The Devil's Mistresses Ch. 03

But he didn't. Because, for the first time in this cursed evening, he felt like he might be able to come. He started thrusting with even more energy, with more frantic need. The only thing that kept the pain from becoming unbearable was the pleasure, pleasure that made the searing agony seem like a minor inconvenience.

"Uhhh, I'm gonna come!" he groaned. He said it again and again, "I'm gonna come, gonna come, gonna come!" His body began thrusting involuntarily, faster and faster and faster, so fast that he could hear his hips popping and cracking from the strain.

"I'M...UHHH...UHHH...UHHHHHHHH!!!" The pleasure of his coming orgasm took up all the synapses of his nervous system, crowding away the pain. The relief from agony combined with the physical ecstasy to take Roger to a superhuman plane of sensation. It was like a powerful narcotic, it was too much for his nervous system to bear. He was overdosing on ecstasy. Roger's hips jerked of their own accord, his arms thrashed about, his legs cramped.

"Oh my God, oh my GOD!" It was starting. The pressure was no longer concentrated in his testicles. It was all in the head of his cock, which felt like a plugged-up hose. "Come on, please, please, let me come!"

The girl screamed, "Mama!" The blonde whore yanked her ass away from Roger, and his engorged cock wobbled in front of him. Before Roger could scream in anguish the girl and her mother both wrapped their monstrous tongues around his cock. The muscular contractions began, and, at last, Roger's orgasm began.

He opened his mouth to scream, but could generate no sound. After waiting for so long to climax he had to wait a few seconds more, a few eternal seconds, as his testicles gathered themselves and delivered the first spasm of his ejaculation.

This first spurt was thin, watery stuff, his Cowper's gland producing lubricant to ease the way for the semen to follow. But instead of a tiny dribble oozing around his tip, this was a concentrated spray shooting from his nozzle. The women curled their tongues around his cockhead and the greasy fluid flowed into their slavering mouths.

This stage of his climax went on for perhaps twenty seconds, already the longest orgasm of his life, but from the clenching inside his groin Roger knew that this was only the beginning. He stopped shooting precum, and for a moment Roger feared that he was done. And then it felt like his penis ripped itself inside out, his long cock nearly folded back on itself, and then it straightened and a tremendous amount of semen spurted from his purple helmet. "GGGGGGGOOOOODDDDD!" Roger shrieked as the most intense sensation yet tore through his ravaged body. The pleasure felt like a nail stuck in his spine, it was an almost palpable entity, as though he could reach back and pull it out of his body and stop it.

He semen was thick and clotted, the consistency of jelly. The women took turns hooking their tongues around the head, gobbling his seed down in hungry mouthfuls. His penis and testicles continued their biological imperative, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, spraying his DNA like grapeshot. Roger lost track of time, he didn't know how long this Olympian climax went on. A tiny part of his brain not fried with ecstasy counted how many times mother and daughter had to swallow to accommodate his endless stream of semen. One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight...nine

Roger lost his peripheral vision. Everything went gray. His entire consciousness faded into the background, the only sensory input his brain now accepted was the big raw nerve sticking up between his legs. He heard nothing, tasted nothing, saw nothing. He only felt, and only through his penis. And what he felt was the savage attentions of the most perfect pair of sexual beasts God or Satan ever set upon the earth. The two women, mother and daughter, sucked the very life out of him.

And then it was done. When exactly his body stopped ejaculating semen Roger couldn't be sure. His penis shuddered and twitched as the women tightened their tongue-grip on his shaft, coaxing every milligram of semen from his body. When, at last, they found that the well was truly dry, they uncoiled their tongues from Roger's penis and began to kiss, slowly, their tongues slithering over and around each other like two snakes escaped from Medusa's hair.

Roger looked down, and watched the floor slowly, slowly, rise up to his face. He lay there, without the strength to look up or around. He lay in a pool of his own sweat that covered nearly half of the court. His entire body was numb. He couldn't move, or think. He just lay there, and waited to die.

Everything moved in slow motion. Roger saw two pair of shapely ankles move past his limited line of vision, the two whores leaving behind the carcass of their most recent victim. Two more sets of legs appeared, both in black slacks with black dress shoes, and Roger became aware that someone had flipped him on his back. It was Seiji, the man who had threatened him in the locker room, and another huge man, this one with gray hair sawed into a crew-cut and heavy Slavic features. The two big men each grabbed one of Roger's legs and arms and tossed him in a heavy plastic bag that lay next to him. As they zipped the bag shut over his face, the only thought Roger's collapsing brain formed was, "I didn't die at the end. I was supposed to die..."

*****

They threw Roger on the floor of the limousine and drove straight back to his house. The limo pulled into the circular driveway and the two burly men grabbed the handles of the body bag and tossed him on the lawn. While Seiji went back to the limo the huge Slavic man unzipped the bag and took a look.

"He's alive," he said.

Seiji tossed Roger's wadded up tux on the lawn and threw something on Roger's chest. "The next time I see this pig, he won't be alive for long." The two men got back in the limo and drove away, leaving Roger lying on his lawn, staring up at the stars with unseeing eyes.

It wasn't until hours later, as the sun waited patiently just under the horizon, that Roger's curiosity was roused enough to wonder what the man had thrown on his chest. His arms refused to obey his commands, but eventually Roger got his hands around the item. It was soft, squishy, an odd, thick shape.

He couldn't lift his head to look, so he brought the object to his face. And saw that it was a sponge, a sponge still heavy with liquid. A sharp, sudden need screamed within his brain, and Roger stuffed a corner of the sponge and sucked. Warm, stale water oozed into his parched mouth, and Roger moaned with relief. When the one corner of the sponge was wrung dry he jammed the other edge between his lips and guzzled. He lay they, gnawing and sucking at the sponge, until it was dry as dust.

Roger still needed water, desperately. There was water in the house, an endless supply of it, but he didn't think he had the strength to reach the door. The memory of his first Everest expedition flared before his eyes. He'd been utterly exhausted, oxygen-starved and dehydrated, and yet he managed to climb down to base camp in a worsening storm because he'd had the will-power to make that supreme effort. That hellish trip was a stroll down the street compared to the ordeal he now faced.

His eyes wouldn't focus. His legs wouldn't hold him. He had to crawl. He struggled to get out of the body bag, and when he finally made it and lay on the grass he realized it was covered with a light coating of dew. He licked and nibbled at the grass like a browsing cow, and that little bit of moisture eased the searing pain in his mouth enough to give him the strength to crawl a few feet toward the door. He paused, catching his breath, and he lapped at the dew. He continued like this for forty-five minutes, until he reached the front door.

Only now did he realize that he was naked, and that he didn't have a key to the house. If the front door wasn't open, he knew that this would be where the police found his body, lying in peace on his front stoop. It was such a pleasant thought that he almost chose to lie there and die, but the lizard part of his brain refused to surrender to the void, and he got to his knees. He twisted the handle...and the door opened. He knew this must be Joubert's doing. A locked door meant certain death, and if Joubert had wanted Roger dead he only needed to give his whores another five minutes. They would have sucked him down to the husk.

He didn't make it to the bathroom sink. He pried open the lid of the toilet and his head splashed as he immersed it in the still water. He drank until the bowl was dry, and then he flushed and let the swirling current caress his rank hair. He drank the bowl dry again, like a thirsty dog drinking on the sly.

His mouth no longer felt like he'd eaten a pail of sand. He no longer felt like he was about to die. The physical misery was such that he wanted to die, but death no longer seemed certain. He collapsed on the bathroom floor, and slept.

When he awoke the house was dark. He struggled to his feet and slapped at the wall for the switch. The light blinded him, he fell to his knees and gagged. He felt a thousand times worse than his worst hangover. His hands shook, but he could stand. He looked at himself in the mirror-and started to cry.

He had aged twenty years in one night. His dark hair was a faded, mousy brown and his face was covered with gray stubble. His face was shrunken, his eyes protruding from their sockets, and his lips were split and bleeding. He had so admired his physique the day before, but now the muscles in his arms and legs and chest hung slack and flabby.

Roger was almost afraid to look at his penis, and when he did his worst fears were confirmed. His organ was as black as a rotting banana, riven with scratches and notches from the whores' rasping tongues. His testicles were the same size as before, but they too looked like some kind of moldering fruit between his legs. Roger reached down and gingerly touched himself and was rewarding with a stab of white-hot pain.

Roger opened the cabinet under the skin and pulled out a scale. He set it down on the cool tile floor and, with considerable exertion, managed to mount the one-inch platform. This morning he had weight exactly 190 pounds. He stood motionless and waited for the digital readout to blink on.

When it did, the bright green numbers read, "1 7 1".

Roger trembled from head to foot. He had lost nineteen pounds in one night. In one hour. The two whores had stripped away one-tenth of his body weight with their tongues and vaginas and fingernails. Nineteen pounds of sweat and semen and blood and who knew what else. Nineteen pounds.

Hunger, overwhelming, shrieking hunger seized hold of Roger. He still couldn't walk steadily but he bounced his way down the hallway to the kitchen, knocking over pictures and upsetting a chair along the way. With a tremendous effort he managed to open the huge stainless steel refrigerator by hooking his arm through the handle and levering it with every remaining ounce of his body weight. His arms were so weak that he could barely lift a pitcher that held a quart of iced tea. But he managed, and he opened his mouth and poured the sweet tea down his throat, only gagging a few times, sending a cascade of sticky liquid down his chest. When the pitcher was empty Roger unscrewed the top of a quart bottle of whole milk and chugged it. He drank a bottle of cranberry juice. He popped the lid on a jar of dill pickles and drank that. Anything to slake his unceasing thirst.

His depleted body screamed for protein and calories. He yanked open the freezer and pulled out two pounds of frozen ground sirloin. He tossed it in the microwave and went back to the fridge. He used his fingers to shovel peanut butter into his mouth, and then he went for the olives, drinking the oil as he chomped down dozens of the delicious green morsels. There was a pint of sour cream and Roger used his fingers again, savoring every rich ounce as he gobbled it down.

The microwave beeped, and the smell of meat sent a ripple of anticipation up Roger's spine. The meat wasn't cooked, just barely thawed and still raw, with a puddle of brown blood on the bottom of the stryofoam container. Roger tipped the plate back and drank the bloody juice, and then he set the container in the sink and tore into the ground steak, shoving mealy handfuls of the cold meat into his mouth, devouring it like a beast with a fresh kill. Roger thought it was the most delicious meal he'd had in his entire life.

He was halfway through the steak when his front door flew open and six men with automatic weapons rushed in. Two raced upstairs, two cut left into his living room. If the gunmen didn't seem shocked to find a naked wraith stuffing his face with raw meat, then Roger showed no surprise at this invasion into his home. He watched the front door and saw some familiar faces. Seiji, the Asian bodyguard. That huge Slavic man. The petite Vietnamese girl he'd tried to deflower the night before. The young hookers from Bangkok. Annabel.

She came up to Roger and took him by the arm. "Let me take you upstairs," she said.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice so dull and flat he was surprised she answered.

"Nothin', just some minor problems we need to sort out. We may need to stay here a few hours."

"We?"

"Monsieur Joubert is on his way. We won't trouble you, ah promise."

Roger started to cry. "Please, no, don't let them torture me again, I can't take it. Look at me, look what they did to me!" His tears mixed with the milk, pickle juice, olive oil, and blood sluicing down his chest.

Annabel got him in the shower and the Vietnamese girl appeared and once again washed him. Roger kept crying, he told the girl, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

The girl said nothing as she washed his hair and body, and then she looked at him and with perfect calmness said, "Not as sorry as I will make you." She tenderly stroked his penis and it felt like a million fingernails scraping a chalkboard wired to an amplifier. He shrieked in agony.

The girl said, "You have nothing to fear from Monsieur Joubert. But," she slid a finger into his dialated rectum, "there are others you have wronged who you must watch out for."

Annabel appeared in the doorway. "Leave us," she snapped, and the Vietnamese girl bowed and floated away. "She's going to kill me," Roger cried.

"She won't kill you, ah promise. I found your pajamas, let's get them on you." With her help Roger somehow managed to put them on. She got him under the covers. "Go to sleep, you need sleep more than anythin'."

Afraid as he might be of the Vietnamese girl, one overwhelming fear dominated Roger's thoughts. "Do whatever you want, take whatever you want. Just keep them away from me, please! Joubert's whores, please! Keep them away!"

She kissed his forehead. "Shh. No one will hurt you. Go to sleep."

In his bed, blankets up around his chin, the door closed, Roger exhausted body surrendered to the void. His body simply could not generate the energy to feel terror any longer. He had endured an ordeal that was beyond the scope of human experience, and he was still alive at the end of it. How long he might live afterwards wasn't important. He had a belly full of solids and liquids, and so Roger Travers slept, his body repairing the damage he'd brought upon himself.