Deep Blue

by Aishling Morgan

  Trying her best, Lily let the head of his penis squeeze deeper into her windpipe, until she began to choke and was forced to pull back. Ed laughed, took a firm grip on her head and began to fuck her mouth, sliding the now erect shaft of his penis in and out. Lily opened her eyes, unable to resist the awful sight of his hard cock shaft, glistening with her own saliva.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ Ed drawled, ‘a real little cocksucker, a little cocksucking tart.’

  A bubble of shame rose in her throat at his words. It was true: she was sucking his penis and she was enjoying it, and it was all the better for having her wrists tied to the bedstead, leaving her helpless in his power. He was fully erect, solid, meaty and male in her mouth, and she wondered if he was going to carry out his threat, come down her throat and make her swallow it.

  ‘Right, let’s have the dress up,’ he drawled. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got on underneath. Something special, just for Ed, I’ll bet. Keep sucking while I do the business.’

  Lily obeyed, sliding her lips up and down on his penis as his hands went to her dress, then lifting her knees one at a time to let him pull it up. It came, eased up her legs, tickling the backs of her thighs.

  ‘Stockings, nice,’ he said, continuing to pull, lifting the dress up over her culottes to expose the tight seat. ‘Fancy French knickers, too. My, but you are a treat, dolled up like a right little madam. Now let’s have those little titties out.’

  She groaned deep in her throat as the dress was pulled up, revealing her braless breasts. They swung loose, feeling heavy and blatantly rude, huge and prominent despite their small size.

  ‘You ought to get a boob job,’ Ed grunted, taking one breast in hand and rubbing his palm over the nipple. ‘I like big ones, big, fat knockers. Right, that’s enough sucking, I’m ready for your tight little cunt.’

  He pulled back, leaving Lily shivering, the tears brimming in her eyes but her bottom held high, ready for stripping. Ed came behind her, took hold of the waistband of her knickers and down they came, exposing her bottom, the open, naked cheeks, the tiny dimple of her anus, the lips of her sex with the thick puff of pale hair below. The first tear rolled from an eye as she thought of what she was showing and she let out a faint sob.

  ‘Nice arse,’ Ed told her. ‘I like them big and round. Nice cunt, too, good and hairy, shows you’re a real blonde. You’re well wet. Eager little tart, aren’t you?’

  Lily closed her eyes, squeezing tears from the rims. Her bottom wasn’t big — she knew it wasn’t, not really — but lifted and spread to his lecherous gaze it felt huge and incredibly rude, a fat, wobbling, bulbous thing with every dirty detail on show. His cock bumped her sex, rubbing in the wet and nudging her clitoris to make her gasp. Despite herself she pushed her bottom up for more, only to have his penis slide up her vagina, filling her hole with meat and filling her head with shamefaced ecstasy.

  She was tied, being fucked, dress up, knickers down, showing everything with her wrists strapped in place and a penis in her sex. Nor could she hold herself, but started to grunt and squeak as he fucked her, panting out her ecstasy despite the tears of shame running down her cheeks.

  ‘That looks good,’ Ed panted from behind her, ‘my cock, right in your little cunt, splitting the lips with your big arse spread and your little rosebud showing. I’m going to fuck you in that one day, Lily, my cock right up your tight little arsehole. You’d love that.’

  Sobbing at the crudeness of his words and grunting from the effect of having him pushing inside her, Lily could do no more than shake her head in a vain attempt to reject his claim that she would enjoy being sodomised. Yet she was tied and she knew that if he wanted to try to force his cock into her rectum there was nothing she could do about it.

  His shoves were getting firmer, jamming her into the bed and making her grunt, then cry out. Ed responded with yet harder shoves, until Lily could only squeal breathlessly into the bed.

  ‘That’s right, come on my cock, you little tart,’ Ed growled and once more pushed himself to the hilt in her vagina.

  She gasped even as she heard him grunt, and his cock jerked from her hole. A moment later she felt something warm and wet splash on the bare skin of her bottom and knew he had come over her. She moaned, burying her tear-streaked face in the pillows as he finished off over her bottom, ejaculating twice more in small spurts and smearing what remained on his cock down between her buttocks.

  She could feel it all, and imagine how it looked. A long streamer had been laid across her bottom, bridging the cheeks and hanging over her crease. More was on her left cheek, lower down, on the fullest part; yet more was between them, soiling her anus with come. It was too much, too dirty, too obscene to be denied, and as she lifted her face from the damp pillow she knew she was going to truly disgrace herself.

  ‘Make me come,’ she panted, begging. ‘Rub me, Ed.’

  ‘You dirty little bitch!’ he snapped. ‘You come on my cock girl, that’s all. Show some respect.’

  Violet laughed, throwing back her long purple hair in a gesture of open, uninhibited amusement. Yasmin responded to Violet’s laughter with a wicked grin, then raised her glass to her black-painted lips. Around them the Black Joke pub was packed with Tawmouth’s wilder set, goths like herself, black-clad, adorned with exotic jewellery and piercings, New Age types and pagans, nondescripts, a group drawn by their fascination with mysticism and the great long barrow on the top of Aldon Hill.

  The door opened, admitting a newcomer, a lean young man, black-clad from head to foot, his startling red hair tied back in a severe ponytail. On seeing the crowd he gave a satisfied, somehow proprietorial smile, which held as he walked to the bar. Violet glanced at him, then again, recognising his face.

  ‘That’s Nich Mordaunt,’ she hissed, leaning forward to make herself heard above the noise.

  ‘Who?’ Yasmin answered.

  ‘The guy at the bar,’ Violet went on, ‘with the red hair. He’s Nich Mordaunt, the guy who writes that occult stuff, you know, with the freaky rituals.’

  ‘That stuff you showed me with the candles?’ Yasmin answered, half turning.

  Violet nodded and sipped her drink, pretending not to stare and thinking of how it had felt to lie spread-eagled as she fed a thick, crimson candle into her vagina, her head spinning with alcohol and cannabis. Yasmin had watched as Violet masturbated, indulging in a ruder and less formal version of a fertility rite penned by Nich. It had been exciting, exotic and free, ending with the two of them in bed together for a night of kissing and pussy licking, drunk and stoned, every last inhibition abandoned.

  ‘Come on, let’s chat him up,’ Violet suggested. ‘He’s that freaky he’s got to be worth knowing.’

  Yasmin nodded, her eyes glittering with mischief as she slid from her bar stool. Violet went first, approaching Nich with an unabashed smile. He responded, admitting who he was, more than happy to discuss his beliefs and work. Violet found herself fascinated, by his openness, by the conviction with which he believed in those things she was eager to accept, by the rich green of his eyes. When another friend joined them and Yasmin became distracted she paid little attention, soaking up Nich’s words and feeling more and more eager for sex.

  By closing time there was no doubt. Yasmin was lost in the crowd, Violet and Nich rapt in each other’s attention. Together they walked through the town, neither questioning what was to happen as they made their way to the attic flat she and Yasmin had hired for the summer. Inside they shared wine and sweet biscuits laced with cannabis, sipping from either side of a carved horn goblet before letting their lips meet, touch, then kiss, Violet’s mouth opening beneath his.

  When they broke apart it was for her to stand. She shed her clothes as he watched, letting them fall to the floor around her until she was nude. Nich nodded, allowing his gaze to linger on her hair, the fine, pale features of her face, the amethysts in her ears, her nose, the purple glass of the Lavabell in her belly button. Her pubic hair was dyed, the same rich p
urple as her hair. A single tattoo marked the gentle lower curve of her belly, three purple letters in cursive, Grecian script, I, O and V.

  ‘Ianthe,’ Nich said softly. ‘Your matron deity?’

  Violet nodded and smiled, delighted that he should know, and understand. Sinking slowly down, she set her knees to either side of him, pressing her sex to his crotch as his arms came around her back. He kissed her mouth, her neck, her nipples, taking each breast in turn and sucking gently until Violet had begun to sigh with pleasure and dig her nails into the material of his top.

  ‘The daughter of the sea,’ he murmured. ‘You must know, then. He must have called you here, but for now you are mine.’

  Violet barely heard him, lost only in the pleasure of her body and of knowing she had found somebody who could accept her, who understood without her needing to explain. Lifting herself, she reached down, easing his fly open and freeing his penis. He continued to kiss, brushing her skin with his lips, on neck, chest and nipples. She took his erection in her hand, rubbing the head to her clitoris, exciting herself, rising, lowering her body on to his shaft, taking it inside. His hands were behind her back, stroking her neck and the gentle groove of her spine, working slowly lower, to the swell of her bottom, taking each cheek, lifting her to her own rhythm as she moved on his erection.

  A finger found her anus, tickling the tiny hole and making her sigh. His lips were on a nipple, his teeth holding the firm bud of flesh just on the edge of pain. Rising, she let his penis slip from her vagina, only to settle on him, her sex pressed to his erection, her clitoris hard against him. She began to squirm, moving her hips to wriggle her bottom in his hands and bump her clitoris on his penis, over and over, bringing her ever closer to orgasm as he teased her breasts and anal ring. She cried out as she came, calling on Ianthe, pressing Nich’s head between her breasts and writhing her underside on his penis as wet come erupted on to her tattooed belly.

  Two

  Lily awoke to Ed’s grumbled demands for coffee. A hour later he had gone to work, leaving her propped up in bed. Her feelings were mixed, and while it was impossible to deny that she had enjoyed the sex, even being tied, the underlying shame and guilt were too strong to be denied. Ed made her feel protected, and wanted, also used. Having refused to help her to orgasm, or even accept her need, he had untied her and quickly gone to sleep, leaving her frustrated and ashamed.

  Shifting in the bed with an irritated grimace, she looked around for something to read, hoping to take her mind off Ed and the memory of being so rudely enjoyed. Several magazines were stacked neatly in a rack, but investigation showed them to be either tedious men’s magazines or about guns. A voice in the back of her head was telling her that if there was a genuinely dirty magazine she would read it, but to her relief there was nothing overtly sexual. What there was, at the bottom of the pile, was a publication faced with a beautifully executed pen-and-ink drawing of a woman entwined in the tentacles of an octopus and apparently in a state of ecstasy.

  Surprised, shocked, but intrigued, Lily extracted the magazine, taking care not to disarrange those above. The picture was terrifying, yet horribly compelling, also totally out of place with what she knew of Ed’s character. It was impossible not to be fascinated, and she found herself tiptoeing guiltily back to the bed with the magazine in her hand. Glancing at the cover once more, she saw that there was no title, only the scribbled legend ‘Laverack, 1963. £2.50’.

  With no idea of what to expect, save something pornographic and bizarre, she was surprised to find a frank, but hardly salacious, discussion of the octopus as a motif in sexual imagery, tracing it back to an eight-armed pre-Celtic deity. Other pictures showed women copulating with octopus, squid, even a cuttlefish, but interspersed with photographs and sketches of places, including the Wythman barrow on Aldon Hill, which was relevant to her own research.

  She read on, fascinated but disturbed. The text was so open, so rational, as if for a woman to have a sexual experience with an octopus was not only possible, but a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Nowhere was there a hint of the monstrous perversity of the act, or any moral comment whatever, save a condemnation of those who had defaced ancient carvings and persecuted pagans. By the time she had finished she was shaking her head in a vain attempt to rid her mind of the images she had seen and the astonishing insouciance of the text. That Ed should read such a thing seemed impossible, a complete contradiction of his chauvinist and Christian beliefs.

  Despite a resolve to dress and go back to her room, she found herself making another coffee and returning to the bed to study the thing in greater detail. Given what was happening to them, she had expected the women in the pictures to show horror and revulsion. The truth was the opposite, their expressions of pleasure, ecstasy, even a serene, enraptured bliss. Most were stylised, even reduced to the form of an icon, those intended for recognition by initiates. Some showed more detail, one even illustrating the entry of the beast’s sperm arm into the woman’s vagina.

  By the time she once more put down the magazine her mind was reeling with the impact of what she had seen. For one awful moment she imagined herself in the same position, gripped in tentacles, a fat, rubbery sperm arm invading her body, only to pull her thoughts away. It was hard though, and she found herself wishing she could surrender to her feelings as the women seemed to be doing, taking pleasure without guilt or shame, allowing the dirty, dark part of her mind to overcome her reserve completely.

  She had to masturbate, and it had to be as rude and open as possible, really dirty, otherwise she knew she would risk letting her mind slip to the cold embrace of the octopus. Ed’s old shirt came up, baring her breasts, the nipples pushing up, high and hard to betray how excited she was. Her hand slid down the front of her culottes, finding the puffy, swollen flesh of her sex, wet and open. Two fingers slid into her vagina, her thumb cocked back to find her clitoris and she let her imagination go, her inhibitions fading with her rising pleasure.

  He was with her, Ed. She was bound hand and foot, kneeling, her bottom thrust high and helpless, spread bare. He was behind her, the cock she had just sucked erect in his hand, inspecting her rear view in minute detail, his gaze taking in the fullness of her bottom, the way her sex lips pouted from between her thighs, the wetness of her vagina, the tight pink ring of her anus. She would be looking back, watching as he came forward, groaning as her vagina filled with cock, panting like an animal as she was fucked. He would take her by the hips, feeling her flesh and watching his cock slide in and out of her body. She’d expect him to come, but he wouldn’t, instead pulling out and climbing from the bed.

  He would leave her, tied up in the nude, nursing his erection as he walked from the room. She would hear him in the bathroom, see him return, now with a tube of lubricating cream, and as he climbed back behind her she would know what was going to be done to her. Helpless, unable to do a thing to stop him, she would beg and plead, promise to suck his cock until he came, to strip for him nightly, to get in any rude pose he wanted, anything other than sodomy.

  Ed would laugh at her, well aware of the hollowness of her voice, of the insincerity of her pleas. He would grease her bottom, smearing cold cream between her open cheeks, rubbing it into her anus, pushing a finger into the tiny hole. She would be sobbing and shivering, tears running down her cheeks as she pleaded for him to leave her anus virgin. He would only laugh the louder and his finger would pull from her ring, leaving her greasy and open, vulnerable to the erection being pointed up between her buttocks. She would feel it touch, the firm, round head pressed to her, but not to her vagina, not where it was supposed to go, but to her anus, to the tight little hole that was never, ever meant for a man’s cock but that so many dirty bastards seemed to want to use. She would cry out as he pushed, a final plea to spare her the degradation of sodomy, but he would simply push harder, straining her poor little hole until her ring popped, his head went in and she was being sodomised, buggered, used in her bottom, with a long, fat cock sliding
up her overstretched hole…

  Lily came, letting out a great, broken sob as the head of ecstasy that had been building up inside her burst and her mind flooded with guilt for what she had been thinking of. Yet still, as she slumped back among the bed sheets, she knew that if Ed just pushed her hard enough she would let it happen.

  Thomazina lay inert in the water, her body moving to the gentle rhythm of the waves. The buzz of sound from Tawmouth seafront could be clearly heard, music blending with the chatter of many voices and the distant rumble of a train. She watched, looking at the clothes of the people on the front. Most were in beachwear, much like her own, if generally more modest than what was worn on the island and the French coast. Others wore the popular blue trousers, including many of the women, along with colourful tops. Hats were rare, dresses common only among older women and female children, although many younger girls wore skirts, often short enough to leave most of their legs showing.

  Closer, beneath the loom of Aldon Cliff, the beach was almost deserted, the river mouth cutting it off from the main front. Those few who had troubled to take the little ferry that crossed the river were well spaced out, seeking privacy for one reason or another. Thomazina scanned the beach. A group of girls lay basking in the sun, face down, their bikini tops undone to leave their backs bare. An older man sat on a rock, puffing a pipe and staring out to sea. Two family groups stood among the boulders below Aldon Head, the children with nets to dip into the rock pools.

  Her gaze went back at a movement. A single girl was coming out of the tunnel that led to the beach, a girl of about her own height, dark-skinned, wearing tight black trousers and a black top holding in breasts only a little less large than her own. Thomazina watched as the girl looked left and right, choosing the empty piece of beach between the tunnel and where Ness Head thrust out into the flow of the river. She carried a rug, which she spread out on the sand when she had reached the end of the beach.