By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
A story in which a strange botanical goo turns one of our heroes into a docile girl,
while his more manly companions are compelled to fight in the arena.
As it turns out, the best way to improve their lot was to write the first comprehensive sex manual
their captors had ever seen.
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I’m not a miner, so I don’t want to get into a discussion about which mine is deepest, but I was told that the Darkling mine is the deepest of all active mines. It reaches nearly 13,000 feet into the earth, which is about four kilometers.
When the mine reached that depth, the miners began to report encounters with men carrying swords or spears, who spoke a strange language and carried bright phosphorescent lamps. Despite the fierce appearance of these warriors, they never did any harm to the miners -- at least, not physically. They seemed to want to frighten and intimidate the miners, and they succeeded. Every miner who claimed to have seen or met these strange beings was terrorized, and either refused to work in the deepest levels, or quit the mine altogether.
The management of the Darkling Corporation naturally gave no credence to these reports, but the stories brought an unwanted publicity to the mine. In popular parlance, the mine now had a name: The Cursed Darkling Mine. In addition, work on deepening the mine and enlarging the lowest levels, had come to an almost total standstill, since there were very few men willing to work down there.
The owners decided that the best way to put an end to the stories was to carry out a thorough and impartial investigation. They put together two teams: the first team was a set of private investigators and psychologists. They spoke with every man who claimed to have encountered the strange beings below. A few -- very few -- of the stories were discarded as hoaxes or as the product of malingering, but the majority were soundly consistent. The investigators did background checks, to determine whether any of the men had a history of mental or social issues. They looked for membership in cults or adherence to conspiracy theories. They tried to find connections to rival mining companies. They administered polygraph tests. They spoke to family and neighbors. They looked for even the slightest evidence of conspiracy between the men.
All of their digging and probing came up negative. As far as the investigators could tell, the men honestly and sincerely believed what they said.
At that point, the second team was created. This team was composed of adventurers: spelunkers, military men, fighters, … and me: an anthropologist.
In the midst of all these manly, aggressive, combative types, I was obviously the odd man out. The reason I was included on the team was that so many elements in the stories appeared tribal, atavistic, bronze-age. My expertise was meant to identify and debunk the characteristics these under-earth warriors had adopted.
I say “adopted” because the company’s working theory was that the encounters were real insofar as the strangers actually existed, but they were fake as far as what they purported to be: the clothes, the arms, the unfamiliar language, were all a sham. The Darkling Corporation suspected that a rival company had joined one of their shafts to the Darkling mine, and moved back and forth freely, with the aim of slowing or even stopping Darkling’s production.
There were two men on the team that I need to mention by name: MacGregor and Talbot. They went by their last names only, and although they never met before, the two became fast friends. They shared a deep, near-obsessive interest in the martial arts. They were each a master in several schools of fighting, whether Judo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga, Sambo, Kendo, Muay Thai, Capoeira, or simply boxing. They had endless arguments about which of the martial arts was best or most effective, and they often spent their free time sparring and comparing techniques.
They liked to joke about which martial art would be best for me, since I knew nothing about fighting. I’ve never been in a fight in my life, and hoped I never would.
If you’re curious about the composition of our team and our preparations, I’m sure you can find all the details among the Darkling Corporation’s papers.The story that I’m telling begins deep below, when our team was methodically exploring the deepest level of the mine, visiting the spots where the supposed encounters had taken place. We were thorough and we were careful, but we saw no one and found nothing. There were no clues and no traces, but we persisted in our search. We had an absolute mandate of covering the entire bottom level.
On the fourth day of searching, we discovered a narrow gap in the mine wall. It was less than two feet wide, and more than six feet high. The spelunkers pushed their way through, and after several long minutes, returned in a state of high excitement. They had found a vast open chamber where they suggested we set up camp. It was an ideal spot to use as our base. A stream ran through the chamber, and we found that the water was potable. There was a large, flat, horizontal area, and plenty of projections which we used as seats, shelves, or beds, depending on their height. The ceiling was so high and far away that we dubbed this place The Cathedral, and it was a relief to have found it after days of being closed inside the narrower parts of the mine.
The Cathedral wasn’t far from the elevator and the phone to the surface, and although it wasn’t central to the excavated areas, it was near enough. We called up to report our find, and to ask for more gear. We strung up lights so we wouldn’t drain our batteries.
It was possible -- and even likely -- that the groups of “warriors” had entered the mine through this gap, which hadn’t been made by the Darkling miners, and didn’t show on any map of the mine. Our contacts on the surface were quite excited by our discovery, since -- up to that point -- they naturally feared the worst: which was, that we wouldn’t uncover anything at all.
Once our base camp was established, we divided our search team in two: half continued to search the excavations, while the other half made their way around the Cathedral, which was larger and far more extensive than we originally thought. The spelunkers found a pool, fed by a hot spring. It wasn’t large enough to bathe in, but I was able to route the water off a rock edge, where I created a hot, refreshing shower. This made life underground a great deal more bearable.
After a few more days, our explorations of the mine itself were nearly complete. We found nothing in the mine that could possibly explain, prove, or disprove the strange encounters. The exploration of the Cathedral, on the other hand, was far more promising, although it seemed to have no end. On this particular day, we were on the verge of turning our full attention to the Cathedral. Two of our men returned to the mine to visit the last unexplored tunnel. Four others set off to probe the limits of the Cathedral. The other nine of us remained in camp, either resting or maintaining equipment.
Dinner time came and went, but none of the six explorers returned. I was sent to use the phone to report to the surface. Two others went to look for the mine explorers, and four went searching for the Cathedral crew.
Let me say that my sense of direction is very good -- even in that underground place. I’d made my way from the Cathedral to the surface phone enough times that I could do it quite literally with my eyes closed. In fact, the lights failed once when I was alone without my flashlight, and even in that total darkness, I confidently made my way by feel, without making a single wrong turn. This time, however, the lights were fully on, yet I couldn’t find the phone, or even the elevator, which was big, well-lit, and very hard to miss. I backtracked, thinking I must have lost my way, but I returned even more sure that I was in the right place. There hadn’t been a cave-in; we would have heard it. So I took out my light and examined the rock ahead of me. What I saw was unbelievable: A wall had been erected, blocking me from the phone and the elevator! The wall was composed of fitted stones, laid by hand. A chill ran through me. It had to be the work of many hours, of many hands. I tried to pull the stones away from the side where the phone was located, but the rocks were so heavy, and placed so tightly and expertly, from floor to ceiling, that I couldn’t budge them at all.
Alarmed and thoroughly frightened, I ran back toward the Cathedral. The walls echoed with shouts, cries, and gunfire. When I entered the narrow doorway, I literally bumped into one of the strangers. He was slim but muscular, and naked except for a long loincloth that dangled just past his knees. He smiled, but not a friendly smile. It was the confident smile of a successful predator. He took me by the upper arm and led me, firmly but gently, toward our camp, where a terrible contest was taking place. He pushed me down to my knees and put his hand on my head, and the two of us watched the scene unfold. Four of my companions lay dead and bleeding on the ground. Beyond them, MacGregor and Talbot were fighting for their lives against the warrior strangers. A group -- maybe a dozen -- strangers stood watching as MacGregor and Talbot took on one comer after another. The strangers were armed with swords and short, curiously shaped knives. They approached one at a time, as if waiting in a queue.
I must say that I was enormously impressed by the fighting ability of MacGregor and Talbot. I admit that in the past I suspected that all their talk about their fighting prowess was just hot air. How wrong I was! Watching them in action was like watching a violent dance. Neither of them made a single mistake, neither made the slightest misstep. Instead, they made short work of each challenger, disarming them, using their weapons against them, then casting their arms aside. They beat the strangers with their bare fists, and tossed them about like rag dolls, using judo throws. It was magnificent to behold.
Then, when the strangers seemed to have had enough, their leader raised his hand. In his other hand, he held a strange, black, not-quite-round ball. His warriors took a step back and covered their eyes with one hand. I soon saw why: The chief threw the ball to the ground. When the ball hit the ground and broke, it released a bright green goo. I heard an eerie whine and the goo ignited in a blinding flash. I was taken completely by surprise; after looking into the intense light, I couldn’t see anything at all. I heard MacGregor and Talbot shouting, and felt my hands being bound in front of me. Then I was led away.
When I was able to see again -- about thirty minutes later -- I saw that MacGregor and Talbot also had their hands bound, but theirs were bound behind their backs. I also noticed that they were bound with cord: I could see it biting into their wrists. I, on the other hand, was bound with a white ribbon, the ends of which dangled down to my knees. The three of us were being led through a city street. The inhabitants lined the road and leaned out of second-floor windows to gawk at us. I could scarcely barely believe what was happening.
The three of us were surrounded by men armed with spears and swords, in the midst of a well-populated city. The streets were wide; the houses clean and well-built. The inhabitants looked healthy and happy. High above us arched the roof of an immense cavern -- so large that it gave us the sensation of being outside, rather than deep in the bowels of the earth. Everything was lit by a natural luminescence whose source I couldn’t see.
“Will you look at this place!” MacGregor exclaimed.
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t--” but before I could finish, my guard gave me a slap on the back of the head.
Annoyed that MacGregor could speak, but I couldn’t, I glanced over at my companions. I noticed that Talbot and MacGregor were under very close guard and massively outnumbered by warriors carrying spears. I, on the other hand, had only one guard, whose weapons were sheathed. Every now and then he gave me a shove or a slap to keep himself from being bored.
After we’d walked nearly a half mile, we were brought into the atrium of a large building, where a huge, older-looking man was holding court. In spite of his age, he was muscular and fit. He must have been over seven feet tall. He sat behind an elevated desk. Spectators lined the walls, leaving a large open area in the center. We were brought to one side of the open space, where we were stood in a line.
The chief who had captured us addressed the court. After brief introductory comments, he proceeded to narrate and pantomime our capture. First he portrayed, one by one, the deaths of each of my twelve dead companions. Apparently all of them had put up a fight; a fact that was appreciated by the spectators and the judge. Twelve times the crowd murmured its approval. They were particularly interested in how well my companions fought. The chief tried to show my dead companions’ facial expressions, so he could render their determination and courage. He imitated their fighting style, and their nobility in death. A few times the crowd shouted in admiration for my fallen friends.
Then the chief came to the capture of Talbot and MacGregor. Here, he became much more eloquent and animated. He gestured to my two companions and approximated, with sweeping arm and leg motions, the battle put up my friends. He acted out the way my friends disarmed his warriors. He mimicked the punches and throws, and -- to the great astonishment of the entire company -- the way that MacGregor and Talbot tossed aside the weapons, preferring to use their bare hands. MacGregor and Talbot understood quite clearly what was going on: there were murmurs of approval for their courage and skill, and exclamations of astonishment for techniques that were clearly innovations in fighting, as far as these underground warriors were concerned. When the chief was done testifying, he slapped his chest in pride, then walked over to MacGregor and Talbot, and slapped their chests in the same way. A cheer went up, and the cheer lasted for nearly a minute. The judge made a gesture, and the bonds that tied their wrists were cut. As Talbot and MacGregor massaged their wrists, the judge brought forth from his desk a bottle and a pair of small cups. He filled both cups, and he and the chief tossed them off. Then he filled the cups again, and the chief presented them to MacGregor and Talbot.
“Smells like whiskey,” Talbot observed.
“It’s nothing like,” MacGregor corrected, “but it’ll do.” And the two of them tossed back their heads and downed the liquid. MacGregor smacked his lips in satisfaction, and the room roared with approval.
“I think we’re in, boy,” MacGregor told Talbot. It was true: everyone smiled at them. The entire room was full of obvious, even glowing, admiration.
Then the chief turned his attention to me, and told the story of my capture. He made it seem as though I was hiding at the start and that I was discovered while trying to run away. He mimicked my fearful look, my hunched demeanor, and held up his hands as if afraid of being struck. None of it was true, but how could I contradict him? The spectators laughed as if they were hearing the funniest thing in the world. He pulled me forward, to the center of the room, and pushed me to my knees, just as the other warrior had done when I was captured. I looked up at him. He smiled down at me and ruffled my hair. Again, the room roared with laughter. The judge let the laughter die down. Then he barked a command. At that, three beautiful young girls entered and walked slowly toward me. They were barefoot, and each wore a white tank-top mini-dress that ended above the middle of the thigh. It was cinched at the waist, and they were obviously wearing nothing underneath. They stopped a few feet away and laid a similar white dress on the floor in front of me. The girl in the center pointed at me, then at the dress. The entire room was silent, waiting.
“No,” I said, and shook my head. She stepped forward and slapped me. Hard. I didn’t see it coming. She pointed again at me, and then at the dress.
“No!” I said, more forcefully. She slapped me a second time, a little harder. Then she pointed at me again, poking me hard in the chest, three times. It hurt. She pointed again at the dress.
“I’m not going to wear that fucking dress!” I shouted, and braced myself for the slap.
But it didn’t come. Instead, the girl walked behind me and stood on my calves, so that I couldn’t move. The chief handed each of the girls a double-edged knife, and they began slowly and carefully cutting my clothes off me. I say “slowly and carefully” because the knives were exceptionally sharp, and they were double-edged. Even if they were as careful as can be, they could very easily cut me, and cut me badly, without meaning to. For that same reason I kept very still and tried to not even breathe. Soon, I was completely naked, except for the ribbon binding my wrists. I looked at it and realized that all this time if had simply pulled my wrists apart, the ribbon would have fallen away.
You could have heard a pin drop in that chamber. The girls handed their knives back to the chief, and then a fourth woman entered, carrying a small cup filled to the brim with a transparent green goo. I had a pretty good idea of what was coming next, and resolved to not let a single drop of that stuff pass my lips. My resolve did me no good. She didn’t even try offering it to me. The woman crouched down in front of me and watched my breathing. Then, at just the right moment, her hand shot to my neck -- not striking me, but touching me in a way that startled me and caused me to throw my head back with my jaw open. In the same moment, she dumped the green goo into my mouth and pushed my head back even farther. It was diabolical: I was thrown off balance; I was afraid I’d fall over. She’d caught me just after an exhale, so I didn’t have the breath to push the goo out of my mouth. I couldn’t turn my head to let it dribble out of my mouth. I had to either swallow or choke. Instinctively, I took a gulp. I meant to draw some air through my nose, but instead I sent the whole viscous mess flying down my throat. Then the girls let go of me and took a step back.
Almost instantly, my senses began to reel. I felt like I was either drunk or high. It was a pleasant sensation, though. I looked up at the four girls and thought, How lovely they are! I smiled as they uncoiled the ribbon from my wrists. I didn’t resist at all when they lifted my arms and lowered the little dress onto me. They each ruffled my hair in turn. Then they helped me to my feet and showed me to the crowd, turning me in every direction. All the people said, ahhh-haaa, and I smiled at all of them. It sounded so nice in that moment. It was only later that I learned that it, like the hair-ruffling, was an expression of derision.
As they led me from the chamber, I heard MacGregor swear in horrified tone. I turned toward him and smiled.
In spite of how awful that moment was, I’ll always remember the next few months as the happiest time of my life. I know now (as I knew then) that my euphoria was chemically induced, but the joy and peace I felt seemed totally natural. They dosed me with the green goo every day, but in a smaller portion than the mega-dose they’d given me at the start. I swallowed it willingly; it seemed like the right thing to do.
What was wonderful about that time -- at least for the first few months -- was that the only people I saw were those beautiful girls in their short white dresses. Yes, just like the short white dress that I myself was wearing, but at that time I couldn’t see myself. I wasn’t allowed a mirror, so I only saw the girls. When I looked down at myself, I seemed to be looking at someone else, not me. The girls were very kind and very attentive. Every day, about mid-morning, they would give me a massage. I’d lie naked on a table, and five of them would surround me and work on me together -- one at each limb, and one at my head. All five would rub my torso and back as well, and it was the best massage I ever had in my life. It must have lasted 90 minutes or so, and as they worked, they would dip their hands into a different goo -- this one was a white, opaque mixture that my skin drank up, the way that sand drinks water. As the girls rubbed, the goo seemed to sink into the very center of me, through my skin to my muscles, and even deeper, into my bones and inner organs. On my head, I could feel my hair and scalp drink it up, and I swear I felt it seep into my brain, filling my head. After about an hour of this, I would feel as though my body didn’t exist. It was a beautiful feeling: all my tension, all my anxiety, all the smallest discomforts in me, disappeared, and I was perfectly in the moment, floating like a cloud, high in the sky. I’d experience this floating sensation for a short time and then the second part of the massage would begin. Someone would bring in a bowl of brown goo. It had an intoxicating aroma that reminded me of a bitter after-dinner drink -- I could never quite remember which one. The girls would turn me on my left side, pull my arms gently behind me, and two of them would lie across me, to keep me from moving. Another girl would hold down my left leg, while she rested my right leg on her shoulder, so that my legs were open to forty-five degrees.
The girl near my head would dip her hands into the brown goo and rub it into my chest, causing the most stimulating sensation I’ve ever experienced. The girl behind me would massage the brown goo on my genitals and groin. I would get so sexually excited that I’d begin writhing and groaning. They’d continue until I was sweating and trembling, and at that point, the girl near my head would start pinching my nipples with her thumbs and forefingers, and the girl behind me would stroke my cock and slide her gooey hand into my anus. Then they reduced their rhythm to a tantalizing, maddening slowness, that brought my entire body to the brink of orgasm and held me there until I thought I’d explode or die. Then, all in the same moment, they’d abruptly shift their rhythm, and I’d cum explosively onto a dish they placed for the purpose.
After that, they’d cover me with blankets while I caught my breath, and I’d fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until it was time for lunch.
Once a week, instead of the massage, they would lead me to a round stone basin about six feet in diameter. It was full of another type of white goo -- not the same one used in the massage. They made me soak in it for about forty minutes. At first they would push my head under, but I soon learned that I needed to immerse my head twelve times for at least 10 seconds each. Once I got the idea, I’d go under myself, without the push. Although the goo in this bath looked the same as the white massage goo, its effect was totally different. As soon as it touched my skin, it felt as though incredibly tiny creatures were crawling all over me, burrowing into me through my skin. It doesn’t feel as creepy as it sounds. It was more like millions of tiny creatures massaged me at once, and sank deep into my body, so they could massage me all the way down to my core. I don’t know how many times I looked at my arms to see whether the creatures were real, and how many times I rubbed myself, trying to touch them. But I never saw any movement or touched any tiny creatures.
As I write this, I realize that if I hadn’t been drinking the green goo each morning, that I would never have submitted to that treatment. I would have been wildly aware of the horror of it. But at the time it only seemed innocent and interesting.
The weirdest part of that bath was that, as soon as I stepped out of the goo, my skin felt completely dry and clean. And soft! Unbelievably soft, with a fresh scent, like lavender.
In the afternoons, I had to learn dance and poses. I began learning the dance by doing it in a group with the girls. There were a lot of sweeping arm motions, many bends and stretches. It was a nice workout, apart from whatever esthetic effect it had. I did my best to copy what the other girls did, and after a few weeks, I felt as though I had it down.
The poses were more of a drill. There were eight of them:
They would drill me on the poses several times a day, and often call them out when I least expected it. Sometimes they would say the commands in a soft voice, other times they would bark or shout them at me. In the end, my responses became automatic: I’d be chopping vegetables, for instance, when one of the woman would softly say bu, and I’d find myself on my knees without realizing I’d done it.
There was one last word: roh, which meant “at ease” or “as you were.”
Once I was able to do the dance by myself, without having to watch the others, a girl came once a day to give me private lessons. Before I saw her dance, I thought I was doing it very well. She, on the other hand, had grace, control, and a seductive fluidity that made me feel like an utter clod. She drilled me, adding movements, slowing me down here, speeding me up there, correcting the set of my feet or hips or shoulders, turning my head, telling me to smile. She worked me very hard.
Then, my morning schedule changed: There was no more goo for me: no more goo massages or goo baths; no more green goo in the morning. Instead, I was sent to school, to formally learn the language. I had, of course, picked up a lot of words, greetings, and common phrases, but they wanted me to know the language better.
So they sent me to kindergarten. I spent three hours every morning with four- and five-year-olds, reciting the alphabet, the numbers up to 20, and the names of colors. I was taught to read from picture books with words written large. These were stories on the level of “See Dick and Jane. See Dick run. Run, Dick, run.”
Surprisingly, I was NOT the best student. I tried my best, but I think the green goo hadn’t just made me docile and pliable; it had also made me a little stupid. One day in class my mind wandered, and I realized that, ever since the first dose of green goo, I hadn’t thought about my life in the world above, or the people on my team, or anything about anthropology. I tried to recall something -- anything! -- about anthropology, but nothing came to mind apart from the word anthropology.
Then I realized that the children were laughing and that my teacher was standing in front of me, calling me back from my daydream. Two of the little girls had been playing with my hair, making tiny braids, petting my head, and ruffling my hair. The teacher had me stand and told me to follow her to the principal’s office. They spoke briefly, and my teacher gave me a kind smile and left. The principal then led me to the first-grade classroom and told me, “This is where you’ll come tomorrow and the days after.” He also gave me a note to bring to my matron.
It turned out that this would be a pattern: every morning I would walk to the elementary school and participate in the language lessons given at my grade level. When I would learn enough to be bored, they would promote me to the next grade.
With each promotion, there was a treat: The guard who usually escorted me to school would take me to visit MacGregor and Talbot. They had become gladiators: every ten days they were obliged to fight for their lives. MacGregor seemed to relish it, but Talbot talked of nothing but escape.
“I don’t understand you, boy,” MacGregor would tell him. “This place suits me down to the ground. And you miss the point of the arena: we’re not just here to fight; we have to put on a show.”
“It isn’t even a real fight! Not for you; not for me. I don’t have to make any effort at all! These people don’t know anything about hand-to-hand combat,” Talbot complained. “All they know is weapons. Fighting with them isn’t even a contest, let alone a show.”
“You’re wrong, there,” MacGregor contradicted. “They’re learning. They’re watching and taking it in... and they’re adapting. That’s why I use different tactics each week, and that’s why I’m holding quite a bit back. Mark my words, soon they’ll use your own moves against you.”
Talbot grunted, but said no more.
“You could be worse off,” MacGregor said, and he’d gesture at me. “You could be turning into a wee lassie, like our friend Henry here.”
“I’m not turning into a girl!” I replied in an irritated tone.
“Sure you are. Look at you,” he said, putting his huge hand on my thigh, “You’re as soft as featherdown, and your legs are shapely and free from hair. Did you ever have such lissome legs and silky skin and hair when you were practicing anthropology?”
“It’s just the goo,” I told him. “It makes my skin soft. That’s all.”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid that’s not all. That’s not all by half,” he told me. “I’ve been talking with the lads here in the arena. You have to know that you’re dealing with men who have a mad genius for the botanical arts. Believe me, the plant world holds no secrets from our masters. All of their ingenuity is concentrated into those various gels and goops and goos. The lovely phosphorescent light, the healing power of their doctors, it’s all due to their deep knowledge of the properties of plants. The boys have told me what’s in store for you. For now, you’ve been slimming down and softening up -- and I swear they’ve taken years off of you -- but soon we’re going to see your little titties sprout, and your cock and balls will shrink down and turn themselves into a sweet little pussy.”
I glowered at him.
“Cut it out,” Talbot said. “It’s bad enough, what they’re doing to her, we don’t need to rub it in.”
“I’m not a her!” I shouted.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” MacGregor said, in a soothing tone. “Keep your temper. We’re all friends here. You have to adapt in order to survive. I think you’re doing well with the hand you’ve been dealt. I’m sure I wouldn’t have navigated all this--” here he waved his hand to indicate my little dress, my long soft hair, and my naked legs. “No, clearly I couldn’t have done this as well as you have.”
I didn’t reply, so MacGregor went on. “Look now, but you’ve no one to blame but yourself. If only you’d put up a fight, they never would have done this to you.”
“If I tried to put up a fight, I’d be dead,” I retorted, with tears in my eyes. “I’d be dead, like everybody else!”
The conversation with MacGregor threw me into a funk. I was angry, offended, hurt, vulnerable, affronted, and full of resentment. My escort, the young guard who walked me back to my dormitory, noticed my dark mood, and with a smile pushed me into a doorway and tickled me until I screamed with laughter. I didn’t want to laugh. I didn’t want his tickling to make me feel better, but in spite of my anger and distress, it did make my mood pass, and by the time I reached home, I was happy again, though I also had a desperate need to pee.
Unfortunately, I already knew that MacGregor was right about the changes my body was going through. After the goo treatments stopped, I could see myself looking more and more like a girl. I’d somehow gotten slimmer and smaller, and the shape of my face had changed. My hips and ass had grown slightly, and my breasts were more sensitive.
At school, I was now with the fourteen and fifteen year olds, and I could see that my physical development was about even with the girls in my class. The boys had begun to notice my ass, and started staring at me during class. I became quite conscious of exactly how short my skirt was, and at least once a day caught some boy trying to get a look between my legs.
Something was was definitely happening between my legs. My balls had re-attached to my groin and were transforming into a pair of soft, smooth mounds. My cock was smaller in diameter than my pinky finger, and at this point was less than an inch long.
My training in the dance and poses continued, but the school work had gotten quite difficult. Maybe the problem was that the goo had made me slow in the head. Maybe it was all the hormones raging in my body. I’d forgotten what a torment my teenage years had been; having gone through it once didn’t make it easier a second time.
Still, somehow, for some reason, in spite of my backwardness, my teacher took me to the principal, who showed me to my next classroom. He indicated where the sixteen and seventeen year olds met, and told me, “This is where you’ll come tomorrow and the days after,” just as he had done all the other times, when I’d passed from one grade to the next. He gave me a note to bring to my matron, just as he had all the other times. But then, before he turned to walk away, he reached under my skirt and gave my butt a double squeeze.
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I was certainly embarrassed when the principal squeezed my butt, but honestly it wasn’t that much of a surprise. The women in my dormitory had been doing the same thing to me for about a month now, but the principal was the first man who ever did it. It was a little too familiar, but I took it to mean you go, girl! or some similar encouragement.
On the way home, my guard/escort kept finding reasons for taking my arm, or putting his hand in the small of my back, or softly bumping into me and smiling. By the time I got home I was all hot and flustered. I wanted to take a cold shower, but instead the matron sent me off to see MacGregor and Talbot, as she always did after I changed grade.
I found MacGregor sitting alone. Instead of his usual smiling, sanguine demeanor, he was clearly distracted and upset. He looked up when I greeted him, and his eyes roved over my body from head to toe, and yes, they lingered long on my breasts and naked thighs. But rather than make comment on my appearance and development, he heaved a deep and heavy sigh. He stood up, and with a serious look, grasped me gently by my arms. He sat me firmly down on one of the stone seats, and told me, “Lass, I have bad news… bad news for us both: our old friend Talbot is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, he was killed in the arena. You remember, don’t you, that I warned him to change up his game? To not take his opponents for granted? I told him, over and over, didn’t I? But he didn’t listen, did he. He never varied his technique. He never worked to make himself better, he never tried to be harder to reach. And you can be sure: they reached him. They learned his ways. They conned his moves well enough and then some. Those boys, they caught on to his patterns; they studied his weak points. They tried a few small things on him at first, just to test him, but at last one day, they let loose and beat him. Oh lord, they beat him down and they beat him bad. And not in one fell swoop, either. They took him apart, piece by piece, in one match after another, and still he came back time after time with his old, shopworn moves. Even then, he wouldn’t listen to me. I think he lost his taste for the contest, for the battle. He lost the desire to always be better. He wouldn’t adapt. It was a sorrowful thing, girl, an unmercifully long thing, the beating that he took, and he suffered terribly the entire time. In the end, they let him bleed and twitch on the ground for an endless time before they finally cut his throat and let him die. I tried to jump in and end his pain myself, but they prevented me, and that hurt most of all..”
I cried out in horror, and tears sprang to my eyes.
“Yes, yes, give it a good cry, girl,” he said, and he took me in his arms. “Don’t hold back: let your tears flow for our good old Talbot. He was a warrior, a fighting man, to the last. Our boy went out fighting, fighting until the end.”
I found myself sobbing into MacGregor’s muscular chest. I hadn’t realized what a colossus he’d become. He was always strong, but now he was stronger, massive. He’d become a mass of solid muscle: taller, wider, more powerful than he used to be. He held me and told me soothing things as he stroked my hair and gently squeezed me. His hands ran down my back as he said, “There, there, now. He did well, our old Talbot, though, didn’t he? He gave his best, for as long as he could give it.” MacGregor’s hands drifted to my thighs, and then they slid under my skirt to my ass--
“Hey, hey!” I protested, and he immediately brought his hands up to the middle of my back.
“I’m sorry, girl,” he said. “I’m just looking for some comfort,” and his massive chest rose and fell with another huge breath. As I rode the wave of his muscular sigh, something stirred inside of me.
I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed him tight. “I need comfort, too,” I whispered, and immediately his hands dropped down and slid under my dress. He fondled my thighs and ass while I held him. Then we kissed, and he began to grope my breasts. I let it go on until I found myself saying, “Okay, that’s enough.”
We stood up. As he backed away, a little bent over, I could see from the tenting of his loincloth that he had an enormous erection. He saw me look at it, and said, “You know, those mad fellas with their goo have made this a lot bigger and harder, in case you’re interested.” He put his hand on the edge of the cloth, ready to show me.
“I think I’d better get back,” I told him, a little nervously.
“We’ll save it for next time then,” he said, the words catching in his throat. He walked off before I could reply.
My escort held my hand all the way back to my dormitory, and somehow the back of his hand and fingers kept touching my thigh.
All of this male attention was getting me pretty worked up, so when I got back to my room, I took off my dress and examined myself in the mirror. By now, I had a pretty respectable pair of breasts, as big as any girl’s in my class. Maybe even a little bigger. My ass had a nice shape. Of course it looked huge to me, but I knew how to adjust for the male perspective. Then I lay on the floor and rested my feet against the mirror so I could study myself. I knew things had changed down there, but I never dared to look before today. I inched my butt as close to the mirror as I could, and what I saw took my breath away. There was no trace whatsoever of my male genitalia. My balls were gone, completely gone. They’d been replaced by two smooth, hairless mounds that resembled a big pair of soft lips turned sideways. I wasn’t sure if the lips would part, but sure enough, at a gingerly touch from my fingers, they opened. Scarcely daring to breathe, I explored myself with my fingers. I’d seen anatomical diagrams of women’s genitals, and I’d seen some actual women up close and personal, but those experiences were nothing compared to examining my own pussy. I took a deep breath and for the first time, slid one of my fingers into my vagina. I gasped, and the next thing I knew, I was masturbating furiously, with my thumb on my clitoris, and my finger seeking out my G-spot. When I came, the orgasm shook me to the core. My body bucked and arched, and I couldn’t help but cry out. I gushed as I came, which was another surprise, and as I lay on the floor catching my breath, I suddenly and unexpectedly came again like a kind of aftershock. I looked at my startled face in the mirror. I could feel the wet pool cooling beneath my butt. I listened as acutely as I could, but it didn’t seem that anyone had heard either of my orgasmic cries. Or if they had heard, they weren’t reacting.
I smelled my fingers, and nodded in approval. They actually smelled pretty nice.
If the boys were curious about me in my previous grade, they were even more so in my new one. It seemed that they were always on the prowl. They were incessantly bumping into me so they could touch my ass or thighs, and I had to be constantly vigilant to keep my legs closed, because there was always at least one boy laser-focused on my thighs in the hope of glimpsing what lay between them. Some of the boys were quite daring, and actually groped my breast while pretending to reach for something behind me. Given my station, I wasn’t allowed to protest, but the teacher would scold them if she witnessed it happen.
This class was the most difficult socially, because the girls were uniformly cold to me. None of them spoke to me at all; none of them wanted anything to do with me. The boys didn’t speak with me either; they seemed to regard me as a doll or a toy that they weren’t quite allowed to play with.
That is, until one day when I arrived at school and all the students were wandering outside, or in the halls. No one was in their classroom, and the teachers were nowhere to be seen. I still have no idea what was going on that day. I couldn’t ask; no one would have answered me. Probably there was some emergency that called the adults away temporarily, and the students were excited by their little bit of freedom. A group of boys were laughing and joking together, and from the way they looked at me, they’d been waiting for me to arrive. After a quick exchange, one of the boys ran over and took my arm, saying, “Come here, maijao. We have to show you something.” I asked where the teacher was, and he said, “Oh, the teacher? Come on, I’ll bring you to her.”
He hurried me down the hall into a room that had no windows. I saw some of the girls watch us go, and there was strong disapproval in their faces.
Pretty quickly I understood what it was all about. The room was small, and contained only a table and some chairs. The teacher wasn’t there, of course. The boys pushed all the chairs into the corners of the room and set the table in the center. Then they gathered around me and lifted my dress off over my head. Then a rough groping frenzy began. Their hands were all over my breasts, my butt, between my legs. They lifted me onto the table and opened my legs and arms. I wanted to cry out, to call for help, but somehow I wasn’t able to. I wanted to resist, to push them off, to punch and kick, but my body remained passive and submissive. It was the damn goo -- it really had soaked into my brain. Crap! I thought. It’s a goddamn gangbang!
One boy positioned himself at the foot of the table and announced, “It was my idea, so I’m going first.” No one disagreed, but when he opened his robe, a boy on my right planted his mouth on my right breast. Seeing this, a boy on my left tried to suck on my left breast, but his head bumped the other boy’s. “Hey, get off!” the one on the right complained. “I was here first!”
“There’s room!” the left one protested. “Just don’t be greedy! Turn your head a little!”
“Get off the both of you!” shouted the one with his cock out. “I’m going first and everybody else has to back off!”
“Screw that!” another boy yelled, and started kissing me aggressively (and badly) on the mouth. In his juvenile enthusiasm and inexperience, he pushed his teeth against mine, and it hurt.
All the boys started yelling and pushing each other, even the ones who weren’t near the table. They began exchanging blows and shoving each other. At that point, the door was ripped open, and the principal stepped in. I saw a few curious faces behind him, who grew wide-eyed at a glimpse of my pussy and naked breasts.
“Quiet, all of you! Quiet down! SHUT UP!” the principal shouted, and with a “Give me that!” he snatched my dress from one of the boys.
“You know that you shouldn’t be doing this,” he scolded. “This is not how young men are supposed to behave. Why did you undress her? What is wrong with you?”
“But she’s a maijao,” the first boy protested. “She dishonored her people. Isn’t this what she’s for?”
“No,” he said. “She is a maijao, yes. She became one for dishonoring her people, but you must treat her as if she was born a maijao. She is here as a lesson to us all -- that we must honor our people and fight like men, even to the death.”
The boys looked deflated and greatly disappointed. The principal sent them back to their class. Once they were gone, he shut the door. I began to sit up, but he stopped me by putting his hand on my naked stomach. “No, stay there, girl,” he said. “Dumsane." At that word, I automatically reached down and held my ankles, leaving my legs wide open.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “they shouldn’t have taken your clothes. That was wrong. It was a terrible breach of etiquette, and I shall speak with them about it. In any case, today will be the last day of school for you. You were here to learn our language and to spend time with our children. It was a lesson for you and for them. Now, however, you’ve become a huge distraction to the boys and a problem for the girls. In a way, I can’t blame the boys, because you really have become quite lovely. And so, by way of goodbye, I will give you this.” With that, he covered my stomach and breasts with my dress. Then he threw open the front part of his robe, and moved toward me, cock in hand. Soon he was rubbing the head of his cock against me, and I became surprisingly wet. I gasped as he pushed his shaft inside me. “Shhh, shhh,” he said. “Very quiet.”
He slowly pumped for several minutes, and the feeling in me grew and grew. My breathing became ragged, and I gripped the edges of the table with my hands. I swallowed hard. He began breathing faster and pumping more desperately. His cock suddenly swelled up inside me and start pulsing. My back arched. I gritted my teeth and, panting, did my best to not cry out. His cock pulsed and throbbed for a surprisingly long time, and then, panting for breath, he pulled out of me.
Then came the biggest surprise of all: he cleaned his cock on the front of my dress. “You can put your dress back on and wait here for your escort. I will have him summoned now. Roh.”
At that last word, I was able to let go of my legs and sit up. I held my sperm-stained dress and hesitated before putting it on. I struggled to pull it over my head and down my body without getting his sperm on my face and all down the front of me. I recoiled at the sensation, and at the shame of wearing such a visible stain, but there was nothing else I could do. I sat on my heels, eyes on the floor, embarrassed. I felt utterly foolish. I knew in my head that none of this was my fault; that none of it was my doing, but in spite of that I still felt like a guilty idiot, and was quite sure that everyone who saw me would think the same.
I waited for about fifteen minutes, when the door finally opened and my escort appeared. He was smiling, as usual, but his smile disappeared when he saw the sperm drying on the front of my dress. He drew his lips tight and told me, “Come.” With a stern, serious look on his face, he led me from the building. A few people, teachers and students, were in the hall and saw us leaving. My escort looked each of them in the face, as if daring them to say something, anything. They must have been frightened of him, because they looked at the ground or looked away, and none of them dared make a sound.
As soon as we were out of sight of the school. He stopped and demanded, “Who did that to you?”
“The principal,” I told him.
He swore. “That is totally wrong! He had no right! It will not stand! Come with me now!” He also made some remarks using words I didn’t understand. I supposed that they were imprecations, but I couldn’t be sure. A lot of it was about the principal being an unsuitable person.
He led me down an alley, behind a building. At first I imagined he was going to secure me in a safe location while he returned to the school to kick the principal’s ass. But I could not have been more wrong. As he went on fuming and ranting, I came to understand that he was angry that he hadn’t been my first. He felt that this was owed him, as payment for such a lowly task as escorting a maijao to school.
Someone had left a carpet hanging over a cord, probably to air it out. He took the carpet and spread it on the ground. Then he put his hands on my hips and maneuvered me onto it. Then: ”Poroo,” and I found myself turning my back to him and bending over, straight-legged. He lifted my skirt and examined my pussy. I could feel it was still dirty with the principal’s spunk. Some of it was dripping down my inner thigh. I had nothing to clean myself with -- and, as disgusting as it already was, I was not about to use my dress as a rag to clean myself with.
I don’t know what sort of cloth he found, but I heard my escort wringing the water out of something that he then used to wipe me between my legs. He dipped the cloth again, and used the soaked, dripping, rag to wipe again. Oddly, he didn’t open the lips of my pussy. He only cleaned the outside of me, as if he didn’t dare do more. After he’d wrung out the cloth and dried my butt and thighs as well as he could, he whispered, ”Dumsane,” which made me turn, lie on the ground, and spread my legs again.
He knelt down and rolled up the front of my skirt so that the still-wet sperm was hidden inside layers of dry cloth.
Then he lifted his loincloth and looked down at me with a smile. I couldn’t help but return his smile. Somehow the goo that penetrated my brain had turned me into this: I was unable to resist him. I wanted to please him. I felt thankful and glad that he was far better endowed than the principal, and wondered if his oversized member was the result of a different goo, the one MacGregor said they’d used on him.
In fact, as the long, hard shaft of my escort’s cock slid inside me, it was a completely different experience. He watched my face and whispered, “Much better, eh?” The only response I could make was to groan with pleasure. He moved slowly, and when he pushed in, he penetrated me deeply. It felt like he was pressing impossibly far up inside me, into my belly. Each movement he made gave me paroxysms of pleasure. I couldn’t speak, even if I wanted to. I writhed and twisted beneath him, and he enjoyed watching me, impaled as I was on his spike.
My mind went utterly blank. I was an animal, an object, a feeling of pleasure wrapped around his shaft. After I don’t know how long, my excitement began to build. I gushed again, and he laughed in delight. Then he began ramming harder and a little faster. I cried out. He pushed deep and hard. He ground his hips into mine. I moaned. My mouth and eyes gaped. I panted, I gasped for breath.
Then his cock began to swell inside me. It was a slow expansion, pushing against the walls of my vagina. My head bent back and pressed hard against the ground.
Then came the explosion. It wasn’t an orgasm: it was wave upon wave of orgasms. Each one barely finished when a new one began. I was limp beneath him; I couldn’t take any more. He looked immensely pleased with himself, and slowly withdrew. I gave a tiny cry as the tip of his cock popped out of me, and his smile broadened even further.
But then he did that same strange thing that the principal had done: he unrolled the front of my skirt, and cleaned his penis on the front of it! He was careful to choose clean spots that the principal hadn’t used, and this left me with an enormous spot of cum stains, impossible to hide, on the front of my skirt!
”Roh,” he said, and I relaxed, letting go of my legs. He had to help me to my feet. I was pretty wobbly, and I walked funny most of the way back to my dormitory. He brought me to the door, but before he left, he slipped his hand under my skirt and squeezed my ass twice. I don’t think that means what I thought it meant, I told myself.
The matron took a look at my skirt and said, “You’ve been busy, haven’t you.” She stood up from her desk and walked over to a cabinet in the wall.
“I couldn’t resist them,” I told her.
“Of course you couldn’t,” she agreed. Then she stopped. “Did you say them, plural?”
“Yes, the school principal and then the soldier who escorts me,” I replied.
“Dear God,” the woman said. “We need to send you away.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, frightened.
“I mean that you need to belong to someone, now, as soon as possible, before every man in the city tries it on with you.” She filled a small glass with goo -- this one was orange in color. “Drink this now -- it will keep you from having a baby from either of those morons. It might make you feel strange for a few days, like when you’re on your period. It’s possible you might bleed a little, so don’t worry if that happens, but it won’t be as bad as your monthlies.”
I smiled at her. “Periods? Babies? Monthlies? I’m not going to have any of that.” I laughed.
“Oh, no?” she asked. “And why is that?”
“Because I’m a man!” I told her.
“Are you?” she retorted. “If you’re a man, then, why don’t you show me your great big penis?”
I turned red.
“You don’t have one, do you?”
“No,” I said in a low voice.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you?”
“No,” I repeated. “I don’t have a penis.”
“In fact, you have a little hole between your legs, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, my face crimson, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to have periods and babies.”
“Believe me, little girl,” she said, ruffling my hair, “You will have both. Do you think you’re the first person to go down this road? We have been doing this to men who will not fight, to men who dishonor themselves and their people, for time out of mind. Even the eldest among us cannot remember a time when life was not this way.”
I looked at her in silence, open mouthed. As extensive as my transformation had been, I had no idea that it had gone that far.
“You are a woman in every way,” she told me. “Except for one thing: you are not free: you are not your own, and you never will be. This is what it means to be maijao. Now, go, little girl, and have a lovely bath. Then put on a new clean dress and comb your beautiful hair, and then I will bring you myself to see your friend MacGregor. He should be pleased to keep you and care for you.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I am sure he will find someone to put his hand on your head and make you his own. You are a prize in many ways; the sun will not set today before you are wriggling on the lance of the man who has chosen you.”
As I lay in the hot bath, after washing my most intimate parts, after cleaning and conditioning my hair, which was now long and curly, I found the matron’s phrase had stuck in my head: you, wriggling on the lance of the man who has chosen you. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself, impaled on a long, hard penis, twisting and writhing, moaning and gushing. The image wouldn’t go away. I tried to picture MacGregor on the giving end of that cock, but the image wouldn’t come.
I dried and dressed myself. When I presented myself to the matron, she took a long staff in her hand, and held it upright as she walked me through the streets toward the arena. The people we passed, particularly the men, looked at me with interest. Some boys gaped at me, open mouthed, stupified. It was pretty embarrassing.
When we arrived at MacGregor’s dressing room, which was part of the arena, he looked at the staff in the matron’s hand, and seem to understand something by it. She nodded to him; he nodded back, and she left.
“Well, girl,” he said, with some nervousness, “this is your big day, isn’t it.”
“I guess so,” I told him. “I think you have a better idea of what’s going on here than I do. Why is that?”
He looked into my face for a moment, then said, “I’m a prisoner here as much as you. It may not seem that way from your point of view, but I have few choices in this life. Once a week I have to fight or die. Or fight and die. It’s no good complaining; it’s the fact. So I’ve adapted. This place suits me, sure, but I’m not truly free to do as I please. I’ve worked hard to understand this place, to get a grip on the language, to fit into their customs and practices. I don’t want to die as Talbot did, resisting, refusing to understand…”
“I get it,” I said.
“You’ve adapted,” he said. “You’ve changed. You’ve done more than Talbot ever did: you’ve survived.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I told him. “That goo literally got into my head.”
“I understand,” he said.
“No, you don’t!” I said. “That shit made me pliable, accepting, passive, submissive.”
“I know that,” he said. “And I’m sorry. The boys have explained it all to me; what they did to you, what’s expected of you.”
“So… what is expected of me now?”
He sighed. “Someone has to own you. That’s the way it is.”
“And is that someone you?”
“It could be,” he said. “I’d like that, but only if you liked the idea as well.” But, before I had a chance to answer, he added, “But it can’t happen. It would be the end of me, and if it was the end of me, it would be the end of you as well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If I were to see you every day, if we were to make love morning and night, it would be a great conflict for me. At times I’d have to see you as old Henry, our anthropologist, and it would hurt my heart to see what they’ve done to you. That conflict, that sadness, would sit in my heart, and it would make me weak in the arena, and they would strike me down. I would die.”
“I think you’re exaggerating,” I told him.
“Look now,” he said. “One of the unspoken truths in the world of martial arts is that no one is the best. No one can be the best. Every time you fight, each time that you spar, you have to approach it with humility. The fact is, the best fighter can be beaten by the worst: there’s luck, there’s strategy, there’s cheating, there’s inattention and mistakes. A child with a gun can, with a single shot, take down an unbeatable master of kung-fu.
“One day, one of these fools will take me down. I know it; it’s a certainty. It’s also a point of honor for them: it burns them with a bitter flame to see me, a stranger, defeat them every time. The best I can do is hold off that day: to train myself to be better than yesterday, to learn their weapons and techniques. I can’t let myself be distracted with memories of the world above, and that’s the secret weapon they want to use against me: the deadly poison hidden in your soft, pink, feminine charms. I’d love you to distraction, but you would literally be the death of me.”
“So what are we going to do, then?” I asked him.
“I’ll tell you the first thing I’d like to do,” he said, removing his loincloth and revealing a long, hard, straight erection. “I’d like to stick you with my meat thermometer, and then we’ll talk about what comes next.”
I meant to gape at his face, but my eyes were locked on his naked member.
“Now, listen, lass: we both know I can say the words and you’ll be obliged to do as I like, but I want something to happen now that we both want. I want you, of your own free will, to let me fuck you hard and full: two consenting adults, rutting like animals.”
My mouth went dry.
“You know that every other man alive -- at least as far as we’re concerned -- won’t ask you. They’ll say the magic words, and will you or nill you, you’ll spread your legs and smile. Isn’t it so?”
“Yes,” I admitted in a quiet voice.
“So… will you let me inside you?”
I licked my lips. Like my mouth, they were suddenly very dry. “Yes,” I said.
“Then take off that damn silly dress.”
We both stripped, and he had me get down on all fours. Then he took a clear goo, which I’d never seen before, and coated his cock with it.
“What’s that one do?” I asked.
“Ah, you’ll see soon enough, girl,” he replied with a wink. I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming, but after he steadied my hips with one hand, and aimed his cock with the other, he pushed his enormous shaft directly into my butt.
“Oh, yes!” he cried.
“You bastard!” I shouted.
“Ah, say it again, you lovely creature, you!” he crooned, as he slid in and out of my ass. The clear goo was obviously a lubricant. I cried out each time he pushed a little deeper.
“Tell me, Henrietta,” MacGregor said, as he bounced his potent thighs off my soft, round ass, “Did you ever take it up the backside when you were an anthropologist?”
“Fuck you,” I said. “Of course not.”
At last, after a variety of tempos, after some slaps and spanks on my rump, MacGregor’s cock swelled to what seemed twice its size. My poor little butt-hole would have screamed if it had a voice, but then, before he came, MacGregor pulled out and sprayed his seed all over my back and my butt. He squeezed some of his sperm into my crack. “Oh, dear, isn’t that a lovely sight,” he said. “Oh, my lord and lady.”
Then he rolled over onto his back, groaning with satisfaction. I remained on all fours, glaring at him. When he saw my look, he laughed.
“Can I go clean myself?” I demanded.
“Of course you can,” he said. “While you’re with me, you’re free as a bird.”
I ran into the bathroom and wiped my behind. I washed off his sperm and examined my derriere and lower back in the mirror. I felt the backs of my legs and my inner thighs to make sure I’d cleaned off every trace.
“Ohhh, that was lovely,” he told me. “Thank you truly, lass. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Who are you kidding?” I asked him. “You can do this every day of the week with the girls around here, can’t you?”
He raised himself on one elbow. “No, you’re wrong there. No, I can’t. For all the barbarity these folks have cultivated, they remain a set of the most fearful prudes.”
“Are you serious?” I asked him. “Just today I was nearly gang-raped. The man who saved me then raped me himself and wiped his dick on my skirt. The man who walked me home, the one who was supposedly protecting me, raped me again, and cleaned his dick on my skirt. And when I told the matron, she had a day-after goo all ready for me to drink.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, with a dismissive wave. “That’s just their way. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“WHAT!?” I shouted. “Then what on earth ARE you talking about?”
“Have you noticed that these poor sots never take their clothes off? They’ve got some taboo about being naked. That’s the first thing. And then, the only kind of sex they know is fucking, and THAT can only be done only in the missionary way.”
“And so?”
“And so, there is so much else. Other positions, for one thing. Do you know, I’ve never been able to get one of the girls to let me do her doggie style? For you, it was no big thing, but they just won’t do it. You know they’re submissive, but there are things they just will not do. No cowgirl, no reverse cowgirl…”
“Oh, my God,” I groaned. I wanted to cover my ears.
“There’s more,” he said. “They know NOTHING about oral sex: oral-genital, oral-anal..”
“Yuck, almighty!” I said. “Is that even a thing?”
“You’ve never kissed a girl’s butt-hole, Henry?” he asked.
“No!” I replied.
“Hmmph,” he responded. “In any case, it’s completely unknown here, along with anal sex, which I’ve been dying for, so thank you very much. Blow jobs are unknown, by the way, and the whole world of BDSM…”
“Beady what?” I asked.
“Oh my lord,” he said, “are you serious?” Then he fell quiet.
“Do you know what?” he said, after a few moments thought. “I think I see the way forward for you, and hopefully it will change things for me as well. You need someone to own you, to take you, and that someone can’t be me. But I do know a man, a friend. His name is Issyk. He’s a good man, you might say he’s a kind man, but in any case, I know that he’s good to his girls. I’ll introduce you to him, and you will immediately become his favorite.”
“Really,” I said. This proposal seemed flawed in every way possible. “How will that happen?”
“I’ll take you to him now, and you will give him the best blow job he’s ever had in his life. It will have to be the best, because no one in this place has ever had one to start with!”
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“Because it will set you above the rest. And then, as time advances, you can add other tricks to your repertoire: you can let him fuck you up the ass. Then, later, you can have him go down on you, or watch you go down on another girl. You have to remember old Talbot: you have to keep it fresh; they can’t know what to expect. You have to always have something in reserve. If you rely on one old hobbyhorse, some folks will be bored, and others will imitate you. And maybe the imitators will do it better.”
I could see the sense in what he was saying. My survival depended on someone wanting to take care of me. And his wanting me depended on my pleasing him.
“There’s just one problem,” I told him. “I’m not as sexually inventive as you are.”
“But didn’t you study sexual practices in primitive tribes, back when you were an anthropologist?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “but nothing under that topic is fun in any sense of the word.”
“Hmm,” MacGregor mused. “I think I see the solution: I will write you a manual, in English, so these heathens can’t read it, and I will make it the most complete manual of sexual practices that I know of. No diagrams, just words, that explain the various sexual positions, the butt-fucking, the oral sex in its varieties, the girl-on-girl, the man-on-man -- although that may not help either of us -- the BDSM, oh lord -- I’m really going to go to town.”
“And I’ll have to do all that?” I asked him.
“Well, most of it,” he admitted. “You’ll need to keep things fresh. Yes, most of it, but for sure not the man-on-man, eh?”
And with that, he set off laughing and couldn’t stop for several minutes.
When he could talk again, he said, “I have the perfect title: Sexual Innovations in the Underworld.”
I rolled my eyes and told him, “If only you and I can read it, you could call it Grandma’s Favorite Pancake Recipes and it would be all the same.”
He frowned in disappointment. “We don’t need to degenerate into meaninglessness. It makes a great deal of difference. Suppose some other English-speaking fella ends up in your same predicament. Or, suppose in a far off future day when I’m gone, and you are old and full of sleep, some young person asks you to translate it for them. First off, you’ll have to explain that it has nothing to do with your grandmother or pancakes or cooking. But forever and after, it will be colored with that misunderstanding.”
“Okay,” I said, holding up my hands. “I surrender! Let it be as you said.”
We talked a little more about how to sell my supposed expertise. MacGregor grew very specific in probing my knowledge of the finer points of taking a man’s cock in my mouth, and several times offered to let me practice on him. At long last he gave up on that, and we went to find his friend Issyk. I knelt before him and introduced him to the brave new world of fellatio. MacGregor stood by, and when he showed Issyk how to put his hand on the back of my head to keep it still as he gently fucked my mouth, Issyk grew so excited and amazed, that he came almost immediately. He came so hard, and so copiously, I could barely keep up with my swallowing. I had thought that taking him in my throat would have been the selling point, but we never got that far. It’ll keep for a future day.
Then and there, Issyk put his hand on his head -- meaning that he claimed me for his own. He led me by the hand to his home and gave me a room right next to his own, ejecting his current favorite.
Then, his eyes wide and happy, he slipped his hand under my skirt and squeezed my butt not twice, but four times. Then he kept his hand there, and pulled me close, pressing my soft body into his toned, hard self. I let my hand rest on his cock, and that small gesture surprised him beyond degree.
I guess they don’t do that, either, down here, I realized. And then, just as MacGregor had said, I saw the way forward.