by M. E. Hydra
And tits.
As Eryzu’s arms opened up like curtains, the large bulges of her bosom came into view like moons rising above the horizon. Ken’s gaze fell upon them, slid over the creamy curves and slipped down into the dusky cleft of her cleavage like water spiralling down a drain. Eryzu knew the effect her body had on men. She smirked and pushed her chest out. Ken saw her jiggling boobs advance towards him until they filled his vision.
They were massive—enormous. Larger even than the considerable round breasts of the grand-a-night escort he’d hired to celebrate the first time his bonus had cracked six figures. Memories of that hedonistic night sent a throb of pleasure down to his crotch.
He could recall that night vividly. A thousand pounds and worth every penny. The girl had enormous tits. Double-Ds and real. They were soft and squeezable rather than the frozen-in-place bad boob jobs that looked okay until you got close enough to put your hands on them. Ken had put his hands on them and played with them all night. The hooker really knew how to use them. She’d rubbed them all over his body and even let him blow his load between them to finish off in the morning. Top night.
Ken’s dick stirred in his trousers at the memory.
The girl had been fantastic. It was the closest he’d come to breaking his strict rules. No repeat bookings. That was his mantra. Don’t give them a sniff of encouragement. Don’t let them think they’re more than what they are. Don’t get attached. Don’t let them get a claw in you. Don’t get romantic. They might seem like the nicest, sexiest girl in the world, but in the end they all sucked a man’s bank account dry.
Ken blinked, lost in recollections of a sweaty night of pleasure. Eryzu’s bust filled his vision. If the escort’s breasts had been double-Ds, what did that make these? They were enormous—creamy-white and fluffy. A single black strap belted across her chest was all that held them in place. The pale flesh quivered and strained against its restraint. Eryzu pushed her chest out further and Ken’s head ducked lower and lower.
He was still staring into the endless chasm of her cleavage when Eryzu suddenly switched direction and went the way he was trying to tug her. Caught off balance, Ken lost his footing. Eryzu pulled away and Ken came toppling with her. He fell forward and Eryzu’s bosom caught his face like a pair of air bags.
She twisted her wrists out of his slackened grip and wrapped her arms around his head. Ken’s face was wedged right into the narrow space between her enormous boobs and trapped there. Soft like pillows, her breasts pressed tightly around the sides of his head.
They could also smother him as effectively as a pillow pressed over his face, Ken realised numbly.
He knew this. He could feel her warm skin pressed tightly up against his nose and mouth, blocking his air passages. He could feel it in the pangs of lungs starved of fresh oxygen. He knew he couldn’t breathe, that she was suffocating him. He knew it, and yet he struggled to accept the reality—and gravity—of his predicament.
Smother him in her tits... don’t be ridiculous.
All he needed to do was twist his head free.
Ken thrashed and squirmed to no avail as Eryzu crossed her arms behind his head in an unbreakable bear hug that kept his face buried in the airless gap between her breasts.
Body blows. That would work. While she held his head there was nothing protecting her soft, vulnerable midriff. Work her hard enough and she’d have to let his head go.
Ken worked her. He unloaded body blow after body blow, slamming his fists into her unprotected stomach like he was working his punchbag back home.
That’s when he knew something was badly—seriously—wrong. He was hitting flesh. He felt his fists hit flesh. It was soft flesh as well. Womanly flesh. There were no rock-hard abs to deflect his blows and make him feel like he was punching a wall. Just soft flesh. And he hit it again, and again, again, and again, and nothing happened.
Ken’s lungs were burning. There was no air. His face was filled with her overflowing breasts.
His punches grew weaker and weaker. He felt like he was winding down. Slowing down like a clockwork toy. Even his thoughts felt like they were wading through thick mud.
He was suffocating. In her cleavage.
This couldn’t be happening. Not to him. He was someone. He was important. He earned seven figures a year. He was...
Ken’s hands dropped to his sides. He blacked out.
* * * *
Ken came to with the crowd baying around him. He was lying on the floor of the cage. He saw the primitive chandelier hanging above him. Over to the left he saw some kind of dim balcony. Were those shapes people?
Eryzu was standing over him and blowing kisses to the mob. She’d knocked him out.
With her tits.
Fuck. Some Master of the Universe he was, fucking knocked out by a hooker with mutant tits. He tried to move but his head felt like it had just been released from a vice. His limbs didn’t feel like they were connected to the rest of his nervous system and he wanted to throw up.
“Drain him!” the crowd chanted. “Drain him! Drain him!”
“Suck the leech dry!”
Eryzu turned to look down at him, a smile on her voluptuous lips. She opened her legs and bent her knees. Ken saw she’d pulled his trousers down while he’d been unconscious. His penis stood upright in an erection that mystified him until he recalled asphyxiation had that effect on most men.
Still smiling, Eryzu pulled down the zipper at her crotch. The crowd roared in anticipation. Ken’s brow furrowed as she exposed the pink lips of her sex to him.
The fuck? She was going to fuck him?
Eryzu lowered her hips. Ken felt the pressure of her sex against the swollen head of his erection. Then the pressure eased and her heat was spilling down his shaft as he slid up inside her.
Without a condom, he realised numbly.
In other circumstances Ken would fuck a girl like this without a moment’s hesitation. If she’d been an escort he’d have dialled her up and fucked her in a heartbeat, maybe even dropped a cool grand on those big round titties. He’d have driven his cock up inside her tight snatch for as long as he could keep it hard and coming.
But never without a condom.
That was dirty.
He didn’t have any say in the matter. She lowered her hips and the fleshy pole of his cock vanished up inside her. She was tight. Really...
Ken sucked in a breath as muscles clenched around her. It felt like she’d vacuum-packed him in her vagina.
...tight.
Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t sex. It felt wrong. Just like when he’d buried body blow after body blow into her soft midriff and she hadn’t even flinched.
“What are you?” he asked.
“Drain him! Drain him!” the crowd bellowed.
Eryzu smiled. It wasn’t seductive. The eyes were wrong. Flat, black and hungry. A shark’s eyes.
Ken tried to push her off, but his strength had gone. Feebly, he pawed at her breasts like an invalid.
She grabbed his wrists and forced his hands behind his back. She wrapped her legs around him and used her calves to pin his arms in place. It was like a weird cross of tantric yoga and judo. Once she locked her ankles together Ken was held as securely as if she’d bound his wrists behind his back.
He knew she couldn’t be human when her pussy started to suck on him like a mouth sucking on a lollipop.
It felt like sex, but sex where all the motions were internal. Eryzu gasped in pleasure. She squeezed his body between her thighs. All the friction was generated within her vagina as the walls wrapped around his member, squeezed and tugged. Less a sex organ and more like a mouth, a warm wet mouth administering a blowjob beyond anything Ken had experienced from the best and most expensive escort agencies in the city. Sucking. Sucking. Tight hoops of flesh contracting around the base of his penis and then tugging up the shaft. Sucking and sucking while Eryzu panted in erotic abandon.
“What are you doing?” Ken asked.
&nb
sp; Twin strands of pleasure and fear spiralled up through his body. What she was doing down there, doing to his cock, felt intensely pleasurable. But it also felt wrong. Horribly, abhorrently wrong. He tried to squirm out of her grip. She squeezed him tighter with her legs and pressed her sex down on him. The soft wet walls within her vagina continued to suck on his manhood, tugging him deeper inside.
“Normally I would drain you slowly and pleasantly over the course of a night,” Eryzu said.
Again that word drain.
“But the crowd are impatient tonight.”
Eryzu unhooked the strap holding her breasts in place and the large white globes, pale beneath the candlelight, fell free. Her chest expanded and she sucked in deep breaths. Her abdomen tensed and Ken felt ripples of force wash through his body. Her warm sex contracted around his penis and tugged slower and deeper. Moist flesh slid up his shaft like silk soaked in expensive oils as her vagina sucked and sucked. Ken trembled as pleasure vibrated down his shaft and ricocheted up his spine. He’d been blown by the best and most exclusive, and they might as well have been common street trash compared to what she was doing to him.
Ken screwed his eyes shut. Ragged breaths hissed out between his teeth. Oh fuck. He couldn’t hold back. The pleasure was welling up from his balls. It overwhelmed the pain in his pinned arms. It overwhelmed the feel of the hard stone floor beneath him. It blotted out the crude yells of the crowd around them. It came up against the fear of the creature—for creature she had to be—wrapped around it and squashed it down into a tight ball.
“Mmm yes, baby,” Eryzu crooned. “Spurt your cum inside me. Fill me.”
“Hah!” Ken spluttered.
The sucking tugs of her pussy were too much. His cock throbbed and he erupted up into the moist clutch of her sex.
“Yesss!” Eryzu hissed.
Her chest rose up and down, as did her flat midriff. It was like she was flexing muscles beneath, muscles that flexed in concert until it felt like the whole of her body was sucking on his dick. Sucking on it like a straw. Sucking... and gulping, gulping down his semen as his body tensed and trembled in the grip of an unnatural orgasm.
Gulping. That’s what the little motions of her body looked like. A girl gulping down a drink, but wrong... upside down. Horribly wrong.
Ken groaned. He felt violent tremors run through his cock and balls as muscles squeezed and pumped more semen into her gulping sex.
“Pour it all inside me,” Eryzu sighed.
“Stop it!” Ken said when he realised his body wouldn’t, couldn’t.
“It’s what the crowd wants.”
The muscles of her abdomen clenched and unclenched. The gulping maw of her sex pulled more semen out of Ken’s shuddering body... and something else.
“Fuck the crowd,” Ken wheezed. “I’m worth twice as much as all of them combined. I’ll pay you twice whatever they’re paying you. Four times. Just don’t...” He hadn’t wanted to think it, but could deny it no more. Pleasure wrapped his body in a comfortable sheet, but beneath it he felt like he was coming apart, hollowing out. “...kill me.”
Eryzu smiled. Her black lips pouted in an obscene mockery of a kiss. “They’re not the ones paying me.”
She exhaled and squeezed her thighs tighter around Ken. Her chest—those swollen great tits—rose up and down as her whole body gripped Ken and pumped the semen from him. Her pussy squeezed and tugged and pumped the fluids from his body as the flow became a gush. He was emptying into her. Not just his balls, but the whole of his body.
His soul.
Eryzu hissed in triumph. Great bat wings the colour of midnight unfurled from her back. Her head went back in an erotic sigh and when it came back Ken saw she had horns and her eyes were endless black abysses. He was locked into sex with a devil, and through sex she was draining his life—and soul—away. The crowd roared.
No. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him.
His head fell to the side. He was collapsing, crumbling from within. He looked up and saw the shadowy balcony. Silent figures clothed in sable darkness looked down on him. Oh god, he knew who they were. That was Jean Pierre Graff, Ken’s boss at Jefferson Varrigan. Next to him was Gordon Douglas. He sat on the board of PJ Korgan, another of the big London investment banks. And behind him was the owner of Silverman Jacks. What were they doing here?
“Why?” he croaked as stared up at Graff.
He didn’t understand. He was a good worker. Loyal. Valued. Invaluable. He made millions for the company.
He was one of them!
“Men have always sought goats to sacrifice in times of strife,” Eryzu said.
She pressed plush lips against Ken’s and sucked. He came apart in a fountain of ecstatic bliss. Eryzu held him tight while his skin wrinkled and shrunk around his bones. His body grew emaciated and shrivelled as the succubus sucked the life out of it. She finally released him with a satisfied sigh and little more than skin and bones collapsed onto the floor.
The crowd roared.
“Fucking bloodsucker. Got what he deserved.”
“Ha ha, the leech sucked dry.”
“She sucked that bankster scum up good and proper.”
Eryzu stood up and milked their roars of appreciation. She blew them kisses and jiggled the full swell of her breasts. The men on the balcony nodded their approval. That would keep the mob happy... for now. They melted back into the shadows. Eryzu watched them go and smiled. They thought they were her masters, but in time she knew she’d devour them all.
Number 66
Richard Harrison first heard about the blonde girl with big tits working in one of Bangkok’s massage parlours from Murray Smith. It piqued his interest. What was a Western woman doing working in one of Bangkok’s many rub’n’tug joints when the pay was less than ten quid a fuck?
Murray didn’t know either. But she was definitely a Westerner, he was adamant on that. Harrison would have been more inclined to believe him had Murray also been able to remember little details like the name of the establishment, the street it was on, or even the district of the city it was located in. Murray couldn’t remember any of that. He’d got blasted on local beer and weed, and—as you do—headed off to the flesh pits of Patpong for a bit of the sucky-sucky, fucky-fucky. He’d ended up in an establishment he couldn’t remember the name of, sat down in front of the fishbowl and been surprised to see a blonde Westerner sitting on the other side of the glass amongst the local girls.
“Couldn’t forget that,” he said. “It’s not something you see, like, ever.”
Murray might have been hazy on the other details, but he was very clear on the girl.
“She was tall, like a catwalk model... but not a beanpole. She had curves. Proper curves. Voluptuous, like... but not fat. An hourglass figure, but top heavy. Monstrous rack.”
He clutched imaginary breasts in front of his chest.
“Ridiculously large tits. As big as your head, no joke. Smooth skin tanned a gorgeous copper-brown. Really kissable lips. And silky blonde hair right down to past her shoulders. Totally fit. Like a plastic Barbie sex doll come to life. Had a look to her as well. Real dirty girl, you could see it in her eyes. Looked like one of those big-titted porn stars... before they burn out, like. Real hunger in her eyes.”
Murray even remembered the number on the little white disc attached to her hip.
“Number 66. Not that you’ll need to remember it.”
“What was she like?” Harrison asked. He indicated what he meant by forming a hoop with his thumb and forefinger and moving another finger back and forth through it.
“Dunno, didn’t pick her,” Murray said. “What’s the point of coming all the way out here to fuck the same bubble-headed blondes as back home? I picked number 9 out of the front row and she was amazing. I think... might have passed out halfway through.”
Harrison shook his head. Murray had the yellow fever. He was typical of most of the Western degenerates lured to Bangkok by cheap drink, drugs and sex.
Harrison had thought that was him too. He liked exotic. He owned more than his fair share of Asian porn. But...
The buzz went. What was exotic lost its appeal when it became commonplace. He also found out that the Asian porn stars he liked to wank over had bodies sculpted—artificially in most cases—to appeal to Western standards of sexy. Thai girls had no tits. None at all. No wonder the fat eurotrash paedophiles flew over to Bangkok—the girls all looked like twelve-year-old boys. Harrison had seen too many gross tourists waddling out of the seedy clubs with a doll-like girl on each arm. They revolted him. They spoilt his enjoyment of the strip shows with their fat and sweaty presences. He worried others looked at him and thought him of the same perverted ilk for frequenting the same places. The shows—the toads, the ping pong balls—lost their eroticism to Harrison.
So the prospect of a big-titted blonde girl working in one of the massage parlours intrigued him. More than intrigued him. He hadn’t gotten laid in over two weeks. In a city like Bangkok that was like going thirsty while sitting in a pool of fresh spring water. Harrison couldn’t help it. He thought of the fat paedophiles and then the girls started to look too much like skinny boys. And if they didn’t look like a skinny boy, if they looked a hot girl, then it meant they were one of the surgically enhanced—and fucked up in the head—kathoeys... ladyboys. Whenever Harrison saw a hot girl now, his paranoia had him checking their throat and hands to see if they were a ‘real’ girl.
Murray was no help on where the parlour could be found. He’d been stoned out of his mind so many times it was a wonder there was anything left of it. Harrison hit up his connections in the expat community. Most knew nothing. Their reaction had been the same as his: A Western girl in one of the cheap massage parlours—don’t be silly.
Not all of his enquiries were fruitless. Some had heard stories about a blonde girl in one of the fishbowls. They hadn’t seen her personally (In Harrison’s experience, some expats liked to play coy about their night-time exploits), but they’d heard someone else mention it and it had stuck in their head because it was so unusual.
