Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. This is another one.
The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing. For readers, you'll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week's prompt. Are you game? Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing? Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors? I do hope so.
So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is this :
Write a story with the prompt as your title. Today's will be : #Pin
- Tweet it with both the prompt and hashtag #FuckMeFriday
- And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post. (Note, if you don't want to tweet it or don't have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.
Hypochondria is a complex problem at the best of times, but especially so when the sufferer is a member of the medical profession.
Montague Periwinkle was a successful Harley Street physician, but his practice took a serious toll on his emotional wellbeing as he had a tendency to become persuaded that he suffered from the same conditions he found in his patients. A large portion of the fees he collected were spent on consultations with his fellow practitioners. This could often be quite embarrassing, especially on the occasion when he believed himself to be suffering from an infection of the ovaries.
If he had lived in our day he could have simply chilled out on a self-proscribed dosage of Valium. But our story takes place in 1926.
One of his colleagues suggested that he take up a quiet practice far from the stress of the big city and Montague agreed. So when he was offered a position as private physician to the family of Francis Stryker, owner of a Haitian sugar plantation, he accepted. He would have only six patients to attend to so the number of imaginary illnesses to which he might fall victim would be limited, and the time spent lazing on the tropical beaches would ease his hypertension and resulting angina. He was pretty sure that he did actually suffer from angina as his attacks of chest pains were a regular occurrence which seemed to have no correlation with the treatment of patients with heart problems.
His wife Gertrude was rather less enthusiastic about the move as Haiti was, as she put it, "full of darkies."
"We won't have to mix with them socially," he assured her, "and I hear that they make very good servants if beaten regularly."
However, once he actually arrived on the island, he found that he came to share his wife's distrust of its dark-skinned inhabitants. Their warm smiles and unfailing friendliness could only be a sign of sinister intent, he told himself.
And when, on the morning of his third Wednesday on the island, he returned from a walk on the beach to find a crudely made palm fibre doll laying on his bed with a pin stuck in its chest, his suspicions were confirmed. He clutched at his own chest, the angina burning like a red hot spike through his heart.
Even leaving aside the unscientific nature of such a belief, there was a logical inconsistency in the idea that the voodoo doll was the cause of the pain in his chest. He'd been suffering from angina for a full year before his arrival in Haiti. But logic had never been much of a defence against Montague's psychosomatic ailments.
"You'd better go see Mama Loa," Stryker advised. "Of course it is all just superstitious nonsense, but if one of my servants has a grudge against you you want to find out who it is, and only Mama Loa has the connections to find that out."
"Who's Mama Loa?" asked Montague.
"She's the local Voodoo Queen," Stryker explained. "Toby will take you to her."
A full moon shone in the tropical night as he followed the gaunt old black man through the cane fields to the small shed in which Mama Loa saw her constituents.
He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he arrived at the clearing in front of Mama Loa's shed. There she stood, her wild raven hair piled up like storm clouds around a face of breathtaking beauty. A raging fire burned behind her dark eyes and in her sinewy limbs and proud stance Montague could tell that she embodied the wild majesty of the untamed island in a way which made her position as Queen something inevitable. She was dressed only in two strips of cloth, one tied across her swelling bosom, the other acting as a make-shift skirt, tied above one coffee-coloured hip and hanging down halfway to her knee on the other.
"What brings you to me?" she asked, her eyes searing into his soul.
"I... that is... Stryker... He said you could help me," he stuttered.
"In what way?" she wanted to know.
"I found this in my room," Montague told her, holding up the doll.
"Poor workmanship," she commented, taking the doll from him, "but sufficient to do the job for which it was intended."
"Do you know who might have... put it there?" he asked.
"Someone who wants power over you," she informed him.
"You couldn't give me a name?" he queried.
"What I can do is to make you invulnerable to this kind of spell," she told him. "If you trust me enough to put yourself into my hands."
He didn't feel he had any choice.
So it was that he found himself lying on his back, arms and legs stretched out on the ground, while three drummers, huge muscular men stripped to the waist, beat out a savage rhythm that seemed to invade his very being, causing his heart to race and his mind to spin as if in the grip of some powerful drug. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. He felt like a butterfly mounted on a display board, a pin stuck through its thorax.
And out into the moon-bathed clearing came Mama Loa, now completely naked, dancing like a thing possessed, sweat pouring down her body as she shook and twitched like a convict in the electric chair, her breasts swinging, her pelvis thrusting, her buttocks gyrating wildly. Montague had never witnessed anything so insane, so intoxicating, so cock-stiffening.
The next thing he knew, she was on top of him, her slippery wet breasts slapping his face, the musky smell of her armpits intoxicating him, her hair-covered pubic bone rubbing insistently against the swollen length of his engorged member. She reached for something behind his head and then he saw the light of the moon reflected in the blade of a massive knife which she lifted high above his face.
When the knife came down it was to cut away his shirt. Mama Loa seemed possessed of inhuman strength. Flash, flash went the knife and his bare flesh was exposed to the light of the moon. She undid his belt and pulled it off, and then began cutting away his trousers.
His cock throbbed with the same electricity that shook her naked body, the head slippery with pre-cum slipping out from inside his shorts. She threw away the knife and tore his remaining garment down over his legs. He was naked.
She continued to dance, but now it was with a quiet intensity that she twisted her body like a limbo dancer, deliberately swaying back and forth over his body, never touching but sometimes as close as a millimetre from his aching cock. It was unbearably tantalising. How he longed for her touch. How, even more, he longed to plant his prick deep inside her warm body steaming with sweat. All he could feel were the drops of perspiration that fell from her dark flesh and splashed like a soothing rain on the burning skin of his cock, running down its length and dripping over his balls.
Then her face was between his thighs, her pink tongue was running wetly up the underside of his prick as he strained his neck to look directly into her hypnotic eyes. And she swallowed it, her lips pulling back, her pearly white teeth glistening in the moonlight, making his heart thunder as, for a moment, I feared he would be a victim of cannibalism. But he had nothing to worry about. The wet furnace of her mouth made tender love to his stiffness as her hands massaged the flesh of his thighs.
His ears numb from the thunder of drums, Montague watched as Mama Loa surrendered his cock and stood over him once more, swaying and slapping her thighs. Then she spread her legs and squatted over his belly letting him see the creamy juices that poured from the pink pussy that was framed by the darkness of her thighs, labia and pubes. He felt her pussy juice drip onto his belly as she brought her firm sweaty buttocks down onto his stomach. She wiped up some of her essence on her slim fingers and pushed them forcefully between his lips. He tasted her and it was good.
She teased him by dragging her buttocks down over his thighs so that his stiff cock was forced to push deep between the cheeks of her ass, rubbing against her tightly puckered anus, before being released to slap forcefully against his stomach. Then she grabbed it in her hand, lifted herself and then slid her wet cunt down decisively over his lusting cock.
Up until now he had felt paralysed by Mama Loa's divinity, but now he knew she wanted him to respond. He grabbed her slippery wet butt cheeks and thrust his thighs up to meet her. Her eyes were rolling up in her head and his were riveted to her bouncing brown breasts and the droplets of sweat that flew off her stiff nipples.
She quivered to an orgasm that climaxed her dance like the crescendo of a symphony. And Montague felt a fountain of boiling jism rocket up from his balls and explode into the cunt of the Voodoo Queen.
It was at that very moment that Gertrude's rolling pin came down with a sickening crack on Montague's head.
"I leave you alone for a couple of hours," she screamed, "and what do I find. I find you copulating with a jungle bunny!" And then she marched off in a huff.
"If you like," said Mama Loa to Montague, "I could turn her into a zombie."
"A zombie?" queried Montague, rubbing his concussed bonce.
"She'd still have the lower brain functions required to cook, clean and give you a blow job,"she explained, "but without the upper brain function necessary for complaining, criticising or gossiping."
"I'll think about it," said Montague, snuggling up to the sexy Voodoo Queen. She smiled and kissed him on the top of his head. He notice that his heart felt kind of strange, but it didn't hurt any more. The warm excited feeling which possessed it was decidedly pleasant.
"Do you want me to put the doll back in its box?" asked one of the muscular drummers.
"It was you!" exclaimed Montague.
"We all have our fetishes," explained Mama Loa. "When you live on an island with a 95% black population and your fetish is for nervous white guys sometimes you have to resort to special weapons and tactics."