The Mud God Page 3
I found myself tumbling more than five each day in the meadows and against the stately oak trees of the ancestral estate, hoisting their pale crinolines over their white, plump buttocks, parting their virginal thighs – although in many cases I believe they were all too familiar with the sight of Man – and thrusting my ready baton into the depths of their moist caverns of Venus.
I returned to Henrietta after these adventures shamed and nigh sated, and found myself unable to perform upon her those feats of masculine prowess to which she had hitherto been accustomed. She, poor angel, never uttered a word of reproach, but I oft woke in the small hours to the trembling of her dear form in my arms, and to a soft sobbing which she tried in vain to suppress. Following these fits of weeping she returned soundly to peaceful slumber, a circumstance for which I could only be grateful, though to this day somewhat nonplussed,
I realized at last, as my darling held me limp in her rosebud mouth, her steaming loins poised over my face, dressed only in lace suspenders and a black leather bra with cut-outs for her pink nipples – that I must cast aside the fiendish medicine and stand, as it were, upon my own merits. But what diminutive merits, alas, would they be!
That night I confessed all. Henrietta listened sweetly, stroking the tender knob of her womanhood in absent-minded thought, and at the end of my peroration took me in her arms, pressing my head tenderly twixt her heaving breasts.
I would fain say that following my shame-faced admission, I abandoned the unnatural substance to which I had become addicted, returned to the path of virtue, married my fair Henrietta, and that thenceforth she submitted cheerfully as a wife should to the continuation of my attentions – such as they were. Alas, twas not so.
Twas better! With the help of my brilliant angel, I instead devised a potion which enjoined a permanent effect on my manly proportions, such that my Henrietta never felt the need to complain of the inadequacy of my member – even in her, and my own, later years. My darling confessed herself also fond of feminine companionship, and at her urgings I took upon myself the care and support of several fallen women – thus combining compassion with convenience.
Picture me now, dear reader, my darling Henrietta on her knees before me, my sweet Elizabeth binding her rosy mouth about my swollen manhood, my beautiful Charlotte’s delicate finger caressing my engorged testicles, and the surprisingly accomplished Margaret performing an immodest dance at the foot of our four-poster bed. And there, dear reader, I shall leave you, to ponder for yourself the evils of too much meddling in matters scientific – and yet the great good that can come thereof.
Sex with Satan
She liked to call them God, Demi-Gods, the Archangel Gabriel and Lucifer.
Lucifer was her boss. A classic heart-shaped face with cascading brown tresses and delicately arched eyebrows. A soul one part ambition, one part nervous aggression and the rest composed of the purest longing for command.
With God, and the various Demi-Gods, she didn't usually need to concern herself. They conducted their business far away, up in the heavenly heights of the organisation, almost invisible to ordinary mortals. But the Archangel Gabriel was Lucifer's Manager, and he was...available.
It was in the way he leaned against the door of Lucifer's office, his lanky frame all feline ease. The way that he sat, long legs akimbo, in the tea room surveying the Economist. The way that he looked up as she paused at the door of his office, papers gripped in sweaty palm -
"Come in?"
Clara sidled.
"I need you to sign these."
She held out the forms, keeping a tense distance. He reached out his long fingered hand across the desk to grasp them, raised his hooded eyes to her lips.
She wiped away a crumb. It felt like an invitation.
He lowered his eyes to the form. His signature was bold and strong and fast.
"So how are you getting along out there...Clara?"
He smiled innocence and dark honey. She wished she'd worn a different skirt. Without that slit. The way he didn't look at it made her tremble.
"Luc - I mean Lucy wants me to finish the recruitment summaries today, and then there's...," she couldn't remember, flustered, "then there's, well, I'm pretty full on, actually."
He stretched. Through the gap in his white business shirt, she could see he didn't wax. Lucifer would make him wax. If she, if they - but Clara pushed away the thought. She turned, and thought he watched her. Wished.
Sometimes she thought they must be having an affair. She heard Lucifer laughing in the office, her heels as high as the pitch of her voice. But Lucifer's legs were short and thick about the ankle.
In the photocopier room, she fed the machine. Halfway through fifty copies, it jammed. Due by lunch time, and Lucifer fretting in her office, a miracle of designer efficiency.
Clara got down on her knees to open the tray. She couldn't see a thing. She could have laid down on the floor and slept in frustration.
"Jammed again?"
Think of the devil. Lucifer stood, heels drilling the carpet, a tight, bright smile, fingers tapping.
Clara looked up from the floor. Lucifer's shaved pudendum met her full in the eye.
"So much healthier, I always think."
With a smile like raw diamonds, Lucifer dared her to disagree. A picture of Lucifer, demonstrating the weak points of some hapless consultant's report, her little girl skirt rising over the back of the sturdy thighs as she bent with poised pen, the Archangel lifting a casual hand...
No.
"What?"
Lucifer looked down her retrousse nose. Her underpants were flesh coloured, like flesh.
"There's the jam!
Lucifer pointed with red toenails. She got down on her knees beside Clara, and they reached within the photocopier's naked, exposed parts, as one, and pulled shredded paper like cream from its innards.
I am a D cup, thought Clara, eyeing sidewise the swinging cleavage - and she only a C, if that. My breasts are white and round and hers are freckled like a middle-aged woman's. I bet they lie flat as overcooked eggs, when she’s on her back. Spread-eagled.
"Just press re-start," commanded Lucifer from on high, smoothing her linen A-line skirt over her thighs. Thighs that probably gripped a man like a lobster's claws while she crouched over him, holding him still with one gym-hardened forearm...
Clara rose, and pressed re-start. To the rhythmic pulse of the copier, although it was not yet noon, her thoughts passed to evening, and the Archangel, working late. And Lucifer, perhaps sitting on his desk, those thighs open and inviting, those striped candy heels resting on his lanky shoulders, commanding and exhorting him like a young and beautiful Napoleon. And the Archangel's close-cropped, greying head sinking into the darkness. Victory all hers.
"I'd like to have you both on my desk," said the Archangel, in the doorway, sleek business pants skimming - lightly but not too lightly - over -
"Is that a Blackberry in your pocket or are you just..." Clara did not say.
"Both of us?"
Clara on one side, with her feet bare as the beach, and her D cups spilling out over her red bra, worn for him, and her slit falling open to reveal, and Lucifer with her mane of hair spilling like dirty water over the freckled flat chest. Waxed and wild laid out next to each other, the Archangel with a hand in each.
"In my office. There's an issue I wanted to discuss with you both, nothing to panic about."
As if the Archangel could ever panic. Clara looked at Lucifer, and Lucifer at Clara, and she wondered - perhaps they both did - who would stay late, long into the warm, silent, heavy office night - and who would go home defeated, once more into the light.
When Superman Comes
Dear Mrs Harris,
It is with the utmost sorrow and regret that I am writing to inform you...-"
"Pink. They're pink."
Lois blushed.
"You can really see the colour of my panties?"
He couldn't. On the other hand, he could see
the delicate bones of her pelvis, narrow, like the jawbone of a baby shark. The point at which the bones gave way to warm flesh, almost invisible. The tiny lacework of veins and arteries, like rivers finding their way to the sea, here blue, here scarlet. All this he could see. And the blush, which told him he had been right.
"So..." She tried to ride out the momentary awkwardness. "What's it like, being super?"
"Super!" he replied, without hesitation, but it wasn't really true. Flying was fun; the responsibility of having God-like powers, on the other hand, was heavy. It was like being the father of all the world's children, young and old alike. But Lois, now. Lois made it worthwhile. Such a lemony little thing, in her white dress smelling of fabric softener.
"Hey, you want to go up there?"
"Up there?" It wasn't a question, really, more a play for time. While she thought about girl things, like, would her dress ride up in the night wind, and, had she deodorised?
He held out his arm, the old fashioned way. She stepped towards him, kicking off her high heels - who flies in heels, except Wonderwoman? - and he swept her in towards him, pulling her tight against his massive torso. She hardly had time to gasp before her feet left the ground.
The metres dropped, two hundred, three hundred, and more. Mist clung to her bare feet. Her dress - rode up. He didn't mind at all. Sometimes it was nice not to have to use that x-ray.
He could feel her fear, cold sweat on her neck, held breath. She pressed against him, warm, vulnerable, human, her chin tipped up towards his face. He dropped a kiss on her open, frog-wet lips.
"It's amazing!" Still, she didn't dare look. "You won't drop me, will you?"
"Never," he said, and let her go. She floated in horror, so far above the earth she couldn't even tell if she was falling. Anticipating her thin scream, he swooped and caught her up again, against his breast.
It was enough to make her lose her inhibitions, as he knew it would. She wrapped both legs about him, her arms linked behind his neck, her face buried in the hollow of his blue cloak. He wrapped the cloak about them both.
"You're cold."
She shivered. He knew she felt him hot and hard against her belly. The dress she wore was very thin, and damp now from the clouds they flew through. He moved a hand to her small backside, rubbed it slowly under the cloak, under the wet dress, under those pink panties, letting heat flow from his palm to her body, and lust.
"I don't -"
He knew she fancied him, he knew nice girls didn't. As soon as she asked the question, he knew she just needed an excuse. If being a mile high above Nebraska wasn't a good one, he didn't know what was.
"You didn't sign up for this?" He licked her frozen lips, her nose, her eyelids. "Your hands are icy." He took her locked fingers, prised them from around his neck, drew them down towards his crotch, ever warm.
Damn, these tights! They had no waistband, no convenient gap. He'd never needed one before. He'd never flown naked before, either.
He shrugged and the red and blue was gone, the muscles of his body naked against the cold wetness of hers, her nipples hard as peas. He slipped her straps down, pulled the cloth over her hips.
"Someone will see!".
Such a prudish girl.
"Nobody to see." They looked down together. Only mountains and lakes.
He laid her on the cloak, covering her, as if the air was the softest of beds. His skin was as warm as fur. He was weightless and so was she. He balanced gently on her upturned breasts, like a gymnast. She held tightly to his mast, her legs locked in the small of his back.
"This must be what it's like to ride a magic carpet," she breathed.
"This is what it's like to ride a magic carpet," he said, and flipped her over in mid-air, so that she sat astride him, fingers tangled in the hair of his chest, bodies meeting as a bird meets the sky.
She wasn't afraid any more. Below, her feet dangled over the stars and the darkness of trees and fields. They rolled and coiled in the empty air, pushing on nothing but each other. Her dress swept away behind her like a loose sail.
He moved her, gently and with the immense power of an alien being, into him.
"I want you," she cried out, the words all women say or think at a certain moment, and he remembered who he was and who she was, and when the moment came, he shouted, and whirled away from her, holding her tiny wrist in his great hand.
They hung there like two eagles and he came, great gusts pouring into space.
"...that your husband, Captain Elvis Harris, of the 4th Airborne Division, while carrying out a routine aerial operation, was killed yesterday when his aeroplane encountered severe turbulence above Nebraska. It appears that Captain Harris' plane was struck by a quantity of snow or ice formed at high altitude, a highly unusual occurrence. Again, I offer you our deepest condolences."
Nothing is free.
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Rose
The Mud God, Copyright Fallacious Rose 2018
Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash
Table of Contents
The Mud God
Divine
The Car Park
Goldilocks
The Secretary
Blind Love
Quickie
Cleaning Frenzy
Fishes with Fetishes
Jekyll and Hyde
Sex with Satan
When Superman Comes