Tales of Female Depravity

Acceptance-1

Acceptance

Excerpt from the novel Meltdown ©1998

Dinner had finally wrapped up, a sumptuous if curious affair with the President, First Lady, Dave Woods, Melyssa, and Staff Sergeant O’Brien – the last included by Dave’s specific insistence.

The two ladies present had looked smashingly elegant, in a slinky dress and sober pants suit respectively, while the president’s tailored appearance was as flawless as the momentous press conference just past demanded. By contrast, Kurt and the others still wore the tattered, rumpled, effluent garments they’d donned three days ago prior to heading innocently off to work.

Both the clothes and men had seen some damage since then. But the president had insisted that no amount of finery could be more honorable or appropriate. Charming and considerate throughout, the leader of the free world had raised them all an eloquent toast, and remained with them for almost half the meal, before finally rushing back to resume his duties. It was then left to the First Lady and her crack staff to see them all properly drunk and stuffed, and eventually guided to comfortable rooms for the night.

A quick peek in at the brave Lady Kira had shown her to be fast asleep, a small, angelic smile curving her lips. A short walk down the hall, and then Kurt and Melyssa were installed, as promised, in the recently renovated Lincoln Bedroom. Safe and sequestered together at last, Kurt was slipping out of the grimy remains of those original clothes, thinking about nothing but bathing his weary, wounded body, when he suddenly felt that weird, almost forgotten thrill once again k****e within him. Oh, no.

Oh yes. The shirt he’d just dropped had actually belonged to the man they’d killed at the Obeehachi schoolyard, and in whose remote home they’d spent the previous night. Kurt’s shirt had been wrecked by the load of birdshot he’d taken, and Queen Melyssa’s admittedly kinky version of home surgery.

That was reminiscent enough, but the belt he was now in the process of removing wasn’t really his either. It had belonged to his late brother Al, and the reason he was wearing it was because his tough khaki pants had also been destroyed, ripped apart at the crotch and bereft of every last button. Professor Kurtis Strauss, Ph.D., had just gone on global TV and to dinner with the President of the United States with his fly gaping open. Only the long, untucked tail of his T-shirt had spared the entire world the sight of his unpredictable woman’s handiwork.

Kurt’s head was buzzing with wine, slaughtering his inhibitions, and as he dropped Al’s belt and handled his torn trousers, that whole outrageous scene in the utility closet came flooding back in on him.

Memories he’d managed to avoid during the ensuing life-or-death struggle now came surging back into his awareness, touching off emotional and physiological responses that he found both weakening and exciting at the same time.

Beyond his ability to articulate or control, these feelings were deeply compelling, teasingly reminiscent of some elusive lost ecstasy, a buried or archetypal state or experience far more fundamental than just his earth-shaking orgasm of a few days ago.

Kurt hadn’t understood it then and he didn’t understand the bizarre hormonal storm recurring now. But like a helpless addict he suddenly craved it, eager to indulge and explore the fascinatingly extreme sensations his unbelievable wife had somehow uncovered for him. As he dropped his pants he began twitching uncontrollably, and before his swelling need could betray him any further he turned to the fiery source – and only known satiation – of these demanding, if perplexing, desires.

“Say, whatever happened to my ‘Sweet’ Melyssa? Back there on the boat I thought you were kidding about the Queen’s Dungeon.”

“I thought I was.” Melyssa was sitting on the huge, upraised four-poster bed, the most dominant yet by no means elegant of the room’s exquisite furnishings. Wearing a simple and yet stunningly classy Ralph Lauren wrap-around dress the First Lady had lent her from the White House’ extensive collections, she was leaning back on her fists, long legs casually crossed. Chin up, she was both smiling and smoldering at him. Driven by his quickening arousal, Kurt pressed the issue.

“Well what the hell was all that back in the utility closet?”

“Oh. I think that’s called b and d, Kurtis. Bondage and domination. Female domination. Some prefer to call it femdom I believe.” She grinned wickedly at him. “Whatever it was, it was pretty unbelievable.”

“I’ll say,” croaked Kurtis past a suddenly dry mouth. He swallowed, then plunged ahead with his embarrassing confession. “I have to tell you, my ‘Lyssa, that was the best s*x I’ve had in my entire life. By far. I’m talking miles, light-years, parsecs better than anything I have ever experienced. I don’t know what possessed you to attack me like that, or why it was so goddamn arousing. But I was out of my freakin’ mind back there.”

He shook his head in wonder. “You are a fearsome specimen indeed, my lady queen, absolutely unbelievable to witness in action. You’re a hot, sexy, deadly femme fatale, and there’s this will-sapping sense of compulsion to being helpless and in your power that I don’t understand at all but which is just impossible to resist – sexually speaking, I mean. So I just wanted you to know that like, if you ever wanted to try that kind of thing again, well, I might, like, well, be willing to go along with it.”

Kurt was red-faced and stammering by now, and Melyssa laughed delightedly, relishing his discomfiture.

Eyes twinkling, she smirked at him standing there, his pants collapsed around his ankles and his boxer shorts tenting up incrementally in a series of slow, rising pulses. Color started creeping into her cheeks, not embarrassment but evidence of her own healthily rising arousal. She chose her next words deliberately.

“Well, I do understand it, dear man. I understand everything now. And I guess I did promise you something special back there at the Coffey house, just before we went out for the final battle. Something about a dip in the royal honey-pot, as I recall, and the ultimate, extended, King-ravishing of a lifetime. Well, I suppose you’ve earned another taste of the mighty Queen’s authority. But you know my loyal, lowly little King, it still might be appropriate for you to beg me for it.”

What! Kurt’s jaw dropped, and once again his wife’s delighted laughter rang out. But then she bounced up off the bed and snapped upright, her entire languid posture transformed into blazing, righteous indignation.

“I said get down on your knees and beg me, knave! Beg for the honor of your exalted Queen’s vicious, delicious, oh-so-ambitious attentions!”

Kurt’s hammering heart actually skipped a beat. Then it started pounding away even louder than before. Confronted with the demon he’d successfully unleashed, he suddenly quailed a bit within.

Was this really such a good idea? Mistress Melyssa looked ready to take this ball and run with it. But of course it was too late to back out now, and as before a hot twinge of fear only enriched his excitement. Instead of just tenting out his boxers, he’d now managed to escape the fly completely, and was finishing the job of climbing rapidly erect. Melyssa maintained her demanding, regal regard, and suddenly, unbelievably, Kurt was hearing Star Trek in his head, ‘Resistance is futile!’ hissed the Borg Queen from the movie First Contact, and just like that he was captured, ensnared by the excitement of this dark, compelling new s*x game. Never a couple to let the physics grow stale, he and Melyssa had experimented extensively in the past. But imaginative as they were they’d never chanced upon an enhancing erotic fantasy as excitingly, primally intense as this one. He was literally weak in the knees. Agreeing at once with the alien in his brain, Kurt let them collapse, dropping obediently into a position of shame-faced supplication.

“Please, my Queen, Mistress Melyssa, I beg you to use and abuse my helpless naked form to your heart’s delight. I exist only to serve you, to satisfy your voracious needs with my humble, unworthy flesh.”

Keeping his eyes properly down, watching himself pulse and jut and swell, Kurt listened for his wife’s reaction with bated breath. ‘Sweet’ Melyssa drew out the silence an excruciating length. Then spoke in a slow, musing tone.

“Didn’t I hear you call me ‘Goddess’ before? And swear to serve, worship, obey and adore me throughout all eternity? I want to hear all that again.”

Her voice sharpened into a cutting edge, and she slashed at him with it. “Address me properly, knave! Then maybe I’ll consider your contemptible request.”

Wholly caught up now, Kurt obeyed his Goddess impeccably, forgetting his hallowed surroundings, his physically and emotionally exhausted state, banishing everything he’d seen and done and endured over the last few days in favor of the intense s****l ordeal approaching, with its desperately anticipated, all-too-necessary, unwanted-thought-effacing rewards.

Later he could try to put the past into some kind of rational perspective, a new and improved world-view that would somehow encompass the loss of his home and brothers, his recent weak or murderous acts, even his strangely evolving marital relations. But for now he was just going to go with the flow, allowing his amazingly vital wife to take control and wring every last bit of ecstasy possible out of his sore, conflicted mind, body, and soul. Memories of grief, bloodshed and horror, along with guilt, regret, and tortured introspection, would have to wait until later.

Soon he was babbling away, endlessly repeating his groveling pleas and praise, swearing an eternity of abject servility in exchange for one surpassing night of torment and ecstasy at the hands of his glorious Goddess. Focused on her feet (and knowing how his ‘Lyssa loved a good foot rub) he promised to kiss and lick and suck and clean and massage every exalted inch and toe, growing ever more graphic in his descriptions, until at last Melyssa relented. Peremptorily she ordered to him shut up, strip, bathe, and present himself for use.

Kurt hustled into the bathroom, where he hurriedly, nervously, hornily bathed away the crud of the last three days.

Hot steam combined with the drugging haze of alcohol and hormones to pull him ever deeper into his addictive fantasy, and as he scrubbed himself he relived all those bizarre scenes that had unreeled so pornographically through his head the other day, after Melyssa had practically raped him. By the time he’d toweled dry and emerged, his muscular organ was as rigidly erect as an extra bone, number two-hundred-and-seven in the new anatomy. His Goddess was similarly prepared for him.

Dressed now only in a short, tightly-sashed and elegantly embroidered silk robe, ‘Lyssa’s chestnut hair was tied up and back with a long, matching white ribbon, revealing every curve of her beautiful face. She looked him deliberately up and down, then with a smile of wicked relish ordered him onto the room’s gigantic, elevated, elaborately carved nineteenth-century four-poster bed.

A lone pillow had been positioned dead center, and under Melyssa’s impatient instruction Kurt sat upon it, then lay back spread-eagled upon the mattress.

During his bath, heavy silk ropes he now recognized as the room’s drapery cords had been tied to the head posts. Immediately his Goddess seized his arms and bound the tasseled ends of these securely about his wrists. Then she jerked his legs together, and with the sash from her robe she wrapped them tightly together from ankle to knee, immobilizing him in a posture of helpless crucifixion.

Feet pulled down and arms stretched wide, Kurt’s pillow-propped hips jutted at the sky. A smaller cushion was jammed beneath his head, and once his positioning had been perfected Queen Melyssa at last stepped back, contemplating the inviting sight of her helpless naked mate.

Kurt next expected to be blindfolded and gagged, but apparently his ‘Lyssa had better planned uses for his eyes and mouth.

Thank the Goddess for that, because she suddenly once again smiled cruelly at him, and with a vigorous snap of her shoulders and back, she shrugged herself out of the now open silk robe, casting it dramatically aside.

Kurt caught his breath. He’d seen this body a billion times before, in every conceivable position, yet it never failed to reach inside him and stir his gonads with a sharp, hungry stick.

Naked his Goddess seemed impossibly tall, all long straight lines and perfectly opposed curves. Elegant, stemmy white legs so slender and yet strong, the smoothly muscled stretch of her calves and thighs were a match for giraffe, gazelle or any hale young sapling of the northern forests.

Skin a shade lighter than the sweetest-grained sugar pine, she stood haughtily tall above him and posed a powerfully erotic figure, taunting him with her strength, her height, her absolute perfection of feminine form. Hips c****d, shoulders back, that dangerous chest thrust forward, the jaunty, sideways slope and insolently sharp, dark points of her impossibly firm breasts poked up and out like deadly horns of flesh.

“I am the Goddess Uroboros,” she finally intoned, as her cruel, hungry smile melted into a look of such dark erotic promise that Kurt felt giddy just meeting her eyes. “Prepare for punishment and sacrifice, slave!” And after that chilling pronouncement, everything else occurred in an incredible blur.

Aided by the alcohol he’d consumed, Kurt soon found his surcease of thought and much, much more, as his brain and endocrine system quickly concentrated on pouring more and more potent hormonal stimulants into his overloaded bloodstream. The omnipotent Goddess above him reached out, and with yet another evil smile she drew a limber, thorny, impossibly long-stemmed rose from the giant vase full standing nearby on the ornately beveled bed table.

Kurt thought he also saw a magnum of Dom Perignon on ice over there, but apparently that was none of his affair – at least not yet. Lovely Melyssa knelt next to him, and first she used the velvety head of the flower to tease and tickle his pulsating genitals. Then, gripping it by the bottom of the stem, she began whipping him, lashing its wet, thorny, meter-long length viciously across his thighs, chest, stomach, hips, and even those incredibly turgid genitals.

Kurt gasped with an indescribable mixture of pain, excitement and arousal, and his Goddess needed no more encouragement than that. For an interminable amount of time measured out by moans, cries, slaps of flower on flesh and the colorful fluttering of shed petals, Melyssa loomed above his bound, writhing form and whipped him scratched, welted and more than a little bit bloody, until at last the entire vase full of American Beauty roses had disintegrated.

Of course, the entire time she interrogated him ruthlessly, driving with the skill of a psychiatrist and the unpity of an executioner at feelings and needs he only wanted to experience, not understand.

Why did he love this, being her thrall, what did it give him? What was the appeal of this, and this and this!? Worse yet, why did he really give away his gun back there? What did he hope or expect would happen next? And how did he feel, watching his worst enemy take her, use her, f**k her, and then be killed by her in the act?

Teasing, taunting, demanding, she whipped and humiliated him simultaneously, and soon the constant burning shame and pain had produced a high, floaty feeling Kurt recognized as a long distance runner’s endorphin rush.

All of these conflicting chemicals stoked his compulsory arousal until he was nearly mad with it, thrashing against his bonds with his swollen member so burstingly large and hard and erect that he ached in his rigidity like a rotten tooth. This too his Goddess then tightly bound, dropping her makeshift whip and pulling the ribbon from her shining hair.

Not trusting her slave to withhold his issue, she tied a large silk bow about the base of his genitals, adorning them like a wedding present and trapping him in his unprecedentedly tumescent state – at least until she was damn good and done with him. Then, after forcing him to perform a wide variety of extensive and enthusiastic oral services, she at last began to caress, pull, pump, tug, tongue, fondle and fellate his captive s*x organs, driving him further and further from his mind with every inventive trick at her disposal. Only when he was practically weeping with need did she at last relent. Panting with lust herself, Melyssa climbed on, straddling Kurt’s elevated hips, mounting his aching engorgement and then f*****g his brains out for hours among the scattered, fragrant petals of over a dozen denuded roses.

For poor King Kurtis this endless cycle quickly became the most delicious torment of all.

Riding his body to climax after climax, the Goddess atop him still took every opportunity to taunt and tease and humiliate him during the slowly rocking lulls between. Twisting his n*****s, slapping his face, she continued to hump and pump and interrogate him even as she regained her strength for yet another mad, escalating rush toward orgasm. This went on forever, it seemed, until finally, true to her threat back at the Coffey house, the impudent King was once again moaning and sobbing and begging incoherently for his release. Only then, at the greatest height of yet another bucking, screaming, endlessly extended apotheosis, did his supremely compassionate Goddess at last reach between her legs and suddenly pull free the silk bow of his imprisoning ribbon.

Kurt’s explosion was galvanizing, exquisite, and instantaneous.

The pleasure of released pressure was mind-blinding in its intensity, and he screamed as his shuddering love-gun shot what felt like quarts of semen deep into the seething clutch of his superior female’s slippery middle. Still, that heart-rending cry of ecstasy was lost in the banshee screeching of the terrifying woman writhing atop him. For several long moments they wailed on in eerie unison, grinding their crotches together and sustaining the incredibly transcendent convulsion rippling through their shared link. Only then, when every last shudder was spent, did Kurt’s amazing Goddess at last collapse exhausted atop him.

Unfettered chestnut tresses draped his face, and to Kurt the scent was a pleasant lingering of shampoo strawberry. Gasping for breath, panting in moaning recovery, those silken strands fluttered against his parched lips.

Melyssa’s face was cupped in the hollow of his neck, and her own heavy breath was scalding on his shoulder. Utterly spent, Kurt lay there and reveled in those wonderful sensations and thought of nothing else in the entire infinite universe.