "No, no, no, no. Men are weak, not capable of the
depths of cruelty women can both give and take. That's the funniest thing--
I thought I preferred men, but she made me realise I loved women more after
all, when it came to sheer psychology, the role-play, the games. Men are more
stunted in that regard, lacking imagination. I love a good cock up the ass, as
you've seen, but emotionally, I prefer women. They're warmer, more responsive,
more complex. Neurotic, yes, but more rewarding, and can submit more
beautifully than men ever can. After I realised these things, I also began to
understand myself--it explained why I had always felt half female, too."
"You understand women on a soul level," I said and caressed his cheek. "When
women don't even understand themselves, or each other. That's what you taught
me," I whispered. "You're going to be so puffed up with conceit when I tell you
this, but I mean it. It's as if you were more female than most women ever will
be, yet stronger than any man I have ever known, either; stronger than either
sex, more than the sum of their parts."
"Thank you." He kissed my mouth. "So, there you have it. It was through loving
a woman that Torsten Barring understood why he was a tranny and a faggot."
I laughed; his blunt sense of humour was something I had always loved about him
as well. "And you're useless outside the bedroom."
He pouted, pretending offense. "Fair enough," he said, "it's a little too late
to deny that. But are you complaining?"
"Never," I said and cupped his cheek, kissing him gently.
He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, groaning in his chest. "I
don't believe it."
"Believe what?"
"I desperately need to piss," he said and grinned at me.
I burst into laughter. "Not in here. It's not public enough."
"Pervert," he smiled at me, his eyes glittering from joy. "Quick, then. Into
the corridor," he said and slapped me on the ass.
And there, in the corridor, where anyone could have seen us, he stood up and I
knelt at his feet, taking his cock into my mouth. We laughed at first, but then
my eyes were full of tears: his piss tasted sweet, the memories it brought back
making it hard for me to swallow as I tried not to cry. The evening sun
glittered through the windows, through his irises, dancing upon his sleek, dark
head; my father claiming me just as he had first claimed me, wedding me to his
darkness and his perversion as the train thundered around us. We were going
home, back to where it had all started, retracing our steps, home, home.
I saw movement from the corner of my eye. The conductor stood at the end of the
car, leaning on the doorframe. Torsten turned to him, smiling; the conductor,
assuming I was fellating Torsten, just grinned and winked at him, retreating.
After, we tumbled into our compartment, laughing, weeping, hugging; Torsten
lifted me into his arms and spun me around as much as he could in such a
confined space, then pulled me to lie beside him upon the bed. There, he
groaned with happiness as he held me close.
"Has Daddy's little girl had a good time?" he asked, his voice rough, his
breathing heavy from exertion, from his illness.
And in that, I knew he was asking me about my whole life, not just tonight; I
wept and wept from joy, kissing his hands. "She has, she has. Thank you for
everything, Daddy," I said, hugging him so tight he couldn't breathe, the way a
child does; "you're the best Daddy a girl could ever have."
***
Forssa. The old manor, white amidst the bright, fresh green of the whispering
birches, the gray-green curtains of the falls behind us: once the taxi had
driven off, we were completely alone. The house had been wrapped up for over a
year; in the end, we hadn't had the heart to sell it. It had been lying
uninhabited ever since Grandfather had died, ever since I had left: the silence
within was eerie. I had been so used to the sound of cows and horses, to
servants going in and out that I hardly recognised the place. Torsten told me
he'd had to ask a man at the village to come in and turn on the electricity,
the water for us; when I turned on the kitchen tap to wash my hands, the water
ran brown at first. We'd brought our own food and drink, what little we needed:
after all, at the stroke of midnight, we were to end our lives.
The house seemed haunted even before we'd had the chance to become ghosts;
Torsten coughed violently at the dust that billowed out as we pulled the sheets
off the furniture. Ritually, we went through each and every room, the lord and
lady of the manor announcing they were home. Finally, we arrived at the attic,
I carrying a candelabra--we never did get lights installed up there--and
Torsten carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The attic had always
frightened everyone else except me; I had always loved it because I could be
alone there, alone amidst all the old banners, spears, cuirasses and muskets,
remnants of the Barrings' martial past. Here, I had woven my own little plays
that had lasted for hours: here, I had fallen into long trances imagining
myself a medieval knight or a vampire countess; here, I could always masturbate
to my heart's content, so that the musty air and the cobwebs immediately
triggered feelings of deep arousal within me.
Torsten, never one to miss a chance to show off, drew an old sabre from its
scabbard and weighed it in his hand. "Hold out the glasses."
And with one stroke, he took the top off the champagne bottle, I rushing to
fill our glasses, laughing as the foam spilled over our clothes.
"That's the way the hussars do it, you know," Torsten said and raised his
glass. "I always wanted to be one."
"Didn't they say that no true hussar would live past thirty?" I said and raised
mine.
"Sixty-six years we've had in total," he sighed proudly and slinked his hips.
"Not bad for a pair of hellraisers. To us!"
"To us!" I clinked glasses with him. "Skål, and the Devil take me," we both
said in unison, the old libertine's toast, laughing at our telepathy.
"Speaking of evil, I was going to show you something," he said and moved aside
an old trunk, prying one of the floorboards loose. "You asked about that
woman," he said, his hands on his knees, staring into the gap he had made,
waiting.
"What about her?" I asked, having downed my champagne in one swallow, now
refilling my glass.
"I was going to tell you on your eighteenth birthday," he murmured. "Or maybe
not," he smiled wryly, to himself. "Because I thought you'd kill me."
"I am going to kill you," the morbid playfulness with which I said the truth
now swirling, sparkling in my belly like the champagne.
"Which is exactly why it doesn't matter any more," he said and took out a piece
of paper from between the floorboards, blowing dust from it and shuffling to me
upon his knees. "Still, I would ask you not to hate me, Laura," he said and
looked into my eyes with a grim seriousness, not letting me take the letter
yet.
I rolled my eyes. "Torsten, you are a rapist, a murderer and a pederast. And so
am I. I doubt there's anything I would judge you for. Give it to me."
He snatched my wrist in his hand, squeezing it painfully. "I'm serious. This
letter concerns you. Do you recognise the handwriting?"
I squinted in the darkness, the champagne already having gone to my head a
little, making the letters blur in my eyes. "No."
"No," Torsten said quietly, "I suppose you wouldn't." He unfolded the entire
letter and showed me the signature. "Margit."
I looked up at him. "Margit who?"
But as he handed me the letter and remained quiet, the champagne rose into my
throat, my stomach clutched by an ice-cold terror.
Margit.
The name I had always pronounced "Mag-gi," never having known her long enough
to learn how to address her properly. Fair hair, blue eyes, a face I only
remembered from a photo on my dresser. And now, the champagne bubbled up from
my shock, making me burp--so inappropriate at a time like this; my hands were
shaking.
"Little brother,
It's been three months. And it's exactly what I had feared, what you and I had
both feared. Erik cornered me today and asked me why I had been behaving the
way I had done, eating so much and crying so much--and I had to tell him the
truth. Well, only half the truth, because I don't know the whole truth myself.
He came to me that night at the cottage, after you'd left; I literally don't
know which one of you is the father. What am I going to do? I was going to
divorce him, but this will bind me to him forever--the judges wouldn't grant me
a divorce in my state. And if I went to Stockholm, now, found the right sort of
doctor, Erik would know no matter how discreet I was about it. He would
suspect, and he would turn my life into a living hell--as if it wasn't a hell
right now!
And if it was yours, wouldn't it have aborted already? Am I going to give birth
to a deformed monster? And be bound to it forever, too, as a punishment for our
sins? Imagine me, spoon-feeding a drooling imbecile until I am old and gray, my
life wasted caring for a creature that should never have been born? I am this
close to throwing myself into the falls, Torsten. What shall I do?"
"A monster," I whispered, letting the letter fall from my hand.
"To this day, I'm not sure who the father was," Torsten said quietly, the
bottle ringing against the rim of his glass as he refilled it with shaking
hands.
"A drooling imbecile," I whispered, gazing at my reflection in the rusty old
mirror beside me.
"Your grandfather never knew, either. No one except Margit and I. And the
revenge she took on me--" he sipped from his glass, a little champagne spilling
out of the corner of his mouth.
"A creature that should never have been born," I murmured, smashing my fist
into the mirror, not feeling pain even as my knuckles bled, even as I let the
mirror crash onto the floor, seven years of bad luck shattering around us.
"It was she who had me committed," Torsten said, setting his glass down,
swaying with his hands upon his knees, now hysterical himself from remembered
trauma. "And she told the doctors. Told them everything, on the condition that
they didn't tell anyone else. And that's why--" he made a snipping movement
with his fingers. "So, there you have it."
"That fucking bitch," I said, coldly, calmly, steadily. Nothing and everything
made sense all at once; I downed my glass and refilled it. "I don't suppose any
of us will ever know, now," I said.
"Do you hate me now?" he asked, not looking up at me, his voice quiet,
childlike, feminine.
I laughed, an awful, broken laugh, snorting champagne into my sinuses, tears
falling out of my eyes. "What point is there? You've only confirmed what I'd
always suspected; that my parents would have hated me, would have destroyed me
had they lived. They would've taken my behaviour as a sign of mental
retardation," I laughed bitterly, wiping my eyes. "And they would've put me
away, oh, Torsten--if it hadn't been for you, I--" my voice broke; I was
weeping too violently to speak.
"Come here, my child," he said and gathered me into his arms, holding me tight.
My child. I screamed into his suit, screamed from the bottom of my lungs, from
the very bottom of my hatred, howling, so angry, now. "What's the point of even
speculating? You've been the only true father I've ever had, the only one who's
ever loved me like one," I sobbed. "If I had had a choice, I would've chosen
you, out of all the stupid idiots on this blasted estate, I--"
"My Laura," he whispered, his voice wet from tears. "My Laura, my Laura," and
he kissed my tears from my face, swallowed up my sobs with his mouth, drinking
in my shock, my terror. My father, my one true father, and I wished I was
indeed the fruit of his loins, the fruit of incest who had found her only true
happiness in incest in turn; I felt so cursed it had to be true. I hurt
everywhere, down in the very bottom of my soul, in my every limb, a girl made
of hatred, of pain.
"Hurt me, Daddy," I keened, clawing at his shirt; "Hurt me like you've never
hurt me before. I want the pain to end. I can't take it. I can't."
"I shall, I shall," he said, now weeping openly himself. "God," he sniffed. "I
always wanted to tell you, but I was never quite sure; oh, Laura. It's why I
couldn't kill you, you see, even if you took my fortune from me," he laughed
bitterly.
"And tomorrow, that fortune will pass to the creditors," I laughed
hysterically, "this house, and everything in it."
"But we are better than that, better than the rest of this benighted family,"
he said and rocked me in his arms violently, as if lulling a child to sleep.
"We have lived more than they ever did, Laura; we have lived. And tonight,
we'll show them, my love, we will show them all."
"No more talk," I said, shaking my head, wiping tears and phlegm from my face.
"Let's get started."
***
We bathed together, the slowest, most luxuriant bath we had ever had; like
sacrificial victims preparing to meet their gods, we purified ourselves, each
other completely. But only on the outside: I had wondered if Torsten would give
me an enema, but we decided on the lightest of rinses instead. Just as he had
taught me: the right amount of water to keep the surfaces of the ass clean
enough for maximum sensation, but not to make one too sore or to destroy all
flavour. And indeed, what would we have to worry about, now, even if we did end
up making a mess? Stomach upsets or infections would not concern us in the
grave.
And for a long time, he held me underneath the shower, letting it wash my
anxiety from me. I felt that with every new spray of water, with every cloud of
soap suds that flowed down the drain he was sloughing an old fear from me,
scrubbing away the new disappointments, the horrors of my birth until only the
Laura he knew remained. Not the monster my mother had thought I'd be, the
unwanted brat who had bound her to a husband she did not love; not the abnormal
deviant Segert had sought to kill. Out of all the people in this world, only
Torsten had ever known the true Laura, and this devastated me.
I told him all this, and clutched at him furiously so that he would kiss me; I
was still empty, hungry.
"You are nothing but my little Laura, now," he murmured, as if chanting a
spell. "My little empress. Nothing else matters now, nothing."
And he was no longer Torsten the wastrel, the weakling, either; he had been
raised to glory, to manhood by his fathering of me. With each caress, each
scrub, the firm way he held me he became a man greater, stronger; it was his
care that made him powerful, an adult instead of the wayward son he had been.
My childhood, my weakness, my inexperience had given him the chance to become
the man he now was--I was the one who had given him a chance to prove himself,
to become the protector, the mentor, the teacher, the greatest of lovers.
And there we stood, at the height of our powers, the heads of the Barring clan,
about to plunge our bloodline into endless night. But not without fire and
rage, sex and violence, sturm und drang: tonight, we were to blaze bright.
"We're disgustingly clean, you know," Torsten said as we towelled off.
"But for us, this is perverse, isn't it?" I said as I spread my legs on the
toilet seat.
"You have a point," he said and knelt down to shave me.
And he worshipped my vulva, bidding farewell to it with his kisses, caresses
after he had shorn it of hair; for the better part of an hour, he spent
feasting on me, fingering me. He drew orgasm after orgasm from me, as easily as
he pulled strings of my sweetness from me, feasting upon them like sugar; piss
and ejaculate he drew from me, washing me with his mouth, with water until I
was completely clean, empty, glowing from his love.
"Daddy's little baby pussy," he sighed against my mound, resting his head on my
belly, his voice slurred from how his jaw must have ached. "This has to have
been my favourite taste in the entire world, you know," he murmured. "A young
girl's fresh, smooth pussy, when it's all sweet like this, just upon the cusp
of bleeding. But you added another dimension to it, you know," he said, looking
up at me, his eyes twinkling.
"And what's that?"
"Champagne piss," he said, relishing the words with a wet, sensual hiss. "I
studied it, you know. Everything else tastes too sweet or too acidic once it's
passed through the body. But a good, dry champagne-flavoured piss from a
healthy young girl's pussy--" he moaned in delight, planting a wet kiss on my
pussy's lips. "Heaven."
"And now, it'll never be a woman's pussy," I murmured, lost in thought. "To
think of it--you will never see it swell and droop, never have it grow slack
from children. It'll always be a child's pussy." And that's how I wanted to go:
a child, forever the perverse innocent. Adulthood was not what I wanted: forget
the hussars, I wanted to die when I was still truly young, age never having
touched me with its ugly, crippling fingers. "Give me the mirror."
"Here you are, m'am," Torsten said, like some eighteenth-century courtier in a
dirty engraving, holding a mirror up to his mistress's freshly-shaven sex, her
freshly rinsed ass.
I traced my smooth cleft, adoring the exquisite softness of it, the sensitivity
of it, seeing what Torsten saw in it, its purity still miraculously untainted
after all we had gone through. "It's pristine," I murmured. "After all this
time." So red and so swollen, gleaming, so beautiful; the sweetest, ripest of
fruits for my father to take, he and I adoring it in silence for long moments.
Finally, I took both mirror and razor from him. "Now let me see yours, Daddy."
And an equal amount of time, I spent shaving his ass, his genitals, kissing him
all over. I could never get enough of the silken softness of the skin over his
cock and his balls, so tender and vulnerable no matter how often he had used
his cock as a weapon, no matter how well I knew the pain it could give me. I
tried so very hard not to make him come, and I knew he was straining as well: I
knew exactly how close to climax the act of shaving could bring him, relishing
way he shook, holding up his legs as I kissed the bud of his ass.
"Please, Laura," he hacked out from between clenched teeth, his cock already
having drawn a wet stripe over his belly. "I'll let you lick it more later, I
promise," he said as he let go of his legs and leaned down to kiss me. "Let's
get dressed."
We did so ritualistically, each of us withdrawing to a room of our own to groom
ourselves for the big night. I took longer than he did, of course; he prepared
us dinner while I coiffed my hair and put on my make-up. After all, this was
the most important event of our lives; it wouldn't do to arrive looking
anything less than perfect. I had hesitated for a while about what I would
wear, but in the end, the choice had been obvious: instead of an evening gown,
I wore the most doll-like, frilly white dress, similar to the one Torsten had
made me wear when he had prostituted me at the Peacock. Had I dressed like a
grown woman, it would have been far less perverse, I reasoned; this way, I
reaffirmed my identity as that of the eternal girl, the child untainted by the
world.
Only through Torsten's debauchings had I become this pure, purer than I had
ever been as a child; only through him, had I shed all these inhibitions and
rules society sought to impose on children. Only through his coaching had I
regained the true innocent state where I did not discriminate between purity
and filth, between right or wrong; only through him had I re-entered the true,
amoral, animal state of a human being at its birth.
I descended the staircase in my dress and my knee socks, my Mary Janes loud on
the stairs; betuxedoed, Torsten leaned against the door with his hands in his
pockets, smoking, whistling at me.
[http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlaurastairsbig.gif]
"You're looking up my skirt."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," he laughed and took me by the hands. "Let me
look at you," he said with true fatherly pride, beaming from happiness. "My
Laura."
I looked at him up and down in turn, feasted my eyes upon the perfect cut of
his white tie and tails, the way the ensemble licked his hourglass waist and
flared at the beautiful curve of his hips. "I have the handsomest Daddy in the
whole wide world," I said, my voice young, light.
He offered me his arm. "Dinner is served."
I sniffed the air; there was a distinct smell of smoke coming from the kitchen.
"Oh, Daddy. You burned the roast."
"Damn it." He let go of me and rushed into the kitchen, and I couldn't help but
laugh as he struggled with the oven mittens in his tuxedo, like a gangly
penguin on thin ice. We'd bought the roast cooked from the village and had only
needed to warm it up again in the oven, but trust him to make a mess of even
that, always having had servants or mistresses to do his cooking for him.
He looked a little sheepish as he scraped the scorched parts off the roast.
"It's still edible," he mumbled.
"Let me," I said and cut it for us. "Never let a playboy into the kitchen."
"You only love me for my cock," he mock-sulked and took his seat at the table.
"That's right," I laughed and served us.
It was the simplest of dinners, but for a last meal, it was sumptuous. He'd
never made an effort before, and that made even burnt roast and canned peas
taste delicious; I reached out to wash them down with more champagne.
"No more," he said. "I want you to be able to feel it all," he said. "And don't
eat too much. I don't want you to fall asleep either."
"Yes, mother," I rolled my eyes and switched to water instead.
When we had finished, smoked, washed our hands, I put a record on: our last
waltz. We danced in the grand ballroom all by ourselves, slow, long; the
afternoon light threw our silhouettes across the floor, our shadows rehearsing
hauntings to come. For it felt to me as if our spirits would keep on dancing
here forever, the last Barrings haunting those who would set foot here after
us. Even once this house had turned to dust and the forest had taken over, I
knew we would keep on dancing amidst the pines, the birches, the moss and the
lichen, terrifying children and possessing women with burning, erotic visions,
invisible caresses in the night.
Torsten danced me passionately and I responded to his each step with equal
passion; we made love standing up, body against body, flowing together through
the room and each other. For a moment, I forgot everything, so lost in the
swelling music, the violins that tore at my heart, made my throat choke with
tears: my father's arms carried me through the pain, my father's elegant, lithe
arms and legs guiding my little body, his erection a warm promise against my
belly. I gave myself to him and he spun me, gathering strength from the
strength I surrendered unto him, using the entire weight of his body to move
me, to possess me. It was as if by the force of his desire he could imprint our
footsteps onto the floor forever, so that one might step inside and read the
words: Here, Torsten Henrik Barring clove unto his daughter; here, Laura Erika
Barring gave herself to sin willingly, in utmost laughter, joy and delight.
"Just like the day you rescued me," I murmured and swooned into his arms;
forever, forever I would keep spinning and whirling and swirling around him,
long after our bodies were gone.
"The day you saved me, my child," he said softly, pulling back to nuzzle my
temple. "It's strange; I grew up here, but never thought of it as home. Do you
feel the same way?"
I shook my head. "The only home I ever had was with you, Daddy," I said,
looking into his eyes, laughing as he twirled me. "I mean it."
He gathered me against himself, his arm wonderful, firm, sure around my waist.
"I could say the same of you."
And now, the waltz died; there was but the scraping of the needle on the
record. He took my hand and kissed it, bowing deeply before me; I answered his
bow with the most perfect of court curtseys.
He held my hand in his and rubbed it with his thumb for a long while, smiling
as he looked into my eyes. There was a spiritual glow to his face, his beauty
never having looked more unearthly; his demon eyes glittered with the warmth of
one who knows he's going home.
"Come, my child. It's time."
***
We made love for the last time in my bedroom, upstairs, still a child's room
unchanged. All my dolls, dressed as adventuresses and vamps still sat on the
windowsill, watching us quietly as Torsten embraced me in front of the full-
length mirror.
"My little Laura is all grown up," he said, smiling over my shoulder, and
despite the pallor of his face, he did not look a day older.
I leaned back into his arms and sighed in joy. "And now you've come to take me
away."
"Yes, my darling," he chuckled. "Yes, I have. But first, I'm going to make love
to you," he said and brought his hands to my breasts, squeezing them until I
shivered from pain against his back, against the firmness of his body, against
his erection.
"Hurt me," I whispered.
"I shall."
And as soon as he said it, I began to struggle, to resist; his laughter of joy
echoed off the windows, loud, elated. He loved this as much as I did, loved
each one of my screams as he sucked them from my mouth, as he bit me and groped
me. He pulled off my shoes, socks, ribbons until I was only wearing my dress
and my panties, squirming in his arms, panting against him.
"Daddy, no!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, and he laughed at each cry,
adoring them, riding them, his desire mounting and mounting with each glorious
moment of molestation I gave him. "No, no!" I sobbed, the perfect picture of
the child being taken by force, so horrible, so awful my pussy soaked through
my panties, so wonderful his pupils were dilated with feverish joy.
"Daddy, yes," he said as he slapped me, squeezed my breasts, panted in my ear,
drunk from happiness; "there's no turning back, now," he purred, his voice rich
from cruel tenderness. Finally, he held my head up by the hair, forcing me to
face the mirror. "Is this what you want, hmm?" he crooned and slipped his hand
into my panties. "For Daddy to touch you here?"
"No!"
He pulled his wet hand out and slapped my cheek. "Don't lie to me. You've been
teasing me all day, showing off those big titties of yours, flashing your pussy
at me when you walked down the stairs," he snarled, squeezing my pussy in his
hand until I whimpered in pain against him. "You-want Dad-dy to fuck-you," he
sing-songed, wet and disgusting in my ear.
"Stop it!" I squirmed, my shrieks shot through with laughter; I thought I might
dissolve here from the sheer joy of the play, atomise into the air a spray of
delight.
"But why would I, when you enjoy it so much?" he asked and lifted his hand out
again, smearing his wet fingers across my lips, pushing them past my teeth so
that he might choke me with them. "When your little pussy's this wet? Hmm?"
My heart fluttered against my ribs as I tasted my sweetness; my pussy clenched
and clenched, so eager to be filled, but I wanted to stretch this moment out
like toffee, spin it out like candy floss, oh, just keep on being molested
forever. It hurt me that now that I finally knew he was my father, knew it in
my blood and my bones, our first fuck with me knowing this would be our last.
He had always known, yet I hadn't; I wanted to relish this as long as I could,
to keep the fire burning as long as I could, basking in the beauty of our sin
perfected. I wanted to trap this moment in amber, my demon-father with his hand
again sneaking between my legs; wanted to suspend us in time and space,
immortalise the glory of our incest. So I continued to struggle, to squirm,
even as I heard his breath rasping in his chest, felt his strength waning a
little.
"You have left me no choice but to tie you up, my child," he tutted, his bow
tie askew, a strand of hair falling to his temple, over its bulging veins.
"Please!" I shrieked, twisted only so that I could keep on looking at his
beauty, at the stains of lipstick I had made on his shirt front, at the
flickering blue waters of his eyes. His eyes, his eyes; deep, I drank from
them, the fountains of my life, my joy.
"I thought you'd like that idea," he laughed with his hand over my jaw, pursing
my lips out with his fingers, kissing me wetly.
And there, he took up a long coil of rope--he had brought this, too,
beforehand--and strung me up by my wrists from one of the beams in the ceiling.
"The advantages of an attic room," he laughed as he pushed me around so that I
was sent swinging, screaming, tiptoeing upon the floor. He had framed this
image perfectly: we were still positioned right in front of the mirror so that
we could see everything, so that these images would be the last ones we ever
saw, the last ones our brains ever processed, our love at its cruellest, most
beautiful.
"Watch," he said quietly and stood behind me, steadying me in front of the
mirror.
He took a hold of my dress and ripped it, ripped it to pieces with his bare
hands so that he must have been hurting his palms, yet he wanted to prove his
power: his ravishing, savaging power, this sexual power he was the living
manifestation of, his breath hot from arousal as he stripped me. Oh, but I
loved it, loved it, swooning from the thrill of it, my nipples hard and dark as
he revealed them to the evening air.
I could hear that little moan that always indicated a pulse in his cock as he
brought his hands to my panties once more. "These, too," he cooed, pulling them
up so that my mound was squeezed and trapped by the fabric, he tugging upon the
panties as I panted, whimpered in his embrace. "Watch, little Laura, watch."
And he slapped my pussy, slapped it through the panties, slapped it so
violently I screamed; hard, brutal blows from his hand. His long, slender
fingers reaching past the fabric to play with my pussy, to pinch its lips, to
rip apart the fabric, rip, rip; his entire hand covering my vulva, his
fingertips playing at my perineum, my sex so small against the hugeness of his
hand. He threw aside the torn fabric and clasped me in his palm, so easily, all
of me held up only by that one hand as he devoured my neck, biting it, marking
it, each one of his bite-sucks sending a lash of pleasure-pain to my pussy. I
could swear he felt it underneath his hand, that's how violently my pussy
clenched at his cannibalism of me, my screams vibrating through my body, my
ribcage singing against his chest.
"What's the matter, Laura? What's the matter?" he cooed, letting me dangle free
for a while. "Look at yourself. Aren't you beautiful?"
"I--"
He tucked his chin over my shoulder. "Yes, you are. Look at yourself," he said
gently, warmly, cupping my breasts in his hands. "Look at these beautiful
breasts right here, and that lovely little slit down there, that curve of your
hips, your waist," he sighed, the proud father on his daughter's big day: I
hung there, my hair a golden cloud around my head, my belly quivering
underneath his caress. "My little daughter is the prettiest girl in the world."
"If you say so," I gasped, not knowing what else to say.
"Nu-uh," he said, slapping my breasts. "Look at me and say it."
"I--I am the prettiest girl in the world," I murmured at our reflections. And
why was it so hard to say that even now, now that nobody else could pass
judgement, now that only Torsten's words mattered? Now that only what I felt
and said mattered? I loved him for this, loved him for reminding me of my
power, my beauty at our very last moments, and set out to prove myself worthy
of him. "I am the prettiest girl in the world," I said, now, with more
defiance, my chin up. "I am. The prettiest girl. In the world!" I shouted into
the mirror, becoming the goddess I saw reflected in his eyes, a lioness roused.
"That's more like it," he chuckled and kissed my cheek, his hands playing
either side of my pussy. "And now it's time for Daddy to make you even
prettier."
I closed my eyes; my breathing stopped. On my bed lay Torsten's long box, the
long black leather box that contained his whips, his canes; I knew he would not
spare me tonight, would give me more pain than he'd ever given me before. I
wanted to be sick, wanted to come, wanted to run all at the same time; yet I
was held in place by the ropes, by the weight of the blood that had settled
into my hips, by the weight of his desire behind me. Always, always I had kept
falling towards him, plunging into him, plummeting into him, down, down; as he
let go of me, I was in freefall.
He spent a while picking and choosing; a little soft laugh from him told me he
had made his choice. "Open your eyes," he said, wrapping his arm around me,
holding the instrument he had chosen across my chest and over my shoulder.
"Oh, God," I whispered as I saw it. The rattan cane, his cruellest toy; I
thought he would have started off with something softer, first, perhaps a crop
or a flogger. Despite myself, I recoiled in fear, tensed in his arms.
"Kiss it," he said sternly and brought the cane to my lips. "Kiss it and say
'thank you, Daddy.'"
I choked, hesitating for a moment. His eyes widened in the mirror: he seemed to
grow larger, stronger every time he fed on my pain in this manner, a psychic
vampire gaining strength from my terror, my agony.
"What's the matter?" he jeered. "Are you scared?"
"Yes," I said, quietly. But I closed my eyes, forced myself to breathe and
kissed the cane. "Thank you, Daddy."
"I'm going to make it so good for you," he murmured and kissed my cheek, his
left hand stroking my pussy, tapping it, massaging it, his hips rutting against
my back. "Going to wrap you up in red ribbons with this, my child. A pretty
little package for me to open," he purred.
And I died in his arms at these words, died from the joy of pleasure-pain
before he even struck me: I quit breathing and all I could hear was the
swishing of his cane, even that a language I had learned by heart. That little
warning swish, that teasing swish he knew would send me stiffening, stumbling
upon my toes; now, he tickled the bare soles of my feet with the cane so that I
yelped more, danced more, tossing to and fro.
"Stay still, now, my little princess, stay still," he sung, running the cane up
the hollow of my spine, whisking it in my hair. "Shh."
I kept my eyes closed; my surprise when something far softer hit me made me
open them again. He laughed at me through the mirror, his crooked teeth shining
bright; he was swirling his flogger in his hand. "Only to warm you up, my
sweet."
"You bastard!" I choked as he lashed me across the hips.
"Language!" he tutted, whipping me harder, several lashes against the buttocks,
the warmth from his blows entwining with the warmth in my pussy, tingling,
wonderful, sweet. And with this softer weapon, he prepared my body, bathing my
thighs, my breasts, my belly, my pussy, my limbs with its blows until I glowed
pink and warm all over. Bathing, yes: each one of his blows a hot blast of
steam, opening my skin and relaxing my flesh, cleansing me for more pleasures
to come; in this pain I floated, reeled like a sultana being massaged with
fragrant ointments by loving handmaidens.
"Beautiful," he sighed, my father both the handmaiden and the sultan at once,
the one preparing me for enjoyment and the one enjoying my flesh, the very
depths of it so exquisitely perfumed with pain. He threw the flogger on the bed
and ran his hands all over my body, caressing my now-sensitised skin, squeezing
me, slapping me, pinching me until I was but a yielding, trembling mass of
flesh in his arms. "Absolutely beautiful," he murmured, adoring my reflection.
"Fuck me," I slurred, my head lolling back over his shoulder, my mouth seeking
his mouth. I was ready, so ready; could he not see it? He kissed me slowly,
sucking a little upon my tongue, making my pussy pulse in desperation, my
arousal now more painful than the blows he had dealt. "Please, fuck me," I
moaned into his mouth.
"I want to fuck you so much," he said, his voice reedy with such honesty, such
eagerness it made me ache. "But I want to make it last," he said, hugging me
tight against himself, a man drowning. "Oh, Laura," he moaned, squeezing his
eyes shut, his eyelashes glittering with tears. "I never want this to end."
He was so agitated, so close to breaking, so full of coiled energy I knew had
to do something. Quickly, Laura, quickly, to spur him on before he collapsed; I
had to remind him of why he was here. He was here to drive his power into me
for one last time, and now I needed to summon up that power, to stir him into
action once more.
"Then keep going, Daddy. Mark me. Show me."
"I will," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. It saddened me
when he took off his tailcoat and rolled up his sleeves, but he was gleaming
from sweat and it was a hot day. Besides, now I could adore the beauty of his
arms, the black lines of hair shadowing the sinewed, thin length of them, the
grace of his hands as he twirled the rattan cane between his fingers. "Now,
stand very still."
I closed my eyes and breathed.
His first blow was so awful I nearly passed out; I could not even make a noise
for my pain. This was it, I thought; this his final, violent taking of me, such
an utter possession of my body no ordinary sex could ever compare. Now that he
didn't have to worry so much about my internal organs, he was far crueller with
his strokes; yet I could sense he still avoided striking me across the kidneys,
deliberately keeping me just on the edge of consciousness as he let the cane
sing across my body. The pain was unimaginable, indescribable: all the hairs on
my body stood on end, the pain electric, hideous as he wove his signature upon
my skin, the calligraphy of the sadist. I twitched at first, then fell slack in
my ropes, so slack that I heard him pause; he lashed me across my breasts to
wake me up, so brutal he drew blood from one of my nipples. I would have asked
him to stop, but was in too much pain to speak; my head lolled onto my chest
and I was plunged into sweet, merciful darkness.
I do not know how long I spent unconscious; when I came to, I was on the floor,
resting in his arms, my hands still bound with the silken rope. He was
caressing my hair from my face, offering me sips of water, a little cocaine
rubbed into my gums to take the edge off the pain. There were blood-streaks
upon his shirt from where my back had brushed against it; his eyes were full of
concern and I could see even he was terrified of what he had done. I had never
seen that look upon his face, had never known a Torsten who had even considered
he might have gone too far, but now that I did, he broke my heart.
"I'm all right, Daddy," I croaked out, clasping his hand.
"My Laura," he hugged me and rocked me in front of the mirror; "my sweet
daughter," he sighed into my hair, clutching me like a doll in his arms, the
boy-child who had broken his favourite toy. "I--"
"Shh, Daddy," I said, forcing out a little laugh at the absurdity of it all.
"Please don't say you didn't mean to; I know you did. And I would've never
forgiven you had you been gentler."
He sniffed in his tears, and I noticed there was a little cocaine on his
moustache, too. He laughed and wiped his face, wiped his eyes, his nose. "You
know, I never could tell which one of us was the bigger slut for pain," he said
bluntly. "You're hopeless."
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," I said and nuzzled his hand. "Will
you fuck me, now?" I asked, blunt right back at him.
"You'd better believe it," he said as he freed my hands. "Undress Daddy."
I turned around in his arms and kissed him; in front of the mirror, I undressed
him with a ritual slowness, freeing him of the remains of his tuxedo, tears
welling up in my eyes as I did so for the last time. Never again would I see
him dressed up to the nines, immaculate, exquisite, the tallest man in the
room; now, there was only the warmth of his long, slim, naked body against
mine.
And as I sat in his lap, I kissed his body, kissed it, cupped his muscles, his
tendons, his loving, perfect, liberating flesh: possessed of a sudden madness,
I wanted to devour him as he had devoured me, mouthing him, biting him, eating
him up with my kisses. My Heavenly Father, my Holy Communion, our lovemaking
always a transubstantation of the flesh, perfecting us, each fuck an
apotheosis. And he let me glorify him by my consumption of him, resting
languorous upon the floor as if he were the prey and I the she-wolf; I licked
him and kissed him all over until I had tasted every pore upon his body, my
tongue rough from his body hair, my jaw aching.
As I turned him over to kiss his ass, I burst into laughter. "You wore it, you
dirty old bastard."
He squeezed his ass around the plug and rocked his buttocks playfully as he
glanced at me over his shoulder. "I was tempted to wear the tail, too."
I smacked his ass. "Can I taste it?"
"Later." With a growl, he tackled me onto the floor. "Don't you dare think you
can be on top tonight, girl. I'm in charge."
"Very well," I laughed and laid down on the floor. "Do your worst."
He leaned over me, kissing his way up my body, nipping purposefully at the
welts he had made, sending me spasming, hissing, swearing in pain. "Just
opening my package, you see," he purred.
"I'm open," I breathed huskily underneath him, wrapping my legs around him,
anointing his erection with the wetness of my pussy. "Can't you see?"
"Yes," he laughed and nuzzled my face. "Get up. I want to watch."
He arranged us so that we were kneeling in front of the mirror, I riding his
cock in my pussy, trembling, gasping for air, hysterical from grief as I took
him inside of my body for the last time. "Daddy," I cried, my voice little,
young; "Daddy," like a child lost at the fair.
"I'm here," he said and held me tight, his arms crushing my ribs as he hugged
me, slowly rolling into my body, his cock meeting the back of my womb again,
again, again. That exact depth and speed of the thrust, he finding that perfect
spot immediately, so soon because I was so open, so wet, so ready. Each single
thrust of his struck gold through me, gold and cascades of iridescent joy; I
shivered in his embrace, watching as the soft whiteness of my flesh shook,
juddered with our movements.
"Please, Daddy. Please let me come."
"So soon?" he laughed, bringing his hands to my pussy, holding it open so that
he could watch the entire length of his cock moving in and out of me, long
strokes, long strokes to drive me mad from perfection. "Tell me how it feels,
first."
"It feels so good, Daddy," I moaned, rocking upon him, giving him the
confession he wanted, the confession that made his cock swell even further
inside of my flesh. "Feels so good in my pussy, like waves, like honey and
light--the colour of dragonflies' wings," I laughed, the child unafraid to talk
in surrealities, for these surrealities were the truth. "Oh, Daddy, it feels
wonderful."
"What does?"
"Your cock." I turned my head around so that I could look into his eyes, giving
him the over-articulation he wanted, needed, the filth on top of the poetry. "I
love the way your big cock feels in my little pussy when you fuck me, Daddy."
"Yeah?" he groaned, thrusting so deep into me I jerked in his arms, but I clung
to him, thrusting right back.
"Yeah," I laughed. "Look at it," I said, spreading my pussy with him. "All
swollen and wet. Does it feel good for you, too, Daddy?"
"It does, Laura, it does," he groaned, groaned louder as I squeezed his cock
with my muscles. "It's the most perfect little pussy in the world," he said
softly, his lips brushing against my ear. "Feels like honey for Daddy, too, and
I can feel those waves going through me as well, every time you sit down on me
like that." He laughed softly, in awe; he, too, now innocent and free.
And now, I wondered if these weren't indeed the kinds of things the first
lovers in the world had said to each other when spoken language had still been
a new invention; whether language itself had been born from the need to speak
of one's pleasure to one's beloved.
"You're so good to me, Daddy," I whispered against his mouth, twisting in his
embrace, my limbs shaking from the strain; "the most perfect man, the most
perfect, I--" but now I choked, too overwhelmed by emotion to speak. If
language had been born from love, it was also love that slew language, going so
far beyond it; there were no words for this, no words, only the perfection of
his body against mine, he buried so deep within my flesh we were one.
"My daughter, my daughter, my daughter," he sobbed, now grabbing my hips and
thrusting into me harder, mad from his fury. "My daughter."
"My father," I cried as I fell down onto my hands, my hair tumbling over my
face as I pushed back into his thrusts, fucked him, fucked him with all my
desperation, all my yearning, all my need. "I was born from your sperm," I
keened, biting my lip. "Your cock, Daddy, your cock, this cock, oh, God, Daddy,
fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your cock--"
And he howled, pushing my head down with his hand, fucking me violently, so
deep he hurt me, his balls slap-slap-slapping against my pussy; soon I could no
longer hear anything apart from my own shouts, my cries, my howls as I came
around his cock. His cock, his cock, the cock thanks to which I existed, the
holy phallus I lived, breathed, revolved around; his sex, his body, his beauty,
my father, my maker, my end. Tears streamed down my face as I screamed out my
orgasm, screamed out all my rage, all my hatred, all my pain, all my love. I
wished that he would impale me upon this cock, kill me with it, destroy me with
it, slay me with this same instrument of pleasure through which I had come into
this world.
"Daddy!" I could not stop crying, "Daddy!" and a thousand more repetitions of
his name, his essence, all that he was to me, a rosary of love, ecstasy and
anguish rolling from my lips onto the floor. And each cry, he beat out of me
with his hips, his cock striking perfection through my pussy, through my womb,
each blow echoing his name, his glory, his beauty through my flesh. My Daddy,
my Daddy, my entire flesh ringing from my Daddy, all of me become but his name,
but a song of his glory, the culmination of his existence.
He thrust into me so hard the floorboards creaked, so hard he bruised my
cheeks, my hips; he groaned deep from his chest, his breath rattling with death
as he poured his sperm into me, specks of his blood spattering onto the floor
past my shoulder. Yet he kept on going, rasping, shouting in defiant rage even
through his coughing fit, fucking me with such force I slid forwards on the
floor, sobbing with his thrusts.
"Laura," he cried, worshipped me, clutched me, flowing into me a living wave,
unable to stop moving. "Don't stop, please; please, don't ever stop," he
keened, his hands shaking as he clutched my breasts, my hair, my face.
And I didn't; I kept moving my hips underneath him, kept milking his cock with
my pussy to keep it hard, urging him on, coaxing his virility into tarrying
awhile. "I love you," I gasped underneath him, "love you," I groaned through my
teeth, said it with my body, with every slide of my pussy's muscles around his
shaft, adoring him, as if with my pussy I could keep him alive a little longer.
As long as we kept on fucking, we weren't dead, wasn't that so? So I kept
going, squeezing around him, patting for him with my hands. "Stay, Daddy.
Stay."
He let out a huffing laugh against my ear, rolling his hips, now. "Do you
really want to taste Daddy's ass?"
"Yes, please," I said, excited, like a child promised an ice cream.
I lifted my head and he was already holding the plug out to me, black and
smeared richly from the secretions of his body: white, clear, caramel--as its
perfection swirled into my mouth, I started to unravel again, a subtler orgasm,
my pussy pulsing and pulsing around his prick. I howled around the plug,
sending the spheres vibrating inside my skull; he tapped the plug's end to
choke me with it and thrust into me, tapping and tapping, slapping my face
until I was screaming, gurgling, coming so violently that he gasped in
surprise.
"You nearly snapped it off again," he laughed, pulling the plug from my mouth
as I was still whimpering underneath him.
"I wasn't expecting it," I slurred, panting on the floor.
"That was beautiful," he said, grinned and threw the plug aside. "Now, come and
lick Daddy's ass."
Even in this, he was merciful to me: he arranged himself so that he was lying
on his side, facing the mirror, so that we could both watch as I feasted on his
ass. I displayed him proudly, spreading his buttocks, now so close to the
mirror it misted from my breath; I wiped it clean again so I could show him his
true beauty. "It's the prettiest little pussy in the world," I murmured as I
kissed it. "So pink, and so full from fucking," I sighed.
"And do you like the taste, my child?" he asked ritually, rocking his hips and
stroking his cock lazily, his lashes languid over his eyes.
"Of course I do, Daddy," I said, burying my tongue in the folds, making sure to
clean each one with my tongue, groaning whenever I found a richer hint of
flavour. "A little metallic, like blood; salty, earthy, delicious."
"Any herbal flavour left?" he laughed.
"Let me see," I said and pulled his ass open with my fingers so that he
lamented loudly, his balls lifting as I spread him wide and stuck my tongue as
deep as it would go. And yes, yes, there, I found it; my tongue dipped into a
streak of herbal, fresh darkness and I moaned in delight into his guts, this
the answer he had been hoping for. I sobbed, there, pushed my fingers into him
so that I might suck upon them, licking and sucking his taste, this sweetness
of his shit never not a shock, never not a beautiful, erotic shock that sent
electric tremors through my body. They had lied to us, the entire world had
lied to us about this being a taste foul, awful; just as they had lied to us
about all pleasure; all. We knew better than any of them, were so much better
than them; and now, my tears flowed into my mouth and dissolved the taste of
him from my tongue.
"Give me a cock," he groaned, his hand now faster on his cock, nodding towards
the toy box. "I'm not going to leave this world un-fucked. Hurry."
"All right," I laughed and wiped my tears with the back of my hand, catching my
breath. I picked up the medium-sized white dildo, the one I had used in my
harness, and held it out to him. "Will this do?"
"No glycerine," he said, shaking his head. "Put it on the floor and make it
ready for me."
I did as I was told. I balanced the dildo on the floor by its end, by its heavy
balls and proceeded to fellate it with all my skill. I teased Torsten with the
sight, rocking my ass, stroking the cock as if it was his: I gave it my best
slide, my messiest, wettest sucks, making it gleam from my mouth. I choked
myself on it deliberately so that I could coat it with thick, white mucus; I
nearly threw up but kept going for the sake of my father's pleasure, his holy
pleasure, rubbing my pussy furiously so that I could use my juices to anoint
the dildo further.
"God," he groaned through his teeth, now squeezing the root of his cock,
slapping it against his belly. "Suck on me instead," he said and sat on the
dildo, sat on it so fast he must have been hurting himself. But I didn't have
time to see if he had torn himself because now he was fucking my mouth, fucking
my throat in front of the mirror; I regretted not being able to see myself, but
this, too, was a part of his domination of me, denying me the sight as he made
me into but a mouth to serve his cock. He rode the dildo deep, howling,
lascivious, rocking his faggot's hips with a wild abandon, taking the cock and
my mouth with whorish greed.
"Lick it, lick it," he said and guided my mouth to his ass, so that I might
taste the dildo as it slid in and out of him. And I adored this, stroking my
own pussy as I tasted the depths of his flesh, the metal-salt-sugar of his
caramel, whimpering underneath him. I licked the ring of his ass, licked as
much of the toy as I could, slurping, huffing into his flesh, my face stinging
from sweat and tears.
But the position was awkward and we couldn't maintain it for long; soon, he
gathered me up with a kiss. "Sit on Daddy's cock," he murmured and gestured for
me to get up. "I want you to see it going in your ass."
I stood up in front of him, teasing him a little as I scooped wetness from my
pussy, turning around very slowly as I worked spit and pussy juice into my ass
with my fingers. "Is this where you want to fuck me, Daddy?" I asked sweetly
over my shoulder, rocking my ass, brushing my buttocks against his face.
"Yes, you little slut," he hissed in delight, spitting over my asshole and
licking it, snorting into it. "Fuck me."
I faced the mirror and squatted over him, using my weight to lower myself onto
his cock. It hurt, hurt so much to take his cock in just like this, even if he
kept adding spit, even if he kept rubbing my pussy; yet I was damned if I was
going to turn to glycerine, now. I howled in shock as he dipped his cock into
my pussy a little to wet it, then back into my ass, then pussy, then ass again-
-I had never allowed him to do this before simply because of the risk of
inflammation, knowing how even mere irritation from ordinary sex could give me
a painful infection for weeks. But now, what did we have to worry about? I
laughed, a broken-glass laugh, my breath sparkling from cocaine and champagne
as he slid into my ass once more. I rubbed my pussy, my little pussy about to
die, adored its fullness, its flush in the mirror for the last time in my life.
"Fuck," I groaned, lifting such thick strings of sweetness from my pussy,
astounded at how swollen my folds were, how open the mouth of my vagina, my
entire vulva like a red, wet flower blossoming from the intensity of his
penetration. It was so strange, so strange that my pussy should be at its most
beautiful, so open and glorious as it was my ass his cock slid into, yet it did
not feel empty, hungry, not empty at all.
"That's what I wanted you to see. Your pussy always looks so amazing when you
get fucked in the ass," Torsten murmured, sharing my adoration; "so flushed,
your clitoris like a little prick," he laughed, caressing the root of it
softly. "You're such a little faggot."
"I take after my father," I laughed at him over my shoulder, then gasped as he
slid past the last gate of my flesh behind the womb, so hard, so impossibly
long, always like an iron bar in my guts. How something that felt so perfectly
sweet inside my pussy no matter what could feel so violent in my ass, I had
never understood, but loved nevertheless: I mewled a little, unable to lower
myself fully on him, that's how much it hurt at first.
"There we are," he said gently, rubbing my clitoris, kissing the star on my
neck. "Settle down on Daddy. Ride Daddy. I'm your horsie, remember?"
"Daddy, you're silly!" I laughed, and that laugh made me slide down on him
completely: I whimpered, shuddered, my bent legs spasming, quaking open and
closed as I settled into his lap.
He spread my legs on either side of his, holding me close, enjoying the feel of
my body upon his as we sat there thus, my weight pressing the dildo deeper into
his body. "That feels so good," he murmured, hugging me against himself.
"What does?" I prompted, with a dirty twinkle in my eye--I knew he wanted to
tell me, to relish his faggotry for one last time.
He laughed against my mouth, purring. "A big fat cock in my ass when I'm
fucking yours, you little brat. And this lovely, lovely little pussy right
here," he murmured, rubbing it still, "dripping all over my balls. Shall we
have a look to see if we can get you even wetter? Hmm? Make you gush a little
for Daddy?"
"I don't know if I can," I said, suddenly unsure; it was impossible to know in
advance when I would come so hard I ejaculated. I usually did so only when I
was extremely aroused, frantic; now, the soft haze from the pain and my first
orgasms had made me calm, far less furious.
He just licked his fingers and returned them to my clitoris, rolling his hips.
"Then I'm going to have to make you, don't I? Fuck you so hard you'll piss,"
and the way he hissed it made my pussy clench and clench underneath his hand.
"So that you'll spray out the rest of that champagne. Hmm? What do you say?"
"Daddy--!"
"Right the first time," he laughed and slapped my pussy, beginning to fuck me
in earnest.
And he knew exactly what he was doing; even if the position strained me because
of the way I had to squat over him, his cock was pressing against the exact
spots that always made me gush. He forced me to ride him, made me use the last
of my strength to fuck his cock, to satisfy him; he kept one hand on my pussy
and clawed at my back, my breasts, tore at me with his nails so violently some
of the welts began to bleed once more. And I loved this, loved each scratch,
each pain-jolt meeting the violent, white-hot flashes of his cock within my
body, sobbing as my orgasm began to rise and rise within me, from that spot
behind my womb where Divinity itself lived. He clawed at me with both hands,
now, bit me, bit me so hard he left marks, tore into my welts so that his lips
were red from my blood; hysterical, I watched myself being eaten, consumed,
swallowed, fucked, taken by his mouth and his cock.
"Rub your pussy," he snarled as he took my hips and forced me to ride him
faster, guiding the rhythm, so roughly he must have been hurting himself, his
breath ragged in his throat. "Rub your pussy while I fuck your ass, you little
whore," he groaned, "make yourself come on Daddy's cock."
"Daddy, you're hurting me," I howled, my forehead and my palm against the
mirror, the pain, the pleasure shooting up my spine as white light, light,
light--
"Good!" he shouted, yanking me back with his arm around my throat, now, fucking
me so brutally my pussy, my ass, his own ass made horrible, sloshing, farting
noises; he spat in my ear and snarled. "Come for Daddy. That's an order!"
With one last scream, I threw myself back on him, ululating as I fucked myself
on his cock, coming, coming. I rubbed my pussy so hard I hurt myself, tugging
the hood of my clitoris back so hard it burned, but now, I didn't have to care.
I looked down at myself, and for the first and last time in my life, I saw my
own pussy clearly as it ejaculated; I howled at the sight. Just below my
clitoris, the mouth of my urethra spasming, spasming, and there, there, the
spray: I drew in a deep breath and groaned it out from low in my guts,
vibrating the sound in the back of my throat and my head for maximum pleasure,
for maximum force as I sprayed the mirror with my orgasm. I splashed all over,
spraying my thighs; my white and soft body tossing, spasming upon his darker,
thinner one, our reflection distorted by the liquid, melting into an
Impressionist nightmare.
"More," he snarled, slapping my pussy violently. "Piss."
And helpless, I kept coming, coming, and he kept fucking, fucking: I had no
choice. Now, I groaned low and deep once more and forced myself to piss, a
clear, bright arc washing my ejaculate off the mirror, Torsten howling deep in
his belly as he watched. He clawed at my hips, each deep blow of his cock
pressing on my bladder so hard a new spray burst out of me, he sobbing in
disbelief behind me.
"Laura, Laura," he cried, scooping my piss into his mouth with his hand,
slurping it frantically, his belly rippling behind me; he coughed, swallowed my
piss as he came inside my ass, cupping and lapping my piss into his mouth again
and again, his entire body spasming violently in the shock of his pleasure.
"Laura, Laura," he moaned and clutched me in his fever, his eyes wide and
bright as the liquid finally sluiced so far down the mirror I could see him
clearly again. "How could I ever repay you?"
I was a panting, shattered wreck in his arms, collapsed against him, slipping
on him in the wet mess, my legs cramping. "I don't know, Daddy, I--oh, God, no,
you're not--"
"Yes," he laughed as I felt a warm, liquid pressure expanding in my ass,
warmer, more voluminous than his sperm could ever be. "Yes, my little darling,"
he said and held his hand to my belly, "yes."
"You are a sick old fuck," I told him, the terrified child so shamed; I daren't
move at all lest I spilled his piss out. "You're awful, you're horrible, you're
disgusting," I simpered, leaning back against him, relishing my fate.
"Yes. Yes, I am," he crooned. "Now. Tell me. What's your little ass full of,
right now? Three things."
I teased him a little; I had to. I put my hand to my mouth, the child
pondering, wondering: "I think I've forgotten, Daddy."
"No, you haven't. We just haven't played this game for a long time, but just
like riding a bicycle, you never forget a thing like that. It's the delicious-
most, yummiest-most thing you and I make together, remember?"
I nodded, over-eager. "I think I do know now, Daddy."
"Good girl." He smiled and took me by the hips, spread me and lifted me up
until only the tip of his cock was nestled within my ass, a little fluid
trickling out already. "Now, I'm going to count to three. On three, you will
say it, and I will pull out. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"One," and he swayed a little so that I giggled; "two," and he bit my arm until
I squealed, "three!"
"Piss and shit and come!" I laughed, shrieked in disgusting, childish delight
as all three burst explosively out of my ass. I gaped, gaped open and red and
wide, my ass heaving, farting, the mess splashing onto the floor before us.
"Oh, God!" I screamed.
"God's not here, my child, remember?" Torsten laughed. "Go on. There's a little
more left," he said, tugging my ass open with both hands. "Push."
And there, I looked inside my own guts, completely without shame as I pushed
out piss and shit and come, our holy triple elixir onto the floor from my
abused ass, my pussy slurping, gleaming red and full as I emptied myself this
way. My father and I combined, our filth, our pleasure all mixed together into
this one substance, symbolic of our transdescension of all taboos: I sobbed in
pleasure as I watched it, watched my ass close into a tiny little bud once
more, the way Torsten smoothed it tenderly with his fingertips.
We fed this elixir to one another, sucking it off each other's bodies; the most
perverse way of cleaning each other, sucking the filth into our mouths,
swallowing our sickness. Soixante-neuf, we lay there, he lapping at my pussy
and my ass and my buttocks; I cleaned his cock so thoroughly with my mouth not
a trace of filth remained.
"How on earth can you still be hard?" I laughed as I collapsed beside him,
letting his cock slip from my mouth.
He nestled his head against my pussy. "I took a little pill. It's meant to give
you priapism to the point where it gets dangerous and they might have to cut
your cock off," he snorted. "I'd always wanted to try it, so I thought it was
now or never. And I want to show up at Hell's door looking my best. Give the
devils something to be jealous about."
"You will," I said and kissed his cock.
"And now we're done, aren't we, Daddy?" I sighed quietly.
He played with the down on my belly, nuzzling into my thighs the way he always
did before falling asleep there. "I think we are, my child."
"Do you have any regrets?"
"None."
"Neither do I," I said, defiant, casting out all doubts from my mind. "Where
are the letters?"
"A last smoke, first," he said and dug out his silver cigarette box.
So there we sat, on my child's bed, holding each other, smoking as night fell.
"I was sure I had something else to say," I mumbled as I let ash fall from my
cigarette onto the carpet. "Is there any perversion we missed?"
"Best not to think about things like that," he laughed, a little dryly; "I
wouldn't be able to bear it if we'd forgotten something."
He gazed out of the window; we had finally reached that short spell of darkness
that remained on either side of midnight this time of the year. He held me in
his arms and I rested there, both of us quietly watching the cascading falls.
This water would keep on flowing forever, long after we were gone; no matter
what the situation in Europe, the midnight sun would still take over in about a
week and bathe the valley in perpetual light. You'd still be able to walk in
the woods and find your way at night; a month from now, you would be able to
pick blueberries at three o'clock at night.
"Blueberries," I murmured.
"What's that?"
"I was picking blueberries that day I came home from school, when I was seven,"
I said. "Do you remember?"
He threw back his head and laughed. He collected the cigarettes from us,
stumped them, then hugged me tight, rocking me in his arms. "Yes. Yes, I do
remember. I thought you'd been painting your lips, you see. My little baby
vamp."
"I had," I said, nuzzling his face, adoring the rasp of his moustache against
my cheek. "I would've done it more carefully had I known you were coming."
"You looked beautiful," he said quietly, looking at my face up and down, his
gaze lingering upon my lips, my eyes, my hair. "You always did."
Now, I could no longer hold back my tears--and why hold them back at a moment
like this? "And I had never seen a man as handsome as you, Daddy," I said.
"Every time I saw you, I felt this tightness in my chest, right here," I said,
taking his hand between my breasts. "My heart was always pounding, the moment I
smelled your cologne."
"And every time I saw you, I wondered if you were mine," he said, kissing my
forehead. "I don't doubt it, now. I've been thinking about it, and I'm
absolutely certain it was me. Margit would not have had me sterilised had she
not been sure. She was afraid I'd do it again."
"That's what I thought," I said and nuzzled his cheek. "I should hate you for
not having told me earlier, but what's the point?"
He shook his head. "I didn't know earlier. It took a while for me to understand
it myself. But what matters is that I love you, and that I have always loved
you." He took my hand and kissed it.
"And I love you, Daddy," I said and kissed his hand in turn, my heart light.
"So much."
We lay there on the bed for a while longer; we knew we had to finish soon. We
tarried, perhaps out of some small fear of the unknown, perhaps out of the need
to share each other's warmth as long as we could. The darkness wouldn't last
long, and we had to end it all before dawn.
The clock struck midnight, and still we lay there; I became eighteen, became a
millionairess, but that no longer mattered: only our final act mattered.
There was a bright flash in the sky--two shooting stars, falling down from the
heavens, disappearing over the falls.
Both of us laughed out loud in astonishment. "That's our cue," Torsten said.
"Have you laid out the charges?"
"Mm-hmm. But I lied. One more last cigarette."
And with that last-last cigarette, he lit the fuse that travelled from this
room and branched into all the other rooms in the house, to each building upon
the estate. The entire house reeked of gasoline, naphthaline; I didn't know if
it had been dynamite in those carts he had taken to the stables and I hadn't
asked.
"The letters," I said and dug them out of the pocket of his tuxedo.
He clasped his hand over mine. "Let's do it properly," he said and kissed me.
"Come," he said and arranged himself comfortably on the bed, his cock still
half-erect. "Sit on me."
As I kissed his cock into full hardness, I heard a loud boom and a crash,
something that could only have been the sound of a small building collapsing--
it had to have been dynamite in the stables, then. The earth was still shaking,
I laughing as I pulled my mouth off Torsten's cock and sat on it. "Read mine
first, Daddy."
He sat up so that we were embracing, my arms and my legs around him, his cock
deep in my pussy, my heartbeat against his. He cleared his throat and began,
with the pride of a father reading an essay his daughter had got full marks
for.
My sweet, sweet Daddy, my Heavenly Father,
Thank you for everything.
You and you alone, out of all the people in this world let me be myself, let me
grow up into the Laura I truly was, and let me be her until the very end. And
even if I did not live to an old age, you gave me so much of your experience,
so much of your knowledge, so much of your capacity for pleasure that I do not
regret a single day of it; each day has been rich and meaningful. I know for a
fact that most women, millionairesses or not, are never allowed a life as full,
as full of freedom as the life you have given me. You saved me from being
suffocated by institutions, by schools and asylums and families; you saved me
from unhappy marriages, from children, from obligations towards a society that
has never understood people like us.
The pathetic wretches who call themselves philanthropists spend all their lives
helping out the poor and the needy, those losers who can't appreciate what they
are given, parasites who keep sucking them dry without an ounce of gratitude or
understanding. Yet in your focusing on corrupting me, debauching me and
fulfilling me, you have done more good than those people ever will in decades
of wasting their favours on fools. And for your guidance and your
companionship, I am eternally grateful.
You have been the best father a girl could ever wish for, the only true friend
I have ever had, a lover beyond compare. And now that we are leaving this
world, I want you to know that my life has been complete, beautiful, perfect,
lacking nothing. We did it together, you and I; we pressed out every ounce of
golden pleasure from each day we were given, filled our chalice to the
overflowing and drank it dry.
We did it, Father; we made it. They never caught us. We succeeded, we won.
And now we shall die as we should, at the peak of our powers and our grace; you
still the most handsome man, the most beautiful woman I've ever known, and I
the child, the little girl untainted by age, forever the maiden goddess.
I love you, my sweet Daddy, my Heavenly Father, and I will see you in Hell. Its
throne awaits us, does it not?
Father Hades, your Persephone places her hand in yours and cannot wait to
ascend.
Your little girl, forever and always,
Laura Erika.
His voice choked, now; the piece of paper trembled and he was coughing into his
hand, another cough full of blood. "Laura--"
"Shh," I said, kissing him, kissing him until my mouth was wet from his blood;
now the smoke was entering our room, making it even more difficult for him to
breathe. "It'll stop hurting soon, Daddy," I said, weeping myself as I wiped
his tears from his eyes, kissed them from his cheeks. "Now, let me read yours."
He sniffed and handed the letter to me, taking deep, shuddering breaths, his
arms firm and tight around my back, his head pressed against my breasts. I
caressed his head and rocked him against myself as I read his words, dizzy from
lack of oxygen, dizzy from my tears.
Cleopatra Philopator, Glory of her Father, Love of her Father, my beloved,
beloved Daughter--
This may be the morphine talking, but if one cannot be sentimental, emotional
and Romantic on the cusp of one's death, when can one be? Especially since you
have always understood these things in me, and these are the very same
qualities I have always loved in you. And I know you will understand me now, as
you have always understood me, with the same knowledge of the soul we have
shared ever since you were born.
What to say? What haven't I said before? All the observations I have ever made
of you still hold true. I saw your potential from the start, but even in my
wildest dreams, never did I imagine we would be able to get away with all these
things we've done. But look at us now! At first, I doubted myself, my fantasies
of you as but another folly I would amuse myself with and then find empty on
the inside, realising my dreams were but that: dreams.
But not with you, Laura. Never you. You became so much more than just a child
to debauch; so many times I've told you that not only were you the perfect
partner for me, but also the female half of my self, the woman I had always
wanted to be. It was as if I was watching myself grow as I watched you grow
into the woman you are now, and with each new pleasure, each new conflagration
of desire you experienced, I felt those self-same flames in my own body. And
whenever you were hurt, I was hurt, too; in this we were never separate, but
the same human being split into two bodies, the same soul moving through two
people at once.
But when I found you, Laura, that soul in me was dying; Torsten Barring thought
he had experienced all the pleasures life had to offer, and he was consumed
with apathy. Perhaps I had only become the male, the inanimate body without a
soul, an empty shell--I am thinking of the way the Hindus speak of the life
force as being essentially feminine, and in you I found it, my Shakti. In you I
emptied myself, poured all of my self into you, and in turn you became my
skeleton, my musculature, my skin holding me upright and together, enabling me
to move, live, laugh, ravish again. I was a corpse, and you returned me to
life; your yearning gave me a purpose, a project. Oh, I have to laugh: isn't
this what people say happens when they become parents?
But you were so much more to me than a mere daughter, my child, so much more;
in a sense, you gave birth to me, a new Torsten created by your desire, a new
Torsten taking shape in the reflection I saw in your lust-dilated eyes. I was
astonished at this new man, at the strength you gave him with each one of your
submissions, your body my kingdom, your pleasure my crown and sceptre.
I thought to perfect you, and you perfected me instead. It's only fitting that
now that we have done it all, we should move onto a new plane of existence. Our
souls--nay, our one, undivided soul is ready.
My conqueror. My queen. My empress.
We stand upon the threshold of an entirely new adventure; a new door is opening
for us, and my heart aches from joy in the knowledge that I can embark on this
journey with your little hand in mine.
I love you. Always have, and always will, until the last flame of Hell is
extinguished and all is silent.
Yours yesterday, today and unto eternity,
Your Daddy.
I let go of the letter and hugged him, howled against him, both of us weeping
openly; now, the windows started to shatter downstairs as their frames snapped,
the entire building creaking, black smoke billowing in through the door. I
could see flames from the corner of my eye, never having realised how loud, how
noisy a fire could be: it swallowed us, an inferno echoing the one we were
about to enter.
"Quickly," Torsten coughed, weak from the smoke. He fumbled for the box on the
bedside table and lifted out the large piece of candy inside of it. Two cyanide
capsules hidden within one piece of soft, gelatinous candy: we were to bite
into it simultaneously, so that we might die at the exact same time. I wanted
to swallow it immediately, wanted to take it now so that I would not die a
hideous death scorched by the flames. But he had insisted on this ritual: for
the last time, we made love as we passed the deadly candy from mouth to mouth,
slowly wearing away the sweetness, kissing each other to death. I rode him, and
with death in his mouth he devoured my breasts; he turned me onto my back and
fucked me, licking at the candy that was now in my mouth, sucking it into his
own mouth as he thrust into me.
But now, the flames rose higher, higher: the wallpaper caught fire, the flames
licking up the ceiling, and we knew the time had come. He laid on top of me,
hard and heavy on top of me, my beloved Father's cock in my little baby pussy,
perfect, perfect.
"Now, Daddy," I said, and held the candy between my teeth.
He snapped it in half with his teeth and bit into it, just as I bit into mine:
the bitter taste of almonds burned my tongue, hideous, awful. Three minutes,
he'd said; three minutes and we would be dead. I sobbed hysterically, weeping
as he did, he shouting, groaning, thrusting into me so hard it hurt; I clung to
him even as I felt my strength ebbing, felt my limbs growing cold.
"I love you, Laura," he whispered, the sky in his eyes now clouded, tears
streaming down his face.
"And I love you, Daddy," I said, "so much."
He fell dead.
For a while, I adored his corpse, made love to it even as my own body started
to die. The perfect weight of him atop me, my Father's perfect beauty even in
death; even as he lay dead, I kept on kissing him, milking him with my pussy.
The last thing I could feel was his death ejaculation, the way my pussy pulsed
for one last time, sucking his sperm into my dead and cold womb; with one last
tremor of pleasure, I, too, was gone.
***
And still, they say, should you walk into the forest late on a midsummer night,
you can hear the whisper of the Devil and his daughter upon the wind. They say
that if you sit very still among the birches and listen very closely, you can
hear the crackling of flames, feel their heat upon your face and hear a pair of
voices laughing: the little girl and her father, dancing forever in Hell.
***
END
***
Chapter End Notes
     Illustration for the last few scenes here. (Not very NSFW.) Collage
     post (very very NSFW) illustrating the entire story here.
End Notes
     Freely rebloggable Tumblr announcement post for the fic here.
  Works inspired by this one
      (Vid)_The_Fall_of_Angels,_explicit_trailers by Snowgrouse
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