The Well-Hung Gun

by Cari Silverwood

  She might be his prisoner, but she really shouldn’t be co-operating in her own ravishment, should she? She attempted to duck aside.

  “Uh-uh.” His hand at her nape squeezed in and held her still.

  “Heyyy. No fair.”

  “I never, ever, play fair.”

  With his cock surging back and forth in the groove made by her pussy, and his mouth intent on conquering hers by crushing her lips and doing war with her tongue, her concentration went bye byes.

  Her eyes rolled up and, damn, she was already cross-eyed. Ow, my eyeballs.

  Simply feeling what he did to her became her universe.

  Even an angel couldn’t resist this primitive appeal to her dirty, depraved, animalistic subconscious. Her bad, naughty, evil subconscious.

  Are you getting this skateboard? Store it away in your memory.

  Karl would surely understand the attraction of Mr. Beastwood to her animal id, seeing he was himself part octopus creature from another dimension.

  Slip. Slide. And a thrust that nearly breached her inner sanctum. All that was needed was another quarter of an inch. If she wiggled, mightn’t he enter her? She tried hard, straining to make him do it, puffing at her exertions. But no, he tightened his arms, his biceps solid barriers to her going anywhere he didn’t want her to go.

  “Your favorite little fantasies and fetishes? I can do them all,” he said hoarsely.

  “You can?” Virginia sighed and wiggled her butt. That last thrust – such a tease this man was.

  “I can. Even the upside-down-like-a-bat one. But not the astronaut.” He sank his teeth into her shoulder, making her squeal, sending liquid pleasure rippling through her. “I think this may take a while.”

  Yes, please.

  His magnificent tentacles emerged again, to wrap her at waist or arms or neck, as necessary, holding her in place while he bound her in leather at wrists, ankles, and elbows, and that was just for starters.

  Buckles were buckled. Tongues of metal slipped into their holes in the leather. As those tiny holes were violated, Beastwood played with hers – her nether hole and her pussy entrance, her mouth, even her ears, toying with them delicately, roughly, rawly. Lots and lots of ly words barged in and demanded some screentime.

  Passionately rudely elbowed the others aside. The queen of vaudeville adverbs had arrived.

  Passion, panting, and penises – it was one of Virginia’s last coherent thoughts. After that she was lucky to remember her birthday.

  He made her want, ache, throb, and plead. All manner of unladylike sounds emerged from her mouth.

  “Fff... No, mmm, oh. Fuck yes!”

  While he wrenched in the leather, he teased her nipples, drawing them out with the suckers on his tentacles. He made it impossible for her to move and difficult for her to breathe, unless he wanted her to, and yet he cinched the leather in another fraction. Tight.

  Tighter.

  The smell intoxicated her. The grip of the belts and his tentacles both subdued her and aroused her.

  Raising her a few feet above the ground and away from his body, he examined her, clicking his tongue. His great tentacles suspended her with ease, barely swaying.

  “Such a work of art, my pretty. All you need is my care and attention. I have you, Virginia. I am a were-squid and you are my prey, to be teased and taunted, to be ravaged, penetrated, and defiled, at my pleasure.”

  Just his words made her moisten and she squirmed as if trying to get free, though truthfully she only tested his bonds. Caught. Oh, yes.

  “You cannot escape.”

  As if she would, now. The man had no clue. Once more, a tentacle wormed between her legs, so wonderfully squirmy and wet when it bathed in what dripped from her. She sighed, close to begging for more in-depth attention.

  Fuck me, Sir.

  “What have I found? A well of feminine nectar? A pulsating delight of hidden treasure?”

  A what? No, she thought, startled at his effervescent euphemisms that made her think of Victorian ladies skipping through greenhouses watering their plants. No, it’s my cunt.

  Though the space was tight because of her ankles being tied, he forced his way along until the tip curled out to dawdle in her ass crack. Then he spun her so she faced away and looked down at an angle at the floor. With a tentacle wrapped about her legs, he forced her to bend at the waist.

  She gasped, suspecting where this was headed. One of Karl’s favorites but not always hers. Surely they hadn’t discovered anal sex in 1860! Quelle horreur!

  “Not there!”

  “No?” Beastwood chuckled and rearranged her, spreading her thighs apart a few more inches. “Not where? I was only checking you were well-lubricated, but you have me curious. Was it here, you referred to? Hmm?”

  “Eeek!” A tentacle tip probed her anally, sinking in slowly, ever so slowly, turning like a screw as it did so.

  “Or was it here, you meant?”

  A second tentacle squeezed between her pussy lips, relentless as the tide. Both tentacles forged onward, tunneling, worming. She could hear the muted squelch, feel the coolness on her inner thighs of her own juices. Again, she strained at the leather binding her elbows and wrists, and there was no give.

  “Not. There. Please?”

  For an exquisite few moments, moments that that had her arching her spine, more, oh god, more, he thrust in and out, going further, until it seemed something the size of a baseball bat was inside her.

  Which, from memory, was pretty accurate. She hurriedly decided that, for once, her memory must be wrong. Tennis racquet size? But which end? Oh fuckit. Whatever. Who cared?

  The next few thrusts hit somewhere gooood.

  She lowered her head, her mouth gaping and drooling, her moans quiet and desperate. This both hurt and sent her soaring with pleasure.

  So full. Her heart pumped lust into her lower body, engorging her lips, making her clit seem ready to erupt – and this time she zoomed past the visual. No exploding clits. With every single beat of heart and push of tentacle, she ascended toward climax.

  The belts, above and below her breasts, made them bulge. Her nipples, that were normally such shy and sulky things, become as prominent as the cherries on a sundae.

  Two spare tentacles wound their way to her breasts, wrapping them in a crushing spiral until her breasts protruded even more. She looked down, to see the very tips of those tentacles settle across her nipples in a gentle helix of tiny suction cups. They stroked at her and sucked.

  Her swear words became incomprehensible and possibly Swahili.

  “Shhh. None of that.” Then he stuffed a last writhing tentacle down her throat at the same time as the ones inside her other holes withdrew then rammed into her.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk, couldn’t do anything but be obliterated by a stupendous orgasm that wrung her dry of sanity.

  Her screams were muffled. Her shudders and writhing, and the bowing of her spine, took her precisely nowhere except launching into...

  Ecstasy.

  The nowhere land of pleasure.

  When she surfaced, she was in the lake with him, curled in his lap, cradled by water, his arms, and his kisses. Her bottom stung like Hell.

  “Most beautiful woman, you tempt me so thoroughly.”

  “Mmm.” Nice man. Sexy were-squid man.

  “Fetish one and two down. Only eighteen to go.”

  She summoned up a gargled, “Nnng?” from the depths of her sore throat, then a disbelieving arch of brow. The words later, or tomorrow, or not yet, all occurred to her but none would escape from her lips. She’d even lost the ah from her nnngah.

  Her mind was a little gone. Beastwood had exploded it like the Deathstar had the planet Alderan. She’d have to collect the bits in a jar and glue them back in. That bad.

  “You may thank me later. Upside down like a bat? Oh. Wait.”

  Something nudged her foot. In the glowing blue water, a creature swam, long and sinuous, and at times sparkly.
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  “You mentioned electrical play? I’ve heard of this new invention by Edison called electricity. I believe he has linked these eels to it.”

  Eels? Her eyes bulged so much that she was sure that, in another second, they’d plop into the water...where these electrical eels would eat them. Her eyes were having a bad day, overall.

  “Let’s do some upside-down electrical play.”

  With eels?

  Nooooooooo.

  She ran out of O’s for her no before John Beastwood had her slung upside down. Slowly he lowered her into the water, headfirst.

  An eel swam past.

  She burbled out curses, watched the bubbles of air waft upward, heard his muffled reply through the water. “We can do three fetishes! Breath control. Count to fifteen.”

  Oh, man. She was going to kill him several times over, if she survived. Then he stuffed the first tentacle into her pussy, and managed to find her mouth with his cock. Her favorite lollipop.

  Automatically, already halfway to wonderland, she licked him and let him slide to the back of her throat. Something nudged her clit and started to play with it like a conductor performing his best ever kinky concerto. Suck. Suck. Squeeze.

  She writhed and managed to raise her head from the water and gasp in some air.

  John let her do so, then lowered her back in.

  Ugh. There was some odd appeal to such possession. Killing him could wait.

  The first eel zapped her breast.

  No, killing was good.

  And p-p-plug his dick into a light socket, suggested her alarmed inner voice.

  For once, they agreed.

  They reached fourteen fetishes before John Beastwood called it a day. “You are so naughty. This century, and me, just grew grey hairs.”

  She purred, her eyelids at half-mast, while stroking the tentacle that had flopped over her belly. The furs they lay on were super comfy and she was exhausted.

  “Poor man. I mean poor were-squid. For the best though. My lover, Karl Thulhu should have me for the last fetishes.”

  He raised himself on his elbow, scowling down at her. “You can never return to him.”

  Ah. Problem.

  Chapter 7

  “Why?” Her question was earnest and it gave him pause, made him sit back. Had no one ever questioned him?

  “It is how it is. My captives stay with me.”

  “Until what?” She had to find out. “How many women have you abducted and ravished?”

  His steady regard gave little away. “Too many to count without an abacus.”

  She couldn’t ask this with him staring down at her and she too levered herself onto her elbow. If this provoked some rage, so be it. John Beastwood did seem unhinged even if he was an expert lover. “How many have you killed?”

  His answer took a long time to emerge. “None.”

  That was it?

  “Is there a fast way to get you to tell me all this without asking a thousand questions?”

  “No.”

  She drummed her fingers. “I need to go back to my time, to Karl.”

  “You will stay with me until you do what all of my victims do. You will transmute into gold.”

  “Gold?”

  Yup. Unhinged. Where were all the golden statues of women? There were none so he was lying. He probably ate them.

  Now wasn’t that a cheerful thought? How to ask that without being too obvious?

  The skateboard had ended up a few feet away and she rolled it to her with her toe.

  Running across the surface was a revelation. It’d found the power source. The lake water.

  She could return to Karl, given five minutes alone with this thing. Return uneaten, hopefully.

  “So...” With her forefinger, she rocked the skateboard back and forth on the fur. “What do you suppose human flesh tastes like?”

  John groaned and collapsed onto his back. “I didn’t eat them!”

  “No? Then what?”

  “I think you are both the smartest woman I’ve met and the dumbest. I am constantly amazed at how you go from one extreme to the other.”

  If you haven’t got anything smart to say, don’t say anything at all? Nah.

  “Let me guess. You...skinned them and used the skin to paper the walls? Or, or,” She jerked, excited. “Are they in the walls? Wait, no, I haven’t heard any moaning. What else? The rattlesnake broth is really them?”

  “Nooo.” He covered his face with his splayed fingers. “Stop! I’ll tell you, just no more scary stories.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “They turned into the gold tableware and candlesticks you saw in the dining rooms and at night they come out and sing and dance.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  “I think...” Virginia wobbled her head, deciding. “I think I prefer you papering your walls with skin.” She glared. “No one turns into a fork!”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Late that night, he set up chairs in the biggest dining room. As a treat, Rosarita brought them both goblets of white wine, roast chicken, and bowls of rattlesnake and apple broth.

  “Yum-mee.” She plastered on a smile.

  Rosarita slipped a piece of paper into her hand. “Here’s the recipe. Don’t burn your tongue. It’s hot.” For a woman, she had hairy hands.

  At the stroke of midnight, Virginia nearly swallowed her tongue.

  “Wow! Who’d have thought?”

  “I know,” he said sadly. “I know. First time it happened, in 1829, I thought I’d found a great way to make money. I sold a few but I’ve got far more gold in veins in the cavern.” He shook his head. “I’m tired of my compulsion to take a new victim. The townsfolk send for mail order brides. A month or two and she’s gone, like the others. Like all the others...”

  There was a precedent for this. People mutating into cutlery? She’d heard of it happening once before. Mr. Beastwood and his beauties were not unique. Be damned, if she could recall when or how.

  The tableware began a new routine, lining up on the table’s edge and kicking up their tines and serrated blades like can-can dancers.

  “Pity the candlestick’s off key.”

  “Mmm.”

  The skateboard bleeped. She leaned over to read.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Hmm. Right. I see.”

  Then she leaned back to him and whispered in his ear, “Have none of the women ever escaped?”

  “You’re still hoping?” The deep breath he took made her wonder if he was as devoid of humanity as this insane, domineering, tyrannical were-squid seemed to be, on the surface. “One, I let go.”

  “Why?”

  “I loved her. I didn’t want to have to see her turn into a fork.” John blew his nose on a corner of the tablecloth. “Or a knife.”

  “Why hasn’t Rosarita changed? Because you don’t screw her?”

  “She’s a werewolf. I think she’s got enough weird anatomy. She seems immune.”

  Werewolves and transmutating women?

  “And men never change?”

  “I don’t employ them. Only Rafe, for a few months to help with repairs. The sheriff too. He did some odd jobs for me as a teenager. Kept him out of trouble.”

  “John, what if I could solve your problem? I can show you how to stop them changing.”

  “You expect me to believe that you, a woman only recently arrived in my house, has figured this out when I could not over thirty years!”

  “My skateboard figured it out.”

  He nodded. “That, I can see.”

  Chauvinistic bastard.

  “How? Tell me and you may go free. Wait, it’s pointless even so.”

  “Why?” Mere inches away from freedom. Why did he baulk? “You can have companionship, a lifelong partner, someone who loves you, not just a short-term victim cross lover. Why not?”

  He shook his head.

  Oh. Oh no. Some tragedy was hidden here. “Is she passed on? Dead? Living in another country?” His expression only grew sadder, lo
nger, like a big unhappy puppy dog, one with six tentacles. “Or, oh dear, does she not love you back?”

  John winced. “No, she does not.” He wiped his palm over his face. “I destroyed what we had. I drove her away. Told her I was no good for her. She lives near here, pretends to be a widow. I gifted her a farm, but she’d never have me back.”

  She regarded him. Perhaps he was correct? After all, who could a billionaire were-squid gunslinger ever be good for except someone with a thing for rich boyfriends, calamari, and violence?

  Wait. She thought for a second. That’s me.

  But she was weird.

  It never hurt to try.

  Virginia turned on her chair to face him fully. “We are going to try. Minuses. You are a bit of an asshole. Ninety nine percent asshole on my asshole meter. But I can teach you, remake you, give you social graces. I will rebuild you into the ultimate rich, if a little ruthless – since women love that shit – sexy bastard, with a smidge of asshole.”

  “I...” He cocked a brow. “Am an asshole?”

  She sat up properly. “Yes. You shove your tentacles halfway down a woman’s throat on your first date.”

  “Minor.”

  “Also.” She counted on her fingers. “Do tentacle anal without asking. Drown them. Zap them.”

  “You listed those. Most. I just did them.”

  “Only because you asked. I didn’t say go ahead! You can’t do that, not if you want to keep her.”

  “I could just tie her up for eternity and lock the damn doors.”

  “Tsk, John. No. Trust me. Just no. Not if you love her.”

  His irises cycled through every flaring, fiery color on the color wheel – demonic red, passionate orange, kill-them-all violet, before setting for black. “I suppose. I see. I will change this.”

  “You don’t give women any say in what happens to them.”

  “They’re women.” He shrugged.

  She resisted knifing him with a...she searched about...skateboard. Luckily, her PMS had slithered away for a month.

  “I open doors for them too.” He looked upwards for a second. “The ones that don’t lead outside.”

  “You abduct all your women against their will.”

  “Mmm.” John sniffed. “I told you, I’m going to give that one up.”