Nadia Nightside's Best of 2015

by Nadia Nightside

  “You can...” she gulped. “You can stroke it closer to me, if you want.”

  He did want to. And so, standing over her, feeling something like a lord in a manor, he stroked his huge cock over her prone, self-fingering body.

  * * * * *

  “Here we go.”

  “Here we go?” Pruitt snorted. “Come on.”

  “They’re about to get into it, man. I don’t know who won the bet, but it wasn’t me.”

  “She’s still pushing him away.”

  “Yeah, and that’s weird. Their chemical readings are off the chart. They should be on the seventh or eighth session, according to their chemistry. I don’t know why the grip is so slow on their brain. It’s like it’s...I don’t know. The effect is more symbiotic than parasitic.”

  “The fuck does that mean?”

  “It means,” said Martinez, “that maybe this little virus is smarter than we gave it credit for. But they're going to start soon, now. You watch. They're going to start and they won't be able to stop.

  * * * * *

  Hour 8

  It was hard exactly to tell where the foreplay stopped and the actual sex began. After ten minutes of stroking his cock directly next to Rebecca, she had told him rather imperiously that he was doing it wrong. Directly, she began to stroke for him.

  Immediately, at their touching, all their sensations magnified once again. He came instantly, spraying all over her naked thighs. Her shorts, soiled completely, had to be totally removed. It didn’t matter. They were just in the way. All their clothes were gone now.

  Wherever it started, however it would be measured as beginning, they rutted now like mad meth-laden rabbits. His cock felt like an extension of Rebecca's body, an extension of her very soul.

  Somewhere in her distant past, Rebecca had lost her virginity in a college dorm room. It had been a sad little affair like so many losses of virginity tend to be. There were posters of bad bands on the walls, and one of them played on the computer sitting only a few feet away through paltry laptop speakers that had about as much business blaring music as Rebecca did playing in the NHL. Pot smoke filled the air. The boy’s face—not a boy, really, an eighteen year-old, but next to what an ungodly perfect specimen of stud Frank was, all men had started to be referred to as boys in her recollection—was pimply and awkward. Too much hair in all the wrong places. He came almost right away, and the feeling had been disappointing, covered over by a thin rubber sheet that didn’t give her any of the primal warmth that she and every heterosexual woman had been born needing to have inside of her.

  He fell asleep afterward, right on top of her, and she had to suffer the indignity of feeling his cock shrink inside her barely-penetrated pussy. When he woke, he removed the sloppy condom from her, and some spilled out.

  She spent the next three weeks terrified that she might have gotten accidentally pregnant. When she was sure she wasn’t, she broke up with the young disappointment, and swore off the distraction of boys until she had finished school. Then, after a similarly disappointing experience soon after her graduation, she had sworn off men until she finished her law degree. Then, after that graduation and another disappointment, she had sworn off men until she got her career on track.

  Her love life could wait. Everything could wait. Sex wasn’t important. Life was important. Money was important. Owning her house—that was important.

  She hadn’t ever had an orgasm until eight months ago. It was an unpleasant experience for her. Losing all that control. Not knowing where her limbs would go, how her legs would shake, how her mind would drift afterward and make it impossible to do anything else for the rest of the day. Afterward, she had written in her diary a simple note:

  “Orgasmed today after playing with myself for one hundred and fifty-five minutes. One hundred fifty-five minutes! For ten seconds of pleasure that I barely even felt. Not worth it. 0/5 stars. Would not do again.”

  Now, underneath Frank, her upper torso pinned in the corner of two walls and her ass jammed in between his thighs, that enormous fuckrod of his plowing into her cunt so forcefully, she came again and again. And again. And again. The pleasure was ceaseless. It replaced her thoughts, replaced her memories, replaced her morals and her ethics and everything else that wasn’t the primordial biological knowledge of how best to please a man’s cock, of how to get pregnant, of how to do anything in her power to feel cum inside of her again.

  Tears dripped down her cheeks—tears of purest joy. She stared up at Frank with love in her eyes as he unleashed his strength on her comparatively tiny body.

  Her tits bounced and jiggled as he drove into her body again and again. A distant part of her brain wished they were bigger for him. And then she remembered—soon, she would be pregnant. All those new curves for her man. A thick hot belly to please his view. Bigger tits filled with lifegiving milk, all just for him. She would have her entire body dedicated to his sperm. Her every cell, her every atom devoted to cultivating what his amazing manly seed had given to her. It was so perfect.

  It only made sense that she served him, that she did as he said. That she submitted totally to his will. Her body was made to submit to his will—to change on a chemical basis to become the perfect vessel for the physical incarnation of his amazing masculinity. Why would her brain be any different? Why would her will?

  Women were born to serve. It made total sense.

  “Women are born to serve,” she moaned, testing it out.

  She didn’t even know if she meant to say it to him—if she meant for him to hear. She just wanted to hear the words. But, it excited him. She could tell by how he increased the rapidity of his thrusts inside her.

  “Is that right, slut? You’re born to serve?”

  Rebecca nodded eagerly, a hot happy breath parting her lips. He wanted her to speak. He wanted to know what was on her mind! God, he was so magnanimous.

  “Oh yes, Sir. Born for it. Born for your cock. I was made to be—oh fuck—”

  She had to stop speaking because she started cumming. Her mind turned off.

  When it turned back on, her mouth was moving, and words spilled from her lips, though strangely she didn’t feel like she was in control of any of them.

  “Born to serve you. To suck your cock. Just your whore. Your dumb slut. Your three holes. Have to fuck you. Need to be fucked. By you. By you. By you. B-b-by y-you-oh god!”

  And she came again, consciousness blinking out once more.

  Her mind became a sort of strobe light of consciousness, flashing this way and that. She saw Frank on top of her, grunting loud in orgasm. She saw her thighs dripping with his cum and her pussy juices all mixed together.

  Cum.

  She heard herself shout, “Give me your fucking babies, Daddy! Please, Sir! I need them so bad!”

  Cum.

  And the next thought was that she was bent over onto her knees, Frank’s enormous cock fucking hard into her pussy from behind.

  Cum.

  Tugging at her short hair. She should have longer hair, she realized, so Frank would have more to play with. So she would have more to show off for him. Yes. That was a perfectly natural, perfectly good thing. A woman should have hot long hair so she can show off what a good little fucktoy decoration she is for her man. Why hadn’t she realized before?

  Cum.

  “Never done this before,” she giggled. And then she lazily slid her mouth over the top of his cock, slurping him down.

  “Oh, that’s perfect, love.”

  Cum.

  Her head was automatically moving up and down Frank’s cock, slurping slow, but not quite fast enough. He wrapped his hair in her hand and began pumping her up and down.

  He’s using me to masturbate his cock, she thought. My head, my mouth and tongue, are his lube. I’m just a fucktoy. I’m just—

  Cum.

  There was cum everywhere. All over her tits. All over her neck and her mouth. It tasted so good. It tasted like—

  Cum.

&nbs
p; His seed was everywhere again. All over her tits. More of it this time. Double the amount. It made her breasts stick together on her chest, like she wore some tight hot dress. He climbed on top of her and pushed his cockhead through the cleavage. Slowly, the sticky cum pushed apart like buttery spread, and his cock spurted out layers of precum onto her skin and—

  Cum.

  Rebecca snoozed happily, snuggling tight up against her man. God, he was such a good man. He was going to fill her with so many perfect babies. Her cunt was still on overload. Just the slightest touch would set her off. God, her thighs were covered in his cum. They just soaked in a puddle of it. What if she shifted so that—

  Cum.

  * * * * *

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, what did I tell you? I forget.”

  “You didn’t forget. You’re just being an ass.”

  “Yeah.” Martinez laughed. “Your report done yet?”

  “Well, we gotta watch until they expire, right?”

  “If they expire. I mean, we might have to terminate them eventually. I’m not sure when they’re going to let up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the virus is changing, isn’t it? It wants to keep its host body alive. And so it’s...I don’t know. This strain is mutated somehow. Beyond just what we did to it. And so it’s lasting longer. I don’t know how soon it will kill them.”

  “Will it kill them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  * * * * *

  Hour 16

  The nurse entered the room, gingerly stepping through the piles of fluids that had gathered on the floor. Frank saw her the way that man was intended to see women—noticing only the thick width of her hips, the steadiness of her stance, the heat emanating from her pussy. It was the same hot redheaded nurse from before, though Frank didn't remember that all that well. She wore a suit of some kind, her head in a bubble. Protected.

  He could fuck her full and pregnant on the first try, he knew. He could do it in less than five minutes if she would let him.

  He stood up—or tried. But his hands were bound to the railing on the side of the bed. She must have tied him up before he woke.

  The nurse leaned over Rebecca, speaking into a microphone on her shoulder.

  “Subject appears unconscious. Possibly comatose. I suggest—”

  Beneath her, Rebecca suddenly began to shake violently.

  “She’s having a seizure!” Frank said. His voice was low and gravelly, little more than guttural cavemen-like grunting. “Help her! You’re a nurse! You have to help her!”

  The nurse knelt down. Thick fluids surrounded her knees. Cum, precum, pussy juice. The combination created a potent chemical mix. Frank continued to panic, tearing at his bindings. He'd gnaw through his wrists if it meant protecting his mate.

  Rebecca's eyes suddenly snapped open. She wrapped her legs around the nurse, and tore into the suit with her fingernails, detaching the bubble around her head. The nurse let out a frightened moan as her skin, her nostrils, her mouth was exposed to the heavy lust-layered air. Rebecca pulled her down and kissed her madly, pushing herself on top of the nurse's busty body. Soon, the nurse was sliding in the collected juices on the floor, apparently forgetting how to resist—forgetting perhaps that Rebecca carried a monumentally dangerous virus transferred by any physical contact.

  Finally, though, she pushed Rebecca off with a terrified cry, and stumbled out of the room, wailing. Alarms began to sound.

  Rebecca, smiling, rushed to Frank and untied him, using a scalpel taken from the nurse's belt. He took her by the hand and they rushed out of the room, blindly searching for a way to survive. The place was a maze. They rounded one corner, and there were men with guns and bio-suits on. He rushed at them, punching and elbowing, until they had scattered or were left on the floor, unconscious. Rebecca clapped her hands with glee, watching her man fight for her. His cum was everywhere.

  They continued to run, paying no attention to the intercom blaring overhead, entreating them to stop. Doors began to shut all around, locking and slamming.

  With no other recourse, they simply followed the lines in the hallway—a green one. Frank's stamina felt endless. His body completely reformatted for physical activity for hours at a time. He slammed through one half-open door, and inside was a garage.

  Lucky.

  There was a car waiting there, a man trying to start it.

  “Oh, shit. Martinez!” the man ran to the other side of the garage, banging on the door. “Martinez, you gotta let me back in there, man!”

  Frank shoved him to the ground, his fingers clasping deep on his neck. Somehow, he knew the man was infected right away—even though he barely had a concept of being infected himself. He simply knew he felt correct.

  “Get in, baby.”

  He slapped Rebecca on the ass and pushed her inside the military car. The keys were inside—and there was enough of his brain left behind to know how to operate it. With a roar, the engine came alive, and he powered out of the garage and up into the waiting world. Bullets sang against the car, trying to stop it, but somehow they missed, or deflected off the car's surface, or both.

  Rebecca kissed him madly as he steered them to safety—protecting her—and then sank her mouth down to his waiting, spurting cock.

  He came just as they powered through the closing gates. And they were out, out in the world, free.

  And the virus was free with them.

  Other Books In This Series:

  Lust Fever 2

  Lust Fever 3

  # # #

  Heir Salon

  In this Stepford-style series spin-off of the “Maid For Service” series, a stalwart feminist, Betty, is transported to the small town of Passion Heights, where all the women are gloriously endowed bimbos, each as fertile as a bunny and with a litter to match—though they have all kept their sensational figures and cheery, empty-minded dispositions. As Betty tries to investigate, she finds herself and her new neighbors only drawn deeper into the town's pleasurable trap...and soon finds herself the object of desire by the most powerful man in the town...and maybe the world. In “Heir Salon 2,” Betty becomes the bimbo she was born to be, and in “Heir Salon 3,” she becomes the bimbo wife she was meant to be...in every possible way.

  She looked in the mirror, turning this way and that in her scarlet lingerie, rather amazed at what she saw.

  Not that long ago, she hadn't looked like this. Her legs had not been monuments of sexuality, reaching down effortless to the floor onto her tippy-toes. Even barefoot, she could no longer press her heels all the way to the floor—she had to walk as if she wore high heels at all times.

  This was only right. This was only proper. She was a Wife. Wives had responsibilities.

  Not that long ago, her tits hadn't been so big. She wouldn't have been able to say they were tits. They were more like breasts, or maybe boobs if she had the right bra on. But now they were tits. Grade-A man-melting tits that fixed a man's attention on the most important part of her.

  Not that long ago, her tits hadn't leaked milk. Hot, luscious, yummy milk that seemed made to emit amazing sexual scents and to encourage every type of rutting and fucking known to man, especially the kind that demanded entering her hot, fertile cunt completely bareback.

  Not that long ago, she'd had a real brain, with real thoughts, and real concerns and ideas. Now she just a good wife's brain. Made for serving men. Made for serving her Man, her Husband.

  This was only right. This was only proper.

  But it hadn't always been this way.

  * * * * *

  They were in the car, just two minutes away from their new house. The mood was bad.

  Betty clenched her jaw. “I am not wearing a dress.”

  “Sweetheart,” said Lane, “it’s a classy affair. Dresses are pretty much mandatory for ladies. I don’t want to w
ear a suit, but I’ll be wearing a suit.”

  Betty was not a fan of diminutives in general. Still, being in a relationship meant they were bound to happen—even it was just a simple shortening to “Bets” for her. Lane, in various moods, would call her “honey,” “love,” “baby,” and “doll.”

  But she knew that “sweetheart” was reserved for when his annoyance had begun to reach a threshold of anger. That was fine by her—let him be angry. She just wouldn’t go if he wouldn’t budge.

  She sighed, staring out the window. The weather looked nice outside. Somewhere, some place, there was a way to actually enjoy the window without being mad at her husband.

  Gathering her composure, she realized that she couldn't not go to the event. That would leave him out in the cold, and she didn't want to do that to him.

  “I’ll go to this thing. This stupid thing of yours. That I do not like doing. But don’t expect me to dress up and show off for all your big time male buddies just because I have a ring on my finger, Lane.”

  He sighed. “I’m not expecting you to dress up because you’re married to me, Betty. I’m expecting you to dress up because every single one of these guys knows who you are, and what you did. They look into that sort of stuff. It’s their job. And unless we start rehabbing your image—our image, by the way—then I’m dead in the water here. And that means we’re dead in the water.”

  Betty sighed. He was right. Her bad reputation would no doubt have followed her here.

  “Fine. But, I’m not wearing a slutty dress.”

  “You have slutty dresses?” He laughed.

  “I have...I have one good, hot cocktail dress.”

  Betty was in fairly good shape. They had a rowing machine that she used four times a week, keeping her arms and legs trim with firm, lean muscle. Her hair was a mousy brown color, the color of wild rabbits that hopped around neighborhoods, hoping not to be snatched up by stray dogs. Her face, rather pretty with her elegant nose and heightened cheekbones, put her out of the league of someone like Lane—if she were to be so shallow, which she wasn't. Lane was perfectly cute. He wasn't necessarily handsome, and Betty's mother was always telling her she could “do better,” but that was such an insufferably arrogant, elitist way of viewing the world. Sexist, too—which probably was why Betty had married him. To prove beyond a doubt that she was beyond such notions.