Strange Hunger

Hanna pulled off her dress and panties and went nude with the kit and the bottle of gin to the bathroom. When she was done with the enema, carefully blanking out of her mind any thought of how gross this exercise was and what it was leading to, she opened the gin and took a couple of solid swallows, grimacing as it burned her throat.

Then she tipped some of the alcohol into one palm, anointed her hands with it and started to rub it thoroughly into the soft, pale skin of her breasts and belly, like some kind of reverse-moistener. She took care to rub an extra helping into her armpits; hopefully sweating, which she was certain to do, would bring the smell out even more strongly. She took another swig of the gin, nodded at herself in the mirror and promptly dumped about half of what remained down the sink.

The make-up girl was gone by the time Hanna returned to the room, reeking of booze. She was alone. She grinned to herself as she flopped face-down on the bed, leaving the half-finished mickey of gin in easy reach right beside Lady Chatterley's Lover. Shifted herself around to present her ass to best advantage, and let warm anticipation thrum through her wet slit as she settled into her best "passed-out drunk bitch" performance.

This was different from other times trying to lure boys into fucking her; this time, provided they didn't get pissed off and throw her out, she knew it was coming. Coming from that big, sexy creep of a pornographer whose voice would sound like... Whose muscular body and big, strong hands and thick, hot cock would feel like...

Her sex pulsed as she tried to keep those trains of thought from pulling into the station. The room reeled queasily around her almost as if she really was drunk. She wondered how angry he'd be at her little gambit, how he'd react, how he'd take it out on her, and the wondering made her squirm, her clit and nipples stiffening, her juices dewing the lips of her shaven cunt.

The wait felt far longer than it was. Eventually the door to the room opened again and she heard Chris' voice—no, Eamonn's voice—say: "Alright, sugar-pop, you ready to make some magic?"

* * *

"Goddammit," he was saying disgustedly a few minutes later as he sat heavily beside her on the bed, contemplating the lemon gin. "I told her she could take a couple of belts, not suck down half the fucking bottle. Goddammit to hell with these dumb whores, it's always something."

Insulting though they were, the words ignited a little coal in Hanna's belly. She could hear anger there... and a desire to punish. Her pussy ached with need. She held very still. Hearing Chris' voice—no, Eamonn's voice—so close and so angry transported her right back to that night. I am a stone.

"So she's out?" asked the cameraman.

"What do you think?" He took hold of one arm, lifted it and released. It flopped limply back to the bed. He slapped one of her big, creamy glutes hard-she gave him a little "unconscious" pussy-flashing squirm as a reward for that-and watched it ripple. "Fuck. She's such a sweet little thing, too, just look at that ass. Do you have any idea how much fun it is to fuck that ass? To watch it getting fucked?"

"Yeah." The cameraman chuckled. "I was here for her last scene, remember?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, her enthusiasm needed work, but she did alright. This would've been a good scene, I'm sure of it. Fuck. She reeks like a damn distillery, too, don't know how you get this smashed in this little time, it's gotta be a record. And I had my heart set on her and all..."

His voice trailed off, thoughtfully. The cameraman cleared his throat. "Uh... so are you gonna call that other chick again? Are we kicking this one to the curb?"

"Hmm." Pensive. The pause drew out until finally Eamonn said: "No. I don't think so. You know what? Let's make lemonade. This bitch came here to do a scene and she's doing it. It is a drunk sister scene, after all."

Hanna felt that warm coal in her belly waxing to a molten heat. Holding still became more of a challenge now, but she managed it. Just barely.

"For real?" The cameraman sounded dubious. "But if she's like... unconscious... isn't that..."

"She signed her waiver and we know she needs the money." Eamonn's tone grew harder as he spoke. He sounded more and more like Chris. Hanna grew wetter and hornier with every word. "And I happen to know why she needs the money. She wakes up sore, so what? Happens to street rats like her all the time." A queasy inner hilarity welled up, hearing him say it. If you only knew. "You're not gonna have a problem with this, are you?"

"Your show, man. I just don't want to get caught up, is all."

"Nothing to worry about, anybody asks and we'll just say she was acting." Her inner hilarity rose another notch. "When she finally wakes up we just have her do a post-interview on camera that confirms it. No interview, no money. Simple as that."

"If you say so." The cameraman still sounded dubious. Fuck, Hanna fretted suddenly, thinking back to last night at the Wicked Hostel. Don't tell me this guy's gonna be "Windows 2.0." But no: "So, how are we doing this?"

"Gimme the camcorder." Eamonn's voice was decisive, almost harsh, a lot like Chris' could be when he wanted it to. "I'll POV entrance and set-up and the first two or three positions, then hand off to you. Sound good?"

"Sure. Let's get it done."

* * *

The beauty of her set-up, she reflected, was that Eamonn hardly had to do any acting to play the "angry brother" role. She listened to him back up, reset, clear his throat and hum a bit... and then he was walking in on her, saying: "Hey sis, the show's in twenty minutes, you ready to go?" And then he stopped, training the camera on her and letting it drink it the graceful curves of her thick, naked rump and her tattooed back, letting it focus on the half-empty mickey of gin at the bedside, and all he had to do was summon the same tone he'd had a few minutes earlier as he said: "What the fuck?"

He came in, looming over her. She could hear the camera whirring, focusing in on her slack, supposedly "unconscious" face as she let a string of drool drip wetly from her bottom lip. He prodded one yielding buttock with a finger.

"Sis? Fuck, you been drinking again." An angry snarl in his voice that wasn't even a bit fake. "Shit, this is getting old. Sis? Get up."

Eamonn hauled off and slapped her ass just as hard as he'd done earlier. Again she gave a little squirm and a vague moan in response, clearly still "under." His breath was audibly rasping, the pornographer sounding genuinely turned on at the prospect of having her tight, helpless young body at his mercy. He shoved at her, slapped her ass again... and again. One cheek and then the other, his big, strong hands warming her soft glutes as they jiggled under the spanking, her pussy getting wetter and hotter with each stroke as she squirmed and mumbled incoherently. After a half-dozen smacks she could hear him panting with desire.

"Well, I guess we're not going to the gig, tonight," he said thickly. "After I got us on the guest list and everything. I'm just gonna have to find some other way to entertain myself, right?" She heard his fingers working at his zipper as he added: "Maybe you'd better entertain me, sis. I know you want to make it up to me... don't you?"

Her breaths quickened as she heard him step closer. The slight whirring sound of the camcorder grew louder. She felt the heat of him close to her face as his hand took hold of her pretty features, pulling down on her jaw so that her mouth opened... and she could smell the musky scent on him as his cock brushed against her soft lips. He was big like Chris had been, maybe even bigger, and the broad mushroom head of him leaked a pungent droplet of pre-cum on her tongue as he started to sample the warm wetness of her mouth.

Wet, slurping sounds came out around his meat, Hanna's head spinning as he gently fucked her face. He could only get her about a quarter of the way down his smooth, deliciously salty shaft before he was in danger of gagging her, but even that much was still clearly pleasurable; he groaned as her tongue worked "reflexively" on him, flickering around him as though somewhere deep in her stupor, the violation was being translated into a dream of sucking on a lollipop.

"Yeah," muttered Chris' voice—no, no, Eamonn's voice—as he savoured her. And he sent a spasm of throbbing heat through her as he said: "Even passed out my little sister's a fucking slut... fuck yeah..."

But there was one respect in which Eamonn was going to be very unlike anyone she had done this with before. The guys she usually used to feed the hunger, even the one guy who had most directly created it in its current addictive form, weren't pornstars. They didn't have the kind of trained staying power needed to stretch out sex scenes for the edification of the triple-X viewing audience. Eamonn was clearly gritting his teeth and fighting the erotic power of having Hanna's body so utterly at his disposal—but by the time he pulled free of her lips he'd already lasted longer than most of them ever managed.

Then he moved around behind her, and her body thrilled even as the dark memories of Chris echoed through her. She began to wonder what Eamonn's staying power would do to her in this state; her level of wetness and arousal was almost unbearable as it was. His fingers took charge of her sex first, stroking her syrupy snatch and masturbating her swollen clit, forcing another squirm out of her which she dramatized with more sleepy-sounding mumbles and moans. Within moments she could feel a miniature orgasm ripple through her, her hole clutching and her belly clenching as her juices dripped all over his skilled digits.

"Having some wet dreams, sis?" he rasped, and he had never sounded more eerily like her real brother than he did in that moment. She shivered: again she was sure he had no need to play-act the lewd contempt in his tone. "You're just a little drunken whore, aren't you? A filthy little whore just asking for a good, hard fucking, huh? Well, ask... and you shall receive." She felt the heat of his cockhead play up and down her gash, felt him take big handfuls of her ass; a split-second later he was surging into her with a grunt.

The intense sensation of having Chris' pornstar doppelganger pull her dripping socket onto his throbbing prick—in the full belief that he was raping an unconscious young slut, using her for his own pleasure and profit, punishing her for disobedience—brought Hanna off even harder than the first inward thrust in such a session usually did. Far harder. She had to surreptitiously bite the pillow in front of her to keep from screaming as her pussy clamped around him like a velvety vise, as the huge dimensions of that gorgeous, bloated prick made her wriggle and let out little, broken "half-aware" moans as her sex fervently drenched it in hot nectar and milked it for all it was worth. The waves of ecstasy were blinding, taking her deep under, like she was drowning under tidal surges from a sea of dark and horrible delights.

In between surges, as little whimpers escaped around the mouthful of pillow, for the first time she had a fragmentary awareness that the pleasure was going to be too intense for her to keep up a plausible act. If Eamonn was watching her closely enough, he couldn't possibly mistake her squirms now, not to mention the liberal dousings and spasmodic caresses her honeypot was lavishing on his plundering tool, for anything but the reactions of a very conscious and very horny slut. But if he noticed anything, he didn't break character. He hammered into her over and over, the impact of his prick inside her and his balls against her clit sending her deeper and deeper into that surging sea of obliterating lust, their flesh slapping together as he worked both their bodies into a lathering rhythm and gasped a steady stream of dirty talk.

"Fuuuck you're so fucking tight sis... so tight and wet around my dick, you must've wanted this so bad, yeah? ... Take it, bitch, take my fucking dick, I can feel you cumming so hard on it, fuck yeaaahhh you're such a good little slut, sis..."

Usually this part of the ritual took a paramour over the edge within a few thrusts. But with Eamonn, it was like the evil seduction of Chris taking her tight cunt had been set on a loop and left to run and run and run. His voice grew pronouncedly ragged; his free hand shook a little as he caressed the curve of her tattooed back and slapped her soft, rippling ass; his rhythm grew gradually faster, harder, deeper; but for all that, he kept control, holding his nut with Olympian effort as he ravished her orgasmic, squirting cunt. The ecstasy pouring through her made her light-headed, she could feel her breaths coming shorter and faster, her head swimming as she jolted and writhed under the ceaseless, merciless pummelling and heard the squelching sounds of her pussy yielding all to Eamonn's ramrod fuck-stick.

Suddenly she realized that she wasn't going to have to worry about acting any more. With a belated sense of true alarm, Hanna knew she was going to pass out. A vague thought wandered across her mind: she'd heard somewhere once that the French called orgasm the little death. What if this kind of pleasure was too intense to be sustained? What if she was really about to die while cumming all over Eamonn's cock? Would that be the best kind of death... or the worst?

Her reeling brain could manage no answer, except that she knew it would mean never seeing Nomi again. That was what made her finally try to spit out the pillow and say something, tell him she couldn't cum anymore, beg him to stop...

... except he hammered his cock home extra-deep in that moment and a fresh surge of climax racked her, and took her under.

* * *

After that, things seemed to progress in brief, disconnected snippets of consciousness.

She surfaced to find Chris leaning in over her, pouring insults into her ear as he used the extra leverage to rattle the bed with his deep, corkscrewing thrusts. "Fuckin' nasty little drunk slut," he was rasping, and she could feel one of his hands stroking her scalp as he braced himself with the other. Must mean he handed off the camcorder, she thought dizzily as her pussy clenched around his plunging member again. Wait... since when did Chris have a camcorder? Wait, no, not Chris... I mean... who do I mean...

Hanna slipped under and surfaced several more times, finding her body had been pulled into a different position each time as that beautiful big prick plowed her and she convulsed around it, more and more confused, feeling like she was losing her grip on where exactly she was and who she was with. She had this terrible, urgent sense that she needed to say something, but she wasn't sure what and another part of her was sure that she shouldn't say something, like a little devil perched on her shoulder hectoring: This is the best it's ever been, Hanna, don't blow this, you'll regret it, you are a stone, you are a stone, just let it happen, just let it happen... And Chris had her leg slung through one of his arms and her legs spread extra wide as he—no, no, uhh... Eamonn not Chris, it isn't Chris it isn't Chris don't lose your fucking grip Hanna—as he lunged frantically into her and told her what a whore she was...

She surfaced woozily to find that he'd finally pulled out of her aching cunt, which was as swollen and sensitive as she could ever remember it feeling. Both their bodies were dripping with sweat. She could feel the boozy smell wafting off of her like it was drawn with little cartoon lines. She tried to say something but couldn't, like language itself was just on the tip of her tongue but wouldn't activate. Her ass was in the air and she could feel her cushiony glutes being spread graphically apart, something cool and slick being rubbed around the rim of her asshole. A sudden wave of panic went through her: Oh God the anal it's the anal I can't take it I've got to make this stop, but again that devil was on her other shoulder: We are not stopping this we want this get it together bitch...

Chris' cock... no, the... other guy's cock... her "bro's" cock was pressing in against her wet sphincter, a full-body throbbing heat rising up to swamp her as it pressed and pressed and pressed, and as he popped past the defeated clenching of her muscles and surged into her on a river of lube—turning what might have been agony into pure stretching pleasure—she felt an incredible toe-curling spontaneous orgasm radiating out from her untouched clit and the tide was pounding in on her again...

There were repeated flashes of coming to with her bowels still plugged with her "bro's" rutting, pulsating cock, her pussy squirting with each thrust as flesh slapped loudly against flesh and her big beautiful ass joggled under the domineering treatment, and feeling sure that this time she was going to cry out from the depths of her being and yell either "Please no more!" or "Fuck me harder!" or maybe just "Aieee!", she had absolutely no idea which, but the tide was coming in again and she was swooning again before she could manage any of them...

Until finally she came to with his cock in her mouth again, his bulbous head stretching out one cheek as the flavour of him—seasoned now with the pungency of her own asshole—played over her tastebuds. His ragged gasps announced the point of his crisis at long last: he was pulsating, twitching, exploding with a great wrenching moan as the bullets of his slimy spunk fired off and flooded her throat, forcing her to swallow desperately just to be able to breathe, swallowing and swallowing as he emptied his balls with a cry of triumph that sent a final aftershock of orgasm rippling through her, the contractions almost painful as she gulped down his boiling sperm like a prurient communion.

Her eyes were open and finally able to focus as her "bro" pulled back and splattered her face and chin with the last stray droplets of his jism. The potent cocktail of flavours, the ultimate tribute of his cum, made her resonant with pleasure as she looked up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. For a moment it was Chris perched over her, panting as his slackening prick twitched in the aftermath and his spunk slid down her throat and dripped from her pretty young face. The vision of him was so vivid that she actually felt tears smarting in her eyes, thought for a mad and giddy moment that somehow she was seeing him on the other side, that she might finally get a chance to hug him, console him, cry in his arms, punch him in the face, rage at him, scream at him... ask him why.

But then she blinked and it was Eamonn again, in all his red-haired pompadoured glory, and relief and disappointment brought her back down to earth as the disorientation of her multiple fainting spells began to fade. Her head was still spinning as she tried to regather herself and take stock: she was raw in both her holes, her body ached, and she felt like her stomach was on the verge of cramping. She was exhausted as if she had run a marathon. Her head felt like it was packed with cotton.

More than that, though: something profound had just happened to her, she was in blind new territory that she'd never imagined possible. Eamonn, together with the phantom memories of Chris, had unwittingly taken her to a place she'd never been before, had blown past all her defences and ripped away all her control and rendered the ordeal into a near-spiritual experience... or a further decimation of her spirit, it was too soon to tell. She had thought she might be able to use him to feed the hunger, but instead he had taken her so far beyond her previous cumslut games that they already looked like child's play in the rear-view. She wasn't sure she'd be able to go back.