Treasure Cunt
Mutant John is naked. He has lost weight, and is more toned. I seek a scar on his chest, but the surgery on his heart was via keyhole, so there is nothing beneath the grey-black mat of hair across his broad chest.
His cock, however, does sport recent injury. It is softer now but not inert. The reduced erection means that where there were many individual marks on the shaft, now there is merely a general redness. He screamed a lot, which made me chew him more. I did not draw blood, not quite anyway.
I still wear my clothes, such as they are. I am warm inside them, and from time-to-time Mutant John will squeeze me so my scent gusts out. He inhales it with the same intensity I inhaled smoke from the joint.
I feel solid, yet freely adrift in the summer afternoon that filters through the conservatory into the living room. My feet buzz, even as they are planted solidly on the worn carpet, which was once black but these days teeters on the edge of being grey.
“Go on,” Mutant John says.
He stares at me, as if I am the fix he now needs. I welcome this intense attention, which feels like sunshine. He has muted the music, to help me concentrate.
I turn and look around the room.
He has hidden the other four joints around the house. My job is to find them, and to accommodate Mutant John as I search. A clue to the nature of his accommodation is the generous lathering of lube he has applied to my pussy, mixing with what’s left of the ice block to leave me wet and slick. I wiggle my prepared opening, which seems to hum delightedly in anticipation.
Mutant John’s living room has one armchair and another sofa. There’s a telly in the corner on the same scale as a Stonehenge monolith, and a lot of books on a variety of subjects, all non-fiction, although there is no overarching theme that I can make out. The room has a second-hand bookshop smell – old paper rich with history, stories not garish enough to make the headlines but no less urgent for that, and arcane knowledge.
I nose through the books, although I doubt the first spliff will be hidden there. I see a book on car maintenance, a stack of music magazines, and a biography of Martin Luther King. Bending over, I reach for a small box nestling between a leather-bound tome that turns out to be the collected works of Shakespeare and another, smaller but older volume. I squint at the embossed lettering, and as I realise it’s The Book of Thoth by Aleister Crowley, Mutant John lifts my skirt and slips his cock into me.
I have been ready all morning, and the ease of penetration is almost a worry – have I been fucked so much I am slack? But no, the familiar tightening around Mutant John’s cock, the strange ache in my core, the hunger for more than any human can ever give lets me know that I’m relaxed and ready. It’s like having the real pussy I’ve always dreamed of, wet and ready and fertile.
I have not moved, or even responded to the presence of a man’s hard cock inside me. I am still gazing at the Crowley volume, suddenly eager to know the great magician’s thoughts on the intricacies of the Egyptian Tarot, so I can bicker with Mutant John about it later. From these factoids, I will improvise an argument based on other things I have read, a knack for spinning narratives, and the influence of drugs.
I like being fucked in this matter-of-fact way, like an animal tupped on the open plains of the small living room. I decide not to make a sound, even as Mutant John gradually eases most of the way out, tickling me inside beautifully, and then… Ohhhhhhhh… Slowly… God… slides back in again…
He has not taken hold of me, and simply inserted himself with the smooth efficiency of an industrial robot. I try not to make a sound, even as I flex my rose around him, but muffle a soft gulp as he pulls partly out and leaves himself stoking me just inside my opening. Keeping my breath even, I open the box between the two books.
Finding the liquorish paper joint inside, I allow myself a satisfied ‘Hm’, and part straighten, so my upper body is at a ninety-degree angle to my legs. Popping the joint between my lips, I see that the box also contains the Zippo. I don’t have Mutant John’s dexterity, but I get the thing lit, then suffer a dope-induced jag of panic at the joint’s proximity to all this dry paper. My main concern is that my hair will burn off.
I back onto Mutant John, but he is an immovable object and I merely achieve a deeper penetration. It stops me moving, this time with pleasure.
“Stand up, Kelly.”
I straighten with him still inside me. The angle is slightly awkward, but altered consciousness helps alleviate it, and the psychic pleasure of perusing a bookshelf while smoking dope and being fucked eases away such pedestrian concerns. I notice that my little skirt is only lifted at the back, so my front is still covered. Anyone looking at us would think Mutant John is simply standing very close, while not wearing anything.
I think of his raw cock inside me, and the trust it represents creates another shivering rush of pleasure. There are no barriers to divide my sex from his, with only my hot interior to absorb the imminent gush.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. It feels friendly and relaxing, his big palms resting gently on the warm plastic of the jacket. The jacket’s design is a biker chick leatherette style. It hints at rebellion, but is this girl’s defiance the precursor to allowing a different kind of domination?
I think it probably is.
Mutant John kisses my neck, just below the ear, one of the femme spaces revealed by my little black bob. Mutant John moves inside me, his shaft right the way in and my rose fully open to accommodate him. I am breathless – with desire, smoke, and the subtle exertions required to maintain a sexual encounter like this.
He puts his arms around me, wrapping them across my breasts, and holds me tight.
“Beautiful girl,” he sighs in my ear, that deep, plummy-but-dangerous voice a seduction all of its own.
I smoke, and the room shifts as though time and space have loosened their tight grip on each other. I wait for them to steady. They kind of do, but my feet are full of electricity as my heart skips with exhilarating disregard for everything.
I remember that Mutant John called me a beautiful girl.
“Yes,” I say, my voice absent-minded.
“Bend over.”
I obey, and slowly he begins to slide in and out more regularly. I wet my finger, put out the joint and slip it into my pocket with the Zippo. As Mutant John gets stuck in more deeply, I pull the poppers from my other pocket, take several hits, and relax into the quiet rhythm of being fucked hard, then harder, then…
Oh bollocks – I need to pee.
I try to ignore it, because Mutant John is entering that inspired phase where he will wring me like a terrier with a rat and I don’t want to interrupt him, but… Dammit! I have drunk a lot of Jack Daniels and Coke, and have so far got away with not breaking the seal. Now a reckoning has become due, and I am finding it increasingly hard to focus on this splendid shafting. If he carries on I will spray his books and he’ll never get the wrinkles out of the paper. I also worry that pissing on the Crowley book will engage a curse, and the face and body hair I’ve lasered off will grow back ten times as thick. Rationally, I know this outcome is unlikely, because if Crowley had been that good at magic he’d have been a lot more successful during his time on Earth. However, I am way down Mutant John’s marijuana-inspired yellow brick road and in no condition to appease my own irrationality.
“Gotta go wee,” I say, my voice apologetic but insistent.
His big frame stiffens, and I wonder if he will tell me to go ahead and piss right there, carpet be buggered. However, I know from experience how hard it is to get the smell out, and Mutant John clearly has his own version of being house proud. I wonder if he’ll come quickly, but he eases out and lightly spanks my bottom as I straighten.
“This way,” he says, and takes my hand.
We cross the hallway to the bathroom, which is a decent size and lined with white tile gone delicate with age. The grout is grey, but there’s no mould anywhere. The bath is a proper old claw-foot stand-alone beast, which Mutant John probably inherited from the previous owner. A shower curtain obscures all but the lower section. A chunky sink stands by a throne-like toilet with a heavy wood seat. Beside the toilet is a complex-looking bidet from the same era, whenever that was.
The window is open, and birdsong overlays the distant whispery groan of traffic. The bathroom window at this time of day is a rectangle of glowing gold.
I lower the toilet seat, and notice that Mutant John is still in the bathroom with me. Realising he wants to watch, I sit and pull my skirt up. If I’m in a rush, I’ll sometimes stand although I don’t really like to. Now, though, I have all day and night, so I perch thoughtfully as scalding percolated booze drains out of me.
Mutant John watches me piss, his expression fixed, yet non-committal. His cock, which is half a metre from my face, pulses.
I have no problem with social pissing – indeed, find it rather delightful. I wonder if Mutant John wants to put his cock back in my mouth, but he makes no move, which is a relief as I am very aware of where it has just been.
I reach for the toilet paper, which is hanging the correct way (new sheet presented foremost, not hanging against the wall, dammit), but Mutant John puts his hand over mine. Gripping my arms in their warm PCV, he gently pulls me up, lifts my skirt, and slips Big Clit into his mouth.
I moan at the unexpected engulfment. The sweetness of his determination as he sucks off the drips and gives the rest a thorough licking weakens my already unsteady legs until I almost sit down again.
Instead, he straightens and glances towards the bath.
“I’ve got a surprise in there for you, Kelly.”
“Can I see?” I ask, my voice dreamy.
“Not yet. You’ve made me realise I need a slash as well.”
I nod and go to move aside, but his hand on my breast stops me.
“Bend over, Kelly.”
“But where are you going to piss?” I say, still rather out of it.
“In you, pretty girl.”
...To be continued
