by M. E. Hydra
Mille bobbed her head up and down in Donald’s lap faster and faster. Her boiling tongue slithered round his cock like a snake made of molten latex. Trapped between their warm bodies, Donald squirmed and shuddered with forced pleasure.
“But you,” Koontz continued, “you I think I can do business with. You’re cautious and you study each situation carefully. I think you’ll serve me very well indeed.”
Donald put a hand on Mille’s head and was surprised to feel something hard and pointed there.
Horns. The girl had horns.
He looked down and saw two black points protruding from her temples. Her skin had darkened to a shade of deep, blood red. Further down and he was shocked to see she had a tail. Narrow and terminating in a devil’s point, it whipped back and forth above the taut swell of her ass in a lust-fuelled frenzy.
What in the hell were they?
Her mouth was irresistible. It was hot and moist like a personal sauna for his cock. The suction was incredible. He felt it all the way through the root of his cock and even in his balls.
Fuck, he couldn’t hold out any longer.
Donald groaned loudly and his hips pistoned up of their own accord. At the same time she gripped his balls and squeezed. Donald writhed in uncontrollable ecstasy as he pumped wave after wave of semen into her boiling hot mouth. He wasn’t sure it would end. She kept sucking and sucking until she sucked out every last drop and his balls felt as slack and empty as a pair of deflated balloons.
The worst, the part that truly terrified him, was he wasn’t even sure she’d stop, that she’d turn that irresistible suction deeper on his body, drawing out his blood, his marrow, his soft tissues...
...his soul?
She stopped though. She released his cock, gave the tip a sweet kiss and sat back up, her warm body leaning against Donald.
Donald lay back on the sofa. His breath came in ragged gasps. He felt like he’d been engaged in some kind of violent physical activity. His heart rattled in his chest like a snare drum.
He looked over at the bed. The blonde lay flat, her body giving off the warm glow from the aftermath of sex or some other similar form of complete satiation. Her pussy was no longer swollen up to monstrous proportions. Instead it had retracted down until it looked no different from a normal girl’s pussy. As Donald watched she sighed and opened her legs. A thick stream of milky white cum bubbled out and formed a pool beneath her dripping pussy. Of Rich there was no sign apart from his fancy white-framed sunglasses lying on the bed between her legs.
“About this deal,” Koontz said, “fifty-fifty is a little too generous, wouldn’t you agree.”
Mille turned Donald’s head so he faced her. Her eyes were pure black, completely devoid of any trace of warmth or a soul. She smiled and opened her mouth to reveal the strands of creamy-white cum she’d swallowed.
His creamy-white cum.
“I have your taste,” she whispered. “I can find you anywhere.”
Even though the room was warm, even though Donald was hot from the aftermath of orgasm, even though he was sandwiched between two hot bodies, at that moment he felt a sudden chill as if he’d suddenly been dunked in the Arctic Ocean.
“What would you say to ten per cent,” Koontz said, grinning like a toad squatting atop a mountain of juicy fat flies.
Donald said yes. He couldn’t really see any other alternative.
The Night Doyle Lowry Saw a Terrible Thing and was Sucked into a Quagmire of Sensual Depravity
Doyle Lowry had gone to the outskirts of Grimpen at 2 a.m. on a chilly Tuesday night to see what he could thieve. There was no particular reason for him to choose this Tuesday. He could have come looking on Monday, or maybe Wednesday, but no, it was his misfortune to pick this particular Tuesday.
The Stapleville business park was a minty-new technology park. Supposedly it was to encourage new businesses to the area so they could create more jobs for the city, more jobs for people like Doyle. Doyle knew that was shite. This was a business park for new hi-tech firms. The only jobs here were for silver-spoon university grads. People like Doyle didn’t go to university. No-one on The Estate did. The whole estate might as well have been on the moon when it came to integration with the rest of ‘modern’ Britain.
Doyle hadn’t started out that way. His mom had drummed into him the importance of education. Work hard at school otherwise you’ll never escape The Estate, she’d told him. Doyle had gone to school with the best intentions. It hadn’t lasted long. He’d soon caught on no-one gave a shit. Baskerton School serviced The Estate. It was the roughest school in the city, maybe the country. The staff were all young teachers that regarded their postings there as a brief and unpleasant tour of duty to be suffered before moving on to nice orderly schools down in the Home Counties. They didn’t want to be there. Doyle didn’t want to be there.
He hadn’t set out to thieve either. If he could have got by without thieving he would have. But there was never enough money, especially now he had to pay the CSA for his son, Kingsley. The older generation didn’t understand. Life was hard nowadays. It was impossible for people like Doyle to keep their heads above water through normal means. He didn’t do it often and never to other people on The Estate. He wasn’t out-of-control junkie scum. He just had to do a little thieving now and again, just enough to get his head above water, just enough to be able to grab a breath.
It was the same for everyone. Doyle was here because Fat Bruce Rathbone had told him the security firm watching Stapleville at nights had been cutting costs. They told the nice new businesses of Stapleville they would provide round-the-clock security. In reality ‘round-the-clock security’ was a sign warning trespassers about nonexistent dogs. Doyle knew all this because Fat Bruce Rathbone had told him down the pub, and Fat Bruce Rathbone knew all this because he used to work for the security firm... until they’d laid him off without warning.
And that was how Doyle had come to be on a half-built technology park on the outskirts of Grimpen on this particular night, looking for interesting stuff to thieve.
Stapleville was still under development. Only three units had been completed. The rest were building sites. Doyle could have picked any of these three buildings, but it was his misfortune on this most unfortunate of nights to pick the offices of Pemberton Software.
He picked Pemberton Software because it was the fanciest of the three buildings. The sign on the driveway indicated it was a software development company. That was exactly what Doyle was after. He wasn’t greedy. A couple of laptops, an iPad or three ...just enough to get Doyle’s head back above water, enough to let him keep breathing for the next couple of months.
He carefully circled the building. If Pemberton Software knew the security was shite they might have made their own arrangements. He didn’t see any guards about. There were lamps and the whole place was probably alarmed, but Doyle didn’t fear that. There were no guards on site and it would take a police dispatch car at least half an hour to get here. That was plenty long enough for Doyle to smash a window, swipe whatever goodies were lying around and be long gone. He wasn’t scared of any CCTV either. With his grey hoody drawn up tight he could have been any youth off The Estate.
He was sneaking round the side of the three floor building when he heard tyres crunch on tarmac and saw the beams of headlights. He ducked out of sight round the corner of the building. He heard the car door open and then slam shut as someone got out.
“Hi Patrick, I’m here.”
The voice belonged to a woman. It was high-pitched, but controlled, as if the owner was familiar with being in charge.
Doyle peeked round the corner. He saw a blonde woman dressed smartly in a navy-blue outfit that was at once both businesslike and expensively casual. She was above average height and Doyle would have placed her in her thirties. Good-looking, but so far beyond Doyle’s reach she might as well be an alien visitor from Venus. She continued to speak into her mobile phone.
“Why all the mystery?” s
he asked. “Why this ungodly hour?”
There was a pause as she listened to the voice on the other end.
“Sounds an interesting prospect,” she said at last.
She walked up to the front entrance.
“Can you buzz me in?”
A buzzer sounded and the door unlocked with a click. The woman entered and her progress through the building was visible through lights switching on. Doyle followed her from the outside. He’d been fortunate she’d shown up when she had. He’d been wrong about there being no-one inside. He supposed the young professionals had to keep their heads above water same as everyone else. He’d have to wait until they finished their meeting and left.
By the time Doyle had made his way round to the back of the building he saw this was no conventional business assignation. The back of the building was glass, giving the occupants a full view of the rolling hills at the back of Stapleville. It also gave Doyle an unimpeded view back into the office space on the other side. All the lights were on and a man and woman were clearly visible as they fucked on top of one of the desks.
Made sense. Why else arrange a meeting at this time. Doyle’s lips turned up in a grin. It was his lucky night—he got to watch a live sex show before getting on with his thieving.
The blonde from the car was lying on her back on a table top. Her business suit was popped open, exposing a black silk bra. A man stood between her legs. The man’s back was to Doyle and he saw only a little of the man’s face in profile. He looked like a distinguished businessman. Maybe late thirties, early forties if Doyle had to guess. A few grey strands marred the man’s otherwise lustrous black hair. His trousers were down round his ankles and his buttocks clenched and unclenched as he thrust back and forth.
Doyle smiled as he watched them fuck. He wondered if they knew they had an audience. Maybe that turned them on. Doyle knew it turned some people on.
Doyle was getting turned on too. He thought about having a wank up against the wall, was even about to drop his tracky bottoms, and then he realised how stupid that was. He was about to indulge in a spot of thieving. Leaving a big fat dollop of his DNA at the crime scene would make it very easy for the pigs to find him. Doyle wasn’t a career criminal. He did a spot of thieving on the side and that was it. He wasn’t one of those stupid mindless junkies that spent more time inside than out.
It was just after then that things started to get a little weird. Foam started to well up between the bodies of the couple inside the office. To Doyle it looked like soap suds, or maybe bubble bath. It dusted the thrusting buttocks of the man and drifted down to leave quivering blobs on the floor.
Kinky, Doyle thought. Maybe the girl was lying on a bottle of detergent or something like that.
Then it passed beyond kinky and into the realms of the bizarre.
Foam and bubbles kept welling up around them as they fucked. Both the man and the woman were covered in wobbling suds. The man pressed his hips forward, arched his spine backwards and tilted his head up to the ceiling. It looked like one—or maybe both—of them was coming. The man held the pose like a statue...
...and then he started to collapse in on himself. Doyle’s jaw dropped open and he watched with fascinated revulsion. The man’s head tipped back and he started to deflate like a blow-up doll with a puncture. It looked like the substance of him was pouring out into the woman. She quivered and convulsed in the throes of some kind of erotic rapture while her belly swelled up as though she was gaining months of pregnancy in mere moments. One month, two months, five months—her belly swelled out in a big pink dome. The man was gone. All that remained of him was his empty skin lying on the floor like a discarded set of clothes. On the table the woman gave a final convulsive shudder and was still.
Doyle watched, frozen, as the woman’s naked belly gradually shrank until it was the same size as before.
What the fuck had he just witnessed?
The woman stirred. She sat up and got off the desk. She crouched down and picked up the man’s discarded skin, rolling it up as neatly as if it was a blind.
She looked up. Her blue eyes stared right into Doyle’s.
Fuck.
He turned and ran.
On another, less misbegotten night this might have been the end of the story. Not this night. Not for an individual as unfortunate as Doyle Lowry.
He was halfway across the next plot when the bare earth gave out beneath him. The ground was boggy here, as if a burst pipe or several days of heavy rain had created a quagmire. He was up to his knees in the thick slurry before he could check his forward charge.
A security lamp clicked on and lit up the building site. Doyle was totally exposed. And stuck. The thick mud sucked at his feet as he tried to pull himself out. At least there were no security guards around to witness his predicament.
But there was the girl—the thing—in the offices behind him.
A chill ran through Doyle. He couldn’t let her catch him.
He twisted around and tried to wade back out of the mudhole he’d fallen into.
Fuck, how deep was this?
Each step was a struggle to pull his feet free of the cloying grip of the mud.
He was still struggling when he realised he wasn’t alone. A brown-skinned girl was in the muck with him. She was far more relaxed about it. In fact she sat in the mud as though she was lounging against the side of a hot tub. She was also as naked as if this was a hot tub. The chestnut-coloured swells of her exposed breasts rested half in, half out of the mud.
Crazy ho, Doyle thought. She must be freezing her nips off.
Then he realised he should be as well. Instead the mud was warm under the surface, as if one of those volcanic hot springs had somehow formed right in the middle of the undeveloped Stapleville business park. The warmth was a stark contrast to the chilly air above.
The girl smiled at him and Doyle noticed her face wasn’t right. Her eyes weren’t just green like emeralds; they looked like they were emeralds. Like someone had cut precious stones in the shape of eyes and embedded them within wet clay. Her hair wasn’t right either. At first he’d thought it was dreadlocks dyed a vivid green colour, but the more he looked at it the more it looked like some kind of plant—as if ivy was growing out of the back of her head and cascading down onto her shoulders.
“Judging by your expression I’m guessing someone saw something they shouldn’t have,” the brown girl said. Her voice was earthy and huskily erotic.
Sex—even sex with a girl with a perfect pair of titties like that—was far from Doyle’s thoughts. He’d seen enough kinky weirdness tonight to put him off porn for the next decade.
“I ain’t seen nuffin,” Doyle protested.
He struggled to free himself from the gripping mud. All his struggles managed to achieve was to drop him a couple of inches deeper into the quagmire.
“I’m stuck. Help me out,” he begged.
“I know,” the girl—and Doyle had doubts she was one—said.
She moved an arm in front of her. It looked like she was frigging herself off beneath the surface of the mud.
“It’s such a turn on watching you slowly sink into me,” she said.
A puff of warmth welled up around Doyle. Bubbles formed on the surface and burst with thick plops. A musky tang caught at his nostrils and filled his brain with indecent images.
It wasn’t enough to overcome his fear. Still panicking, he tried to bodily throw himself out of the quicksand like an animal trying to pull free of a snare. He met with the same lack of success. Worse, as he pulled a leg partially out of the mud he noticed the fabric of his tracky bottoms appeared to be rotting away.
Fuck. Was this shit corrosive?
The brown girl—he saw now she was that colour because of a layer of mud covering her body, or maybe she was even made out of the same stuff—laughed at his fruitless struggles. She reached under the mud and yanked down as if pulling on a rope. Despite her being nowhere near Doyle, he felt two hands grip his ankles a
nd pull him down with strong tugs.
He broke free—or the girl let him go—and was able to struggle back up until the muddy surface was halfway up his thighs.
“I don’t know nuffin,” Doyle pleaded again. “Let me go. I won’t tell no-one.”
The girl laughed.
“I don’t think you do,” she said. “It’s your misfortune to be here on the wrong night.”
She moved her hand in a circle just beneath the surface.
“Or good fortune,” she added with a seductive smile.
Doyle shivered. It felt like warm hands were caressing his legs beneath the surface. The mud bulged up in a wave that flowed between his legs and tickled the underside of his balls. A warm throb of pleasure passed through his genitals.
“I’m Aralia, succubus spirit of the earth,” the girl said.
Doyle didn’t introduce himself. He was still too busy trying to pull his legs free of the warm, clinging mud. His tracksuit bottoms had nearly all rotted away and the warm mud left behind a warm tingling buzz wherever it touched his exposed flesh.
“Help me out,” Doyle asked. “I promise I won’t do any thieving or anything like that.”
And he’d never contemplate thieving ever again if God pulled his arse out of this shit.
“Brrr, the air is so chilly tonight,” Aralia said. She lowered her body until her breasts and the tops of her shoulders dipped under the surface and only her head was visible. “Why don’t you lie down and immerse yourself in me. It’s much warmer and more comfortable than this cold air.”
More warm bubbles tickled up past Doyle’s legs and burst on the surface with lewd plops.
It was more comfortable and warmer than the night air, but Doyle suspected if he went below the surface he’d never come back up again. He continued to thrash and struggle as if he was caught in a bog.
Aralia moved her arms in a smooth circle through the surface of the mud, bringing her hands together in front of her. She pulled them back towards her body.
A force grabbed Doyle’s hips and pulled him down and towards her. He overbalanced and fell into the sticky morass. Part-climbing, part-swimming, he was able to thrash himself back upright. He coughed and spluttered to clear the thick liquid out of his airways.
