Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Laura Croft and the Venus Thigh Trap

   Part 4 of ?

   Laura's boot sinks to the ankle into another squelching bog hidden under
the rotting detritus of the rainforest floor.  She curses, leaning back to
pull her foot from the sucking mud.  The rain has poured heavily all
morning, and the party has been making slow progress along the relatively
open tree line by the edge of a swampy clearing, heading down a long
valley. Not much of which is visible, with the downpour misting the few
distant views possible through gaps in the forest edge.

   It rained much of last night too, so all their packs are extra heavy
with waterlogged gear.  No one is talking much; despite the rain, and every
frond of every fern and bush they brush past dumping even more water on
them, it is still exhaustingly hot, difficult work, forcing through this
trackless country.  Vance's three porters take turns in the lead, dealing
with the worst of the tangled creepers with a machete.  That job is
extremely tiring, and after several hours of it they are getting pretty
haphazard in what they choose to slash, and what gets left for the others
to cope with as best they can.  Even Vance, normally coolly aloof and
watchful on the trek, has begun to swear frequently under his breath at his
encounters with trip vines and the numerous patches of boggy ground.

   Her curse was an act though - she is as tired as the others, yet fully
alert while being careful not to appear anything other than worn out and
pissed off.  She recognises this valley; she knows where they are now.  For
much of the past three weeks of their trek back to 'civilisation', Vance
had taken a different route than that by which she had reached the ruined
Temple of Phali.  Since she hasn't had access to her sat-photo of the
region, she'd been more or less lost, simply a fellow traveller.  Or
rather, prisoner.

   Presumably, Vance had chosen his return route precisely for that reason,
knowing she wasn't the sort of fool who'd try to escape into unfamiliar
jungle without map, compass or the gear to survive off the land.  So, for
the past three weeks all her planning for escape had been future tense,
thinking about what she would do once she managed to get her bearings as
they approached their destination - the small village at the end of the
last road.  From which both her and Vance's parties had necessarily set off
on foot into the jungle.

   Today she knows where she is, and the rain is perfect.  She knows
exactly what she will do.  Soon, soon...  hopefully the rain will hold up
until the right moment.  Carefully, she paces herself.  Not wanting to
appear as if hurrying; yet not being the slowest of the party.  She uses
the men's instinctive dislike of seeming weaker than a woman, to keep them
going a little faster than they would without her there.  Tiring them out
more, fraying their tempers as they make miss-steps, letting them all
concentrate on the constant battle of moving forward through the resisting
jungle.

   This valley, she knows, is still three days walk from the village. 
Three days _walk_.  But there are other ways than walking, it occurred to
her.  Walking, and this....  *fucking* thing in my pussy, she thinks, as an
interval of firmer ground under her boot-falls jolts the hydraulic pads in
her boot soles, and makes the rubber thing twist suddenly more vigorously
inside her.  Her feet are tough from all her many expeditions, and now she
wonders if the inside lining of her vagina must be getting as tough as the
soles of her feet.  Nearly three weeks, of having Vance's dammed
anti-running widget pulsing and twisting inside her with every footstep. 
It's surprising she didn't get blisters in there.  It's also disconcerting
that she never once became more than slightly aroused by the dammed thing.
Or the rapes every night....

   The rain is still holding steady, and soon their route will pass through
some rougher, steeper ground with a different microclimate and jungle type,
as the valley turns away from the direction of travel and they head across
country.  She must be patient.  Now is not the time to let herself dwell
again on the difficulties of her position, and the events of the trip till
now.  Soon that will be ended, soon...

   Nearly three weeks; a few days short of three, she thinks.  She has lost
count, as every day played out the same as the days before.  Each morning
the men would rise at dawn, and cook their breakfast outside the tent. 
Laura would be left inside, still tied naked as she was during the night.
Once they'd done cooking, they'd pack most of the gear outside, out of her
sight so she wouldn't know what gear was in which packs.  Then they'd come
back into the tent, feed her, milk her breasts which were always achingly
heavy by that time, dress her in her leather suit with the improvised open
metal grilles at crotch and over her breasts, the wide lace-up open slash
up her front from belly button to neck, and the business with the pads in
her boots, the tubes up her suit legs, and the gizmo in her pussy.  Locking
the whole thing onto her with small padlocks on the zips and ties. 
Fortunately the getup was comfortable enough to walk in, if she ignored the
humiliation of exposed private places, and looking overall like some kind
of pornographic leather fetish whore.  Which of course was Vance's intent,
just to remind her of that evening on the train in Siberia, when she'd
turned him down.

   Lastly they'd blindfold her, pack away the tent and it's few contents,
then remove her blindfold, load her up with her own backpack, lock that on
her too, and set off.  Always the same routine, and not much potential
there for escape that she could see, even as she considered it day after
day.

   During the day's march, they'd handcuff her whenever the group stopped
for breaks, or lunch, or collecting something edible that they spotted. 
With her hands cuffed behind her back, around a convenient tree, she
obviously wasn't going anywhere - not even on the times when the others all
decided to take a siesta in the worst of the afternoon heat.

   Each day, sometime before dusk, Vance would declare a campsite and
everyone would thankfully down packs.  The very next chore was always to
erect the tent, strip Laura, wash her down if there was a convenient source
of water, then get her tied securely in the tent for the evening.  In that
lay one of the few variations from day to day- they seemed to take turns
devising positions in which to tie her for the evening's entertainment. 
But always, always, one wrist or ankle would be handcuffed to something
solid, such as a hefty tree root through the bottom flaps of the tent.

   After that detail was taken care of, they'd all leave her alone in the
tent while they unpacked, cooked the evening meal and chatted outside, out
of her sight.  A while later they'd bring her food and drink, joking and
laughing among themselves and taking liberties with her tied and naked body
as they all ate.  After a few days of this, despite the distractions of
being molested she'd noticed that Vance always was the one who brought her
drink - and it was always that same thin soupy broth, with an interesting
nutty flavour.  It had dawned on her, that there must be something
significant about that drink.  Perhaps it was related to the _other_
problem, which had already begun to worry her as much as the matter of how
to escape.

   When she had first turned down the broth, and asked for plain water
instead, he'd simply insisted she drink it.  She'd insisted back, which
only resulted in her receiving a painful lesson in How to Make a Bound Girl
Sorry.  So she'd drunk it.  As she had every night since then.  And no
matter how hard she had pestered him about it, he had never given her the
slightest hint of what was in her nightly drink.

   As the days passed, and her other problem became more and more of a
worry and distraction, she became convinced that the drink must contain
some kind of drug.  Another of Vance's diabolical schemes to torment her in
return for her actions on the train.  Exceptionally diabolical and subtle
too, even for him, she thinks.  If someone had simply described it to her,
some other time and place, she'd have thought the drug's effects would have
been welcome, in the circumstances.  But living it...  seems to be a
different kettle of fish.

   Because every night, after feeding her the four men all take turns
relieving their animal lusts within her bound and naked body, as the others
amuse themselves by fondling and groping her breasts and whatever else is
handy.  They are virile men, despite each day's hard trekking, and most
nights she has one after another hard cock pounding vigorously in her pussy
for as long as two or three hours.  Yet she never, ever experiences more
than a moderate degree of arousal, and never, ever comes anywhere near
orgasm.

   Initially, on the first few nights, she'd thought this was simply due to
the humiliation of being raped repeatedly, of being treated like some kind
of sexual toy or slave.  Even though the whole thing did coincide closely
with some of her private fantasies, she'd decided that her body's
non-response to the admittedly very strong stimulation was probably to be
expected.  After all, it was rape, and surely she shouldn't get aroused by
this?

   The problem was, that even during the very first evening's rapes,
there'd been moments when the sensations from her sex had made her forget
that good girls don't enjoy rape, and she'd found herself trying, wanting,
to have her body respond.  Wanting to have an orgasm.  Only, it wouldn't
happen.

   She'd feel the thrusting inside, her mind would become excited, she'd
work her hips, clench, whatever she could, and still her sex would hardly
become warm.  Her clit would barely stiffen, and then soon recline again.
As the days slipped by, she found herself becoming seriously obsessed with
an increasing mental desire, need, for orgasm.  Each day she'd walk all day
with the rubber thing twisting inside her with each step, and nothing would
happen.  Each night she'd lie for hours under panting, thrusting males, and
nothing would happen.  Every morning and evening, Vance would milk her
weirdly over-producing, over-sized breasts with their nipples grown beyond
even 'weird'.  The sensations of having her breasts milked were even
stronger than the evening rapes...  yet still nothing much would happen.

   She knows it must be something in the drink Vance gives her.  Somehow,
he has a drug that inhibits sexual arousal, and is giving it to her as a
kind of twisted revenge for her sexual rejection of him that night. 
Probably.  Or at least, that's the best explanation she can think of, and
for some reason the stupid bastard won't even admit it, or tell her why
he's doing it.

   Nearly three weeks, and there are now two things she desperately wants.
One is to escape Vance, and get back to civilisation before him.  The other
is to have an orgasm.  She is no longer sure which is the stronger desire.
In any case, getting free also means being free of the drug, and having
orgasms again.  Once she'd thought that through, she found herself coming
up with much more imaginative plans for escape.  Eventually, sometime in
the middle of the second week, an idea occurred to her that seemed like it
might work.  Since then, she has been waiting, watching for the right time.

   Her other foot sinks to mid-calf into another bog, and she curses again,
convincingly.  Soon...  It must be around about here that they will head
away from the valley.  She just has to keep her eyes open, stay alert now.
No more thinking about...  god, about how much she wants to come.  That
dammed thing inside her, it is such a perverse, inverted torment.  Not that
it moves, but that it's movements don't move her.  She wishes that they
did. Well, she won't have to put up with it much longer.  Yes!  Now Vance
calls out to the lead man, shouting over the roar of the rain.

   "Hey Franco!  Fuck this rain!  I can't see shit, but this should be
where we turn off.  Keep going east.  Up over the saddle there, you see?"

   "What fucking saddle, I can't see sheet either!"

   "Yeah, yeah, OK.  Just go that way, OK!  It's only a couple of kay. 
Forest will change a bit, no more of these fricking muck holes."

   "Ok, two kay to the saddle.  Or we are lost, right?"

   "Just go that way and shut the fuck up.  When is this fucking rain going
to stop?"

   Laura thinks to herself 'Not for a couple of kays yet, I hope!' as they
struggle on through the downpour.

   Sure enough the forest vegetation does change as they move out of the
denser more scrubby valley fringe.  The trees reach taller, and further
apart, while the vines and creepers become more of an aerial tracery,
rather than a waist-high tangled barrier.  The rain just gets concentrated
by the higher canopy into fewer, but bigger drops.  There is no change in
the humidity and heat.

   At least the ground firms up, but that is more than offset by the
inconvenience of the much larger size of fallen tree trunks.  These ones
are too huge to step over, too long to walk around.  The party are reduced
to clambering awkwardly over them, scrabbling on the slippery rotten
moss-covered sides for hand and foot holds.  Often the trunks are
cris-crossed two or three deep.  But even when the top log happens to be
pointed the direction they want to go, the slippery moss and height
combined with the weight of their packs makes it too dangerous to try and
walk along the top.  The frequency of swearing goes up, and the rate of
progress goes way down.

   For a change, Laura is glad of her hot leather suit, as the others
acquire more scratches on their legs and arms from encounters with
slippery, pointy-limbed walls of decaying wood.  She keeps one eye looking
upwards, furtively.  Here she couldn't run even if she wasn't wearing
Vance's devilish me-no-run patented pussy impaler.

   But neither can the others, and they are all very, very occupied with
the sheer shittyness of struggling onwards through this fallen tree trunk
obstacle course.

   Some while later, that seems an age to Laura but probably wasn't, they
reach the saddle.  Here the plan is to turn and follow the ridgeline on
down, for quite a long way.  All the rest of the day, and some of the next.
The view out into the much larger, deeper valley would be impressive, if it
could be seen at all through the thick forest canopy, rain and mist.  But
it can't.

   No one proposes a rest, since moving in the rain is preferable to
sitting still and miserable in it.  So they press on.

   And then, at a moment when Laura has climbed up to the top of one
ancient fallen forest giant, and the others are all several meters distant
behind and in front, she sees her chance.  A vine, hanging at just the
right angle from somewhere in the canopy far above.  She can reach it... 
if she...  _leaps_!  And grabs it perfectly, and she is away!  No, she
cannot run.  But she can fly through the air!

   And she can hope there is another vine, somewhere on her long
trajectory, downhill and away from the ridge top.  Even if there isn't...
but she is in luck, and there is.  She makes the transfer with only a
little slip, as the weight of her pack nearly overcomes her grip.  Now her
speed is really going up.  In the distance behind her, through the rain and
air whooshing past her ears, she hears shouts, fading rapidly.  There was
only one 'just right' vine, and she doubts those clumsy oafs ever took
trapeze classes anyway.  She says a quick thanks to the rain, for keeping
up and helping her by slowing down her captor's reflexes, and deadening the
sounds of her first few critical second's flight away.

   "Wheeeeee!" she shouts, as she trades height for speed on the steep down
sloping mountainside.  Somehow, there always seems to be another vine
hanging in just the right place.  'Its like in the movies!  Yeeeehaaaa!'
she thinks.  "Ooops!  That was close." As she flies past a very solid tree
trunk with bare inches to spare.  "I'd better slow....  Yeooow!" A medium
sized bushy shrub explodes into leaves and twigs as she flies through it.
"Hey, that never happens to Tarzan!  Ow!  I have splinters in my boobs! 
Damned wire....  oh oh.....  OW! ...  oh shit ......  OW!" Her latest vine
seems to have been the last in that line, and she ends up swinging out to
the end of it's trajectory, then for want of anywhere else to go, gravity
takes her backwards...  through the shrub again.  And again, before she
stops.

   Grumbling, she slides down the vine to the ground.  There are definitely
splinters in her boobs, she can see them.  A few she can reach through the
wire grilles, and those she pulls out, wincing.  Nothing very deep, thank
goodness.  The remainder seem to be minor too.  She is quite a long way
from Vance and Party now, but not far enough to stop and deal with minor
problems.  She has to keep going, has to put a lot more distance between
them yet.  Her escape is only just beginning.

   Here the hillside is quite steep, and the fallen logs tend to be mostly
pointing downhill.  All the same, she doesn't intend to walk far.  Heading
downhill slowly, threshing as best she can through the extremely dense
undergrowth on the sheltered slope, she looks around for another suitable
vine, and soon finds one.

   This time she takes the vine express a little more carefully; lining up
each swing, and usually hopping down at the end to hunt for the next one
able to take her in the direction she wants.  No sense taking the 'flying'
thing too literally, and breaking a leg out here.

   Overall, this method of travel downhill is many times faster than
walking in the almost impassable vegetation here.  It is the impassibility
of these slopes that caused Vance to stick to the more open ridgeline, and
fail to consider that she might try this route.

   Her method also has the advantage of leaving only intermittent traces
for anyone foolish enough to try and track her here.  Several times she
zigs her course, just in case they do try to trail her.  Always heading
downhill.  Down, down, to her next shortcut.

   Nearly three hours later, she reaches the river.  Unlike the sluggish
trickle through the marsh in the last valley, this one is a real river. 
With the rain, as always, its running high and fast.  She knows the country
here, and this river parallels the ridge the others will descend.  They
would have been walking along it's banks on the last of the three more days
to the village, after the ridge line falls to meet the river.  She is going
to take a shortcut, and get to the village much sooner.

   First though, there are some things to attend to.  Here along the
riverbanks there is no shortage of stones, unlike back in the steep
forested hillside, where loose stones were virtually non-existent.  She
tries smashing a few likely fist-sized pebbles, until one breaks with a
sharp edge.  With that, she saws at the webbing around her waist that ties
the backpack to her.  In moments that is cut through, and at last she can
drop the heavy thing from her back.  Standing, she stretches, and skips a
few paces.  Always such a pleasure to dump a heavy load, it makes you feel
so light!

   Then she squats down, and rests one of the small padlocks on her ankle
gaiters against one large stone, while pounding it with another solid river
stone.  After a few smashes, the hasp snaps and she strips off that gaiter.
The other soon follows, and she immediately rips apart the tubing joins at
her ankles.  Standing up and stepping around as the water drains, for the
first time in three weeks she is able to walk without feeling at every step
like her pussy is full of worms.  As if to compliment her, at that moment
it stops raining.  She looks up, and can see that back there on the higher
ridge it is still pissing down.  'Good.  Let them soak.  Keep it up.' she
thinks.

   Smiling, she sits again and begins working on the other small padlocks
that lock her into the leather body suit.  These she cuts off the tabs and
ties to which they attach.  Her breasts are stinging badly by now, and she
strips the whole suit off, spreading it out on the clean river stones.  The
vaginal gadget she pulls out of herself and drops on top of the suit, then
takes off her boots and pulls out the fluid pads from inside them, putting
them with the gadget.  The rocks hurt her bare feet, so she puts the boots
back on, and the gaiters.

   Naked, she feels strange for a moment, then realises that it is because
she is naked and not bound.  For so long, those always went together. 
'Phooey!' She shakes her head, and begins to pick out the remaining
splinters from her breasts.  She had reflexively pulled up her leather-clad
legs as she swung through that blasted shrub, and that seems to have
protected her crotch and the opening over her belly.  Only her breasts got
the pincushion effect.

   From all the dried blood they look like they just met Freddy the
Slasher, but she rinses them with the clean running water, and it all turns
out to be superficial scratches and a few shallow punctures.  Hopefully,
nothing that will get infected.  Hopefully....  she sighs.  Hopefully,
she'll be able to do something about these ridiculously over grown breasts
and nipples once she gets home to civilisation.  God, she hopes so.

   With the splinters taken care of, she turns to her backpack and pulls
out the contents to discover what she has been lugging around the last few
weeks.  Vance had said "nothing useful to you", but maybe...

   It turns out he was fairly accurate.  No food.  No clothes.  The
mosquito net and a bundle of tent pole segments, but no tent, no matches,
no guns, no...  sigh.  She thinks of the film from her camera, and the
golden Lingam.  Of course they are not here.  They are why she has to get
back first.  What she does have, is an assortment of junk, that is going to
be more of an inconvenience to the others by its absence, than a benefit to
her by its presence.

   Most of the cooking gear, but no knives.  Much of the climbing
equipment, but no rope.  The handcuffs, but no key - 'yes, very useful for
me, I'm sure' she thinks angrily.  The catheter paraphernalia.  The enema
bag and nozzle.  The vibrator Vance used on her a few times, and a pack of
spare batteries.  Three bars of soap.  A bag of salt and some packets of
spices.

   And...  in an inside pocket, a ziplock plastic bag, holding a folded
paper.  She opens it.  It is a handwritten note, to her, from Vance.  She
reads...

   <i>Now that you have escaped

   Laura,

   If you are reading this, congratulations - you have proven yourself
resourceful and ingenious once again.  I'd have been disappointed if you
didn't try.  Its too bad though, that once again you have foolishly screwed
yourself but don't know it yet.  Out of the pan and into the fire.  Hope
you make it back safely, while you can.  Do hurry.  I expect you should be
able to keep going for at most three days.  Will explain later, when you'll
understand I'm not bullshitting you.  Anyway, enjoy your freedom for a
while.  We'll come for you if possible, and then you and I will discuss the
matter of how much extra trouble you've caused us, and what is to be done
about that, and your other little problem.

   Finger up your bum, Vance</i>

   "What is he talking about, the foolish man?" she asks out loud.  "I've
escaped, gone, vamoosed.  What is this fire I'm supposed to be in?" She
shakes her head.  "I'll make the village tomorrow, most likely.  By the
time you get there I'll have the local police waiting to arrest you, for...
numerous crimes."

   She crumples the note up into a ball, and is about to throw it into the
river when a little voice in her head says 'littering!' so instead she
shoves it back in the baggie and that back in the pack.  "Oh, and evidence.
I nearly forgot' says the little voice.  "Thanks a lot" she answers
herself. 'Littering...  huh!'

   She stands up, looking around and considering what to do next.  It is
less than a couple of hours till dark, and she doesn't want to try her next
mode of travel by night.  Some food, and a fire to cook it on would be good
too.  A dry shelter also, in case it rains again during the night, as it
most likely will.  Even as she plans, she can't help thinking how she must
look, standing here on the open riverbank, naked but for her boots.  Not
just naked, but outlandish to any observer close enough to see...  her...
She has to bend forward slightly to even see down past her breasts to her
crotch.  Where as always since the debacle in the temple, there is her
newly overgrown freakish clitoris, hanging like a small flaccid penis from
between her labia.  As for her breasts...  She shudders.  'Whatever am I
going to do?  I'm going to have to become a hermit or something!' Another
thought, about masturbation and orgasms starts to nudge into her mind, but
she pushes it aside.  'Time to move!  Move!'

   Downriver a way she can see a cliff line at a curve in the river that
looks hopeful for an overhang or cave.  She repacks all the junk into the
pack, including the vaginal gizmo and its tubing, dons the pack naked and
slings the soaking wet leather bodysuit over her shoulder, then sets off
down the riverbank, boots crunching on the gravel and pebbles.  She knows
that some sections of the riverside are impassable due to cliffs, dense
vegetation, and so on.  But here, she is lucky to have come out upon a
section of open pebbly banks.

   Shortly she arrives at the bluff, and yes, there is a small cave
river-worn into it's base.  She dumps her gear there on the dry ground, and
again unpacks.  This time, she gets to work improvising.  One of the
cooking billies sacrifices its wire handle, which she hammers straight with
a stone.  Three of the tent pole segments slip together, and get their
joins dented with the stone enough that they lock into one piece.  She
hammers one end of the wire over, and flattens the bend till it forms a
workable barb.  The other end gets a short double over, then is slipped
into an end of the tent-pole rod, which also gets flattened onto it,
locking it in place.  One fishing spear.

   She unlaces a lace from the front of her body suit, and tightens that
across the ends of another two tent-pole segments, making a kind of bow. 
Hunts around in the cave and comes up with an assortment of dry bits of
wood, twigs, and leaves.  She flakes another pebble into a useable sharp
edge, and cuts a section of the plastic tubing off from her vagina
tormenting device.  That goes with the wood and bow, in a pile where she
intends to have her meal.

   Taking the spear and the enema bag, she heads down to the river.  If
anyone had been there at the river watching, they'd have a seen a stunning
nude woman with huge breasts, standing motionless in the shallows, spear
pointed down at the water.  A while later, she comes back with a fish
flicking on the end of the spear, and the bag full of water.

   She slits the fish open with the sharp stone, guts it, and sets it
aside. Prepares a small fistful of finely shredded fine twigs and crushed
leaves, placing that on the ground and some pebbles around it.  She clamps
one end of the plastic tube between her teeth.  Picking up the bow, she
fits a straight thin stick looped in it's string, and the ends of the stick
between two other pieces of wood.  One in her hand, the other held under
her foot.  She sets to sawing the bow back and forth rapidly, spinning the
straight stick like a drill.

   After a longish while the friction of the twirling wood reaches
smouldering temperature, and a wisp of smoke rises from the contact point.
She keeps sawing, and sawing.  Then suddenly, in one quick motion, she
moves the smouldering piece of wood against the kindling pile, and blows on
the glowing powder at its centre with the plastic tube.  The spark glows
brighter, then catches.  A small, small flame...  and in moments the
kindling has taken, and she has fire.

   Soon she has a decent pile of sticks burning merrily and remarkably
smokelessly, and the gutted fish frying with some salt and spices in one of
Vance's pans.  Humming to herself, she wonders what Vance and Co.  will be
doing for dinner, with no cooking gear.  If they can get a fire going at
all, since she notices that beyond the cave it has begun raining again. 
She props her pack up on rocks near the fire, to dry out.  She spreads her
leather body suit at the edge of the cave, where the rain will keep it wet
overnight.  She wants it that way for tomorrow.

   By the time she has finished her fish, which was as delicious as her new
freedom, it is growing dark.  Her breasts have by now begun to seriously
ache from their fullness, but she decides to deal with the sleeping
arrangements before the light is completely gone.  There isn't much more
firewood, and she is so tired.

   With the remaining tent pole pieces, and assorted rocks she carts in
from outside, she manages to construct a frame to hold the mosquito net in
a canopy over the soft sandy spot where she chooses to sleep.  By now the
backpack is fairly dry, and together with some dry leaves makes a
reasonably comfortable bed.  She leaves the last of the fire burning, does
her toilet, brushes her teeth (for the first time in ages) with a broken
and frayed green twig end and some salt, then retires for the night with
the bottle of water and the billy with no handle.

   Once she is undressed for bed (having taken off her gaiters and boots),
she sits cross-legged and attends to her last chore for the day.  Milking
her aching breasts.  As usual, the same as when the men did it to her, it
is a very intense, pleasurable sensation.  She wonders if she will always
have to do this, and why it is that the first few times she experienced
this, it aroused her so terribly that she orgasmed repeatedly, much to her
shame.  Fortunately, this time it still doesn't seem to be having much of
an erotic effect on her.  God!  What if it did!  What if she absolutely had
to regularly milk her own breasts, but doing so had an effect on her like
those first times when Vance did it?

   She shudders.  She can imagine that she'd rapidly become so
uncoordinated that it would interfere with her ability to milk them
properly.  But they'd still be full, and she'd have to try again... .and
then start to orgasm again, lose coordination, stop, restart...  Oh god,
how shameful...  to have her own body actually require her to repeatedly
masturbate to orgasm, over and over till her breasts were empty, every
day...  Twice a day in fact...  Oh dear...

   Oh dear...  Oh dear...  Thinking about orgasms has reminded her how long
it has been since she had one.  And that feeling in her mind, a sort of
mental echo of her body's absent feeling of arousal, a longing for the
release of orgasm.  Actually..  not quite entirely absent, she thinks,
feeling that her clitoris is stiffening up a little.  Not much, but a
little.  Much the same as it would do on and off during the nightly rapes.
But never any further.

   By this time she is nearly finished the second breast, and the billy is
becoming quite heavy to hold under her spurting nipple as she squeezes it
in the manner of a cow's teat.  Previously there had never been this
problem - what to do with her milk, since it had all been drunk directly by
whoever's mouth was doing the milking.  But now here she is with a billy
part full of breast milk.  What to do with it?  It seems a shame to just
pour it out.  Good protein.

   She tastes it.  Hmmm...  Strange taste.  Nothing at all like cow's milk.
She has another sip.  Mmmm.....  Not bad.  "Well....  I suppose there's a
lot to be said for recycling." So she drinks it, thinking she wasn't
planning on desert, but what the hell, its not as if she's getting fat.  As
she is reaching out to put the billy back outside the mosquito mesh, she
surprises herself with a big burp.  Then bursts out laughing, and laughing.
So much stress and worry from the last few weeks.  Now she is free,
comfortable again, not being fed mysterious libido suppressing drugs, and
on her way home.  Then there is the prospect of revenge.

   She lies back, stretching, turning over the word 'revenge' in her mind,
considering if perhaps 'forgive and forget' in this case is a ludicrous
concept.  She decides it definitely is.  Something about milking breasts
and repeated orgasms, to be avenged...  she falls asleep, comfortable,
replete, smiling.

   - - - - - - - - -



   From outside the carriage, the roar of the rails and the storm form a
murmuring background to the chatter of the passengers seated around her in
the compartment.  Earlier in the journey she had happily joined in the
conversations, but now that night has fallen she has something of a
problem. She sits, fidgeting in her seat, looking around at her companions.
There is her dad, deep in discussion with that rascal Mr Harding, about
some temple for which they have found a secret map.  Professor Edwards,
Laura's Master's supervisor, the old lady's hair going snowy, chatting with
Laura's friend Catherine.  Two young lads, heading out to a country
holiday, both reading some science fiction paperbacks.  Laura's problem is
getting quite urgent.  But insoluble.  She has been down to the toilet
compartment at the end of the carriage, and the sign says "No Nursing in
the Toilet Compartment - Penalty 500 Pounds - By order, Department of
Railways".

   The conductor had glared at her, staring at her swollen breasts, as if
to say 'I _know_ what you are thinking of doing, so don't.  He had fingered
the huge ring of keys at his waist threateningly, and said "Toilets are for
brief use only, Ma'm.  Other people got to go."

   Every compartment in the carriage is full.  She has nowhere else to go.
And her breasts are getting unbearably sore, straining at her heavy-duty
bra as if they might burst the straps.  Her nipples are straining too,
trying to force their way against the stiff material, and failing,
painfully.  The journey will not end tonight, or tomorrow.  Why did she let
herself be talked into this trip?  She _knew_ what would happen.  She knew.
And she said yes anyway.  Why did she do that?  She must have somehow
_wanted_ it to happen!  How could she!  How could she, she will die of
shame!  Even worse, somehow being here now, facing the prospect of... 
that...  is making her body respond, as if, as if it _excited_ her to think
of what she might have to do. ...Will have to do.  Oh dear god!  Yes, she
definitely isn't going to be able to withstand the pain in her breasts much
longer.

   To top it all off and quite convince herself that she must be going mad,
for some reason she can't recall she had chosen to wear a knee-long,
full-sleeved, formfitting slip-on dress, with only a zipper at the rear
behind her shoulders.  A dress that provides absolutely no means to access
her breasts, without actually removing the dress entirely.  A dress of such
a lovely hip-hugging stretch material, that she'd decided it would be
spoilt by a panty line.  So she'd worn none.

   She must have been mad!  Her breasts need to be milked twice a day! 
Without fail.  She knew it, she knew it, and she still....  She knows what
happens when she milks her breasts.  As if in anticipation, her ultimate
shame, her oversized clitoris is already standing out rigidly.  It was
already popped out on her way back from her unsuccessful trip to the
lavatory, and she'd hidden the obvious bump in the front of her stretch
dress with her purse.

   What was she _thinking_?  She knows what happens when her nipples are
squeezed and her milk lets down.  Total Loss of Sexual Control, Chronic
Libidinous Feedback, Multi-Orgasmic Fugue, HyperSensitized Erogenous Zones,
Mammary Driven Autoerotic Frenzy - she has lost track of all the terms her
therapists have coined to describe her unique condition.  In essence she
now faces a choice between suffering excruciating pain (and sexual
frustration, as her sex throbs in anticipation of her twice daily
'exercise'), or excruciating humiliation as she disrobes in this public
train compartment, and milks her own breasts.  In the process, bringing
herself to several fainting-grade orgasms.  Naked, with her clit entirely
on display.

   Sitting there, squirming in discomfort, and ever growing arousal, she
still cannot choose, or act.  Till her Dad looks up from the doodles of
maps and glyphs he and Harding are swapping, and gives her the Stern Eye.

   "Laura, you know it is time for your evening session.  I see you wore an
entirely inappropriate dress, but we all know why, don't we dear?  So, time
to cut out the acting, and cease annoying everyone with your incessant
squirming.  Stand up girl, lets get this business over with."

   She sits, staring at him, open-mouthed.  "Dad!"

   "Unless you'd like a spanking right here to begin with that is?  Stand
up!"

   Knowing him, he'd be serious.  She stands, shakily, again holding her
purse in front of her crotch.  All eyes in the compartment are on her by
now, of course.  Even the two young lads have pulled their noses from their
books.

   Her Dad continues, addressing the group.  "I must apologise everyone,
for the disturbance.  Poor Laura has a medical Condition, deriving from
contact with a plant toxin on an expedition last year.  The symptoms
involve exaggerated mammary and genital growth, prodigious milk production,
and hypersensitisation of the erogenous zones.  The unfortunate result is
that she absolutely must express her milk production twice daily.  This
process also involves a degree of sexual arousal.  Can't be helped I'm
afraid, the sensitisation is beyond the dear girl's ability to control. 
Usually this is done in the privacy of our home, assisted by the staff. 
However tonight I'm afraid this simply can't be helped.  Does anyone here
object, if Laura tends to her handicap in our presence?  She will need to
disrobe entirely, I'm afraid.  Poor choice of garment.  Anyone?"

   There is total silence.  No one says a word.

   "Right then Laura.  Let's get it over with.  Off with the dress."

   She glares at him, shaking in shame.  'Thank you very much, daddy!  Tell
them everything why don't you!' Yet she has become used to her dad
specifying the time and place of her milking.  He obviously gets a kick out
of maximising her embarrassment, as he has often in the past at home
declared her own go-orgasm- stop, go-orgasm-stop burst mode breast milking
method too slow to suit the family timetable, and had her 'helped' by one
or other of the house staff.  Which of course meant he had to be present to
supervise.  Supposedly to ensure she wasn't 'interfered with' - but on
recovering from her frequent faints she often felt a distinct difference in
the state of her vagina.

   He gazes firmly back at her.  She gives in, firstly having to drop her
purse on the seat behind her.  There are various gasps and intakes of
breath, and one of the young fellows whispers to the other loudly "That
can't be, can it?  What is that bump?" Reaching behind her, she pulls the
zipper down to the small of her back.  Then gripping the skirt at the
waist, she starts pulling it up, slowly.  The material rubs across her
clit, and makes her hips shudder involuntarily.

   Her Dad 'tut tuts'.  "No, no no Laura, are you trying to act like some
lowlife stripper?  Just pull it off, there's a good girl."

   She whimpers almost inaudibly, and pulls the dress up quickly, then off
her head.  Her Dad holds out his hand.  "I'll take that, you'll need to sit
down." She hands it to him, and he folds it, then puts it away in his
briefcase, leaving the top open.

   "No panties?  Wrong dress.  I'm seeing a pattern here, Laura.  And the
bra too, of course.  Pass it here."

   She can see that everyone else might not have even noticed the bra -
they are all staring fixedly at her crotch, with her outlandish clit
standing out like a small penis.  She unclasps her bra, hands it to him. 
Her nipples pop out like little fingers.  He places the bra on top of her
dress in his briefcase, then closes, and strangely, locks the case.

   "Laura, I see you only have your purse with you.  No milk expression
bottle?"

   "Oh!  Oh, no Dad, I...  uh, I forgot to bring it."

   "Tsk, tsk, tsk!  Not only the wrong dress, no panties, but no bottle. 
You know how your milk sprays out.  Did you expect everyone to want to be
covered in your milk, girl?  Or did you have something else in mind? 
Looking at you, I see that you are already heavily aroused, before even
beginning with your breasts.  Been looking forward to this, have you?  You
are damp girl, I can see the secretions leaking from your sex from here."

   He pauses a moment, clearly not expecting a reply from her.

   "Very well then, there is only one solution.  Unless someone else here
happens to have a bottle handy?  No?  All right then, Laura will have her
wish, that she has obviously been fantasising about since embarking on this
trip.  But she will have to ask for it nicely.  Laura, sit down."

   She does, confused, and places her hands in her lap covering her pubes
and clit.

   "No Laura, put your hands on the seat by your sides.  Now slide down,
till you are sitting on the edge of the seat.  That's right, a bit further.
Good.  Now one more thing.  You are to spread your thighs open wide.  Yes!
Do as I say or by heaven I will spank you right here and now, naked.  That
is better, but...  wider.  Wider.  All right, now keep them like that.  If
you are going to dream of what might happen to your over excitable little
pussy as you lie in a faint among these people, you may as well show
everyone how wet the thought makes you.  In fact, since your imagination is
clearly so overactive, I see no reason to confine such acts to your
unconscious moments.  Do you?"

   She hangs her head in shame.  Admitting to herself that really, he is at
least partly right.  She obviously did unconsciously set this up, and this
turn of events _is_ lighting the fires of her lust like a blowtorch.  She
cannot bring herself to speak, but merely shudders, her hips giving a small
involuntary flex upwards.

   "I'll take that as an agreement.  Very well then.  Now, you can sit
there, and we may continue our conversations, until you choose to clearly
request that those present please assist you in relieving the pressure in
your breasts, by sucking and on them and drinking your milk.  Of course,
Laura does tend to twist around a bit due to the toxin-exaggerated sensory
nerve signals.  So, you'll likely have to hold her firmly in place, and who
can tell where your hands may find a grip, eh what?"

   So Laura sits there, thighs spread wide open and her juices leaking down
the curves of her arse, breasts aching ever more unbearably, as the others
pretend to continue their conversations while staring lustfully at her
naked body shivering with her conflict of lust, humiliation and pain.  She
must ask them.  She cannot ask them.  The train and storm roar on in to the
night, and the sound blurs into a background haze of feelings - the
roaring, her body's throbbing, breasts aching, needing....  The train must
be passing by a river, it sounds like...  There is a bird call, and she
feels oddly cool on one side.  Why are her eyes closed?  She tries to shift
position slightly, and feels hardness against her side.  The train...  who
was...

   She opens her eyes, and sees the river, rain still misting the air and
beating the surface to froth in the morning brightness, shining the pebble
bank below her cave.  The water is higher than yesterday.

   She rolls over onto her back.  Ow...  her breasts really _are_ sore.  In
fact, her whole body feels just like in the dream.  She is _hot_!  Seems
like her libido is back right away, without Vance's drugged drink.  Feeling
the strength of her arousal, and that same demanding ache she'd experienced
in her rigid clit during her day tied on the bunk, perhaps that isn't such
a great development.

   'What on Earth was that dream all about?' she wonders.  'Why would I
imagine myself in a position like that?  My _Dad_ for heaven's sake!  Oh
well, no time to idle about, got to get on with the Great Escape.  She sits
up, trying to ignore the damp heat in her sex, and the throbbing hard ache
of her clit.  "Ouch.  Do have to do my breasts though..." she says out
loud, as their fullness makes them shift down painfully.  Her nipples are
rigid and swollen.  'Of course.' She sighs.

   After that dream, she almost dreads to touch them, in case it really is
like she imagined.  She doesn't have time for orgasms now either.  Got a
village to get to today, if possible, and a long journey to it.  But the
pain is very distracting, so she sighs, and resolutely grips her right
nipple as she shimmies out from under the mosquito net, and walks over to a
bush to pee.

   "Ohhhiiieee....  yow!  Oh that.. .really is...  intense..." she gasps as
the first few milky drops appear, while she squats and relieves herself.  A
strange feeling, peeing and milking at the same time.  Letting go all
over...  She hums it to a tune- "Letting goooo all oveeeerrr.... 
Ohhhweeee!" Hard to keep her voice steady, with that feeling.  Her breasts
seem to be back to nearly their full former sensory impact too.  Hopefully,
this won't distract her for long.  She sits down on a rock, and massages
her nipples.  "Oooohhhhh....  ohhh fuck!"

   No, she mustn't let it hold her up!  By now, milk is flying out in
strong sprays with each squeeze, and despite the intense feeling, she gets
up and walks back to her gear (such as it is.) 'No breakfast, just take
what I need and go.'

   She packs a lot of the stuff, on the principle that one never knows. 
Pausing every few moments to continue spraying out her milk.  She tries not
to let the feelings get to her, but it is very hard.  Her sex is burning,
aching, by the time she finishes packing.  She leaves most of the cookware,
taking only the small frypan.  The mosquito net, spear (which she pulls
apart into two pieces), the fire-bow, and all the sexual gadgets, she
takes. She empties the undrunk water from the enema bottle, then blows it
up with air as full as she can, sealing the cap.  Puts it in on top inside
her pack for some flotation.  She does the same with the boot-sole
bladders, blowing them up, tying their tubes sealed, and placing them in
lower pockets of the pack.

   That leaves just her leather body suit.  This takes a little time, as
she cuts the metal grilles free from the breasts and crotch areas.  She
hesitates, thinking that they may be useful for something...  but then she
shouts "Fuck you, Harding!" and tosses them as far as she can.  They make
the other side of the river, and vanish into the foliage.

   "And the horse you rode in on." softly, to herself.

   Now she unties the remaining lace from the front of the suit, and
arranges the suit flat on the ground, front down.  She pulls all the legs
and arms back, and binds the very ends - ankles and wrists - together in
one bundle, with many turns of the lace, very tight.  After knotting the
lace she has several inches free, which she uses to tie the longest length
of plastic tubing to the suit, both ends hanging loose.

   She looks around her makeshift campsite, checking for anything
accidentally left.  Nothing she wants to keep.  Then that moment she hates
every wet morning - putting on the wet boots.  It is dry in the cave, and
the air is warm, but wet boots always feel cold and horrible, by
definition. So do the gaiters, enfolding her calves to just below the knees
in their clammy wet black canvas.  Shod, she dons the considerably lighter
pack, picks up the tied-in-loops suit, and heads down to the river, back
out in the pouring rain.

   Standing in the shallows (less shallow than yesterday), she tries out
her transport.  First she fits the suit around herself and the pack, so the
tied ends are in front of her chest, and the open 'front' of the suit is
behind her and the pack.  The suit legs come around to her front just below
her arms, and the suit arms fit around her waist.  Then she lets herself
fall backwards into the water.

   With only the water bag and foot bladders holding air in the pack, as a
whole she and the pack tend to sink.  Then she puts one end of the tube in
her mouth, and feels behind herself with the other end for the open 'front'
of the suit.  She blows, and air bubbles up into the closed off, wet
leather arms and legs.  Which don't seem to leak.  She keeps blowing, till
they are all holding as much as they can.  By which time she is floating
quite comfortably on her back.  She adjusts the pack till it supports the
back of her head.  Now...  she is ready to go.

   The only problem, if it could be called a problem, is that her breasts
stick up out of the water and sit in the middle of her view.  She has to go
downriver feet first, on her back, so she can ward off rocks with her
boots. But...  her nipples are still stupidly hard, and since she has to
keep looking at them she can tell she'll find them distracting.  Same with
her clit, that pokes up out of the water when she brings her hips close to
the surface.  She had expected the water, and action of getting under way
to have calmed her down.  Plenty of time to deal with her body's needs once
she is back in comfort at civilisation.  Only a day or at most two, away.
But no, her body is not cooperating.  Even the cool water feels like some
kind of sensual caress on her sex - especially the waves that keep
splashing up between her legs and concentrating on her clit.

   Still, can't be helped.  She pushes out into the swift current and heads
off briskly down river.  She is fairly sure there are no major rapids
between here and the village.  She hopes.  Her naked arse hopes.  At least
the water is merely comfortably cool, rather than cold.

   Some time later, her plan seems to be working beautifully.  The river is
really moving along, with the rainfall.  As the morning passes, the rain
eases off then stops, much to her relief.  It made lying on her back with
her eyes open to the sky reminiscent of her experience of swinging under
the waterfall.  Plus who'd have thought mere raindrops could tickle nipples
and clitoris so?  After a while, that had really started getting to her, so
much that she kept finding herself drifting out of control, laid back with
her eyes closed, thrusting her hips and breasts up out of the water into
the rain.  Fortunately the first time she hit a rock while doing that was
in a slower section of current, and it didn't hurt.  But it gave her a
nasty scare.  After that, she struggled to not let the feelings get the
better of her; to stay alert, with her eyes open.

   Which should have been easy.  Here she is, free, busy escaping, no one
around to spy her nakedness, lying in cool water, nothing to do but steer a
little and fend of a few rocks in the (so far) rapids-free river.  She'd
have thought she'd be able to spend her time considering details like what
she was going to do to Vance once she got him locked up behind bars.  Her
name and money should be good for a few 'private moments' with the local
police looking the other way.

   One small problem does come to mind - the matter of first approaching
the village, given that the only clothing she has is a shrunken leather
body suit, missing its chest and crotch areas.  But a few leaves, fig or
otherwise, should provide a temporary solution till she can have her
contacts wire her some money.  No worries!

   So really, its all going, er...  swimmingly.  Rapids she can handle,
even if it means walking around them.

   Then _why_ is she having such problems concentrating?  On anything other
than the sorts of sex fantasies she'd thought she was free of since that
day on the bunk.  Her dream of this morning keeps coming back to her... 
and her present position - on her back, naked with her legs mostly spread
apart to steer, seems to resonate with that dream.  She surely would like
to have an orgasm, but has a strong intuition that stopping on the bank for
a while to take care of that would be a bad idea.  She can't do it floating
in the river - too risky since she does tend to lose control and/or
consciousness for a while.  Sharp rocks, drowning, these are strong
discouragement for that idea.

   It mystifies her.  No matter what she thinks of, or tries to occupy
herself with, her body seems to have only one state.  Highly aroused. 
Highly, highly, achingly, throbbingly aroused.  It can't be the wavelets
caressing her, since it continues even when she lets her hips sink below
the surface for long periods, and it feels more like a sensory deprivation
tank than a river, and it isn't the raindrops, for the rain has stopped. 
So why is it?

   Perhaps some kind of bounce-back from not having orgasmed for nearly
three weeks?  But she has often done this before!  In fact up till the last
few years she'd been mostly celibate, with no such problems.

   Surely it can't be something related to the nightly rapes since Vance
captured her?  She didn't even enjoy it!  Well, mostly, and she certainly
never came.  How could that have changed her responses?

   It is very confusing.  It seems clear that Vance was giving her some
drug that blocked arousal.  But without that, shouldn't her feelings return
to normal?

   Ah.  It occurs to her that 'normal' might not be what she assumes.  She
has been comparing her reactions to the way she felt before the um,
incident with the vines in the temple.  But since then, things have been
very out of kilter.  For one thing, since the vine's thorns have undeniably
caused some gross changes in her physical attributes, might they not have
also changed her responsiveness?  Its possible, she supposes.  Yet hard to
prove.  Her clit and breasts - those are obvious changes, no arguing about
the cause of them.  But behaviour...  she can see that her present tendency
to fantasise excessively seems to be only more of the same out-of-control
fantasising she had become prone to before...  any of this.

   How can she tell whether the root of her preoccupation with such ideas
derives from a chemically induced erotic mania, or from within her own
character?  For instance, just looking at her bizarrely enlarged organs
seems to dredge up associations with her past fantasies of sexual control
and humiliation.  So it could be just the unavoidable sight of herself now,
and the thoughts that come with it, that is keeping her constantly turned
on?  There's a kind of positive feedback there too - because her hard clit
is so outrageously obvious, and so shameful to her, that turns her on even
more!  So do thoughts about how she is going to cope with her condition
once she gets back home, and to society.  Oh god, oh god, she doesn't want
to think about that.  But the thoughts keep popping into her head no matter
how hard she tries to avoid them, so her subconscious is clearly working
hard on the matter.  She is starting to suspect her subconscious has some
fairly deep sexual kinks.  Perhaps the little bugger is having fun
tormenting her by keeping her turned on?  Currently, it seems to be trying
to get her to imagine how it will be when she goes to visit her
gynaecologist to discuss her new problems.  No!  She doesn't want to
visualise...  She really needs a distraction.

   The river has rounded a bend, and she finds herself in a wide, slower
current, drifting along in open water stretching as far as she can see. 
She also notices that she is floating a bit low in the water - some of the
air has leaked from her suit legs.  She sorts out the plastic tube again,
and blows her floaty-suit some more air.

   That's better.  Although the weight of her boots still tends to sink her
feet more than she'd like.  Too bad she doesn't have something else to hold
air, that she could put under her legs, or arse.  She idly holds the tube
end under her arse, and blows.  Oh!  The bubbles tickle her, and feel kind
of nice as they flow up past her sex.  Just like farting in the bath, but
without the smell.  She does it some more, giggling, then pauses.  Um, just
like farting...  Presumably, it wouldn't matter what kind of gas was
inside...  and she could do with some more flotation.  No trouble letting
it out again if...  if it is uncomfortable.

   Quickly, as if the impulse might leave her if she doesn't act on it now,
she places the tube end against her arsehole under water, and pushes it in
a little, while blowing.  For a moment the bubbles still tickle her, then
there are none, but a feeling of...  hmmm...  She blows more.  Wow... 
that's...  full...  but not uncomfortable...  so she blows more.  With
every puff she feels the expansion inside her bowel, and her body rides a
little higher in the water.  'Hey, this is cool!  Lifeguards should carry
plastic tubes, and give drowning people air enemas!' She laughs out loud,
imagining a scene of bronzed, muscly, blond haired lifeguards in their
yellow and red costumes and caps standing manfully ready on a beach, coil
of rope in one hand, and coil of plastic tubing in the other.

   A fine thought, except perhaps a drowning person with an arse-full of
air would probably just float arse-up.  This time she laughs a lot longer,
imagining a surf bobbing with bare naked arses; now and then one letting
fly with a huge misty fart like a whale blow, then sinking with a few
trailing bubbles...  "Thar she blows!  Ha ha ha!" She tries it herself, and
produces an impressive gush of bubbles between her legs - with the result
that she sinks a little again herself.  Easily fixed with a few more blows
through the tube.

   Of course, one result of her new internal floatie, is that her clit is
now right at the waterline all the time, instead of only when she makes an
effort to hold her body up in the water.  Looking at it, sticking up like a
little pink periscope, she thinks that having a good laugh, and yet there
being not the slightest cooling effect on her sexual arousal, says a lot
about the nature and persistence of her condition.  Normally, laughter is
pretty deadly to arousal, she has found.  But not, apparently, to her new
armour plated sexual heat.  If anything, it feels to be getting stronger.

   God she needs to cum!  Perhaps...  She gazes ahead downriver.  Looks
like it just goes straight and calm for ages yet, so she has some time. 
What happens if she goes limp?  She tries it - relaxing every muscle, and
just letting her body settle as it will.  Hmmm.  A bit of a list to port,
but with the suit's inflated limbs to either side of her she seems to be
fairly stable in the water.  Her feet sink, but with the extra air inside
her bum, not enough that she might slide out of the floaty-suit.

   She thinks 'Yes, it would be possible, but...' Many conflicting problems
keep her drifting, still, as she considers.  Surely, there can't be anyone
around here to see her?  It feels so exposed here, in the middle of the
river, dense foliage rising from the banks to either side.  She makes a
hesitant move to touch herself, then halts before her hand even lifts out
of the water - this is the first time she has been free to touch herself
since the vine-induced changes.  She knows her enlarged clitoris is much
more sensitive than it used to be.  What if...  what if it is _so_ intense
that she becomes unable to resist, unable to control herself?  She could
become addicted to masturbating!  It is bad enough, that she had been in
the habit of performing these acts now and then.  Yet those infrequent
times did prove that she was incapable of resisting the lure of sexual
urges.  Proved that she was weak, and fundamentally sinful.  Supposing she
became completely unable to resist, ever?  If her body continued to be as
it is now, always aroused, and she became habituated to giving in to the
need, what would become of her?  She would probably...  probably end up in
some sort of modern day equivalent of those Victorian asylums for fallen
girls.  And what...  she has no idea what sort of things would happen
there, but even wondering has an intense effect on her, as the dark, murky
half- formed thoughts make the hot tension in her body flare.

   She shakes herself in the water.  This is ridiculous!  She can't go
forever without relief, so the thing will have to be tried eventually. 
Might as well be now.  Surely she'll be able to cope with any...  with
anything, at least until she can get professional help.

   Just as she is about to move, to begin, there is a loud shrieking sound
from the forest to her left, followed by a multitude of hooting, laughter
like calls.  For a moment she cringes, flailing and panicked, imagining a
tribe of natives, and ambush, darts...  Then the shriek repeats, and more
hooting, and she realises there must be a tribe of monkeys up in the trees,
out of sight.  But still, monkeys...  she shouldn't care if monkeys can see
her, but somehow she feels she must wait, floating motionless, till she
drifts past and the hoots fade upriver.

   Now a bird flies low overhead, calling in a long whistling cry as it
passes her.  Others answer from the trees.  Laura thinks to herself that
really, the jungle here is no noisier than anywhere else.  She is just
focussing on the sounds more than usual, since suddenly they all seem to be
directed at her.  As if the whole jungle is watching her getting ready to
play with herself.  The idea of being watched is so shaming, but so
arousing!  Now she really cannot wait any longer.

   Lifting one hand out of water to reach her pussy, she finds this makes
her roll in the water.  After some experimentation, she finds that the only
way to remain stable is to lift both hands simultaneously, and bring them
both onto her hips, to her sex.

   Finally, she tentatively strokes the side of her strange new clit with a
fingertip.  The sensation is shockingly intense.  As if someone has turned
up the volume knob of her genital nervous system, way beyond anything she
has felt before.  It reminds her of how TVs look with the color control set
to maximum.  Otherworldly; almost painful to look at, yet drawing the eye.

   In this case, drawing her finger.  She strokes again, and then again. 
She can feel the effect immediately, as her whole body shivers, the desire
blossoming with every touch.  Combined with the feeling of the air moving
in her bowel when she tenses, it is all quite overwhelming.  Overloading,
strange.  It appears that masturbation now is going to be quite a different
thing to her past experiences.  Then, her technique mostly consisted of
rubbing on her clit with one fingertip.  But now, with it's greatly
extended length and sensitivity, that doesn't work.  Even though her clit
is as rigid as a nail, her fingertip keeps sliding off it.

   She finds that she has to grip it among at least three fingers, in order
to stroke up and down its length.  Yet the feelings are so intense, that
she can only bear to touch it very softly with all three fingers.  So she
adopts a kind of surface grazing, barely pressing stroke action with one
hand.

   Which leaves her other hand feeling left out, sitting right next to her
pubic mound for balance.  She dips that one down into the gap between her
legs, and pushes a finger inside herself.  She feels very warm inside to
her finger, compared to the cooler water.  She slips another one in beside
the first, and 'Oh!  That's...  interesting.' The river water works inside
along with her fingers, giving her an unfamiliar feel of invading coolness
inside her heated sheath.  It reminds her of...  when she visited...  when
she will visit...

   As they had before, images of visiting her gynie pop up into her head.
This time she lets them run, as she delicately strokes her supersensitive
clit, teasing herself, building...  Drifting along in the slow water here
seems to be very conducive to daydreaming, as thoughts and memories mingle
in a flowing river of images; a river upon a river.
   To be continued....