Lameya and her gentleman

       Lameya turned off the lights—there wasn’t much else she could turn off.  She stood before the bed, drenched in the honey-toned light of the candles.  Her milky white skin seemed to glow in the semi-darkness, and her dark eyes and hair glinted gold.

       She took a long, lustful look at the gentleman on her bed before slowly parting her wine-colored lips to speak.  And when she spoke, the words that blew past that luscious mouth were like subdued orgasmic screams—very breathy, and trembling just slightly.  She asked of the gentleman, “Any last requests?”

       The man, who was naked save for his boner-distorted briefs and black socks, swallowed hard.  His knuckles were white from gripping the black satin bed sheets, and his potbelly glistened with beads of sweat.  He unclenched his fist from the sheet, and it moved in an erratic, jittering course to his head, where it smoothed back his greasy blonde hair.  “No, baby,” he said, his voice cracking only once. “I’m…I’m ready for you.”

       “Mmmmm,” Lameya articulated, tilting her head back a little and closing her eyes.  This served to show off her slender neck, and her dark lashes.  Not satisfied with the effect, she rolled her smooth shoulders to further emphasize her breasts, thrust up as they were by her short, spaghetti-strapped dress of blackest silk. “I’d hoped so.” 

Lameya was just about finished speaking to her gentleman friend in real words.  She did continue to make noises, however.  Mmms as she rubbed her hands over her breasts; Ahhs as she bent and swayed.  Sighs as she licked fingertips; gasps as she touched herself through the thin dress.  Lameya kept her eyes closed, and let her long hair fall before her face, then slowly brushed it away so that it might fall back a moment later.

The gentleman, whose eyes bulged and heart pounded, breathed hard and ragged.  His mouth dropped open, and his jaw worked up and down for several seconds before he could manage to make a sound. “Please!” he breathed unevenly.  He didn’t realize it, but he was beginning to make thrusting motions with his groin from the sheer anticipation. “Please, girl…please!”  Tears shone in his eyes.

Lameya had been biting the index finger of her left hand, and rubbing the soft fabric of her dress against her crotch with the right, so that the black silk was further darkened with moisture.  At the gentleman’s desperate pleading, though, she stopped.  She opened her eyes, focusing them on the anxious man.  She gave him a quick study, and saw that he was—as he’d said—ready, or just about.  Lameya smiled him a sweet, innocent-seeming smile, closed her eyes once more, and switched her hand right hand with her left.

The gentleman promptly began emitting a low, whining sound.  He would not be able to stand much more, this much was clear to Lameya.  She looked at him, giving her index finger one last suck.  His eyes were open, but she doubted that he could make much sense of what he saw.  “Pity,” she commented to no one in particular, and then bent at the waist to unlace the black leather boots that stopped mid-way up her calf.  The view of her cleavage, had the gentleman been conscious enough to decode the information streaming down his optic nerves, would have transformed his underwear into a sticky, uninhabitable mess.

“Ah well,” Lameya mumbled in her tremulous, exhilarating way.  She stepped out of her boots and lost three inches of height. “He lasted longer than most.”  She reached up with both hands and ran her fingers back through her hair, smoothing it back into place after her sensual theatrics.  After that, a flick of each wrist was all it took, and the straps of her dress were thrown from her shoulders, and the flimsy gown fluttered to the floor like a glossy, black leaf.

Lameya lifted her dainty feet from the puddle of silk.  She did not step forward, or back.  She did not step left or step right.  Lameya stepped up.  She hovered six or seven inches over the floor, and closed her eyes in the way that she did most things—slowly, deliberately, and as though every action she performed was done with the sole intention of hardening a cock, whether or not there was a cock around in need of hardening.

The gentleman on the bed, rocking and moaning slightly, was unable to make sense of it, but the air in Lameya’s bedroom exploded with the scent of lilacs, and a warm breeze seemed to rush into existence from nowhere.  The gentle wind lifted Lameya’s near-black locks around her head like a dark halo, and carried her feminine scent to the gentleman’s nose.  This newest sensation wasn’t lost on him, as the others had been—he blinked his eyes thrice in rapid succession, and regained his awareness.  Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch—all his sensory faculties blasted his brain at once, nearly jarring the gentleman back into his previous state of reduced consciousness.

Lameya’s breasts were just as free from gravity’s bonds as the rest of her body, and they floated on the air, less than ten feet away.  Her hair swirled around her head.  Her hands were clutched tightly between her legs, the fingers tensing and flexing rhythmically.  Her face contorted just like the gentleman had desperately hoped he would see it contort, as though she were beside herself with utter pleasure, absorbed in some act of utmost lust.

The fair-skinned, sloe-eyed woman before him began to sing.  Not one man lived who could identify the family of languages hers belonged to, let alone understand what she was chanting.  But if Lameya’s speaking voice sounded like a toned-down orgasm, then her chanting was an orgasm multiplied by itself a thousand times.  She squealed with delight, gasped from blends of pain and ecstasy, wailed like a cat in heat, and moaned with horrified satisfaction.

These senses hit the gentleman’s brain more strongly than the taste of blood in his mouth, or the sharp pains in his still-gripping knuckles, or the buzzing sensation in his aching penis, but neither sight nor sound could compete with the inferno unleashed in his brain by his sense of smell.

The thin, almost imperceptible smell of molten wax from the candles was suddenly quite apparent to the gentleman.  The cloying scent of lilacs hit him, sending its purple-sweet tendrils up his nose and directly into his brain where they writhed and wriggled, making sure that their presence was known.  Stronger than either the wax or the spring flowers, however, was the light aroma of Lameya’s sweat.  Salty and ethereal, it was at once the slightest and the most noticeable scent to his nose—save for one.  The smell of Lameya’s pussy was so powerful that the gentleman wasn’t even sure that it was a smell at all.  It came at him in crashing, synesthetic waves that he could as much see, feel, hear and taste, as smell.  Were his sense of smell to bear the burden alone, it would have burned to a cinder, leaving him forever unable to differentiate between the most dissimilar of scents. 

It was all the gentleman to do not to faint; he tried desperately not to notice the inebriating, nostril-dominating scent of Lameya’s womanhood, though it permeated his whole being and made his bones feel a little less solid with every single molecule inhaled.

“Anszia aralea lahara, maneire n’ali Lameya,” screamed Lameya, wringing her hands frantically against and inside of her dripping vagina.  Her eyes were squeezed shut tightly, and her teeth were bared in such a primal expression that the helplessly modern gentleman could make of it neither grin nor grimace, nor anything else for that matter.  Her breasts heaved with each deep, labored breath, and the balmy, flowery wind swirled around her with such force that her hair flew about her head like a brunette tornado.  There was more chanting, but it was all unintelligible squealing and cries of ecstatic horror—even more so than before.  The chanting rose in pitch, volume and in speed, matched by the frantic motions of her glistening hands.  Her voice continued to rise in those three aspects until she was simply screaming, hitting a note so high that blood began running from her gentleman caller’s ears—not that he noticed the pain in his ears over the constantly strengthening smell of Lameya’s loins on the air.

The gentleman’s eyes were made to look upon the sexual beacon that was Lameya:  her wildly blowing hair, her screaming mouth, her frenzied hands and, above all else, her wondrous smell; the whole experience hit him and he knew that he would ejaculate, like it or not.  He yelped, shut his eyes, and thrust his crotch in the air, feeling fingers of electricity playing his spine like a knotty xylophone.  But the event he expected did not come (pun very much intended).  There was a tearing sound, and the feeling that his long-imprisoned prick was finally free, but no body-quaking expulsion of dull, pearlescent jelly. 

There was, however, extreme pain.

About the time the gentleman opened his eyes to gaze upon his grievously smarting cock, he noticed that Lameya was no longer screaming.  It was hard to decide whether to look at his genitals or at Lameya, but his penis won out.  He saw that it had indeed burst through his underpants, and it was also bleeding from tears all along the surface of its shaft.  It was bigger than it had ever been—than it was ever intended to get—and the jacket of elastic skin simply could not take the strain.  He then looked to Lameya, unable to keep his eyes off her, no matter what horrible things were happening to his favorite organ.

“Almost lost you,” stated Lameya, her voice even for a change.  Her eyes were completely black, and her naked body was crawling with black arcs of electricity as she floated in the air before the bed.  Staring the gentleman in the eyes, she slathered her feminine juices over her stomach and breasts and neck, licking her lips all the while.  Her hands wore gloves of shining moisture, and her legs were soaked.  Droplets fell like rain from her toes, soaking the floor below. “We can’t have that, my stupid man,” Lameya told him, shaking her head and smiling at him in a mean sort of way.  She extended one wet finger towards the gentleman, and he too began to float, his penis drawn inexorably toward that outstretched finger.

The tip of her finger rubbed against the head of his penis, lubricating it with sweet juices.  The effect was pure agony to the gentleman.  He inhaled sharply, then tried to scream, but his throat let the air rush back out sans vocal accompaniment.  Lameya just laughed wickedly, grasped the gentleman’s penis and began pumping up and down, twisting her hand violently as she went.  The gentleman normally would have loved it, but found that he was filled to the brim with pain like he’d never before experienced, all to the apparent delight of Lameya.

“Oh, poor thing,” she chuckled, making a pouting face for the gentleman. “You know what would end the pain?  Climax.  An orgasm will end it.  Let me try and help.”

The gentleman nodded emphatically, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Grinning in such a way that the gentleman would’ve known not to trust her, had he not been so racked with pain, Lameya let go of his cock and took the whole, massively engorged thing down her throat.  The gentleman tried again to scream, but could not.  The swishing of saliva and Lameya’s massaging tongue hurt so much more than her lubricated grip that he was sure he would die from it.  Tears streamed down his cheeks and his chest hitched uncontrollably.

Thankfully, Lameya relented after ten or fifteen seconds of masterful work on the gentleman’s penis.  She gave him a mock-questioning look and asked, “Isn’t that helping?”  She batted her eyelashes, and held a finger to her lower lip.

The gentleman told her that it was not, by way of shaking his head and trying desperately to shriek like a little girl.  Veins stood out all across his neck and forehead from the strain of intense crying and failed attempts at screaming.

“I know what might help, since that wasn’t enough,” cooed Lameya softly, smiling.  She floated higher, so that her drenched crotch was maybe an inch from the gentleman’s nose. “I could…I could always take you inside me….”

The gentleman watched as a sparkling drop leapt from Lameya’s glorious cunt and plummeted through the hot, damp air and splashed against his chest.  The smell of Lameya, from so close, got inside his brain and fired all the wrong synapses.  He was beside himself with pain and fear, but he was aware enough to realize that sex with Lameya would kill him, if simple blow-jobbery hurt like it did.  But the smell, so hot and musky and sweet and tart, poisoned his mind.  It controlled him.

“Yes…” the gentleman managed to breathe.

“Mmmm,” was Lameya’s response.  The lightning danced across her naked form, sometimes bridging the gap between her and the gentleman, leaving black burns on the gentleman’s skin.  Lameya closed her eyes and descended slowly, dribbling the stuff of life all the while, until she was touching the gentleman’s penis with her soaking wet lips.  Her fluids spilled out, tracing lines down his penis that hurt like sunfire. “Here I come.”

She plunged downward.  He was plunged into her. 

She screamed.  He screamed.

The gentleman shook and screamed and cried and clawed at his face to distract from the horrible grinding, sawing, burning, biting, stabbing pains that the depths of Lameya’s loins subjected him to.  His nails pulled up tracks of his own skin that hung like grisly ribbons from his fingernails, and blood poured from his face where he was scratching himself.  But nothing could hope to compete with, let alone drown out, the sensation of Lameya.

Lameya’s pussy was, like the rest of her, flawless.  There were no rough surfaces, no blades, no fires, no teeth, no needles.  Just soft, wet heaven hidden behind black pubic hair and perfectly formed labia.  What the gentleman was experiencing was little more than confused signals from the brain, unable to comprehend the bliss pouring forth from Lameya’s vaginal recesses.  The fact that she squirmed and shrieked with utter delight at the gentleman’s unfortunate situation…well, that was beside the point.  No woman is without her quirks.

She laughed, and he screamed.  She needed more, and he couldn’t handle what he already had.  Lameya couldn’t stop fucking him if she tried, and the gentleman couldn’t survive the ordeal even if she had wanted him to.  Lameya bounced and writhed and pulled herself down on his rigid cock as hard as was possible.  The gentleman slipped closer and closer to the end of his rope.

When the black arcs of lightning rolled so fast across Lameya’s body, and leapt so far out that they singed the walls and ceiling and bed, Lameya knew it was time to end it.  The gentleman was breathing only very shallowly, and his eyes were closed.  His body was blistered and burned from contact with the electricity, but still distinguishable as the gentleman’s.  The bed below was filthy with the charred skin, fine and powdery as cigarette ash, falling away from the gentleman’s horrible burns.

“Now,” whispered Lameya, wriggling on the gentleman’s erection, trying to get every last bit of usefulness from it before it was too late.  She breathed in deep, then ascended towards the ceiling, pushing the gentleman down toward the bed at the same time, until they were as far apart as the structure of the bedroom would allow.  This was it.

With a scream of determination and desperation, Lameya rocketed downward, onto the gentleman’s penis.  The force sent the two smashing through the bed, and crashing into the floor, but neither noticed.  Lameya bounced as hard and fiercely as she could, driving her pussy down around the cock frantically, screaming and clutching the gentleman to her.  The gentleman’s penis grew again, so that the sound of splitting skin would have been audible had it not been for Lameya’s screams.  His penis was huge, and the skin curled away from it like the peel of a veiny, blood-slick banana, and Lameya loved it.  She thrashed and wailed and squirted all over the gentleman’s bruised, burnt and broken form, and just as she was consumed by violent spasms that did not stop at her vaginal walls, the gentleman’s bloody penis burst.  Massive amounts of semen flew against the inside of Lameya, and she flexed her vaginal muscles, jerking the penis farther in, milking it for all it was worth.

Drenched in sweat, panting, and sliding up and down on the gentleman’s slowly shrinking rod without even knowing she was doing it, Lameya basked in the wake of her orgasm, lapping up the last ounces of pleasure.  She sighed contentedly.

The gentleman looked up at Lameya with squinted eyes, croaked something, and then raised a hand weakly toward her face.

“You’re still here?” she asked him, giving him a look of disgust.  She rolled her eyes, and flexed her vaginal muscles once more.  She felt a strange stirring inside of her, and smiled.  It would be over soon.

The gentleman could not comprehend what happened.  He felt something move against his penis, which no longer hurt quite so badly, but it was not Lameya—at least, not in the way he’d been feeling her up to that point.  The feeling spread from the site of penetration outward, across his stomach, like wetness, and yet not quite.  He tried to look down to see, but his neck was not listening to his commands.  It occurred to him that it might have been broken in Lameya’s fit of rapture.

He did not see the shiny black tentacles spreading from Lameya’s vagina.  He could feel them wrap around his legs, and his arms, and eventually around his neck until they started to strangle him, but he did not see them.  He felt Lameya roll onto her back, and he gagged once, weakly, when two tentacles wormed their way into his mouth and down his throat, but that was all.  The tentacles gripping his neck wrapped tighter and tighter, so that he was almost unconscious as the tentacles withdrew into Lameya with his dying body in tow.  He slid into her pussy, and into the great beyond with nothing but the sharp smell of Lameya to guide him.