Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 12

  She unclamped the cock plug from her nose and flung it aside, trailing an arc of spittle.

  “Get off,” she sputtered, not waiting for Mark to comply, pushing him away. She rose to her knees, hurriedly plucked the cinch from her backside as she fumbled for an oar. Mark was silent, confused by this sudden unfriendliness.

  “We’re going back,” she explained. “Start rowing!”

  When the flotilla rounded into view Ione abandoned all discretion.

  “Wake up! Everyone get up! We’re moving!”

  Heads rose sleepily and boats pitched from fearful, clambering reactions to this outcry, but the women quickly realized it was Ione shouting and roused themselves in excitation and alarm.

  “Get the boats into formation!” she cried to Emma and Manassa. They had the convoy in order and were gathered on the flagship before long.

  “What’s going on?” Emma breathlessly demanded when they were reunited on the vanguard craft.

  “It’s soap. That’s the flavor we’re looking for,” Ione explained.

  “Of course,” Emma breathed, appreciating the clever camouflage this offered.

  There was a shout and they looked back along the convoy. “We got skulks coming!” Manassa hissed.

  Far behind Ione could see boats spilling into view around the curvature of the current. “Go!”

  They drifted forth on the channel, madly adding velocity with the oars. Behind them the men did likewise.

  Exhorting the women to a frantic athleticism, Ione quickly got them to the soaped outflow Emma had identified earlier.

  “Make sure!” she ordered the smaller woman, whose sense of taste was more accurate than her own.

  Emma verified their destination with a slurp. “This is it!”

  “Look!” Manassa warned. The trailing vessels of their convoy faced imminent contact with the enemy.

  “They’ve got a row gnome!” Emma pointed. Ione saw a big six-sleeper loaded with skulks churning toward their position at high speed under the oar-wielding impulsion of a blue-toned man secured at the prow.

  “Get the rope!” she screamed. “We’re going in!” From the cabinets Emma procured a thick coil of hemp line, made ready to follow her into the stream.

  “No,” said Ione, making an instinctive decision on behalf of her lover, who did not have her stamina. “You stay here, keep things from falling apart.” Emma swallowed, nodded bravely.

  “Manassa?” Ione squarely regarded the other woman. She nodded, arms loose, ready for anything.

  Ione slung the rope around her neck. “Let’s go.”

  Manassa leapt over the side and dove into the stream. Ione leaped to follow the big woman’s thrashing form.

  The current was fast enough to immediately drag her back, but Ione kicked hard in retaliation, measured the result and decided she could temporarily exceed its velocity.

  Manassa’s huge legs wrought a seething wake down the center of the channel and she followed at all possible speed. The stream quickly narrowed to a claustrophobic radius, became a flooded tunnel, darkened almost to invisibility. Its surface was slippery, impossible to grasp if they needed to halt or brace themselves. She could taste the soap marking their route, a bitter adulteration that might guide their navigation. They chopped their way further in.

  The passage forked, granting a choice evident to Ione only when she had already followed Manassa down the left flue, which was noticeably sourer on her tongue. The bigger woman was heaving like a force of nature in front of her, and Ione knew they were already beyond the point of no return—if they did not reach air ahead of them they would drown before they could get out.

  They followed the soap through another trio of branching fissures, avoiding routes that would eventually narrow to impassability. The tunnel darkened to deny anything but touch, and she thrashed in terror after Manassa as the soap directed them back and up through an otherwise undetectable passage.

  The resistance built to a peak. Ione felt her will collapsing…

  Ahead of her Manassa lurched forward on a berserk impulsion of her mighty legs, then Ione sensed her body go slack. Her outflung hand landed on the other woman’s ankle, the last flesh she ever expected to touch.

  But Manassa had reached something, was frantically pulling her along now.

  Ione followed her through a metal-framed aperture in the stone, then up into air, breathing jaggedly. They were in; she had reached the mighty aquifer from which all subterranean waters originated. A gnome in the distance lit the area to a delicate pink hue.

  She swept the rope from around her neck, quickly knotted one end to a sturdy protuberance of stone nearby and flung it back into the outgoing current. Waving Manassa to follow, she filled her lungs and dove after it, was borne at high speed back to the flotilla.

  Confusion reigned there—skulks were harrying the outer radius of their vessels, which were collected at the mouth of the stream now.

  Manassa hastily coiled the free length of rope as Ione shouted to Emma. “Get the women moving!”

  They began pushing slippers into the current, directing them to pull their way along the rope, and they fearfully complied, hauling for freedom.

  Manassa was last on the line, just behind Ione. They desperately yanked themselves along, did their best to gather up the slack as skulks massed behind them to give chase.

  Three swam close as they struggled after the other women, but their pursuers couldn’t approach together in the narrowing cross-section of the tunnel and Manassa dealt them a flurry of kicks when they tried. Hands fumbled at Ione’s legs and she did the same, lent enough leverage by the rope to strike decisively a few times. They followed the line through the branching route of the channel, desperately repelling skulks.

  The closest man made a supremely physical advance at one point and managed wrap himself about Manassa’s legs, but Ione came to her defense, drubbing him with heels till he spun free. She took the last place on the line.

  They almost lost their pursuers at the junction of the hidden flue, but one of them saw her turn through it and the rest followed him. He flailed toward Ione in the cramped passage and managed to grab an arm, almost tearing her loose. The accumulated rope spun back into the current. She and Manassa stamped ferociously, beating him back, then scrambled up into the reservoir.

  “Untie the line!” Ione screamed, and Emma lunged over to attempt this, but the skulks clinging to it back in the tunnel crimped the knot. Other fingers joined hers and they tore at it frenziedly as men began to emerge through the fissure.

  “Clobber’em!” she wailed.

  The women kicked, butted and hurled themselves at their adversaries. Mark swept the whole front line back with the vast strength of his body, scattered water in torrents as he caught two smaller skulks in his embrace and stuffed them down the outflow. Manassa overcame their advances again and again with colossal implantations of her legs on chests and buttocks, inspiring other women to the same martial fury, and Emma harried them with unsuspected courage, slapping and chopping viciously, poking eyes and yanking hair as their enemies raged incoherently.

  “Get forever who did then if!”

  “Now and for this if rain serve yes!”

  The fighting intensified and the skulks threatened to overwhelm the women.

  “Fuck you!” Ione screeched in hatred, blindly hammering and clawing as more men pulled in on the rope and attempted to stage a shoulder-to-shoulder bulwark where it was anchored.

  Mark saw a tactical advantage in this, clambered up a muscular back and lurched erect above the dense throng of marauders, balancing precariously on their mass. He hauled on the rope with one hand to relieve the pressure on the knot and with a heroic, groaning exertion finally pried it free with the other.

  “It’s loose!” he roared, casting it away. “Get’em outta here!”

  The women rallied around this victory, shouting and flailing at the skulks, crowding in with their collective mass to squeeze them forcibly down the outg
oing current. The men departed in kicked and shoved increments, unable to anchor themselves with the rope, were swept away with their reinforcements in the passage beyond. Emma began to cry hysterically when the last of them disappeared from view.

  Ione dove to the tunnel aperture, traced its metal frame with her hands. She dragged at the gate, felt a slight movement and redoubled her effort. It slid shut only with a great exertion and she drew a heavy bolt in place to seal the exit. To the right a gnome was chained to the chassis, lips spewing soapy water into the flow to generate the signal they had used to identify the only open route into the Lap. She dimly descried the thick rubber hose that emerged from its buttocks to access the waters outside the reservoir through another flue, a circulation that was detectable only when a contaminant was present there, cleverly concealing itself. Ione realized they would never have gotten in if there hadn’t been skulks around to soap the area in advance. Pushing the gnome’s left nipple, she deactivated its flow but left the blue-tinted creature in place, deciding she would set it up at another gate later. Breath exhausted, she surfaced to join the others. Emma swam into her embrace.

  The women fell silent, waiting for to proceed. She turned to the interior of the reservoir, and together they beheld the Lap sanctuary, cloaked in a numinous calm.

  “Amazing,” Manassa whispered.

  Ione stared with the others, felt a peace that had eluded her since first awakening with Emma. Mark was next to her, the lone male in their midst, and Ione met his gaze for a moment, saw excitement and apprehension there. She wondered what it would be like to answer the whole expectation of the other sex. He was going to find out.

  “Let’s go,” she quietly commanded.

  They swam forward into a massive cavern. Its pitched ceiling hovered low in places, a root-choked firmament that enclosed a vast maze of natural spaces; a community of aquatic apartments such as Emma and Ione had once known. But the Lap was far more extensive than their former home, possessed a grandeur to humble anything from memory. A thin chatter of excitement among the women grew to an astonished murmur.

  They drifted down an avenue wide enough to pass a trix of women abreast. The water was waist-deep in most places, a shallow, lukewarm sea that gently welcomed their tired flesh.

  Left and right on this curving promenade Ione saw open chambers littered with colorful evidence of prior tenancy; blankets and beds, cabinets, rugs, and lonely gnomes glowing onto bedrooms and salons. There was no evidence of current occupancy—the place had been deserted a long time ago.

  They strode in long, sluggish steps toward the heart of the sanctuary; an island where a large apartment commanded a circumferential view of the inner neighborhoods.

  Ione had once expected to reach the Lap in the company of all the doyennes, part of a collective leadership. But now…

  She considered Emma, then her gaze traveled to Mark and Manassa. Ione realized that her adventures with these people were already more significant than anything history tendered to recollection. Emma was her true love. Manassa was threatening but exotic, and Mark looked to be far more pleasurable company than some randomly captured skulk…

  “So what’s next?” he inquired, staring into the interior of the central residence with a hopeful expression. Ione realized he wanted to get out from under the scrutiny of the women, who constantly vied for his attention in little ways. He was a hero now, added to his beauty and intelligence, and their adoration would only intensify.

  “Wanna head inside?” Emma suggested.

  Ione nodded, and Emma turned to the women, calling for silence. With a few words and gestures she dispersed them to the surrounding apartments on their own cognizance, mostly as established couples.

  Ione ascended with her friends onto a perimeter of soft grass circling the doyenne’s residence, came to a low gate set in a ragged battlement of head-high, aromatic plants bounding a colorful garden.

  She was the first to enter the apartment, found herself in a wide antechamber. A low couch dominated one side of the room amidst a profusion of cushions, and tapestries in happy hues adorned the walls. A broad archway led into the main quarters of the residence; a combination bedroom and place of recreation, strewn with heavy rugs of a foot-soothing leniency of weave. Bulging divans arranged in a circle divided the room into inner and outer territories, and a row of shapely, free-standing closets lined the rear of the chamber, stuffed with towels, blankets, many varieties of juice and a large selection of toys.

  Above them a red-eyed gnome peered intimately down, raining a sensual pink light onto the scene. At the center of the chamber a gigantic round bed squatted. It was big enough to sleep a six of people under its voluminous red canopy, which was lofted by three wooden posters carved like pairs of shapely female legs.

  “Hey, look!” said Manassa, bounding through a leaf-shrouded arch at the rear of the apartment. Outside, a broad bowl of thick grass cupped a merrily bubbling pool, source of a fragrant mist wandering the little island.

  Life in the Lap

  “Shut up!” Ione grumped.

  Emma halted a noisy transaction of oral pleasure, grin smeared with fragrant apricot syrup. From everywhere in the Lap sounds of lovemaking could be heard; frisky bedboat copulations, finger-sped pleasures in foment, whips and whimpered elicitations full of guile.

  “Why?” Emma queried, licking her lips.

  “They’ll hear!”

  Emma giggled. “So? Everyone’s fucking.”

  Ione sought for a reasonable objection, sighed and closed her eyes.

  Emma was simultaneously performing oral gratification and vaginal intercourse by means of a lengthy strap-on phallus that swiveled at her crotch. It was casually referred to as a leg by the women of the Lap. Regarding Ione with a more composed expression, she reached out to a tray nearby on the blankets and acquired another dribble of textured syrup, spread it on her lover’s vulva with a slow flourish and respectfully eased the toy into motion again, thrusting with tentative license. A sweet aroma welled up in a moist haze as she affectionately kissed Ione’s clitoris, making friends again. Emma resumed a sensual rhythm of intercourse and her lover relaxed after a little.

  Ione’s tautly parted vulva was the site of innumerable campaigns of satisfaction, more familiar to Emma than her own. At the moment her arms were wrapped around the long woman’s lissome thighs, fingers spreading her labia. This was the most comfortable, most natural position in which to perform oral sex, but it did not allow for simultaneous penetration; a requirement for the most intense orgasms. Thus the use of a “leg” phallus, driven intuitively and confidently from the hips to plunder Ione’s cunt as Emma licked a teasing counter-rhythm at her swollen clitoris.

  After a pleasant interval of this her own cravings were bidding urgently for consideration and Emma decided to finish her lover.

  “Wanna play twat-or-knot?”

  Ione raised her head, skeptically assessed the privacy of the apartment and nodded.

  For this simple recreation, Emma would verbally specify an interval of penetration followed by a location; either her lover’s twat or her muscularly knotted sphincter. If Ione correctly anticipated the locale she got her pussy licked while Emma fucked the chosen orifice. If not, she was twat-spanked instead.

  Collecting herself, Emma pronounced “five,” and in the next breath said “knot.” Ione, cued by the utterance of the number, whispered “twat” in unison with the second term—the wrong answer.

  Emma bit the flared rubber lip of the leg’s depth-stop and dexterously shifted it to Ione’s pucker, trembling with reluctance to admit it. Her right hand rose admonitorily and her lover stiffened, then grudgingly submitted to protocol. Emma slowly pushed the leg’s thick phallus into her rectum, forcing it halfway. She patted experimentally at her vulval seam, provoking a tiny spasm.

  “One.”

  She eased the leg out with an arched retreat of her hips, slid it deeper in her lover’s asshole.

  “Two, three…” Emma count
ed the strokes as she drove harder, spanking Ione’s vagina more aggressively with each invasion. Smack. Smack.

  “Four…” Smack. Her belly curled to jock the phallus all the way into Ione’s butt cheeks as her hand came down with a painful, parting contact. “Five.” Smack!

  “Fuck, Emz…” Ione winced.

  It was time for a new number.

  “A dox,” said Emma, then “knot”. Ione murmured “knot” at the same time, guessing correctly. Emma smiled, lips finding her chastened clitoris, gently kissing and sucking at it as the leg drove into her rectum again. Ione’s pleasure steadily mounted as a double six of penetrations took place.

  “Sixtwo,” said Emma, and “twat”, and Ione was too distracted to call on time, earning her the standard penalty for silence; a single, stiff remonstration to the pubis.

  Smack! Emma’s oiled palm elicited a clamped hiss of agony from the leader of the Lap.

  “Sixfive,” she offered next, then “twat” again and Ione correctly called the locale with her. Emma obligingly kissed her clitoris, circling its hot erection with a sticky tongue. She put the long phallus back into Ione’s vagina, let her swaggering thighs generate a raunchy copulation to loosen the bigger woman’s tense flesh, plunging almost a dox of times.

  Without pausing she said “five,” then “knot”. Ione miscalled “twat”, and Emma bit the rubber lip to shift the leg phallus down, driving it deep into her ass on the first lunge, spanking her vagina firmly as she fucked the other woman with impartial rigor. Ione endured this punishment in cursing vexation, wriggling to minimize the worst of it. Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

  “Doxtwo,” Emma specified next, and “twat.” Ione correctly called “twat” with her. Emma put the leg back into her vagina, fucking it hard on a lively impulsion from her lower body. She bent to cunnilingus, shyly lapping her lover’s sex, playing the roles of two women with dissonant rhythms.