The Endless Dance Card : 7 / 7

A Kingdom Ship Story
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

We ended up staying in the Idlewild Chamber for twelve days. No one bothered us or tried to get us out, which disappointed Qurakas, but he never lost hope. He did confide in me, one night, that the Security team had weapons that “we are helpless against” but it was quite clear that he would rather have fought and lost than never to have fought at all.

He wouldn’t expand on his “bigger chamber of horrors outside” or say exactly what the “something momentous” over my head was. All he’d say was, “Once you’re done studying that hellish machine, we’ll talk about our options.”

So, I did as he suggested: I studied the machine “down to its casing.” Why? Because (1) I didn’t have any better idea of how to pass the time, (2) he might well be right about the Idlewild Device holding some secret that would prove useful to me, (3) Qurakas wasn’t going to let me out of the damn room before he was good and ready, and (4) I kept bouncing back and forth between thinking he was bluffing and being frightened to the core by what he’d said.

As it turned out, the casing of the device had a thick lead lining, which was a strange surprise. After some thought, and given the size of the room, I figured that the shielding was for the protection of the onlookers -- although why there should be any onlookers was a riddle in itself. Med personnel would have their own individual shielding, but I guess that wasn’t part of the calculation.

It took me five days to dig my way through the nuts and bolts of the Idlewild Device, to read through all of its documentation, and to dip into some of its programs. In the end, my estimation didn’t change: the device and the idea behind it were cruel, brutal, and completely unnecessary. Also, I couldn’t discover any connection to me, except for the fact that I’d changed gender, although I’d done it in a completely different way.

Qurakas asked me to do presentations about my work on the profiles -- he called these presentations “brown bags” for some reason. Incidentally, I began to suspect that Qurakas was quite a bit older than he looked. He might have been one of the early testers of the rejuvenation bed, back on Earth. Dr Idlewild was supposed to be over 300 years old, so Qurakas could have been any age between 18 and 300, I suppose. Every time I tried to explore the question, he would deflect my questions with jokes.

Speaking of questions, several times a day, in various emotional states, I’d ask him what Donaldson’s “agenda” was regarding me. One of his replies went like this: “I don’t know exactly what Donaldson’s up to. He is clearly obsessed with you. A psych would call his obsession pathological. He’s got a dark design on you, and the fact that he invoked the Idlewild Protocol -- which is a pretty heavy card to play -- means that he’s looking to gain some ultimate authority over you. An authority that can’t be challenged. As to what he’d do with that...” He’d lift his hands in an open-palmed shrug.

I protested, “But nothing in the protocol applies to me -- except for the part about expecting me to make babies.”

Qurakas shrugged again, but said, “You could see in our meeting that the judge-advocate completely side-stepped the whole business about the protocol. To me that means that she didn’t see any connection to you, either.”

I asked him what the deal was with his references to smoking when I first told him that I wanted to leave the chamber. He said, “I was just stalling. It was stupid. Subconsciously I guess I was trying to tell you that it was okay to blow off some of our responsibilities.”

“To Donaldson and his agenda, you mean.”

“Exactly, to Donaldson and his agenda.”

Qurakas let me read a copy of the Idlewild Protocol. Most of it was explanatory; a briefer version of the 00-OVERVIEW document. It gave the location of the Idlewild Chamber (it was called exactly that in the document) and the access codes. An appendix gave the names of the three candidates--

I challenged Qurakas. “You already knew the three names! The three Idlewild candidates.”

“Not really,” he replied. “I got that document maybe thirty minutes before you walked into Donaldson’s meeting. I skimmed it. Most of it didn’t register. The main thing that concerned me was the chamber. That was the only piece I was actually responsible for. Everything else was decoration, as far as I was concerned.”

“So you haven’t read the whole Protocol.”

He wiggled his hand like a teeter-totter. “Sort of. Kind of. I’m not a big reader, Fergusdottor.”

I groaned and rubbed my eyes. “So you didn’t get the feeling that the Candidates are basically chattel?”

“Chattel?”

“Slaves. Property. Cattle. People without rights or self-determination.”

“It says that?”

“Not in so many words,” I sighed in exasperation. “But I mean, they’re yanked out of their lives, away from any purpose they’ve found for themselves, and changed into something completely different. They’re used. They’re compelled. They don’t have any choice in anything that happens to them. Isn’t that why you told me there was a bigger chamber of horrors outside?”

He reflected for a moment. “Not as such,” he said at last. “No. I actually didn’t read that part, or those parts, or whatever. Look -- what I said -- it was just a feeling… a really strong gut feeling about Donaldson. Up to now, I always thought he was a pretty solid guy -- I mean, in the past you never had any problems with him, right?”

“As Fergus, no.”

“Right. As Fergus. Now that you’re a girl, he’s gotten really weird about you. He obviously wants to jump your bones, but there’s some freaky twist in there as well.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s my feeling, too.”

“You know, a lot of guys…,” Qurakas said, warming to his subject, “... a lot of guys, you know, they want a woman, they kind of lock onto a woman. Say, some guy gets stuck on you -- he might even think he’s in love -- and he follows you around and says dumb things and all that, but the moment you have sex, the magic disappears; the spell is broken. You know what I mean?”

“I guess so.” It hadn’t happened to me as a girl, but I’d been on the other side of it, as Fergus.

“Yeah, so... but Donaldson, I don’t think it would end that way with him. If you had sex with him, it would be a confirmation to him: it would cement you in his mind. He would want to turn you into the vehicle of his weirdness. Do you know what I mean?”

Unfortunately, I did. Not in exact details, but Donaldson had acquired a level of creepy that absolutely radiated out of him. It was impossible to ignore.

“Oh, there’s one more thing,” Qurakas said. “I know that you’re planning on telling those three Idlewild Candidates about all this. You don’t need to bother.”

“Why not?”

“By now, everyone on the engineering crew knows the general outline of the Idlewild Protocol. They’re going to talk. It’s going to spread all over the ship. It’s inevitable. Those three guys -- they already know they’re Candidates, right? They knew back on Earth, after the tests were done. Until now they didn’t know what it meant, but as soon as their crew wakes up, they’ll find out.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. It’s all on Donaldson.”

 

---

 

There were times in that room that I felt like Wendy with the Lost Boys. Qurakas was Peter Pan, of course. Tinker Bell? Any of the engineering avatars who popped up and disappeared. Captain Hook? Well, that would have to be Lt Donaldson, of course.

It was so boring in there, that I actually spent several hours trying to puzzle out a real-life equivalent to the crocodile with the alarm clock inside him.

There were a few times, in the deepest part of the night, when I was moved to quiet, secret tears by the efforts my teammates were making to protect and shield me.

However, all things -- whether good or bad -- come to an end at some point. For our campout in the Idlewild Chamber, the end came after twelve days. After nearly two weeks of being locked inside that room, all of us wanted out. Even Qurakas had gotten tired of playing soldier. In spite of the active environmental controls, the chamber began to stink. It also began to feel like prison. Just speaking for myself, I hate suspense. I don’t like the anxiety of anticipation. Whatever weird, creepy plan Donaldson had in store for me, I wanted to face it and get it over with. If it wasn’t inevitable, I’d put up a fight. If it *was* inevitable, avoiding it wouldn’t help.

Two days after we left the Idlewild Chamber, Donaldson convened his meeting once again. The attendees were the same: me, Qurakas, the doctor, the psych, Donaldson himself, and the woman I didn’t know. She turned out to be the judge/advocate, and this time *she* led the meeting. She never said her name; she asked us to call her “judge/advocate.”

“My role here is to see that everyone’s interests are represented: those of Fergusdotter, the various views represented by the other participants, and potentially those of everyone onboard. Whatever decisions we make here may come to be regarded as precedents for future behavior so they must be taken seriously, and they will be binding. If anyone has reason to question my ability to act super partes, now is the time to register your objections.”

No one spoke, so she continued. “This meeting was requested by Lt Donaldson, and he has chosen the Idlewild Protocol as the basis, or pretext, for his requests.

“After analyzing his requests, I believe they can be boiled down to one simple thing: that Fergusdottor enter the reproductive pool. Do you have any objection to that, Fergusdottor?”

“No, of course not,” I replied. “Aren’t I already in the, uh, reproductive pool?”

“In a general, casual sense, yes, but not officially. The pool I’m speaking of is a count of pregnancies.”

My eyes popped. “Pregnancies?”

“Yes. Every woman on board is asked to produce ten pregnancies, if possible. Ten embryos. Virtually every women in our crew has done so, including myself.”

“But that will take ten years, at least!” I pictured myself waddling around the ship, great with child, for an entire decade.

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “At least one of your mothers should have explained this to you. Are you telling me that this is your first time hearing about the ten embryos?”

My mind drifted back to Mother No. 1 and her endless explanations. Somewhere in my memories of her prattling, there was an echo. I’m sure she did say something about ten embryos, but at the time I brushed it off. Back then, I never expected to remain a woman, so I didn’t pay very much attention, especially to something I deemed far off and improbable. “It does sound kind of familiar,” I admitted. “But I don’t recall the details.”

The judge-advocate looked to the doctor, who nodded at the silent prompt. She looked me in the eye (to be sure I was paying attention) and said, “Basically, it works like this: when you get pregnant, your fertilized egg attaches to your womb, and it begins to grow. You’ll wear a wrist device that can sense this, and after 5-7 days we’ll do a vaginal flush and transfer the embryo to storage. It will only be a dozen cells or less at that point. After we’ve landed on a planet, and it’s time for the children to be born, the embryos will move into the gestation device, and after nine months emerge as babies. You’ll never be pregnant for more than a few days.”

“So, you see,” the judge-advocate added, “You could produce ten embryos in less than a year.”

“It’s unlikely,” the doctor rebutted.

“But possible,” the judge-advocate replied.

I scratched my chin. “And every woman on board has done this?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, with a touch of impatience. “Virtually all. Some were physically unable, but everyone who could, did. Where do you think all the embryos came from?”

Honestly, I never thought about where the embryos came from. They were just there, like part of the ship. But, my God! There were SO MANY embryos. And yet, ten didn’t seem so many. So I agreed. “Okay,” I said. “If every other woman has done this, I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t as well,” Then, joking, I added, “How bad could it be?”

The women, as one, stopped, held their breath, and looked at me, but none of them said a word. Donaldson gave a particularly creepy smirk. I was taken aback.

“No, but, uh, seriously--” I asked, looking from face to face, feeling a little concerned, “How bad can it be?”

I waited for an answer, but none came. After a few silent seconds, the doctor said, “After this meeting, you can come with me. I’ll set you up with the wrist device and go through all the grisly details.”

Half-kidding, and more than half-concerned, I quipped, “I hope the details aren’t too grisly.”

“Oh!” the doctor replied, as if just hearing what she’d said. “Let’s just call them details. Girl stuff.”

Donaldson’s smirk somehow gained a few degrees of creepy. The judge-advocate asked if there was any other matter to discuss, and ended the meeting.

 

---

 

The wrist device was a white thing that looked like a cool wristwatch. In fact, it did display the date and time as well as some of my physiological functions. It had a number of other useful functions, like a countdown timer and an interface to some general ship systems.

“Will this show when I’m ovulating?” I asked. “That’s the only time I can get pregnant, right?”

“Yes,” she replied, “that true, but keep in mind that sperm can live inside you for up to seven days. And most women’s menstrual cycles can vary, even from one month to the next, so it’s possible to get pregnant from sex you had *before* you were ovulating, on a day you might have thought was safe.”

“Even so,” I said, “I’ll still be able to mark days off my calendar when getting pregnant won’t possible at all, can’t I?”

The doctor seemed uncomfortable with my line of questioning. “Yes, sure, you can cross off some days. But the thing is… the kind of questions you’re asking were more relevant when people were trying to not have babies, or when they had difficulty getting pregnant. The current thinking -- Kingdom-Ship thinking -- is that we try any time -- or all the time, and your body gets the idea that you’re ready.”

I scratched my head. “Your body gets the idea?” I repeated.

“Look, Fergusdottor,” she said, “Do you want to get this pregnancy count over with? Just have sex as much as you can -- except, obviously, when you’re bleeding. If you want to win the lottery, you have to keep buying tickets, right?”

“The lottery,” I mused. “That’s not a great metaphor.”

“Oh my God, Fergusdottor!” she cried. “Don’t overthink it! Just line up some partners and do it!”

 

---

 

I didn’t think I’d have any trouble finding sexual partners, given my status as a “celebrity,” but now it seemed that men would glance at my wrist device, and practically run away. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, I wasn’t looking to get married. It wasn’t as though they’d end up paying child support or something. I didn’t want any kind of commitment or relationship -- not even a short one. I wasn’t looking for love; I was only looking for a jump. That’s all.

I tried wearing cuter clothes. It didn’t help. I dd different things with my hair. I tried wearing sexy, provocative clothes, and experimented with cosmetics. That seemed to positively scare the men, and made the women roll their eyes at me.

I ran into Qurakas in the hall during the peak of my attempts to be a femme fatale, and he smiled. “Who are you trying to be? Mata Hari?”

I shook my head. “Nobody knows who that is, Qurakas. I mean, if Madda Whoosie was even a person.”

He laughed. “Okay,” he conceded. “You look like a streetwalker.”

As soon as I was alone I looked up the word, and found this: “A prostitute, especially one who solicits in the streets.” Oh, great, I told myself. Not at all what I was going for! But still, if that’s what I look like, why aren’t any of the fish biting?

After two weeks in which I scored exactly zero for sexual encounters, I returned to my ordinary clothes. They seemed better suited for moping around. At that point, I ran into Donaldson, apparently by accident. And yet, as creepy as he’d been, I was so desperate that I would have even done it with him. But even *he* wasn’t interested! All he wanted to do was talk.

He told me that he heard that I was having trouble finding sexual partners. I asked how he could have possibly heard that. He replied that “things get around.”. He went on to say that he knew exactly what the problem was, and that he knew exactly how to help me solve it.

He was actually talking and acting like a normal person during this exchange. The weird, crazy, creepy aspect was gone -- or, as it turned out, was well hidden.

“I’ve got a way to make it happen,” he said. “See -- the problem is that your wrist device tells men that you’re looking to fill your pregnancy quota. Instinctively, the man feels that you want some kind of commitment, or at least a promise, from him. He looks at that wrist device and sees a ball and chain on his ankle.”

“But I don’t want any commitment!” I cried. “I’m not interested in any promise! All I want is a jump. I can’t tell if any particular encounter is going to make me pregnant. I just want to up my chances. Way up! I’m not asking for a guarantee; I just want a shot.”

“I know,” he said, “but men are wired to see pregnancy as a trap.”

“Are we?” I challenged.

He regarded me for a moment, then said, “Okay. Leaving aside the fact that you lost your man card, so you can’t say *we* -- think back to when we were all back on Earth, back when you were Fergus. Young, frisky Fergus. During training, all of a sudden, casual sex was not only okay, it was encouraged. Strongly encouraged! It was fun. It was totally casual and free. It had no consequences -- at least, as far as we men were aware. There weren’t any consequences whatsoever. I mean, none of the women ever got pregnant -- apparently! Not even one! But none of us -- not even one of us ever asked why. We had no idea that we were helping them fill their quotas. You didn’t know, did you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“No, of course not. If we had known, it would have spoiled everything. You thought you were getting laid so often because you were so smooth and handsome. So did we all; so did we all. In reality, we were just a number that increased their chances of filling their quota.”

My memories of that time drifted across my mind’s eye, and I saw, one after another, the faces of the women I’d had sex with. They knew. I could see it now: the anxiety, the hope, the stress that was written there. Now *I* had that look. Men could see it, and -- unlike back on Earth -- now they knew why I had it.

Donaldson added, “That’s why in ordinary life, men on Earth preferred to pay prostitutes.”

“Some men,” I contradicted.

“Some men,” he conceded. “The act of paying made it clear that the interaction had a definite beginning and a definite end. There were no consequences -- emotional or reproductive.”

I blushed. “I’m not going to become a prostitute,” I told him. “Besides, we have no money here. It wouldn’t make sense.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I have a way to make the whole issue more… transactional. Anonymous, even.”

“How can sex be anonymous?”

“What you need is a dance card,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

“It sounds like something from the Middle Ages,” I replied.

“It was an actual, physical card, at one time,” he told me. “If a man wanted to, uh, dance with a young lady, he would write his name on her dance card, and when his turn came, they would dance.”

I blushed crimson. “So what are you proposing? A sign-up list? Do you really think that men would go and write their names… and all that?”

“Nothing quite as crude as that,” he replied. “It would be managed far more discreetly.”

I could feel the skin of my face and chest glow hot with embarrassment. “How discreetly? How exactly would it be managed?”

“I’m glad you asked,” he said. “Follow me, and I’ll explain everything.”

He led me to a small room, about the size of a meeting room. It was quite bare, except for a table, a few chairs, and a food-fab. In the far corner was a door that led to a full bathroom, with shower, sink, toilet, and bidet. A bookcase was piled high with towels, small and large. There was also (incongruously) a sofa against one wall.

In the middle of the wall opposite the sofa was a round hole. It was a meter across, and rimmed with a soft beige material that resembled a very pliable leather.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

Donaldson glanced around the room as if looking for something. “I’ll show you…” he said. “I’ll show you… as soon as I find the remote control. Do you see a little blue rectangular box, about this big, lying around someplace?” He bent to look under the table. I took a look in the bathroom. He shifted the towels, searching among them. I glanced into the hole, and called out, “Hey! Is that it?” and I pointed inside.

“Oh, yes!” he said with a smile. “That’s the one! Could you grab it for me?”

I put my head and shoulders into the hole and, resting on my elbows, I looked around. It was an odd space, maybe two meters wide. Immediately inside the hole, and filling the space, was a cushioned table exactly the height of my waist, precisely level with the lower edge of the hole. As I wormed my way inside, it seemed tailor-made for me: when I got far enough inside that my stomach was resting on the cushion, my feet were still flat on the ground out in the room.

The remote was farther inside than I first thought. I had to wiggle my way forward on the cushioned slab and stretch my arm and fingers forward. I was sure I could get it. It was almost out of reach, but I was up for the challenge: I knew I could get it. My thighs pressed against the wall below the opening, and I became acutely aware that my wiggling must have given Donaldson a fine show of my derriere. I blushed. Still, no one had cast even a casual eye on my buttocks in the past weeks, so let him look! As my hand moved closer toward the little blue box, I realized what a vulnerable position I had placed myself in. My hips, legs, and feet were hanging down in the room itself, where Donaldson stood. He’d be able to look up my skirt if he bent just a little, and if he wanted to grab me, I’d have a hard time resisting. My entire upper body, from my waist to the top of my head, was inside the hole. My stomach and breasts rested on the cushioned surface. A warning sounded inside my brain, but I couldn’t react in time. Stop! Stop! GET OUT OF THERE! a voice within me cried. But the warning came too late: my hand was already committed; my fingers closed around the little blue box. At once, I heard a soft click and a hiss, and the beige rim around the hole expanded until it trapped me, half in, half out. It was a soft restraint that held my waist irresistibly.

“What the hell, you asshole!” I shouted. “Let me out of here! LET ME OUT!”

I pushed on the remote control, but nothing happened. I pushed it a few more times, then took a good look at it. It wasn’t a control at all: it was nothing but a little box with a blue LED inside.

A small speaker crackled to life. “Hello, Fergusdottor. Can you hear me? Is my voice too loud? Too soft?”

“Yes, you bastard! I can hear you and I will kill you!”

“Wait,” he said. “Calm down and listen. There is a soundproof wall between us now. If I shout, if you scream, neither of us will hear each other unless the microphones and speakers are on. You asked me how sex could possibly be anonymous, and here is your answer! While you’re inside that hole, you could have sex with any number of men, and you’d have no idea who any of them were. For their part, they couldn’t be absolutely sure that it was you in there. They’d only see your cute derriere and legs. It could be any woman in there. Even the judge/advocate, if she felt like having some fun.”

I was angry, but what he was saying made some kind of sense. I stopped fighting and listened. “Let’s say you decide to have sex four or five times a day. That number of men would come in, one after another, or spaced at intervals, if you prefer. The sex act happens, then it’s over. They leave, you leave, no one sees anyone’s face. No one’s sure of anything. Everyone gets what they want: a simple transaction with zero commitment. At some point, you’ll become pregnant, but no one will know who the father is. No one would even know you were pregnant. It’s a win-win-win. You win, the man wins, the ship wins.”

I lay there, quiet, considering. I wasn’t sure how I felt about four to five sexual partners a day, but I did want to get through the pregnancy quota, and it certainly seemed like this could speed things up -- as long as there were men willing to participate.

“So what do you say, Fergusdottor?” Donaldson asked. “Do you want me to let you out? Or would you like to begin right now?” Before I could answer, he added, “By the way, if you start right now, none of the men will be me. In case that’s an issue.”

“Okay,” I said. “Do you really have men lined up right now?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “As many as you like.”

Four or five, he had said. Was that a lot? Could I handle it?

“Yes,” I agreed. “Let’s do it. Let’s start with four.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m just going to get you ready.”

Ready? I wondered, but what he meant immediately became obvious. He undid my skirt and removed it. Then he lowered my panties and took them off. Finally, he removed my shoes. I was about to ask why he did the shoes last, when the speaker clicked off.

After a few moments of silence, I felt a pair of huge hands on my ass. The thick fingers felt my cheeks experimentally, then ran up and down my thighs. Without any further preamble, the two big thumbs spread my buttocks. Naturally, I half-expected a penis as thick and rough as the fingers, but -- quite to the contrary -- a smooth, narrow cock worked its way up between my thighs, and after a few short pokes, pushed inside me. I gasped and grunted as he went to work. He moved hard and pushed in deep, but his rhythm was so irregular -- sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes stopping to push in deep and hold there -- that it was impossible for me to build up to an orgasm.

After five minutes, I finally started to warm up. There wasn’t really any way for me to move with him, except to tighten my pussy now and then. I tried to clamp down on him hard, but he slapped my ass sharply, and then, in a flurry of activity, he came, dumping his load inside me.

He pulled out, and a few moments later I felt a spray cleaning me back there, followed by a flow of air that dried me. I had no idea whether it was automatic or manual.

A second man came up and plugged into me. He pumped away manfully for four minutes, and came in a short burst. He tried to get going a second time, but wasn’t able.

I could describe the third and fourth man, but honestly, my mind wandered. I didn’t need to pay attention, so for the most part, I didn’t. I mean, yes, there was someone pounding away at my ass, their cock inside me. I couldn’t exactly ignore that. Yes, my eyes did widen when they’d start pulsing and dumping their load of sperm. I could feel it vividly. I didn’t cum, though. It didn’t take me anywhere. It was very clinical, very transactional, as Donaldson had said.

After the fourth man, after the spray and the drying air were done, I waited for Donaldson to let me out. I waited a minute (by the clock) and called his name, but there was no answer. I wasn’t scared or angry; I was just a little irritated. I punched the button on the “remote control” even though I knew it didn’t do anything. “Donaldson!” I shouted. “DONALDSON!”

After two minutes of frustration and waiting, I felt a new pair of hands on my butt: hands with long, slender fingers. I shouted, “Hey! No! I said four! FOUR! Not five! Four!” but whoever they were, they probably couldn’t hear me.

I gasped as a long, thick cock rose between my thighs. It was frighteningly big. With one hand on my butt, the man used his other hand to aim his tool directly at my vaginal opening. He paused there, with his tip touching my threshold. I felt a terrible sense of helplessness. How long will this go on? How many men did Donaldson really line up? I wondered. I said four, but this is five! How many will there be? When will he let me out?

As the fear and uncertainty welled up inside me, the huge cock slid inside me as well. I cried out. It was fearfully big. It was the biggest of them all. My body tensed; my legs kicked. I pounded the cushion beneath me with my fists. I screamed and cried. All the while, he kept pushing slowly forward, deeper and deeper within me. My entire body broke into a sweat, and without warning, completely unexpectedly, just moments after he entered me, I came. Hard. My back arched, my muscles tensed, I shook like the wheels of a rollercoaster. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The orgasm, once begun, seemed to have no end. My whole body shook like a leaf in a strong wind. I screamed with utter abandon. Then, my mind went blank and the world seemed to stand still. The only thing that existed was his massive member, sliding in and out of me. When I closed my eyes, I could almost see it.

I kept my eyes closed for a long time. I don’t know how long. With the first four men, I knew exactly what time they began and ended. But this man… I didn’t know anything… time, space… I hardly knew my own name.

My eyes popped wide open when he began to cum. My my jaw dropped open in a wordless cry. His cock pulsed like an earthquake, pressing me open from inside, and I swear I felt the hot white sperm filling me and spilling out of me. It dripped slowly down my inner thigh.

When he finished, he stayed inside me for a long time, not moving, not softening. I lay there, all my senses on maximum alert. Was he going to start again? Was that piledriver going to pound me a second time? Perhaps he was asking himself the same question.

But no -- he stayed like that, plugged into me, huge and hard but not moving, for five minutes by the clock. Then he slowly, oh-so-slowly slid out. I lay there in silence, wondering what would come next. First came the spray, then the drying air, and then…?

I heard a click and a hiss, and the beige restraint deflated and withdrew. Donaldson gave me a hand in sliding out of the hole. I was so shaken, I needed his help.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I said four, not five,” I told him, and my legs buckled. I grabbed the hole to steady myself..

“Oh, sorry! My mistake! I thought you said ‘four or five’.”

I shrugged. My brain was so literally fucked, that I not only had a trouble standing, I could barely string two words together. I wasn’t about to argue the details of our previous conversation.

“Who was that last guy?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you that,” he replied. “I mean, I won’t tell you that. It goes against what we’re doing here. The only thing I’ll tell you is that none of them were me.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sold. Same time tomorrow?”