Serge Protector (aka Mr. Electric) : Fuck Me Friday

Between Throbbing Thursday and Satiated Saturday comes Fuck Me Friday. How could it be otherwise? And, as you know, silly smut is the order of the day here at Aussiescribbler's. (Isn't it always?) To find out more about this raunchy writing challenge check out Aisling Weaver's site. She has declared that today's prompt should be #electric.

Serge Protector (aka Mr. Electric)

It was a perfectly normal day in Dullsville, Kansas. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. And Patsy Protector was hanging the laundry on the clothes-line. Her new born son Serge was giggling and dribbling in his bassinet on the lawn behind her. The date was October 16, 1952.

Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot out of the clear blue, cloudless sky and struck the bassinet. It was followed by an ear-splitting boom of thunder.

Patsy spun around and looked with horror into the bassinet. Serge was alive, but his eyes were glowing eerily, smoke was pouring out of his ears and his minimal hair was standing on end.

Later scientists would calculate that little Serge had absorbed enough electricity to kill a rhino. But it didn't kill him. It made him stronger.

If this were not a true story, I would have to provide some kind of believable explanation as to how this could have happened - how a lightning bolt could come out of a clear blue sky and how it could hit a tiny baby and not kill it. But this is a true story. So I don't have to bother. I know that you will accept it simply as one of those unsolved mysteries of the world, like why drive-through automatic teller machines have braille on the buttons.

Serge's true powers lay dormant through his childhood and adolescence, but, at the age of twenty he found that he could shoot electricity out of his cock. He became Mr. Electric, pal to the powerless and friend to those who forgot to pay the bill.

He's been a superhero now for nearly forty years, travelling from city to city. It doesn't pay to stay anywhere long. Once his secret is revealed the demands and prejudice can become crippling.

Today we join him as he strolls through New York City.

"Damn! The battery's flat!" a young woman curses, looking at her mobile phone.

"Allow me madame," Serge says, taking it from her hands. He then shoves it down his trousers and rubs it against his cock.

"What the fuck!" she cries, as he pulls it back out and hands it to her.

"I think you'll find it works fine now," he tells her with a smile.

She looks at her phone gingerly, holding it with two fingers. She holds it up to her nose and sniffs. Then she looks at Serge's retreating back, shakes her head, sighs, and dials her number.

"Hey, you're Mr. Electric, aren't you?" asks a heavily tattooed man wearing a dirty singlet and a balaclava.

"Why yes I am," Serge replies with a warm smile. "Did you want an autograph?"

"No, thanks," the guy replies. "I'm just wondering if you could help me jump start my car. The battery seems to be flat."

"Forgot your keys?" Serge queries, noticing that the man has pulled two wires out from the dashboard. "So easy to do. Sure I can help you." He looks at the fish symbol on the back window of the car. "You being a Christian, I'm sure you'll consider me a good Samaritan, hey?"

"A Christian?" the guy queries. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Yes." He looks up and down the street nervously.

Serge lifts the bonnet, unzips his pants, pulls out his cock and applies it to the engine which starts up right away.

"Thanks, mister!" the guy yells, leaping in and driving off.

Around the next corner, a crowd of people have gathered, looking up at something taking place on a high window ledge.

"I swear I'm going to jump!" declares a thin, blonde man teetering on the edge.

Serge enters the building and runs up the stairs two at a time.

"He failed another audition. It always makes him so depressed," explains a frantic woman, digging her fingers into her frizzy dark hair.

"'How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world! / Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, / That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature / Possess it merely. That it should come to this...'" proclaims the thwarted thespian, seeming to address the gawping crowd.

"What a ham!" declares the attending policeman. "I wouldn't hire him to play billiards."

"You're no help," complains the woman, looking hopefully to Serge.

"I'll handle this," Serge tells her, pulling two lengths of wire out of his pocket. "Do you have a clean handkerchief?"

"No," she replies.

"Then take off your panties," he tells her. "They'll do."

"What are you going to do?" she asks, lifting her skirt and pulling down her panties.

"You'll see," he replies mysteriously, as he takes her panties and climbs out onto the ledge.

"I'm not afraid to jump," threatens the actor.

"I know you aren't," Serge reassures him. "Now put these panties in your mouth."

The actor is so bewildered that he does as he is told. Serge pulls out his cock, attaches the two lengths of wire to it and then applies the other end of each to one of the actor's temples. There is a sizzling sound and the actor begins to jerk around and foam at the mouth.

A moment later Serge leads the man back in through the window. He is wall-eyed and drooling.

"Electro-convulsive therapy," Serge explains. "Shock treatment. By tomorrow he'll be his old self. He won't even remember why he was depressed."

"I'm so glad," sighs the woman.

"He may also not remember his PINs, his computer passwords and some of his relatives," Serge admits.

As he exists the building and makes his way through the disappointed and now dispersing crowd, Serge's mobile rings.

"A freak black-out and the failure of all back-up generators has closed down Wall Street," a grim voice informs him. "Unless we can get the power back, the market could plummet. We need you!"

"I'll be right there!" Serge promises.

On the way he passes an unprepossessing street level apartment.

"Oh, fuck! Just as I was about to cum, my vibrator's batteries go flat!" cries a sexy female voice.

Serge looks towards Wall Street. He looks towards the apartment. He looks back towards Wall Street. He looks back towards the bedroom window of the apartment. He takes a deep sigh. He feels appropriately ashamed of himself. He turns his back on Wall Street. He leaps through the window of the apartment.

"Who the fuck are you!?!" cries a curvy redheaded housewife, quickly pulling up the bedcovers to hide her horny nude sweat-soaked body. "Home invasion! Home invasion! I've got a gun!"

"I'm Mr. Electric," says Serge. "Please do not distress yourself. I'm only here to recharge your vibrator's batteries."

"Mr. Electric!" she enthuses, her eyes lighting up like Christmas trees. "That's different." She throws off the covers and writhes shamelessly with her legs spread wide so that he can see how wet her pussy is.

"Why, madame," Serge blushes, as a silly grin spreads across his face. There is a loud ripping sound. His fly tears free from his trousers and sails across the room. With a resounding "Boing!" his cock pops out, glowing bright red and flashing like a neon sign.

"I don't want you to fix my vibrator," the woman tells him. "I want you to plug that electric cock of yours straight into my cunt socket!"

"That could be dangerous, Miss," Serge warns.

"Mrs., actually," she informs him.

"Well, Mrs. Actually," he goes on, "a full power poke with my penis has been known to lead to a month-long orgasm."

"Can that be fatal?" she asks.

"No, I don't think so," he admits. "But it would keep you away from work. And it is very difficult to get a doctor's certificate for orgasm-related incapacity."

"Well, that's fine then," she decides. "I'm a house-wife. I don't need a doctor's certificate to stay in bed. I'll just tell my husband I have female trouble."

"Where exactly is Mr. Actually?" he wants to know.

"Our name is Sutcliffe," she corrects him. "My name is Penelope. But you can call me Penny, if you like. Mr. Sutcliffe is a stock-broker. He's at work at the moment. We are perfectly safe to have a little fun."

Serge smiles, strips off the rest of his clothes and saunters over to the bed, his lit-up cock leading the way like Rudolph's nose.

"Whose a bad Penny?" he asks, laying his naked body over hers and kissing her deep red lips.

"You don't know the half of it," she smiles, when he lifts his lips away and gazes into her brown eyes. "I could tell you stories that would shock you."

"I don't need to tell any stories to shock you," he chuckles.

He lifts himself up onto his knees beside her and leans down so that the tip of his stiff and glowing cock comes within a centimetre of the erect nipple of her right breast. A spark like a tiny lightning bolt leaps across the divide.

"Oh, God!" Penny cries, and her pussy twitches in response to the flow of pleasure throughout her body.

Serge does the same to her other nipple with similar results.

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" she begs as he kneels between her legs and aims his cock at her stiff and throbbing clit. "Fu-u-u-u-u-u-ck!" she cries as the lightning hits her nub.

"You see how powerful it is?" he asks her. "Are you sure you really want it all?"

"Plug yourself in! Plug yourself in!" she begs.

And so he slides his lightning-powered prick deep into her sopping wet pussy. When it is all the way in he can feel that his balls are lying in a puddle on the sheets. He has to hang on tight, because she immediately starts thrashing around like someone having ten other people's epileptic fits for them. She thrashes so much he is afraid she might bang her head on the end of the bed, so he rolls over and drags her with him so that she is sitting astride his pulsating penis. It's like some kind of rogering rodeo as she struggles to keep from flying off of him under the power of her own orgasmic flailing. To keep a better hold on her, he licks his finger and sticks it up her ass. But that just seems to make her wilder than ever.

Eventually he spurts his cum deep within her. It's extra slipperiness that is definitely not needed. She flies off of his cock and lands on the floor with her legs in the air. Her still quivering cunt squirts a fountain which rains down all over her as she lays there moaning.

Just at that moment the door opens.

"I'm home early, honey," announces a male voice. "Strangest thing. A blackout shut down the whole of the stock exchange, and apparently there is nothing they can do about it."

Serge is out the window like a shadow.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" Mr. Sutcliffe asks of his wife.

"Y-y-y-y-yoga," she replies. "I'm stuck."

"My God, woman, you're pissing all over yourself," he adds, noticing the orgasmic fountain that his wife is still producing.

"A c-c-c-cork," suggests his wife, and he goes off to fetch one.

Meanwhile Serge wanders off into the afternoon meditating on the loneliness of the longer-lasting orgasm producer.

The End

Tit for Tat : Fuck Me Friday

Time once more for a filthy Fuck Me Friday fable. Check out the other contributions at Aisling Weaver's site.   If you want to be horny all weekend you'll have found the right place. And make sure to tell the authors if their work touched you where you like to be touched.

Tit for Tat

So I'm a compulsive hoarder. Sue me! It's my unit and if I want to step over piles of junk rather than feel the pain of separation involved in disposing of it that's my business.

Annette no doubt meant well when she asked why I didn't weed my possessions a little, but still it annoyed me.

Annette is my new neighbour. We live in a block of ten units in a quiet seaside suburb. A week after she moved in she knocked on my door and introduced herself. I'd seen her moving in and a couple of times since then. She was a brunette with an English rose complexion and a warm infectious smile. She also had massive breasts. Nothing grotesque mind you, but cantaloupe size. Russ Meyer would have considered her to be talented. She liked to wear plaid shirts that were a little too small so that the buttons seemed in danger of popping off at any moment and she always kept the top buttons undone to show some creamy pale cleavage.

She wasn't one of those top-heavy girls either, her boobs were balanced with a big bum which filled out her tight jeans like an over-stuffed sofa. Whether she was walking towards me or walking away she was swinging something that made my cock swell warmly.

"Ooooh, brandy. I wouldn't say no," she said as she entered my cluttered lounge room and saw a bottle on the coffee table.

"Of course," I replied. "I'll get some glasses." And so I wove my way between stacks of comics, piles of VHS tapes and old pizza boxes as I headed for the kitchen.

"What a lot of junk!" exclaimed Annette as I handed her a glass. She was holding one of my comics, and surveying the piles on all sides.

"I collect things," I replied. "It's a hobby."

"It's a fire hazard is what it is," she told me. "Do you actually read these comics?"

"When I buy them I do," I responded, not sure why I should feel so defensive.

"And then you just leave them piled around gathering dust?" she asked. "They won't keep well if you don't put them in acid-proof bags."

"You sound like you collect comics yourself," I commented.

"No, but I sell them sometimes," she explained. "I make my money selling stuff on e-bay. I buy up odds and sods from deceased estates and auction them off on the net."

"You can live on that?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she replied. "It's time consuming but there's good money in it. And its exciting because you never know when you are going to hit the jackpot with a rare collector's item."

"Well," I said, "I don't think I could part with any of my stuff. Everything has memories."

"Including the pizza boxes?" she asked. "Sorry, don't mind me. I can be a bit rude at times. Really, it's your life. You do what you want."

Annette was something of a gardener and I would see her pruning the roses or picking weeds out of the strip of lawn between the two rows of units. Other times we would meet up at the letter box after the postie had been. Her face always lit up when she saw me. She smiled warmly, and her eyes twinkled as she exchanged small talk in an almost conspiratorially embracing manner. And she always seemed to stand just a little bit closer than I was entirely comfortable with. She had such an effusively affectionate manner that I felt as if, had she been a small dog, she would have been humping my leg.

Don't get me wrong. This made me uncomfortable only because I was unused to getting this kind of response from a woman. If I'd been a small dog I would have wanted to hump her leg too. But I'm not the kind of guy women generally pay much attention to. Short and chubby, with too little hair on my head and too much everywhere else, I'm often compared to the actor Paul Giamatti. My ex-girlfriend said I was cute and cuddly, but you won't find guys like me as centrefolds in Playgirl.

The other thing that impressed me about Annette was her perfume. I don't know what brand it was, but it was genuinely intoxicating, a mix of musk and cinnamon and wildflowers.

With her smile and her smell and her boobs and her bum and her standing so close, I felt such an impulse  just to grab her by the letterbox. But I was so unsure of myself after several years on my own. What if her warm, intimate manner with me was the way she was with everyone? I didn't want to embarrass myself by doing anything rash.

But then, one morning, I stumbled into the lounge room while eating from a bowl of cereal and noticed that something was different. Something was missing.

It took a while for me to realise what it was. It was my copy of the issue of The Puzzler in which he took on his arch enemy Sodoku Man. It had been on the top of the biggest pile of comics. It's absence was made all the more obvious because the issue underneath it was not coated in dust as the comics which topped the other piles were.

As I looked around I found that that was not all that was missing. A total of 23 comics, 5 vintage issues of Playboy, a collector's guide to Matchbox Cars and an autographed picture of David Hasselhoff were gone.

The crime rate in the district in which I live is not high, and our units are close together with front doors facing the central strip of lawn, so that any thief would run the risk of being observed. So many of us are in the habit of leaving our doors unlocked when we are asleep. Someone must have snuck in and stolen my stuff. But who?

Then I noticed it. The smell. The smell of Annette's perfume. Of course she should have been the first suspect, since she had knowledge and motive. But until I noticed the perfume I didn't think of her. I didn't want to think that she might steal from me. Maybe that was why she had been so friendly. Maybe she was just buttering me up to get access to my saleable items.

What was I going to do? Confront her? Yes. But I couldn't get her boobs and butt out of my mind. I wanted revenge for this invasion and theft, but I also wanted Annette.

Then it struck me like lightning. What's good for the gander is good for the goose. Tit for tat. If she could sneak into my unit and take something of mine, then that gave me permission to sneak into hers and steal something. But what? A pair of panties maybe. But that wasn't really what I wanted. I wanted her.

Maybe I should just go over there and walk in unannounced. If I was lucky, I might find her in a skimpy nightie or maybe I could walk into the bathroom while she was in the shower. I wasn't likely to be that lucky, but either way, I had an advantage over a sexy woman. She owed me. That couldn't be be a bad thing.

I had right on my side. I was not going to be deterred from righting the wrong that had been done against me.

I walked up to her door, turned the knob and walked straight in.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to... I apologise... I'll go right now," I stammered when I saw that Annette was sitting stark naked on a recliner in her living room with her legs spread and pleasuring her dripping wet pussy with a Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator.

"Don't do that," she insisted. "Be sociable and stay. Make yourself comfortable. Take your clothes off."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"No need to do that, you didn't do anything wrong," she told me. "You're always welcome to visit me. You're my favourite neighbour. Now get your gear off. You must feel over-dressed. You'll find that my central heating is very efficient. You won't be cold."

"O.K., if you insist," I mumbled, beginning to unbutton my shirt. As I undressed she continued to moan happily as she buzzed herself.

"If I were having a cup of tea, I'd do the neighbourly thing and offer you a cup," she told me. "But I'm not, I'm having a wank. Can I offer you one?"

"A wank?" I asked.

"Yes, how do you like your wanks? A straight hand job, or do you like some tit with it?" she wanted to know.

"Oh, I like mine with plenty of tit," I replied. "Especially the thick creamy kind. None of that slimmer rubbish."

"Well, you're in luck," she enthused. "I have lashings of creamy tit for your wank."

By now I was naked. My cock was as hard as a rock and dribbling precum on the carpet.

"Dear, dear, you are a messy boy," she chuckled. "Now bring that thing here."

I came up close to her and she put down her wand and grasped my cock in her soft warm hand, slowly beginning to stroke it up and down.

"Is there anything else you like with your wank?" she enquired.

"Well, I am quite partial to sweet sticky buns," I told her.

"I've got plenty of honey in the kitchen," she informed me, "so that shouldn't be a problem. But you will have to have your sweet sticky buns after your wank, because I'm not a contortionist."

Then she let go of my cock and grasped one of my butt cheeks in each hand and pulled me to her chest so that my cock was between her big soft pale boobs. When I was in place she let go of me and pushed her boobs together around my cock. It felt heavenly. Her soft breasts were so silky against the hot hardness of my prick. As I stood there, leaning in to her, she drew her boobs up and down my cock. I thrust my pelvis to compliment the boob wank she was giving me. And as she moved her boobs up and down she kissed my chubby hairy belly and stuck her tongue in my navel.

All of the erotic energy that had been building in me since I met Annette was coming to a dizzying peak as I stood in her lounge room fucking her boobs. It wasn't long before I climaxed and my balls shot spurt after spurt of hot cum all over the upper slopes of her magnificent mammaries.

"You're not the only one who likes loads of cream with a wank," she grinned, bending forward to slurp and lick up all of the cum that was dribbling from my wilting cock. She then smeared the cum on her boobs down over her stiff pink nipples and sucked it off, first from one and then the other.

"Wasn't that better than a cup of tea?" she asked. "I'll go prepare your sweet sticky buns now." And she ran off to the kitchen.

When she returned she told me to sit down in the chair and then turned to face away from me. Her big pale wobbly arse was all coated in honey.

"No need to say grace," she insisted. "Just dig in."

I bent forward and began licking up all of the honey off of the big soft cheeks of her bottom.

"Mind if I stroke while you eat?" she asked politely.

"Not at all," I assured her.

And so, as I buried my face in the sweet goo all over her bottom, licking and dribbling and feeling the tickling sensation of honey dripping from the end of my nose, she began alternately playing with her stiff clit and sliding her fingers into her already half-wanked cunt.

By the time I was pulling apart her big cheeks and digging my tongue deep into her bum-hole to suck out the last vestiges of sweet honey, she was squealing her way through a body shaking orgasm.

Once our lust was sated we had a shower together to wash off all the sweat and cum. I don't think there was any honey left. I was pretty thorough licking that heavenly bottom of hers. The same bottom that rubbed all over my semi-erect prick when she had to bend down to pick up the soap.

Afterwards we sat around nude in the living room and chatted about all kinds of things.

"Yes, I did steal some of your tat and sell it on ebay," she confessed. "I didn't think you would notice. I was going to tell you later in hopes that it would teach you a lesson."

"I knew it was you because I could smell your perfume," I explained.

"Vanity. It'll get you every time," she sighed.

"I love your perfume though," I insisted. "Of all the people I know in the world, you're the one that looks best and the one that smells the best. And now I know you also feel the best."

"That's so sweet," she smiled. "I think we can be good neighbours. Feel free to drop in and hang out anytime. You're always welcome. Don't bother to knock. The only thing I insist on is total nudity. That's the way I like to be, and it just doesn't seem right if someone's present who is still wearing sneakers, or a tie or one sock."

"I like to be nude with you," I told her, "because then you can see the physical evidence of how much you excite me."

"Yes, I can see that I have a little fan as well as a bigger one," she laughed.

"Hey, not so much of the little!" I exclaimed.

"He'll do," she giggled. "You know what they say, anything more than a mouthful is a waste."

"And just let me know if there is anything I can do to help you out in other ways," I said. "I really appreciate how you do the gardening. I have some skills as a handyman."

"Really? Like what?" she wanted to know.

"I'm quite good with electrical things," I told her.

"My electric blanket has stopped working," she informed me.

"Well, it's usually not a good idea to try to fix them," I warned her. "It's better to replace it."

"Could you replace it?" she asked.

"You mean buy you a new one?" I queried.

"No. I mean take its place," she insisted. "I'm really cold in bed at night, but with another body in there with me, I think I could be toasty warm. And you're friendlier than an old electric blanket."

"We could give it a go," I agreed.

"I know I'm asking a lot," she said. "I like to sleep a good eight hours each night. So I'd be asking you to take quite a bit of time out of your evening just to help me keep warm."

"Oh, that's O.K.," I insisted. "I wasn't doing anything else."

"And there are a couple of things I should warn you about," she added. "I have a tendency to talk in my sleep. My ex-boyfriend said I said some quite improper things while I was sleeping. Let's put it this way - I'm not exactly safe for work."

"That's not a problem," I told her. "I rarely do any work while in bed."

"And my other problem is insomnia," she confessed.

"That's no good," I sympathised.

"But there is a solution," she reassured me. "I always sleep soundly after strenuous exercise."

"That makes sense," I replied.

"Its just that there is only one kind of strenuous activity I've found that I can do in bed," she warned me. "I mean its not that I don't know how to play chess, or charades, or tiddly winks. But they just aren't strenuous enough to really wear me out. Running would do it, but I can't do that in bed. So it always has to be the same thing. I suppose you can guess what that is."

"I've got a good idea," I admitted.

"You wouldn't mind helping me in that way?" she asked.

"It's only the neighbourly thing to do," I told her.

"You are so understanding," she replied, kissing the tip of my nose. "And I'm sure there will be things I can do for you. If you can think of anything, just let me know."

"Oh, I will," I assured her. "I will. I think we are going to be the best of neighbours."

The End

The Cat Who Shot the Cream : Fuck Me Friday

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.

Image courtesy of Girls Out West

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.

Image courtesy of Girls Out West

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.