Lures for the Unsuspecting

By dinner’s end Mrs. Vale was obviously drunk, and though her voice got no louder, she became outrageously flirtatious, telling her husband that she was sure I’d undressed her several times with my eyes during the night, and that this time she had to go to the ladies room to make sure that her panties were still wrapped about her flesh, and not displayed somewhere in that trophy-room of my mind. Mr. Vale winked at me as she said this, and when Mrs. Vale passed behind me, she bumped my chair with her bottom and said, “Come along now—you won’t get away with this!”

Now, I didn’t really think she’d take me into the ladies room with her, for there were far too many women going in and out of it, so when she went in I stood by the door and waited; she reappeared in short order, and when she saw me she slung herself into me, kissed me lightly, and then handed me her panties: she’d put a knot in them so that the wet part stood up. “You thief, you!” She said: “That’s so you don’t forget. Or so that I won’t forget.” I began to sing, “Unforgettable, that’s what you are…,” and gave her luscious rump a pat. “Come on, now—lead me to your lair.”

All the way to their house Mrs. Vale, sitting with me in the back seat, but with her legs tucked under her, pressed against me, whispering into my ear how warm she felt, how much protection I gave her against the chilly night air that streamed through the window she insisted should be kept down. Every now and then she would point out little spots where, she promised, one day she would give up all her secrets, her little “covens of ecstasy.” Each time she said this, Mr. Vale, who otherwise kept silent, would say, “And if not there, then somewhere in our den of iniquity.” Man! I thought they’d invited me out for a weekend of abandon, but they talked like two people who at long last were bringing their adopted child home, and were showing him all the places where he’d play and grow up.

When we finally arrived, Mr. Vale told me to take his wife in through the front while he parked the car; Mrs. Vale lifted herself out, stood singing and humming and wobbling for a while, and as soon as I was beside her swooned into my arms. “I’m weak all over, darling–carry me to the closest bed!” I tossed her over my shoulder, twirled her around a bit, and she purred and laughed, giving me directions as I went up the stairs, down a corridor, and finally into the room she said was ready for us.

It was an enormous room with one wall of glass doors overlooking the ocean, and an enormous bed–a bed in which there was a young woman asleep. “Ignore her,” she said, “she’s the wicked waif we picked up–well, I don’t remember when. Now let’s see what mama can do about that candle you’ve been carrying inside your pants!”

I kneeled to let her slide off my shoulder onto the bed, and she rolled onto her tummy and said, “Unsip me.” I did, but instead of taking her dress off, she lay there whispering. As I removed my clothes, I lowered myself near her and heard her saying, “Do you love momma’s shoulders? Do you love her back? Do you love her ass?” And each time I would answer, “You know I do, you bitch,” and I would kiss her and bite her. But before I could get on top of her, she pulled me down and said: “Be still, gorgeous.” Then she started kissing me all over, raking her fingers down my chest and belly–but instead of taking my dick into her mouth, she kissed me between my scrotum and anus, and my head started swimming.

I had wanted to ask what she was doing, but no words came out of my mouth–what came out of my mouth must have been a series of moans and whimpers, because I heard her say: “You’re a bad boy! Bad boy! Momma kisses you where you need kissing, and you sound like a girl!” She mounted me, held my dick up, and began massaging it with her pussy. “Now don’t you just love the way momma helps herself? Don’t you just love the way momma makes you helpless? Come on in now you bad boy, come in out of the cold!”

Things got blurry: she had a way of sliding up and down my shaft with painfully slow movements, as if she were not fucking me, but instead pulling on the short bit of rope at the end of which I was dangling over an abyss. Sometimes she would pull all the way off and hover over me, biting my lips, kissing my cheeks, whispering insane things about how one day I would rule this whole household, while I felt my dick twitching just under her as every now and then droplets of her nectar would splash on me. At those moments I could feel that girl move, but apparently she was only tossing in her sleep–of course, if I had been able to think clearly, I’d have realized that she was in some sort of drug-induced haze.

But I wasn’t able to think, and whenever I got clear-headed enough to say anything, she would stir her finger over my “girly spot,” as she called it, and I would start whimpering again. “Oh, yes–you’re a girl with a natural dick, aren’t you my little fuckable darling? That’s right–mommy knows all your secrets now!” And each time she would grind away at me with more fervor.

At some point I heard her begin groaning and whimpering herself, and when she started sighing she lowered herself onto me again–but this time with a delicate but clumsy motion as she struggled to fit me into “the tight mouth of her dark meat,” as she said. This time she was less talkative and more energetic–she rolled and squeezed, pumped and wobbled at me. When I groaned and felt her milk me, she stopped a bit, pressed her ample soft ass into me, and stroked me lazily until my dick dropped out of her as if she had shat it on me.

During that whole time I did not move at all–I was as if paralyzed–I felt vaguely as though a voice were telling an invisible audience:

“Once the Vorax has positioned her prey, beguiled into thinking it is about to feed, to ensure her complete dominion she turns the male’s own body against it, and with a fine touch, adapted over centuries of evolution, she presses what some have called the “mulieris hump,” the highly sensitive area between the genitals and the anus which, whenever stimulated, inhibits all expression of virile energy except that which the Vorax desires….

“Notice how the male ceases to struggle under the Vorax, whose cautious, insistent motions obviously increase her vigor at the expense of her victim’s. Notoriously, the Vorax shows no hesitation in subjecting even other females to a similar treatment, for paradoxically the mulieris hump in women excites them to greater receptivity….

“And so the Vorax, in yet another triumph, shows with what extraordinary lavishness Mother Nature secures her own ends by overwhelming the throbbing organisms that obey her bidding.”

As I lay there dying, it seemed, Mrs. Vale–I had been forbidden to call her anything else–moved over to that waif, and began kissing her lazily, as if she kept her there to cleanse her palate, as one might drop grapes into one’s mouth. Now and then I would feel her ample bottom brush against my thigh or my side; it was so hypnotically pleasing that I did not want to move, and without realizing it, when I had to pee, I just let myself pee: the warm jet spurted onto Mrs. Vale’s back, and when she felt it she said: “Yes, my little darling–mark mommy’s dress with your scent.” But it also sounded like, “Yes, my limbo Charlie, make mommy’s rest sweet and innocent.” Who knows? I was fading so hard that, even though she made me shiver and squirm by stroking me on my girly spot every now and then, I did not have the power to understand anything at all; I might as well have been a seashore under the rain….

For some time, it seemed, the ocean was pitching me softly back and forth; strange noises from far away wafted over me; now and then a burning log settled against me, throbbed for a bit, and then vanished. I felt content, but very weak–knew myself to be safe against any falling, but still clutched my pillow as if for dear life, or to soothe a little
child. The haze and uncertainty broke some when I felt a hand
slide under my belly and begin stroking my dick–when it got hard, it was as though a clear light shone from there through me, although I could see nothing. Then once again I felt something–hands carressing my bottom–not two hands, but four! Or were there more than that? In my excitement, I could not tell–I felt hands all over me soon, felt lips kissing me everywhere, heard voices praising me for my soft skin, my fat thighs, my beautiful bottom.

Suddenly I was cold–deliciously cold: someone had opened one of the doors, and breezes playing over my flesh raised it into a field of hard prickles. I felt a desperate craving that threated to dissolve me because it was everywhere, but I was nowhere under it.

And then someone spread my thighs and, unmistakably, someone’s tongue began licking at my girly spot–and then another tongue–it was though I were the mother of a litter of pups who scrambled over one another to suck at my nipples. I heard a woman’s voice say, “Listen to her beg!” Who were they talking about? Someone rolled me over, and again I felt hands caressing me everywhere all at once–felt someone spread my thighs, and then run their fingers along the crevice of my rump, up and down, softly, without ever touching that spot. “Listen to her plead, look at her squirm,” I heard another voice say.

Although every now and then someone’s flesh touched my confused lonely stiffness, those seemed to be accidents–they seemed to be after my thighs and the cleft of my bottom squeezed out from under my own weight. I felt as if I were being ploughed up, unearthed–but I was no longer cold: all that heat coming from the cleft, and the hearth inside the cleft. But I was anxious, fretting–found myself, against my will, churning my bottom into the fragrant moist bed. Then a voice came into my ear: “That’s right baby! There, there! We won’t let you suffer much longer–we know what you want!”

They rolled me over again, and all of a sudden things went silent as they all apparently stood on their knees around me and kept still for a moment. Then one of the women lay herself next to me and, taking my face in her hands, began kissing and whispering to me. “We’re going to make you perfectly happy now–you’re going to become one of us now.” She said that over and over; I did not know what she meant, but I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen right away.

Then I felt a finger slide between my buttocks–it tapped at the little knot some, and then began to knead it. “You’re going to be perfectly happy now.” I felt the kisses less frequently now because every now and then my head thrashed; every now and then I could feel my dick jump under me.

And then someone got between my knees and, as the woman squeezed closer to me, leaned over me and her–she took my face firmly in her hands. “Look at me now, baby–let me see your lovely eyes.” I opened my eyes, though I couldn’t see well. It didn’t matter–I knew it didn’t matter when I felt something round and hard begin stirring at that knot, and when I had no doubt that a man was stroking me lazily with his shaft between my thighs, and sometimes resting it firmly between my cheeks.

I made a sound like I never heard before–I was lowing. As I felt the man rest his whole weight on me, I delighted in the crush but my whole body stiffened–I clutched the pillows to strengthen myself against the invasion, clenched my buttocks to push him away. But then he lifted himself again, and drew his shaft lazily between my thighs and across that spot; I lowed again and relaxed: and then he lowered the head of his dick against the suddenly molten knot and gently pushed.

I lowed again but found myself pushing up into him–heard the woman saying something vaguely about horses, doors, or hoards, as if she were encouraging a child who has been perfectly good. Then I heard the man’s voice agreeing with her, and yet another woman’s voice saying that she’d never seen a horse come out so quickly, be so sweet–or swift–or swept–or swumpish. And I could hear the child they were praising–it was whimpering and gasping, and they were teaching it to speak, saying little phrases for it to repeat: “Yes, Mommy’s good, she knew.” “Yes, I didn’t know I had that pudding.” “Yes, so fuckable.” “Yes, the secret’s luck.”

It was funny: where before I had felt as if Mrs. Vale were pulling me up by a rope, this time I felt as if I were something large and weightless that kept rising from the ground always to be eased back into a soft bed of earth, warm and moist, and sometimes pinned down altogether for what seemed a sort of warm hibernation against the cold I felt creep over us every now and then like someone searching the underside of a table with swift and delicate fingers.

I had come so much to believe that cycle of rising, easing to earth, and hibernating was the very condition of my existence that it came as a shock when I felt that beautiful hard flesh leave me empty, and the weight altogether lift itself from my back: but then the woman scooted and rolled under me, took my dick in her hand, and put it at the lips of her dark mouth: it was another shock to find myself suddenly on top of her, and I was somewhat brutal: but it was less strength than vertigo and weakness that made me plunge into her: I made a futile effort to rise, but then felt the weight on my own back again, felt that terribly calm and deliberate flesh sink into me.

It was too much: she began milking me right away, seething under me, and I felt his deliberations become more dedicated, and in a confusion of tongues felt him sink on me roughly, as if he’d just dropped under a parachute through the sky to earth.

After a long moment, the woman under me gave one mighty heave, and the man fell off me–a grunt told me that he’d fallen on the other woman. With a roll the woman deposited me to her side. There was stillness for a moment, and then a curiously frantic scramble of sorts which ended when I felt someone roll me onto my stomach: it was the waif. She mounted me, and then began rubbing her pussy against my rump, moving her hips in an elaborate sideways figure eight that she would continue in one direction for a while, then reverse her motion while tracing the figure more tightly: it was not long before she changed to 0 and 1, which she tapped out as if sending a message: “Mayday! Mayday!” the message said. I don’t know if I came to her rescue–maybe I did: the next morning, when I woke up, the waif was asleep beside me halfway down the enormous bed, holding my dick in her hand.

****

I lay in bed for a long while, trying to collect my thoughts. I remembered everything that had happened, but only the first part of the night seemed truly real. But then I had no doubt that, at a certain point, I had become so weak with a strange desire that I let Mr. Vale fuck me–the strange feeling in my ass told me that, a feeling of hollowness I kept trying to eliminate by clenching my sphincter. I did not like that feeling–but still, I had been delirious with yearning, and when he entered me, I had felt exalted. I was stunned: all the words I’d barely been able to understand came back to me with simple clarity: Mrs. Vale had been saying to me that I was a perfect whore, a secret slut. I shook my head in disbelief–but every now and then I would smile and look at the ocean blankly.

It was a beautiful cloudy day: the sky just seemed to fuse with the dark waters at the ocean’s horizon. It was very calming. It was some time before I realized I had to pee–and when I realized I had to, I remembered how I had been unable to get up before, so I just let myself go, peeing into the waif’s face and hair. This woke her up. She wiped her face and smiled at me and, shifting her legs against me, peed against my thigh.

“Is that how things are here? They must go through mattresses quickly.”

“No, there’s an absorbent pad under all the sheets.”

“Are you kidding?”

But she didn’t answer; inst
ead, she got up, went to the door, and rolled a cart in.

“Here’s brea
kfast.”

Naturally this astonished me, but when the waif lifted the top, she reached down, picked up an envelope, and handed it to me. I am not permitted to reveal its contents in any detail, but the gist of it was that Mr. and Mrs. Vale would be absent for a week, but invited me to spend, not just the weekend, but the entire week at their house–and when after eight days they returned, at that time I would be free to decide whether I wanted to stay on or return home. The Waif (I know her name, but am not to use it with others) looked at me steadily, neither smiling nor frowning. When I put the letter down, she began talking casually about the different things one could do in the house–her favorite place was the library; and when we finished eating, she stood up, took me by the hand, and said: “Let me show you.”

And so we went to the library–and to the game room, with its pool table–and to the side yard, with its archery targets–and we went naked. No one was in the house but us. During the tour she said only two things that had nothing to do with the household set-up: that she hadn’t realized that I had a pot belly, and that it was useless to ask any questions, as I would find things out for myself.

We spent that day, a Saturday, reading, watching movies, sitting on the deck looking at the ocean; the Waif was easy to be with, very witty, very affectionate–each time she saw my puzzlement and misgivings coming over me, she would smile, stroke my brow, kiss me, and make me promise to be patient. The hours passed quickly.

At about 9 or so, as we were watching Random Harvest (I remember because the Waif kept making ecstatic little remarks about how beautiful Greer Garson was, and what a pity she couldn’t be a houseguest), I realized that someone had entered the house. The Waif apparently expected this, because when we heard the voices, she said that it was probably Mrs. Jensen and Mrs. Ellison. And so it was: two women in their 50s or 60s who strode into the room, greeted the Waif with kisses and ecstatic remarks about how glad they were to see her again, and who turned to me, kissed me, patted my belly, hugged me, and all in all treated me like a nephew they were seeing for the first time. The fact that I was naked did not seem remarkable to them, and while Mrs. E went to the kitchen to fetch dinner, Mrs. J. sat down next to me and, turning her attention to the film, observed that Greer Garson must be the most beautiful actress that ever was, etc.

About half an hour later the Waif disappeared, leaving me alone with the two guests, who remained silent except for a few scattered remarks about being so glad for the chance to relax. Twenty minutes after the Waif’s disappearance, Mrs. Jensen disappeared as well; Mrs. Ellison, now alone with me, smiled and said, “Do you mind if I take a little nap?” Without waiting for me to answer, she curled up against me.

Mrs. E was a short, plump woman with large breasts and an even larger rump–but like Mrs. Vale, she was extraordinarily soft, and the feel of her warmth and soft flesh excited me. As she drifted into her nap, she muttered little appreciations about herself–that she sometimes thought of herself as thick moss growing on a rock, or that she was like quicksand: and she’d squirm or roll a little. I said nothing, but stroked her here and there, absently undoing her blouse, or pulling her skirt down her legs. I fully intended to let her go to sleep, and then see how far my kisses and caresses would make her wet while still asleep, so that I could wake her by prodding her gently until she sort of oozed out of her drowsiness into the living willingness of that river between her thighs.

And her lust was riverine: after half an hour of caresses and kisses, the liquid was seeping into the fabric of the sofa, and using the side of my finger to scoop gently up her pussy I could push the slickness up into the crack of her ass. When I had done that two or three times she said: “It’s time to reap what you’ve sowed.”

I felt ferocious: with every stroke I delighted in the sounds of squishing and smacking that we made, and instead of drifting in and out of her as I normally would have, I stormed against her with a sort of mad restraint. When I had milked myself in her pussy, I rested a bit, and then lay on her magnificent rump, slowing re-gaining power; when she felt I was hard, she urged herself against me as though we’d got entangled: she tossed a bit, and then I put her down with the frenzied strokes one would use to drive a stake through a vampire’s heart. I cursed her for having so much lusciously quivering flesh, cursed myself that I did not have the self-control to devour that flesh for more than a few minutes. I did not pull out of her. We both fell asleep.

When I awoke, the Waif was sitting by herself in one of the chairs, her hair in a towel. She smiled at me and Mrs. E, and said that the room was all ours, if we wanted it. I thought this was curious, and wondered where Mrs. Jensen was. It was only after Mrs. E and I had showered that I found out: Mrs. J was on the bed, exactly as the Waif had been the night before: naked and apparently dead to the world. Mrs. E got on the bed and began caressing her, kissing her, holding her ass bucked towards me. When I pulled at her, she sat back, put my hands on her breasts, and began churning. Then she threw me back, sat atop me, and touched me on that spot. This gave her enormous satisfaction–and once again a haze of heat and helplessness enveloped me.

For the next few hours I felt as though some magnificent animal were brooding over me, rising every now and then to make the strange hissing and houghing noises that would keep all other animals away. And like the night before, I came to some sort of semi-consciousness that allowed me to be aware of a multitude of hands, tongues, voices, the cold, the burning cleft and its empty hearth filled with anxious whimpering, and finally the soft stirring and pushing of that beautiful snake burrowing into me to the sound of triumphant lowing.

Did it happen once or twice? I don’t know: it did seem that the bed was not moist but downright squishy, and a delightful tang arose from under me; seemed also that some sort of strong and rather gelatinously succulent creature clamped itself around me and drained me with a few swift squeezes that began at the bottom of my shaft and then scattered upwards like a tongue that was also a bolt of lightning. When I woke up the next morning, the Waif was again sleeping beside me, but this time curled in on herself. I scooted against her, peed, rocked her for a while until she woke, sighed, stroked my dick until it was hard, peed, then put it inside her for a few perfunctory strokes. “You made me so happy this morning,” she said. I didn’t ask how, but fell asleep once more.

****

Here then was the slightly irregular rhythm of that first week: Sunday and Monday the Waif and I passed the day reading, watching films, and so on, but had no visitors.

Tuesday three women came to visit around 3, and stayed until evening: the Waif acted as a sort of therapist, getting two of the women to help the other search herself for the right words, and when she started to cry, I escorted her out of the den, trying to take her upstairs but not being able to because she wanted to stop for a hug, one of which turned so firey that I pushed her belly to the wall and fucked her in the ass as she muttered crazy words about a new lease on life. I left her asleep in the hallway, returned to the den, and found the two other women using dildoes on one another. What I remember most was lapping at their pussies languidly, hearing them moan, yelp, and then, as they trembled and shivered, mounting them, stroking one until she protested, then moving to the other when she begged, and finally releasing myself with a sort of gurgle while one of the women–I don’t know which one–shook so much under me I thought she was having a seizure.

Late Thursday nigh
t two women showed up with lots of curious liqueurs: we dran
k, played cards, and went raucously to bed. This time the Waif joined the two others in overwhelming me, so that once more in the still of the night I found myself churning and lowing, churning and lowing.

By Friday I recognized the pattern: after one or two days of quiet, our women visitors would arrive first, satiate themselves and me, and then overwhelm me, so that, in the dark and small of the night, I would play the whore to wirey, fugitive men whose faces I would never see, whose names I would never know, but whose dicks I was to cherish with the peculiar whorishness that made itself so absolute in me once they rubbed that spot, a magic lantern that turned me inside out, a willing drifter in a twilight of lust and abandon.

When eight days had passed, Mrs. Vale returned, not with Mr. Vale, but with two extraordinarily voluptuous and dissolute- looking women. We ate, drank, danced, and talked late into the night; and as before, one of the women disappeared with the Waif; as before, Mrs. Vale lurched with me upstairs, while the other woman followed behind, saying how much she wanted to see me ride Mrs. Vale’s bottom. But when we stumbled into bed, both Mrs. Vale and the other woman played the Vorax with me, so that I felt completely lost. Unexpectedly, she rolled under me and said, “So are you going to stay?” Before I could answer I felt the other woman rub her breasts against by back, finger me, and then lower herself on me–but instead of the familiar wetness, I felt a knob probing at my cleft.

I don’t know how I could have swooned any more than I already had: it seemed I had an infinite space inside for dizziness: I collapsed with my dick in Mrs. Vale’s pussy, and felt as though my entrails were draining into her like an hourglass filled with milk; and I made a noise that was like the ocean breaking as I felt that shaft sink steadily into me and those breasts pressing hot against me.

It didn’t matter which “yes” was an answer to her question, for in that infinite dizziness each “yes” meant not only “yes,” but “Anything! Anything!”

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