by Kojo Black
“So, tell me, which of their furry little pussies do you like the best?” she giggles impishly into his ear, ogling all the cunts on the screen while squeezing his rock-hard dick mercilessly, and he mutters something incomprehensible as his whole body stiffens and then arches upwards and he comes like a volcano, all his hot white jism shooting out of him in spurt after snowy-white spurt, drenching her hand and his own pulsating cock, soaking his underwear and ruining his tuxedo.
“Now,” she whispers, licking the salt off her fingers and delighting in the taste of him. “Now, you can squeeze my pretty little kitty and make me come …”
Later, they lie together on the big bed in Lady Cynthia’s hotel suite, the men dispensed with and the hot night quiet. The odd snatch of conversation from watchmen on the becalmed freighters on the river floats across the rooftops and laps softly at the open French windows, and the net curtains ripple like a blush with the scant breeze; but the velvet darkness is so still that they don’t quite dare to speak in anything louder than whispers.
“Men,” Magda laments, almost imperceptibly. “Their cocks are so beautiful and yet they’re such idiots …” She is almost naked. The pearl dress that fifteen seamstresses labored over night and day lies in an untidy heap on the floor and she stretches her long limbs along the satin sheets of the huge bed, a flimsy pair of Parisian silk French knickers, so sheer that they show even her pale bush, and her beloved amber beads are all that separate her from total depravity.
“And what do you know of cocks, friend of mine?” Cynthia teases, taking Magda’s long thin fingers in hers and pressing them to her full, lush lips, still stained a dark damson red though her lipstick has long since worn away. “Oh dear, what’s this I taste? Something salty and very sexy … My, my, has somebody been a naughty girl?”
“No naughtier than you,” Magda replies, licking first one and then the other of her friend’s tiny hands. “My god, Cynthia. You taste of cum on both hands. What did you do?”
“Nothing you didn’t,” Cynthia laughs, pulling Magda up level with her and planting a tiny kiss on her face. “Just with two of them at once …”
“And did they make you come too?” Magda pouts, desperate to return the kiss but resisting hard, her soft blue eyes fiery with jealousy.
“No,” Cynthia reassures her, laughing. “Not that they didn’t try, but they just ended up more or less holding hands over my pussy. How about yours, any luck?”
And Magda laughs and remembers the boy’s clumsy caress of her big prominent pudenda and the fingers that ventured in and out of her hot, wet slit without quite touching her clit. “Not a chance, I’m ravenous …”
“Me too,” the Honorable Cynthia agrees, kissing her again. “Want to see what’s on the menu?” Like Magda’s, her dress lies abandoned on the snowy polar-bearskin rug and she lies on the bed in a tiny chemise and nude-colored silk stockings with garters like tiny rosebuds. No evidence of a bra or panties.
And Magda returns the kiss this time as the two of them slowly melt into each other’s arms, and she feels her nipples become as hard as the cinema boy’s cock as Cynthia runs her fingers over them.
“Strip me,” Magda moans when they finally break for air and Cynthia laughs.
“You’re only wearing your …”
“I know, pull them down. No, not like that, jerk them off roughly like a boy would!”
“Like this?”
“Oh yes, just like that. Now squeeze my pussy like you’ve never touched one before …”
“Oh, gosh, I say, old girl,” Cynthia mimics. “You’re all furry, I didn’t know girls had hair down there!”
“Silly boy, not all girls have it,” Magda replies, joining the game and rubbing herself frantically on her friend’s hand. “Only the special ones who turn into animals in the dead of night and come to eat you up …”
“Then it’s just about time that we both did some eating,” Cynthia whispers in her own voice, pulling her slip off over her head and slithering down Magda’s naked body like a pole dancer. She’s a little smaller that Magda but her breasts are considerably larger, with dark brown nipples and huge areolas the size of half-crowns, a tight waist and short shapely legs. But it’s her cute little cunt that has caught your eye, isn’t it, with its downy neatly-trimmed bush a beautiful golden brown with a little fleck of white blonde up the center, and fleshy pink petals peeping like shy maids from her deep, deep slit.
And normally they kiss and tease for hours before they finally let tongues and fingers finish the job, but tonight they’ve been kept on the boil for too long and all they crave is fulfillment.
“Don’t kiss me, finger fuck me, hard and clumsy like a man would do!” Cynthia commands, pushing deep into Magda’s crevice as she speaks and brushing against her stiff clit in passing.
“Like this?”
“Yes, that’s good. But hard. Harder. Rub my clitty with your thumb …”
“Oh god, Cynthia, I’m desperate to come. Do it properly …”
“No, rub yourself up against my fingers like I’m doing to you!”
“I think I’ll wet myself if I try to come like this …”
“Promises, promises …”
“Oh fuck … I think I’m coming anyway … oh yes, I’m coming. I’m coming, I’m coming …”
“Me too, don’t stop, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, I love you more than anyone in the world. Even being a man you thrill my clit so beautifully …”
And normally they lie in each other’s arms, luxuriating in the afterglow, their bodies awash with sensations, skin gently tingling, eyelids gradually getting heavier as sleep eventually overcomes them; but tonight Magda experiences a new restlessness, an itch that demands to be scratched and won’t acknowledge satiation.
Cynthia is boneless, like a rubber doll that can be bent to any shape, and Magda clambers on top of her and starts to rub her cunt up and down the cool flesh of her friend’s opal-white thigh, not gently, but like a she-wolf in heat, desperate for relief.
“I need to be fucked,” she pleads urgently, bending down to plant hard kisses on Cynthia’s long swan neck, biting with frustration and leaving lover’s marks, her crotch still bumping and grinding below. “I love you with all my heart, Cynthia, but I do so wish you had a cock …”
And Cynthia laughs a sad, bittersweet laugh and pushes her friend gently off and rises, a naked fairy thing in the silver moonlight, and goes to find her bags amidst the heaps of discarded clothing on their hotel room floor.
Magda watches her keenly and groans aloud as Cynthia bends down. “What are you doing, lover? Aside from showing me your delicious little white ass, that is …”
“Getting you a cock,” Cynthia replies enigmatically, taking something wrapped in an anonymous black velvet bag from her suitcase. “I knew this day would eventually come and so I asked the Toy Maker of Paris if he could help, and he hasn’t let me down. Look …”
And Cynthia turns and stands before her, pale and naked in the moonlight, except that she isn’t the old Cynthia any more. She is still as beautiful, still as alabaster white, still the same fine-looking tits with their huge brown nipples like coconut mushroom stalks, still the same sexy legs and creamy thighs. But there, there where Magda’s eyes naturally rivet, there where Cynthia’s foxy little bush should be neatly nestled, sits a big, fat sleepy cock, thick and heavy and thinking about getting hard. Not a man’s cock but Cynthia’s cock, hot and horny, and getting itself ready to give Magda the fucking she’s always been dreaming about. Here, now, tonight …
“Cynthia, what have you done?” Magda asks in a breathless whisper, eyes riveted to the big semi-flaccid organ, her breathing rapid and labored like Red Riding Hood finding a Wolf in her Grandma’s bed.
“Don’t worry, it’s only clockwork,” her friend replies, coming so close that Magda can almost reach out and touch the thick and menacing beast th
at nestles between her legs. “The Toy Maker made it for me, it’s fashioned from gold inside and has a precision mechanism designed by Swiss watchmakers. Come, don’t be afraid, touch it, it’s connected to my clit and it’ll rise up if you stroke it, plus it’ll drive me wild …”
And Magda is afraid and aroused all at once, and she really doesn’t want to go anywhere near that frightening, alluring thing. But she’s in the grip of a primordial force that is older than time itself and she’s powerless to resist it, and, as though in some misty erotic dream, she sees her own tiny hand slowly reach out and tentatively stroke the huge prick that sits like a phallic cuckoo in the nest of Cynthia’s soft and hairy bush, and, sure enough, with an imperceptible whir of hidden cogwheels, the behemoth rises up and stiffens in her palm.
And Cynthia lets out a soft moan and pulls her close. “That’s right, feel me, squeeze me, make me really stiff and hard for you so I can fuck you like you deserve to be fucked. Oh yes, that feels so good. It’s amazing, it’s like it’s an extension of my own body. Like I’ve got a huge hard clitoris sticking out in front of me and I’m going to fuck you with it.”
“Oh Cynthia, would you? Would you please?” Magda moans, one hand still gripping the big, ever-stiffening phallus, the other frantically stroking Cynthia’s firm tennis-girl’s belly and cupping her big quivering tits with their hard rubber nipples. “Would you fuck me with your big stiff prick, hard and heavy, like there’s no tomorrow?”
And in reply Cynthia pushes her friend onto the huge bed and gently parts her legs, her hands everywhere as the two girls kiss passionately, tongues deep inside each other’s mouths, Cynthia’s hands on Magda’s inner thighs, up and down, up and down, getting closer and closer to heaven, finally unable to resist and cupping Magda’s big prominent mound and sliding her fingers inside.
“Not your fingers, use your cock,” Magda begs, her nails clawing at Cynthia’s flawless back, and the other girl smiles and then, softly, firmly, guides the monster in, Magda’s cunt hot and slippery like greased velvet, taking the huge throbbing member with ease, inch after inch, inch after inch, until it’s right up there, a separate vibrating mechanism kicking-in and whirring softly against Magda’s huge and swollen clit as Cynthia thrusts and thrusts again.
“Harder,” Magda moans. Begs. Commands. And Cynthia obliges.
“Like this?”
“No harder!”
“How about this?”
“Oh yes, much better. Now keep doing that and kiss me …”
“This is amazing,” Cynthia gasps, her thick honey-blond hair wet with sweat. “But I think I’m going to come soon. Are you close enough to come with me?”
“Of course. We’ve always come in unison before, this isn’t going to be any different …”
“Then get ready to come … now,” Cynthia breathes as she thrusts hard and fast, pummeling into Magda’s pussy like there is no tomorrow, the big mechanical cock between her legs tightening and tightening until it detects Magda’s orgasm and gives Cynthia the release that she’s been craving, with what feels like gallon after gallon of thick white semen substitute shooting out of her and filling her friend’s cunt up and overflowing onto the crumpled satin sheets of the best suite in the Savoy …
Chapter Three – Chlotilde and the Toy Maker
She remembers the hospital, and how the bright sun hurt her eyes when she lifted the blind on the window in her room, wincing as the surgical steel brightness of the post holocaust skies seared her retina. Here, you’ll need these, the armed Patrician assigned to her ward had said matter-of-factly, handing her the military-issue green visor that she still uses to this day, the sky’s too bright for the naked eye any more.
And, though the rest is pretty blank, she can also remember going out for the first time, the dry air and the sensation of the hot tar melting under her boots, crisscross diamonds of cracking mud along the dried-up bed of the Seine, and the strange new fashions being sported along the boulevards in an austere world which had suddenly found itself bereft of men.
But today all that is in the past and Magda is out on a new mission, striding along the Champs Élysée and ignoring the Demimonde—fey Damsels who wear their hair long and piled high upon their heads, with heavily padded Victorianesque bodices and hobble skirts split up to the thigh; and Dandies, in neat khaki trouser suits, their hair cut short beneath their impenetrable sun goggles and topped with neat trilbies. A summons is nestled firmly in Magda’s gold brocade waistcoat pocket, directing her to report to the legendary Toy Maker at his residence in the now-derelict glasshouses of the Jardin des Plantes,.
And she smiles softly to herself at the mention of that name, remembering a hot summer night at the Savoy and Cynthia Negus standing over her with her large mechanical cock …
The Toy Maker is a robust male of about sixty with short-cropped white hair and a dark, outdoor worker’s tan. He’s lean and neatly dressed, sitting straight-backed and assertive in a glittering steel wheelchair. He’d be tall if he were to stand, not at all the disheveled eccentric that Magda has been expecting, and she feels a momentary shiver of excitement as, already unused to the presence of men, she takes in his virile demeanor and searing gray eyes. Even his comforting scent, a heady blend of fresh air and aromatic tobacco, seems laced with pheromones and she finds herself conjecturing about how that lean cat-like body will look when stripped of all its expertly-tailored outer clothing.
And they are meeting in the seared outer garden of the semi-derelict Equatorial Palace, the huge botanical glass dome cracked and bent out of shape, all the magnificent exterior shrubs and trees wilted and shriveled from the white heat of the cloudless sky.
“They’ve given me this place to live and work,” the authoritative man says brusquely, one muscular arm propelling his chair into the inner gloom of the shattered glass palace. “Everyone’s a bit afraid of it, I think. Too much greenery. People just can’t seem to cope with vegetation any more. Mind your step now, it takes a while to get used to the light and the humidity.”
And, inside, though the sun still streams viciously through the huge green-tinted panels of the decayed arboretum, the air is soft and humid like some half-remembered tropical jungle, and living trees form a lofty cathedral-like arch above their heads, lush creepers and verdant vines trailing downwards as the steamy atmosphere caresses Magda’s face with hot wet fingers.
The Toy Maker turns in his chair and smiles at her. “It gives you quite a jolt, doesn’t it?”
And Magda nods wordlessly, eyes wide, and points up at a flock of brightly colored parakeets on a high branch. “Birds too?”
“Oh no,” the tall man laughs. “They’re not real. Just some of my old automatons. Like Jet here, he’s my pride and joy …”
And Magda tries not to cry out as a large black panther snakes silently out of the undergrowth and brushes past her, its feet swishing thorough the soft green ground cover of shy Touch-Me-Not plants, their tender leaves closing like a field of sea anemones in its wake.
“The beast, it’s an automation? He’s so real …”
“Yes, he’s very advanced, isn’t he,” the Toy Maker says proudly, scratching the creature’s great head and making its voice box purr. “But come, here are my living quarters. Let us go inside and conduct our business before Chlotilde brings us tea. You’re no doubt anxious to discover why you’re really here …”
The panther glides silently in behind them, its huge black paws quiet as a mouse, only the faintest whirr of cogwheels discernible from the inner clockwork that propels its sinewy skeleton forward.
“What is … was this place?” Magda asks, still wide-eyed and looking all around her, her boots making a hollow tap-tap-tap sound on the cracked black and white checkered marble floor.
“A tea dance ballroom within the garden, I believe,” the Toy Maker says disinterestedly, sweeping across the floor like a wheelchair-bound Valentin
o. “Now, hurry along, sit yourself down and I’ll tell you what’s what. Oh, here’s Chlotilde with tea. You do like tea, don’t you? Please don’t say that you don’t. It upsets her terribly when they don’t know what it is …”
And Magda looks at him blankly as she searches for some suitable reply, but he’s not listening anyway, so she sits meekly down in an old gilded wicker chair that has once graced the big palm room when it echoed to the mellow sounds of Geraldo, and elegant ladies had danced together to while away the long hot Parisian afternoons.
“Tea, you take it black with a lemon slice, or at least that’s how you used to in the old life,” a deep female voice says in her ear, and Magda looks up to see a broad-shouldered provincial woman of around forty, clad, not in current Dandy attire, but tough worker’s trousers and an old striped Breton jersey, her military sun goggles slung carelessly around her neck like a scarf.
“Yes, thank you, I did … do,” she says and the big woman beams.
“And you’ll have cake too. Clafoutis de cerise. I made it myself …”
And Magda gasps with a heady feeling of long-forgotten decadence as the panther rubs its head against her thigh and Chlotilde deftly cuts a thin slice from the moist pastry, flipping it expertly onto an old plate made from a china so fine that it is almost transparent, fat black cherries oozing languidly from what Magda already knows will be a faultless custard.
“My Grandmamma, she always soaked the cherries in kirsch …” she begins, a faraway look in her eyes, taking the plate and the petite gold plated pastry fork from the woman’s large, almost masculine, hand.
“Mais oui, of course,” Chlotilde replies. “I too!”
“But where do you find kirsch in this day and age? Or cherries for that matter, the wineries are all destroyed and the orchards and vineyards devastated …”
