An Erotic Fantasia by Redbud
- I’m subscribed to the Erotic Writer’s Association mailing list. Every week I get notices from publishers mostly seeking longer short stories for their anthologies. How does one classify a story like this? Is it even a story? Every so often Monocle and I get requests and complaints from readers who are looking for longer, character-based stories; but one of the reasons we started a blog together is that we both share a predilection for shorter, erotic vignettes. Don’t know why. I think Ximena does too. P.S. I added a new category: Sex Slave. Enjoy.
Today, she eats berries.
She squats naked in the tall grass. She leans forward on one hand, plucking the red berries.
She goes naked. The grass doesn’t chafe her thighs. Her feet are never cut by stones. The cold doesn’t make her shiver. The sun doesn’t burn. Nothing can hurt or harm her. She is never frightened and is always beautiful. There are collars at her neck, wrists and ankles. Her nipples are pierced with tiny bells. The bells ring and jingle softly as she picks the berries. When were her nipples pierced by the little bells? She only smiles when asked. The bells tell men that she’s ready, that her nipples are thick and that her breasts are firm and jutting.
The men have no names.
They are well-shaped and unembarrassed. Their cocks swell and arch when they see her flat belly. They tower over her. She lowers her eyes and furtively glances at their semen-filled cocks. Her hair tangles in her lips. Her glances are shy, demure, and questioning. The men wear rings on their cocks. Gold leaf cups their balls. Sometimes they carry on their business without regard to her. Sometimes their cocks part her thighs. The bells on her nipples and clit jingle in time with her bird-like cries until their semen pulses inside her.
Sometimes she is enslaved.
She is owned and sold. Fine gold chains bind her collars to a tall wooden post. Her wrists are fastened above her. There are other women, nipples pierced by bells, being sold next to her. The street is cobblestone and narrow. Her legs are opened. Her pussy is impaled on a wooden peg that extends from the post like a man’s cock. This is so that men can see how gracefully she arches to receive their inseminate from behind – a pose, she decides, that best displays the gifts of any woman. Her abdomen is stretched flat by this and her nipples jut forward. She cannot move. Her clit is chained to the peg. She half closes her eyes, sometimes moving back and forth on the peg, and waits for a man to buy her.
She never tires and the peg is like another lover.
During the hours before she is bought, a hundred men pass her by. Each man describes her differently: her skin is light or dark, breasts youthful or full, hips narrow or wide. The younger ones trace their fingers where the peg impales her. They can’t afford to buy her. Their cocks arch as they imagine the soft, wet warmth protected by the peg.
The youngest, when no one is looking, take her breasts between their teeth as though they were cherries. They suck and they hold there until she bursts in their mouths. All they know is their desire for the mysterious pleasure of her womb. Sometimes they trap their cock between her belly and theirs. They move as though they fucked her. They watch her eyes. Their movement forces her belly to move on the peg. Sometimes she comes. Her orgasm stains the base of the post, joining the cries of countless other women when their hands twisted above them, when their stretched abdomens pulsed, and their heads and hair hung down just like hers.
The men laugh at her when she helplessly quivers. Then they close their eyes. They groan loudly and press their cocks hard against her abdomen, standing on tiptoe as though to spew their cum deeply inside her. The thick pulses of their shouts streak her face, breasts and belly. She can do nothing when they leave her. She tastes them on her lips.
Sometimes she is impregnated by them.
They point their cocks at the lips of her pussy, but she can’t move her pussy. They smile at her. They let her see their impending pleasure. They stroke their cock and point the tip at the stretched lips of her pussy. They touch her clit with the tip. Sometimes they make her come like this just to show her that this is what she is meant for. They stiffen and she feels the soft warm spurts against her clit and pussy.
Once, two brothers paid the storekeeper for an hour of time with her.
The older brother released her clit and instructed her to lift herself from the peg. When she did, he instructed his younger brother to masturbate on the peg. When his semen covered the the peg, the elder brother tugged on the chain attached to her clit. The peg, slick with semen, easily slipped into her womb. He fastened her clit to the post. She moaned but couldn’t rise as the younger man’s orgasm impaled her.
Then the elder brother laughed, He spanked her clit until, gasping and twisting, she stiffened and pulsed with orgasm. The young man’s semen mixed with the bursting juices of her womb. “You see how a woman takes pleasure,” he laughed. Then he grew thoughtful. “We desire each other perfectly.”
A day passes, or a week and she is no longer pregnant.
She is a goddess who visits as a slave. All the men are her creation. She loves them. She adores their lusts, aches and needs. She revels in the praise of their cocks. When they make her taste them and submit, and when she conceives, their every gesture is the praise of a lover. When she is judged, she is a wrathful goddess. She protects her world, but the men mustn’t know. When a man buys her, she kisses the tip of his cock with gratitude. When he tugs her collar, she falls to her knees. She raises her ass and offers him her cunt.
His every thrust is a lover’s thrust.
But today she eats berries. The breeze is succulent with spring. The bells of her nipples and clit ring with readiness.
There will be more than one man who finds her today. The first comes to her, feet stained with soil and grass. His skin glows in the morning sunlight and his abdomen is strong. His cock and balls are full with a night of sleep. He hears the bells of her nipples and clits and comes with semen. She can smell the salty rind of his cock and her heart races. She waits for him, the man, to decide. She will offer her body to the full length of his cock. He holds his cock to her lips and she takes it in her mouth, showing that she will submit.
But just as she has begun to suck, another man appears.
He is like the first, and also like her shifting desires from one week to the next. This week, her womb is lush and burns with readiness. The second man is strong and stern. His lips are full and his jowls are wide. They will fight for her. She won’t interfere because they are both her lovers and she understands the needs of men. She waits, squatting, her womb moistening and swelling with their violence.
They cannot hurt each other. She won’t let them. She is the goddess and this is her world.
The two men engage each other like Greek wrestlers. Their straining muscles are beautiful and her nipples ache as she watches them. If she could offer herself to both, to have both feast on her breasts and spill themselves between her thighs, she would let them, but men are not like women. The dust is raised between them. They struggle over her. The thick trunks of their legs strain and powerfully knot. Their backs arch, glistening with sweat and the sun.
Her stomach grows flighty watching the strain of their abdomens and their hips – so much like sex. Dust fills their hair and marks the creases of their eyes, the angular hollow of their cheeks, and knives of their shoulder blades. She pants. She strains not to touch them, to caress and praise them. Finally, the second man, whose eyes are wild and unyielding, whose face is lined with the cruelty of a passion that streaks her thighs, is behind the first man. He holds him and bends him back as though he meant to break the first man’s back. The first man’s cock, still hard, juts forward. She yearns to reach, to taste the grit and the dust that covers the soft crown, to suck and taste the pulse of its masculinity.
She dares not move.
The first man strains, he groans, stretched to breaking, and then his cock bursts in quick staccato strings of white that spill on his
own belly, his legs and in the dirt. The second man holds him, like a lover, until the first man groans and his struggle ceases. His spurts slow to a dribble and his cock softens and slumps with defeat.
The second rolls him, exhausted, onto his back, then he stands.
His cock juts from his groin, impossibly hard, thick and long. She pants. She submissively pisses where she squats – and odor is rich with arousal. He walks to her, fists the back of hair, and brings her lips to his cock. She acknowledges his ownership and his cock. She rises so that she can round her lips over the crown of his cock, almost at the height of his belly button. She smells the musk of his fur. She tastes the salt of struggle and old semen. There will be more and she knows where it must go. She gazes up at him, mouth filled by his masculinity – eyes questioning. The bells of her nipples and clit jangle intermittently, as though reminding him.
He turns her and while the first man watches, his cock fills her from behind.
She cries and moans. She must lower herself to take his full length. Her fingers clutch at the soil and grass. She understands why the first man must watch. Her womb is being claimed. The second man’s thrusts are powerful. She had been jealous of their wrestling. She had wanted the hard fact of their muscles to bend and shape her. Now her nipples hang down and jangled with each thrust, as though celebrating – a rhythm that was understood by other men. She had been claimed. She stiffened. She opened her thighs. She arched her back, giving herself to the thickness and length of the thing in her taut body.
She exalted. The bell at her clit rang out as the man’s balls struck it again and again.
Her head fell back and she came. The mandala of her womb burst and opened. He held her. He drew her hard against the muscles of his groin and the tip of him burst and pulsed inside her, flooding the spinning wheel of her womb.
He was slow to withdraw. The length of him was glistening and slick. Her hips and womb were hot with him and him only. She turned, kissed and cleaned his cock. She wouldn’t leave his side now. Her breasts would swell with her belly.
“Where have you been?” her lover asks.
They are both in bed. Their bedroom is bright with the morning sun. She remains on her belly, pussy lifted by the pillow still under her hips. His familiar voice draws her back into the world. “Picking berries,” she says.
“Were they delicious?”