Science Fiction, Beauty & the Beast

The Animal Inside Me

I’m weeping, splayed, dizzy with pain, like some crucified criminal whore.

I walk in almost naked, just a narrow white satin band stretching from my pussy to the black rope-collar round my neck. I enter from behind the audience, striding down the aisle that separates them in two groups. By the way I walk I make sure they can all see how the band disappears into my ass, held tight by the plug.

A rumble of anticipation runs through the room and I feel that familiar buzz as the show begins. It’s a full house, twenty skeets and a dozen trad couples. I stop in front of the gauze curtain that divides the room and turn around. The walls and ceiling are polished mirrors which makes the crowd seem much larger.

I turn towards them, head slightly lowered, long blonde hair concealing my face, pretending to be ashamed of what I’m about to do. Eyeing their reflections in the walls, a few young skeets open their transparent robes and stroke themselves. One is fully erect already. A tall, slender African catches my eye. This beauty has glorious tits, full, ripe naturals with starburst nipples that beckon. I can never resist this combination and she wears a sweet, sad expression I recognise. She is coming to terms with her sex-addiction, learning to live with the strength of her desires, and the consequences. After the show I will tell Horace to invite her backstage. She is my type.

I raise my chin and push the hair back from my face, mouth slightly open. Sparks flash from the row of silver studs in my tongue as I moisten my lips. The lights dim from warm red to dark amber and my pulse quickens. Everyone is holding their breath as the curtain shimmers and becomes almost see-through, all straining to make out the shape of the creature stood on the platform. A few whisper and the beautiful African girl gasps aloud as they realise what I already knew. Most will have never seen one except onscreen, there are so few. But it’s common knowledge that an Artimus Star can kill –sooner or later they all do. The room throbs like a living organism. A scent of wet cunt takes the air, juices running at the thought of me held in the grip of a creature who knows nothing of humans except how to capture and explore them.

“You are very lucky,” I whisper, my voice shaking as I gaze around the room at what may be the last audience of my life. “Luckier, perhaps, than me.”

Every penis is erect now, three skeets are openly wanking off. I hear the sharp moan of sudden penetration –a small brunette among the trad-couples is holding the hands of her girlfriends on either side, getting fucked from behind. I step up close to the dark beauty; she knows I am watching her. I slip one finger between my legs, swipe my wetness and raise two fingers to her lips. She trembles, I nod, and she kisses the moist knuckles before lapping my juices. I gently press my fingers in and out of her mouth, just once.

“Something to remember,” I tell her, and turn to face the Artimus. The curtain drops and the bold, heady smell of the creature drifts into the swirling mix of lust and sweat. The coolant pills have kicked in and the tingling runs the length and considerable depth of my cunt. Few humans could even begin to fuck an Artemis and the audience knows it. This is my life, my work, my gift.

I climb onstage and walk around the creature. Every Artimus exhales a dizzying scent, sweet and pheromone-rich. A living, breathing aphrodisiac, each has unique colouring, but only the Stars have the distinctive golden glow. This has a magnificent turquoise carapace two metres across, a flat plate narrowing to the “clover” -a spur of leathery flesh above a dark, mouth-like slit. Five tapering limbs arranged like those of a starfish are spread out, wrapped around the dome-shaped platform that stands waist-high. I measure the carapace between finger and thumb; perhaps an inch and a half thick. This Artimus is at least a four year-old, and my skin prickles in anticipation and yes, in fear.

With practised ease I swing myself up onto the creature and kneel with my back to the crowd. I reach between my legs and draw the long chrome plug from my anus, one slow inch at a time. I can hear the onlookers whispering as they begin to understand just how very much my body can take. They have seen nothing yet. I unhook the sash and toss it away. With a flourish, I strike the chrome cylinder on the clover. The Artimus wakes, a rich golden ring of light pulsing beneath its limbs. I pull my hair into a tail and pin it back to my rope collar. I have only seconds to prepare, and drop onto my back, legs spread wide apart. A deep humming sound emerges from the creature beneath me, punctuated by the harsh breath of its arousal. The knowledge of what is to happen makes it hard to keep still but that, above all, is what I must do until the Artimus is fully exposed.

My eyes are fixed on the mirrored ceiling and the image of my own body spread-eagled like a human sacrifice. The dark slit of the Artimus widens into a flickering golden oval from which the probe begins to creep, a slim, cream-coloured tendril, unfurling as it meanders towards the scent it cannot resist –the odour of my dripping cunt. The tendril slips easily between my lips, barely brushing the tip of my clitoris, to linger for a second within me. Like my own finger a few moments ago, it quickly withdraws and retreats to deliver a taste of me to that half-open mouth.

The humming grows louder, the breath of the Artimus slows and its heart begins a low, hypnotic thumping as the five limbs flex like the fingers of some monstrous hand. One rises, curls itself above me, a tapering crimson arm, the veined root as big around as my thigh, the smooth tip a pink cone that sways as it approaches my face. There is nothing gentle in its manner. Without a pause the cone plunges into my open mouth and the crowd roars as a pole of crimson disappears, hammering down my throat, withdraws and thrusts again, and again. The Artimus is blind, its senses are only of touch and response. The studs in my tongue rake its length and the pumping quickens. My eyes close in reflex, in fright, and through the droning and the thudding heartbeats I hear the shriek of some greedy skeet shooting their first load, followed by a ripple of applause.

I gulp for breath, hard and fast between the tentacle thrusts, enduring this loveless face-fuck, and give thanks to Horace for the hundreds of hours we spent training for this, together. My concentration is immense, total, for the creature, indifferent to my mouth, will return to the lure of my cunt and vent its frustration — if it has not already taken my life. I open my eyes and let the tears roll, because Horace will have my face in close-up for the video we’ll be selling at the exit in an hour’s time.

But for me that hour is a year or a lifetime away, as the beast finally pulls out and starts to tremble. A sob bursts from my aching throat. The indescribable taste of the Star’s alien moisture fills my mouth. Sweet Diabolo I am still breathing! The five great limbs are rising up, held aloft, preparing to uncoil. Along the length of each limb runs a dark stripe that throbs, bulges, and then begins to split, as the blood-red inner tentacle is unsheathed. My own pulse is a drumbeat but the Artimus is in full song, its tremors matched by great booming sounds and above it all the room echoes to the inevitable chanting, coarse and hoarse-

“Skeet, Skeet, SKEET! Skeet, Skeet, SKEET! ”

Those kittens know exactly how my death might come –if come it must. They are shedding control now, demanding their dirty money’s worth and oh, how I love them and despise them too! I force myself to keep still, mindful of the beast as its writhing tentacles descend upon me. Like fingertips the gleaming points slither beneath and between my legs and thighs. One wraps itself around my throat and tightens a little, then a little more. I am powerless, and with a sense of dread, feel the whipcords of warm flesh contracting around my wrists and ankles. I must not scream or beg because now the Artimus is reading my body –thank Dia it cannot read my mind.

Holding my nerves in check I stare up and see the crowd in the mirror, the tugging of cocks, bouncing tits, couples fucking on the cushioned floor, the sharp hot spray as somebody squirts for their skeetlove. The press on my throat loosens a fraction but the grip on my hands and feet is fierce, unbreakable, and now the racking begins. Like a quartet of boas the tentacles stretch my arms and legs tight — surely too tight to bear? I am weeping, splayed, dizzy with pain, like some crucified criminal whore.

The chanting has stopped now I am on the rack. Even the dimmest of skeets understands the climax is imminent, one way or the other.

I know everything the Artimus will do, must do, and offer no resistance as I am pulled across its surface. I feel the pressure at my mons as I am drawn up and onto the clover, my cunt raised in a gaping invitation. My spread legs are bowed and bent around the dome of the platform. The mouth-slit below the clover expands and the gleaming yellow beak emerges. I hear the unmistakable hiss of the steam that is released. The beak lunges, clamps my pelvis between it’s jaws and somebody screams. Yet the beak is blunt and soft. The danger lives in the huge, rounded tongue, which presses hot, damp and smooth upon my cunt lips as it undulates, hesitates and enters me. Like a sponge it expands, ripples and churns and the sensation throws me into a sudden, unstoppable orgasm.

“SKEET,SKEET,SKEET,SKEET, SKEET!”

Time stands still, the beak gnaws softly, the lower jaw probing my anus, the upper pushing down upon my clit and all the while the huge tongue rolls and twists in me, searching for the secret of the liquid pooling between my thighs.

“SSKEEEEEEET!”

Another orgasm hits, this time with a ferocious power and in that instant, with its tongue at the very limit of expansion, its girth threatening to burst me from inside, I know the Artimus is exposed. I felt the tentacles loosen as its desperation peaked. For a few precious seconds the beast is defenseless, unable to shoot the needle of Staricide buried in the spine of that monstrous tongue, and crucially, my hands are free.

Wrenching my upper body forward I slam down with my titanium claws and pierce the beak, ripping through the tendon that primes that deadly needle. The Artimus booms and blazes in a fury of sound and light, the fat tongue thrashing within me as the tentacles whip at my breasts and thighs and I am screaming my climax, howling my delirium, lost in a pleasure few will ever know.

In the dressing-room Horace hands me a long drink. He sees my expression. “Let me guess,” he grins. “The African beauty in the front row.”

More from Solomon…

Another Tantalizing Tale…