by Cecilia Tan
“Fuck me,” she replied, and she meant it.
That was the only one of her appetites that hadn’t been satisfied. She’d been naked for the last seven days, in near constant physical contact with him, after all. Their interaction had been beyond intimate, of course, but it wasn’t sexual in the way she was used to. And the taste of the sweet milk and the balm-induced visions had inspired feelings of what could only be called blind lust in her.
He didn’t react to that suggestion right away. He dried her off and brought her to the den for her last feeding of the day first. And only when that bottle of the sweet milk had been drained dry did he offer her some form of dessert. He pulled his pants down around his ankles and sat on the couch, allowing her access to what she wanted.
She lay with her head in his lap, so surprised by that maneuver that she was nearly afraid to act. His cock was erect, and she touched it and held it, convincing herself that it wasn’t part of some wishful vision. She closed her eyes and kissed its well-shaped head, feeling quite excited. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, she honestly thought.
So she took it into her mouth, still hungry after her supper of sweet milk. And his cock was alive, warm and delicious, and she believed she could suck it all night. She’d had plenty of practice in the past, since her regular dealer had accepted blowjobs in exchange for dope when she was short of cash, before he got too strung out himself to care. But he set her up with friends of his who would pay enough for a bag to have their bones rattled a bit. She’d always felt so disgusted after the fact, but a quick fix usually made her forget.
At the moment, things were different, though. That wasn’t something she had to do for dope, but something she wanted to do. She wanted it more than anything in the world. Because his cock was so beautiful, and she craved the sensation of it sliding along her wet tongue and thrusting deep in her throat. She wanted to give him as much pleasure as he could stand, and receive the same in return.
She coaxed him to climax before too long. And instead of turning away or having his semen decorate her face, as usual, she drank it like more sweet milk, unwilling to let his beautiful cock out of her mouth for a second. Her reaction was sudden then, as an intense chill passed through her. As she savored the taste, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, an orgasm of her own erupted within her, followed by another, and another.
He cradled her head, as her whole body shook with convulsions. She was completely debilitated by a wave of repeating climaxes that started in the center of her chest and spread through her quickly.
She couldn’t understand it, and she fought the urge to panic. It was as if the taste of his semen had caused her to react that way-as if it, like the sweet milk and the balm applied to her twelve places, was magic. Because all of those things were better and more potent than any dope she’d ever tried.
That overwhelming sensation lasted nearly an hour, after which she was thoroughly exhausted and sore. But she still craved it. She craved his cock, and she wanted to suck it again. He had to help her up from the couch and practically carried her to the bathroom, though. Her nightly hot water enema relaxed her then, and she was already asleep when he put her to bed.
She dreamed of drinking his semen by the gallon and woke up with both her hands down his pants, to touch the source of her salvation.
And so things went.
They fell into a daily routine of sorts, as Daphne lost track of time completely. She woke up each morning, enjoyed a cold water enema, had a bottle of the sweet milk, sucked his cock, experienced an hour-long orgasm, had the magic balm spread on her twelve places, saw visions as his tongue explored those same spots, had a bath, drank another bottle of milk, sucked his cock again, experienced another extended climax, enjoyed a hot water enema, then went to sleep. And once a week, she was shaved by him-her underarms, legs, head, and mons.
She was lost but enlightened, cured but still filled with cravings, naked and newly born.
eight
The chemist contacted Glenda Gareth by telscreen, to finish their business.
His call was transferred to her office and relayed through several secretaries before the stern face of Ms. Gareth herself appeared on the screen. She was a very busy woman, after all.
“Let’s get this settled,” she said, in the cold and impatient tone of that world she dominated. “Is my daughter clean?”
“See for yourself,” he replied. He engaged the zoom-out function, to give Ms. Gareth a view of Daphne sitting there beside him.
“She’s naked,” Ms. Gareth observed, indignant.
That was true. Daphne had declined to dress for that occasion, but she kept her arms folded over her grand mammaries. She wouldn’t even cover her bald head, which sported a few day’s growth of stubble. He figured it would show off the healthy complexion of her flesh after her recovery, at least.
“And her hair,” Ms. Gareth went on. “What have you been doing to my daughter?”
He found that reaction laughable under the circumstances. She’d never asked him about the details of his detoxification process, which didn’t make sense for a woman of her prominent position; as if she was only interested in the results, until she learned how they were accomplished. And she was acting like she’d forgotten what Daphne had looked like at the zombie auction, before he treated her; as if her daughter had been the same angel-faced teenage virgin he’d gone to school with, instead of the haggard copperhead who’d spread her legs for dozens of men for hits of quad oxy.
“She had to be reborn,” he replied.
Ms. Gareth just cleared her throat, trying to hide the expression of distaste on her face. “Well, she does look better,” she said. “Daphne, honey? How are you feeling, dear?”
Daphne cringed. “I’m fine,” she replied, her voice very low.
“Speak up, dear,” her mother said, as if addressing a pet. “Are you feeling better? No cravings or withdrawal pains?”
“I’m fine,” Daphne repeated, a bit louder.
“Good,” Ms. Gareth said. “It appears we were successful. So I guess it’s time to finalize our arrangement. My budget for Daphne is limited, since I’ve already spent over two-hundred-thousand on her at those Godforsaken auctions. But I might be able to shift a few other accounts around a bit to cover your fee.”
He wasn’t surprised by the apparent change in her attitude—from offering whatever he wanted to save her daughter before the deed was done, to negotiating as low a figure as possible once he’d completed that task. She’d also never asked him exactly what he expected to receive for bringing Daphne back from the land of the living dead, he noticed.
“I told you it was too high a price to pay,” he reminded her. “But I don’t want any of your money.”
Ms. Gareth seemed pleased for a brief moment, though she must’ve known that he still expected something of value in exchange for the service he’d performed. She didn’t ask the obvious question, though; like any good businesswoman, she would wait for the offer to be made before she responded, without revealing any hint of her emotional state. And he bided his time, testing her limited patience.
“I’ll take Daphne,” he finally said.
“What?” Ms. Gareth replied, honestly shocked.
“That’s the price,” he said. “But only if she agrees to the deal.”
Ms. Gareth’s eyes grew wide. “Daphne?” she whispered, barely able to speak.
“I agree to it,” Daphne said, her voice much stronger. “I want to stay here with him.”
Her mother looked a bit wounded. “You won’t try to... to auction her off again, will you?” she asked, causing whatever sympathy he might’ve felt for Ms. Gareth to fade rather quickly.
“No, ma’am,” he replied. And he turned off the telscreen, abruptly ending that call without any formal goodbyes. He sat back and took a few deep breaths, then he finally looked over at Daphne, who was already staring back at him. “Are you sure about this?” he asked her.
She
smiled, probably happy her mother’s unforgiving face was no longer there on the screen. Then she lowered her folded arms, to expose her abundant breasts. “Yes,” she said, with conviction. “Fuck me?”
He would. They bypassed the bath, and he took her straight to the bedroom to celebrate that arrangement. She threw back the covers, then lay down and spread her thighs wide. He undressed and climbed into bed beside her. He began with a grand tour of her twelve places; he didn’t use any of the magic balm, but she didn’t seem to mind.
He kissed her palms, tasted her underarms, and suckled at her big tits. He tickled her tender belly with his warm breath, then dined on her tasty vagina. He touched his lips to the soft soles of her feet, then coaxed her to roll over so he could part her cheeks and press his tongue to her asshole. And he finished by kissing her mouth for several minutes.
He wanted to repeat that entire step-by-step process with his cock then, but she couldn’t wait. So he skipped the first few steps and settled between her thighs, with his erection wedged deeply within her wet sex. He kissed her again, then stared into her face.
“What’s your name?” she whispered.
He nearly laughed at the sheer absurdity of that question, considering the circumstances. He could’ve told her that people called him The Chemist, but he did have a real name that almost nobody knew.
“Jonah,” he told her.
She exhaled slowly, as her hips started to move. “Jonah is inside me,” she said, her voice thick with passion.
She wasn’t cured, of course. She was prone to addiction, for whatever the reason—Last Child Syndrome, an error in her conception, or a stern and domineering mother. He’d just replaced her dependence on copper with a dependence on those symbols of rebirth: sweet milk from the bottle, being shaved clean, and hot and cold water enemas. She needed the magic balm touched to her twelve places, and she craved drinking regular doses of his semen more than food, air, and water, as long as they gave her the hour-long orgasms she couldn’t live without.
Which they would, as long as he kept adding just a few milligrams of quad oxyprozalene to the glass of water he drank every morning.
The Night the New Hog Croaked or, The Lascivious Dr. Blonde: A Romance by Thomas S. Roche
It was a dark and stormy night. Not that it fucking well matters, of course, because all this shit of which I’m about to tell you was naturally pre-ordained, as if scrawled in blood in the book of destiny. Either that, or it just seemed like a good idea at the time, which in California is more or less exactly the same thing.
Dr. Blonde: She stands at the highest battlement of her castle, looking over Silicon Valley, listening to the faint screams of her victims so far below. Those well-heeled unfortunates have fallen into her clutches through various means either devious or mundane (and usually a combination of both). The torments of the damned on this particular dark and stormy are perhaps a hair worse than they would have been otherwise, for Lascivia’s already sadistic nature has been pumped into the diabolical, for it’s a busy Friday night at the Castle of Dr. Lascivia Blonde, and these motherfucking heels are killing her.
Goddamn cheap-ass discount-bin at Fetish Etc. She should have gone to Wicked Bitch in the Haight, but she always gets tempted by the Fetish Etc. window displays of medieval torture scenes—and that guillotine in the back room always gets her juices flowing.
“Perhaps I’m just a romantic,” Lascivia sighs to herself.
Dr. Lascivia Blonde stands poised at the edge of her castle’s battlement, holding a glass of fine Napa-Valley Merlot. It’s Luciana Vineyards ‘83, a close second-favorite to the Doctor’s most prized vintage, Un Chen Andalou ‘65, cases of which fill her cellar. The Doctor’s black patent-leather corset makes her look even more statuesque than usual, and her wasp-waisted form is outlined against the flashes of lightning coming down on all sides of the castle. The rain will come any second, she knows; she can feel the electric, pregnant anticipation filling the air. The skies are ready to birth the most horrible storm of the season, perhaps the most destructive force to hit Northern California in years.
Lascivia’s voluptuous blonde hair cascades down her back well past the level of her pert behind. Her ankle-length black dress is slit to the hip, revealing the white stretch of her leg underneath as she casually leans against the battlement, trying to get some relief for her aching feet. The five-inch heels don’t help, especially since, added to the good Doctor’s already-impressive six-foot-one, they put her head in a place where she really ought to be using a breathing apparatus. The Castle of Lascivia is located at the top of a hill, and sprawled out luxuriously below is the fertile furrow of Silicon Valley.
Though the heels annoy her at times, she would never think of going without. Even switching to five-inchers from her usual six-inch heels was a painful and almost unmanageable concession to her “humanity,” if you could call it that. Dr. Blonde despises being less than a full half-foot over a submissive’s head, and even with her impressive height that means that heels are a requirement in most cases. The Doctor would under no circumstances resort to platform boots, as many of her hipper and more Gen-X colleagues might do. Dr. Lascivia Blonde, ever the traditionalist, favors the elegant, always, over the practical.
In any event, Dr. Blonde knows that soon all her complicated dressing-up will lead to this evenings most delectable payoff.
The enormous iron-shod door opens, and Angelique appears as she exits the spiral staircase which leads up to the battlement. Lascivia continues looking lazily off into the night, the parched Earth begging for rain, begging on its knees, as lightning scorches the air all about.
Before Angelique even speaks, the edge of Lascivia’s mouth twists ever-so-slightly in what might pass, in Dr. Blonde, for a smile. Or at least the closest approximation which ever materialized on that oh-so-stern face.
Angelique DiMonŽ is a young apprentice, dressed for work this evening in a fetching little crepe lace-trimmed dress, with the required corset and low heels. She is perhaps five-one, with black hair and pale skin and the mammoth, somewhat shockingly-large mammalian endowments that the good Doctor requires in her submissives.
Angelique curtseys appropriately; then, her head lowered in deference to the Doctor’s authority, she says in her practiced sex-kitten whimper: “Everything is at readiness, Doctor Blonde.” Angelique radiates obsequiousness, and that voice is raw sex. Even those apprentices learning dominance must show absolute submission to the Doctor at all times.
Dr. Blonde does not respond; instead, she lifts her glass of wine as if toasting the valley, and luxuriously she sweeps her arm, taking it all in—queen of all she surveys. Echoes of victims’ screams lilt up from the castle, mingling with the thunder.
Thinking Dr. Blonde didn’t hear her, Angelique says again: “Everything is ready, Doctor. And—”
“And our guests are here,” Dr. Blonde cuts her off, the faint smile becoming demonic as her eyes flash and sparkle with the pleasure of the agonies soon to be dealt in the torture chambers below. “I know.” A chuckle from her, a faint, evil chuckle.
As if in answer, there is first a familiar blood-curdling scream from below (Dear Mayor Breckenridge, Lascivia thinks to herself, I wonder how his cat is doing?) And then, the clouds burst, the roar of the sudden torrent mingling with the echoing sound of the Doctor’s cackle.
‡
“Fuckin’ A,” growls “Ax-Murder” Ned Palmer as the clouds burst. “I knew I shoulda paid the bill on the cell phone before we left.” He ducks low and hikes his leather jacket over his head, trying to shield himself from the downpour.
His Betty, the blonde, buxom and, truth be told, somewhat dumpy “Leatherbitch” Victoria Aaronson, stomps her feet angrily and pouts under her crash helmet. “This rain is going to fuck up my brand new chaps!”
“Hey, take the helmet off,” says Ned angrily. “It’s brand new, too! The guy at the Harley Davidson dealership told me not to wear it in the rain or the ‘Live Free or Die’ sticker
might come off!”
“Fuck you!” spits Victoria—uh, “Leatherbitch.” “Fuck your fucking helmet! Some vacation this is!”
“Jesus, it’s not my fault,” shouts Ax-Murder Ned. “I figured I could pay the bill on Monday, who woulda guessed those fuckers shut you off if you don’t pay your bill right on time? And how was I supposed to know those smug fuckers in Cupertino sold me a bum Harley?”
“Yeah well maybe if you weren’t a pussy-ass pansy, they wouldn’t have tried selling you a bum Harley!”
Ned just stares in disbelief and then sinks into a sulk.
Mind you, Victoria, I mean Leatherbitch, had never so much as mounted a motorcycle until earlier this evening when Ax-Murder Ned came by on his brand-new Harley Davidson. Ned, on the other hand, has been running with the Murderous Torturers, a biker gang that has caused small-town sheriffs, local street toughs and entire municipal police departments to flee screaming from town when they heard the Torturers were coming. Now, mind you, that’s just a function of the name of the gang, rather than any actually fearsome acts they’ve ever undertaken. The Murderous Torturers, in fact, is a biker gang which consists entirely of Silicon Valley computer-industry executives and upper-level software designers who probably never actually killed anybody or broke any kneecaps. Ned’s acceptance into the inner circle of the gang signifies his recent promotion to Junior Vice President, Design Coordinator, and this promotion necessitated his purchase of the brand-new Harley to replace the four-year-old BMW 650 he’d been riding. Of course, in all biker gangs the prospective member must shed enemy blood before he is considered a full member of the gang, and so Ax-Murder Ned had done exactly that, without hesitation or remorse, without the guilt a moral man might have experienced. It was with stone-cold heart and vicious intent that Ax-Murder Ned had broken into the KwikSoft Offices in Palo Alto one week ago and stolen a water-cooler, cackling with evil glee as he strapped the thing to the back of his Beamer and roared through the mean streets of Palo Alto whooping it up.
