Betsy awoke feeling like an addict who'd missed a fix, her body quivering, craving, actually wanting back the feeling of submission that had come to her in her dream. She shook her head, telling herself it wasn't real.
Scott was in the bed with her, his perfect body somehow real. Betsy traced her fingers over the bare flesh, the firm muscle, careful not to wake him—not yet. She wanted to enjoy having him in her bed a while longer. Giving into her desire for him was all the submission she needed. Who cared about some wet dream when reality was a dream come true?
Betsy slipped down his body, not stopping until her head was at his crotch. His cock was rock-hard. A sensual dream? A sleeping appreciation of sharing her bed? Or was he thinking of Jean? Betsy pursed her lips, squeezing them around his erect shaft. Whatever it was, she'd make sure he was thinking only of her.
For the next several minutes, she bobbed her head on his erection—slowly, not wanting to wake him, but wanting his dreams to be of her… and as pleasurable as could be imagined. But she couldn't deny her urges forever, not when they'd just started to be met. She devoured him furiously then, taking his cock so deep into her frantically gulping mouth that she nearly choked herself. Scott groaned, the vibrations of his quickening heartbeat throbbing in his manhood, pulsating in Betsy's mouth as all his delicious muscles tensed.
She no longer cared what he was dreaming of. All that mattered was that his churning cum ended up as hers. Already she could taste its delectable flavor as precum washed over her tongue. Only a few seconds longer and the thick, creamy load boiling inside his scrotum would be filling her mouth instead. Not even Scott could practice self-restraint in his sleep.
Hard to begin with, Scott's prick became a pulsating monolith in her mouth, her throat. When it finally spurted—thick, heady cum stuffing her gullet—Betsy let out a muffled gurgle, her body rocking with the sumptuous pleasure of accepting his seed. She sucked and pulled with all the strength in her mouth, caring only for getting every fertile drop of Scott's jizz, spreading it over her tongue and swallowing it down still hot.
It took a long time, but she sucked him completely dry. Only then did Betsy pull her mouth away, her gasping breath as hot on Scott's groin as her tongue had been, pungent to her own nostrils with the flavor of his cream. She licked his still-bloated balls and his muscular stomach, tongue tracing the lines between his abs.
The ecstasy she'd felt in tasting and swallowing his seed ebbed. Betsy closed her eyes and sank her mouth back down his half-hard length, reviving it a little. She breathed deeply through her nose and left every thought behind until there was only the feel of Scott in her mouth and the lingering taste of his cum.
She went back to sleep, her mouth still in possession of Scott's manhood.
Sonja pulled the jacket she wore—her jacket?—more tightly around her. It was cold in here, wherever she was. Dampness in the air. Winter. Her breath wanting to be seen as it came out of her mouth. Clothes helping with the chill in the air. Normally, she'd rather go without than be encumbered with such heavy, flowing clothing, but it warmed her and there was no danger in this place's atmosphere. No violence. It felt… cozy. Safe.
She recognized a little of it—the strange future world she had visited on rare occasions, so very different from Tarim or Zingara that there was no mistaking it. She knew enough at least to know she was inside one of their dwelling places—the door she stood at would eventually take her outside.
It would be colder outside, snow and ice, peopled undercurrents she had no sense for and guards with their blue cloth armor and fireworks in their hands and strange ideas of keeping the peace. Even in the highest city of Zamboula, a guard could usually be trusted to mind his own business. If someone needed killing and a killing was given, he'd not allow it to bother him. But this distant time was too civilized to be civil. She didn't want to chance it, especially not in this weather that assaulted even their palaces of 'air conditioning' and 'central heating.'
Instead, she would find what wizard had cast the spell to bring her here and demand an explanation. Someone had thought to beckon her like a dog and putting them in their place was too satisfying a prospect to ignore.
She moved through the 'apartment,' trying to see it through eyes native to this time. Sonja could feel an alien intuition at work in her. She was not in her own body, but one much like it, an unmarred beauty, if lacking in muscle. The former inhabitant was still with her and that gave Sonja a sixth sense for her surroundings.
By her own standards, the apartment was fit for a king, a jeweled oasis in a desert of hard traveling and harder taverns. But in this world, it was much the same as living rough. Cramped. Messy. The kind of quarters a sellsword would be quick to leave behind to guard a caravan and be bedded at a purpled merchant's coin.
Sonja extended her senses. She could feel the pride someone took in this locale—the cleanliness and maintenance that waged war with its shabbiness—and in its reaches, someone breathing hard. Sonja's skin tingled with nervous anticipation. She cautiously moved deeper into the interior, drawn to her fellow inhabitants, somehow feeling she had to find them. If this was an enemy, let the fight be upon her. If they were friend, let them prove it. She was in no sporting mood.
She felt like she had awoken on a precipice and now she was falling into the depths of this new world. Her eyes were wide as she took in the smell of sex, the discarded clothes. No, this apartment wasn't messy, it had been made a mess—things dropped and overturned and pushed aside in the heat of passion.
Sonja could not have sex. It went against her vow to the goddess, could only be acceptable if she lost in battle, and that went against her soul. So the movement of naked flesh became enormous in her mind—shocking—monstrous—and for all her experience, she was reduced to a breathless virgin, imagining the prurient, intense movements that were denied her.
She went through a doorway and into the hall. She thought she was going to faint. There, a few feet away, in what her numbed brain called a laundry room, was man and woman, nakedly locked together, violently enrapt in each other.
Sonja couldn't move, staring transfixed at the heated mating, shock after shock demanding the cries from her silently screaming brain. She recognized Peter and something told her that he was hers. She didn't know the woman, but she wasn't Mary Jane, and something told her that she belonged there.
She tried to tell herself that her reaction was only her host body, its second memories, the dream within a dream, but the woman was indeed beautiful. Statuesque, with dusky skin and dark, exotic features. Slender, pert, pretty, her figure that of a princess, breasts and backside to ensnare any man. Wanda—the thought drifted into Sonja's mind.
She had seen enough couplings on the street and heard them through thin tavern walls to not much envy those who were not chaste. This was as crude, as hard, as fast as any woman who'd been taken like a dog, almost rapine. Sonja had also known enough tavern wenches and harem ladies to recognize whoring. This wasn't that. All such women, whatever the land, had a shrewd calculation quickly beaten into them, a calculation which never left their cold, mercenary eyes no matter the stage of seduction.
Wanda did not have that. Mouth open, eyes rolling, she appeared to be an insatiable slut in truth, not just artifice. Like Peter really was pleasuring her as much as himself—Sonja had not known many men like that. Conan, for one, and though athletic, the whelp did not have his thews. Yet the woman appeared so overwhelmed, so deep in ecstasy, that she might have been mating with a horse.
She sat on whatever a 'washing machine' was, her legs wide apart, Peter standing between them, his naked body glistening with hers in the illumination of a bare lightbulb hanging above. Peter rhythmically thrust into her, battering down Wanda as the storm would sink a ship, but as his muscles hardened and his buttocks clenched and Wanda's legs thrust out behind him like she was making salute with them, Sonja was reminded more of a dance.
Both the courtly, artistic dances of high seduction and the primal, beat-worshipping dances of the most primitive cannibals. Peter was not simply venting his lust into her, much as it looked like that was what he was doing. He was performing a spell to summon her pleasure, and pouring all his body and soul into it.
Sonja blinked her eyes, for some reason not wanting to believe what she was seeing, and yet it was so clear to her. She wanted to run, to flee from this obscene sight and the feelings it stirred up to see a beautiful woman in rapture that she could never know, but her legs wouldn't move—she couldn't even try to make them work. It was like an invisible force held her, making her a part of the selfsame tableau she watched.
Liquid was suddenly running down Wanda's widespread loins, her womanhood convulsing as she wantonly bucked into the driving lunges of Peter's member. He threw his head back, bobbing it with gritted teeth as he took in a tightness and a pressure that Sonja could only imagine: "Yes! YES! You're incredible, Wanda!"
Sonja had fought gods and demons, but these images forced their way into her mind, planting themselves in her memory for what she knew would be years to come. She saw the reddened darkness of Wanda's pubic hair, parted by the engorgement of Peter's cock as it rammed in and out of her well-ravished cunt. She could even see Wanda's clitoris, large and throbbing, responding to Peter's thrusts as he went deep into her eagerly writhing sex. She heard, loud as gongs, Peter's heavily-laden balls slapping against the smoothly rounded globes of Wanda's buttocks. When he pulled back, his hard endowment forced her tightly clasping folds out with him, and then they rolled inward again as he thrust back into her.
Wanda moaned constantly, as if eternally surprised by her own ravaging, her head swiveling from side to side to make a veil of her long, auburn hair. It was only too clear how much she loved played the whore with Peter. No woman was that good an actress.
Her eyes glazed over more than they already were as Wanda was transported to a plateau even higher than the one she'd been on. Coming. She was coming and Peter was nowhere near done with her. "Peter! Gawd! I love it! I love you! I love you so much!"
Sonja tried to avert her eyes, ashamed of how the sight was affecting her, but once more she was powerless. Her gaze held on Peter's firmly muscled ass, watching it tighten and relax as he pistoned into Wanda's tight little cunt. Sonja watched closely, examining his cock in disbelief. She was truly shocked by how large he was, how virile. Wanda should be screaming in pain, taking an enormous cudgel like that one, but instead she wanted more. She had the looks of a pure maiden, yet here she was, desperate to be brutalized even harder!
Sonja tried to move again, knowing no good could come of envying this woman her lechery—that she was growing as coarse and aggravated as a dog in heat, the salacious vision working on her like all the dancing girls in Kamula become one. Her legs trembled… the bud of her clitoris was full of arousal… she had the perverse desire to reach down between her quivering thighs and emulate the usage Peter was putting Wanda to.
Her head spun with that urge and still viler ones, as this rutting struck a chord in her borrowed memory, provoking a darkly exciting remembrance, as though she were doubly out of body, watching herself in the brunette's place, impossibly knowing how it felt to be wench instead of warrior.
Damn her… if only the slut would show some sign of pain… how could she be enjoying that massive prick without any pain?
"More, more!" Wanda groaned loudly, her whole body jiggling ripely as she took Peter's stalwart cock. "You're so big! So hard! Feels so good when you're—rhhh—tearing me apart! Quick, put your finger in my ass! Fuck my ass! You can fuck my ass too!"
Her words stabbed into Sonja, teasing, arousing, taunting, little shocks of pleasure going through the redhead just hearing them. Her attention was pulled even more into their wild rut, as surely as if she were being stretched on the rack.
Trembling like a vestal virgin instead of a battle-hardened swordswoman, Sonja stared at Wanda's tightly puckered asshole, barely able to believe what she was seeing as Peter pushed his middle finger into it, snaking the first knuckle into that forbidden space. She had heard of men taking women in such a way, but had never imagined a woman might enjoy it, much less ask for it. Yet Wanda begged for more!
"Ooooh, YES! Feels so good in my ass! Deeper! Now, now, now!"
Sonja's perverted curiosity dwarfed her horror as she watched Peter's finger slide into Wanda's anus, deeper and deeper, following the tempo his cock set as it pistoned into her moistly quivering sex. Sonja felt as if she could feel the fiery penetration herself, the imagining shocking her legs into motion, but not as she'd once wished.
Instead, she stepped closer to their mating, and closer—deeper into the barbaric act of lovemaking, the crude sight becoming indistinguishable from clearing memory. It was like she was seeing Peter through Wanda's eyes, remembering how Peter's long, hard cock felt, so good, so romantic, everything so pleasurable for Mary Jane that she hoped this was it, the night Peter made her a mother, because that was the only way it could be more perfect…
Peter wrenched Wanda up from the laundry machine and slammed her into the wall adjoining the door, a load-bearing wall that nonetheless creaked as he fucked her against it. "I'm gonna come!" Peter gritted out, teeth clenched.
Wanda's slitted eyes widened in panic. "I don't know if—I can—take anymore—you're so big—come so hard—"
"You can," Peter husked, lifting her legs up until her knees nearly touched her shoulders, totally opening her to the climactic thrusts he gave her. "You will!"
Sonja could see more of Wanda's honey descending her splayed sex. She was amazed Wanda was capable of speech when her loins were in such turmoil. Peter pressed himself into her, buried himself in her, holding her against the wall without an inch of space left.
"You will!" Peter repeated as he cried out in release, emptying the first shot of his heavy load into the depths of Wanda's pussy. Though his cock was fully sheathed inside of Wanda, there was an inch at the base that Sonja imagined simply could not fit within the woman lest her cervix be violated, and that inch pulsated and throbbed with angry life. Sonja gasped, thinking of what the entire length was doing, how it must be showering the inside of Wanda's body with its eruption.
Wanda screamed until her face grew slack and silent, lost in a thundering cataclysm of need and relief. The foaming excess of Peter's barrage ran back out of Wanda's splayed cunt, as if a pillar candle had melted all at once. Sonja's sworn vow disappeared from her mind. She wished more than anything that it was her in Wanda's place. How fucking amazing it looked to share every drop of Peter's orgasm. How delicious the stuff itself looked as it dripped from the pussy that was undoubtedly Peter's now.
The ejaculation kept going, going, a deluge like the rainy season after a long drought. Wanda's eyes rolled back in her head. Her chin dropped so low it seemed detached from her jaw. The woman appeared mindless, drunken, lungs billowing with opium smoke—no end to the pleasure Peter gave her and no room for thought in that perfect satisfaction. How Sonja envied her; a simpleton made innocent of knowing life's vices and hardship. Only ecstasy existed for her in those long, sprawling moments.
There was only so much room in Wanda's womanhood, and for every drop that flowed out of her, more poured in. She was filled to the brim and beyond, her belly swelling, bulging, as though she had stuffed herself with a king's gluttony at some endless feast. Sonja thought Wanda would simply burst before Peter was finished, but of course, that sculpted body was too well-made for that.
Peter finished—Sonja could see that last threatening inch outside of Wanda's sex grow still, if yet firm—and Wanda drooled, lips wobbling, tears of joy in her eyes as still she came, blessed with ecstasies that Sonja had not seen at the most depraved orgies, the most expensive whorehouses.
The unfairness of it stung Sonja. Was she not the greatest swordarm in the land? A slayer of armies, a hunter of monstrosities—amoral, surely, but having done more good for the innocent and the helpless than most churches, certainly most kings—and yet this slut, this random, unassuming bitch was granted pleasures that Sonja didn't know the slightest measure of.
How could she deserve this and not Sonja? Why was Sonja here? Just to see what could not be hers, because surely Peter could not be as powerful in battle as he was here—he could not dominate Sonja in combat as he had dominated Wanda in wenching? No, she could not even chance damaging such a specimen in all-out combat.
Yet she felt instinctively that Peter was hers, that he belonged to her, from the scarce sweat that glistened on his body—he should be swimming in the stuff, the way he'd exerted himself, and yet it barely anointed him—to the seed he'd filled Wanda with until she bulged at the seams like an overfull wineskin.
"Thief!" she hissed, and was surprised to find her voice nearly gone, rasping hoarsely when it should be a bellow. She was panting, overexcited—as strained as if she'd been in the thick of battle, but with none of the satisfaction that came with victory.
Nevertheless, Peter heard her; if Wanda did, she gave no sign, being as dead to sound as she was to anything but her bliss. Peter turned his head and Sonja felt him scour her with his eyes, taking in the jacket and robe that she'd allowed to fall open carelessly, displaying her body in half-obscured grandeur. She was actually sweatier than he. Her body fairly glistened and it caught his eye as a jeweled bauble would attract a thief.
Now Wanda came to her senses—crying out in a pained bit of intrigue. Sonja's eyes widened. Somehow, she gleamed what had happened. When Peter saw her, it caught his attention. And with him still inside Wanda, she felt his interest grow, even if it was no longer in her. So to speak.
"I can see you enjoy the sight of me. As does your woman."
Peter lowered Wanda to the ground, his load slowly trickling free of her, the great remainder of it bulging out her belly. "I, ah… I don't think I have any more for you, MJ…"
Sonja's eyes flashed. "For me? It's all for me! That is mine!"
Pushing past Peter, she stood over Wanda. Her foot came down on Wanda's widened belly and she slowly put her weight down on it. If Wanda had woken up to Peter's growth inside her, now she totally came back to her senses—feeling such a keen sense of relief as Sonja alleviated the burden of her stuffed belly that she moaned for it to keep going, Peter's seed flooding out of her open cunt, the release making her lightheaded, pained and yet ecstatic, she moaned for even more, for Mary Jane to make her come, come, come, until the feeling had emptied her body of every emotion, every trace of pleasure, and she was gratifyingly empty, lying in a pool of Peter's cum.
Peter looked at it all and thanked God that there was no carpeting in the laundry room.