Fuck me! It's Friday already, and time for another of Aisling Weaver's Fuck Me Friday writing challenges. By now most of you know how it works and those who don't can read all the whys and how tos on her
site. Today's prompt is #Cream. Make sure to check out the other entries from the links on Aisling's site.
The Cat Who Shot the Cream
"I can't give you any more for it," explained Gerard Steele to the figure lurking in the dark shadows of his large office. He puffed on his cigar sending clouds of smoke drifting through the cone of light that illuminated his desk. All he could see of his visitor was her amber eyes which burned in the darkness like glowing coals. "We get them hooked on the Cream and then we milk them for all that they've got. Your share stays the same - 25%. I take the risks. You're not really in a position to distribute."
"Not yet," Emma Blaine agreed. "But don't feel too complacent. My posse gets bigger every day."
"If you want to make some more money," Steele began thoughtfully, "there is another task that you and your posse are well positioned to perform."
"And what might that be?" she asked, her voice full of barely suppressed contempt.
"You know Professor Basingstoke?" he queried.
"Sure. Physicist. Most intelligent man in the word, if you believe the hype. I.Q. of 365," she informed him.
"Someone wants his spunk," explained Steele, tapping ash into an ashtray carved from the shell of a recently extinct species of tortoise.
"Breeding purposes, I presume," mused Blaine. "Of course there is no solid evidence that I.Q. is hereditary."
"I don't care about the rationality of my client's demands," Steele pointed out. "All I care about is their credit rating. This lady's loaded."
"The girls and I can do the job," she assured him. "What's our cut?"
"A cool million," declared Steele.
Now she was interested.
* * *
"Damn!" cursed Calvin Selfridge, as the bathroom window of the Alpha Sigma Sigma Sorority steamed up, obscuring his view of Rita Goodbody's soapy nude buttocks.
Perhaps he should have felt ashamed of himself. But he didn't. If something was his duty, did it make any difference that it was pleasant?
By day, Selfridge was the pride of the Delta Delta Tango Fraternity. Everyone believed that he lived for toga parties, keggers and the humiliation of pledges. But as soon as night fell he became Fratman, courageous curber of campus crime. And one of his principle duties was to watch over the sorority sisters, lest they fall under the seductive sway of his arch nemesis The Panther.
The Panther. Real name - Emma Blaine. In 1966 she'd been a student at Blake College herself. This was the age of government-sanctioned psychedelic drug research. Blaine was the first and only individual to ever ingest a particularly powerful form of LSD known as Black Moonlight. It sent her on a trip from which she had never returned. She came to believe that she was a wild beast stalking the urban jungle. But beyond that it caused a bizarre form of instantaneous genetic mutation. She was able to slow down the ageing process if she consumed a certain minimum dose of semen. Most significantly, however, the process of orgasm caused her to ejaculate large quantities of an addictive drug. It's scientific name was Purrroine. Street name : Cream. It was a powerful aphrodisiac. It could be taken orally, but most addict's took it intravenously. Psychologically it induced euphoria and a loss of sexual inhibitions. On men it also had a powerful physical effect, causing the testicles to swell up to the size of mangoes until such time as the individual ejaculated gallons of jism which would shoot out of the penis with all the force of a fire hose. Side-effects included dehydration and protein deficiency. It was a price that addicts were willing to pay.
Blaine only came out after dark. She wore a bodysuit of soft black velvet with cat's ears. It zipped up the back. There were eighteen holes in the suit - two each for her eyes, two each for her ears, one for her mouth, ten for her long claw-like fingernails, one each to bare her permanently erect nipples, and one to allow access to her cunt. When she stood, her jet black pubes disguised the fact that her genitals were open to the air, but when she crouched with feline grace the glistening wet pinkness of her pussy was on proud display.
Conventional wisdom was that the feline scourge of Scrotum City was insane. But, as Selfridge knew, insanity was a relative concept. There were even those who would consider an individual who took on a new identity at night, stalking villains while dressed in a turtleneck Fraternity jumper pulled up over his face with mouth and eye holes cut out, insane. What mattered wasn't intentions, but outcomes. And the outcome with The Panther was the efficient accumulation of wealth through the enslavement of men to a testicle-swelling addictive substance. She wasn't some old woman rambling on at the bus stop about the United Nations being infiltrate by lizard creatures from Alpha Centauri. Labelling her as insane was just not helpful.
Selfridge took up a new position outside the window of the sorority's main dormitory. These girls were shameless. Patty Cake was sitting cross-legged at a computer screen. She was wearing a see-through nightie and no panties. She was looking at a picture of a rather handsome nude man with a large stiff cock. And she was masturbating.
"Barry Townsend's sent us another nude photo of himself," she informed the other four girls who were lazing on their beds in various states of undress, either watching television or reading. "I think it's about time we paid him back by sneaking him into our room and giving his lovely big cock a friendly sucking."
"I wonder if he'd like to bugger my bottom with his beautiful boner," mused red-headed Molly Ringworm, sitting down hard on her bright blue butt plug.
The Panther had been recruiting girls from the sorority for what she called her Pussy Posse. Selfridge could see how innocent and helpless the girls were, and this stiffened his resolve. His resolve wasn't the only thing that it stiffened though.
My mind must be alert, and my body ready to respond to any danger, Selfridge told himself, as he pulled down his pants and began stroking his hot hard cock. It was simply a matter of dealing with a physical liability and clearing his mind of distracting fantasies about Patty and Molly kissing each other wetly around his cock while he slid a lubricated finger right up into each of their assholes as the other two girls spanked his arse and accused him of assassinating President Kennedy. He groaned and squirmed, squeezing his fist hard around his prick as he played with his balls with his other hand.
"What's that?" asked Molly, looking over Patty's shoulder.
"Something seems to be happening on the security camera," she replied. "I'll zoom in."
"Jeez, not again!" exclaimed Molly. "It's Pratman spanking his monkey outside the window."
* * *
Professor Basingstoke was a dignified gentleman in his early fifties with a bushy head of grey hair and a Mark Twain moustache. He was sitting in his study smoking a pipe and leafing through the latest copy of
Nude Scientist, a girlie magazine which only featured young women scientists. This month's centrefold was a 27 year old chemist who lay back with her lab coat open to reveal her generous pale breasts. Her pubic region was coyly concealed by a beaker full of copper sulphate.
Basingstoke was a leading expert in the field of quantum particle physics. It is well known that certain subatomic particles behave differently depending on how they are being observed. Basingstoke had deepened understanding of this phenomenon. He had discovered that these particles act nervous when being observed by Republicans. Now he was working on the theory that they held wild parties when nobody at all was observing them. Unfortunately, so far, he'd been unable to find a conclusive way to test this hypothesis.
Of course this work was familiar only to other academics, but he was known to the general public as the author of the humorous bestseller
101 Uses for Schrödinger's Cat.
"What's that?" he asked himself, looking up from Miss January's pert nipples, as a grappling iron clanked loudly over the metal railing of his balcony.
* * *
"Wank off to our porn site like everyone else, you cheapskate!" yelled the Alpha Sigma Sigma girls as they chased Selfridge across the campus. He'd pulled up his pants so that he could run, but his cock was still poking out of his fly bouncing around in the chilly night air. The girls were a warm-blooded lot and didn't seem to be too trouble by the fact that their asses and pussies were bare and their tits were falling out of their flimsy nighties.
Selfridge had a lucky escape when the college gridiron team jogged past on their way to the showers and greeted the girls with a chorus of wolf whistles.
"Want some company in the showers?" Patty asked. "After all those cocks aren't going to suck themselves."
The football players looked a bit nervous, especially when the girls stripped them of all of their clothes before they'd even reached the cover of the change rooms, but they knew they were in for a good time.
And Selfridge felt relieved. He could stop running.
But then he noticed some dark shapes moving around on one of the balconies of the staff living quarters. The Panther and her Pussy Posse. It could be noone else. He began to run once more, this time in the direction of that building's lift.
* * *
The windows crashed open and in strode a maleficent and magnificent figure. Her eyes spat fire and her body moved like a dark tide in its covering of inky velvet. This covering did nothing to hide the sway of her flesh. Her deep pink nipples stood out stiff with arousal through the holes cut in the cloth. And her sexual juices were flowing so freely that it looked as if she had just pissed down her leg.
"Get a whiff of your prey, girls," she purred to her companions. She was accompanied by five young women, who now dropped the long black cloaks which had provided them with camouflage as they slid through the night to reveal the skimpiest of leopard skin bikinis.
"What do you l-l-l-l-adies want?" Makepiece wanted to know.
"Just relax, honey," The Panther suggested soothingly. "Think of yourself as a cow, and these charming ladies as milk maids."
"A c-c-c-cow?" stammered the professor. "What kind of bull is this?"
"Yes, you're right," she smiled, reaching out and stroking the crotch of his pants, "you are a bull, aren't you? You are a one man sperm bank and we are about to make a withdrawal. Get him girls!"
"I'll take his left leg!" said Duchess.
"I'll take the right!" said Marie.
"His right arm will be my responsibility," said Frou-Frou.
"Let me take the left," said Abigail.
"And I," declared Amelia, "shall sit on his face."
"Not yet, Amelia," ordered The Panther. "For now your duty is to supervise the removal of his clothes."
The next thing the professor knew he was pinned to the floor and his shirt buttons were being undone. The girl's g-strings didn't do much to cover their pussies. In their horniness Frou-Frou and Abigail were rubbing the bare damp flesh of their aroused cunts against the palms of his hands as they rested their virtually bare bottoms on his wrists.
"Just expose the relevant parts," insisted The Panther. "We don't have time to strip him completely.
Amelia pulled open his shirt and lifted the t-shirt beneath. Then she smiled wickedly and began licking his nipples.
"Duchess. Marie. You get his pants down," The Panther ordered.
The professor felt his pants being unzipped and pulled down, and then down came his underpants allowing his now rock hard cock to slap up against this belly.
Then a wet mouth engulfed his prick. He didn't know if it was Duchess's or Marie's.
At that moment the door burst open with a loud crunching sound. Fratman had kicked it open.
"Don't worry, Professor," he shouted. "Fratman has arrived just in the nick of time to rescue you!"
"That's very kind of you," said the professor. "But I don't think I'm going to need rescuing for the next few minutes. Perhaps give me ten minutes and then come back, hey?"
"You don't realise how dangerous these vermin are," insisted Fratman.
"Well," said the professor philosophically, "some dangers are best faced head on."
"So we meet again, my fine furry feline friend," declared Fratman, addressing the Panther.
"So now I'm your friend am I?" she wanted to know.
"Well, actually I meant that ironically," he qualified.
"Fuck off, Fratman!" she spat contemptuously.
"I can't allow you to rape this poor defenceless old man," Fratman insisted.
"It's only rape if I don't give my consent," pointed out the professor.
"Perhaps, Professor, you won't mind waiting while we take care of this ill-mannered interloper," The Panther suggested.
"Not at all," replied the professor. "Do what you must."
The girls grabbed Fratman and threw him to the ground. Amelia held his mouth open while The Panther squatted down over his face and began wanking. Frou-Frou and Abigail, who were holding down his arms, leant forward and began sucking on their mistress's stiff nipples.
"Oh, yeah-h-h," she moaned and her belly spasmed as a powerful stream of liquid shot out of her cunt, filling Fratman's mouth and splashing all over his face and hair and chest. It felt like he was being pissed on, but the clear liquid had a slightly creamy taste like coconut milk.
"Now, Fratman, we are more than friends. You have joined the brotherhood of those who have drunk my cunt juice!" she declared triumphantly.
Fratman felt a warm sensation spreading throughout his body. He noticed for the first time how stiff his cock was and he felt an overwhelming desire to lick the Pussy Posse all over. He wanted to stick his tongue up their noses and in their ears and lick out their assholes. He wanted to perform hours and hours of acupressure massage on their soft young bodies using only the head of his cock. He wanted to perform uninhibited nude dance routines for their grandmothers while they pleasured their own withered flesh. Permutations of polymorphous perversity pervaded every part of his being, and meanwhile his balls grew ever larger.
Meanwhile, the Panther and the Pussy Posse had returned their attentions to the professor. He was drinking down the Cream shooting out of the Panther's pussy like a man who'd just spent a week in the desert. And the girls were taking turns sucking and wanking his cock. And, like Fratman, he now had prodigiously large balls.
"Grab the bucket!" cried The Panther, and soon Frou-Frou was pointing the professor's cock into the receptacle as it erupted in a torrent of thick juicy jism. Soon the bucket was full to overflowing, and the professor was lying back on the floor exhausted and pale.
Through his erotic haze, Fratman realised he had to act quickly if he were going to do his duty as a superhero. He jumped up and started to run towards The Panther and her cohorts. But it isn't easy to run with balls the size of mangos. And it is very painful when the attempt causes you to fall over and land on those massive balls.
"Fuck!" cried Fratman. "That smarts."
Then he had an idea. He started to masturbate. He grabbed his stiff cock and began stroking forcefully.
The girls put the professor to bed and redonned their cloaks. Then they and The Panther turned toward the window.
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!" moaned Fratman as he came, shooting a massive slick of cum all over the study floor.
"Woah!" cried The Panther as she slipped in all the cum.
"Woah!" cried the Pussy Posse as they did likewise.
Trying to right themselves they leaned towards the open window, their feet pedalling but finding no steady purchase. And so it was that they slid out onto the balcony and fell over the railing, plummeting to the ground below.
The girls all ended up in hospital. Once mended they would all take up residence in The Big House.
The next day Fratman read the headlines in the
Scrotum City Herald. They read
:
WANKER ACCIDENTALLY HELPS POLICE IN ARREST OF THE PANTHER.
