The Colonoscoper and the Snake Charmeuse

by EllaRegina

V.'s cock, like his reputation, precedes him, reaching almost to his knees in its semi-erect state, wagging from left to right, clearing the way to the sofa like a blind man's cane. His excitement is apparent; a clear filament -- similar to the dewy radius of a spider's web -- extends from his prick's winking eye, a laser beam descending towards the ground.

Our clothes and footwear came off immediately once beyond V.'s apartment door and now lie in a cashmere, wool and leather pyre on the floor beside it. He wants me to put on the wide belt I was wearing so I pick it from the jumble and fasten it tightly around my slender naked waist. We have kissed, inhaling the other's breath nearly to the point of fainting. We have touched almost every square inch of each other's warm damp skin.

The sofa is curved -- resembling a banquette in an Art Deco restaurant -- the remaining half from a pair that together made a circle; one crescent mirroring the other. It is upholstered in shiny patinaed leather the color of Burgundy. V. lifts me up -- he is a big strong man, his body in supreme condition from biking, swimming and weight-lifting; I am a 98-pound ex-baton twirler -- and plants me atop the piece of furniture in a sitting position facing away from him; my feet resting on the seat cushions below, my rear end a ripe peach hanging invitingly over the high sofa back.

I spent all day preparing myself. A morning enduring high colonic irrigations in an Aromatherapized room complete with fake waterfall, Yanni and Enya -- thankfully played at barely audible levels -- followed by an afternoon home-administered reload of sorts, using an enema bag filled with lubricant. I wanted nothing to impede this man's path.

V. gently bends me forward so that my head rests on my knees. He inserts a finger into my pussy, exploring its eager status, teasing me with a second finger, and, for an instant a third, moving the troika as a unit leisurely in and out. He brings his hand to his face, favorably evaluating my private scent and flavor, then reaches towards me, offering his fingers which I smell and taste with glee, adding the moisture from my mouth as I suck and lick them clean. He comes to the front of the couch for a moment and we kiss again, my personal sap now in the tongue mixing.

V. returns to his post behind the sofa and begins his Long March. Using his saliva for assistance he insinuates his thinnest finger into my rear and is surprised to discover that the wheels, so to speak, have already been more than adequately greased. There is a pump bottle of lubricant nearby on a low black slate table but I do not think we will be in need of it; the tunnel is properly primed and all set for his invasion. He penetrates me again with a larger finger, then the largest, and finally with two digits together until he pronounces me ready to admit him -- all of him, or at least as much as I can handle.

But first he must enter my pussy -- just long enough to incite me -- and in doing so thoroughly varnishing his prick with my plentiful yield. He moves to my anus and commences: tentatively pressing his swollen glans against the yawning opening as he tests my receptivity, then sinking himself inside me by millimetric increments, with each anal advance asking if I am in any kind of pain. Amazingly, I am as relaxed as I've ever been, remarkable considering the magnitude of the impalement equipment at hand. I breathe profoundly and slowly, as pregnant women are instructed to during in extremis labor.

V. is gradually filling me up, moving steadily forward -- the bulbous Soul Train cartoon locomotive logo lurching rhythmically onward -- until I feel that he has somehow managed to reach a virgin spot, a tight, hot, slippery, hospitable place where no man has gone before him. He is the Sir Edmund Hillary of my rectum. I wonder what kind of flag he will plant at the end. Or is there a terminus? The horizon appears infinite.

He proceeds further, pressing ahead and withdrawing -- now in true ass-fucking mode -- going yet deeper with each investigative propulsion. I grip him firmly as he moves through my tube, holding his probe like the woven bamboo cylinder of a Chinese finger trap. Otherwise I am as limp as an abandoned marionette. V. raises my upper body to match the angle of his trajectile. He clutches my belt -- horse rein style -- so that at any particularly vigorous juncture I am not catapulted off the sofa onto the wall as if I were a rock in a slingshot.

It is the ultimate pole dance, with V. providing the endless upright. I wiggle my ass a bit as he progresses, his pipe plunging into me -- a butter churner's dasher stick -- edging along my spine. I am on the ride of my life. His prick swells inside my intestines, bringing to mind those flat travel sponges that assume their regular size after being dropped into water -- he is lengthening and expanding with each surge. I finger my flooded pussy.

After some time there is a new sensation, unlike anything I've ever felt -- unfamiliar yet not unpleasant. I realize what it is. Something is poking against my throat. It is V.'s prick which has succeeded in reaching my mouth from behind, and in the process miraculously bypassing my gag reflex. He continues his back and forth movement. Not only is my hungry derrière getting royally plugged but I am performing a reverse act of fellatio, breathing only through my nose by now, draining the sweet preliminary liquid emanating from his long staff, my salivary glands on overdrive, at once sucking and swallowing -- not an easy task with a heating riser in my esophagus. I no longer have the capacity for speech but am able to exude a long guttural glottal hum of encouragement.

The tip of my tongue darts in a playful spiral around the head of V.'s instrument, sharply scoring its center underside in a single continuous lick as it passes by, until -- with one final thrust -- the prick definitively emerges from my mouth, well beyond my clamping lips -- a baby entering the world -- pointing upwards at the ceiling like the thick bell of a tenor saxophone. I am completely pierced; an animal on a spit.

I play his didgeridoo with my marionette fingers, giving long milking strokes, slowly reaching one hand after the other as if I were climbing Tarzan's vine, all the while continuing the workings of my mouth and tongue. I collect some pussy discharge to aid my manual labor.

I want it all -- I want V. to come in my mouth, on my face, in my hands, out my nipples, in my ass -- at the same time. He begins to convulse in a shudder that runs -- literally -- through my core, vibrating my entire body. His prick shakes within me -- a rattlesnake, a spirit possessed -- its heated fluid starting to emit with more force but he controls it by some means and starts to recede in stages; leaving my hands feverish and wet -- I smear their coatings on my face -- depositing a serving in my mouth to savor; continuing his rearward slither and, as he goes, releasing a stream of molten lava inside me like a line on a map, finally halting in my ass -- about eight inches from its portal -- where he finishes his output, serendipitously triggering my uterus and rectum to contract simultaneously. V. pulls out of me and spills his last hot drops on the ballerina curve of my quaking rump. I am both very full yet acutely empty without his imposing interior presence.

I slide down from my roost, my ass landing on the sofa seat in a comic book SPLAT! V. retrieves an indigo blue towel from the bathroom, places it underneath my seeping cavities and moves in next to me. We kiss once more, his creative juice now present in the mélange, and thirstily drink from each other's mouths, fiercely competing for the sexy blend. We sit shoulder to shoulder as if in a car, and I cannot help but caress his shaft in awe as it resumes its "normal" size. We fall asleep, our heads together -- Siamese twins joined at the skull -- my hair lightly draping his face, my hands a warm tea cozy securely wrapped around his still turgid prick. That entire night I dream of sliding down the brass pole at Hook & Ladder Company #20 on Lafayette Street, over and over and over and over again.

_______________


EllaRegina's fiction appears in the short story anthologies "Best Women's Erotica 2008," edited by Violet Blue (Cleis); "The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra," edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press, USA); "Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex," edited by Alison Tyler (Cleis); and "The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8," edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press, USA). Her work has also been featured on Cleansheets.com. EllaRegina's story, "The Lonely Onanista," was shortlisted for the 2007 Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing. When not sniffing naughty words in the dictionary, the author can be found in her city or country online drawing rooms, making dirty pictures out of virtual lint, using a pair of tweezers: ellaregina.blogspot.com or myspace.com/ellaregina Contact: hotelscribe [AT] yahoo.com

The Colonoscoper and the Snake Charmeuse
© 2008 by EllaRegina

 
     
     

 

 



Banners


Home | Fiction | Illustrations | Epigrams | Romans
Liaisons for Laughs | Random Frivolity | Weblog
Vocabulary
| Hightower's Antics | Reviews
Pawtawnee Chronicles
| Poetry | Fiction Archives

Staff
| About |
Contact
Contributors
| Submissions | Links


Copyright 2001-2011 Sliptongue
unless otherwise noted. / All rights reserved. Reproduction
of material, in whole or in part, from any Sliptongue pages without
written permission is strictly prohibited.