Diana Cazadora's smile was a menacing wreath of cruelty as it played about her lolling tongue. The incessant metallic glow from her green eyes pierced through the web of oiled black tresses that crawled in serpentine tendrils over her ivory shoulders to her brilliantly nippled titflesh.
She saw the looks of putrid fear on the faces of those who had profaned her.
Those who now knew that humiliation, degradation and abysmal pain would be their punishment.
Diana saw also the stony grimaces of those who had yet to penetrate her domain. They would soon know that the indomitable savagery of their mistress's snapping quim was no legendary tale.
It was the key to their existence.
The bristling snake pit that would succor their hunger. By feeding ravenously upon them.
She gazed diffidently at the leather-clad man's purple-black prick pullulating with jungle jism. Smirked at his tremendous flowering of balls.
Sweat ran cold as she spoke, and cunt-juices stopped dead in their cracks. Semen hardened in dicks heavy with churning blood.
"The men have proved that they cannot even pretend to master the empire of pain, of panic-of pandemonium. Therefore the mistress will resume her rightful place."
Her hips twitched like the rump of a leashed bitch in rut.
"The animals die with fear in their eyes," she said with flared nostrils. "Let's see how keen you all are to meet my machines."
CHAPTER ONE
The snow-covered mountains passing outside the heavily tinted windows of the limousine appeared alive, hovering in the darkness like the mammoth breasts of a female giant. Each colossal mound seemed to breathe and heave, and they were never-ending in succession.
The man brought his hand to his brow and rubbed the deep creases. The stress had now nearly worn itself off and he only now could begin to take pleasure in the company of the auburn-haired woman in repose off to his side.
Thickly forested valleys loomed below like out-sized thatches of puss hair. Covered with the crisp layer of fresh-crackling come glowing beneath the crescent moon, a ghostly anointing provided in the man's imagination by some striding prick of heavenly proportion.
Francis Dashwood began to feel his neck muscles relax as finally he sank into this reverie. There came the nibbling of the hunger inside him as he scanned the landscape.
He ignored the silent onscreen blather of the video monitor, the sounds of which his brand-new wife Artemis listened to over jacked-in earphones.
Instead, he concentrated on the stirring sight of the stand of frosty conifers now lining the road. Like proud pricks covered with frozen jism, their sides bristling and spiky, the pine forest was a fine image to incite one's fancy.
He was glad to be getting away.
With the relaxation and the first pangs of the hunger, Francis felt at last detached from his inevitable daily problems. They were as if in an entirely different world.
His enterprises in the nightlife of New York seemed so far distant.
Thousands of miles away. Of another era.
Alien, certainly, to this world.
Francis clutched the long, cool fingers of his wife's hand. He looked into her lickerish smile and felt the hunger flare once more.
He was already anticipating the rush to glory, the shimmer of his muscles. And the calm that would come afterward.
There were those who said that all aficionados of athletic pursuits were ultimately devotees of physical pain.
But Francis understood that the trend of recent medical research indicated that all forms of stress--athletic, sexual, emotional--set into action certain bodily mechanisms.
These processes did not heighten the pain. Rather, they resulted in the release of the body's own pleasure-provoking and energizing substances.
The rapid descent down the side of a mountain was like the hurtle of ejaculation. Flying downhill on skis involved an element of fear and adventure, itself a form of release.
Even the sauna, with its overtones of torture and purification, demanded stressing the body's acceptance of heat.
Pursuit of pleasure?
Or adoration of pain?
He saw the tightly nippled chest of his wife quiver as she breathed. Her firm legs were covered with sensually cut slacks of nubbly wool, with feathery tassels of weave running the sides from waist to cuff.
Francis allowed himself a gentle smile.
Artemis was herself a devotee of pain.
But she didn't know that yet. There still remained parts of herself to which she had not been properly introduced.
She would have said simply that she was one who appreciated physical culture.
As she had remarked more than once, it was an inherent part of her public image. What better and more credible advertising could a line of fashion sportswear have than for the designer Artemis Schwartz to be highly visible as an excruciatingly sexy action-lady.
Artemis would have it that her exercises were symptoms of her devotion to financial gain, not physical pain.
Francis saw the familiar bend in the road come up ahead. They were nearly there already.
The smoky taste in his mouth told Francis that the hunger was there in full force of arousal. He took in the landscape and marveled once more at its glorious wild beauty.
Its thrilling dimension that even in memory could ignite the hunger response. The craving for the flash of pursuit from the summit to the valley depths. Plummeting through successive layers of his own emotions to touch if only for an instant the true depths of his being.
It was as if the landscape itself held the keys to his soul.
Situated on the Canadian border, not so very far from New York, was this amazing country, he reflected.
The isolation, the freedom.
And yet so close to his work.
With the troubles and the frantics of his new nightspot inescapable during the weeks ahead, Francis felt this weekend to be of the highest, most desperate importance.
"I'm glad you made me come," Francis said, leaning over to take his wife in his arms.
"I'm glad you could make it," Artemis said.
He brought his hands down to the center of his groin and felt his cock jostle a bit. He flicked it through the thick flannel material of his sharply pleated trousers.
The thickness responded with a lazy catlike stretch. Arching its back, whipping out from its secluded lair where it had lain comfortably within the folds of his pants material.
Arousing from a slumber.
And now dangerous.
Artemis was so happy that they could now be together. They hadn't ever been alone together for more than an evening at a time.
Their busy schedules had precluded even a token honeymoon to celebrate their hasty civil wedding. Any real vacation would have to come later, but this would do for now.
Artemis had been more than joyed when Francis had asked her to see if there was an open slot in her schedule. Some time during the upcoming month she would be able to get away.
With Francis. For a few days.
Alone together.
Artemis of course knew of Francis's passion for the outdoors, for cold-weather sports in particular. The cold and the mountains, though she could well appreciate the scenery and the fireplace, did not happen to be her personal preference for a wintertime break.
Her favorite vacation choices would have rather involved the sun and the beach. But she had gone ahead with the arrangements anyway.
She had heard Francis mention this place, with a relish to his voice and a pang of glitter in his eyes. It was obviously one of his favorite playgrounds.
One of his most valued getaway places.
Since Francis had in the interim determined to open his new art-gallery discotheque the following weekend, Artemis had actually feared he might cancel at the last instant.
But when she had looked out the vast window of her design studio and seen, just as they had planned, the long dark automobile with its motor running at the curb, she knew it was meant to be.
Artemis had rushed downstairs, still coated from her work with pastels, bits of yarns and glue and sweat, and jumped inside.
Francis was waiting, obviously dog-tired but grinning widely. The limousine already held their luggage and they were on their way.
Together.
They would finally have a chance to get to know each other. Not only as man and wife, but as deeply emotive beings.
Artemis sighed.
She brought her own hands down to cover Francis's. Feeling the warmth and the hardness, she went at the zipper.
In seconds her hands were inside and his cock was out. She ran her strong fingers along its hardening length.
Francis flinched and lifted his flanks from the seat. Artemis flicked open his belt buckle and undid the buttons.
His trousers fell down past his knees and the head of his prick smacked against his flat belly. Artemis worked her fingertips along the bristly copse of pud hair.
It was like briars covering his bustling sac. And Artemis didn't know why, but she found that thorniness most arousing to her.
When she ran her fingers along the root, probing the fleshy balls, she could almost sense the come beginning to ferment.
Within the moving scrotum, she knew there was a new heat. And she would have that heat. Inside.
In her mouth. Her ass. Her cunt.
She placed the penis to her lips.
Francis squirmed as Artemis drew the thickness of her spread tongue across the eye of his pecker. The brewing semen was flashing off energizing sparks all along his dong.
It speared his testicles and slithered down the length of the shaft to the hopping head. Then it traversed his pelvis and bit him in the asshole all the way up.
Artemis slickered the pecker with her tongue tip and prattled away with her fluttery fingers. Jostling the balls.
Shaking the sperm up.
"It'll be nice to be around some sane people for a change," Francis said, holding his wife's head close in his lap.
"Must be tough," Artemis murmured, dick in mouth, hands under smooth masculine rump.
"All those weirdos in the art world-it really is a scene. You know each and every one of them has what those of us in straight business would call a criminal attitude."
Artemis jabbed her fingers around his anal pucker and took her lips all the way down his shimmering cockshaft.
She felt her lips press into his briar patch. Pricking them and making them feel oh, so glad that she was his mate.
"Now don't go getting yourself worked up," Artemis said. "When you get right down to it, that's why they're artists-they don't want to obey the strictures of society."
"And collectively they are worth many millions of dollars to yours truly," Francis said, spreading his asscheeks.
She dropped one of her own hands into her whining crotch. The fingers fondled her engorged slit, rubbing it with the nubbly material.
The limousine slowed to make a left hand turn between the gates appearing in the break of the high stone wall that now ran alongside the two-lane blacktop as it snaked through the snowy winter landscape.
Francis licked his lips in sureness that his hunger would be satisfied. Tonight.
Artemis yanked the cock out of her mouth and read the elegantly lettered sign on the tall stonework gatepost.
They were there already. The driver must have been moving fast. Though one would never know it from the smooth ride the limo gave.
As they passed easily through the grounds of the lodge, Artemis knew in part why Spa Abbey of
Theleme had so captivated her husband.
The driver stopped the car discreetly outside of the garage as Francis pointed out the various surrounding summits, naming them and describing the ski runs down their slopes.
As Artemis shellacked his joint and jiggled his balls, he bent forward.
He brought up his knees and felt the fury gash through his loins.
The shot of jism smacked his wife in the teeth and spattered over her blouse.
The sparkling come hung like icicles from her spermy maw. She spouted it in small pulses toward his grimacing face.
Her hands ground the glop into her mouth cheeks as she opened her slacks.
Francis could see that the crotch of her panties was matted and slathered with lady juice. He fiddled with her fur through the front of her panties and riffled the hard clit.
She shimmied her ass and he snatched the pants on down her thighs.
As Artemis leaned back, she experienced the drama of the setting. The remote beauty of the place Spa Abbey of Theleme was situated.
At least one slope was illuminated for nighttime skiing, and Artemis could see a number of Thelemites dangling from ski lifts and blazing down the runs.
That was how she felt, rushing on a chilling run as Francis ran his lips down her slithery slit. Manipulating her clit with his teeth.
She took her fingers and inserted them into her mouth. Coated with saliva, she polished the inside of her quim with shuddering strokes.
The hanging smatters of jism snapped along her jaw as she convulsed in orgasm. The delirium leapt between her legs as she jerked convulsively in her serious frenzy.
Artemis lay slack, in a wash of cool sweat as Francis hit a lit plastic tab aligned above the silent video monitor.
The car slid into gear and Artemis began to resume her clothes. She wiped her mouth of jism and yawned.
She was beat. Could use a nap.
As the stretched-out carriage with the stretched-out couple in the rear delivered them to the entranceway of the large stone central building, she wasn't at all sure that she was up to what Francis had planned.
"I'm really glad we did that," Artemis said as she played the humming tip of the streamlined massage unit along the nape of her neck.
"You'll be happier still when your muscles unwind after you join me in the sauna," Francis said as he opened the cedarwood door.
In his muscular hands Artemis saw that he was carrying two industrial-gray towels inscribed in black-outlined blood-red with the spa's monogram.
Artemis shut off the massage unit and almost giggled out loud. She realized what it was that the high-tech massager brought to mind.
Its gleaming metallic length and puce-colored rubber head made it look like a robotic dick.
Artemis ran her hand along the shaft and was amazed at herself for what she was thinking. All that skiing so soon after their arrival had made her silly, she thought.
Then, playfully, she brought the rubber tip to her mouth and kissed it. She flicked it back on and thought about how it would feel.
Grinding up inside her.
She thought of electric wires like thorny public hairs. Hot-wired to her clit and to her arse hole. The sputtering goo of lady juice sizzling with conducted energy.
Her quim began to teem with fermenting juices, she redirected the twirling head of the pleasure machine downward.
Tentatively, fearfully.
"Artemis, will you kindly get the hell into this sauna. I want to squeeze your tits," Francis shouted lewdly.
She shut off the massager and took a look down at her tits. Firm, they were, with rosy nipples stiff and ready to grip.
She slid onto the hot wooden bench next to Francis and slathered his neck with her saliva. He wiped his hair with the towels and uncrossed his legs, cock pulsing wildly.
"I see you have become enamored of the massage device," Francis joked.
"Yeah, I thought about how it might feel to fuck it," she said smiling.
"Disgusting," he said. "You must like to sit on washing machines or blenders-processed quim."
"Oh, stop it," Artemis said, reaching for his dangling dong.
She urged it to readiness for penetration with the strokes of her fingers.
Artemis thought of how conservative Francis could seem at times. She wondered how he would choose to become involved in such an artsy scene as his newest venture demanded.
Gallery owners and transvestite stockbroker-collectors. Socialites whose cultural activities and highbrow aims involved getting their names and photos into print.
Would-be artists full of their own presumed genius. Successful artists full of their own fleeting renown and now for the moment sporting sycophantic coteries of their own.
Then she thought of the money Francis had talked about in recent weeks. She understood.
Their pores opened and the heat became unbearable as they jerked each other off. The dry heat began to scorch their hides.
Their perspiration evaporated quickly in the oven-intensity heat of the electric heating element operating the sauna.
When Artemis thought they would die from dehydration, Francis moved to a gleaming metal nozzle and turned on a spray of ice-cold water.
It was life-giving to the nearly seared flesh, but its frigidity was its own form of torture at the same time.
They had drinks in their suite as they dressed for a late dinner. It was due to the trip, the physical exertion and the sauna that she felt so looped, Artemis thought as she weaved down the stone hallway to the dining room.
"Ah, Mr. Dash wood," the tall sandy-haired man in evening attire said as they approached the wide doorway. "Mr. and Mrs. Dash wood, I should say. Begging your indulgence."
"Good evening, Alistair," Francis said to the man as he brought Artemis's hand forward and up.
Alistair bent to kiss her wrist, then took one fingertip partly within his mouth and smooched.
"I don't have to tell you how lovely she is," Alistair beamed, rolling his eyes toward Artemis as he escorted the couple to a table near to the crackling fireplace.
"I am afraid our hostess has encountered a bit of delay this evening," Alistair said to them as they were seated.
He added as he launched into a description of the evening's special dishes, "She is, however, expected to be with us later this evening."
"Marvelous," Francis intoned.
Artemis looked at the panorama through the wraparound picture windows. The scenery was dazzling even at midnight, as the crescent moon sent jagged shapes running dynamically down the surrounding mountainsides.
She was utterly exhausted and the best thing in the world would be for her to get to sleep.
But she was fascinated by Spa Abbey of Theleme and did look forward to meeting its proprietress. If only Artemis were in a more energetic mode.
After a light meal and heavy consumption of wine, Francis and Artemis strolled along the promenades through different offerings of the spa's central building.
In addition to the dining room and select number of suites equipped with their own private saunas, there was a discotheque, a number of theme bars, and a casual dining area.
At the entranceway, they stopped and looked again at the imposing sculpture. It was a concoction of many media.
From a base reminiscent of a primitive altar built by an ancient people of the forest sprouted a cone-shaped ebony pedestal surmounted by an atavistically feminine bust literally swarming with moving breasts.
They agreed that the semiprecious stones, feather-work, carved hardwood and animal pelts had been used magnificently by the artist. And the inflatable rubber of the breasts, Artemis felt, was a truly exquisite touch.
The face was crowned by a sparkle of a crescent moon protruding hornlike from the dark, straightly coifed shower of monkey fur that was the sculptured woman's hair.
The combination of rusticity and elegance was absolutely in keeping with the ambience of Spa Abbey of Theleme. As she viewed the work of art, Artemis felt a melting in her own bosom.
"I've got to get a copy of this for the club," Francis was saying.
"You can talk to your Miss Cazadora about it later," Artemis said stifling a yawn.
"Our Miss Cazadora-Diana, if you please from now on," Francis said, breathing into her hair.
Francis looked into Artemis's eyes as she gazed over the statue. He could tell she was about ready to conk out.
Well, he wasn't at all tired now. In fact he was energized by the skiing, the sauna, the food and drink. He had the hunger yapping up the back of his tongue.
He could get it up for old Diana any time. And besides, he had business with her and Alistair. They knew the ins and outs of the art world and Francis wanted to see if they would be willing to act as consultants for his new enterprise.
Artemis didn't have to be around.
But Francis had wanted her to be there. To share Diana with him.
To see what a smashing personality she was. In the flesh and in the pink.
"She should be here any moment, I'm sure," Francis said, cupping her hips.
Artemis said, "I can see that you're more awake than I am at this point. And I can tell that you're looking forward to a little rendezvous with our hostess-so why don't I leave you to your whims and get some sleep."
"But I so much want you to meet her,". Francis said, kissing her.
Artemis looked over Francis's shoulder at the many-titted sculpture. Poised on the tip of the spiky ebony cone.
"I'll be in much more presentable shape in the morning," she said. "You know I'm looking forward to meeting her-I mean this is an unbelievable place-but I'm out for the night now."
"Okay, dear," Francis said, patting her on the rump.
As she ascended the staircase, she looked back. Francis was gone. Her eyes drifted once more to the sculpture.
She recognized its source from her art courses. It was a contemporary rendering of the statue of the Greek goddess Artemis, known to the classical Romans as Diana.
Goddess of the hunt, plus some other stuff Artemis couldn't remember. Fertility and chastity too, maybe?
Artemis and Diana.
Were they after all one and the same? Francis had obviously loved Diana Cazadora sometime in the past-but he had married Artemis Schwartz.
This type of meeting would have been disastrous in junior high school. But they were all grown adults now.
Mature enough to overcome any feelings of jealousy. If things so worked out, they might even become very close companions.
Artemis undressed and slopped another drink down from an open bottle in the refrigerator in their suite. Comfortably ensconced in the enormous bed, Artemis aimlessly shifted the television from channel to channel.
There was a rerun she had seen more than once before. An installment of her favorite horror-movie show, Hecate's Horrorhouse.
The hostess was raven-haired and wore jewelry of onyx and silver. Black net stockings and spiky-heeled ankle boots of shiny soft leather.
And spurs.
Her white boobs pushed nearly through the deep cleavage of her spandex bodice.
Blood-red lips and green eyes provided an almost jewel-like counterpoint to the purity of black and white. Artemis loved Hecate's clothes.
The outfits were different each week. And she remembered this one as among her favorites-even though the movie itself was among the most grotesque and pitiful.
Tonight's ensemble, Artemis noted with as much glee as her approaching slumber would allow, included a small set of silver horns, fashioned to resemble the crescent moon.
Artemis felt the hostess so very sexy that she had actually jerked herself off to her when watching her alone on chilly New York nights.
Well, that would be something for her to dream about.
The hands gripped her tits, her clit, and shot in and out of her asshole. They felt covered with rubber and greased. Slimy and irresistible.
There seemed to be a dozen pairs yanking at her clover. Buzzing at her like a swarm of bees.
The tits-so many of them, it seemed-nuzzled their bullet-like nips into her cheek and teeth. There was what felt like a fist in her fanny and a hunger in her grumbling tummy.
Something cool and incessantly stroking was slowly going up the insides of her thigh like an alien prick. Some robot's dong ready to diddle her dripping twat in intergalactic frenzy.
She froze in a wash of sweat.
Then she relaxed.
It was, after all, a dream.
Wild as it might seem, it held her fancy. She would enjoy it while it lasted.
The bubbling inside her quim was raising her to a feverish intensity.
It slickered the lips and glued them together. Then they shivered open, dripping foamy brine over her hump and snorting up her gasping bum.
This was the most intense dream Artemis could ever remember.
So solid.
She could feel the fingers acrawl over her body. Smell the rut spear into her nostrils.
Hear the snap of her asshole as a thumb or a fist popped out.
Abruptly "wiggling, her fanny slipped from the masculine grasp.
It hooked onto a tumbling rubber nib that bit into her rectum. It buzzed and torqued up her ravenously shaking rump.
Rubber head followed by sleek and cool metallic shaft, right up her ass.
When the head was buried, Artemis sensed a thorny scramble about the raised pucker of her bustling buttocks.
Almost like tearing flesh.
She was lifted from the twisting engine and her twat erupted in a wash of lady-juice.
The big tits tapped her as though they were real dugs. The metallic cool inched between her two openings on her underside as she wriggled her rump, enclosed again in his arms.
Whose arms?
Her eyes flickered open and she looked into the man's face. He looked almost like Francis.
She was dreaming she was being molested by her own husband and by a thousand fleshy breasts. And something foreign with a cold metallic dick.
Tight nipples buffeted her face.
Her eyelids fluttered and she shook herself awake. The man who held her looked like Francis, all right. But he was wearing something Francis would never have worn.
Sleek scarlet wristlets and anklets of stretch rubber and a band above his right bicep of the same material.
The man's face was powdered white laced with golden glitter. His lips were parted and painted in a reptilian green.
A skullcap of scarlet rubber covered his hair, ears and sideburns, coming to slightly curved points over his cheekbones.
His prick was enormous and purple, the sac enlarged and pounding. The genitals were strangled in a tight scarlet rubber cinch.
Dickhead aimed and at the ready.
Artemis felt a sputter at her arse hole and a twisting at the pucker. She moved her arms and felt the cord tighten around both wrists.
It was all too real.
The man's voice was that of Francis as he spoke to the feminine shapes circled about the near distance. The scent of body musk was so thick Artemis could chew it.
"It turns out our dear mistress is not able to make it this evening, Artemis," Francis said to her directly.
"If you please, ladies," he said to the female acolytes surrounding them, "let us proceed."
She bit into the man's nipple as he wrested her, struggling, downward.
Guided by his thighs.
Gliding onto the machine of her dreams.
Artemis screamed as the real prick-like engine delved into actual flesh. What was Francis doing to her? In front of all these naked women. Humiliating her.
Taking one voluptuous tit into his hammering maw like a long banana. Lowering her onto a savagely propelled machine-engineered cock of smooth rubber and cool metal.
Snarling with spikes at her yammering arse hole as it ran up and down her fundament.
What were they doing?
Exactly what she wanted them to do to her, Artemis suddenly realized.
She felt the arms release her. She was on an altar-like base of gray metal. Astride the shimmering prick.
The envy of the women around her who stroked their fur and frittered away at their clits.
Artemis was on her knees in front of them. So that they could all see her pain.
And her glory.
The scintillating froth that washed between her legs. The grimace on her face.
Tears rolling down her sweating face like syrup over buttered hotcakes.
The way she took into herself the purple dick of her husband.
In her cunt.
Then down her heaving throat.
Craving the come. Needing the fluid to enter into her.
She wanted so much to hold him. To hold the women who now drew closer.
But her arms were bound to her back. Twisting, she attempted to free herself.
But the pain still grew.
Almost like a hunger.
She wanted more.
Gnashing, she brought her jaw to Francis's wrists, tasting the rubber heated by his body rut. Sinking her teeth into the tightness and smoky taste of his rubber and musk.
There was a tingle in her hair, then a shower over her cheeks.
She saw Francis's raised purple dong sending out a shimmering arc of urine to the air. Cascading over her matted deep red tresses.
Two of the women were now poised above her, their legs angled wide. Open snatches smiled vertically down upon her.
Dripping cunt juices and bidding suck.
Francis sprayed piss over the legs of the women who stood to either side of his wife, silent and intense in concentration.
Artemis moved to take twat in her teeth. As she closed in on a dark brunette split, a sparkle of piss gulped down the spread thighs.
The urine shimmered onto Artemis's breasts, stinging the nipples.
Now Artemis sucked it directly from the hovering woman's cunt and felt the drum of a like spray over her head and back.
The steely dong gyrated her intestines, now picking up smidgens of piss and lady-juice as its necessary lubricant.
Francis stepped back. His inflated cock was being hammered in the fist of a raging woman with a shaved cunt and jingling silver rings depending from her huge, nearly colorless nips.
She felt the come ferment to a boil. Then she aimed the thing right at Artemis's opened yip. Amidst the double cascade of urine flew a languid stream of molten jism.
It mixed with the piss in her hair and drifted over Artemis's mouth cheeks in glops.
The sluice carried the dollops of jism dripping from her jaw. Streaking her long neck. Rippling down her shoulders.
Welling up over the heaving tits. Coagulating momentarily at the scalding nipples. Rushing in rivulets down her tight belly to collect in her bellybutton. Then overflowing down the smooth slope into her sparkling cunt hairs.
It stung the clit into myriad cavorting spasms. The mist of piss and jism slid into her gummy cunt folds and down underneath her.
The brew was whipped up by the twirling spikes
Craving the come. Needing the fluid to enter into her.
She wanted so much to hold him. To hold the women who now drew closer.
But her arms were bound to her back. Twisting, she attempted to free herself.
But the pain still grew.
Almost like a hunger.
She wanted more.
Gnashing, she brought her jaw to Francis's wrists, tasting the rubber heated by his body rut. Sinking her teeth into the tightness and smoky taste of his rubber and musk.
There was a tingle in her hair, then a shower over her cheeks.
She saw Francis's raised purple dong sending out a shimmering arc of urine to the air. Cascading over her matted deep red tresses.
Two of the women were now poised above her, their legs angled wide. Open snatches smiled vertically down upon her.
Dripping cunt juices and bidding suck.
Francis sprayed piss over the legs of the women who stood to either side of his wife, silent and intense in concentration.
Artemis moved to take twat in her teeth. As she closed in on a dark brunette split, a sparkle of piss gulped down the spread thighs.
The urine shimmered onto Artemis's breasts, stinging the nipples.
Now Artemis sucked it directly from the hovering woman's cunt and felt the drum of a like spray over her head and back.
The steely dong gyrated her intestines, now picking up smidgens of piss and lady-juice as its necessary lubricant.
Francis stepped back. His inflated cock was being hammered in the fist of a raging woman with a shaved cunt and jingling silver rings depending from her huge, nearly colorless nips.
She felt the come ferment to a boil. Then she aimed the thing right at Artemis's opened yip. Amidst the double cascade of urine flew a languid stream of molten jism.
It mixed with the piss in her hair and drifted over Artemis's mouth cheeks in glops.
The sluice carried the dollops of jism dripping from her jaw. Streaking her long neck. Rippling down her shoulders.
Welling up over the heaving tits. Coagulating momentarily at the scalding nipples. Rushing in rivulets down her tight belly to collect in her bellybutton. Then overflowing down the smooth slope into her sparkling cunt hairs.
It stung the clit into myriad cavorting spasms. The mist of piss and jism slid into her gummy cunt folds and down underneath her.
The brew was whipped up by the twirling spikes and driven in thrusts of the rubberized cockhead up the lady's bung.
And her own cunt oils slimed with the jismic piss down the insides of her thighs. Scalding her kneecaps, spattering her ankles.
The nectar collected in calm puddles between her kneeling legs.
Artemis saw the shaved woman with the clipped nipples break away from her husband's grasp. The woman's head bobbed between Artemis's legs.
She yowled as Francis seized her by the throat, slurping at the cunty jismic piss there collected between Artemis's knees.
The rubberized metallic thunder between her thighs touched of an avalanche of orgasm.
Artemis worked her mouth in silent prayers, silent screams.
She saw the spikes chewing at her pucker. Felt the froth of urine and jism and lady-juice dry to a glaze on her smooth pink body.
In her mind she sucked at the many breasts of the statue of Diana, clawing the monkey hair. Eating the cunt of the dark hostess of Hecate's Horrorhouse as she drank down her piss.
Her husband, as it had turned out, was a real prize. So attuned to her special needs.
So special and secret that until now, Artemis had not even been fully conscious of them.
CHAPTER TWO
Zahndra Jergens allowed her cultivated sneer to ease into a smile. She had to hand it to Francis Dashwood. His new nightspot was indeed smashingly conceived and masterfully executed.
The very ambience of the joint-was it true, that sensation?-brought a tingle to her nipples and a twinge to her clit.
This was no faint praise, coming in print as it would from such a notoriously jaded night-personality like Zahndra.
This was one social journalist-one called them gossip columnists if they scribbled for rags with less posh advertisers-who had seen everything.
Her tastes were both broad and sharp.
She knew when the trash was too much. Could sense through the polished surface of various poseurs to discern just who had the raw or developed talent to back up all the insolent, humiliating hype.
And there Francis Dashwood had succeeded undeniably. Lining the long entranceway of heavy masonry, giving an impression both medieval and warehouse low-tech was an artfully conceived and executed series of installations by Dashwood's wife, the designer Artemis Schwartz.
Men dressed as half-human, half vegetable slaves worked open-mouthed to serve a dark robotic queen. Part spider, part wasp, part computer, the dark queen spouted recorded fantasy orders to her humiliated courtiers.
The tits that poked like darts against the wasp-woman's cleavage was an almost humorous touch. It made Zahndra shrivel the wrinkled dimple of her arse.
Purse her punk hole.
She felt the tips of the tits poke like spikes up her ass.
Zahndra then imagined her own tits gliding up and down some oily orifice.
Her own enormously enlarged clit fucking some guy in the ass and mouth.
Then screwing into some ginger-fleshed bitch right up her sweltering cunt.
Whipping random, imprecating faces with flapping tits, hard clit.
Metal whips that scourged the skin.
Yes, Artemis's installation brought out desires of hers to dominate that she had not really thought about since a psychology class in undergraduate school.
The streaked greenish pods that hung between the men's legs were too preposterous for words. Just the right mixture of kitsch, high-fashion sadomasochism, and the truisms often so accurately captured in whimsical fantasy.
The foam rubber and plastic mushroom fountain that dominated the indoor courtyard and temporary sculpture display there installed was really a scream, too.
The thrill of moving water, whether a waterfall in the mountains, a jungle stream, or a distinctly urban New York setting, always heightened her sense of the flow of her own bodily liquids.
Zahndra had to admit that she was really getting off on the place.
She peered into the series of private or semiprivate rooms, this one decorated like monastic libraries, another a genuine ultra-wave video and laser saloon with automated bar service.
The patrons appeared in great form. The rock chanteuse Putana, with her hair in slick piles that looked as though they were jelled with jism, was speaking into the faces of a set of blue-suited stockbroker types.
Their eyes were fixed on her cavorting bosom, exposed neatly to the edge of her aureoles.
Zahndra recognized the slender man with silvery shards of hair tumbling down the sides of his head like a glinting thatch roof.
He was perhaps the world's most famous living artist, and certainly among the richest. It warmed her cuntlips that he looked in her direction and waved to her.
Perhaps Zahndra could catch a word with him a bit later. Find out how Dandy Voivode was responding to Dashwood's Scented Garden. See if he was already scheduled to participate in the upcoming installations of multimedia plastic artworks and avant-garde performance art.
Zahndra went into the ladies' room, agog at all the pretty men there.
She held her breath as she passed through the perfumy abstractions of artificial foliage that that was the Scented Garden itself.
Seats shaped like vines and fungus held couples and groups as ambient music of frail density was sprinkled over the talking and drinking denizens of the comfortable setting. An indoor trash-tech garden of delights.
She relaxed with a drink, catching a part of a video made up of highlights from Hecate's Hor-rorhouse, that godawful show Zahndra could not stand.
The hostess was attractive in a disarmingly innocent way-considering she plumbed the cultural depths with her adolescent S&M routines.
At least she was better than the horror flicks and splatter movies she showed.
Zahndra took the last of her drink with her to the main level.
Here was where the punkoids flourished, as if proliferating in their own spastic body heat.
On top of upholstered cubes they gyrated and shook. Legs split and pelvises thrusting forward and back.
In and out. From side to side.
And the large dance floor, pulsating with lights, was creaming with dancers.
Women wore laser jewelry and shimmied their hips as they twisted long slinky scarves around their partners' necks.
Some of the males had shrugged their sweat-drenched shirts over their shoulders in this week's macho craze.
A sensually aware disk jock who, it appeared to Zahndra as she had peeked into the control booth, was having her ass fucked while she selected her disks, was but another element in the club's awesome impression.
However, the social journalist would have to note in her column Jergens Off! that would appear in the next interview of gossipy, scandaland smarm-laden journal for which she now penned, whether Dashwood's Scented Garden, as the new nightspot had been christened, would continue to attract past this evening's opening gala the fashionable elite and the religiously trendy would have to be seen.
Seen and be seen.
If "they" were seen, then the others would want to be seen there also. So that they could see "them."
Zahndra espied the proprietor off talking with some financial types near the metal bar aligning the dance floor.
She would go over and congratulate Francis Dashwood. And Artemis Schwartz, too, if she could find the lady.
It was undeniable what a stunning couple they made. Now, just looking at Francis, Zahndra felt that hunger hit her.
There was a thick slickness in her saliva that made her mouth feel like gumbo.
The man was ravishing in such a simple, casual and understated outfit.
Dashwood wore a simple oxford-cloth blue shirt open and without a tie. He had on thick, meticulously pleated flannel pants of light gray and a pair of penny loafers with gold coins in the slots over the top of the foot.
Her boobs buzzed along with the hyper-amplified bass line to the last-wave music. The tempo was fast, unnatural.
But the shaking went right into her quim.
"Zahndra, darling," Francis said, now walking up to her and placing his hands on her arms.
They kissed on both cheeks and Artemis felt a surge of ravenous hunger. She thought she sensed the same emanating from Francis's very pores.
"I must say, the Scented Garden looks like a winner," Zahndra said to him.
"Well, I certainly have banked a lot on it."
"I'll bet. It's smashing. Money well spent, Francis-you're to be congratulated."
"Thank you, Zahndra."
"Is Artemis around? She deserves some of the credit too, dear boy."
"That she does."
Zahndra allowed her breasts to contact Francis's chest. He put his arm around her hips and they walked in tandem around the edges of the swarming dance floor.
"Artemis should be in the Lotus Room," Francis said. "There's a special exhibit there curated by Alistair Weed."
"Oh, him. Eccentric, no?"
"A bit, but his artistic eye is sharp as the devil," Francis said, leading Zahndra into a room behind a thick drapery of maroon velvet.
"This place is just full of surprises," Zahndra intoned, looking down the curvilinear stairway dropping off behind the drapery.
"Just full of them-that's how I want it. I don't want anyone to get tired of this place," Francis said with a wolfish grin that almost spoke money out loud.
Zahndra stopped at the top of the stairs. She faced Francis and looked into his dark eyes.
He saw the flash, felt her hunger.
Their tongues attacked each other like leaping lizards and he pressed his wrists along her ribcage. Zahndra's quim snuggled up his thigh as she felt his fists gripping her tits through her tight black minidress.
They descended the staircase and the sounds from below grew more distinct.
Clinking of glass, fizz of champagne and a current of conversation peppered now and again by a guffaw or shriek.
Artemis was the picture of pink good health as she bustled among those in attendance.
Zahndra shivered for an instant with the realization that she would like to fuck her and Francis both.
At the same time.
The works on display in the Lotus Room were fanciful contraptions. Moving sculptures powered by electricity, running water, pulleys and levers with shifting weights.
Some of them were evidently meant to be used as playthings, and Zahndra saw several women swinging from an elaborately concocted mechanism.
She refocused her eyes.
Though they were in tight jumpsuits equipped with metal attachments fastened about the chest, it almost appeared that they were swinging to and fro from wires strung through their nipples.
Zahndra peered about the room.
She noted that Dandy was there, as were several of his artistic and financial rivals.
Alistair Weed, his sandy hair visible height above most of the rest of the crowd, was holding Artemis by her wrist.
A group of young male and female dancers wove its way through the guests. They were clad only in loincloths, with pasties on their nipples and glitter stuck to the powdery coating over their otherwise naked forms.
Zahndra felt something slide up her leg.
She smiled as she looked down and saw Francis place his foot back on the floor.
A woman dressed in glittery spandex dropped by and filled two crystal tulips of champagne and presented them to the pair.
"Here's to the success of Dashwood's Scented Garden," Zahndra said, clinking the shaft of bubbling intoxicant against Francis's own.
"And to the continuation of Zahndra Jergens' preeminence in social journalism."
"Gossip columnist, please," she joked.
As Francis swiveled her around to lead her toward a group of guests, Zahndra's eyes caught one particular piece.
The base was carved to look like something that could have been produced by a woodland tribe. The darkling hardwood cone tapered to a thorn-like point on top of which was a molded bust of a woman of remarkable sensuality.
Zahndra tittered, then brought her hand to her lips. She took a quaff of the champagne as the different elements of the sculpture sank in, achieving meaning.
The bust sported a teeming array of tits, rising and falling in random patterns. Rubber inflating and deflating. Nips pointed like tacks and threatening and beckoning for the suck, endearing at the same time.
The sculpted head sprouted black monkey fur for hair and through those hanks protruded a silvery, sequined crescent.
It was a glittery and bejeweled crown, its tips spiky and glowing ruby fruit red.
Like horns of a beast.
Something about it turned her on.
The tits.
And the spikes.
The rising and the falling. The thought of suck and of painful penetration. "You like?" Francis asked. "Very impressive," Zahndra replied. "Would you like to meet the artist."
"She's here?"
"How did you know it was a she?"
Zahndra shrugged her shoulders, feeling her own breasts rise and fall.
"Just something about it," she remarked absently, thinking of artistic tits dangling down her throat as she played her tongue.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Francis said. "She's over there speaking with Mr. Weed and my wife."
"The dark-haired woman?"
Zahndra couldn't see the artist very well. She had her back toward them. The top of the woman's dress was cut away behind and the smoothness of her skin was astonishing.
It seemed to glow from within. The tops of her asscheeks nudged up and Zahndra wanted to taste asshole in her yip.
From time to time, the woman's head turned and Zahndra caught a glimpse of her features.
At once she recognized them.
Startlingly.
Unmistakable even though the makeup the woman now wore was dramatically different.
But the hair was much the same, after all. And Zahndra could almost see a set of silvery crescent slivers right there crowning her head.
No, she didn't want to meet her.
Not now.
Not here.
She was afraid.
"I'm sorry, Francis," Zahndra said hastily, "I see Dandy is free and I have to get a quote from him about this place."
Francis looked taken aback as Zahndra rushed over to the silver-haired artist and began to interrupt his conversation with a dealer.
He grinned wolf-like as he saw Dandy lead Zahndra over to where Diana stood with Alistair and Artemis. He glanced at the sculpture, its breasts now heaving with growing intensity.
Francis got another champagne and kept his eyes on the group of people including Diana, his wife and Zahndra.
He saw Diana turn in his direction and cock her head, indicating that he should join them. He shook his head no, and Diana approached him through the crowd.
The two kissed as they met and observed the progress of Zahndra, Artemis, Dandy and Alistair and their conversation.
They were now talking and moving toward one of the contraptions that had brought oohs and aahs throughout the evening. Dandy was urging Zahndra to try it out.
Zahndra ran her fingers along its surface and looked at them. They glistened with oils. She made a face and indicated her clothing.
Dandy grabbed her ankles and slipped her high heels from her feet. Artemis drew the minidress over Zahndra's head and the tits opened up like two immense flowers.
Zahndra closed her eyes, a bit embarrassed.
But things were heating up.
She saw an obese garment-center type on his knees with his face smooching the breechcloth worn by one of the boy dancers in the act.
Though she kept her arms in front of her reddened nipples, she didn't feel she was doing anything out of place.
This was the downtown art scene, after all.
The oil-soaked wood looked as if it would splinter into her fanny, she thought. She snapped her garters and checked her stockings for runs.
Then she stepped from her frilly panties and shook her ass.
Giggling, Zahndra sat on a wooden slat next to a pastel-painted device with a machine-metal arm that slid back and forth.
Opening and closing.
Tempting in its rhythmic cycle.
Dandy yanked her right arm up over her head and Alistair tied it to a greased wooden board overhanging the contraption.
Zahndra squealed in pain as he ankles were likewise strapped to the flooring.
"It hurts," she said.
Alistair and Dandy grinned silently.
Artemis moved in to comfort the woman, caressing her head, offering her own warmth.
She dropped her head and suddenly bit into Zahndra's shaven underarm.
She sucked the sweat and the grime in her mouth and licked the stubble.
Zahndra's nipples were erect and her free hand drifted loosely down the flat plane of her belly. It came to rest in her feathery pubic curls.
It might be different if there weren't all these people around.
Zahndra might even jerk off.
Suck on Artemis's pussy.
And where was this new artist, Diana Cazadora?
Her right tit trembled as Zahndra felt Artemis rub the bare nipples. When the suction of the mouth hit, Zahndra went limp.
They could fuck her and suck her in front of all these people now.
She cared no longer.
Zahndra Jergens was finally shameless.
The twitch of the machine under her arm and beside her breast grew in her heart. She wanted for its action to mold her flesh.
To take her tit and do whatever it would.
As if in response to her unspoken desire, Artemis pushed Zahndra upright and affixed gummed pieces of metal to her spine, near the top of the crack of the ass, and in the front, over Zahndra's lush navel.
Alistair and Dandy ran out lengths of wire and attached them to the tiny metal plates. Suddenly, an electric pulse began to torque through Zahndra's body.
Artemis gave each suppurating breast a final nip and pushed Zahndra back. She crammed the Right tit into the opening metal arm of the machine and locked it in tightly.
The gizmo snared the tit and moved, squeaking, in and out, pumping the breast to enormity.
The nipple flattened out with each squeeze, then rose in dense red-tipped fury at the alternating release of the contraption.
Artemis was on her knees between Zahndra's spread legs, lapping at her cunt.
Alistair and Dandy were now in company with Francis and Diana, who had changed clothing. They were now in skintight ensembles of painted leather, with cutouts exposing their underarms, chests, groins and fannies.
Diana grabbed Artemis's red hair in her hand and yanked it from Zahndra's drooling puss. She tossed the woman to the side and stood between Zahndra's opened legs.
Francis worked around to Zahndra's rear and brought his enlarged cock to rest quietly on her left shoulder.
She brought her free hand toward her clit as she felt his balls pulsing against her wet skin.
Diana slapped her paw away from her foaming quim and spat in her face. She dipped and snaggled the free tit in her long teeth.
The machine yanked away on Zahndra's right breast, the nipple now alternately colorless and a baleful glower of red coal.
So hot. So powerful and trembling.
The shaking began this time in Zahndra's bung. It speared to her clit as the electric pulses went back and forth through her body.
She felt herself lifted from the wood by Francis's hands up between her asscheeks.
The tit stretched, still held firmly in the tingling grasp of the machine.
Dandy and Alistair were off to the side, sipping champagne. An art groupie hauled her halter top over her head and ran up behind Diana.
Alistair grabbed a bottle from a passing waitress and went up behind the groupie.
The girl was bending toward Diana's asscheeks as the artist herself stood spread-legged, her flopping puss lips in the grip of Zahndra's hungering, working maw.
The bottle went up under the groupie's short skirt and jabbed her cunt.
The fizz of the champagne nipped at her clit through her drawers as she sank to the floor.
Alistair took a swig straight from the bottle and yanked out his wiener.
He shot piss at the groveling groupie, who tried so hard to capture the spray in her opened jaw. She closed her eyes and ran the elegant liquid through her hair.
Dandy now bent over the girl and whipped her sweater off.
He pulled her to her knees by her nipples and stuck his own cock down her throat.
Zahndra took the tender cuntlips of Diana Cazadora between her incisors.
She pulled and stretched the labia.
Still the torment pounded away at her imprisoned breast. Her free hand held someone's huge dark dong and she could feel Francis fondling her rump.
He poked a finger in up underneath and it went right up to the last knuckle.
Francis lifted her body, nearly tearing her tender tit meat. Pulling it like taffy, held as it was in the arms of the machine.
Zahndra yammered away at white-hot cunt.
The sizzling slosh from Diana's meat slathered down her chin and her neck.
It coursed down her shoulders and pestered her festering nipples.
Oiling the flexing arm of the mutant machine as it worked her tit.
The cuntjuice drained down her belly, setting off sparks in the wired metal plates.
It sparked her to convulsive orgasm and she felt her own quim gush.
Deliriously, Diana's lady-juice spilled over Zahndra's wriggling clit.
It simmered in her slit and leached into her roseate cunt folds.
There it joined forces with Zahndra's own homebrew and dripped down the insides of her thighs to the floor.
Artemis had jumped the girl art groupie and was smacking her face repeatedly with the empty come-coated champagne bottle.
She squatted over the girl and twisted her tits ferociously, carving them up in her claws.
Diana dropped from Zahndra's yip and turned on her spiked heels.
The leather of her suit was drenched and crinkled in perspiration. She sent the toe of one of her shoes up under Artemis's hovering rump.
The toetip hit the buttocks, splitting those fair hinders and assailing the arse hole.
Artemis turned from her victim in a rage and caught the heel of Diana's shoe in her face and fell backward.
Diana kicked Artemis in the cunt, and the woman now lay with her legs splayed, covering the pressed body of the young groupie.
"Get the fuck out from under her, you hussy," Diana shouted.
Alistair and Dandy pulled the girl from underneath Artemis's struggling body.
Diana kept her heel at the center of Artemis's belly and jerked it against her clit through the shards of her torn clothing.
The girl was lowered between Zahndra's legs. Diana forced her head to the floor and made her suck up the pussyjuice that had collected there and on'Zahndra's bound feet.
Zahndra turned her head to the left. The hard black dick she had been stroking mindlessly leapt toward her teeth.
She took it in, its proud possessor unknown to her. Sucking its greased and scented length.
She felt Francis's fingers pop from her ass and the pointy tip of his furious prick insert itself up her quaking rectum.
The mechanism rattled away on her captive breast. The aureole had lost all color, the nipple itself spent and flaccid.
The electric jolts to her spine and clit brought a whiteness to her vision.
She ticked off into another round of orgasm as the art groupie groveled with her tongue in Zahndra's twat.
Frisky little thing.
The headiness of her blistering come rose in the air. Hers was a scented garden indeed.
As Francis jammed his cock into the shuddering bung he knew that he had been right.
Correct in his assessment.
Sure in his selection.
Zahndra would make a worthy addition to their little family.
And the groupie was not at all unacceptable either. They would both become fruits of the Scented Garden.
Pungent and fleshly.
Delectable morsels to feed his hunger-their hunger.
To send them spinning on a run of pain and rapture.
Sweat and slime.
Through the bristles and thorns of the briarpatch of their own minds.
Through the deep folds of their flesh and spirit.
And perhaps best of all, Francis's other hungry passion could be slaked. With the aid of Diana and Alistair. His aesthetic appreciation of the long and beautiful green foliage.
Cool cash.
Francis drummed Zahndra's rump with churning, frenetic strokes.
He. saw how her tit was caught up in the sliding metal mechanism of the machine's vise grip and how she spat fresh black jism, now hopping from the dangling dark meat.
The groupie was affixed to Zahndra's buzzing clit and she was being punked by one of the boy dancers who had shed his loincloth.
Alistair and Dandy stood facing each other drinking champagne. Each jacked away at the other's cock protruding discreetly through the lowered zippers of their eveningwear, wrapped in hundred-dollar bills.
Diana was hauling Artemis across the floor by her hair. She then ripped away at the last shreds of Artemis's gown.
Francis saw his wife gag as Diana jugged a tit into her yip.
Diana sank to one knee between Artemis's legs and pulled at her cunt hairs.
Yes, Diana had a hunger to match Francis's own. Even in some ways surpass it.
That was why she was his true mistress.
But there were ways the wily Mr. Dashwood could use his own mistress to his own advantage.
Use her hunger to feed his fever.
Yes, Diana had taken to his new wife. And from the looks of things, Artemis was enjoying their friendship as well.
The trickles of scarlet blood spilled from his wife's maw from where her dear Diana had savaged her with the Dom Perignon bottle.
His wife's tongue lolled out, craving the split crease of Diana's cunt that protruded from the cutout leather crotch.
A small girl with her flat tits out and clipped ran by and showered the pair of women in heat with sparkling dust.
As the glistening powder landed it spread a heavenly cloud over the forest of the mistress's goddesslike cunt.
Francis felt the juice bubble up in his balls and the sweat course from his temples down into his own painted leather suit.
He twisted his pulsating dick up Zahndra's striving arse time and time again.
The machine beat away on her breast and now she was squirting a new brew.
Of cuntjuice and urine, into the dropped jaw of the art groupie who flailed away maniacally on her luridly greased clit.
The electrodes passed jolts through their rutsweat, spearing Francis with the same sear that Zahndra felt.
As the machine pummeled away and the electrodes sparked, Zahndra smacked her lips and dared to open her eyes.
She saw Diana astride Artemis's jumping jaws, red liquid scouring the nude designer's tumultuous breasts and heaving belly.
There was an array of other devices, the moving sculptures now all mounted by human forms. Some nude. Some in leather, rayon, spandex or wet-look rubber.
Spiked balls were swinging into bristling tits and wide-open cuntmeat.
Dicks encased in hard rubber, brandishing collars of metal spikes, stood up at obscene angles from a variety of moving groins.
The joint was really jumping.
Zahndra knew you had to work hard to keep this feisty art crowd in kicks.
She saw how Alistair was pointing a riding crop at a pair of tits impaled, it looked like, on a pair of long, toothy spikes.
It seemed he was offering both the contraption and the services of the black-hooded model for sale to a fat, smarmy-queer banker.
The thrash of dick in her ass blasted Zahndra in a tyranny of sequential orgasm.
She felt the explosion of ghoulish jism in her behind as Francis screamed and bit into her neck. The groupie chewing her meat was drowning, gagging and coughing up loads of quimsicle.
The metal machine music beat away on her trapped tit. The electroshock frazzled away her pussy hairs, giving off sparks like live wires.
Ah, yes, Francis thought as he snapped his prick from Zahndra's bun. He had served his mistress well before this.
But to have brought her his sumptuous wife one weekend, and the delicious Zahndra Jergens the next was a great boon.
A real fuck-a-feather-up-your-ass accomplishment he could be proud of.
And it looked as if the groveling art groupie was prime meat as well.
Girlish grist for the mill.
Another morsel for the maws.
Another ripened ruby fruit from Dashwood's Scented Garden, painfully succulent to the touch.
Overpowering in its taste.
One of the sweetmeats and dainties that Lady Diana Cazadora needed to soothe her cravings. Feed her hunger.
Please Francis's mistress, and he would remain in good stead.
That was why he strived to serve her well. To present before her only the moot toothsome, muskily scented offerings fit for the goddess of the night herself.
Offerings to Dashwood's cruel white goddess. The pinnacle of pain and pleasure. He roped Zahndra's neck and pulled the noose tight. She hadn't seen anything yet.
His eyes went to the statue in the center of the Lotus Room. The foam-padded rubber breasts were bustling in spasmodic clusters.
The horned crown gave off flashes of red laser light, like shoots of ethereal jism through the darkened chamber.
He thought once again of her human incarnation, now torturing his sprawled and bleeding wife with thrusts of her bristling pubis.
Through his own devotion to her, Francis could breed in her dependence upon him.
She would have to carry out his wishes.
The mistress of pain would become the slavering tool of Francis Dashwood's project.
The willing servant of his desires.
A morsel to feed his own peculiar hunger.
CHAPTER THREE
The club was relatively quiet at this point in the evening, and Cassandra was glad she had insisted on an early appointment. Ten-thirty was dawn to these people, she knew.
So it had taken some doing.
But her head was pounding and she felt feverish. She had wanted it to be a short night.
Too much work.
Not enough relaxation.
She pretended to inspect the intricacies of one of the newly installed windows. This one was conceived by the vaunted Dandy Voivode in his trashiest style.
The stuff didn't interest her much as art, but she had to admit she got a kick out of the satirical symbolism.
The figures in the window were dressed up as jaded business and professional types.
They wore suggestive animal masks and pointed handguns and carbines at each other's genitals, which poked in brightly colored plastic and foam rubber exaggerations from cut-outs in their blue and gray pinstripes.
Cassandra stepped back from the glassed-in art installation and inspected her own reflection in the pane.
She was pleased with the way she looked. At the way the woman with the rather short chestnut hair, iced flat and parted in a Weimar-look, seemed to fit right in.
But she was uncomfortable in this get-up.
The harness of leather straps and steel rings that she wore against her naked torso underneath the loose oxblood calfskin bodysuit had already begun to chafe.
She hadn't the time, or so she had reckoned, to tape herself tonight before she had dressed. Now she was paying for her haste as the leather and steel nipped into her shoulders and gashed her heavy breasts.
Her perspiration was moistening her firm titflesh, so that the nipples and aureoles were squeaking in and out of the rings cinching the harness securing her nude torso, attached like a pair of suspenders to her latex corset-and-panties lingerie ensemble.
She hadn't put enough powder on her skin, for one thing. And in her hurry she had also neglected to don her jingly surgical steel earrings that were a miniature working set of handcuffs.
She stuck her hand into the partly unzipped top of her leather bodysuit and adjusted the strap to the portion of her harness that holstered her Walther PPK automatic pistol securely against her burgeoning boob, under her left arm.
She traipsed up to a nearly uninhabited stretch of marble-topped bar and ordered a double zombie. Her hand massaged the tightened cords of the back of her neck and her temples.
The drink would knock out her headache and make her not care about the physical exhaustion now pelting her muscles.
While the denizens of the night world of New York had been dining or otherwise priming themselves to stalk the downtown art clubs, Cassandra had been taking a nap before going back to work.
She couldn't even remember when the last time was that she had slept a full night. But that went with the territory. This was her job, after all. And she did it well.
Detective Sergeant Cassandra Derringer spotted Alistair Weed nearly the instant she had gained entry to the Lotus Room at Dashwood's Scented Garden. Though the tall, sandy-haired art entrepreneur had his back to her and his head bent forward, Cassandra had recognized the unmistakable outline of his ass-cheeks from several of her previous undercover assignments.
She would have to talk to him. Not now, for he was obviously in the middle of a spiel directed toward a tentative would-be collector.
Cassandra did not at all suspect Alistair in connection with the case currently under investigation by her department.
He was, rather, a man who had proven himself a valuable informant for the art crime division of the detective bureau.
Alistair knew who Cassandra was and could be counted upon not to blow her cover.
Likewise, she would not interfere with his business. Even though she had cause to believe it at least at times skirted the other side of the legal code.
Tonight's police work involved a matter only tangentially related to art, however. It had been thrown in her hot lap by the missing persons bureau.
Two different cases, really.
One involved a possibly wayward female art groupie whose parents had become frantic when she had not shown up for a family dinner.
Really bland stuff there.
The little cunt was probably just shacked up for a few days with some faggoty gigolo type who had her zonked out on tranquilizers while he lived off her cash.
The other was a request for an investigation by one of the city's many social editors, concerned over the whereabouts and recent activities of his prized columnist Zahndra Jergens.
Her columns continued to arrive, all right. In fact, Jergens Off! came in just before deadline, via modem or hand-delivered by messenger in final manuscript form.
It almost didn't matter that Zahndra hadn't been seen in the offices for nearly three weeks.
But Mark Golden was one editor who cared about more than just deadlines and advertising sales. He was worried about Zahndra.
Typical homo mothering instinct, Cassandra suspected.
She knew queers when she saw them.
Mark Golden was probably just jealous that Zahndra, for whom he evidently held some soft of fag-hag affection, had found some macho brute to pipe her in mouth, ass and cunt for a while.
Cassandra herself would rather be relaxing in some cozy little dyke joint, tossing down a few beers with a couple of her sisters as they watched the hockey game.
But she was a professional.
And she couldn't deny her interest in art.
Especially tonight, she mused as she became riveted by one of the moving-almost alive, it seemed-sculptures on display.
On an ebony pedestal-something between a cone and a pyramid that reminded Cassandra of an African sculpture of a breast-was an ultra-tacky bust of a monkey-haired woman literally bristling with rising and falling breastbuds.
Cassandra felt her clit twinge.
The hornlike crown, shaped like a crescent moon and studded with trash-glitz baubles and lights, seemed to say something to her.
Let me horn your haunch, Cassandra; let me spike your tit, my dear.
"Cassandra, darling," came the other voice.
"So glad to see you, Alistair, love," she said, embracing and kissing the tall, sandy-haired man who had come up behind her.
"I know you want to get it over with fast this time, honey," Alistair said, escorting her toward an empty booth upholstered in heavily ridged pink-flamingo plastic.
"I have to make it an early scene tonight," Cassandra said, feeling his hand on her rump.
She wanted it in.
But she was so exhausted that it wouldn't feel good, she thought.
Besides, she had an early appointment with a gallery owner the next day. In connection with several pieces now missing from a recently imported inventory of Hellenistic erotica.
Heavily insured, naturally.
"What's the matter, Cassandra? Too much work?" Alistair said, taking her hand in his as he sat next to her.
"That is for sure-but I can do with another drink if I don't have to fuck anyone for it."
Alistair chuckled as he motioned for a skimpily clad youth to take their order.
"Two zombies, sir?" the waiter said.
"Are you referring to the drinks or to the drinkers," Francis Dash wood shot in as he passed by the booth.
"You're very funny tonight, Francis," Cassandra said. "I just don't happen to be in a funny mood."
Francis kissed her cheeks, frisking her for weapons. Sure enough, there was the piece, strapped to her tit.
"On the job?" he said as he slid next to her in the booth.
"Wouldn't be here if I weren't," Cassandra sighed, dropping her eyes to the thatch of hair that stuck up from his partially opened Brooks Brothers button down shirt.
She'd suck his nipples if she weren't so tired. Maybe even be up for a little orgy pudding with some of her sisters and these two dudes.
But business was business.
Ask a few questions. One more drink. Home to bed. Maybe jerk off her clit with a heavy metal dildo while watching a videotape she had recorded of Hecate's Horrorhouse.
That was it! Cassandra turned her head to try to pick out the multititted sculpture.
The face, and the hair-were they not reminiscent in an abstract way of the hostess of that punk-sleaze show featuring awful films and zany S&M skits?
"Looking for someone?" Alistair asked.
"No," she said. "Yes, I mean."
She took her drink from the youthful waiter and drank a long quaff.
"I was just looking at that sculpture," Cassandra explained.
"The one with the throbbing tits," Alistair said. "It is not for sale at this point-on exhibitional loan from the artist."
"Mmm hmm," Cassandra said, downing the remainder of her zombie.
She wished that she had ordered another double.
"But I am also looking for a pair of missing persons who happen to be habitual night-prowlers and have been known to frequent the lewder clubs of the art world," she said.
Francis and Alistair smiled calmly. The men were on either side of her and she could sense their body rut intent.
"Or related species," she added.
Cassandra could taste the Demerara rum heavy on her tongue. Burning her like the sear in her nips, clitbud and bun.
"Not Zahndra Jergens," Alistair said smoothly.
Cassandra nodded, unsurprised.
The man knew everything and everyone who mattered in this scene. She wasn't always sure he was telling her everything he knew.
But all she needed was something to go on.
"She was here last night, wasn't she?" Francis said to Alistair, who nodded.
"Yeah," Alistair said, shifting in his seat closer to Cassandra. "But-whose the fag?-Mark Golden, her editor, called my office asking about her this afternoon."
"What did you tell him?" Cassandra asked.
"Nothing," Alistair said, looking insulted. "I was asleep."
Cassandra laughed.
"I could use another," she said.
Alistair flicked his fingers and the young waiter came over.
"Well," she said, after the double zombie had been ordered, "what would you have told Mark Golden if you had been awake?"
Alistair laughed as he and Francis exchanged glances. Francis spoke, now moving close into Cassandra's body from her other side.
"It is not for gossip-as the gossip columnist herself has told us. But Zahndra Jergens is undergoing-"
"Francis, please," Alistair said quietly but firmly, his hand on Francis's wrist.
"I might suggest we go to the private sanctorum of the management for this little exchange," Francis said.
Alistair caught the attention of the young waiter and the boy carried their drinks behind them on a tray while the threesome ascended the several flights of concealed stairwell leading from the basement Lotus Room to a large executive office suite.
Francis flicked a tab on the panel of an enormous walnut desk and a large glass wall shimmered. Now Cassandra could see through the two-way plate the gyrations on the dance floor below and the shenanigans of a last-wave rock group onstage.
"Some set-up," Cassandra said with admiration.
She sat in a deep, leather-upholstered chair and crossed her legs. Taking the drink from the boy, she lit a cigarette.
"Zahndra Jergens," Francis said, "is in the process of undergoing cosmetic surgery and doesn't want anyone to see her until its complete."
"Simple enough," Cassandra said.
She could relax and get drunk if it were that simple. Something told her that it wasn't though. But she'd get drunk anyway.
Help her sleep better tonight.
"She's been making the rounds of the fashion shows and clubs incognito-in disguises," Alistair added, borrowing one of Cassandra's cigarettes.
"I would have thought maybe she'd found some hung stud to keep her off the streets and out of the office," Cassandra remarked.
"That too," Alistair said with a wolfish grin.
"And who might that be?" Cassandra inquired.
The heat was building inside her.
The harness rings were hard against her nipples and the gun metal was impressing the Walther's form into her tit and underarm.
What she had to go through in the line of duty. She took a discreet whiff and smelled her musk in the leather of her bodysuit.
"Antoine Chevalier," Alistair allowed.
"The Creole chef," Cassandra said. "I'll bet he blackens her redfish."
The three of them laughed, and Francis was about to dismiss the waiter.
"Oh, wait a second," Cassandra said. "Don't send him away just yet."
"Cassandra is hungry again tonight?" Francis said to her jocularly.
"Now that you mention it..." Alistair intoned insinuatingly.
He made out the throb of Cassandra's hard nipples through her oxblood calfskin.
'Tired of cuntjuice?" Francis said, slapping the boy's rump and sending him over to Cassandra.
"Not by a longshot," she said as the boy jumped playfully into her lap.
"She just wants a bit of boyjuice," Alistair said to Francis.
"That can get pretty rough, sometimes," Francis said with a gleam in his eye.
Cassandra giggled as the boy unsnapped his loincloth and wiggled his nude fanny on her thigh. His cock stood out and up, flopping as he kissed her face with loud smacks.
Francis opened a drawer in the walnut desk and reached in. Alistair looked over at him and smirked. His cock was hard in his pants and he was ready for a diversion.
They watched as Cassandra held the boy by his hips and let him stick his thin penis into her yip. She was next unzipping her bodysuit and the boy's head was bobbing for her boobs.
Francis passed to Alistair a matched pair of pistol-sized crossbows, each one loaded with long thin sterilized needles.
He sighted his own pair at Cassandra's wriggling tits as the boy clambered down around her legs, stripping her outer clothing away.
The arms and legs of the leather bodysuit were unzipped and Cassandra reclined, lowering the back of the leather chair to a slight incline.
Alistair and Francis licked their lips.
She was certainly a morsel to anyone who had the hunger. Anyone who liked squirming meat.
She was a wash of sweat as she flicked her legs and reached for her drink. The boy waiter sat on one thigh and reached between her legs.
Cassandra was now clad only in her on-the-job lingerie: latex corset-and-panties, high-heeled ankle booties with small spurs, and a leather holstered harness with steel nipple rings.
The waiter unsnapped the woman's crotch, and the latex leapt up her white belly.
Cassandra's cuntflesh was swollen and split, with cream trickling from between reddened labia.
"Time for target practice," Francis said mildly.
He shot both his needles at once, one hitting the bull's-eye of her thick white breast, the other catching loosely the pod of her pussy.
Cassandra squealed and sucked her tongue through her teeth. Her legs flailed convulsively as the youthful waiter jumped up and ran for cover.
Alistair shot off his lefthand crossbow first. The needle speared into her throbbing flesh, piercing the aureole of the tit Francis's shot had merely grazed.
Cassandra looked down and gasped as she saw the thin metal go in one side of the nipple and protrude slightly from the other.
Alistair's second shot zinged into her clit, and Cassandra wailed, eyes widened and red.
She crouched on her chair, the needles dangling from hobbling breasts and pulsating clitbud.
The rings of her holster harness had broken the skin around her nipples and tiny smudges of red patterned her firm bosom.
The waiter came up to her from her left and reached his hand up under her arm. Cassandra brought her elbow back into the boy's solar plexus and sent him flying.
Cassandra pulled the needles from her left tit and pitched them like tiny darts at the waiter's rear. He had his ass raised and split, and one found the kid's pucker.
He grabbed for his own dick and stuck a thumb in his asshole.
Cassandra unsnapped her left shoulder strap and the tit was freed from the nipple ring. It seemed to expand as it pushed out and up.
She removed the holstered firearm and went into a small wallet pouch.
Cassandra took out a small school picture and flashed it to Alistair and Francis, who were closing in on her, having reloaded their hand-held crossbows with a new set of needles.
"This is a few years old," she said.
"That's the art groupie?" Alistair asked.
Cassandra nodded.
She leaned back in her chair, tweaking her remaining harnessed tit with her fingers, feeling the thin needle pinch her clitoris.
"With all the makeup and crazy outfits," Francis was saying, "I couldn't relate to this photograph if it were of my own wife."
Cassandra lit another cigarette and pushed her hips up. She spread her knees a bit and heard the tlock-tlock of her gummy cuntlips.
"The name Cynthia Luna mean anything to you?" Cassandra said smokily.
"That's Cynthia?" Francis said in disbelief.
"In her schoolgirl days, obviously," Alistair said with a wrinkle to his nose.
"Haven't seen her around the last few days," Francis said.
"I think I heard that she was out in Los Angeles for some special commission," Alistair allowed.
He stepped back and again took aim at the detective's simmering body.
"What is she, a call-girl?" Cassandra said.
She readied herself for the attack of the needles, but was stunned when the two sets of hands grabbed her ankles and elbows.
"Ra-ther," Alistair joked. "Cynthia Luna is a fitness coach. She holds classes and she also caters on a private consultant basis to the richest clients she can find." mm
"How does she find them?" Cassandra asked.
There was a real element of uncertainty, of hear. Cassandra's arms were locked into position at the sides of the leather lounge chair, and her legs hooked to the bottom corners.
The whole contraption was slanted at a seventy-five degree angle. Cassandra was spread-eagled, with her brewing pussy and tumbling tits heaving as vermilion targets.
The young waiter pulled the needle from her clit and removed the one from her harnessed tit.
He sucked the little spots of blood from her flesh and stepped back.
"Cynthia Luna finds her clients by hanging out in clubs, at openings, the usual," Alistair continued as he got off a shot at the nude waiter's flat tummy.
Francis stood next to Alistair and both of them spread their legs and bent their knees. Just like what they must have seen on television movies of cops at target practice, Cassandra thought.
There was indeed real danger in what they were doing to her.
One wild shot. One false move.
That was why she liked them so much.
Now it looked as though Cassandra might have to go out to Los Angeles herself. And it would have to be as soon as possible.
There would be a red-eye flight out of JFK Airport later tonight. She would have to catch that-and she wouldn't bother to pack anything.
Just go with what she had on her.
Meanwhile, she might as well have a bit of fun her last night at home.
The waiter dangled his dick in front of her twat. Metallic streaks shot through the air and embedded themselves at the end of their flight into his taut asscheeks.
Jism flashed from his sputtering cocktip and anointed Cassandra's brewing cunny.
The youth stepped aside and admired Cassandra's pussy as it became gummed up with his own boyish juice and heaps of Cassandra's oozing slime.
Tiny knives shot from pistol-sized crossbows at tits and clits, found home in her slit and stung her mouth cheeks.
Cassandra quaked in momentous orgasm, frazzling every nerve ending in her body.
All in the line of duty.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sun was a white-hot smear in the sky as it slavered through the thick Los Angeles smog. It gave rise to a greenish bile of a mist in the canyons north of Hollywood.
The potent scent of citrus fumed in the stagnant air, but the burn of the sun and the inescapable pollution combined to give a bitter, oily taste to the languid atmosphere.
For most of the denizens of this semitropical metropolis, that would have been enough to have made this day one of utter misery.
As a matter of fact, it was just the way the women who were working out on the deck of the cliffside home liked it.
The bodies of the two women grappling on the matting beside the outdoor swimming pool were sleek with scented vegetable essences, coated with their own reeking rutjuices.
Cynthia Luna's nude body was roped to a rough plank set at an angle to the mat. Her left leg was raised, attached about shoulder height to the slanting beam, splitting her drenched cunt wide open and guzzling.
Just beneath her fuming puss lips was the dangling head of the raven-haired woman. Her eyes were closed, her arms bound to her sides with a cinch of rawhide.
She sniffed Cynthia's cunt juices, peppering her briny scents deep into her sinuses.
It seemed to energize her.
To feed her hunger.
It was all necessary. To keep in shape.
There was indeed a lot to be said for personalized coaching sessions.
She smiled, wincing slightly at the tugs on her nipples. Almost like being a puppet.
Opening her eyes, she saw the fierce look on Cynthia's face. The young coach had a shock of innocent corntassel blonde hair, dripping with perspiration just past her jawline.
Cynthia's pubic thatch was a somewhat darker blonde, now coated with the thick and fragrant cream that served as appetizer to the raven-haired woman's atavistic hunger.
As her torso twisted, the tinkling chains that were attached to the rings through each woman's nipples slackened and drew tight.
Stretching out one set of tits as though they were rubberized.
Then releasing. Allowing the breasts to rest for an instant.
So that the nips could return to reddened hardness. Before being played out again and again in painful tautness.
As the raven-haired woman shook in uncontrolled orgasmic spasm, Cynthia spoke to her gently.
"You worthless dyke gash. I should shit in your face and set Dobermans to snarl up your rotting pussy, and fuck me while I watch."
"Oh, Cynthia, love," the raven-haired woman spoke through clenched teeth.
"I love you, Diana," Cynthia said, unleashing a spume of bright orange urine.
It spattered over the matting as Cynthia worked her dripping pod toward Diana's straining maw.
Diana thrashed her head about on the mat. She tried to force her hands at her clit.
But the rawhide cinch was too tight. She writhed in perspi rational ecstasy.
Cynthia drenched Diana's dank locks, pissing into her scowl.
Diana was able to grab her tissuelike cunt folds and yank them like stretchrubber wattles, snapping them back in release.
She shuddered as the wetness coursed over her stretched tits, slipped into her navel and brimmed over. Her own cunt was a bubbling froth.
As her trainer's piss syruped down her haunch, Diana shimmied her suckering arse.
Her clit jumped from side to side.
Diana Cazadora relished the foam and the grime now working up in her quim.
It helped to keep her slim and nifty.
That was after all what her life was about.
As the sultry hostess for the syndicated cable television show Hecate's Horrorhouse she owed it to her fans.
Her other interests as well involved the allure of her flesh. Diana Cazadora was a very physical person with a desire to be worshipped in kind.
This was her job. This was her pleasure.
It was her hunger.
Spa Abbey of Theleme was a joint enterprise with the wealthy art entrepreneur Alistair Weed. It would serve as one of her bases, one of her sources for the flesh she needed.
To feed her hunger.
Now that Francis Dashwood had opened his private club in lower Manhattan, she had another metropolitan station. Dashwood's Scented Garden had already been the source of Diana Cazadora's new young trainer, Cynthia Luna.
The adept young lady now managed to plop her streaming pussy onto Diana's nose. Diana slickered the space between Cynthia's cunt folds and her arse with a rough tongue.
Cynthia began to tear at her eyes, now a gray haze of obsessional pain.
Diana gloried at the foam fuming down her gullet. She lashed her lizardlike tongue at Diana's pert pun-khole.
Of course, being their sexually dominant partner in these enterprises made her in a way quite vulnerable. She was dependent upon both Alistair and Francis for her feed.
And, like all men, they were constantly scheming amongst themselves. Usually to make money in a way that was often degrading to women.
That was why Diana Cazadora was necessary in this world. To teach people a little humility, build their characters.
Diana wallowed in the crisis of orgasmic spasm. Her legs flipped convulsively as her cunny spat hives of honey.
Yes. But Diana also needed the men.
She wanted ice-cold cock in her quim. To gobble chortling mounds of male come down her gullet.
Diana needed to be fanny-filled with pumps of jism from the hardwood hog.
And she wanted it now!
But there were no men. And therefore there was pain. In her groin. Up her ass. A hungering, raw and baleful, in her clit. "Cynthia, I need dick."
"Can't have it, you fetid cuntmeat," Cynthia said, spitting in her mistress's eyes.
Diana simmered in a smile. Yes, Cynthia was a marvelous trainer.
She caused so much heartbreak and pain.
It kept Diana in shape for the pain that she had to inflict. On others. To feed her hunger.
To give her pleasure.
Being worshipped onscreen was only one aspect of her psyche. Her drives demanded being worshipped in the flesh.
She thought of herself as a star. The latest in a long line of incarnations of the fearsome white goddess that was humanity's true domination.
And Diana felt that impulse inside her. Had felt it from birth. Perhaps even before.
It was as old as humankind itself. The ancient Babylonians worshipped the twatlike momingstar of Ishtar, whilst the Egyptians sucked the celestial cuntress Isis even as the Indians were jerked off by the many arms of Kali.
The Greeks and Romans had many incarnations of her. She was seen in the fertile and debauched Persephone, and in the dyke-daughter of the slit moon they called Cynthia.
And especially as the multititted huntress the Greeks knew as Artemis. She was a dominatrix who demanded obedience and chastity from her minion.
So strong was her domination that her temple in Ephesus in Asia Minor was ranked amongst the seven wonders of the ancient world.
Its statue of the goddess Artemis was an ebony sculpture of a feminine bust aswarm with tits impaled on a pyramidal spike.
Unfaithfulness to her could be horribly punished. After all, the goddess had many aspects she could assume.
The Roman Diana the Huntress often turned men into beasts.
Then she might if she liked shoot them with arrows drawn from her vaginal quiver. Shot from her taut bowstring.
In the early preclassical days, her devotees would actually perform a mortal version of this sacrifice. For the cruel white goddess had decreed that the king must die.
Diana Cazadora thought her divine namesake had the right idea. And you didn't really have far to go to turn men into beasts anyway.
They were already so like swine and wolves, mules and mutts. But they could be trained.
Made to serve their mistress.
There was also the white goddess in her role as Hecate, whose devotees fed her hunger with their very own home-brew lust honey, dogmeat, lion loins and curved black ramhorns.
They would rut like hounds for their mistress.
Jack off at dead meat.
Dig spurs into rawhide thighs. Assail arse holes with ravenous bestial maws.
Suck off so many snatches their faces grew raw. Pull off pods with mouth, hands and toes.
Take trash in the rump, yip, clit-pip and dicktip. Suck slime, sperm and scurf with howling puckers, snarling snatches and blazing throats.
The prissy sisters would savor in their splits so many pullulating pricks they looked like spiders' legs arching from their dank pussies.
Now that was entertainment.
The Greeks and Romans had known how to do it. And now so did Diana Cazadora.
Cynthia twisted her body, yanking out the four tits like so much silly putty. Then she rubbed her fanny across Diana's ravening jaws.
She felt the tongue slurp up her bung. Felt the incessant shifting and pulling on her throbbing nipples, the dawn of orgasm.
Diana chewed the pink yowling pucker within her long incisors. She slipped her yip smooching up and down the sleek hovering crack.
The arsemeat was slick with saliva and mucoid cunt essences.
There was a tang of rutsweat that sang in her nostrils. Made her clit buzz like a hive of honeybees at work for their queen.
"I crave cock," Diana chattered through vibrating jaw.
Cynthia kicked Diana in the cunny with her free foot. With her right hand, she went for her clit and gave it a jab.
Then she picked up a chromium cock machine with revolving leather tasselated tip.
"You want cock, my love Diana," she murmured, "just tell me where."
"Mouth," Diana mewed.
The humming head sank into Diana's teeth, driven by electricity and the deftness of Cynthia's wristwork at her maw.
"Underarms," Diana barely was able to say with the greased leather tassels flailing away at her tongue and tonsils.
Cynthia flagellated Diana's armpits with whiplike attacks of the mute engine. 'Tits," Diana yelped. "Hit my tits," she implored. "How hard?" Cynthia intoned. "Until I scream," Diana said.
"Scream for what?" Cynthia said rudely. "Scream for more!" Diana yowled. Cynthia slashed the grimacing machine-metal cock crisply across Diana's breast. "More!"
"Piss for me, you smut-sow," Cynthia leered.
She then brought the heavy metal down at an angle across Diana's facial features.
The leather tails of the tasselated tip of machinework prick next whipped up a froth in Diana's quim.
"Shove it in," Diana whined.
"Not until you piss for me, you grunge," Cynthia spat foully from her jeering jaw.
She drove it into Diana's dripping dugs. Then she sank it into her bustling bellybutton.
Cynthia then shot it up underneath Diana's kicking rump. The leather head attacked her flanks and snipped at her dangling cunt hairs.
It bit at clit and snapped the raised ring of Diana's prim punk hole.
Then the moistness erupted with a new sparkling liquid. The urine pulsed from the puss in a frothing spill down the insides of her thighs.
It drenched back under her rump and smarted up her tightening and flaring asshole.
"Now can I fuck it with my cunt?" Diana asked of Cynthia in low tones.
Cynthia brought the raging machine down into
Diana's screaming quim.
"Oh, Cynthia, please let me come," the white television goddess pleaded, tears streaming down her mouth cheeks.
Something dark and leathery caught Cynthia's eye. That wasn't how the attendants dressed out here. It was an unexpected intruder, but it would surely have had some kind of official clearance to have gotten itself past the security.
It must be important if they would interrupt Diana's training session.
Diana felt the tug on her ringed nipples as she felt Cynthia twist about. It savaged her to the brink of orgasm.
Cynthia was murmuring something to her now, even as she cascaded into another dimension of come. She heard another voice, unfamiliar, and she opened her eyes.
Diana looked up into Cynthia's face, then at that of the other woman.
She wanted to fuck her too. Her hunger had grown so much during this session.
Diana wafted her eyes over the new woman's robust figure, seductive in her draped leathers and high-heeled spurred booties.
Still jiggling on the end of the metal fuck machine, Diana was stunned into the center of a whirling vortex of orgasmic come.
The new woman wore her hair slicked down in a part, and it was the vibrant chestnut glow of the coat of a fine thoroughbred mare.
The front zipper of the woman's oxblood calfskin bodysuit was drawn down to the bottoms of her boobs. Cynthia and Diana could see the edges of the nipple rings on a harness underneath.
Before the two entwined fuckstresses could speak, the chestnut-haired woman had unzipped her bodysuit clear past her navel.
With her left hand, she peeled away the front of the oxblood leather outfit and revealed a luminous white tit, held captive in a harness fitted with steel nipple rings.
Through the fine skin of that tit was pinned a police detective badge.
"Detective Sergeant Cassandra Derringer, art crime division," she said, pointing to her badge and flipping her tit.
Cynthia and Diana couldn't move their eyes away. Next to the pinched and pinned tit was a slick Walther PPK, holstered on the ribcage.
"How may we be of help, sergeant?" Diana asked.
Cassandra dropped her hand along the smooth firm slope of her pubis. She frigged her moist clit gently and flared her nostrils.
She then drew her zipper down past her rippling cunny. Cassandra then opened her legs and slit the leather suit underneath her crotch and up around back past her asshole.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hecate whipped her hair along the bare back of the black man. The lighting on the set was intense, turning the darkling muscles and ribs into a shimmering montage in mahogony.
The director of cinematography was signaling the individual cameramen over headphones, his eyes trained On three monitors at once.
One camera began to zoom in on the lashing locks. Another maintained crisp close-up on the guest star's face.
Antoine Chevalier's gagging and broad grimaces were convincing as hell, the director thought as he scanned the video monitors.
He could give a go at the acting profession if he wanted to. The man obviously had natural theatrical talents in addition to his being a highly successful Creole chef-restaurateur.
The third camera locked into Hecate's heaving latex bodice. Silvery streaks afloat on the gaudy wet-look material.
Nipples tartly outlined on the bustling bosom. The taut white tits barely concealed.
Behind the thrashing duet was an immense pot of sizzling oil. It was surrounded by a set of three weird sisters out of an absurdist MacBeth in tattered tartan robes and tam-o'-shanters with miniature skulls as tassels.
Hecate twirled in several dancelike weaves. The oiled tresses flew about her like a greased net.
She approached Antoine's back once more, threatening, looming and predatory.
Her raven hair was braided into thin tails, oiled and capped with metal hooks. Hecate swiped the huge man's hinders with the oily tendrils.
So spidery, so weblike, so very snakelike and so much like a cat-o'-nine-tails.
Hecate was clad in thigh-high boots of shiny, oiled and painted leather.
Ermine furs trimmed her boots and another several lengths were wrapped around her neck to trail their white-and-black tips down her bare white back.
Tongs and bells sounded rhythmically as the sisters struck about in the thin air.
Antoine kissed the boots of shiny leather and the lights went down. In the dark, Antoine was seen to tongue the thongs offered by the sisters in turn.
He was released from the rack and went down on his bent knee.
The joke was, of course, that he would be deep-fried Creole-style in an adaptation of one of his own popular recipes.
The whiplash of Hecate's hair in the dark was timed with the snapping of tongs, clanking of bells and chains.
The snatches of oily reflections from skin, hair, leather and metal were captured by the video monitors and the director and the cinematographer looked at each other and grinned.
The sounds of the bells, chains and the striking whip of hair continued.
"Cut! It's a take," the director snapped.
Hecate stepped back from the sweat-glazed body shackled to the rack before her.
"Wrap it up for now. One-hour break before the next scene."
"Great work, Antoine," the director said as the lights came up. "Think about taking up acting if you ever get tired of the kitchen, my boy. Meanwhile, you're in the next sequence and you have a costume change."
Then, turning toward his star, he said, "Diana, you're finished for the day on set. We won't be using you in the next scene."
"Oh, great," Diana Cazadora sighed.
She toweled off her heavily made-up face and walked into the lounge that looked into the sound-stage. She was pleased to see Cassandra there watching the day's shooting.
Maybe they could fuck while watching the next session of taping. Diana had been taken with the tough Cassandra Derringer instantly-even though she was a cop.
"Well, what's up now?" Diana said as she sat on the sofa next to the detective.
"Cynthia is phoning her parents to tell them everything is okay and not to worry. You do understand why I had to come out here myself-I know this beat and it would not have been advisable for the LA police to send out somebody unfamiliar with the principals."
Diana smiled.
She saw the sergeant's sweaty breasts move beneath her calfskin bodysuit.
She could sniff the cunt oils and feminine rutmusk soaked into the leather.
"Must be a drag-all this work for such a small matter," Diana said, aimlessly playing with Cassandra's shellacked boyish locks.
"Part of the job-hey, compared with some of my other cases, this has been a real vacation!"
Cassandra clapped her hand down on Diana's wrist and the woman immediately fell into her arms.
The couple embraced and sucked each other's lips hotly and wetly.
"What's next? You can stay with me tonight if you'd like," Diana said.
Her thumbnail speared into Cassandra's tummy as she began to unzip the front of the policewoman's undercover ensemble.
"I'd love it," Cassandra said while slickering Diana's ear and wriggling her fanny on the upholstery of the couch.
"But unfortunately," Cassandra continued, "my lieutenant has called me back to New York to check out some more thefts of Hellenistic erotica-part of a shipment to a private collector."
"They were heavily insured, of course," Diana said, nibbling at the woman's earlobes.
"Absolutely correct," Cassandra said as Diana worked her zipper around under her vulva and up her back to her backside to her waist.
Feeling Diana's pointed fingernails fritter away at her twat and bunghole, the police detective went on.
"And though the importation manifest appears to be in order," Cassandra said, "the pieces just may have been smuggled out of Turkey-perhaps obtained illegally initially."
'Tomb robbers?" Diana said.
Her thumb was up Cassandra's ass now.
"Or perhaps stolen from, shall we say, yet another criminal," Cassandra said, easing into a minor orgasm.
"What type of pieces?" Diana asked.
She felt Cassandra grip her wet clit through her thin silvery latex crotch. Then the palm slipped between her rubberized cuntlips and attacked up back toward her arse hole.
"Don't know, I haven't seen the photographs yet-I'll do that right after I get into New York, about eleven or twelve tonight."
Cassandra thought she might just change that, however. Stay here and fuck some more. Then catch another red-eye and some sleep on the plane.
She then have to meet the collector first thing in the morning.
Diana twisted her thumb out from Cassandra's hungering bun and stood up.
She turned her back toward Cassandra and said, "Can you help me out of this fucking ridiculous children's contraption?"
Cassandra, tongue lolling along the television hostess's back and legs, helped to peel her out of her latex costume.
She then slid her tongue between Diana's smooth white asscheeks.
Both of her hands riffled the firm mounds, fragrant and fine as ripe melons.
Cassandra smelled the juice ooze from the actress's honeydew.
She took the spiked collar from around her neck and snapped it twice about her wrist.
She brought her hand up to Diana's face and sneered as the television personality layered each rigid digit with mucal lubricant.
Cassandra flexed her hand, slime-covered and gleaming. She made a fist, then wiggled each finger intimidatingly.
"Bend over, frail mistress," she said to Diana, whipping her spiky wrist backhanded across the raven-haired woman's titflesh.
Diana propped herself up on folded knees as she stretched her arms above her head, which she lay on one side on the moist upholstery.
Cassandra smacked her lips and poked her tongue out between her teeth.
Diana began to gnaw the couch with her long teeth. Her arse hole winked like an opening rosebud toward her lover's mouthpucker.
Cassandra brought her yip to Diana's oily slit and picked up a wad of lady-juice. She wallowed her face in the running quim.
She suckered the pucker while she swallowed the fresh nectar from her mistress's treasure hive. The arse hole smooched at her facelips.
Cassandra next flexed her arm. She punched the righteous pussmeat and then sent an uppercut to the fundament.
Then Cassandra slugged the firm and fragrant ass-cheeks repeatedly as Diana squealed.
Her legs flew about in torture, her maw chewing the damp couch material maniacally.
Cassandra split Diana's buttocks apart with her fingers. She worked up a glop of saliva and spat it into the crack.
Then she pressed her hand, joint by joint, finger by finger, up the arse of mistress of pain and made a hefty fist.
"You got any tips on this Jergens slit?" Cassandra asked her pointedly.
Diana herky-jerked spasmodically as Cassandra twisted her wrist about in her bum.
"As I mentioned," Diana said tartly, knowing she was being manipulated, "Zahndra is having some minor plastic surgery that she doesn't want her readers or employers to know about yet."
Cassandra began pulling her clenched hand back, stretching the punk hole like tight cellophane. It rolled partway over her wrist and then she shot the fist forward.
Diana winced in pain magnified by her own petulant flagellation of her clitbud.
"I can buy that," Cassandra said. "Unfortunately, she's been reported as a missing person to the fuzz, as they say."
She beat Diana's assmeat.
The white fanny shook in heat as the fuming fist powered up her fundamental canal.
"You have to see her, speak to her?" Diana said through gobbling teeth.
"Afraid so," Cassandra said.
Then she brought her choppers into Diana's melon of an arse.
She hooked her fist from right to left as Diana lurched into the abyss of orgasmic abandon.
She jabbered away through her mouth as the police sergeant fistfucked her blazing rump.
"She could be anywhere in New York. It's such a big scene-all the clubs, all the fashion shows, private dinners, fucking gallery openings by the gross, downtown, midtown, uptown."
Cassandra jabbed her free hand into her own cunt-meat. She felt the steel rings of her harness press wetly into her aureoles.
"You can't even give me a little hint?" Cassandra was saying.
Sometimes you really had to convince these artsy types you meant business. Put the real squeeze on them. Make them squirm.
Cassandra pushed her fist religiously in and out of the whinnying arsesucker.
The spikes around her wrist now purred into the sweet white assmeat that surrounded Diana Cazad-ora's proud pink punk hole.
Diana's grimace gave way to resignation.
She was the mistress of pain.
This meant that she was mistress over the infliction of that hunger upon others-but that was not all her exalted position required.
Diana Cazadora must be able to be mistress of her own pain.
She must feed upon herself.
Consume herself with the same passionate hunger with which she devoured the others.
The cruel white goddess, true to the caprice that governed humankind, must also submit.
Lower herself into degradation.
Fall in love with her own pain. Avidly abuse herself and sup upon her agony.
The cruel white mistress of pain had been broken. By the fist of power wielded in her puss by the long arm of the law.
Strongarmed into revealing just a bit more about her operation than she would have liked.
She had to hand it to the detective sergeant, though. Cassandra Derringer was mistress of interrogation techniques without equal.
"Dandy Voivode has an opening at Dashwood's Scented Garden on Wednesday," Diana said.
"Zahndra might be there."
"That was last night," Cassandra said, "and I was there."
"Oh," Diana said. "We get a little behind New York out here in Southern California."
Cassandra recollected her experiences of the previous evening.
"I didn't see her, not that I knew of," Cassandra said, "but now Zahndra's supposedly going about in a variety of disguises."
"That's what they tell me," Diana said as she struggled to take the arm up to the elbow.
Cassandra slashed with spiked wrists up the hugging rump works.
"Who tells you?" she said.
"Alistair and Francis, of course," Diana said, choking on her tears.
Cassandra saw the deep wrinkles of pain cross Diana's brow. She seemed to be telling the truth, even if she might still be holding something back, if only on principle, from the cops.
People were like that, Cassandra had found.
She didn't yet have enough to go on, so Cassandra would have to plumb deeper.
She wouldn't give up yet. There just might be more to this than a simple missing persons report shoved off onto the art squad.
Cassandra wondered now if Francis Dashwood and Alistair Weed had been diverting her away from her quarry. But, no, they had sent her directly to Cynthia Luna.
That could itself have been a diversion.
If Francis Dashwood and Alistair Weed were trying to keep Cassandra away from Zahndra Jergens there had to be a reason.
She delved deeper into Diana's jabbering asshole and then suddenly jerked her forearm out and up. The action snapped the rubbery rim, making a noise like a cracking whip.
Cassandra slugged into the puling pussflesh and quickly buried her fist wrist-deep in steaming folds of brewing quim.
The soundstage was again bustling. Now Antoine Chevalier was dressed in a gold-and-black tiger-striped set of tights and leotards. His head was smoothly capped and masked with what looked like a rubber cast of his own features.
As the taping began, he pushed a young woman, who was bound in a thin-strapped leather tit-hammock, in front of him. Antoine prodded her with a limber metal tube that gave off sparks from its three-pointed tip.
Cassandra yanked hanks of dark, dank cunt hair with rakes of her spiked wrist.
"This Antoine Chevalier is supposed to be Zahndra Jergens's new hung nigger. Is that story straight?" Cassandra said.
"So far as I know," Diana said.
Her shrieking quim was molten under the foundering fist.
Her tits ached with humiliation as they rubbed against the wet material of the couch.
"Zahndra might be around here, hanging out," Cassandra suggested.
"Absolutely not," Diana said as she chewed the upholstery in a rage.
"Where, then?" Cassandra said.
She popped the fist from Diana's cunt and slapped the wriggling red clit as she kicked the television hostess over onto her back.
'Today's Thursday?" Diana said.
"Do tell," Cassandra sneered.
She opened up her legs and straddled Diana's shifting hips.
Through the observation window, Cassandra saw Antoine manhandle the young, squirming actress. The girl appeared to have at least two of her fingers partly mutilated.
Stumps glowered realistically on her paw as she attempted to frig her clit through the tight rubber chastity patch covering her cunt in the shape of an abstracted bat.
"Lots of functions on Thursdays," Diana rattled on as Cassandra slugged her jaw.
"How about Friday and Saturday-and don't give me that shit about weekends being dead. I know there's plenty of action-"
"A lot of it is outside New York."
Cassandra lugged a glob of spittle into Diana's face. She whistled through her teeth.
"I can travel, you lying mound of foul cunt," Cassandra said, spewing saliva on Diana's bouncing boobs and slapping her face.
"There's a getaway weekend at Spa Abbey of Theleme-I was supposed to be there myself, but we're behind taping schedule already."
Cassandra unleashed a twine of piss onto Diana's twat. It gurgled in the raven-haired gully as Diana wriggled, sucking in spit and tears.
"Where is the joint?" Cassandra said, continuing her liquid barrage.
Diana squeezed her tits, luxuriating in the tinkle that now sprayed her nipples, hard as nails, hot as coals.
"On the Canadian border-get the directions from Cynthia before you leave."
"Speak of the white bitch," Cassandra said, flapping her wet cuntmeat and indicating with her chin the blonde trainer who had just peeked her head into the observation lounge.
"Hey, Alistair Weed's office called to leave a message warning us about Sergeant Derringer's imminent arrival."
"Thank you, Cynthia," Diana said, wiping piss form her face and shaking her drenched hair. "That Mr. Weed is always right on the old ball."
"Fuck him and Francis too, if you ask me," Cynthia said.
She looked at Cassandra's drooling cunt and saw the drenched costume lying by the couch.
"Better give me those furs and latex for laundering," Cynthia said.
"Watch this first," Cassandra said in a hush.
She pointed out onto the soundstage.
Antoine was forcing the girl into an array of long spikes. He gripped her arms and shoved her at the pointed prongs repeatedly.
The actress was salivating, chewing on her lolling tongue in torment.
Antoine pressed her once more onto the twin spikes. The stumps of fingers wiggled outrageously as the tips nicked her nips.
The knockers were suspended momentarily on the tips of the spikes, and then Antoine jammed his forearm down across the back of the girl's tightly corded neck.
The left breast slid across the spike in a twist from side to side. The artificial nipple flicked off into the air and a spurt of fake blood shot out onto the black metal spike.
"Beautiful!" the director yelled. "Wrap it!"
CHAPTER SIX
Artemis Schwartz looked up from the thick volume she was studying and rested its weight, opened along the heavily bound spine, in the center of her lap.
She looked through the heavy leaded-glass windows of the abbey's turret, gazing out across the landscape of bosomy snowclad mountains, thickly thatched patches of twatlike forest and penile stands of frosted pinetrees, glittering and threatening within their spiky condoms of ice.
Nearer, nestled among the trails that led to the spa's ski runs, stood the small ceremonial grove that the Thelemites were now decorating with mistletoe and holly.
It was here that for one brief season of folly, as part of the spa's program of special events, the men would rule the domain that was rightfully that of the cruel white goddess.
They would symbolically usurp the powers held since the beginning of humanity as the dominion of the mistress of pain.
Artemis had been reading about the celebration of Saturnalia during the classical period of Rome. Her research had involved as well medieval and renaissance variants.
In her new role as Abbess of Theleme, Artemis Schwartz had a great responsibility to her Thelemites, as well as to the investors.
She had brought her exquisite sense of design to her post, and this would be well reflected in the costuming for the upcoming festival.
Tonight, for instance, the Saturnalia would open with a renaissance-style banquet, with duelists, dancers and music.
Then, later, would come the more sublime acts of their celebration.
The ones that would depict women and men, stocking up for their hunger at the fleshmarkets.
The advent of the ceremonial display of masculine power would add a certain desperation to the activities of the marketplace.
There would be all manner of opportunity for abuse, humiliation, domination and damnation. All would be encouraged to display their personal follies and preferences.
Choosing from delights displayed and prepared for them in the meatmarket just prior to a glitzy high-tech renaissance carnival.
This segment would be audience participation.
As had become the tradition at the spa, Diana Cazadora's unique mechanical contraptions would be among the centerpieces.
Pierced nipples.
Hooked twats.
Men with rubber collars about their necks and slightly smaller models choking off their cocks to purple-headed madness.
And the mistress herself was scheduled to appear.
This aspect was a bit uncertain as of now, however. Of course it might add a little suspense to the Saturnalia, but the Abbess was in charge of planning the schedule of events.
Diana, or, rather, her little doxie Cynthia had called on behalf of her mistress, from Los Angeles this morning.
She had left a message informing the Abbess that the videotaping of Hecate's Horrorhouse was running past schedule.
That would brew havoc enough.
But Cynthia had also advised the Abbess to expect the arrival of a special guest. One that the mistress herself had invited.
Artemis knew that her husband Francis Dash wood and his partner in the venture Alistair Weed would be furious.
They needed no nonpaying guests at Spa Abbey of Theleme, especially not at these affairs.
This weekend alone would cost each aficionado in attendance twenty-five hundred dollars.
And drinks outside of those selected and scheduled for the series of planned parties and meals were extra.
Diana's devices would be for sale, and Artemis would be taking orders for a line of athletic wear derived from her costuming for the event.
Since prices were extraordinary and the taste of the clientele likewise refined, every element of the scheme had to be of the ultimate quality.
Every morsel to feed their hunger would be of the most toothsome variety.
Every pleasure machine would produce the most stylish pain ever theretofore unimagined.
So why give it away?
Especially to a cop.
Artemis thought Diana must have gone off the deep end somewhere out in LA. Falling for a police detective like that.
And Cassandra Derringer wanted to find Zahndra Jergens. There were reasons-Artemis did not understand them entirely-that the money-musc-lemen Francis and Alistair wanted to keep Zahndra's transformation under wraps.
Possibly some kind of publicity they were contemplating for Dashwood's Scented Garden.
But Artemis knew they would be pissed at the attendance of the dyke cop.
If only on principle.
Spa Abbey of Theleme was supposed to be a secluded retreat for only the most special types of connoisseurs.
Exclusivity, of course, meant prices in the astronomical range.
Artemis felt a splendor in her grass. The tingle spread from her clitbud to her ass.
She, too, had that warm response to the flow of cash, like some cool green jism.
She could understand her husband and his partner. But right now she couldn't understand the way Diana was acting.
Artemis had the flash for an instant that perhaps Diana did not after all deserve to be the mistress of pain.
Not anymore.
If she had broken, she would no longer be deserving. Diana was weakened.
But Artemis felt stronger and more powerful each day. Her ferocity sometimes scared her. But at least she was in control.
She could dominate her own hunger.
Not lose it all the way Diana Cazadora had done. To some dippy little trainer-groupie or a tough-titted cop from the art squad.
Perhaps it was time for the Abbess to succeed her mistress.
Artemis had much money of her own.
As things now stood, though Diana was a partner in the spa, her financial involvement was a limited one.
Her income from the syndicated cable series Hecate's Horrorhouse was not bad at all by most standards, but it was nothing compared to the resources upon which Francis and Alistair could draw.
In fact, Artemis thought, Diana was actually their slave.
Of course Artemis Schwartz would be a more potent mistress.
The designer's actionwear was seen peeled from the sweating hardbod asses in Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, Paris, and Milan.
Artemis Schwartz's workout suits were worn out fucking by athletes in New York, Mexico City, London and Rome. Her jeans were whipped down the legs of Panamanian faggots and rawhide bulldykes in Singapore flings.
Every person who wore her clothing saw himself as a star.
Artemis Schwartz had the power of charisma as well as that derived from her money.
In many ways, Artemis Schwartz would be more than a match for her husband Francis Dashwood and his partner Alistair Weed.
She would certainly be more valuable to them. Considerably more so than Diana Cazadora could ever hope to be.
That would be Artemis's edge.
"Pandora," the Abbess said to the young lady in the ruffled dress who sat primly with her white legs sticking out from the hemline, propped up on the secretarial desk.
Artemis held out a long thin set of fiercely nailed fingers.
"You wish Pandora's box, mum?" the lady in the ruffled dress said.
She spread her legs slightly to reveal the split in her golden blonde pussy patch.
"Yes," Artemis said slowly, "and I think I'll want some of Dicksie's cup. Would you mind calling him up."
Pandora wedged herself onto the Abbess's silk-stockinged leg. Artemis stroked Pandora's box with the sharpened tips of her fingernails.
Pandora reached behind her and buzzed up Dicksie on the intercom.
The youth pranced into the Abbess's suite of offices wearing a small cup about his genitals, carrying spray of mistletoe and a selection of lewdly decorated switches.
There were straight and whiplike lengths soaked in water. A variety of bludgeons in die form of animal horns and antlers painted silver.
And many-tailed instruments that were shaped like tree boughs, with jagged metallic leaves attached to their golden-hued branches.
Pandora flipped Dicksie's cup away from his tummy and the boy's cock flipped out and up, smacking him in the flatness of his stomach.
His nuts were wadded up under his belly in a crinkled sac. Dicksie's stiff penis bobbed and came to rest, heavy with blood.
Pandora affixed the spray of mistletoe to the thorn between Dicksie's legs.
Then she made him stand upon the Abbess's desk and spread his legs.
Artemis and Pandora joined in embrace between the boy's succulent cheeks. They looked up and saw his brown asshole winking at them.
The two women smiled at the mistletoe bouncing away as the faunlike boy's balls bloomed gaily to enormity, the prick throbbing festively.
"Before we kiss beneath the mistletoe, I should remind the Abbess," Pandora said.
"What is it, dear one?"
"Tis the season to beat Holly."
"Why, yes, Pandora," Artemis said as she selected a limber golden bough. "Won't you fetch her for us now."
*****
Zahndra Jergens relaxed in a smile as the needles were inserted into her ripe ass. One in each cheek.
She could swear she felt the hormones at work already. At play in her body tissues.
Francis Dashwood nodded his head in approval as the Thelemite attendants inserted another needle in Zahndra's arm, this time to draw blood.
"Zahndra's looking pretty damn good, Alistair, if you ask me," Francis said to the tall sandy-haired man just entering.
One Thelemite oiled up a long, narrow plastic nib with holes in it and spread open Zahndra's pliant asscheeks.
"Hello, Alistair," Zahndra said, looking up from the padded table.
"How do you feel today, honey?" Alistair said, placing his hand reassuringly on her neck.
"Never felt better," Zahndra said, moving her rump to accept the plastic length.
It slid into her interior and a narrow rubber tubing was attached to its open breech.
Zahndra propped herself up on her elbows to show off her tits.
Alistair reached down to them and flicked the nipples to a stand.
They barely jiggled. So tight and small across her flattening chest.
"Not bad indeed," Alistair said, looking over at Francis's wolverine grin.
"All she needs is a cock," Francis said.
Gurgling sounds began to trickle as the syrupy concoction was driven in mild spurts up Zahndra's rectum. It set off a fever in her.
Fed her hunger.
"I've decided to keep my twat," Zahndra said. "At least for the time being."
"Fine," Francis said.
"You can always get a penis-and-sac later-if you become envious," Alistair joked.
Zahndra began shaking her hide. One Thelemite inserted her rubber-sheathed fingers into Zahndra's bustling twat.
"When do you think I'll be coming out?" Zahndra said, her clit buzzing like a drill bit.
Alistair exchanged glances with Francis.
"I think she's ready right now," Alistair said, raising his eyebrows.
Francis nodded in confirmation.
"Yes, Alistair. Particularly since she's keeping hold of her cunt for now."
"Maybe we can work her into the Saturnalia somehow," Alistair said.
"This weekend?" Zahndra said excitedly.
"Yes," Francis said, reaching into his pants and holding his stiff prick aloft.
He began to flag it, watching Zahndra's rump thrash and churn.
"How's Saturday night sound?" Alistair suggested, his adrenaline pumping.
He snapped his fingers and a young Thelemite attendant clad in white latex came up to him. She stretched his cock out from his pinstriped pants and took the stinger in her yip.
"We'll have to inform the Abbess of the news. She'll be delighted," Francis noted.
He brought his cock into contact with Zahndra's jibbering jaw.
A Thelemite began to undo his pants, wielding a long syringe in her fingers.
"It will certainly be a surprise for our mistress of pain," Alistair added.
He sighed as an attendant untied his cravat and opened his wing-collar shirt.
A shiny metal choker was placed around his neck. Another of the same design pattern was clamped about his purple genital regalia.
"I am afraid our mistress Diana Cazadora has a little surprise of her own," Francis said insinuatingly, cock caught in Zahndra's neck.
He shivered as he took the injection right in his asshole. Vitamin B12 was one of his favorite highs for rutting.
"How so?" Alistair queried.
He was becoming sick of Diana's undependabil-ity, her missing important events due to her television work on the West Coast.
"She shot off her yawp to some hardass detective we both know," Francis said between grating teeth as he drove down Zahndra's neck.
"We expected that," Alistair said, now dressed only in matching rings about his neck, wrists, ankles and genitals.
"But we didn't expect that she'd send Cassandra Derringer as her guest to Saturnalia," Alistair said with a sneer.
A Thelemite removed the long plastic nib from Zahndra's punk hole and gestured to Alistair that she was ready.
Two clamps were attached to stretch Zahndra's buttocks apart.
"But Diana doesn't really know a thing, does she?" Alistair said, climbing onto the massage table just below Zahndra's spread ass.
"I haven't said anything to her," Francis affirmed as he held Zahndra's head to his cackling cockmeat in her maw.
"Maybe that's part of the problem," Alistair said, shaking out his long dick into Zahndra's struggling rump.
"She didn't do it on purpose, of course," Francis said. "But her not being privy to our important matters has not provided us the cover we wanted to use.!.'
"In fact," Alistair agreed, dragging his choked cock ever so slowly along the seam of Zahndra's hustling buttocks, "she has proved a weak link in our chain of operation."
"I think our Abbess will really be showing her stuff this weekend," Francis remarked diffidently, flapping his balls over Zahndra's churning chin, kissing her drenched locks.
"Artemis would, however," Alistair said, slapping the hard ass beneath his dangling purple dong, "be more than a paper partner."
"That's the advantage," Francis said. "She would have an active interest in our behalf. A Schwartz has power and money. We might as well avail ourselves of it."
He squeezed Zahndra's shrinking tits, as if they were twin clits on her chest.
Zahndra chewed on the hog in her jowls with her hungry choppers. She whipped her legs around Alis-tair's oiled hips.
"You've been pushing for this ever since Artemis became involved, Francis," Alistair said. "You think she's got the right stuff?"
He sank into Zahndra's ass and jabbed her with spasmodic thrusts of cock in her bun.
"Yes, I think my wife would make a perfect mistress of pain," Francis said, yanking his dick from Zahndra's mouth.
He took one step back and hoisted his cock.
Huge glops of come were lofted through the air, scattering like fiery opal cabochons across Zahndra's hair and face.
"Can I be Abbess?" Zahndra snickered, licking her hair for droplets of jism.
"Better make that Abbot," Alistair said, fobbing off a load of come into her arse.
"Sergeant, you stink," Lieutenant Gardenia said, pinching his nostrils.
"Can't do anything about it now," Cassandra said, partly unzipping the front of the oxblood-colored calfskin bodysuit she was wearing for the third day in a row.
"You can get out of here as fast as possible," Gardenia said.
"A pleasure," Cassandra said as she took out an unfiltered Turkish cigarette and shoved it between her teeth.
"I take it the missing persons investigation has been coming along." Cassandra nodded, blowing smoke out in dirty gray plumes.
"You've filed the paperwork?" he said, crinkling his nose at the aromas of stale cuntjuice and dirty musk wafting from the detective.
Cassandra nodded again, noting Gardenia's discomfort at her body rut smell. She lowered the zipper at the front of her ensemble to allow the fragrance to escape more freely.
"Good," the lieutenant said with finality. "Then I don't have to see it."
He took a glance inside the unzipped top and saw the outline of her tough tits held painful prisoners in their leather-and-steel harness.
"What's the dope on this disappearance?" Cassandra said, standing with her legs split apart shoulder width.
"Well, first of all, the collector says she is getting heat from her eventual buyers-"
"She?"
"Yeah."
"Endicott Peabody is a she?" Cassandra said.
"Yeah. What's wrong with that? If you can be a she, anyone can."
"Very funny," Cassandra snorted.
"It seems that Ms. Peabody," Gardenia continued, his eyes on Cassandra's tits, "has accepted money for the sale of select items prior to their actual delivery, and now-"
"Let me guess," Cassandra said. "Ms. Peabody has a cash-flow problem and the pieces in question are now whereabouts unknown." Gardenia nodded.
"What about the insurance angle?" Cassandra said, shifting her weight.
She allowed one hip to rise, drawing the crotch of the calfskin bodysuit tightly up between the lips of her cunt.
"You'll like this," Gardenia said.
"So tell me about it."
"The insurance was taken out by Investors Artistic, Ltd. Can you guess who is on the board of directors of said corporation?"
"Not offhand," Cassandra said taciturnly.
"How about Alistair Weed and Francis Dashwood for starters?"
"Sounds good," she said, drawing her zipper down past her navel.
She kept careful watch on the lieutenant's eyes as she slit a finger into the partially opened front of her outfit.
"Anyone else of interest?" she said.
"Yeah, that television horror-movie hostesswhat's her name?"
Cassandra shot her hips forward a bit. She saw Gardenia's eyes charge in.
"I know the one," Cassandra said. "Just saw her in LA in connection with the missing art-groupie slit whose parents got all hot in the tits. Hecate's
Horrorhouse. Diana Cazadora is the cunt's moniker."
"You got it," Gardenia said. "Now go get it," he said, passing to her several foil pouches.
Cassandra looked at them. Purse-kit perfumed douches and vaginal antiperspirant.
"I'll, see if I can wrap this one up quick, baby," Cassandra said.
Gardenia looked amused.
"Wrap her up however you like," Gardenia said. "I know it's rough out there. Just make sure you wash out your snatch after the next hunk of cuntmeat you go after on assignment."
"Police, ma'am," Cassandra said through the intercom, looking into the eye of the video camera focused in front of the building's locked foyer.
"Come right in," the light voice replied.
A dissonant buzzer sounded, and Cassandra Derringer pushed her way into the ground-floor hallway of the brownstone.
A narrow doorway opened at the end of the hall, and a pair of almond eyes in an olive-complexioned head peered out.
"Officer..." Ms. Peabody began.
"Sergeant Cassandra Derringer, art squad," the detective cut off, stepping quickly through the door.
"I...I didn't know when to expect you," the woman said. "I was just getting out of the shower."
Cassandra thought that she herself could certainly use a washing. She saw Ms. Peabody adjust the weighted cord tied about her hips to keep her raw silk kimono together.
The hand-painted Japanese robe was probably from the late nineteenth century. Remarkably preserved, the art squad investigator observed.
"I already have the background details as you confirmed them," Cassandra said, taking a peek at the woman's ripe bosom.
She saw a gilt cord tied over one shoulder, disappearing within the folds of the kimono.
"But would you mind recapitulating the events for me?" Cassandra said.
"Of course, sergeant," Ms. Peabody said, hauling out a cigarette and inserting it into a long Chinese ivory cigarette holder.
As Ms. Peabody related the discovery that a number of pieces of the Hellenistic works she had purchased on a recent swing through Greece and Turkey, Cassandra felt the rut rise from within the antique kimono.
"Let me show you the photographs," Ms. Peabody said, rising from the couch and going to a small Chippendale desk topped by a sleekly designed telephone answering machine.
Cassandra observed her thin ankles as she walked across the richly textured living room.
She saw the tautly muscled formation of Ms. Peabody's calves and the way her ass was succu-lently outlined as she bent to select a medium-sized manila envelope from the desktop.
Ms. Peabody sat close to Cassandra as she reas-sumed her seat next to her on the thick brocade of the couch's upholstery.
She smelled the thick fumes emanating from the detective's oxblood calfskin bodysuit.
Cunt and perspiration.
Leather and piss.
Burnt rubber and oxidized metal.
As Cassandra riffled through the photographs of the missing pieces, Ms. Peabody was able to catch a peek inside the detective's bodysuit.
Ms. Peabody saw that, like herself, the sergeant had her breasts in bondage. They were sisters in the adoration of perpetual pain.
They could trust each other.
"There are some exceptional pieces represented among these," Cassandra mused.
She had been particularly struck by one photograph, which she carefully had devoted no more time to than any of the others.
It was a statue, executed in purple-grained marble, showing a womanly bust covered with female breasts.
It was cataloged as a second century BC copy of the original ebony icon of the goddess Artemis as depicted in the sanctuary of her temple at Ephesus on the Aegean coast of Asia Minor, modern Turkey.
Cassandra could sense her own juices beginning to brim up in her quim.
Her body heat was energizing the dried essences that had been absorbed by the fibers of her oxblood calfskin bodysuit.
The metal of her nipple rings was so intense against her tit that she could almost smell the pain. Just as she could almost taste the cream of Ms. Peabody on her teeth.
Almost feel the cunt hairs that she was sure were to be embedded there.
"You can keep those prints," Ms. Peabody said, peering over Cassandra's shoulder. "I have another complete set."
"Thanks," Cassandra replied. "Do you have any photographs of the pieces that were not missing-or any of the actual pieces?"
"Uh, sure," Ms. Peabody said, flushing suddenly and rising from the couch.
Cassandra watched the woman proceed across the room to the desk. She saw the way her asscheeks parted as she bent slightly and felt around, handling another manila envelope.
"The actual pieces would be better," Cassandra said impatiently.
Sometimes you had to play rough. Many people had some ingrained predisposition to keep the whole story to themselves.
It was as if they feared cops.
Something inherent. They weren't all necessarily criminals, either.
Master criminals and other professionals of course held no fear for the law.
They might of course hold back information, but they would do so under some sort of guise that showed they at least were familiar with the workings of police routine.
Not something like this. Something that showed Ms. Peabody did not know that policemen too were rational, sentient beings.
The amateurs, innocent and guilty alike, were far more likely to be obviously reticent.
Witholding in a way that could only be explained by either complete dizziness or hope that the cops would simply not notice something.
Such as complicity or guilt.
Surprise, Ms. Peabody, Cassandra thought, police detectives have minds, too.
"Well, where are they, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra said, lighting up another cigarette.
Endicott Peabody stopped flipping through the envelope of photographic prints.
"The pieces that you haven't gotten rid of yet?" Cassandra said.
She saw Ms. Peabody bring her hand involuntarily to her throat, clutching the golden cord.
"Now, come on, Ms. Peabody," Cassandra said lazily, "the big pieces are being run through Canada via Spa Abbey of Theleme. Now who are you, just some dumb cunt?"
"I don't understand," Ms. Peabody said, drawing to full height.
"You don't understand that you are brokering illegally obtained artifacts that are then sold on the black market."
Ms. Peabody retreated as Cassandra stood and walked cooly toward her, hips pushed forward. She darted her eyes about as if there were some way she could simply run away from it all.
"No!" Ms. Peabody said. "That's not true! That's not true at all!"
"If it isn't true, Endicott darling, then why are you so worked up now?"
"It's you," the cowering woman said.
"And just what did I do?"
"Well.. .sometimes the police work people over."
"How do you know that, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra snorted. "The same way you know that you are not in fact dealing with stolen art, resold in such a way as to both collect the insurance and avoid the Internal Revenue Service."
"You don't know that," Endicott tried.
She moved closer to Cassandra, letting her robe part slightly.
"I know I'll find out," Cassandra said, easing her arm about. Ms. Peabody's slender waist.
"Well, if Alistair and Francis are fucking around like that, I sure don't know anything about it," Ms. Peabody allowed.
She pressed her fanny against the steely haunch of the police detective.
"I know," Cassandra said as she brought her forearm up over Ms. Peabody's tits.
She could feel them beneath the raw silk fabric. Nipples pointed as darts.
Hot as match heads.
"You were only hired to receive the pieces, right, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra said.
"What is this?" Endicott said.
She tried to twirl from Cassandra's deceptively gentle embrace.
"Let me go," Ms. Peabody said.
Cassandra felt the woman kick to her shins. Then she went at her face savagely with her sharply manicured fingernails.
Ms. Peabody broke loose and the detective reached up to swipe the droplets of blood from her eye. She saw the woman go for something on the desk and kicked blindly.
Ms. Peabody folded to the floor, clutching at her quim.
Cassandra looked down at the woman, writhing on the floor. Tears were heavy in her eyes and her kimono was open.
"What were you going for, a letter opener?" Cassandra leered.
She saw the drops of blood spattered about Ms. Peabody's vulva.
"No, I swear I wasn't," Ms. Peabody said, rolling her firm ass over the flooring.
Cassandra reached inside her bodysuit and drew out her Walther PPK, aiming it at Ms. Peabody's mouth.
"Which one is it?" Cassandra said, fingering through the envelope containing the complete set of photographs.
"Which one what?" Ms. Peabody said, holding onto her bleeding cunt.
"Say, aren't you getting a little sick of that game, baby?" Cassandra said.
She kicked the fallen woman in the pussy once more, saw the way her face collapsed.
Cassandra hit herself in the tits with a start.
"I should have known," she said softly. "You've got the Hellenistic artifact right up your very own jimjam."
Ms. Peabody just groaned.
"Art in the twat," Cassandra said, kicking Ms. Peabody's hands away from her centerpiece.
She pointed her firearm again at the woman.
'Take off that fucking Nip outfit-what are you, anyway, some kind of gook whore?"
"My father was British, stationed at the embassy in Japan-"
"I get the picture," Cassandra said, watching the woman disrobe.
She pressed the woman onto her back at gunpoint and unzipped her bodysuit.
Cassandra shrugged her own clothing from her shoulders. She licked her lips at the unfolded cunt-meat before her eyes.
She felt her harnessed nipples, hard and senseless as bullets, between two fingernails. She gave her tits a couple of tugs.
Then she reached into one of the outside pockets of her discarded bodysuit.
Still training the firearm on Ms. Peabody with her left hand, she brought up with her right a heavy set of pliers.
"What on earth?" Ms. Peabody said.
Cassandra edged in between Endicott's splayed haunches, her studded bracelets and armlets glinting in the late-morning sunlight.
She saw the frisky pusscurls on the woman's bleeding cunt. There was cuntjuice flowing among the oozing red.
Ms. Peabody's lush breasts were sweaty and thick in their halter of golden cord.
Cassandra spread the lips of Ms. Peabody's cunt wide with her thumb and forefinger. The flesh seemed to come apart like wet tissue.
The heavy pliers worked their way into the juicy quim. The flesh shook.
Ms. Peabody strained her face in withering heat. Pain so intense she could not bear.
She wrenched at her own nipples in an attempt to stop the foulness in her pussy.
The buzz went up her spine. Her lurch into orgasm was as unexpected as it was humiliating, and she burst into tears.
Cassandra flickered her fingers over Ms. Peabody's clit as she worked the pliers harder, deeper into reddened cunt.
There was a clatter in the quim.
Cassandra peered menacingly into the split opening. Listening carefully, she darted the tips of the pliers to and fro.
The heavy metal rippled the flesh. Tearing velvet tissues and sparking off other floods inside the struggling woman.
Gushes of blood. Fuckjuice in the bleeding gash of fuckmeat.
Finally, as Ms. Peabody whelped in orgasmic spasms, Cassandra fastened the head of the pliers to a small, hard object.
She twisted and yanked. Ms. Peabody jabbered incomprehensibly from between sputtering lips. Her thighs cavorted in mania.
Cassandra extracted a bloody statuette from the ravished twat.
"Quite a valuable piece of snatch you are, Ms. Peabody," Cassandra said.
She hoisted the blood-and-come wad through the air. As the juices dropped heavily from it, the piece was revealed as a miniature Hermes stela, featuring the god's curled horns and immense prick in delicate alabaster.
Cassandra placed the piece on the floor below Ms. Peabody's drooling pussy. Then she reinserted the pliers deftly.
Into the raised olive-toned pucker.
Ms. Peabody's snapping bun accepted the hefty set of pliers graciously, offering absolutely no resistance whatsoever.
The asshole gyrated madly as the slick dark length was withdrawn.
"A bronze phallus of the Lesbian court at Mytilene," Cassandra observed.
"I don't have to tell you how much that metal dildo is worth," Ms. Peabody sneered.
"What else you got on you?" Cassandra said, flailing the pliers across Ms. Peabody's strung-up burning tits.
She bent forward, sucking ravenously upon the woman's rampant field of pussflesh. "Just try me," Ms. Peabody said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The narrow streets of the fleshmarket wound though the cavernous underbelly of the spa's central building.
The display pens for the human livestock were well-filled, and the machinery devised by the mistress of pain was in place.
Musicians practiced with synthesized lute, recorder and harpsichord as sound technicians clad in maroon rubber from head to toe scurried about like mutts in heat.
"All is in readiness, Francis," Alistair said, looking about the set.
"It looks fabulous," Francis said, stroking his chin and taking a handful of tit and ass from one of the young ladies of the marketplace.
"So do you, if I may say so," Alistair said, taking in Dashwood's coal-gray leotard and tights ensemble, with piping and crotch works of naturally fanged python skin.
"Likewise accept my own compliments, Alistair," Francis said.
Both men were outfitted in designs by Artemis Schwartz, Abbess of Theleme.
Francis especially liked the way Alistair's dick was outlined in deep relief by his codpiece of hard leather.
Draperies of silver chains hung from epaulets and nipple clips on the tall, sandy-haired man's brocaded silk doublet. Alistair's knickers and scarlet-lined cape were of soft manure-tanned antelope skins.
Francis espied a sumptuous pile of puss flesh. Most toothsome selection was she.
Her hide and fanny would bring a good price during the auctions scheduled for later in the evening. After the duel.
He stroked between her split legs as the girl bent over on her hands and knees, drinking filth from a wooden trough.
He ran the edge of his flattened palm between the lips of her brisk vulva.
Then he brought his mitt up to Alistair's nose and wafted the savory fragrance.
"Mmm," said Alistair, sniffing. "It's like randy goat cheese run under a broiler."
"Exquisite," Francis said, licking his wet fingers and dipping into the twat for another sampling of quimjuices.
"I trust the Abbess has everything set for the arrival of the cruel white goddess," Alistair said, inspecting the spikelike gears of one of Diana's contraptions.
Francis fingered another sweetmeat.
He took one firm nipple between his fingers and twisted. He acknowledged the way the girl writhed in pain.
Spitting onto the sweetmeat's visage, he spoke confidently to his partner.
"We are prepared for the advent of Diana Cazad-ora, whether it is indeed tomorrow or she chooses graciously to swoop down on us tonight."
Alistair brought the corners of his yip up slightly in a strained smile.
"And what of the accommodations for Diana's little guest?" Alistair said.
"Cassandra Derringer," Francis said, wiping his hand off on a rag, "will be given the due respect an agent of the law requires."
The two men passed through a blind corridor leading to the stairwell descending into the dungeon beneath the basement.
Behind a wall covered with ingenious devices derived from those of the Spanish Inquisition, was another space, this one filled with tightly bound, padded packages.
"Which one is it?" Alistair asked.
"You mean the many-titted statue of the goddess of the hunt," Francis responded archly.
"The same," Alistair said, looking for a likely sized parcel.
"This one, right here," Francis said.
He turned to his left and slipped a dropcloth from around a large cubical container. With the knife he snapped from the clip at his waistband, he slashed into the thick layers of cardboard and fiber filler.
Francis peeled back a section of the wrapping and revealed the hideous face of the goddess. He next showed several of the multititted sculpture's nipples, tweaking their cooly marbled succulence in turn.
"I still say it's more than indiscreet for us to use this statue in tomorrow's ceremony," Alistair reiterated. "We might damage the merchandise."
"Diana is the one who insisted, after all," Francis recollected. "I think the appearance of the statue, coupled with the presence of our mean detective, should clinch the fate of our dear lady-the cruel mistress of pain."
Alistair allowed a smile as the men passed again from the secret chamber.
"You have made sure all the other items will be cleared out before Cassandra Derringer appears on the scene," Alistair said as they paused at the top of the circular stonework stairway.
"Zahndra will be escorting them across the border during the banquet this evening," Francis said, catching a flicker of life in his cock.
He could hear the slide and clatter of steel from outside in the ceremonial grove. His dick was hard and hot already.
The destruction of Diana Cazadora would give him blinding and painful orgasm.
With the accession of his wife to the queenship, Francis Dashwood would have an even more formidable source of pain. He knew Artemis would be able to stoke his hunger to the fullest.
The two men stepped out onto the rear terrace that overlooked the ceremonial grove.
The grounds of the spa were decorated with glittering boughs of gilt material. Bundles of switches were hung from pine branches, decorated with holly, pine cones and mistletoe.
Some of the revelers were already in costume, wearing crowns of antlers, crescent moons and in some cases even full-dress animal outfits.
Alistair laughed joyfully and indicated Antoine
Chevalier capering about. The black man's head was covered with a black leather helmet in the form of a bull's mask.
It was heavily armored with curlicue wire spikes and metal plates. From the top of the casque protruded a set of longhorns.
The ski lifts had been in operation all afternoon, for the convenience of me earlier arrivals, and, even now, as the early festivities were in progress, some of the aficionados were continuing their abandonment to the danger and wildness of the slopes.
"I trust Ms. Peabody will be able to make it for the weekend," Alistair said.
"Yes, so I am told," Francis said slowly. "However, even if she cannot attend, arrangements have been made for her to be taken care of."
Beneath the boughs of a large fir tree an arena had been carved out of the snow.
The Abbess was standing between two contestants, clad in a long white strapless gown of see-through latex that showed the ample white bosom clearly.
Though one's attention was first drawn to the red nips, the triangular patch of cunt hair was tantaliz-ingly, subtly on display.
Artemis's hair was drawn up into two stiff auburn horns and her arms were covered to her shoulders in thin white latex gloves.
As Alistair and Francis continued their stroll toward the ice arena, Antoine, in his Minotaur ensemble, faced off against the flaxen-haired Cynthia Luna.
She and Antoine had arrived from Los Angles late in the afternoon with the word that Diana Cazadora might after all be able to attend the opening night of Saturnalia at Spa Abbey of Theleme.
Now Cynthia stood with her legs spread, in a glittery padded jumpsuit of rubber-treated canvas. Her helmet was a pearlescent sphere symbolizing the moon as a gaping, ghostly transmutation of tit-mound and cunny.
Artemis watched as wired metal plates were attached through openings in the two contestants' body armor.
The sculptured protective electrode plates were snared to Antoine's nipples, clipped around his balls and inserted with a twist up his rectum.
Likewise prepared in her bung and bosom, Cynthia had a cuntplate secured through her clit and by a tang slid up into her twat.
"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law," Artemis said, explaining that there would be no rules governing the play of the contest.
She passed to Antoine a three-foot leather-covered dildo tipped like a lance and studded with hooks and spikes.
To Cynthia she presented a long curved hard rubber crescent, reinforced with steel and bearing embedded along its length evil-looking blades cut into the shape of stars.
The Abbess continued her commentary as the duelists took their places at either end of the icy arena.
"There will be no quarter given, and the director has been told to disregard anything the contestants might utter."
The Minotaur brandished his pricklike weapon, sending off a shower of sparks.
"In the event of audience interference in this bout, and any subsequent claims by or on behalf of either contestant," Artemis said, "you well understand that the spa affirms that nothing is true, all is permitted."
Cynthia wafted the scimitar-moon about her head. She struck an overhanging bough, setting off a shimmering curtain of electric flashes.
"Let us begin," Artemis said, withdrawing to a dais upon which she sat in an ice throne flanked by her husband Francis Dashwood to her right, Alistair Weed to her left.
Each contestant moved casually toward the center of the ice ring. Then they crouched and wove tentative, slippery circles about each other on the uneven ice surface of the arena.
Sparks flashing from the electrodes in their stunned sex organs. Showering from the tips of their baleful weaponry.
Cynthia made the initial assault. Her crescent slit into the armored prickstaff, biting in just below the head.
The slick surface of the arena torqued the Moon-maiden into a skid.
Momentarily off balance, Cynthia sank to one knee, an electric fire in her fannyplate.
The Minotaur made a counterstroke, dragging the head of the prickstaff across the glowing tips of the Moon-maiden's electrified tits.
The resultant shower of jismic fireworks set off the crowd.
Cynthia jumped back onto her feet, skidding as the intensity of metallic fear in her tits continued unbearably.
She swiped across the Minotaur's belly as he raised his lordly prickstaff above his head to strike at her.
The sear rent his balls and sizzled his prick as the emission of flares from his crotch continued with the Moon-maiden's attack.
The Minotaur lowered his head and one long horn jammed dicklike into the Moon-maiden's cuntplate. Butting her to the ground, the Minotaur stabbed the prickstaff at the fallen female warrior's face and twat.
Cynthia cascaded into electronic orgasm and a series of laser jets spat off into the eerie light of the early evening.
With a savage cut of her crescent, plumes of sparks came from the Minotaur's rectum.
Another series of laser jets registered the score as the Minotaur shot off jism into the electric come-conductor in his crotchplate.
The Minotaur retreated, drawing the Moon-maiden on, building her confidence. . He appeared to stumble onto his back on a chink in the icy surface.
The assault of the Moon-maiden was accompanied by a blood-foaming yowl from her maw.
Feminine voices in the crowd shrieked like banshees in heat as their champion Cynthia slashed awesomely across the Minotaur's nippleplates.
She then angled downward, cutting bend sinister across his bowels. The Moon-maiden completed the Z with a splendid rendering of pain across the Minotaur's testicles.
Electric juices forced jism up and out the Minotaur's jimjam.
But he had the Moon-maiden where he wanted her and timed his thrust.
The tip of the studded-leather prickstaff surged into the Moon-maiden's fannyplate, rendering her senseless in wave after wave of orgasm.
The Minotaur then horned her in the cuntplate, and the laser jets registered a continuous assault of come from the fallen Moon-maiden's quim.
As the shuddering female duelist was dragged along the ice to the edge of the arena, her limbs twitched spasmodically.
The victorious Minotaur raised his prickstaff over his homed head and pumped his hips.
"The beast has bested beauty," the Abbess announced. "May the king of beasts reign powerfully with the administration of his atavistic pain. For we all know that the king must soon die."
"That ought to pump them up for next weekend," Alistair said surreptitiously to Francis.
"Yes," Francis said. "What did I tell you? She'll be a marvelous mistress."
"And now," Artemis said, rising from her ice throne, "the king must dine-and so must all of us; my hunger's ravenous!"
The Minotaur sat surrounded by the Abbess and her court atop the low stage at the center of the banquet area of the marketplace.
In the space between the two long rows of tables where the dick-dancers had just finished performing was dragged in by a quartet of male fairy-slaves a large machine-metal device.
Jaws dropped at the hard beauty of the blonde, green-eyed virgin selected from the surrounding flesh market stalls.
She was clamped onto her back straddling the fearsome engine by the thick leather bands running over her forearms.
Her fingernails clutched at her thighs, decorated by stretch rubber chastity-straps.
The blonde virgin's mouth moved in soundless terror. Chewing mournfully on the hard rubber ball held in her maw by the torturously tearing rubber and steel bit.
Sweat and cunt oils puddled the mechanics of the machine and the grinding surface of her virginal form as legs flailed across the sprinkling of steel spikes.
The Minotaur rose from the dessert of meringue tit capped by a black raspberry, wiped his maw and descended to the terrorized virgin.
His hooved gauntlet seized the handle of the crank sticking up between the splayed legs of the prim womanflesh.
As he turned it slowly, savage spiked gears bit into the rubber chastity-straps.
Another gear rotated her right nipple, furling it like a silly-putty flag.
She closed her eyes as if to reject it all as the vise clamped about her left breast.
The twisting of her tit was an abominable humiliation in itself.
But the gears were clawing at her snatch, forcibly breaking her vows of eternal chastity. Of submissive-ness to the cruel white goddess who was her one mistress of pain.
Tonight and for a brief season, the Minotaur reigned and it was now the men who were the sex-masters of their own slavering hunger.
One eye glued on the ongoing ceremonial, Alistair Weed bent his sandy-haired head in between Artemis and Francis.
"I trust Zahndra's mission proceeds as planned."
Francis nodded, taking a bite of the dessert tit before him.
The Abbess licked her fingernails and dropped them to her clit as the Minotaur continued his grisly twist and shout.
Artemis Schwartz awaited her own mm, when she would prove herself mistress of pain.
She could feel the sear of steel in her cunt folds. The twist and nip of gnashing spikes at her tits and clitbud.
Jabbering white-hotness up her arse.
As the blonde virgin erupted into orgasm, the Minotaur shaking come from his purple-black dick dangling threateningly over her crying face, the Abbess spoke in low tones.
"I've arranged for Zahndra to appear this evening immediately upon completion of her run," she said.
"That should be foolproof-enough cover," Alistair said confidently.
"Even with the presence of our hard-titted detective from the art squad," Francis said, a bit short of Alistair's smugness.
"Yes," Artemis said, jiggling her clit through the filmy folds of her latex gown, "where is our dear Cassandra Derringer?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Are you sure you want to do it the hard way, Cassandra?" Dandy Voivode spoke to the woman beside him in the back of the limousine.
"I am afraid it's the only way I have," the detective sergeant said.
The young woman outside the automobile was clicking her jewelry against the heavily tinted windows of the passenger compartment.
"Endicott's back," Dandy said, huddling close to
Cassandra for a quick surreptitious squeeze of her bullet-hard breasts.
"How goes it, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra said as the olive-skinned woman enveloped in fur of the silver lynx slipped in beside her.
The two women kissed, their tongues entangling like mating lizards.
Cassandra clutched underneath Ms. Peabody's furs at her tits, now bound with platinum-allow twine and fitted with jingling nipple clips.
"It looks as though everything's in full swing right now," Endicott said.
Dandy reached over and gave one of Ms. Peabody's firm tits a twist.
"Are you sure you won't make your entrance with us?" he said to Cassandra.
The detective shook her head and made ready to exit from the limousine.
She smooched Dandy's silvery, straw-textured locks as he felt up between her thighs.
Cassandra faded into the roadside stands of pine as the limousine slid into gear and continued down the winding road.
When she had seen the automobile turn through the large stone entrance gate to Spa Abbey of Theleme, she looked both ways down the road and crossed over to the high wall surrounding the spa's immediate grounds.
Cassandra felt in back for her coiled length of steel. She snapped it from her belt and opened up the folding anchor affixed to one end.
With a windup toss, she had caught the anchor along the top of the stone wall and had begun her ascent. Avoiding the broken glass and electrical barbs at the top of the wall, Cassandra descended to the other side via the same means.
Her jumpsuit of matte-black acrylic, streaked with graffiti designs in melted innertube rubber and matching hooded mask made her invisible as she crept over the grounds.
Prior to her ascent of the central building of the abbey itself, Cassandra checked her gear. The heavy black-bladed survival knife was solid against her calf, and the harness snaring her boobs held her automatic pistol as well as a string of explosive plastics.
With utter caution and complete calm, the dark, muscular figure attained the roof of the abbey's main turret.
She could hear sounds of the revelry in the fieshmarket below from time to time as she waited for her mistress.
Cassandra smoked a cigarette as she stretched out the muscles and ligaments in her limbs, torso and shoulders.
Cassandra relaxed and opened the front of her jumpsuit. She took hold of her nip clips and twirled them aimlessly.
Her hand followed the flat plane beneath her navel and came to rest in her hairy thatch. She picked away nervously at her clitoris.
She had just lit her second fag when she heard the rippling sounds of the mistress's approaching helicopter above her.
Quickly stabbing the lit ember out on her tits, Cassandra hid behind a chimney. She watched as the helicopter landed and Diana Cazadora hopped out.
After Diana had signaled the craft away, Cassandra stepped from the shadows.
"You nearly scared me to death!" Diana said, recognizing the skulking detective.
Cassandra took her in her arms and the two of them rubbed tits and clits together in a hungry wet embrace.
"Where's the icon?" Cassandra said hurriedly. "...Icon?"
"Don't be a silly bitch."
There was no time for sergeants to be dilly-dallying, Cassandra thought. She would have to play rough again. In this case, quick action was called for. She unsnapped the coiled wire and in one smooth action unfolded the anchor and brought the whole rig about in a roundhouse across the face of the mistress of pain.
Diana came instantly, wiping the streaks of blood from her brow.
Cassandra kneed up into her mistress's cunt and the two women fell grappling to the roof. Diana's neck was snagged within the wire coils and Cassandra brought it tight. Diana spat and coughed blood. "I'll tell you everything I know, honey," she said to Cassandra.
*****
Fortunately, in her eyes, the detective found the route to the secret storage space well lit. Unfortunately, there was movement evident.
She hoped she wasn't too late.
Passing through the dungeon stocked with the Inquisitional implements, Cassandra kept her ears cocked. She paused at the entrance way to the secluded storeroom.
Drawing her pistol from her boobs, she stepped through the doorway, pointing the barrel at the manly figure standing facing her.
"It's all over," Cassandra said smoothly.
The figure spoke and Cassandra's jaw dropped.
She now recognized the masculine version of the gossip columnist Zahndra Jergens, complete with long sideburns and ducktail pompadour.
Now all that jazz about the cosmetic surgery and the incognito nightlife made more sense.
"That's right, sergeant," Zahndra said. "It is all over. Everything moved out."
"Except the icon of the Cuntress," Cassandra said, jamming the gun barrel into Zahndra's shrunken tits.
"You mean the one with all the tits," Zahndra said with a sneer. "Sorry, you slut dyke gash, but that one's for the mistress."
She took a step to pass around the police detective, swinging her hips like a cowboy. Cassandra crouched and drew her knife, passing the firearm to her left paw.
"Let's shuck the hard-guy routine, Zahndra," Cassandra snorted, moving to block her exit.
"There's nothing in here for you to see, detective," Zahndra said, pushing into the knife blade confidently. "And I must give a performance now in the fleshmarket."
"The show will go on without you," Cassandra insinuated, placing her leg in between Zahndra's quivering thighs.
She felt the rut rise from the masculine woman's quim. Zahndra played her fingers across Cassandra's face and slid her tongue out between her teeth.
"Wrong, sergeant-it takes two to tango."
"You have a knife in your quim and a bullet ready for your asshole right now, cuntboy," Cassandra said. "If you want to dance another day, I suggest you get your lips moving."
Cassandra entered the fleshmarket set and look about with her arms folded over her clamped boso She had drawn down the front zipper so her lavi tits would be ready for action.
Ready to feel the pull.
The twist.
The shout of agony when the revelers would ya them with tooth and nail.
She saw Antoine Chevalier parading around his Minotaur suit. She of course recognized Alisf and Francis, playing in the hogpens with a coup' of the younger virgin boys and girls.
On the dance floor between the long lines of tables where many of the partiers still drank and played tityank and dickgouge, two figures were poised for the initiation of the dance.
The rhythm of the music now moved in a quick bolero, and improvisational melodies scorched the air. All heads shot around.
Zahndra was dressed in the costume of a Latino pimp from Buenos Aires. High-heeled ankleboots and a rakish hat made the gossip columnist look quite the lowlife gamin.
The Abbess stood on one leg, her other knee flexed, so that one could see up to her redhaired, steel-ringed cunt folds, covered with translucent pink panties.
The thin latex of her white miniskirt was streaked with food and come.
She wore on top a half-cupped brassiere of the same white latex, popping her tits up irresistibly.
In rutlust at the sight, Cassandra scanned the room for signs of Dandy or Ms. Peabody.
She knew that the cruel white goddess, the mistress of pain Diana Cazadora, would not have yet made her startling entry.
Artemis's white high-heeled leather sneakers had crescent-shaped silver spurs. Zahndra's ankleboots featured pointed metal toes.
The masculine ruffian tipped his hat, extended a pointed foot.
The whorish Abbess made to step on the hoodlum's toe, but the masculine hand snared her arm.
Twisting the Bawdress from side to side as she struggled, the gamin slapped her face.
The Bawdress spat back, kicking in rhythmic pulses to the Latin tempo as the ruffian stepped between her legs, driving her backward.
Artemis twirled away, the gangster yanking her back within a tight grip. She hooked her limber gam about the ruffian's thigh, attempting to trip up her assailant.
Zahndra pushed her pelvis forward, snapping her clit into the Bawdress's belly.
Artemis scratched, clawed, kicked and slapped as she was swung about Zahndra's extended leg.
The pimp's hat flew off, and Zahndra herself flung away her tight jacket.
Artemis whacked her bully with extended fingernails and ripped open the front of Zahndra's silk gigolo shirt.
The cunt juices were rolling in scourging slathers down between Artemis's legs and drenched Zahndra's masculine trousers.
Bent over backwards, the Bawdress glued her cunt to the center of her pimp's pussy.
In counter-rhythm to the strolling melody, the gamin gangster reached to her belt, where a gun-metal pricktip nib was strung about a scrotal enema sac.
With awful lunges and salidas, the ruffian worked the struggling Bawdress in fantastic patterns across the floor.
Whiplike, the pimp flogged his moll's face with the bloated enema sac.
Zahndra jerked Artemis about and tied her hands behind her back with a length of metal lariat she had worn gaucho-style cinched about her waist.
Artemis spurred her assailant with backward hooks to the groin.
The intensity of the sizzling gonads was infectious to the crowd. Zahndra had the brassiere pulled off Artemis's shoulders and had bullied her miniskirt to shreds.
Oohs and ahhs erupted from the crowd as the revelers observed that their Abbess was indeed a bit pregnant.
Zahndra bit into the firm fanny of the Bawdress with barracuda teeth.
Then the pimp slickered the pounding arse hole with rough tonguelashes.
The gunmetal dildo-tip popped into Artemis's arse like a knife into hot buttered buns.
The Bawdress squealed as the pimp pumped oily condiments into her juggling rump.
Zahndra pitched the Bawdress's whorish form to the floor, where she kicked the dildo farther up her fanny.
Then Zahndra did a flamenco step on the bubbling sac, shooting pulses of scalding unaged cane liquor and stinging spices up the sluttishly scurrying, whining arse.
Zahndra kicked Artemis's ankles with her metal toes and flipped the Bawdress over onto her back. With a flying leap, the ruffian had kneed into Artemis's throbbing bosom and blazing belly.
The flood of foaming fluids gushed from the Bawdress's glowering bung.
Now even Alistair and Francis were watching the action intently.
Cassandra saw the clear outline of Ms. Peabody's knobs, glittering in her stylish nipple clips out from under her silvery furs, standing with her hand on Dandy's pecker in the front of the gathered crowd of onlookers.
Artemis kicked convulsively as Zahndra lowered her pants. The cunt hairs stood out like a wiry briar-patch, sporting through the dank foliage an enormous vermilion clitoris.
Cassandra reflected that many a man would cut off his balls to have a cock the size of Zahndra's new clit.
The pimp crushed the rings decorating the Bawdress's tawdry twat with repeated kicks. The goo flushed from Artemis's bowels ran in rivulets across the dance floor.
Straddling the fallen whore, Zahndra spread her firm cundips with her fingers.
She opened up a sizzle of urine onto the Baw-dress's belly. Artemis wriggled and smacked her yip in the open air.
The tingling piss covered her wretched hide with blistering humiliation and intense pleasure.
She rubbed her clit and awaited her fate.
Zahndra whacked at her engorged clitoris and sank to her knees between Artemis's spasming legs. She drew the Bawdress's creamy, molten thighs about her tough ass, Jamming fingers up Artemis's asshole, Zahndra pulled the taciturn slattern up her lap.
As the Bawdress flailed maniacally at her own cunny and at the face of her ruffian assailant, she burst into tears.
She had heard her.
Her mistress.
And now Artemis knew why Diana Cazadora was still the true mistress of pain.
The onlookers were still gazing in awe as the pimp slid her clitoris into the Bawdress's shaking, piss-drenched quim.
But Artemis had felt the entrance of her mistress.
Quiet as a mouse. Slithery as a viper.
Undead as a bat.
When the mistress spoke, the hubbub of the banquet pit and the fleshmarkets went dead.
"I see that while the mistress of the evening is away, her Abbess has been at play," the invisible one said with a smooth, chocolaty rhythm.
Cassandra saw the strain in the glances exchanged between Francis Dashwood and Alistair Weed. The fear and trembling in Artemis's face made even Cassandra shrivel her arse hole.
"Please," the unseen Diana said, "back to this evening's frolics-I can assure you that the fun has only just begun."
CHAPTER NINE
Cassandra ejaculated in gobs from her cunny. The mere sight of the mistress of pain in all her unnatural glory was too fearsome for the ordinary human to be able to experience.
And to be able to recall sanely.
The voice of Diana Cazadora was elusively tempting, soothing and threatening at the same time. And her kiss could be as deadly as the sting of the spider woman's cunt.
Cassandra had seen the juggernaut roll slowly onto the dance floor.
The male slaves, overseen with grueling whips of golden boughs and limber switches wielded by Dicksie's fairy squadron, worked miserably, all cocks rock hard in spiked rubber collars.
On the decorated float they so obediently drew was a pavilion concealing the mistress's public toilette and boudoir.
To the rear of the free-standing tent of steel-framed lizardskin-grained rubber were two oilcloth-covered forms.
Beneath the oilcloth folds was, Cassandra knew, the icon of the Cuntress and the formidable new throne of the mistress of pain.
As Zahndra withdrew her clit from Artemis's herky-jerking quim, the dark rubber curtains of the pavilion, covered with golden peacocks' eyes and silver crescent moons, parted slowly.
Diana had put aside her baleful hunting spear, her quiver filled with prick-tipped arrows, her chromium-steel bow and her heavy metal dagger.
As the curtains went up, a terrifying shriek of female horror went up, as the naked nymphets Pandora, Iphigenia, Opis and Callisto crowded about their mistress, clips tinkling from nubile clits and nips.
Attempting they were to shield her from the eyes of the profane.
And to shield her worshippers from the punishment they must receive for having seen the mistress in the flesh.
But Diana stood above them, absolutely, maddeningly naked in her bath.
Her body was white as alabaster, her hair raven black and swinging in oiled tendrils like a bed of snakes. Her nipples were ruby fruit red, pointed as darts and hard as cherrystones.
From her emerald-green eyes blazed a fire dangerous to all within her glance.
Those like Cassandra, who had dared to perceive the throbbing maroon cunt folds and raging clitoris breaking through the wettened nest of pubic spikes, had to come or die trying.
Swine women rolled in the muck with the men who would have bought them to feed their hunger.
Torrents of jism flew through the air, into waiting yips.
Spattering onto harnessed tits. Creaming into thick animal pelts.
Rubber steamed and shriveling with heaps of molten lady-juice was redolent with the burn of body heat and junglerut.
"Our prim Abbess," the revealed Diana continued, "has turned to Bawdress-we can all see she's a bit preggie, can't we?"
There was a rumble in the crowd.
Dandy Voivode and Ms. Peabody made eye contact with Cassandra across the room. Not yet was the detective's message.
"Are we to believe that our Bawdress's condition is the result of immaculate contraception?" Diana said as the nude, clipped nymphets spilled vessels of milky mixtures of jism and cuntjuice over her head and shoulders.
"No!" came the response in unison.
The body of the Minotaur strode from the crowd and stood before the naked mistress.
"It is clearly a result of ejaculate conception," the Minotaur said, indicating his own thundering bullwhip of an organ.
"Don't bullshit me," Diana sneered. "You never fucked a woman in your life."
Antoine whipped off his bull's head helmet in a jabbering rage.
He ripped off his armored leather cod and smiled like a black panther. Antoine then unfurled his purplish prickstaff nearly to his knees.
"You're hung like a bull," Diana scoffed, "but until you've fucked the mistress of pain, you've never fucked at all."
Diana Cazadora's smile was a menacing wreath of cruelty as it played about her lolling tongue. The incessant metallic glow from her green eyes pierced through the web of oiled black tresses that crawled in serpentine tendrils over her ivory shoulders to her brilliantly nippled titflesh.
She saw the looks of putrid fear on the faces of those who had profaned her.
Those who now knew that humiliation, degradation and abysmal pain would be their punishment.
Diana saw also the stony grimaces of those who had yet to penetrate her domain. They would soon know that the indomitable savagery of their mistress's snapping quim was no legendary tale.
It was the key to their existence.
The bristling snakepit that would succor their hunger. By feeding ravenously upon them.
She gazed diffidently at the leatherclad man's purple-black prick pullulating with jungle jism. Smirked at his tremendous flowering of balls.
Sweat ran cold as she spoke, and cunt juices stopped dead in their cracks. Semen hardened in dicks heavy with churning blood.
"The men have proved that they cannot even pretend to master the empire of pain, of panic-of pandemonium. Therefore the mistress will resume her rightful place."
Her hips twitched like the rump of a leashed bitch in rut.
"The animals die with fear in their eyes," she said with flared nostrils. "Let's see how keen you all are to meet my machines."
The nymphets jumped from the pavilion and surrounded at pricklength the Minotaur king. Dicksie led his fairy commandos through the crowd, selecting those uninitiated ones.
They would be anointed into the mysteries of pain.
Antoine felt his thick bullish neck grow stiff with heat. The blood ravaged through his arteries and veins and he thought his neck was like an erect cock.
The singing in his head made it feel swollen like a frothing dickhead.
He felt his eartips burn and grow red. His hair relaxed in a flush of terror and sprung up again like a forest of antlers.
His whole body was one large cock.
And the nymphets were jacking it down. Shellacking it with the mixture of sperm and quimoil used for their mistress's bath.
"While our bull stud here awaits his next great heroic task," Diana said, stepping from her bath, "we will witness the fate of one whose designs on this occasion have gone a bit awry."
Zahndra Jergens took hold of the trembling Artemis Schwartz by the metal lariat still noosed about her neck.
Diana snapped her head back, throwing her oily mane about her shoulders as she strutted.
As if by magic, a crescent-shaped aluminum alloy trough slipped out like a tongue from the front of the mistress's float.
A meathook dangled down from the metal frame of the rubber pavilion.
Cassandra caught sight of Francis and Alistair, romping in the mud with a set of swine women. Their cocks were out and in.
It seemed they were quite willing to allow the sacrifice of their would-be candidate for the personification of pain and pleasure.
But not even those two cunning blackguards would remain immune to the wrath of the cruel white goddess of pain.
Cassandra saw the movement around their pen, as Thelemites loyal to their mistress took their places in ones and twos.
Zahndra lashed the welt-emblazoned right arm of the fallen Bawdress to her right ankle with the metal gaucho lariat.
She snipped off another length with gigantic wirecutters and bound Artemis's left arm pretzeled in back of her, the wrist cuffed to the thickness of Artemis's right thigh.
Artemis's mouth hung slack in resignation as Zahndra pressed the bindings of her left ankle onto the meathook. At Diana's command, the hook was lifted slightly.
The partly shaven cunt of the sportswear designer split open, the grimy cunt folds dropping like wattles between her splayed legs.
Her pregnant belly depended from her midsection, shaking with the burning tits as the mistress of pain manipulated the gears.
Zahndra next closed a leg iron about the Bawdress's right ankle.
From this swung a spiked globe on the end of a link of chain, the type of device medieval knights referred to as the morningstar.
Diana cackled aloud, her icing of come crackling as her lithe musculature bent and worked the pulleys and ratchets.
Again and again the Bawdress yelped in pain as the morningstar dashed its razor-sharp spikes into her sputtering quim.
"I deny it!" Artemis howled.
The morningstar hefted into her pelvis, streaking her snatch with red.
Like a shark biting with his teeth, dear, showing them pearly white, Zahndra pulled out a jacknife she had kept out of sight.
She stroked it down the arms and legs of the gagging Bawdress.
Zahndra wiped the blade after each shallow gash in the woman's flesh. So that there was never, never a trace of red.
On the blade.
Scarlet billows graced the whorish hide of the woman whose cunt juices flowed in gummy bilges between her legs.
Zahndra drew a sketch of the Bawdress's screaming visage upon her belly.
Diana stood urinating from the lip of the pavilion stage, hitting Artemis's gaping maw with twinkling gilt trickles.
She sneered as her once-trusted minion groveled, the morningstar ripping into her cunt.
The one who had thought herself fit to replace her mistress was now singing in the rain of her fragrant piss.
CHAPTER TEN
"Now the men who would have played the fool's game will be shown the folly of their despicable ways," Diana said, jerking her cunt.
The painfully orgasming Bawdress was slid down the crescent trough, slick with her own bodily fluids, onto the flooring.
Immediately, Francis and Alistair approached, dripping with hog-wallow, lady-juice and jism. They tried to deny how they had betrayed their Bawdress by their abstention from action.
But Artemis just hung her wet head in shame.
Pandora, Iphigenia, Callisto and Opis had finished rubbing the joyjuices into the Minotaur's naked ebony skin.
His prick stood out and up, at the ready to fuck with his fair mistress of pain.
"You know of course," Diana said sweetly, "all of us here at Spa Abbey of Theleme have the opportunity to be stars on our own courses through the universe of painful pleasure."
She stood next to the two oilcloth-wrapped forms, a hand on one ripe hip, one hoisting a white mushrooming tit.
"In all of us the mistress of pain finds her home. She is interpreted within each of us differently, according to our desires."
She smiled warmly as the fairy commando team surrounded the humiliated trinity of Alistair Weed, Francis Dash wood and Artemis Schwartz.
"Do what thou wilt is the entirety of our code," she said solemnly.
"But the mistress must at times intervene in the workings of her flagellant flock. It is she who must declare when reign of the old ways is over. And the time when the old man must meet his demise, pay out long-overdue debts."
"She's lying!" Artemis screamed.
"It's untrue," the Bawdress's consort Francis bellowed in the stench of fear.
"It cannot be permitted," Alistair jabbered.
The mistress of pain took hold of the corner of one of the oilcloths.
"Last words of the Old Man of the Mountain," Diana quoted: "Nothing is true; all is permitted."
The metal cords entwined the pricks of Francis and Alistair, and the commandos bent their bodies forward in hideous contortions.
Diana peeled the oilcloth away, revealing the mul-tititted icon of the Cuntress.
Cassandra watched warily, to see if anyone would make a move.
She looked at the dark marble sculpture, its statuesque bestiality for the moment dominant in everyone's consciousness.
This was the moment for which Diana had bargained. She would be allowed to display for this evening the statue of the Cuntress.
The irony, Cassandra mused, was that this copy of the original Artemis at Ephesus was in a decadent Hellenistic style.
While the breathing, pumping interpretation that had been created by Diana Cazadora was by even the most subtle standards a contemporary master-work.
But the mistress knew her theatre.
She had reassumed the power of the night.
Zahndra threw the bruised Artemis Schwartz at the feet of her mistress. Diana forced the woman to drink from the bowl of her toilet.
Shoving her head down into the cavernous basin, her screams echoing like the wails of the undead.
Kicking the scurrying woman's buttocks, Diana forced Artemis to yank away the second oilcloth from the second obscured form.
The crowd was hot in dry-mouthed silence as they gazed upon the new throne.
The seat of power.
The challenge to all who would be mistress of pain.
"No!" Artemis squealed.
Her eyes averted in terror from the image of the device. Infernal. Demonic.
Zahndra strangled Artemis into orgasm and led her to the swinepits on a leash.
"Any takers?" Diana cooed, indicating the contraption, now clacking away.
"How about you, Minotaur? Try this one on for size?" she went on.
With a stomach-curdling howl, Diana threw her arms wide and stood in front of her throne of pain with her legs spread.
The cunt liquor drenched her legs, forming foaming puddles between her ankles.
The four nymphets urged Antoine to the platform of the pavilion. They handed to him a rubber girdle with tweezers, hooks, and a morningstar attached in dazzling profusion.
Alistair and Francis were herded to the stage, their cocks black-and-blue within their cruel bondage of studded leather.
As Antoine slipped behind her, Diana spoke. An uncharacteristic shrillness highlighted her words.
"Let's see the two swine fuck at each other like blind pigs. First we'll see Francis log the hog of Alistair down his throat."
Cassandra saw Ms. Peabody nudge Dandy. She continued jacking away at his protruding pecker as she spoke hurriedly.
The time was right to begin.
Cassandra caught Dandy's eye and gave him the signal, a pattern of twists to her harnessed tits, luminous in the dark fleshmarket.
Dandy delved into his evening pouch and extracted a folded-up Polaroid camera. Ms. Peabody brought her wrist to her yip and spoke into what appeared to be her watch.
Alistair shot off in ugly glops down the neck of the struggling Francis. Dicksie yanked Alistair away and kicked him to the floor, pummeling him with an oiled gilt bough.
"Now get on him and fuck his hiney like a pig," Diana ordered to Francis.
She hooked an arm around Antoine's waist, felt his muscular chest against her back. This one is not bad at all, she thought.
Zahndra burst out laughing as Francis inserted his filthy log into Alistair's asscheeks.
Cassandra tightened her fingers about her tits and yanked. A rubberman came up next to her and grabbed hold deep inside her quim.
Do what thou wilt.
All is permitted.
Antoine lowered the mistress onto an oiled gun-metal railing. He slipped her arms over the sleek metal back panel of the dangerous throne and clamped her wrists to her rubber girdle.
Diana's legs were spread with strips of rubber, and Zahndra lathered up a dish of shaving balm. Antoine jacked off a straight razor along a leather strop.
He tested the shaving edge against the hairs of his scrotum and held the blade aloft. Slowly, delicately, the Creole chef depilated his mistress's crawdad snatch.
Glowing in sweat and joyjuice, Diana Cazadora's cunt shone in unblemished, hairless purity.
Antoine nipped a set of pincers hinged to her girdle of pain into Diana's ravishing right bosom. He snagged the left nip in a miniature noose, slung from a diminutive metal gallows that the girdle of pain also offered its bold wearer.
To the lever end of the gallows was strung a snazzy momingstar, angling tantalizingly toward her clit.
Rubberbands were adjusted about the hooks lying loosely about Diana's cunt folds. Cassandra quaked as she witnessed them pierce the labia of the mistress and draw them apart.
But Diana sank into a withering smile.
Her rutjuices coursed down her legs as the prickrig was slid into place.
The dicking engine was run on the railing that aimed toward Diana's gleaming cunt and pert, bare asshole. On the two metal bases that flanked the reigning mistress were two coupling pairs.
Alistair flailed away at Francis's Jfanny on the left side. On the right hand, Dicksie's cup runneth over with a sprouting red penis, which was buried in Pandora's box.
Antoine slung his footlong over Diana's shoulder as he fit her face with a rubber mask over her jaw and mouth. A matte-black metal penis noseguard jutted from her nostrils to her forehead.
Diana's smile was plainly visible through the stretched rubber jawmask.
Antoine finally lowered the rasplike jaws of the headpiece of the imperial throne of pain, angling it across the web of oily tendrils that was Diana's hair.
The engine began its assault, striking into asshole and cunny in alternating jolts.
The morningstar flailed into clit exposed by pinching hooks. Both boobs bobbed in bondage to the torsion of gallows and pincers.
The left breast stretched and twisted as Diana's rubber-coated mouth moved in whispered words of glorious agony.
Cassandra approached the dais slowly through the crowd. She hoped the police had intercepted the shipment of smuggled artifacts before they had crossed the border.
That way the Canadian authorities would not be involved and the American boys might just hold off a bit. Allowing Cassandra to obtain a full measure of pleasurable pain.
Dandy Voivode was snapping off shot after shot of the festivities with his camera. Ms. Peabody held her silver lynx coat open, beckoning Cassandra to come gnaw at her clipped clit and jingling tits.
Diana was mutilated by the spike-collared thrusts of the dicking engine, careening off into orgasmic spasms.
In her frenzy, she felt the warmth of the woman as she approached. The one whose power was great enough to make Diana Cazadora call her mistress.
The mistress of pain inhabits all of us, Diana thought. Only a chosen few could ever be worthy to represent her incarnate.
The Bawdress Artemis Schwartz had tried and failed. Now humiliated, she rooted in pig shit.
But Sergeant Cassandra Derringer, art squad detective, hadn't even tried. And yet she had succeeded in dominating the reigning mistress of pain herself.
Antoine raised Diana's cool asscheeks with his mahogany fingers. The dicking engine hurled itself into her quim.
He slid his hardwood pecker up her ass from behind, pumping gruesomely, a rictus of madness in his expression.
Cassandra stood with one leg on either rutting stand and unzipped the front of her jumpsuit. She pissed away at Diana's sweat-drenched hair and screamed for a dick to jab up her arse.
Two nymphets clawed at her haltered boobs as Dandy moved in for close-ups.
Shimmering curtains of jism spread from the surrounding forest of spiky timbers sprouting from rubber-clad figures. Clouding the rut soaked air and dashing against the fertile valleys of cunt, topping the tips of mountainous tits.
Yes, the mistress was the slave and the king was a cook. A fallen Abbess sucked slime from a trough while her husband rutted for the camera.
At Spa Abbey of Theleme, everybody was a star, and do what thou wilt was the whole of the law.
Who but the mistress of pain knew so well that nothing was true, yet all was permitted.
