Fur

by Vanessa de Sade

  Who are you? demanded the princess.

  The witch with the hairiest cunt in the world, the hag replied. For, though I am now vilified by Hollywood moguls and internet pornographers alike, in my day men formed night-long vigils by the outhouse just to watch me pee and catch even the barest glimpse of my mighty snatch.

  But how can this be? the princess demanded. For I am the woman with the world’s biggest cunt, but it is as smooth as an alabaster statue and has never so much as sprouted a single curl.

  The witch laughed. Better to be bald and worshipped than a forgotten pariah, she sighed, lifting her skirts to reveal a dense thicket of thorny boughs and gnarly hedgerow, more dense than any forest and redolent of fragrant bramble-mosses and autumn-leaf moulds, but the princess fell to her knees in delight and rubbed her face against the thick bush, quickly turning the hoary branches into the soft pelt of a fireside cat as her little pink tongue delved deep and caught the essence of the other’s very soul.

  You have completed me, the witch gasped, her skin turning from viridian to the finest china white, her body bucking with the force of her transformation. Now, come, mistress, and let me feast upon your own honey pot and return the favour.

  You are welcome, the princess replied, unfastening her silken gown and letting it fall to her feet in a diaphanous pool of shimmering fabric. But I fear that you will discover but a cold and lonely piece of architecture, full of fabulous cornices and features but devoid of warmth...

  But the witch was already lapping at her marble halls like a kitten with a cream jug, and, as the princess screamed out her delight, she felt her pudenda bloom with a fur so fine that it put satin to shame, and though she was no longer the girl with the biggest cunt in the world - and subsequently divorced by her prince for ceasing to be a trophy - she was perfectly happy with the exchange nevertheless and lived happily ever after. With the witch, they say, but that might just be a rumour.

  The Hive

  It had been Dianna’s idea to go to that first swingers’ party for their anniversary, way back in the high-number years of the last century, and, if she remembered correctly, Gerald hadn’t been any too keen on the idea back then, but had eventually agreed to go along “just the one time” to please her.

  The club reserved a special newbie’s room in those days, she recalled, specially for first-timers, and the two of them had sat there nervously, nursing their drinks and contemplating escape, when a broad-shouldered woman with big tits had bustled in and made a beeline for Gerald and whisked him off to her lair.

  “Lavinia’s always first to claim her droit de seigneur with all the new men,” a voice said from behind her. “She’ll suck him dry and then fuck him up and down her room. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Dianna turned and smiled at the woman behind her. About forty-five to fifty and pleasingly voluptuous, tasteful makeup and hair dyed a soft golden brown, and not dressed in some ridiculous Anne Summers corsetry either, but a plain black dress with a plunging neckline to show off her generous bosom. “No, I don’t mind,” she said. “He’s already had ten long years of monogamy with me. I’d far rather he came here to act out his fantasies than sneaked around with secretaries behind my back.”

  The woman laughed. Soft and sexy like a slow, sleepy orgasm in the small hours, and Dianna found herself liking her. Will this be me in twenty years time? she wondered abstractly.

  “But now that you’re here you’re not sure where to start your own journey, are you, dear?” she asked, stroking her face in a mother-hen sort of manner. “Can I take you under my wing?”

  Dianna nodded, a warm feeling passing over her at the other’s touch.

  “We get a lot of very young single men here - other clubs don’t permit them, couples only and all that - but we’ve found a great use for them. It’s called The Hive, would you like to try it?”

  Once, when I was at college, a female lecturer made a pass at me and though I didn’t let her fuck me I’ve thought about it every time I’ve masturbated, Dianna thought, a little shiver going through her. But, aloud, she whispered: “Yes, please. I’m in your hands.”

  The woman smiled and took her by the arm, leading her down the long softly-carpeted corridors and winding staircases of the labyrinthine old house, until they came to the arched doorway of a large basement room.

  “They don’t permit clothing in The Hive so we’ll have to undress here before we go in,” her companion said in a soft voice. “Are you comfortable with that?” And Dianna suddenly became aware of row upon row expensive dresses and silk underwear hanging like baubles on an iron Christmas tree of cloakroom-style hooks. And she had never been so turned on in her life.

  “Perfectly. Will you unzip me?” she said by way of reply, turning her back to the older woman and offering herself up like a sacrifice, shivering involuntarily as the other unpeeled her like a banana and exposed the newly bought matching scarlet & black bra and pants set with the unaccustomed suspender belt and nylons.

  “Ah, I had a body like that too, once upon a time,” the woman sighed as Dianna turned to face her, aware that her nipples were hard as rocks under the flimsy lace of her bra. “Luckily most men like a bit of tummy on a woman my age, so I still do alright...”

  “I think you look lovely,” Dianna breathed as she steeled herself to unfasten her bra and step out of her panties under the woman’s appraising gaze. “Can I leave these stocking on or do I have to be fully nude?”

  “Everything comes off in here, I’m afraid, no props. This is a women’s room,” her partner said with a grin as she wriggled out of her own dress and stood in just her big underwired bra and transparent nude tights, pantyless with her big dark bush like the ace of spades at the bottom her vast navel. “And you don’t need to bother with landing strips here either, we girls don’t object to a nice full bush...”

  “So I see,” Dianna managed to utter, her eyes on the other’s body as the older woman stripped naked. “I hadn’t realised that this was a lesbian thing...”

  But the woman laughed. “Oh no, not at all, dear, I assure you. We’re not lesbians, we’re just women bonding together for some mutual pleasure. Though I am going to treat myself to a tiny fondle of your pert little bottom while I’ve got you all to myself. Now come on, let’s go and enjoy a strictly heterosexual experience...”

  ***

  The inner room was dark and womb-like with only a few tiny votive candles in glowing cranberry glass globes for illumination, but as Dianna’s eyes became accustomed to the soft pinkish light she became aware that the entire floor was covered in plush velvet cushions and about fifteen to twenty completely naked women of all ages and sizes were sprawled around like a Turkish harem scene by Ingres - and they were all touching themselves.

  “What...?” she started to say to her companion, but the older woman simply motioned her to a vacant space and then pointed to the far end of the small incense-scented room.

  “Watch the show, not the audience, dear,” she smiled, guiding Dianna onto a large vacant pillow beside her, and, as Dianna’s gaze followed her gesture, she saw that the chamber boasted a low but vaulted ceiling painted a dark midnight blue daubed with meticulous gold leaf stars, but, at the far wall, the cellar gave way to a proscenium-like archway where a strange tableau was being enacted.

  A thin, almost sheer, gauze panel had been stretched across the dimensions of the arch, and warm but bright electric lamps illuminated the makeshift stage within, making the performers fully visible to the undressed women but at the same time keeping the audience almost invisible as they watched and touched themselves in the dark.

  And, centre stage, straddling a somewhat inadequate bentwood chair, sat a very young man barely out of his teens, completely naked and with his legs wide apart to show off the biggest erection that Dianna had ever seen. He was blonde and muscular, sunbed-tanned and his body waxed hairless, his golden skin gleaming with oil as he slowly and leisurely dragged the foreskin on his long thin cock up and down over the
bulging purple-tinged head.

  “He shoots about three feet into the air when he comes, that one,” Dianna’s companion whispered conspiratorially as she lay close beside her, the heat from her naked thighs against Dianna’s leg almost as erotic as the sight of the boy’s long slim prick. “I told you this wasn’t lesbian. Now, I’m going to have a little play with my own downstairs while I watch, don’t you be shy if you want to give yourself a few strokes too. It’s what we’re all here for...”

  And, strangely, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be in this warm group of soft bodies while her eyes ate up the hardness of the boy on the stage, and Dianna nestled closer to her companion and breathed in the scent of the other woman’s arousal as she shyly let her own little hand travel down her belly and start to stroke the pleasant wetness that she quickly found between her own thighs.

  She’d been reluctant to keep on masturbating once she’d married Gerald, as though the act of pleasuring herself was a betrayal of their marriage vows, but, after nearly a year, she had succumbed in the shower one morning, letting the powerful jet play on her cunt until she’d come so hard that she’d wet herself, and after that there was no stopping her and she quickly took up her old student-days’ habit of sitting with her legs akimbo by the big mirror in their bedroom and watching her own pussy like an old Parisian voyeur in a peepshow booth.

  And, if she was feeling particularly perverse, she would even sometimes arch her back and rear up so that she could see her whole slit and tight puckered anus, and she groaned aloud now as the boy in front of her did just that, his long heavy balls almost concealing his tight brown rear orifice as he lifted himself up with a yell, his come suddenly shooting out of him in hot white spurts that spiralled into the air like seminal fireworks, splashing all over his thighs and belly as his spunk pumped out of him in an unending supply of delight.

  “Fuck, I’m coming...” a woman’s voice to the other side of Dianna gasped, and a hand gripped her thigh as she felt the woman begin to rock like an unbroken mare, and then Dianna was rubbing furiously at her own clit as her orgasm burst out of her and her free hand clutched at flesh, dimly aware that women all around her were climaxing as one being as the boy squeezed the last drops from his still enormous cock and rose unsteadily to his feet, another young man equally huge with desire quickly replacing him.

  ***

  Today, Dianna has only hazy memories of that first magical night all those years ago now, and, in her mind, it has become an unending procession of fit ejaculating young men, some hairy as werewolves, others buff and toned, all of them unbelievably stiff and desperate to perform, their huge bursting cocks like a tableau of debauchery as they come one after the other in gasping heaving convulsions, the floorboards by their chair slick and wet with spent semen by the end of the evening.

  And she has no idea of how many times she came in that soft bed of pulchritude which was the audience of women, certainly more often than she had ever climaxed before, the joint vibrations of coming in tandem with so many others arousing her almost as much as the long hard dicks of the boys. She does remember that she pinned Gerald to the driver’s seat in the car park before they went home and sucked his surprisingly large erection until he came great dollops of hot salty jizz in her hungry mouth. Aroused, not put off, by the fact that his clothing reeked of another woman’s perfume, his cock of another woman’s searing wet cunt.

  And, yes, they still go back to the club. Not too often, but once, maybe twice a year. Gerald still likes to go off to a room and get himself fucked and sucked, though he picks his own women like a predatory wolf stalking the newbie pool nowadays, and Dianna can’t help noticing that they’re getting younger each year. But, as she tells the trusted few of her friends who are in on the secret, it’s what they go there for and it’s not up to her to judge. She, personally, has never fucked anyone else, well, not yet, anyway, and lives instead for the shared intimacy of The Hive. There’s still an unending supply of boys willing to share their considerable stiff members, and Dianna finds a certain pleasure in ogling their boners whilst never having to listen to their immature conversation, which she is quite sure would bore her to tears.

  But, if she’s being brutally honest, it’s The Hive itself that she really loves, the tingling crackling electricity of all that shared female sexuality, as if for one magical hour she possesses a pussy with twenty separate slits and clits, all of them aroused to the peak of wetness and hardness, and twenty pairs of hands to play with them all simultaneously while the big cocks spurt unceasingly up there on the stage.

  Oh yes, Dianna’s not sure if there’s a Heaven, but she knows for certain that The Hive is the closest thing that there is to it here on earth...

  Part Two

  Liberating The Beast Within

  Sexy Beast

  Her friends all called her fat behind her back,

  And even her husband,

  When he was grumpy at breakfast,

  Would mutter that she needed to lose a few pounds –

  Though he never seemed to mind

  In the bedroom

  When her buttery curves

  Rippled beneath his sculptor’s hands

  And her pouty pink lips

  Devoured his hot hardness like voluptuous cherry pie.

  And even she,

  Yes, even she,

  Sometimes despaired,

  But, oh,

  When she wore that dress

  Of sea-green taffeta

  She felt like there was no tomorrow

  And she soared,

  Flew,

  Into the wild blue horizon of possibilities

  Before the weight of dirty dishes and Hermesetas

  Brought her

  Plummeting down to earth once more.

  For,

  As any schoolboy knows,

  A flying woman is only ever fitted with

  Waxen wings.

  Ugly Shoes

  They called her Little Arabella as a joke, because, even as a child, she had towered a good twelve inches above her contemporaries, clattering about the playground in her ugly shoes, a pair of out-of-date men’s leather brogues that the shoemaker couldn’t sell and donated to her mother for her outsized feet.

  By her teens, though, she was over twelve feet tall, and the parish council granted her mother a stipend to have clothing made especially for her in the city, and they dressed her in drab shifts and dun-coloured corpse slippers while her old schoolmates adorned themselves in glittering peacock hues and rosebud reds and congregated like gaudy giggling bees at the monthly community hut dances while she sat at home and silently seethed.

  When she topped fifty feet, however, they could no longer contain or dress her, and, defiantly naked, she strode out from the barn she had been allocated and into the night, a walking colossus silhouetted in sharp cut-paper relief against the roseate palette of the August night sky, her face a mask of anguish as her giant’s feet thundered along the torturous monkey-puzzle lanes of her native hamlet.

  Music was pounding from the interior of the old wooden hut in the village square, however, and the gyrating teenage Lotharios within knew nothing of her arrival until she ripped the roof from its fixtures with a shriek of tearing asphalt and reached in like a pampered plaything hovering over a box of beribboned bonbons, her surprisingly dexterous fingers swiftly locating the virile form of George ‘Gentleman Jim’ Geddes and carrying him off like an earth-bound bird of prey as she beat her retreat.

  And she knew instinctively that her time was borrowed and was, therefore, determined to know the love of a good man before the arrival of whatever fleet of armoured personnel would be sent out to destroy her, and she sped like a winged horsewoman over the dunes with a terrified George clasped to her chest, the excited beating of her sad heart like a constant sonic boom in his ears.

  They say that you like to have your wicked way with all women, she whispered, lying down on the warm sands and letting the gentle finger
s of the incoming tide caress her skin as the waters courted her. So know that you are free to do as you will with me, she concluded in a sigh of surrender, placing the quivering boy in the snowy valley of her great breasts and encouraging him with a leviathan, though gentle, finger to travel down the Arctic wastes of her belly and towards the aromatic depths of the dense jungle at its apex.

  But, though he tried valiantly to protect his reputation and satisfy her lusts, the distance defeated him and, when he finally made it to her bush and contemplated the immeasurable crevice which was her cunt, his courage deserted him and, with a shrill cry like a swooping gull, he jumped from her and into the, by now, turbulent sea, preferring to take his chances amongst the spumey white horses of the ocean than plunge into the hot and unpredictable waters of her desire, and, enraged, she struck out at his flailing body and sent him flying off out to sea, where some said he washed up on an island shore and was treated like a god, fathering many dusky brown offspring there well into his eighth decade.

  But by now the amber sky was alive with the sound of approaching aeroplanes and she knew that her hour drew near, and, unable to disappear into the twisted arbours of the great Black Forests where most fugitives found sanctuary, she ran instead, gazelle-like, along the open plains of Africa, racing the majestic herds of indigenous zebras and eventually skimming like a stone over the Polar ice caps and setting up camp where the savage white bears of the north became her playthings and built her a giant ice castle the like of which exceeded even the seven wonders of the world.

  Back in her village, however, her mother had already denounced her to save herself from certain exile and her brothers grumblingly agreed to repair the roof of the community hut at no cost to the diocese, and everyone in the old world agreed that it was, indeed, a rum state of affairs when a woman of this parish simply became too big for her own ugly shoes.