Chapter 4: Beast Unleashed
The thump-thump-thump of Arthur's hips slamming against Sasha's obscene backside was a brutal metronome in the cramped space. His fingers dug deep into the yielding, unnaturally smooth flesh of her hips, white-knuckled anchors as he drove into her like he hated her. Sweat stung his eyes, plastered his thin hair to his forehead. The air reeked – old paper, cheap perfume, the thick musk of sex, and that underlying sulphuric tang that clung to her.
Sasha’s face was mashed into the worn rug, a smear of drool and garish lipstick spreading around her puffy lips with each impact. Her howls vibrated through the floorboards, pure, ecstatic animal noise. "FUCKING YES! GET IT! RAM THAT PENCIL-PUSHING COCK DEEP, ARTHUR! MAKE YOUR BITCH FEEL IT!" Her tail lashed wildly, smacking against his bare thigh like a wet rope.
"Every. Fucking. Woman." she gasped between ragged breaths, pushing back hard against him, her plastic skin slick and hot. "That prim little Miss Davenport at the circulation desk? The one who shushes too loud? I’ll make her beg for it. Crawl under your fucking desk during story hour, lift her tweed skirt… proper slag garbage for your dick." Her voice dropped to a guttural growl. "And Helen? That tight-arsed head librarian? Oh, she’ll dream about this. Wake up soaked, aching for you to split her open right there on the fucking reference desk."
Arthur grunted, a sound ripped from somewhere dark and primal. Her words were poison, vile, yet they ignited something terrifyingly hot in his gut. Images flickered, unwanted, intrusive: Miss Davenport’s startled eyes wide behind her glasses, Helen’s stern face contorted in desperate pleasure. The shame warred with the raw, driving need to pump harder, deeper. His balls slapped wetly against her swollen, slick flesh with every savage thrust, a lewd percussion to Sasha’s filthy promises.
"Gonna be me, Artie-mouse!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Every hot piece of skirt you ever glanced at? I’ll be them. Look like ’em, smell like ’em… fuck ’em open with this cock!" She bucked wildly beneath him. "Proper little legion of slutty clones, all gagging for Librarian Penhaligon’s special collection! All wearing collars like mine! Your collars!"
The pressure built, relentless and volcanic inside Arthur. Sasha’s obscenities, the impossible tightness, the pounding rhythm – it obliterated thought. His vision narrowed to the obscene jiggle of her flesh, the frantic lash of her tail, the glint of her cheap collar tag – PROPERTY OF ARTHUR P – swinging violently. A final, guttural roar tore from his throat as he slammed home, burying himself impossibly deep. His body locked, shuddering violently as he emptied himself into her infernal heat, a flood of release that felt less like pleasure and more like a dam bursting inside his soul.
Before he could even gasp, before his trembling limbs gave way, Sasha exploded into motion. She ripped herself off him with a wet, sucking pop that echoed obscenely. Arthur collapsed forward onto the rug, cheek pressed into the damp spot she’d left, dazed and utterly spent. He saw her launch herself upwards, a blur of blonde plastic and bouncing flesh.
She landed with surprising lightness directly in front of his small, ancient television resting on a wobbly stand. Her back arched impossibly. A predatory grin split her face, eyes gleaming with malicious glee. She looked directly at Arthur, panting, her fingers digging into her own hips.
"Clean-up on aisle fucking five, Artie!" she cackled.
Then it happened. A guttural groan, a tremor running through her entire frame, and a powerful, gushing torrent exploded from between her legs. It wasn't a trickle, not a leak. It was a pressurized jet, thick and glistening, arching out with shocking force. It hit the television screen with a loud splat that made Arthur flinch violently. The viscous fluid – smelling sharply of sex and ozone – sheeted down the dusty screen, pooled thickly on the stand below, and dripped obscenely onto the floorboards.
Sasha shuddered, letting out a long, satisfied sigh. "Ahhhh. Proper pressure wash, that." She turned, still panting, a rivulet of the same fluid trickling down her inner thigh. Her tail gave a lazy flick, sending droplets flying. She looked down at Arthur sprawled on the rug, his body trembling, his mind shattered. Her grin widened, impossibly sharp.
"Might wanna get a mop, mousey," she purred, tapping the filthy collar tag with a taloned finger. "Place is starting to look like a proper fucking knocking shop. And we ain't nearly done." She casually wiped a hand across her glistening lower belly and licked her fingers, her vacant blue eyes fixed on his ruined expression. The flickering lamp cast her monstrous shadow large over him and the dripping ruin of his television. The only sound was the relentless drip-drip-drip onto the floor.