Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 21

  They stumbled haggardly toward this incongruous detail of the desert to find a copse of fragrant greenery ringing a small pool of water. Cheering, they drank thirstily then bathed—it was large enough for that—and blissfully relaxed in the comfort of soft grass and cool shade through the sun’s long reign and well into the next evening.

  Ione woke from a hazy dream sometime after midnight, exhaled quietly and blinked. She lay without moving for a while, communing with the desert. She had slept for a third of a day and was fully rested for it, but found herself indolently unwilling to make use of her restored vitality. A warm breeze scattered the scent of raspberries on a few stubborn bushes, the only victual rendered by the oasis.

  Her immediate view was dominated by Emma’s rounded form, a near-black silhouette facing away from her. Beyond, Manassa sprawled on her back, massive legs spread wide. Ione watched the steady cadence of her respiration for a while, sorrowfully contemplating the past. There was no future anymore. How long would they be trapped at this hopeless little place? She could reckon from the full moon, if she really wanted to. Another sex of nights would transpire—one of them totally dark but for the stars—before it was restored to circularity.

  Without warning Emma rose silently to one arm, glancing over her shoulder to Ione’s backlit form. She was about to speak but Emma turned away first and rose delicately to her knees, obviously assuming she was still slumbering.

  As Ione watched in disbelief Emma crept over to Manassa, wavered for a moment, then carefully positioned herself between the big woman’s thighs, elbowing forward to a point where her face was poised at her rounded pubis. She longingly inhaled its musk.

  After a few draughts Emma wriggled into a configuration that allowed her to settle one hand between her own legs. Ione saw her rump shiver as fingers deftly spun. Her tongue slowly dove to the other woman’s crotch, almost touching…

  It swept delicately into Manassa’s glabrous twat, halted delicately at the apse, settling under her clitoris. Emma masturbated with desperate concentration, buttocks twitching, frigging her cunt with furiously discreet fingers till orgasm neared. Her stiffened tongue never left its perch at Manassa’s sex—the only physical connection Ione could see. It was minimal, but intimate enough to ensure her traitorous lover would climax, though it would waken Manassa first. The big woman’s conscious participation was required for Emma’s fulfillment—it was not enough to simply be touching. Emma knew this, of course, which meant she was sure Manassa would keep her secret. What did that imply?

  Manassa shifted suddenly, murmuring blearily out of dream. Her giant legs folded cataclysmically across Emma’s back, trapping the smaller woman in place, bearing her down as she struggled for balance. Emma obtained a bare new equilibrium, awkwardly propped on one arm, mouth perched just above Manassa’s clitoral prominence as before. But her shoulders quivered from the effort of maintaining her distance from the other woman now.

  Ione could almost feel her maddened desire to taste the flesh at her lips—a lust that could ruin them all. Confined to the tiny oasis with another dominant woman, Ione knew there was only one way to resolve any serious conflict of pride. Her tears fell silently to the grass, a pitiful contribution to posterity.

  When Manassa shifted again Emma rolled painfully free of her embrace, returned with obvious regret to her own sleeping site. Ione never made a sound. Unconcerned for predatory acts of cunnilingus, Manassa had failed to wake through the affair.

  Or maybe she had…

  “Oh, no,” Mark groaned, rousing the others. The sun hovered malevolently over the desert. It was almost noon a few days later.

  “What’s the matter?” Ione drearily inquired, and Mark pointed to the pool.

  “It’s soaping up. Fast.”

  In a moment she had joined him to verify this. “The skulks must have dumped more. This place is supplied by the subterranean Lap waters, obviously.”

  “There’s no telling when it’ll flush through,” Mark quietly observed.

  “What happens if we drink it?” Manassa wondered.

  “You slowly go crazy.”

  They pondered this, aware that the temptation to drink would inevitably overpower this fear as thirst direly oppressed them.

  “Out here it will be a long time before anyone finds us,” Ione observed. “We won’t notice the passage of time, but when we are revived things could be very, very different. Not really the world we remember at all.”

  They were silent for a term, driven to an inevitable decision by the vice-like confrontation of past and future the men had imposed on them.

  “I’m leaving,” Ione leadenly decided at last, no longer speaking for the group.

  They shuffled on for days, barely moving finally. Manassa, who was half-carrying Emma, let her down when Ione collapsed.

  “Well?” she croaked.

  No one had breath to reply, and they crouched next to each other in a final, meaningless companionship as the moon traced a long arc across the sky.

  “Wassat...” whispered Mark.

  No one responded, and after a time Manassa pushed herself erect, drawing Ione’s bleary gaze.

  Far in the distance she saw a thready coruscation in the sky. Lightning.

  “The Lap,” she stuttered. “We can go back…” They rose with a manic, stilted vitality, stumbling toward salvation, rejuvenated by a memory of water so plentiful it fell from the sky.

  Night relented to dawn, and they staggered on toward the last image of the storm, blinded by the sun as it hove before them, leaning into each other, shoving forward as a single, tortured entity in the end. But no lake greeted them, no trees loomed.

  They crested the lip of an immense valley in the sand as twilight veiled the desert again. They had reached the outskirts of the City, a sunken panorama of cheerily lit dwellings poised for the coming night.

  The City

  Emma followed Ione down to slouch in the lee of a decorative hedge lining a road adjacent to the desert edge. The voice of the metropolis drifted up in snatches, a medley of disturbingly uncorrelatable noises traveling a warm breeze that was equally confounding to the nose. Just over the shrubbery a row of houses lurked, different in minimal ways. Emma tried to speak, but nothing comprehensible resulted.

  “Errywhon allhrii?” Mark slurred, eyes reddened in exhaustion.

  “Rill thyerred…” Ione whispered.

  “Zheems lya nithe playth,” Manassa croaked, staring in bleary interest.

  Emma elected not to expand on these tortured observations as she combed some of the sand out of her hair with shaking fingers, breathing slowly. The others groomed themselves with similarly coarse measures between muttered exchanges that gradually returned to intelligibility as the moist air revived them a little.

  A vehicle turned a corner down the street and swung toward their position as they watched. It was powered by a gnome readily visible through the windshield, eyes beaming a narrow white radiance to light the way ahead. A man reclined to its left, hands perched on a steering wheel, navigating the road with perfunctory skill. A woman was also present, consigned to the back seat by her immateriality to this regime.

  The car—or automobile, as the doyennes once incredulously referred to these machines—pulled into the driveway of a house to their right and Emma got a better look at the woman as she walked inside, absently trailing her man. She was pretty, with sapid, pink-painted lips and light hair tumbling down her shoulders. Her well-rounded form was prudishly ciphered by a full-length dress, its lacy hem swishing vigilantly about her ankles, where her feet were ensconced in high-heeled shoes that casually elevated the dignity of her whole figure. The man wore a comfortable shirt and trouser ensemble in conservative colors.

  In the distance a metallic clang erupted, a gargantuan sound trailing low harmonics in its wake. Emma looked around for the source of this phenomenon as it reverberated ponderously about the valley, fading so gradually she suspected it could be located by following its aftertones.<
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  She had a clear sightline into the salons of several houses. In each of these rooms two stuffed armchairs hovered companionably close behind streetside panoramic windows. Before one chair in every case a round pink rug waited.

  Emma watched as the men took to their chairs by the last light of evening. Their women entered at different intervals to negotiate various domestic details; fussing with the decor and fingering the glow gnomes to a suggestively low radiance. Before long they knelt without ostentation on the little pink rugs, decorously settling their skirts and gathering long hair back with a ritualistic familiarity. Several had brought drinks for their men. One had a hand mirror.

  As night cloaked the City, the nearest of them—a long-backed brunette—leaned forward between her man’s opened legs, head coming to rest on his lap as he stared diffidently out the front window, arms comfortably perched to either side, drink in hand.

  “What the fuck is this?” Ione muttered in disbelief.

  Emma stared as the women clasped their hands behind downswept backs, rumps arched gracefully, skirts tumbled about their staunchly planted knees. Their teeth found zipper-pulls with minimal fumbling and lowered them to expose cramped briefs, which they kissed and licked deferentially till the appetites within were fully thickened.

  The brunette’s tongue dragged sideways, eased her man’s undergarment open to reveal the bulky head of his penis. She clasped it between her lips, drew it forth by patiently suctioning ministrations to expose a modest interval of its length.

  “Heh. Lookit that…” Mark breathed.

  “Guess we’re not the only thirsty folks around here,” Manassa hoarsely quipped.

  Emma blearily regarded the women, trying to estimate the sincerity of their service, swallowed sympathetically to lubricate her throat. “Yeah. I could use a stiff drink myself, but I’ll stick with a cup…”

  Despite her own wretched condition, she found herself impressed by the aesthetic of the proceedings, watched in growing arousal as the women coaxed fattening pricks out by increments till they were angled up presumptively for fellatio. Cars gliding by slowed occasionally to watch.

  The armchair-lounging men stared impassively out to the street, unconcerned with this obviously routine pleasure as their penises were licked by duty-minded slippers, gracefully swaying in elaborately concealing couture, hands carefully withdrawn from the oral theater of their lips, high-heels meekly protruding from their tumbled skirts to deduct the very dignity they moments ago conferred. Rumps shifted in restive abetment of hidden frustrations as they sucked; Emma guessed their lingerie was already well-moistened from such prurient affairs. She hungrily contemplated the head-givers’ gentle complicity to public acts of fellatio, eyes lingering on the obedient flexion of necks and thighs.

  “Quit it!” Ione coughed.

  Emma blushed and let her vagina alone, gaze averting to find Mark’s weak grin. She reached over and scampishly smacked his elevated manhood. Ione glared and she resumed a serious demeanor as another car prowled by their position, occupied by a trio of alert-looking men in dark red suits.

  “It’s not safe for us to linger here,” Ione decided. No one disagreed. “We’re incredibly conspicuous naked. I don’t know exactly what would happen if we were discovered, but everyone seems pretty serious about tradition…”

  “Can we get clothing?” asked Manassa.

  “Do we want clothing?” Ione sourly replied. “I mean, look at these slippers!”

  They turned back to the drama of fellatio on the other side of the street, watched limber necks bob on thick pricks through wide salon windows. The women acquitted themselves with a dignified sensuality, and Emma’s interest fixed on a blond to her right, well-revealed by her angle of surveillance. Her bright lipstick was unblemished despite the crisp tip-to-crotch travel of her face, a motion accentuated by a delicate twist at the point of deepest reception that quizzically flung her hair. Her mirror was placed such that her man could watch this performance from the side, and Emma saw him glance there from time to time, stolidly evaluating her technique.

  She found herself inevitably drawn to the pink rug peeping out from under the woman’s skirts. It set the whole context of the evening just by its presence, fixing her relation to the man enjoying her humbly supplied favors.

  The blond sucked on, and the patient lewdity of her service urged a long ungratified craving back into Emma’s imagination. Despite her thirst and exhaustion—or possibly abetted by it in some unconscious way—she found herself masturbating again. The men sipped their drinks, informally timing the ritual by this consumption. The blond maintained the same, efficient velocity of head-giving, signaling personal excitation only by the clenched orbit of her rump.

  “These slips can work the bitter spitter,” she acknowledged.

  “They’re clearly quite docile,” Ione grimly agreed.

  Mark scanned the dilapidated condition of their own group. “I really do wonder what their reaction to us would be.”

  “No reason for you to worry, from the look of things,” Ione muttered.

  One of the men drained his drink, angling the glass up symbolically. His companion accelerated her effort in response and before long semen squirted into her throat, remarked only by a slight catch in the rhythm of her headgiving. He casually set his glass to one side as she fastidiously swallowed male essence. To her left and right the others were gulping dicks to fulfillment, and Emma felt her own arousal peak, plied her clitoris with a briskly circling digit as her companions pretended not to notice.

  One by one the women eased to completion, mouths lingering to suck off any afterspurts, then with a faint suggestion of a bow each was up and off the cock, stepping obediently to some other chore. Contented peckers lowered gradually up and down the street, were somberly zipped from view.

  Emma leaned back, released a long, sympathetic exhalation. They were all silent for a little, confounded by their introduction to the metropolis and troubled by the implications for their own safety. Ione grunted in frustration, obviously seeing no simple option.

  “We need something to drink and somewhere to drink it. And clothing, obviously.

  “I’ll go,” said Mark, breaking the silence.

  “Just you?” Emma questioned.

  His gaze swung around to her matter-of-factly.

  “Well, not to put too much emphasis on gender, but…” He gestured to the neighborhood before them. “It seems like an advantage to be on the dick end of things around here.”

  Ione snorted. “Really? Just ’cause of all these slippers going down with the sun?”

  Mark ignored her sarcasm. “Look, it only takes one of us to get what we need. And if there’s trouble I won’t have to worry about the whole group.”

  “I could go,” Manassa offered, visibly intrigued by the danger. Ione stared unhappily at the bigger woman, measured by moments like this, Emma knew.

  “Mark should do it,” she hastily asserted, knowing it was what Ione wanted.

  He stood at this nomination, stretching painfully, then turned to them, whispering with laconic import.

  “Give me a day. Till nightfall. Don’t move from here, or don’t go very far if you do.”

  “Alright,” Ione reluctantly concurred.

  “Good luck,” Emma whispered, echoed by Manassa.

  With a careful surveillance of the neighborhood, Mark stepped over the hedge and disappeared down a narrow alley, apparently unremarked. Emma watched till he was gone, then settled back to wait.

  More cars went by, some occupied by people obviously journeying to social engagements given their carefully groomed appearance and anticipatory demeanor. The use of gnome-powered transport was a necessity here she realized, where so much distance was collected in one place.

  “Look!” said Manassa, poking her in the side.

  Emma caught a movement to the left, saw a couple slowly walking hand in hand down the sidewalk on a course destined to take them right past their hiding place. Ione m
otioned them down to crouch deep in the shadow of the hedge, listening intently.

  The couple exchanged playful affections, kissing from time to time, in no hurry to get anywhere at the moment, and Emma was moved by this small evidence of sentiment in such a jaded setting. The sound of automobile traffic receded for a moment, as it seemed to do periodically, and moist air breathed down on them from a serenely moonlit sky wreathed with thin tendrils of cloud.

  The woman had undone a few buttons on her frilly blouse to reveal a smooth sculpture of breasts stuffed in a red lingerie halter. Her lover could not resist their allure, slipped a nipple out with a pinch and twist, delicately tweaking it to prominence. Her gait loosened at his touch and she whispered steamy provocations as they approached Emma’s hiding place behind the hedge.

  From the vicinity of the man’s crotch she heard a loud metallic sound. The woman tittered, and the couple halted, kissing with an unhurried passion.

  “You want to take care of it now?” she coaxed, staring deep into her lover’s eyes, lips curled salaciously. “There won’t be another chance till later…” He grinned assent.

  The woman casually dropped to her knees. Unzipping his fly, she freed his penis. At the base of it was a thick band of metal that pinged noisily when an erection formed, unambiguously signaling expectation.

  The woman sucked his straightening member with a competent, rubbery cadence as he relaxed to a wide-legged posture, one hand lost in her hair. Despite everything, Emma found herself aroused by their dalliance, had to admire the woman’s congenial skill as she took time to bestow kissed insinuations of delight up and down the extent of his manhood, even digressing to lick his testicles with a syrupy, lip-smacking drama.

  It all promised a good end, but Emma could fill in the rest of the story herself; the cock ringer sounding noisily in bed on a rainy night, or out drinking with friends… or on a romantic walk in a place like this—wherever her man got the desire for a penis suck.

  The woman tortured him with playful little masturbations, then settled to a functional gulping, finally took a long, sticky emission on the forehead that amused even Ione. Smiling up at his satisfied expression, she zipped his pants and composed herself, and they were soon walking hand in hand again, destined to repeat the act on the next block for all Emma knew.