Chapter 1: Crash and Cock
Consciousness returned as a blunt, pounding ache behind Owen’s eyes. The world resolved itself not in images, but in smells.Damp, black earth.Rotting vegetation. And something else, thick and sweet and animal, clinging to the back of his throat. He tried to move, and a wave of fresh pain lit up his shoulder, his ribs, a constellation of scratches scraped raw across his pale skin.A shadow fell over him, blocking the brutal sun.
He blinked up, his vision swimming.The shadow wasn’t cast by a tree.It was a woman. Her silhouette was massive, curves blocking the sky, hips flaring out from a waist he could have probably circled with his hands.She leaned closer, and the smell intensified—ripe, musky, overwhelmingly female.
She sniffed him.A deep, rattling inhale right over his chest.
Another face appeared beside the first, then another. Black women, all of them, skin gleaming like polished onyx in the dappled light. Their faces were beautiful, unnervingly perfect, with full lips and wide, curious eyes.But their proportions were from a fever dream. Towering, swaying breasts barely contained by scraps of woven fiber. Asses so vast and round they seemed to have their own gravity, glistening with a sheen of sweat.Owen tried to speak. A dry croak escaped his cracked lips.
One of them, her hair a cascade of tight coils pinned with white bones, reached out and touched his cheek.Her fingers were surprisingly gentle. She murmured something, a liquid, clicking language that meant nothing to him.Then she licked his cheek.
He flinched.Her tongue was broad, warm.She tasted his sweat, his salt, his fear. A low, approving hum vibrated from her chest. Hands were on him now, many hands, turning him, exploring his scrawny frame. They traced the angry red sunburn on his arms, the bloody scrapes on his legs.Their touches were possessive, investigative. He was passed between them, his face pressed into the slick heat between colossal thighs, the overwhelming scent of uncut pussy making him lightheaded.Doggy kisses, wet and lapping, traveled over his neck, his shoulders.
He was too weak, too confused to resist.His body, however, responded on its own. The rough hands pulling at his torn pants found it first.A sharp, collective intake of breath.
One of the women, younger-looking with eyes the color of honey, yanked the fabric down to his knees.His cock, pale and thick and ridiculous on his frail body, sprang free. It was already fully hard, had been since he’d awoken to the smell of them, the feel of them. It stood upright, veined and throbbing, a drop of clear fluid beading at the tip.For a moment, there was silence. Only the buzz of jungle insects and the ragged sound of Owen’s breath.The woman with the bone hair broke the stillness. She released a shuddering wail, a sound of pure, unadulterated awe. She fell to her knees in the slick mud, not caring, her eyes locked on his shaft. The others followed, a rustling, jiggling cascade of ample flesh hitting the ground.A chorus of whispers rose around him. He caught only one sound, repeated like a prayer: “Dambé. Dambé.”
Hands, reverent and trembling, reached out but didn’t quite touch. They hovered, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. The honey-eyed girl leaned in close, her nose almost touching his length, and inhaled deeply.Her eyes rolled back in her head.
“The scent,” she breathed, this time in halting, heavily accented English.“Life. Strength.”
The decision was made without words.Strong hands hooked under his arms, lifting him. He stumbled, his pants around his ankles, his giant erection leading the way like a banner. They dragged him, half-carrying him, deeper into the jungle. Vines as thick as his wrist snaked between the swaying, monumental ass-cheeks of his captors. The path was a tunnel of dark, jiggling flesh, the air thick enough to drink, saturated with that same cloying, sweet musk.It was the smell of a hive.A hot, living, fucking hive.
They emerged into a village.Huts of mud and grass ringed a central clearing. And it was overflowing with women.Dozens of them.Hundreds. All built the same impossible way, all turning as one as he was paraded into the center.
The noise was deafening—shrieks, ululating cries, hands slapping against massive thighs in rhythm. The smell was so strong here it felt solid, a blanket of pheromones and sweat and earthy female heat that made his head spin. He saw a few heavily pregnant women, their bellies proud domes, their breasts swollen and leaking.Everyone was watching him.Everyone was smelling him.A path cleared.
She walked from the largest hut, and the crowd fell into a hush. She was taller, her bearing regal, her own spectacular body adorned with necklaces of teeth and polished stone. Two younger women clung to her, nuzzling her neck, their hands roaming her body with casual intimacy.
The leader’s eyes went straight to his cock. Her expression didn’t change, but a sharp, authoritative click of her tongue silenced the last whispers.She walked toward him, each step deliberate. She didn’t kneel.She simply sank down before him, her head level with his hips. Up close, her power was palpable. She studied him, her gaze analytical, before her attention fixed on his heavy balls, drawn tight and high against the base of his shaft.
Slowly, with ritualistic precision, she bowed her head and cupped his sac in one large, warm hand. She held its weight, feeling it, and then she brought her face to it and inhaled, a deep, meditative breath.
A sigh of profound satisfaction escaped her lips.Then her mouth was on him. Not on his cock, but on his balls. She took one entire testicle into the wet, shocking heat of her mouth, sucking with a firm, steady pressure that pulled a ragged gasp from Owen. Her tongue swirled, her cheeks hollowed, and a bolt of electric pleasure-pain shot up his spine. She nursed at him, a low, guttural sound of pleasure emanating from her own throat.
That was the signal.The crowd surged forward. Hands were everywhere again, caressing his bony hips, his trembling thighs.Mouths kissed his stomach, his chest, his sunburned shoulders. The honey-eyed girl found his lips and kissed him deeply, her tongue pushing coconut milk and her own unmistakable taste into his mouth. He was enveloped, consumed by a riot of glistening black skin, of rolling curves, of hungry mouths and worshipful hands. The leader continued her devoted, extreme sucking, drawing a throbbing, impossible tension from his core.
Owen, lost in a storm of sensation, could only stare up at the harsh, brilliant blue sky through a canopy of swaying breasts and ecstatic faces, a god he never asked to be, finding his altar.