An Infernal Folio

It was almost as if his penis corkscrewed into my channel, it seemed to twist as it slithered home.

I am a woman of small dimensions. There had been one or two penises in my life that had been large enough to bottom out on my cervix, they were not comfortable. But while his organ indeed insinuated itself all the way inside me, to my topmost, it felt as though the head on his penis was softer, its supple crest seemed to graze, even kiss, my upper reaches without distress.

I found my excitement growing, despite the suddenness of the assault. Normally I am slow to arousal but everything this evening seemed to have happened on a different time-frame than usual. My moistness was so pronounced that even his thrusting sounded liquid, like the sloppy squishing of boots in rain-drenched, early spring mud.

My crisis came with almost no warning. My hips shuddered, my anus and channel contracted, I gripped his member like a drowning boat passenger to a proffered hand of help. My eyes were shut, noises came from my throat, my face was turned to the side of the counter, rough and hard under our combined weight. His teeth were on my neck.

He continued to thrust his hips more urgently and then he gave a final deep push, I felt his penis head butt up against my channel apex, then the softer, involuntary next few pushes as his semen discharged inside me.

Inside me! I had not let sperm from any man enter me without some protection for many years. All of this had happened so quickly. And now a mass of little, single-celled flagellates were fighting their way to their hoped-for meeting with my ova. I panicked and urged him out.

My dress descended. I was still panting from our exertions. I knew my face was flushed. There was a damp spot on the counter where my mons had been. I turned just as he fished his penis back into his trousers and the little glimpse I got made me inhale. Had that -- that thing -- just been inside me? Spewing its fluids? Even with my brief look it was not of normal appearance.

I locked his gaze squarely with mine.

His expression was relaxed, some of the facial lines softer. 'Do not worry', he said. 'There will be no child.'

How could he have known my thoughts? Although that was only the top of it all. He had just taken me. What of the rest of his health? How could I have been so rash, so meek, so passive?

'How do you know?' I stammered, hoping to be relieved. Pregnancy is not an event dependent on will or some declaration of impossibility.

'I assure you, it is quite out of the question. It has been scores of decades since that has last happened.'

I stared at him open-mouthed, not believing what my ears had just heard.

'I hope your enjoyment was as complete as mine?' He looked carefully into my face.

No one had ever spoken so calmly to me after a first coupling before, in such a literate tone.

Everything about him was reassuring, I am not sure how or why. A deep warmth suffused me. I seemed to radiate a tingling, inner heat from my groin outward.

I retreated to the loo. In the mirror my cheeks were red, my shoulder length-hair mussed. My pupils seemed dilated as well. I tidied up, let some of his sperm drip out of me and mopped up as best I could. My nipples, surprisingly, were still erect, still alert, they had not relaxed as they normally do after a climax.

When I returned I noticed he had refilled my sherry glass, which he handed to me wordlessly.

My mouth must have been open.

'What would you like?' he asked, sipping from his glass, eyebrows arching.

I found myself saying that I wanted him to stay the night. I didn't know that that was what I wanted, although once the words came out, I realised that was indeed my desire.

He looked at me closely, not unkindly.

'I will not be able to accommodate your wish', he said softly. 'I will need to be at my hotel room before morning. But if you like we can retreat to your chambers for a spell, perhaps for a slower and more civilised acquaintance.'

He followed me down the low-ceilinged hall into my bedroom. All my senses were alert. I reached for the bedroom light switch but he intercepted me, held my hand off of it. It would stay semi-dark.

He removed my dress and other clothes. I was almost trembling.

He laid me on the bed, then stood at the foot, removing his own garments. His suit jacket, tie, shirt, shoes and socks. I held my breath as his trousers, then pants, came off. My view was not clear in the dark, but his organ curved out, half erect in the dimness, his limbs long and lean.

He settled in next to me. I scarcely moved.

He kissed my neck, then my shoulders, moved down my body.

The exploration was slow, deliberate. He traced curved sections of flesh, poked his tongue into armpits, under breast folds, along sensitive flanks, flicked my nipples. My nerves were on fire.

He hovered, kneeling, near my head. 'Lick me', he said. It was not a command but the moment he spoke I knew that was what I wanted to do.

His penis stood out strongly, curved not up and inward towards his navel, like most men I knew, but convexly downward, oddly reversed. Yet it was quite rigid, that curve not due to gravity. I felt my hands drawn to it.

The skin of his shaft was familiar enough, turgid with tension, smooth like warm ivory or polished wood on my fingers. His testicles were drawn up tightly, all in one mass, with a spidery thicket of surrounding hair visible in the dim light. It felt coarse in my hands, rather less curly than most.

But the head of his penis was almost alarming. It was soft, wide, large. Larger than the biggest walnut I had ever seen and about the same shape. Greater in diameter than his shaft. The foreskin was retracted and drawn up around its neck, tightly holding it forth, as if choking it. Bulbous, eager, damply expectant.

I licked it.

The softness was jarring, as he played his penis-head into my mouth, pushing gently around my oral cavity. The head was not squishy but seemed as if it sought to expand into my mouth, invading its entirety.

One hand had drifted to my mons, and his fingers teased lightly along my sparse covering of hair. The fingers were gentle, informed. My hips pushed back to meet his touch.

He shifted. Straddled my chest, knees on each side of me. Dangled his penis into my mouth.

I licked. I suckled. I found his phallus arresting, irresistible. It moved like a snake, a thick taut python of desire, within my mouth and then curving down my throat. Alive. Insistent.

I luxuriated as his penis moved about, my lips and tongue active, wet, enthralled. I detached to look up at his erection in the dim light.

It twitched stiffly in silhouette above my eyes, ghostly, hard, demonic.

I nuzzled his balls. Sweaty, musky, earthy. I wanted to suckle them as well.

His hand kept an arousing touch on my vulvar lips, now slippery and swollen.

I nosed underneath him, mouthing his scrotum, the near-suffocating but strangely comforting mass of his groin over me, enveloping my face, my head, pressing me back into the pillows. I mouthed one testicle, firm and familiar as my lips slipped around it, then another. Then -- I still shudder at the discovery -- a third. My mouth stopped. My breathing stopped.

He wiggled his hips until I began to suckle again. Three testicles. All in their nest, all oscillating, restless, producing more sperm for me.

His fingers continued to work my lips, then flicked lightly my clitoris.

All too soon I was again nearly at the precipice.

He entered me, on top this time. I felt his serpent slither completely up my channel. I held his lean bum cheeks in my hands, their contractions deliberate, controlled.

His body moved atop me, his embrace ranging over my limbs, my flanks, his hands holding my head, neck.

He continued to move. In and out, sideways, the same corkscrewing motions as earlier, only from a different angle now. My excitement heightened. My thighs gripped him. I was ready to climax.

Except that I couldn't. He continued to curl his hips, his penis, into me and I kept thinking that each next thrust would carry me over the cliff. But it didn't. It was like watching an ocean wave at the beach that looked as if it was about to breach but never did, just kept a crest up, white foam at the top, rolling along but never breaking.

He pushed forever. I felt his penis head strike my cervix, that strange softness of its increasingly violent caresses, and like Zeno's paradox, each thrust bringing me closer to release but never quite there. I was sweating, panting, my legs rigid, toes impossibly tense, wondering if I ever would crescendo.

His hips grew frantic, the thrusts came in a violent cascade. Then as if some switch went off, I found myself permitted to give in, and a wave, the first of several, washed over me as my anus quivered and my channel squeezed on the serpent.

My breath escaped me. His teeth were on my neck. His hips forced me down into the bed. And finally a giant push, and he slowed, those last few sperm-propelling thrusts, and all was quiet.

My breathing on his neck was shallow, rapid. I felt his penis soften inside me, the weight of his body suddenly heightened. I was covered. Smothered. But somehow comfortable.

He lay on top of me for some time. I kissed his neck, traced fingers over his back, feeling the bony nubs of his vertebra.

Finally he stirred. His penis slopped out of me. He stood at the side of the bed, the serpent dangling, still curved but wet, soft, a shadow of its former self.

'I must go.'

I shook my head. 'You must stay!' I thought, my throat contracting.

He lowered his mouth to mine and the kiss was electric, as if another switch had gone off.

He dressed carefully, then soothed me under the covers.

'My thanks', he whispered. 'Your attentions were superb.'

And then he was gone.

My mind spun. I almost rose to use the loo, but a great tug of sleep overtook me and I drifted off.

Strange dreams came and went. Unsettled oceans, sea caves, roiling serpents, twisting paths. I awoke on edge but with a curious inner warmth throughout me.

After putting on my robe, I saw that he had left a note on the chess set, folded underneath the last piece I had moved, a rook.

His handwriting was in a small, detailed, immaculate cursive. The words were in Latin, directing my attention to several specific sections in the second volume of the Steganographia.

I inhaled. I couldn't wait to gather myself and make my journey to the archive to see what I could find. When would I see Phausto again? What passages was he urging me to consult?