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Laura Croft and the The Venus Thigh Trap
M+/F, L Croft, NC, BDSM, Lact, Hum, Archaeology, Silly
All that legal guff about how you might be an innocent child,
or living under a censorious government, puritanical legal system,
your mother wouldn't approve, you should not be here, you really
must stop now, etc. Sigh... What a fucked up world. Anyway, what
follows is an explicit, graphic, extreme sexual fantasy.
You have been warned. Leave now if not already corrupted.
Any similarity of characters herein to persons real or fictional is
entirely for the purpose of caricature. And teasing.
This story was written by SensoryOverlord, and is Copyright 2006.
You may copy and read for free. Reproduction of this work for profit
is not OK.
I very much appreciate reader comments. Thanks to all those who have
written. To those who haven't... you suck. Stop sucking now. Write.
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...
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
"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, than 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 tasts 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....
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