The Cherry Orchard

by Vanessa de Sade

  “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 that 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 floo
r.

  “A tea dance ballroom within the garden, I believe,” the Toy Maker says disinterestedly, sweeping across the floor like a wheelchair-bound Valentino. “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 …”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” Chlotilde says, tapping the side of her nose and winking at Magda.

  “Oh, do be quiet, Chlotilde,” the Toy Maker butts in rudely. “She doesn’t care about your bootleg liquor-makers, she’s just being polite. Now, Magda, eat your blasted cake and listen to me. The Party has summoned you here because you entered into the State Lottery and have been selected as our chosen candidate to be a mother to the next generation. The Pioneer Generation they’re calling it, in their infinite wisdom. Now, as you know, there are not many fertile males remaining since the Pestilences, and procreation is vital if we are to survive. Therefore, if you will consent to bear my heir, your prize is that you may live here and raise our child without having to perform further labor. And, though I am not a young man I am still fertile, and your intelligence scores almost match those of my own, making us a perfect breeding unit …”

  “And I would have to … make love with you?” Magda interrupts, half aroused, half horrified.

  “Ah, the wheelchair …” he says, a little sadly. “Yes, some degree of intimacy between us would be required, but this would not be a marriage. Sexual contact would be solely for the purpose of impregnating you. Now, I am a man of initiative and not debate. Time is off the essence. Our data says that you are at the peak of your fertility cycle today, and it is therefore essential that we act immediately. So, Magda, what do you say. Will you perform your patriotic duty to the Party and be a mother to a Pioneer?”

  And, with an odd, half-remembered sensation like a caged bird fluttering frantically in her ribcage, she slowly nods, her face flaming and her cunt beginning to pulsate.

  “Yes, Sir, I consent,” she says in a small voice. “You may do with me as you will, I will not resist …”

  They have given her the Room of Windows, an old viewing gallery set, like an eyrie, high above the Palm House and at the apex of the glass dome of the semi-derelict palace, the lights of Paris spread out all around her like spilled gemstones on a vast black velvet cloak. Chlotilde has undressed her and drawn her a bath, and she luxuriates now in the scented foam, watching the older woman as she potters to and fro in the flickering candlelight.

  “What he said, about me not caring about your cookery. It wasn’t true. I wanted you to know that,” she says suddenly, reaching her small wet hand from the large circular tub and taking Chlotilde’s big work-hardened fingers in her own.

  “I know, Cherie,” the other woman says softly, not quite meeting her eye. “But you must not worry, I am used to him and his petty temper tantrums.”

  “Then we are friends? I could not bear to live here if we were not on good terms …”

  Her voice trails off as Chlotilde utters a small noncommittal grunt and makes to turn her back, but Magda holds her firmly. “If we are truly friends, you will help me, Chlotilde?”

  “What do you require?”

  “To be, you know, intimate, with him, well, the thought of it partly excites me, but it also makes me afraid. Will you help me prepare myself for him?”

  “Prepare yourself how?” Chlotilde asks, looking at her half quizzically, half with interest.

  “Like this …” Magda replies bluntly, taking the other’s rough hand and squeezing it to her bare breast, her fine athletic body slippery with scented bath oils.

  “Ah, this I can help you with,” Chlotilde purrs, her fingers surprisingly nimble for their size, cupping Magda’s tits and quickly bringing the nipples up springy and hard.

  “But you must not let me come,” the girl breathes, her whole body already shaking. “I merely want to be as slippery as sea-stroked rocks after the tide has departed when I go to him …”

  “And you doubt his ability to instill such a reaction in you? Pourquoi? I assure you, I assist him with his ablutions and have seen his body. He is a fine specimen and will not disappoint you.”

  “Yes, but he is, by his own admission, an impatient man,” Magda pants as Chlotilde’s big hands slide under the foamy water and start to caress her lower belly and inner thighs. “I fear that he will not waste much time seeking to arouse me, and I would like to be ready to receive him when he wants me …”

  Chlotilde laughs kindly as her hands find soft and secret places. “You went with men in the old life? Or solely with women?”

  “I liked both,” Magda breathes softly as the other’s fingers enter her, gently but insistently, pushing deep inside her, then slide back out and start to circle round and round her clit in ever closing rings.

  “You like?”

  “I like. Kiss me …”

  And the older woman hesitates but Magda is adamant and pulls them together, and their lips suddenly join as if they have been molded to interlock with each other, tongues gently dueling, not invading or pushing in, but delighting in the sensation of each other, hearts beating in unison, pussies turning to water …

  And Magda is on the brink of coming as Chlotilde abruptly breaks their embrace and backs quickly away, standing flattened against the glass, breathing heavily and with a strange haunted look in her eyes, her whole body shaking with desire.

  The Toy Maker has been lifted from his chair and reclines on a low dais in the center of the old dance floor, two elaborate candelabras dripping ruby-red wax behind him and the big animatronic panther stretched out at his feet on the cold black and white marble.

  He is completely naked and his body is powerful and sinewy in the soft light, his arms, legs, chest and abdomen covered in thick white hair like a snow wolf, his long thin cock standing up like the sole lightning-blasted tree on a barren heath, his cynical eyes watchful and alert.

  “I please you?” he asks quietly and Magda nods, her heart thumping and her cunt desperate for fulfillment.

  “Then Chlotilde may disrobe you?”

  She nods again. She has dressed for the occasion, not in an old-world gown, but her best suede-lapelled Dandy suit in a soft
moss green worsted with an antique frilled-front tuxedo shirt beneath, half tucked in to the waistband of her pants, half out and gleaming white in the flickering light. But she has left her boots in her room and stands barefoot before him, delighting in the chill of the cold marble beneath her as Chlotilde’s big fingers gently undo the buttons on her trousers and help her to step out of them.

  And her bare cunt is still as magnificent as it was on that day atop the Brighton cliff when Cynthia Negus had first inched her silky panties down and gasped aloud at her loveliness, run her hand through the thick clump of cornflower yellow hair and slipped her curious fingers inside and claimed her maidenhood. And today even the urbane Toy Maker tries not to swallow as he beholds her long tapering legs and proud pussy, but is betrayed by his long wolverine cock which twitches like an eager tup in the presence of her fecund nakedness.

  “Remove everything else except her brassiere,” he coughs and gruffly instructs Chlotilde who willingly obliges. “Then bring her to me …”

  She wants to go down on him straight away, take that huge bare head, already glistening with glassy drops of pre-cum, and suck him till he begs for mercy, but he’s fearful of wasting any of his seed and won’t permit it, so she has to satisfy herself with merely touching and a little squeezing, reacquainting herself with the feel and scent of real cock before he enters her.

  “You visit automation houses?” he asks in a tight voice, a voice she recognizes as that of a man trying hard not to come too quickly, and so she nods, yes.

  “Which?”

  “Madame Augustine …”

  “Ah, my early prototypes, they satisfy you?”

  She pauses in her ministration to his cock, deliberately pulling his foreskin down as far as it will stretch and keeping it there, squeezing him just gently enough to make more pearls of clear liquid form around the little eye-shaped slit in the fiery-red head.