Laura Croft and the The Venus Thigh Trap
Plant/F, L Croft, NC, BDSM, Lact, Archaeology, Silly
All that legal guff about how you might be an innocent child, or living under a
censorious government, puritanical legal system, your mother wouldn't approve,
you should not be here, you really must stop now, etc. Sigh... What a fucked up
world. Anyway, what follows is an explicit, graphic, extreme sexual fantasy. You
have been warned. Leave now if not already corrupted.
This story was written by SensoryOverlord, and is Copyright 2002. You may copy
and read for free. Reproduction of this work for profit is not OK.
Part 1 of ?
Laura Croft, adventuress, is raiding the ancient Temple of Phali, to steal the
fabled Golden Lingam. Her researches into this legend had taken several years,
uncovering various improbable and no doubt exaggerated references to a huge,
solid gold phallic totem, nearly two feet in length, massively thick, with an
intricately veined and ridged surface encrusted with numerous fabulous
gemstones. She had persevered in her combing of the old records in the monastery
at Pinchu Myars, sure that there must be some truth behind the legends. She
found mostly dark allusions to a terrible Guardian of the Lingam; yet the best
translation she can manage of the guardian's name is 'seeker of nectar', which
doesn't sound very scary to her. Strange people, those pre-Mayans. Finally, she
obtained a script that gives a clue to the artefact's location - deep in the
jungles, far from any present day civilisation. What a surprise.
So here she is, a month of difficult and solitary trekking later, entering the
rainforest cloaked ruins of the Temple of Phali. She has told no one of this
expedition, or its objective, lest some uneducated villain attempt to beat her
to the treasure. Or worse, get the wrong idea about what she wants it for.
Strictly for curatorial purposes, of course!
Laura abseils down into the subterranean chamber of the temple, the last fifty
feet spent unfortunately swinging in and out of a falling plume of water, that
pours smoothly from the giant granite penis of a huge fertility idol high in the
domed ceiling.
Soaked through by the time she descends to the pool into which the jet pummels
noisily, yet still overly warm from her exertions in the cloying humid air,
Laura lets herself drop the last few feet into the cooling waters. Submerged for
a moment, in the dim light she sees below her in the clear water a dense tangle
of black roots, with here and there a glimmer of white. Bones, held tightly amid
the mesh of fibrous roots. No doubt the remains of barbaric human sacrifices,
she thinks, as she surfaces, and looks around to get her bearings.
Swimming to the masonry side of the pool, rope in hand, she climbs out,
dripping, ties the rope to a stone block, then surveys the chamber. Before her,
across a wide uneven floor, is the altar of the Lingam, a single beam of
sunlight shafting through a small opening high above, illuminating the
glittering artefact. Even from a distance, she can see that perhaps the legends
did not exaggerate after all. What a prize it looks, and what a surge of
excitement she feels, to think of bearing this wonder back to be studied, to be
wrung of its tales of history, its juices of knowledge!
Laura considers the dim chamber around her, soaking up its air of age and
mystery. All around, roots from the jungle far above have intruded into the
masonry, both cracking and supporting it. The tangled, organic mass is
everywhere, looped and matted, hanging in long ropy veils from the ceiling, down
the carving rich walls, across and through the marble paving, giving the whole
place an ancient, yet organically alive atmosphere. Only the altar is free of
the omnipresent, twisted roots.
The water was not something she'd expected, or the roots. Soaked, and annoyed
that the cut lunch in her pack may be getting soggy, she sits on the pool's
raised edge, emptying her backpack, wringing and shaking the water out of her
gear. Fortunately she always keeps her photographic equipment in waterproof
containers. But not her spare clothes, alas. They are soaked. It is strangely
warm in here too; somehow the water is almost at body temperature, and the
chamber is very humid. She had worn a full body leather jumpsuit for this
subterranean foray, imagining dusty crawlspaces, spiders and scorpions. But now,
with its being soaked, and the humidity, she is finding it quite uncomfortable.
It has started to shrink a little, and is chafing her as she moves, particularly
around the crotch. Quite distractingly. The journey into the jungle, and the
search for the ruined temple, had taken her over six weeks of hard, solitary
slog. Six progressively more lonely weeks. Not something she wanted to be
reminded of just now, not when she was so close to achieving her goal. Letting
her horniness flare up now could make her lose concentration. Which is not a
good idea in these old temples, that might be guarded by God knows what traps
and magics. She needs to keep a clear head, stop that hot, aching itch in her
sex from growing worse. But the dammed wet leather keeps shrinking, and is even
starting to pull into her slit, the seam abrading her clit, which is developing
an awkward swelling. Something must be done!
Never one to hesitate, she spends some moments struggling to strip off the
jumpsuit, having much difficulty with the straining zippers as the leather
shrinks even more. She intends to change into the safari shirt and shorts she
naturally brought, and which will dry faster, and won't constrict her movements.
Ruefully, she surveys her naked figure, wishing once again that her feminine
charms were perhaps not _quite_ so generous, or sensitive, and especially not so
prone to popping up into distracting, tingling hardness at the slightest
provocation. As her nipples and clit are now. It really can be a trial, she
thinks, the way her silly clit gets so large, pointing out between pouting
labia, looking like a small tongue poking fun at the world. Shaking her head,
she thinks "people may consider my lips are unusual, its lucky they don't know
about this clit of mine!" She thinks her lips are just nice and sensual, but
this clit! It's so embarrassing!
She 'humpfh's' at it, thinking she really should have made the time to wash some
underwear, and put it on, before coming in here today. Once again, her
impatience to discover the ancient has cost her discomfort in the present.
Without knickers, even her loose shorts will torment her clit with every step.
She knows this from sorry experience, from a time or two when leading museum
archaeological expeditions, and her clit had popped up for some reason, and
she'd had to keep walking all day, pretending to her associates that everything
was normal. Forced to endure a constant, inescapable stimulation of her
oversized most sensitive part, with no opportunity to get away from the group,
and her underwear all packed deep in the porter's burdens. Luckily it was so hot
- everyone was sweating like pigs, so as the day wore on and the crotch of her
shorts became thoroughly soaked, no one seemed to notice anything unusual -
everyone's clothes were equally soaked. That was also the last time she made the
mistake of planning a 'light' expedition, in which only one shared tent kept
them all from the vicious mosquitoes. The night had been a torment of frustrated
desire, an overstimulated clit stubbornly refusing to soften of its own accord.
Both her own refined upbringing, and the proximity of her academic peers
sleeping lightly on uncomfortable narrow fold up cots either side of hers, had
kept her from resorting to an act she considered distasteful yet sometimes sadly
necessary for peace of mind.
With her wet equipment and clothes (and holstered pistols) spread out beside the
pool, she stands, naked, and looks across to the altar. Perhaps she can skip the
clothes for now, till she is leaving. Till hopefully, her sex has settled down.
Nobody here, after all, but us roots. Her naughty little pun makes her smile for
a moment, before she thinks that she really must get her mind off such things,
and get down to business. So she sets off, barefooted, carrying only her camera
bag, across the woven jumble of roots to the altar, and its glittering,
fascinating prize. This place is so open, and the roots have bound everything so
tightly over the ages, surely there can be no working traps left here, among all
this shifted and split stonework. None that could move an inch, anyway. So no
threat to her.
She steps carefully, barefoot across the root criss-crossed paving, avoiding
stepping on the rough, sinewy plants. Unseen behind her, thin tendrils glide up
out of the tangle, silently, rapidly, following the outlines of her spread
equipment. The dark, almost flowing members are near invisible in the
semi-gloom.
Reaching the altar, she is intrigued to find that its cultural influences seem
quite unique. She had expected some sort of ornamentation, perhaps unknown
scripts she could at least transcribe for later research. Some records of the
ceremonies, on which to base another paper on these primitive idolaters. But
strangely, disappointingly, the whole arrangement seems plain, almost
utilitarian. Totally out of character with the richness of the surviving
decorations throughout the rest of this temple.
A wide flat, bare stone dais is raised just a foot above the floor of the wider
chamber. In its dead centre, the golden Lingam glitters, held upright at the
apex of a short conical stone plinth. But it is held barely even waist high,
hardly a fitting presentation for such a totem. The cone is also almost wider at
its base than it is high, making it more of a cylindrical pyramid than a
column. Its sides are a smooth, unadorned dense black granite, but as she bends
closer to examine the mounting, she sees that there is actually some sculptural
work around the mating point of the Lingam and the stone. In fact... She draws a
sharp breath, and feels herself flush. The very top of the cone is shaped in a
likeness of plump female genitalia, spread wide around the penetration of the
Lingam's base. Very skilfully carved too, in a realism style most unusual for
this class of artefact. Why, even the fine anatomical detail is accurate, if one
neglects the exaggeration inherent in the grossly unlifelike diameter of the
golden shaft around which the stone labia are contorted. But then, perhaps
_some_ women _could_ fit that... Then she laughs, as her eyes take in more of
the inverted sex effigy. The sculptor has portrayed an erect clitoris that puts
even her own to shame. With both the outer and inner labia well spread, the clit
stands proud. A blunt finger of stone, it points up and out, almost a little
penis, inches out from the fold of its hood stretched tight around its base.
Laura shakes her head, bemused. Hopefully _something_ about this find will be
suitable for general publication. She certainly won't be able to include photos
of this stone mount in any article for her sponsors, National GeoPictorial. She
giggles - not unless they changed their name to National GeoExplicit!
Nonetheless, she takes a set of flash-illuminated close ups of the Lingam and
its finely crafted but X-rated mounting. Through the viewfinder, the stone
genitalia seem even more lifelike and erotic.
The golden phallic symbol though, that seems to be far less an attempt to
depict, even symbolically, an actual penis. True, it has an ovoid thickening at
its tip, vaguely suggestive of a glans. But rather than one urethral aperture,
as in life, it has multiple small openings spread over its surface. These seem
to be fairly deep, perhaps even joining up inside. There are even a few similar
holes down the sides of the thing - not a common feature in working penises. In
her experience, which is rather sparse. And especially so lately, she thinks
sadly, reminded once more of the persistent aching itch in her sex. Nor are the
two deep fluted slots down opposite sides of the shaft very reminiscent of any
penises Laura has ever seen.
But time to stop dallying. She has been kneeling at the base of the cone,
leaning forward with her hands higher on the cone, to examine the carving. She
wonders if the Lingam is easily removable, and with one hand grips it firmly
around the base just above where it 'enters' the stone. Damm! Her fingers don't
even close around it, it is so huge. There must be kilos of gold in this thing!
Yet for a phallic idol, it is even less realistic than that overstated stone
clitoris, she thinks. It gives her an odd shivery feeling to think it, but it
reminds her somewhat of a very obscene item she'd once come across in the
British Museum's locked storerooms. The documents with that had claimed it to
have been produced in the mid 19th century, in Victorian England, by a medical
implements company specialising in equipment for use in private asylums for the
unsound of mind. Female unsound of mind, obviously. The set is complete, in an
ornate wooden box, with a quaintly phrased booklet of instructions, and assorted
accessories. Reading the instructions, alone there late one night, she had been
left breathless, pulse pounding, sorely tempted to abuse the museum's
entrustment of such rare artefacts to her professional care. The booklet had
described it as 'For the Induction of the Female Crisis or States Near Thereto,
Strictly Upon Medical Orders'. A number of very explicit line illustrations and
step-by-step guides had left nothing to the imagination. It was a diabolically
formed, oversize dildo, intended solely for use on asylum inmates, by the
medical staff. In the 'actual case illustrations', a number of serious looking
medical gentlemen and stern looking nurses were present, showing mild
professional interest as one or other of them applied the dildo to a young,
nubile, naked and very definitely restrained 'patient'.
Listening acutely for sounds of footsteps in the silent storeroom, she flips
pages rapidly, finding numerous illustrations detailing the various methods of
restraint, all allowing convenient access to the patient's vagina. Other pages
of text described the product's "Benefits for the Treatment of Sexual Manias";
detailing regular controlled application of the Implement, carefully judged to
halt just short of the climactic seizure. Thus focussing the patient's mind on
the natural sexual pleasures of wholesome matrimony, while avoiding the 'little
death' and subsequent dissipation of spirit felt to be so damaging to the
prospects for recovery of the unsound of mind. An appendix reviewed the use of
'The Implement' during patient evaluation interviews, to 'facilitate an enhanced
state of patient cooperation'. And no doubt the respected Freud look-alike, with
the naked girl strapped spread-legged to his couch, found the process of
facilitating her cooperation (via the dildo he held deep in her vagina) far more
exciting than his expression in the old print suggested. As if in some
advertisement for toothpaste, the young lady subject's facial expression, where
visible, was invariably a most unlikely study in rapt interest and gratitude for
the helpful attentions of the kind medical staff.
In an appendix, she finds a sternly worded caution - that on no account should
the appliance be left in the presence of unsupervised and unrestrained patients.
It warns of the extreme risks to patient wellbeing associated with
self-administration of the treatment, absent of qualified supervision. Any such
use would be morally unacceptable, being the sin of masturbation and wholly
lacking in any redeeming medical benefit. In a table of possible consequences of
uncontrolled use, are listed: Addictions to sexual fevers, Self-induction of the
climactic seizure, Dissipation of the spirit, Genital and masturbatory
fixations, Moral dissolution, Increased requirements for patient supervision and
restraint, Harm to matrimonial prospects, Relapse into harmful behaviours,
Psychological injury, and numerous other dire sounding outcomes. Below that, it
recommends that even in the case of long term inmates (judged to be cases of
hopeless addiction to unacceptable habits and so requiring permanent chastity
restraint), episodes of 'tension relief' prescribed for good behaviour should be
administered by qualified staff. For best effect and in consideration of
staffing costs, such episodes should be very infrequent; no more often than
biannually. Though in these hopeless cases, for maximum effectiveness of the
reward the treatment should be administered vigorously, and with the objective
of inducing numerous seizures over at least a full day of application.
Shivering and flushed, Laura had replaced everything in the wooden case, run her
fingertip once more lightly along the ridged and well-worn impressive length of
'The Implement' lying in its rich crimson velvet lined recess, then carefully
closed the lid and replaced the box on the dusty shelf where she'd found it.
She'd soon after realised herself too distracted to continue that night's
archive search, and had gone home.
For many nights thereafter she had slept poorly, dreaming of lonely young
Victorian ladies, discovered in shocking acts of self abuse by strict parents,
and discreetly committed to remote country asylums for fear of social disgrace.
Of them kept constantly naked, restrained, and subjected to daily 'refocussing
on their reproductive role in society', yet never allowed to cum. Sometimes she
imagines herself a nurse, but somehow more often to her puzzlement, she sees
herself as the patient. Sometimes, to her great and private shame, she is unable
to restrain herself then from the very self-abuse of which those Victorians so
disapproved, and bringing her own shameful climax. Her dear departed father
would have been outraged.
That device had been hardly thinner than this Lingam, she muses, recalling how
holding it, stroking its ridges and bumps, running her fingertips over its
bulbous, pointy head, with the mushroom lip behind the head, had made her sex
burn with a shocking desire. Her fingers had not met around that one, either.
She finds she has been kneeling there, holding the gold shaft, and daydreaming.
Which is not helping quell the maddening arousal in her belly one bit. She
shakes herself, and tries giving the gold a seriously hard twist. It moves, but
barely. She twists it the other way, and it gives again, though in an odd,
sluggish manner. She tries lifting it straight up but there is barely any give
that way at all. It seems somehow fastened into the stone. But the legends
suggest it must be removable, since it was used as a totem in various
ceremonies. It must come out somehow!
To get a better leverage, she stands. But finds that she can only stand above
the golden object if she straddles the cone with her feet. It is an odd
position, not something she would do if anyone else were present. Especially
naked, with her clit.... To pull straight up on the Lingam, she must stand with
her legs spread at fully forty five degrees, either side of the cone base. Now
she can... In a flash she realises that in this position, her sex is almost
exactly level with the peak of the stone cylinder. So that the phallus is now
very convenient indeed to grip, being just in front of her pubis. Suddenly, she
feels like a complete fool. Goodness gracious! Could it be, that this was
actually _used_ in ceremonies of 'that' sort, right here, like this? That some
female mounted... or was forced to mount, this, standing here like this? After
all, although the thing is frighteningly thick, most of it seems to be down in
the hole in the stone. Only about seven or eight inches project up... that
should be... doable? Perhaps not for a younger, or smaller woman, but a mature
adult like herself should be able.... ??
She wonders if, purely professionally of course, she should verify that it is
possible. She is sure that the dammed heat in her sex, that is flaring up even
more at these thoughts, is not influencing her professional judgement. But it
certainly is convenient that her sex is presently fully aroused, and well
lubricated. Realism, after all. It would be fair to expect that the ceremonial
maiden would have been 'prepared' for her act. Perhaps would have been in
'preparation' for weeks beforehand - which she admits, is not unlike her own
condition of overheated deprivation.
"Well Laura, why not?" She speaks aloud for the first time in the chamber. "I
certainly deserve a good fucking, for making it this far." She gasps, shocked at
her unaccustomed use of such a word. She really must be a little overexcited.
Yes, she probably is. Standing naked in a subterranean tomb, clit erect,
considering impaling herself on a thousand year old relic is hardly in the Croft
family tradition. But she couldn't help the tight suit setting her off. Not
after weeks of abstinence, and with weeks more to come... er to go without on
the walk back. Her sex is positively twitching with the need. It is all she can
do to restrain her hands from touching herself, her clit that is now so hard she
can feel it pulsating with her rapid heartbeat.
The thought of setting up her camera tripod, on timed release to capture the
historic procedure, crosses her mind. Considering this, she at first thinks that
such photographs would be very... well, far too easily misinterpreted. Most
definitely of no use in her official documentation of this find. And yet... she
finds herself considering that it would be almost negligent to fail to document
such an investigation of the likely original use of the artefact. After all, the
images need not be made public. She might need them for reference in her own
studies of the object, or perhaps tracing figure outlines from them, for
illustrating the 'hypothetical' means of usage by the native culture. Yes, she
should. After all, no one need ever see the film but her.
Setting up the tripod, and screwing the camera, flash, autowinder and so on
together, she can't help feeling a thrilling streak of excitement at the idea of
not only doing this thing, but actually filming herself doing it! Its by far the
most outrageous thing she's ever done, and she shivers to think of what would
happen to her career if these shots ever.... Setting the timer that will take
each shot, and wind the film, she considers how many frames this will take.
She'd casually imagined that she was just going to set herself on the Lingam,
wait for a couple of shots, then get off again. But some instinct she doesn't
care to closely examine prompts her to load a fresh, extra long roll of film in
the camera anyway. Just in case. She arms the flash, sets the timer to take the
first 10 shots at 30 second intervals, and stands back, triggering one shot of
the altar, base and Lingam alone, no 'sacrificial maiden' in sight. It makes her
feel a wicked thrill, imagining this chamber full of chanting acolytes, as the
beautiful, naked maiden (herself) is led, resisting futilely, out to the altar,
and manhandled onto that huge gold projection. How long would they have kept
(left?) her there?, she wonders. What _else_ would they do to her, and how did
this all relate to those bones in the pond?
At this point, her body seems to say 'enough procrastination' and she finds
herself starting the camera and beginning the process of mounting. Which is not
easy. The first flash catches her still experimenting, trying to find a way to
approach the attempt. She has to get her entrance up over the head, but the only
way to do that is to place her feet on the sides of the cone. Which are steep!
Her feet keep wanting to slip back out and down to the floor. She tenses her
thighs, pushing her feet inwards against the cool, smooth stone for extra grip.
Her bare soles curve around the surface, and give her enough purchase that she
can inch upwards, holding onto the prong tip with her hands for balance and
extra lift. After some struggling, grunting with effort, she has her sex above
the tip, and must transfer her hands back to the stone at the base of the shaft,
so the end is free. She places it against her opening, moving it slightly in the
slickness there. With good timing, another shot is exposed. Feeling the tip
nestle into her slit, it seems like there is plenty of lubrication, if not too
much- her other lifelong curse. A vagina that produces far too much of the
sexual juices, at the slightest provocation. She has always had to dress
carefully with that in mind when in society. Ahhhhh.... as she lowers herself
ever so slightly, she feels the fat tip nosing into her, and it is very nice.
Flash. A bit more... Mmmmmm... her legs are getting tired, so she had better go
a bit faster, if she doesn't want to just drop suddenly all the way. Another
inch, and she feels the back ridge of the head pop inside her entrance. It is a
very, very full feeling, but not painful. Once she is right down, and her hands
are free, she must investigate....... ohhhoooooo!!!! She has reached the first
of the knobbly, bejewelled ridges on the shaft. Her hips give an involuntary
shudder, and the blunt points now inside her tickle her inner membranes. She
almost loses control of her legs, and slips down another couple of inches. Ohhh
god, she is really starting to feel it up there now. Another inch. Now there is
little room for her hands still on the stone - the backs of her hands are
rubbing against her sex. The next bit seems difficult. Can she lower herself
without her hands on the apex? She tries shifting them to the sides of the cone,
just below the apex. Yes, if she makes a ring of her fingers, and grips inwards,
she can put enough weight there to..... ummmmmmm oooowwww..... let her feet
slide down and out, till her toes touch the floor. Her cunt feels like it is
being impaled on a telephone pole. It is such an overwhelming sensation, that
she quite forgets herself, and lets her feet down unthinking. Thus driving the
last bit of the ancient dildo into her needy twat, with enough force to make her
scream OOowwwhhhooo OooaAAAAA Ohhh fuck thats huge.... oh fuuuck oh fuuuck.....
With her eyes closed tight she barely notices the blink of flash light.
It is actually on the verge of painful, deep up in her belly, where something is
being pushed where it never was before. She twists herself sideways, trying to
settle things down, and is startled by a sudden flash of sensation from her
clit! How can...? Looking down, she sees that her own projecting clit has
brushed against the tip of the oversize clit sticking up from the stone. She
does it again - mmmmm... that is very nice. And so is the twisting feeling
inside. Very nice.... she does it again, and back again. Mmmmm... definitely a
good feeling.... for a while she twists back and forth, in a daze of pleasure.
Every little (and not so little) shape on the rod's surface seems to stroke and
tease her inner walls. She can feel her labia puffing up, swelling with her
blood, and her juices beginning to seep in profusion onto the stone sex pressing
against her own. Another flash reminds her of the passage of time, but by now
she is thinking that maybe this will not be a brief on-it/off-it exercise.
For the last few moments she has been holding her hands out from the sides of
her body, rigid, fingers spread wide, needing only the feel of the thing inside
her. It is awesome! Feels like it must come up past her belly button inside. To
reinforce the sensations, she places her palms flat on her belly, and leans back
a little. Sure enough, there it is - she can feel the blunt thing inside her,
making a bump in her abdomen, pressing back against her finger tips as they
indent into her soft flesh. It is so stunningly erotic, that forbidden act or
no, she slides a hand down, to her clit, and clasps that centre of masturbatory
sin firmly, kneedingly. Her hips start a front to back thrusting that does not
come from her conscious control, that shudders the pole around within her, and
things start to become quite disconnected. A collage of powerful, thought
quenching sensations, each one shoving her about like a toy fought over by
children. She stops even trying to resist the storm.
Some probably brief time later she has her first orgasm, and screams it out at
the top of her lungs. It resonates around the great chamber, echoing off into
the passages, but she takes no notice of the echoes or the regular flashes,
since she is already feeling the building of another. Her juices are pouring
from her, running down the face of the smooth black stone mount in rivulets.
Where they meet that threshing of her feet, her movements smear the juice across
the stone. The now very slippery, smooth black stone, which does not dry at all
in the warm, humid air.
She is so absorbed in her little anthropological experiment, that she does not
notice the roots. When she had mounted the platform, it was free of the roots.
Now they are covering it, thin, seeking tendrils growing visibly across the
stone surface, seeking.... that thing their dim plant memories recall from long
ago, that they hunger for yet.
After about her tenth screaming orgasm, Laura begins to get things into some
sort of focus once again. Her sex is still pulsing and shaking on the phallus,
and her hands still clutch and rub convulsively at her sex, breasts and nipples,
but she becomes once more aware that she is doing these things. That time is
passing. The shaft of sunlight has drifted away across the floor, and now the
platform is in dimness. The great space is lit only by small bright chinks of
light above. It has been a long while since she noticed a flash from the camera.
Dimly, she thinks that she'd better stop this soon, if she wants to get out of
here before nightfall. There is a torch in her pack, but finding that in
complete darkness might be dangerous. Reluctantly, she considers lifting off the
pleasures of the golden Lingam. Which she can feel seems to have worked a little
looser in its stone mount, with all the shaking she has been giving it. Oddly,
she could swear it has worked up a bit higher in its seating too, if the
feelings from inside her can be trusted. She holds still for a moment, resting,
panting and slicked with sweat, her sex throbbing and sensitive from her
orgasms. What! Did that move? It felt like the rod had lurched slightly in her,
of its own. Moved ever so little upwards. How could that be? Is there some
ancient mechanism still working in this place after all? She holds still again,
waiting, concentrating on the hugeness within her cunt. And it moves. Again, and
definitely. So, so little, but it moved, upwards, adding just a tiny extra
tension to that deep stretched feeling that is really so very nice, so very...
close to all she could take. Again. It moves, a short jerking rise. Perhaps
she'd better get off now, and find out what is going on here. Up here...
whatever. She giggles. 'Up _me_' she corrects herself.
Weakly, she gathers her strength, preparing to reverse her actions in mounting
herself on this... huge, golden, cock.... that again steps up into her, without
even asking. Getting quite definitely to the point of discomfort now. With her
hands around the top of the stone, she worries 'wow, did I really juice this up
so much? Hope its not too slippery to grip.' Putting a little weight on her
hands, she tries to place her feet against the sides of the cone, and push up on
them. Her feet instantly slip down to the floor again, everything slippery
like.... like cunt juice.
Just at that moment, the camera flash strobes the chamber brightly again, and
she halts her efforts, confused. What? Then realises that once the ten shots she
set the timer for were done, the unit must have defaulted to some longer
interval between shots. How long has it been, ten, fifteen minutes since the
last?
The post notches upwards again, another fraction of an inch inside her. She
begins to realise that this is not so funny. Tries to wipe her feet off on the
floor, but even that seems strangely slimy. Surely that could not be all hers?
Squinting in the gloom, she examines the floor around her. Something, dark lines
in the dimness.... She moves her foot about, looking for some place that is not
covered with the slippery... whatever it is. Nowhere. Everywhere she can reach
seems to be coated in the goo, which now that she tries dabbling her toe in it,
seems sort of tacky, far too different from girl cum to possibly.... Eeeeeek!
She jumps, or tries to, but of course her golden friend pins her to the spot.
Something had brushed against her ankle! She swings her foot about, afraid of
spiders or whatever, but contacts nothing. And the gold jerks up in her again.
Time to seriously get off this, she thinks, trying to calm her racing pulse.
Probably just have to do a push-down with my hands, enough to launch me off
this, even if I do land in a heap in the goo. This could hurt, if I launch off
at a bad angle, she thinks.
Its a very awkward thing to try. She can sort of get her fingers around the base
of the shaft buried in her, but her own body gets in the way too much for a
clean grip. And everything up there is dripping with her own traitorous juices -
this is definitely hers. Not wanting to think about possibly falling back
without achieving separation, she prepares herself, trying to regain calm and
energy. Trying to ignore the movement of the pole, which increments deeper into
her twice more as she prepares. With her hands in there, between herself and the
stone vulva, she can inch up a bit higher. But she is sure that thing would
really be starting to hurt if she let right down again. She is just doing a
'Right. On three. One, two....' when 'Arrrrhh! what?' Something has snared her
left ankle! She kicks, or tries to, but the thing seems to have a good grip, and
quite a bit of give. As though she is kicking against a strong elastic cord.
Which is now pulling, dragging her ankle outwards, away from the cone! Quite
strongly! She struggles to hold her leg in, to keep even her toes on the ground,
at this angle, she has little leverage. The thing gripping her ankle tightens,
and pulls harder, and her leg lifts up and out, despite her efforts. In the dim
light, she can see a dark ropelike thing wrapped around her ankle and leading
off to the side. It seems to have secondary tendrils, waving dimly in the gloom.
It is too frightening, too much to react to. She just clutches her hands around
the dildo where it enters her, trying to take her weight on there and her other
leg, but feeling the sideways pull of her body against the shaft inside her.
Gradually, her fingers are slipping.
Then the same sensation, on her other ankle. She screams, a shrill cry of
terror, but simply cannot move that foot, since her hands will not take her
entire weight at this awkward angle, and the alternative... But now her
remaining foot is being pulled outwards... and then slips out from under her,
rising into the air. She is left doing a wide splits in midair, her cunt impaled
on at least seven inches of pole, with maybe two inches between her twat and the
stone twat below it. Her hands are slipping... slipping.... and suddenly they
give way completely in the cum-slimed space below her, and she falls..... smack!
Her crotch hits the stone labia and she halts, painfully, all her weight on the
small area around her strained cunt entrance. Inside, the pole has thrust
violently up into places she didn't know existed. It hurts, but mostly it is a
feeling of having her insides stretched and rearranged to a degree she'd have
thought impossible. It must be nine inches or more up her; clutching her belly
with her hands, she can feel the solid shaft within extending clear up past her
belly button.
She makes a futile effort to bend sideways and reach an ankle. Of course, she
can't come anywhere near; the thing in her abdomen prevents such movement.
Looking over in the direction of the waterfall, she thinks of her guns, sitting
there by the side of the pool. Curses herself for having left them, just when
she really needed them! It must be mid afternoon by now, she guess there will
only be an hour of two more of any light down here. There's her torch too, over
by the pond. Brilliant!
Studying the things that bind her ankles, she realises that they look very much
like the roots that are all over this place. Can this get any worse? Not just
trapped on a dammed sex object, but actually _rooted_ to it. Bloody hell! Trying
again, desperately, to grip the post under her, painfully twisting herself on
the shaft, she tries again to thrust herself up and off it. But it is
impossible. The tendrils holding her legs are pulling out and down, and hold her
firmly impaled. 'What next?' she thinks, 'Is this thing going to keep shoving up
me, till it rips...?' 'And why, _why_ am I getting _turned_on_ again by this?'
For she is, she cannot deny. The post is quite painful inside, but somehow the
_thought_ of how deeply it is violating her has a strange kind of kinky
excitement to it. A phrase from that Victorian manual swims into her spinning
mind "Should the patient attempt feigned aloofness to applications in the
general manner of natural coitus, merely increase the vigour and depth of
penetration, proceeding so in a gradual fashion, to ascertain the patient's true
limits of accommodation. In most cases these will be found to be quite
surprisingly great. Especially if the patient be brought gradually to a
condition of sexual fever, in which the organs acquire an unsurpassed
elasticity."
Well, 'sexual fever' fairly well describes her state now, she thinks. Once again
she can barely restrain herself from clutching at her rehardened clit, or aching
nipples. The worst is, that with her sex now mashed down hard on the stone sex,
her clit is in unavoidable contact with a surface of the stone clit that seems
designed to torment. It must have lots of tiny little roughness's - it almost
feels like someone rubbing sandpaper on her most sensitive spot, with every tiny
squirm she makes. This is going to give her an orgasm eventually, she can tell.
Not that she wants another. The pole gives another sudden shiver in her, but it
seems like this time it didn't actually move up. Just shiver.
Looking down at the junction of her crotch with the stone, she can't even see
the gold inside her any more. She realises she is spiralling into blind panic,
and takes a deep breath, desperately grappling with her fears, sure that panic
is the greatest danger to her right now. Surely if the pole up her... inside
her, was going to spear upwards in a lethal, spring driven thrust, it would have
done so by now. So she must concentrate, find a way out, or rather off this trap
she stupidly fell... onto. Perhaps she can work her ankles free of the.. the...
whatever the hell those things are. Damm, this thing inside her.... and every
time she tries to shift, to ease the painful pressure on her sex, the
sandpaper-like surface scrapes across her aching clit. It is hard to focus her
mind on anything but that storm of torment between her legs.
Yet she must.... and when she looks out at her ankles again, she wishes she
hadn't. Where before there was just one ropelike root around each ankle, now
there are several, and thick tendrils are spiralling up her shins, barely
touching her skin, but their creepy, vine-touch quite plain now she focuses on
it. They are nearly to her knees already! Contemplating their slow but steady
progress, horrified, her mind in denial on the matter of where they might
ultimately go, her attention is suddenly shocked back to the matter of her
existing intruder by the sensation of a probing touch _deep_inside_ her
over-stretched cunt. Somewhere up around where the fat head of that shaft is
pushing her uterus to one side, something _touched_ her, like a sharp fingernail
pressing on flesh. Then again! And...
It does it repeatedly, rapidly, a sharp staccato tapping on her insides. Placing
a shaking hand on her belly, she can even feel the vibrations through the flesh
of her body. Then another starts up, in a different position inside... and
another. More... she can no longer discern the many as separate touches, just
that the whole inside of her sex seems to be suffering hundreds of tiny but firm
rapid tapings. Like little tiny spankings, from the inside. But how? She recalls
the openings in the head- yes, something is poking out at her from those holes,
slapping at her in there, completely beyond her ability to reach. And its
damnably distracting too. More than... No! She mustn't let it uhh... mmmhh! God!
oh thats... *got* to concentrate, find a way off... ooohhh uuhhhh...
Laura shudders and twists on the thing so deep in her, so powerfully
overwhelming her senses with its drumbeating on her inner core. Beyond any hope
of controlling it, she feels her passions rising, her pulse racing, that hot,
congested tension growing in her sex, driven by the beating inside her. Her head
tossing and body twisting, she blindly sees the tendrils reaching their web up
past her mid thighs, and does not think of it. She can think only of the
drumming, the tapping inside her, and the ache of her yearning. She is hardly
conscious of her hands, that they are clutched low on her belly, massaging the
swell of her flesh where her sex is mashed down on the stone. Everything is
building, she cannot.. something now is even clasping her arse... smooth coiling
around her waist, and inside, she is being driven to a height of frantic... she
must.. cannot... a strange sensation around her hands and she realises she is
shudderingly close to orgasm, head thrown back, eyes tight in a grimace of
effort, reaching, and her hands... she somehow manages to coordinate enough to
look down again, and she knew that she would see: her hands, being drawn up and
back around her waist by a web of fibrils wrapped close around her wrists,
hands, between her legs, and extending up the sides of her waist and around her
back. Only her heaving, shuddering belly is free of the firm lacework of
tendrils.
But with the drumming inside, its promise of fabled orgasm soon to cum, her
sexual delirium allows no room for conscious contemplation of captured hands.
She simply shudders on, the power building in her, awaiting the coming storm,
the first bolt of lightning, her body one supercharged fuck capacitor, discharge
inevitable.
Then it stops. With Laura just moments away from a thunderous climax, the
impacts inside her suddenly cease. Nothing is moving except that violent
hammering of the blood in her veins. Laura's instinct is to grab for her clit,
and boost herself that little, teeny bit further to release... but she cannot!
Struggling, she finds that yes, it does matter that somehow her hands have
become fastened behind her back. Doubly stuck... stuck on a gold dildo, stuck
just moments from cumming.... She feels wetter and juicier inside than she has
ever been before, her sex sitting slippery and soaked on the stone, but for all
the good that lubrication is doing she might as well be superglued to the shaft
inside her.
Now, despite the haze of her frustration, without the fiendish hammering inside
stealing away her senses, she can feel what the roots are doing to the outside
of her body. Sensations which bring her to look down her front once more, to
see: thighs and waist entirely enclosed in a close spaced mesh of
interconnecting black tendrils, her lightly tanned flesh showing creamily
through the many small interstices. The mesh extending even now as she watches,
down into her crotch, and upwards from her narrow waist. From the sensations
behind her, much the same is happening there, with the fibrous feelers slipping
down into the crack of her arse, from the web tight-stretched across her
backside. Something touches exploringly on her arsehole, then seems to move on,
forward. A relief short lived however, for moments later the stalk, which seems
to be thickening in her widespread arsecrack, somehow buds off a fresh shoot -
right where it crosses her anus. She feels the touch, and instantly clenches as
tightly as she can, but it simply *grows* into her. Not a thrusting against her
unlubricated insides, merely an effortless invasion and expansion, as though
some microscopic fibre infiltrates the smallest crevice, then rapidly expands
into the new territory.
In moments she can feel it deep inside her, and still going, invading far into
her bowel. Struggling only brings home the helplessness of her position - now
her hands have been drawn right across to opposite elbows, and her forearms seem
locked together and to her back by the web. At about the same time she becomes
aware of the tendrils reaching her cunt, and the area of her breasts. They work
their way easily in around the pressure of her weight pressed sex to stone sex
on the plinth. Enclosing her, shaping to her every fold, squeezing and
exploring. Something enters her urethra, and heads inwards with that same
expanding fibre sensation. The one in her arse is already grown quite thick, and
for a moment, as her urethral intruder swells rapidly she panics, imagining it
growing to inches and tearing her apart there. But just as it becomes
distinctly stressful, it quits growing wider. The end reaches into her bladder,
and she feels it exploring, poking around in there.
With so many sensations of outrage occurring inside her, she almost misses the
first assault on her clit. It starts as a soft pressing sensation against the
flesh around the base of her still aching and cum-needy bud. Focussing, she
looks down to see that while she was occupied, her entire clit has been enclosed
in a kind of nodule, like a root tuber, projecting out from her body. It is held
in place by just a few tendrils, and has a soft, padded base pressed tight in
against her, around her clit. For a few moments, nothing happens, except for all
the other worming explorations elsewhere inside her. Then the bulb quite
suddenly expands in size, and she feels an incredible suction on her already
tight swollen clitoris. It is mindshattering. She'd thought she was aching hard
before, but as fresh blood rushes into her swelling clit, expanding it into the
semi-vacuum inside the enclosing tuber, her clit reaches a state of tortured
engorgement she'd never imagined possible. Yet nothing at all is touching it -
the walls of its chamber are too far for it to reach even in its exaggerated
size.
By now she is past frantic, past panicked, past desperate. She knows she is sure
to die, she feels she will die if she doesn't cum soon, she is mortified and
invaded worse than death, yet more aroused and alive than she has ever been
before. She hangs suspended, helpless, her body no longer her own - a body
converted to an instrument of delicious torment and tension. She cannot think
any more, and thoughtless, can only feel. Feeling so much sexuality, she can
only lust - a kind of erotic zen state, the cumless climax.
Somewhere in this state, it filters through to her that something is happening
to her breasts. The mesh has reached up her back, grown around under her armpits
and over her shoulders, meeting around her breasts then grown over them,
enclosing their soft bulk like a firm bra. She had been distracted from that, by
the sensations of the root mesh around her legs and abdomen seeming to squeeze
inward, tightening and becoming rigid. The struggles she makes no longer result
in any movement down there - as though she is encased in a tight fitting
latticework sheath of solid wood. In the gloomy light, the dark lines of the
lattice press deep into the soft flesh of her thighs, which bulges out between
the lines as if her body had become some bondage fetishist's fantasy.
Now her breasts too become enclosed in rigid formwork, but in its tightening
this behaves differently. It does not simply draw tight around her natural
curves, then stiffen. Instead, the ring of animate vegetation closest to her
chest begins to constrict, closing around the base of her generous globes,
causing them to bulge outwards from her body. Dimly, distracted by the incessant
sensory clamour of the intruding explorations of her every pelvic opening and
the near orgasmic frustration they are maintaining, she thinks that the
sensations from her breasts could be pleasant in some other context. The
tightening is making them feel incredibly full, sensitive, her nipples becoming
even harder as more blood is forced into them. She becomes aware that the
framework of roots up her back and around her shoulders is hardening now,
resisting even movement of her upper body. Her head is still free, and she looks
down her chest again, and gasps at the sight of her breasts turned nearly into
complete spheres. The constriction at their base has shrunk to an amazing
extent, making her breasts ache with tension as they stand tightly free of her
body.
Even more frighteningly, the tendrils that loosely enclose those orbs are
forming bunched nodules around her nipples, and worse, are developing small
offshoots along their lengths that look suspiciously like thorns. A flash brands
the vision into her retina - her breasts constricted into swollen globes,
encircled with thorny vines, and strange knobbly growths clustered around her
grossly extended nipples. As if to confirm her fears, a sensation of many fine
needle points pressing against her tight stretched breasts develops. By the time
her eyes can see again in the dim light, the sensation is becoming acute - as if
the many thorns are pressing hard against her, threatening to break her skin.
And her eyes confirm - all around her globes, the tendrils have grown wicked
looking thin spines or thorns, mostly pointing inwards, and indenting her soft
flesh sharply. She screams, struggling uselessly against her rigidly confining
woody restraints. Achieving nothing except that her shaking has caused several
of the spines to puncture her skin, letting drops of dark blood well around the
points. With small sharp stars of bright pain, another needle point, then
another slips into her flesh, like fine syringes, barely felt except as a quick
flare of stinging. Then all over her breasts, many points of that fire flare
briefly, then subside. It seems like hundreds of fine needles are penetrating
her, and she screams again, long, shuddering, helpless, as the plant turns her
breasts into pincushions. Each thorn digs in only millimetres, but there are
_many_ of them, and they _sting_!
Finally, gasping and panting in shock, she regains control through her panic.
Her breasts are aching, on fire, a strange, deep burning, as though some venom
is at work in her flesh. They ache, and itch, and she can do nothing about it.
If was possible, she would swear that her poor breasts felt like they must
explode with the pressure of the cruel tight grip around their base. That even
now is getting tighter... or so it feels like, until she opens her eyes again,
and realises that in fact the constrictions around the base of her breasts is
actually widening, visibly. Yet her breasts feel like they are bursting! In
fact, they are actually growing, visibly, swelling and expanding to take up the
extra room granted by the vines. And so are her nipples, which are elongating as
if in some time lapse movie of sprouting plants! It terrifies her to see this -
in just a few moments they have nearly doubled in length, to over an inch! An
inch of aching, pressured torment, the dark flesh feeing as if about to burst
from overpressure.
The sensation is so strong, it pushes aside all the jangling, demanding
sensations from the rest of her ordeal- the things inside her, in her cunt, arse
and bladder, and the maddening suctioned over-erection of her clit. She fights
her restraints desperately, frantic to somehow ease the blinding torment of her
nipples, staring at them aghast as they extend even further, surely to the point
of tearing apart at nearly four centimetres long, and as thick as small
sausages! Eventually, defeated, she is reduced to tormented sobbing, the nipples
so close to her face, yet beyond any hope of reaching them, even if there was
anything she could do to relieve their torment. Despite the chaos in her mind,
she knows the plant must have injected her breasts with some irritant via the
thorns, to produce such a swelling and unbearable itching, pressured aching.
Even so, she is not ready for the next development.
It comes just after another flash catches her tearfully staring at the
outlandish condition of her now hugely swollen breasts. Without warning, the
root nodules bunched around the base of her nipples quickly tilt inwards,
pressing painfully into the tight flesh of her nipples. Once again she screams
in pained fright, and astonishment, as even in this dim light she can clearly
see the fine jets spraying from the tips of her poor nipples, and breaking up
into a milky mist that hangs before her in the still air.
The nodules relax, loosening their grip on her nipples. Then again, that tight
gripping, and another painful spraying of her milk. Again... She cries out with
each woody clench on her poor flesh, mind reeling at the bizarre form of rape
she is enduring, and the strange plant hormones coursing in her blood. Shaking
her head, dazed beyond conscious thought, every intimate part of her body
invaded and manipulated. It goes on and on, her breasts now jetting strongly
with each squeeze.
She is far beyond noticing, as the sprayed milk mist settles onto the plant
tendrils around and on her, and triggers the plant's next response.
The Seeker Of Nectar was long ago a species of tree climbing vine, that evolved
an interesting symbiotic relationship with a species of small tree monkeys. The
vine got to spread its pollinated seeds further, and catch some nitrogen-rich
monkey secretions - so valuable in the forest canopy. And the monkeys... well,
the females presumably found something attractive in the process.
Then, humans stepped in. Perhaps those early forest dwellers merely found the
sight of a monkey being held and raped by a vine entertaining. But of course,
last century's imaginings and ribald jokes are this century's religion. So over
perhaps ten thousand years of prehistory, cuttings of the vines were selected
for more complex 'ceremonial' behaviours. With the end result, being a plant
exquisitely sensitive to trace scents from human females, and highly dependent
on substances in human sexual secretions for the plant's own sexual cycle.
As Laura's milk triggers the plant's next stage, the vines go into a frenzy of
branching and reaching, all around her. Her shuddering form becomes enclosed in
a solid thicket of the twisting tendrils. This pushes upwards, lifting her
slowly up from the stone plinth. The Lingam is carried up with her, now released
by the roots that had held its base solid in the plinth. It stays locked into
her sex by the thick casing of vines around her body.
All of which are budding now with the plant's flower pods, and are also becoming
phototropic - seeking light. Long ago, the vine would be trying to shift its
flower buds into the sunlight. Now, here, it seeks the light entering through
the holes high in the chamber. Laura, encased rigidly in vines, shuddering and
whimpering as the plant continues to extract both breast milk and pussy juice
from her, is carried along with the twisting thicket, as it rises higher, and
moves a little towards the pool. But by now it is dusk, and as the light fades,
the plant loses directionality, and simply holds her in place, milking her
slower as darkness takes hold of the chamber.
For Laura, it is a very long night. The plant never quite stops any of its
activities, but it does slow right down in the dark. Under the lessened deluge
of sensations she gradually regains the ability to think, and be afraid, and....
frustrated. There are still slow, stroking motions inside her, and the bulb
fastened to her clitoris still cycles through quick clenches, and long, sucking
expansions, that keep her own bud swollen and aching. She cannot cum, but
neither can she sleep, from the need to. The camera must be out of film by now,
but still fires its flash on the half-hour.
As the first rays of morning sunlight enter the chamber, the plant renews its
activities. Most spectacularly, the flower buds have all opened up in the dark,
and she is now enveloped in a cloud of deep crimson blooms. She can barely see
out between them, and through her haze of tired frustration, thinks she must be
a sight. A naked woman, sweaty and shuddering in sexual heat, bound about
tightly in vines, with her hugely swollen breasts, held aloft in a cloud of
crimson, slickly gleaming petals. She wonders if anyone will ever have the
pleasure. Probably not, she thinks.
By now, her vine carrier has been lifted several meters off the floor, held
aloft by creepers that have pulled up to the surrounding walls. She is nearing
the waterfall, and the whole mass has tilted over until she is now almost fully
upside down. Another couple of hours, and the flowers are wilting, their petals
falling away. The surrounding mesh of enclosing vines also withers and shrinks
away, leaving her once more held only by the close fitting tendrils tight
against her flesh.
Soon, she is directly under the waterfall, and in her now fully upside down
position, discovers a new feature of the Lingam. It acts like a funnel - the
falling water hits its open end, and blasts into her via the holes. Exits via
the fluted sides. Her insides are being water-jet pounded. Now she begins to
have rapid, uncontrolled orgasms. Also, when she sways, the jet finds her arse
(now free of vine.) Her belly fills with water. Her breasts are positively
jetting milk with each pulsing of the nodules around her nipples, and the thing
cupping her clitoris seems to be stimulated to rapid sucking actions by the
watery pounding. Her milk and juices mingle with the falling water, and in the
pool bright underwater blossoms open, and ripen.
For some reason, once the vines holding her are being soaked in the waterfall,
the supporting vines cease their light-seeking quest, and simply halt. Leaving
her fixed exactly under the falls, upside down, legs held wide and far apart.
She loses track of time again. Exhausted, sexually overloaded, coming over and
over as the water relentlessly pounds on her, into her. In fragments of thought,
she expects to die here. Wondering how many days of this she will last. Now she
understands the bones in the pool.
[to be continued]
