by Sahara Kelly
Neither brother seemed capable of forming words to argue her suggestion. They had listened though, since they obeyed her and positioned themselves appropriately as soon as the words and their cocks were out of her mouth.
Ren knelt astride her shoulders, holding his cock tightly, eager to find her mouth once more.
Kyu straddled her thighs, getting into the right spot to lay some finely curved Oriental cock where it would do the most good.
"Oh yeah, boys. That's good." Zara sucked on Ren once more, enjoying the small gargling sound of ecstasy that babbled from his throat.
Kyu moved in for the kill. Or the thrust. Or the instant of delectable penetration. The moment when Zara's troubles would end and she would come. Maybe even experience the magic of a G-spot orgasm, since that curved erection might hit the mythical place that was supposed to send her skyrocketing into the fourth level of erotic insanity. Hiiiiiiyaaaaa!
Or something along those lines.
Ren suddenly froze. "Uh...bro? Wrong hole." He glanced over his shoulder. "You need to drop down about a foot or so."
Kyu remained still for a few moments, then Zara felt his body weight drop to her legs.
"Hai."
Ren sighed and went back to focusing on his cock in Zara's mouth.
As Zara sucked, she waited—wet and wanting the feel of Kyu deep inside. Once more, she waited in vain. Nothing—as yet—had slipped past her pussy lips. As a matter of fact, there wasn't anything actually touching her pussy lips.
She slurped Ren out of her mouth and took a breath. "Er...Kyu? You can fuck me now. Any time would be good."
"Hai." His voice was strained and a bit high-pitched, sort of like somebody was strangling a cat.
Ren gulped loudly and looked over his shoulder once more. "Problem?"
"Haaaiiii..."
Zara could feel Kyu's body, tense and rigid muscles twitching as his hips moved energetically, thrusting his cock no place in particular. She'd heard of playing air guitar, but never fucking air pussy.
Her grip on Ren's cock tightened absently as she tried to figure out what was happening.
Then Kyu moved, lifting himself off her groin and shuffling forward.
Ren jerked, screeching out a squawk, followed by a distinct moan. His cock flexed and rippled within her grasp and she realized he was about to come.
With a dexterous twist of her wrist, Zara aimed Ren's cock over her shoulder and hung on as he erupted with a harsh grunt of satisfaction.
The resultant stream of come did what she'd neglected to do for the past week or so—water the aspidistra plant on her bedside table. Of course, how the plant would feel about taking it in the face, she had no idea. Perhaps it would now decide to put out a few California flowers—hibiscuses maybe.
Ren collapsed on her, knocking the breath from her lungs and distracting her from her horticultural train of thought.
Kyu collapsed on Ren's back. "Haaaaiiiiiiii..." It was a sigh of completion. Zara realized that when she'd proven unfuckable, Kyu had used the next available hole.
Thank God they weren't real brothers. That would have been too frickin' icky for words.
She sighed. What a waste of a nicely shaped cock.
Oh well. They were damned cute and if they'd done the deed she'd have been quite happy. But as it was, she was left once more with the taste of failure in her mouth. Along with a nice blend of Pacific Rim flavors and a definite yen for green tea.
Not to mention a plant that was looking—confused.
She eased out from under the two men as they sprawled limply on her bed. Kyu's ass was just so—so—she reached out and patted his shapely little bubble butt. Some things were irresistible to a Princess with a weakness for a nice tight ass.
A snore sounded loud in the silence, followed by another snort-choke-gargle-snore.
Zara rolled her eyes.
She was cursed. Frustrated, still horny and cursed. Wasn't she ever gonna get fucked?
Chapter Four
The Mermaid's Grotto—not far from the shores of Enchanted Seaweed Island
Sir Lincoln of Green strode boldly into the clean, salty air of the Mermaid's Grotto. At least that was how it was supposed to go. Actually he flopped his way onto the sandy path and stumbled, dripping from every square inch of his body and trying to see past the mutilated feather on his hat that was drooping over his eyes.
Five minutes of fussing later, feet de-flippered and re-equipped with boots, his clothes still damp but not wringing wet anymore, he tried again.
Sir Lincoln of Green strode boldly into the clean, salty air of the...yeah yeah. Time for the potions. He was getting pretty darn tired of all this bold striding shit and repetitive game stuff. Zara would be waiting for him. He wanted to get to her. Enough was enough. Besides, his weapons were going to start doing some serious rusting up if he didn't get a move on.
Speaking of weapons, he shifted his cock, pulling the damp clingy fabric of his tights away from the more sensitive spots. How the hell the great Programmers expected him to fight bravely when his cock was smothered by something resembling a wet Ace bandage, he had no frickin' clue.
The passage down which he was doing his best to stride boldly was quite long and twisty, lit here and there by large glowing lumps of something he recalled as being bioluminescent. He spared them barely a glance. He'd watched the right television programs and picked up a few odds and ends of knowledge before dozing off.
A large rock blocked his way as he turned a corner. Next to it was a sign.
"In order to avoid leaving wet footprints on the floor of the Grotto, please press here."
There was a starfish-shaped button beneath. Sir Lincoln shrugged and pressed it. There was a grinding sound, followed by the appearance of about a dozen fist-sized openings in the passageway surrounding him.
Before he had time to catch his breath he was smacked with a massive gust of air from each jet, a blowjob to end all blowjobs. He grabbed his hat with one hand, his sword in the other and hung on as his face distorted into weird lines, his lips flapped helplessly around his teeth and his tights were shoved so far up his ass he wondered if he'd ever find them again.
It shut off as abruptly as it started, leaving him gasping. And perfectly dry.
He blinked, moistening his gritty eyeballs. He shifted his shoulders and checked his feet. Yep, even his boots were dry. His nuts felt like they'd been sandblasted, but all things considered it was a helluva lot better than traipsing around in clammy trousers.
The rock blocking the path slid aside and with a quick tug at his ass in an attempt to fix his massive wedgie, Sir Lincoln stepped into the Grotto.
"Well you took your frickin' time about it." The voice came from the mermaid reclining on an elegant blue chaise beside a small babbling pool.
Too irritated to bother with social niceties, Sir Lincoln glared at her. "Look, lady. I'm not having the best of days, okay? To get here, I had to get nearly groped by groupers, I lost half my feather on a sharp bit of your coral out there and I've got a wedgie that defies description. In addition, I've had to suck off a fairy to get my reward—the potion—which wasn't in the original game plan, at least not the one I was given. God only knows what I'm supposed to do to you since you've got extra special ones you're gonna hand over."
His hand went to his sword. "Right now, I'm not in the mood to take lip from anybody. I want my Princess. I'm horny, pissed off and ready to make fish fingers out of anything that gets in my way." He narrowed his eyes angrily. "Capisce?"
She laughed, a delightful sound that blended with the bubbling waters of the pool.
Sir Lincoln rolled his eyes.
"I gotcha babe." She flapped her tail. "So get that green wedged ass of yours over to me, let's do the thing and you can get the fuck out of here." She shifted a little. "Oh, and mind the coral. It's pretty, but sharper than hell if you catch it wrong."
"No shit." Sir Lincoln batted at the useless feather. He walked to the chaise, absently not
ing the shades of blue, teal and azure that dappled the surface beneath a gold design of sea-horses. "Nice couch, by the way."
"Thanks. I designed it myself. I really wanted to be a fashion designer you know."
"You did?"
"Yeah. I have these fabulous ideas. Could've put together a collection that would have wowed 'em on Seventh Avenue during fashion week." She sighed.
"So why didn't you?"
She lifted an eyebrow and rippled her tail fin. "Slight problem. And I never could get the skirts and pants to fit the models right, for some odd reason."
"Ah."
"I had no problem with the tops, of course." She moved her shoulders a little, letting her hair fall away from her chest.
Sir Lincoln's breath fell away at approximately the same moment. Miss Mermaid had the most perfect set of breasts he'd ever seen in his entire life. "Holy shit." He knew his jaw had dropped and his eyes were probably bugging out of his head.
But...holy shit. They were...magnificent.
She preened. "You like?"
With difficulty, Sir Lincoln rolled his tongue back up into his mouth. "Uh, yeah." He devoured the sight of her, lying negligently amidst her clouds of blue-green hair. The skin of her body was pale, almost translucent, throwing her delicately peachy nipples into prominence. They topped perfectly symmetric mounds of breasts, full and ripe but not yet dipping too much beneath their own weight.
He sighed.
So did she. "So, you can get to the fun part now if you'd like."
He sighed again.
"Any time?"
Sir Lincoln moved his head a little, making sure he hadn't missed any of her mammary magnificence. "Gimme a moment here, babe. I may not know a Picasso from a Piero della Francesca but I can still appreciate art when I see it."
"Who? What?"
"Never mind. Just breathe." He watched the rise and fall of her chest as it made the delectable mounds shudder a little. He shuddered too. Mouth watering, he dropped his sword, ignoring the clatter it made. The hat followed as Sir Lincoln knelt reverently on the chaise beside the mermaid and lowered his head.
"Oh now you're talkin', cute stuff." She let her head fall back as his lips found her flesh.
He licked his way around the globes, cupping them with his hands, squeezing them until he reached the nipple, budding hard as a pearl beneath his tongue. She was a little salty, but sweet as well. His lips opened wide and he sucked for all he was worth, pulling as much of her breast into his mouth as he could.
"Mmmmm..." She hummed and arched her spine. "Nice technique."
Sir Lincoln was almost lost in the bounty of these gorgeous glands, but as he shifted to get a better angle, his tights grated painfully between his ass cheeks and reminded him he was there for a reason.
Regretfully he eased back. "So. About these potions..."
Lethargically she turned her head a little. "Just keep doing what you're doing. You'll find 'em."
He darted a quick look down her body. Where there should be pussy, there were only scales. Beautifully opalescent scales, to be sure, but scales nonetheless. "Umm..."
He stroked her, running a hand over the silky smoothness of her hip and sensing the change in textures as his touch passed lower to her tail. "I'm not quite sure..."
She snorted. "It's there. You just gotta find it, is all."
"Oh. Right." Apparently unable to relinquish at least one of those breasts, Sir Lincoln kept one hand firmly grasped around her while he moved to investigate the...for want of a better expression...fishy bits.
Her body began to undulate beneath his fingers, not exactly like a landed trout on a fisherman's deck, but close. He began to pay closer attention to the spots that seemed to arouse the floppy shudders.
There. Aha! One place in particular, just barely to the left of center and about nine inches below her navel, seemed to produce a very strong reaction. Sir Lincoln explored more delicately, always keeping one hand fondling those breasts.
Fuck, they were damn fine breasts.
Finally, after much writhing on the mermaid's part and much investigative poking and prodding on Sir Lincoln's part, he discovered a few scales that seemed...loose.
She moaned as he kept fingering them.
He finally had to let go of her breast. Regretfully, and with a final soft pinch to the nipple, he withdrew, focusing his attention on his discovery. Yep...these scales definitely weren't attached the way the rest of them were. He slid a finger around and beneath them, lifting them delicately.
The mermaid moaned again. More loudly this time.
With a soft sucking sound, they lifted—a tiny panel hinged on top that hid her treasures. Eagerly Sir Lincoln reached beneath.
It was like delving into a hot oyster—slick and soft and wet—but with a tiny pearl lodged in its depths.
The moans he elicited when he stroked the pearl shattered some of the coral carvings on one wall of the grotto. "Oh—oh—" She shook from head to—er—fin. He toyed with her, pulling his fingers out then putting them back in again, learning exactly what made her moan the longest and the loudest.
Finally, with great heroic daring, Sir Lincoln of Green lowered his mouth to her responsive little secrets and shoved his tongue inside to lick the pearl of her pleasure.
The mermaid moaned. And moaned and moaned and moaned—the wailingly wonderful sound of a mermaid aroused. At least he figured that's what it was. She wasn't slapping him away or yanking on his hair. On the contrary, she was thrusting her fishy hips into his face, a mute appeal for more of the same.
He gladly gave it to her. She tasted—pleasant. Definitely salty and not in the least like tuna. He'd never had oysters but maybe that's what it was? Or maybe not. The Programmers hadn't thought to equip him with a lemon or two, or a bottle of seafood sauce, so he couldn't really test that theory. Condiments weren't supposed to be required on his quest for Zara.
Fuck. Zara.
Visions of his true love flashed into his head, dimming the pleasure he was experiencing just a little. Then he shrugged to himself. What was a little oral sex with a mermaid if it got her off and got him the potions? Hell. Once again a hero had to do what a hero had to do. He'd get his bottles, the mermaid would get a smile on her face and all would be happiness and sunshine in their world.
Speaking of smiles, the moaning in his ears was now approaching the decibel levels of an incoming jumbo jet, leading Sir Lincoln to the assumption his mermaid munchie was nearing her climax. He redoubled his efforts, whizzing his tongue around her pearly clit like the skilled pussy-sucker he knew himself to be.
She shook and thrashed beneath him, further reminding him of that landed-trout thing. This was the flapping and flopping he associated with fish in the pre-dinner stage.
Finally she let go. A moaning screech of orgasmic delight sent ripples across the surface of the pool and several bits of coral totally disintegrated.
Thar she blows!
With a self-satisfied smirk, Sir Lincoln tenderly nursed her through her climax, his touches gentling as her tail sank into a gentle rhythmic sort of twitching movement.
He drew back and turned his head. There amidst her cascade of curls were two bottles of red potion. Obviously they'd come out of her ears or something. She'd come—they'd come—whatever. He didn't care. He'd done his job and now it was time to load up on his reward.
Licking the taste of her from his lips—and wondering if he could get his hands on a Margarita before heading out once more—Sir Lincoln gingerly extracted the delicate bottles from her hair and tucked them into the appropriate slot on his belt. Beneath his feet, the ever-present life bars immediately glowed a healthy yellow. This was so fucking good...he felt like doing a quick rhumba to celebrate.
But since his only available dance partner might have problems when it came to reversing her steps in syncopated time, he simply smiled at her. "You okay?"
"Mmmm." This time the moan was one of satisfied and sated pleasure. "Thanks. That was really
, really nice." Her tail rippled as she relaxed into the cushions. "You get the bottles?"
"Yep. All set."
"Well, good luck then." She lifted a hand idly. "If you're ever in the area..."
"Oh, hey." Sir Lincoln turned back as he headed toward the door. "I forgot to ask—sorry. What's your name?"
She grinned. "Mona."
"Figures. Bye." He smiled and nodded, noticing he'd gotten little bits of broken coral all over his shoulders. He brushed them off as he left the grotto.
Whaddya know? Fish and chips.
The thought was a fleeting one and disappeared as he retraced his steps, only to find the path had changed. He was climbing now, approaching the surface. Apparently no more swimming was required to reach Seaweed Island.
Within moments he was out in the fresh air and sunshine, standing on a stretch of white sand and staring at—the drum roll made him jump—the Magic Sword!
Scarcely believing his eyes, Sir Lincoln walked slowly toward the prize—a magnificently worked broadsword with elegant chasing on the shaft and jewels glittering on the hilt. Just like on the cover of this whole game thing. He'd heard rumors that some players were even wearing duplicates around their necks.
As an errant dragonfly neatly sliced itself in half by flying smack into one edge of the blade, Sir Lincoln devoutly hoped the duplicates weren't as sharp. This puppy was the real McCoy.
He lifted his arm and reached for it. The theme tune was deafening now, thunderous rolls of organ chords, marvelous light shows overhead—shit, they'd really gone the whole hog here to celebrate this moment.
He withdrew the sword from the beach wondering if this made him King or something. No—wrong game. And the sword wasn't stuck in a stone, thank God, just a mound of sand with a couple of bits of seaweed and a broken shell.
As soon as Sir Lincoln raised the sword he knew—he was fucking invincible with this thing. Warm bolts of power ran from the hilt through his hands to his body, refreshing him, nourishing him and incidentally making his balls itch.
A shock of heat flooded him and he stared at himself. His whole system was changing, growing—maturing into what could have passed for a pretty decent cover model, all things considered.
