Chemical [se]X

by Неизвестный

  Gerald’s breath cracked open. “Sorry. You don’t have to…”

  “I know.”

  She slid her face up his hot length, luxuriating against it like an affectionate cat. “Take it out. I want to smell it.”

  The haste of his fingers betrayed how badly he wanted that. She settled her nose against the root of his dick, surprised to find that his skin there was softer than that of her face. A coarse pubic hair curled into one nostril. Agatha inhaled salt and privacy and primitive need. She closed her eyes. The herb-laced chocolate had turned bitter and grassy in her mouth, for all its pretentions to nicety. A furry aftertaste had grown in the sides of her cheeks and behind her molars. His dick seemed natural and sweet by comparison.

  “Can I put my mouth on it?”

  Gerald made a choking noise. “That’s way more than I expected.”

  Agatha raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I’m going to do it the way you like.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Go ahead.”

  At the tip of his cock was another metal ring. Agatha prodded it with one finger, amazed by how it shone. Gerald hissed in response. She liked that the tip of him wasn’t flesh. It made it easier for her to dart out her tongue and lick the ring, then slyly slip farther downward to the skin on the head of his dick. Would Brother Anselm have tasted like this? Agatha wondered if sex was individual or universal, but the grassy undertone of the chocolate made it too difficult for her to trust her perceptions.

  She tried to forget taste, paying attention to smoothness instead. Her lips ached as she wrapped them around the head of his cock, chapped skin cracking. She knew this was called “sucking dick,” but sucking seemed like a strange thing to do. She focused on getting him into her mouth instead, bit by bit, gradually guiding him toward the back of her throat. She had to breathe carefully with him there stoppering her throat. She fluttered her cheeks. Gerald keened a low, continuous moan, his hips trembling beneath her, microscopic motions that never broke out into the thrusting he so obviously wanted.

  She smiled around him, pleased by his gentlemanly restraint. The back of her throat contacted the piercing at the tip of his cock, muscles clenching in surprise. Gerald gasped and pounded both fists into the mattress beside her head, but kept his lap still.

  Agatha had wound up at an awkward angle, her back twisted oddly. She rolled onto her stomach, letting his cock take the weight of her head. She liked the spongy feeling of it pressing against the farthest recesses of her mouth, and she liked his wound-up intensity. Her head floated now, somewhere up around the ceiling. The herb had to be working because she didn’t care anymore about sin or who she was or where she had come from.

  Her hands were doing more things. One dug its way under her body, awkwardly, wrist seizing. Undeterred, it found its way into her panties, plunging into her changed sex. She had become a rain-sodden jungle there, overflowing with strange, pungent fluids, tangled growth, and ancient needs that preceded language. Her other hand tugged at Gerald’s pants, clearing more space, discovering more territory. She couldn’t believe how warm and soft his balls were.

  The chocolate really got going now. She could tell by the way her thoughts tripped over each other. For the first time in her life, her mind became too unclear to guide her. Her body took over instead.

  Agatha discovered instinct.

  Her head moved. Up and down. Her heart was a drum that set the beat, pounding faster against the cage of her chest, making her head move faster. Her hand in her panties was an instrument, too. She played herself in rhythm with her mouth. Gerald began to dance to her tune, his grunts adding to the song that took her over, his cock coming to life beneath and within her. The raised veins along its sides struck and thumped her tongue with their own insistent pulse.

  “Fuck,” Gerald said. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.”

  Agatha’s heart soared higher with each curse. She wanted his words to speed up and overflow with the same force as whatever had been unleashed in her body. She sucked now, her cheeks tight against his shaft. She was close to something, but it wasn’t yet clear whether whatever was on the way would come from him or her. It was hard to breathe, she wanted this something so badly.

  Gerald grabbed a handful of her hair. The tug against her scalp felt good. It reminded her of Sister Maris Stella. She didn’t expect, though, that he would suddenly tighten his grip and pull her off his cock.

  She stared at him in confusion. Her eyes wouldn’t focus, and it was hard to make sense of his features or the situation. The room spun. Agatha’s hand still moved in her panties, as if of its own volition. A voice in the back of her head told her she ought to stop touching herself and talk to him, but her hand no longer seemed open to receiving commands. Her head felt separate from her crotch. Warmth spread through her clit, down her thighs, into the base of her stomach. Her entire lower body tightened, preparing for something. Her mind yammered uselessly.

  “Agatha! Agatha! Can you hear me?” Gerald had been calling her for a while. She had been struggling with him, her mouth wanting back on his cock, his grip on her hair not allowing it.

  “Let me… Please…”

  “Remember what we said? You’re a virgin? You just wanted to give yourself an orgasm, not get too carried away.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I want to lose my innocence.”

  His cock seemed to grow when she said that. Was that real, or an optical illusion because she’d focused on it?

  “I don’t want you to regret anything,” Gerald said softly.

  Agatha made a disgusted noise. “You should have brought chocolate for yourself.”

  “I thought one of us ought to stay straight.”

  “Yeah, but if you weren’t thinking now…” Agatha understood in a flash how Brother Anselm must have felt that final night. If she had licked the chocolate off his finger, if she had taken what he’d offered, he would have taught her how delicious sin could be. It would have been dirty and glorious if she had joined him and Sister Maris Stella on the chapel floor. She hadn’t understood at the time that working at being virtuous taught people much more about depravity than being naturally good and kind, as Gerald was.

  Gerald, however, hadn’t had Agatha’s practice at exerting his will. His grip relaxed enough for her to break free and lunge onto his cock. She slurped it up with a boiling greed that proved she was a lust-struck, savage little glutton after all.

  “Fuck!” That was a cry of surrender if Agatha had ever heard one. She showed mercy, albeit for a selfish reason.

  “Take off your clothes,” Agatha commanded.

  “That’s the chocolate talking,” Gerald said, but a bit of her abandon must have infected him because he obeyed even as he protested. His bare chest was pale and nearly hairless. Both his nipples had been pierced.

  Agatha descended on him, sucking his left nipple ring into her mouth as if it were a piece of candy. He cried out in pleasured anguish as she tugged at his flesh. She wanted so many things, she couldn’t articulate them to herself. She wanted to annihilate herself in his body. Brother Anselm would have done that to her, but Gerald was going to follow his buddy’s rule after all—he wasn’t going to give her the drugging sex she needed unless she could take it for herself.

  Gerald clawed at Agatha’s sides. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to tug her into position or shove him away. She wrenched herself free and stood. There was still a small, sane part of her mind, locked away in a corner, preserving itself against her current, howling need. She banged at that mental door, wanting logical Agatha to come out and reason with Gerald.

  No dice. She turned back to him, and was forced to speak from wildness instead. “I’m going to fuck someone tonight,” Agatha said. “I want it to be you, but I get that you didn’t agree to that.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to…” Gerald said. That certainly seemed true. His eyes were fucking her already. She could feel his gaze tearing at her panties. He clearly wanted to pull her hand away and repla
ce it with something of his own.

  “You’re a good guy,” Agatha said. “I get that you’re trying to protect me. But I don’t want to hear any more about how I’m a virgin or it’s the chocolate talking.” She put a hand on the doorknob. It was the chocolate talking, actually, because sober Agatha could never have been serious about walking into the dormitory hall wearing nothing but damp panties, searching for someone boorish enough to take her innocence with no questions asked.

  “Wait,” Gerald said. He shed the remnants of his clothing and spread himself out on the bed. His many piercings made her think of images of the martyred Christ, but that didn’t mean what it used to. Her pussy was awake, at last, and it was demanding.

  She stepped toward him, shoving her panties down the sides of her hips. She couldn’t take her eyes off his cock. She didn’t know what it would feel like, but she knew what she needed it to feel like. Agatha wanted to be stretched, battered, and overwhelmed. The inside of her skin itched everywhere. She needed Gerald’s cock to obliterate that nagging tension, release her from internal conflict, and fill her past any point of resistance.

  His eyes widened as she stepped out of her panties. She’d thought she smelled strong before, but that was nothing compared to the monstrous arousal that rose up now. She felt twice as tall as ever, twice as round, millions of times more savage than Sister Maris Stella could ever have hoped for or feared. Agatha smelled of the dark earth of the fertile crescent, of riverheads and mulch and pungent leaves.

  “Wait,” he said again, and she stopped, trembling on a precipice of rejection and desire. Was she an evil thing now? A cherished thing?

  “Tell me to wait again, and I’ll run instead.”

  “I know.” He met her eyes. Agatha realized she wasn’t losing her innocence—she was letting Gerald sacrifice his to her. Perhaps she had never had innocence at all. That would explain why she’d never been able to get rid of it, and why she felt such a ravenous need to take his.

  He fumbled in his pants pocket, took out a condom, and sheathed his dick. Agatha would rather have felt his skin bare, but she understood now that claiming to protect her was his way of protecting himself. She stalked toward him on the bed. Sister Maris Stella’s voice ran wildly through her mind. “Little savage. Glutton. Little savage.”

  She throbbed in a part of her that used to be private, then became a sex organ, then was crowned by a clit. She had been slowly reading and studying, putting together the sense of body that had been fogged out by her upbringing in her religious community. The chocolate, though—that was what had turned the juncture of her legs, at last, triumphantly, into a cunt. Agatha swiped a finger through her sticky cunt and tasted the fluid she found there. Cut grass and rotting leaves and river water. That couldn’t be what it really tasted like.

  She crawled onto Gerald. She took him by the nipple rings and lined her cunt up with his cock.

  “Agatha, it might hurt.”

  “Good,” she told him. She was so, so wet—the dangerous sort of wet that can turn the smallest step into a slip and then a no-return trip down a mud-drenched slide.

  “Agatha…”

  “You’re not going to tell me to wait again, are you? I can’t do that any more. Last chance.”

  Gerald grabbed her ass. He tugged. She slipped.

  Falling through a head of shame and out the other side, Agatha found herself losing her balance on the bed, falling onto him. His cock pierced her easily, with finality. She cried out. It was both more and less than she had hoped it would be—more because it made the ache inside her even greater, and less because, rather than transfixing her, it made her want to move.

  More instinct. Agatha’s hips rolled. She found the perfect angle, but it slipped away. She tightened her grip on his nipples and twisted. She wasn’t about to let him get away from her.

  She remembered Sister Maris Stella trying to writhe her way through the floor. Agatha wanted into Gerald. She wanted to unwrap him like the chocolate, consume him, and find out what it did to her to hold him in her belly.

  Guttural noises poured from her throat. This was fucking. This, at last, was sin. Gerald sounded as if he was sobbing, but each time she looked down in concern, he shook his head and tugged her hips again. “I’m fine,” he gasped. “Please. More.”

  Agatha didn’t even remember how to hold back. Her body alive for what felt like the first time, she fucked him until sweat stung her eyes and made her lose her grip on the nipple rings and plastered her hair to the sides of her face and soaked the bed sheet for inches around him. She fucked him until he blasted a load into the condom, at which point she growled, got off him, sucked him hard again, then fucked him until actual tears came to his eyes. She had said she wanted to come, but an orgasm felt small and pointless beneath the flood of pent-up desire that the chocolate had unleashed.

  She was no virgin. She wondered if this was the blood corruption Sister Maris Stella had talked about. She certainly felt demonic, pinning sacrificial Gerald beneath her, fucking and fucking, remorselessly seeking a release she wasn’t sure she believed in.

  There was a sound at the door, but Agatha didn’t let it bother her. The doorknob turned, and Gerald stirred. She bent down and sank her teeth into his shoulder. It was an animal act, a primal way of signaling don’t you fucking move.

  “Agatha?” The shocked voice behind her belonged to her roommate.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” said the roommate’s ruddy, large-haired boyfriend.

  Being seen made everything real. She arched up from Gerald’s body and found what she’d been looking for. She was clenching and squirming and cursing and writhing, putting on a show of ecstatic struggle. Energy pumped through her lower belly. Her thighs tensed around Gerald’s hips. Agatha’s cunt became a flooding river that no longer recognized borders or boundaries. She was ready to pour into the ocean, to overwhelm the entire world.

  “What are you fucking waiting for?” Agatha demanded.

  Beneath her, Gerald moaned desperately, finally surrendering as much as she wanted him to. He thrust into Agatha wildly. Agatha felt as if she could really breathe for the first time in her life. She pressed her chest forward as her roommate’s hands settled onto her nipples, and opened her mouth wide for a long, ruddy cock.

  In a way that books could not have told her, she now understood. She was a savage. No religion could defeat the power of her blood.

  III. Rain Forest Roots

  As a parting gift, Gerald had given Agatha a gold box marked Premium, and a sheaf of printouts from his forum searches. “I don’t think I can follow you to where you’re going,” he had said.

  “I know you can’t,” she’d replied. She had focused on his eyebrow rings rather than his eyes. She’d known by then that he loved her, and that she could not return the feeling. She’d realized by then that she couldn’t follow him either. He existed in a place that had always been denied to her. Gerald knew how to be simple, but Agatha was a creature of contradiction.

  Now, her research was taking her home to her people, where she hoped to find a way to be simple and whole.

  Agatha had traveled to Belem, a Brazilian city on the border of the Amazon rain forest, a multitude of people gathered for the sake of rubber trees. She wasn’t home yet, but she thought she could smell home amid the scents of tropical fruit and fresh fish. She wondered if these were the flavors enjoyed by the parents she had never known, or if the rain forest itself offered other feasts entirely. She recognized herself in everyone’s face, it seemed—missionary or native or tourist. She was all of them and none of them, and she was ready to find out, at last, what she really was.

  In a dingy hostel, Agatha took out a book on uncontacted tribes, then set it aside in favor of Gerald’s carefully compiled notes. She could have sworn she felt his fingers through the paper, gentle in a way she couldn’t bear. She had needed him to be savage with her, to match her, to help her to become entirely herself at last.

  Maybe he’d done h
is best. He had, after all, compiled obscure writings that pointed toward the secret of Acme Confectionery and Drain Cleaner Company’s success, papers published by the elusive Brent Reynolds, the man who had discovered the herb that powered the chocolates. Or, Agatha supposed, the white man who had discovered them—presumably, whatever tribe she came from had known about the herb for generations. By studying that information, Agatha had narrowed her search to a region of the Amazon near Belem. She had prepared as much as possible for this moment, had practiced survival techniques, and had memorized everything ever written about Panoan. Armed with Brother Anselm’s Bible and Gerald’s chocolates, she was ready to find her true home at last.

  She missed Gerald more than she liked to admit, and beneath that was an older itch, the lingering scar caused by the loss of her religious community. Even lower was the ghostly breath of her lost parents, the sweetness of mother’s milk she wasn’t sure she had ever tasted. Agatha would set out for the forest in the morning, but tonight she wanted to be around people. She slipped out of the hostel and into the nightlife of a foreign city.

  Wandering the streets, she found her way to the Bar do Parque, a collection of outdoor seats populated by locals, scruffy college-age tourists, and scruffier men eyeing up the prostitutes that lingered around the edges of the bar’s lit area. Agatha had done plenty of sexual things now, thanks to the chocolates, but the sight of the painted women still shocked her. Without the loss of inhibition the chocolate granted her, she would never have been able to stand on the street with her flesh exposed as those women did, leg muscles displayed by towering heels, hair coiffed into fuck-me waves. She admired the eyes of the women—sometimes bold, sometimes shy, but always honest.