Chapter 4
The sun was a white-hot smear in the sky as it slavered through the thick Los Angeles smog. It gave rise to a greenish bile of a mist in the canyons north of Hollywood.
The potent scent of citrus fumed in the stagnant air, but the burn of the sun and the inescapable pollution combined to give a bitter, oily taste to the languid atmosphere.
For most of the denizens of this semitropical metropolis, that would have been enough to have made this day one of utter misery.
As a matter of fact, it was just the way the women who were working out on the deck of the cliffside home liked it.
The bodies of the two women grappling on the matting beside the outdoor swimming pool were sleek with scented vegetable essences, coated with their own reeking rutjuices.
Cynthia Luna's nude body was roped to a rough plank set at an angle to the mat. Her left leg was raised, attached about shoulder height to the slanting beam, splitting her drenched cunt wide open and guzzling.
Just beneath her fuming puss lips was the dangling head of the raven-haired woman. Her eyes were closed, her arms bound to her sides with a cinch of rawhide.
She sniffed Cynthia's cunt juices, peppering her briny scents deep into her sinuses.
It seemed to energize her.
To feed her hunger.
It was all necessary. To keep in shape.
There was indeed a lot to be said for personalized coaching sessions.
She smiled, wincing slightly at the tugs on her nipples. Almost like being a puppet.
Opening her eyes, she saw the fierce look on Cynthia's face. The young coach had a shock of innocent corntassel blonde hair, dripping with perspiration just past her jawline.
Cynthia's pubic thatch was a somewhat darker blonde, now coated with the thick and fragrant cream that served as appetizer to the raven-haired woman's atavistic hunger.
As her torso twisted, the tinkling chains that were attached to the rings through each woman's nipples slackened and drew tight.
Stretching out one set of tits as though they were rubberized.
Then releasing. Allowing the breasts to rest for an instant.
So that the nips could return to reddened hardness. Before being played out again and again in painful tautness.
As the raven-haired woman shook in uncontrolled orgasmic spasm, Cynthia spoke to her gently.
"You worthless dyke gash. I should shit in your face and set Dobermans to snarl up your rotting pussy, and fuck me while I watch."
"Oh, Cynthia, love," the raven-haired woman spoke through clenched teeth.
"I love you, Diana," Cynthia said, unleashing a spume of bright orange urine.
It spattered over the matting as Cynthia worked her dripping pod toward Diana's straining maw.
Diana thrashed her head about on the mat. She tried to force her hands at her clit.
But the rawhide cinch was too tight. She writhed in perspi rational ecstasy.
Cynthia drenched Diana's dank locks, pissing into her scowl.
Diana was able to grab her tissuelike cunt folds and yank them like stretchrubber wattles, snapping them back in release.
She shuddered as the wetness coursed over her stretched tits, slipped into her navel and brimmed over. Her own cunt was a bubbling froth.
As her trainer's piss syruped down her haunch, Diana shimmied her suckering arse.
Her clit jumped from side to side.
Diana Cazadora relished the foam and the grime now working up in her quim.
It helped to keep her slim and nifty.
That was after all what her life was about.
As the sultry hostess for the syndicated cable television show Hecate's Horrorhouse she owed it to her fans.
Her other interests as well involved the allure of her flesh. Diana Cazadora was a very physical person with a desire to be worshipped in kind.
This was her job. This was her pleasure.
It was her hunger.
Spa Abbey of Theleme was a joint enterprise with the wealthy art entrepreneur Alistair Weed. It would serve as one of her bases, one of her sources for the flesh she needed.
To feed her hunger.
Now that Francis Dashwood had opened his private club in lower Manhattan, she had another metropolitan station. Dashwood's Scented Garden had already been the source of Diana Cazadora's new young trainer, Cynthia Luna.
The adept young lady now managed to plop her streaming pussy onto Diana's nose. Diana slickered the space between Cynthia's cunt folds and her arse with a rough tongue.
Cynthia began to tear at her eyes, now a gray haze of obsessional pain.
Diana gloried at the foam fuming down her gullet. She lashed her lizardlike tongue at Diana's pert pun-khole.
Of course, being their sexually dominant partner in these enterprises made her in a way quite vulnerable. She was dependent upon both Alistair and Francis for her feed.
And, like all men, they were constantly scheming amongst themselves. Usually to make money in a way that was often degrading to women.
That was why Diana Cazadora was necessary in this world. To teach people a little humility, build their characters.
Diana wallowed in the crisis of orgasmic spasm. Her legs flipped convulsively as her cunny spat hives of honey.
Yes. But Diana also needed the men.
She wanted ice-cold cock in her quim. To gobble chortling mounds of male come down her gullet.
Diana needed to be fanny-filled with pumps of jism from the hardwood hog.
And she wanted it now!
But there were no men. And therefore there was pain. In her groin. Up her ass. A hungering, raw and baleful, in her clit. "Cynthia, I need dick."
"Can't have it, you fetid cuntmeat," Cynthia said, spitting in her mistress's eyes.
Diana simmered in a smile. Yes, Cynthia was a marvelous trainer.
She caused so much heartbreak and pain.
It kept Diana in shape for the pain that she had to inflict. On others. To feed her hunger.
To give her pleasure.
Being worshipped onscreen was only one aspect of her psyche. Her drives demanded being worshipped in the flesh.
She thought of herself as a star. The latest in a long line of incarnations of the fearsome white goddess that was humanity's true domination.
And Diana felt that impulse inside her. Had felt it from birth. Perhaps even before.
It was as old as humankind itself. The ancient Babylonians worshipped the twatlike momingstar of Ishtar, whilst the Egyptians sucked the celestial cuntress Isis even as the Indians were jerked off by the many arms of Kali.
The Greeks and Romans had many incarnations of her. She was seen in the fertile and debauched Persephone, and in the dyke-daughter of the slit moon they called Cynthia.
And especially as the multititted huntress the Greeks knew as Artemis. She was a dominatrix who demanded obedience and chastity from her minion.
So strong was her domination that her temple in Ephesus in Asia Minor was ranked amongst the seven wonders of the ancient world.
Its statue of the goddess Artemis was an ebony sculpture of a feminine bust aswarm with tits impaled on a pyramidal spike.
Unfaithfulness to her could be horribly punished. After all, the goddess had many aspects she could assume.
The Roman Diana the Huntress often turned men into beasts.
Then she might if she liked shoot them with arrows drawn from her vaginal quiver. Shot from her taut bowstring.
In the early preclassical days, her devotees would actually perform a mortal version of this sacrifice. For the cruel white goddess had decreed that the king must die.
Diana Cazadora thought her divine namesake had the right idea. And you didn't really have far to go to turn men into beasts anyway.
They were already so like swine and wolves, mules and mutts. But they could be trained.
Made to serve their mistress.
There was also the white goddess in her role as Hecate, whose devotees fed her hunger with their very own home-brew lust honey, dogmeat, lion loins and curved black ramhorns.
They would rut like hounds for their mistress.
Jack off at dead meat.
Dig spurs into rawhide thighs. Assail arse holes with ravenous bestial maws.
Suck off so many snatches their faces grew raw. Pull off pods with mouth, hands and toes.
Take trash in the rump, yip, clit-pip and dicktip. Suck slime, sperm and scurf with howling puckers, snarling snatches and blazing throats.
The prissy sisters would savor in their splits so many pullulating pricks they looked like spiders' legs arching from their dank pussies.
Now that was entertainment.
The Greeks and Romans had known how to do it. And now so did Diana Cazadora.
Cynthia twisted her body, yanking out the four tits like so much silly putty. Then she rubbed her fanny across Diana's ravening jaws.
She felt the tongue slurp up her bung. Felt the incessant shifting and pulling on her throbbing nipples, the dawn of orgasm.
Diana chewed the pink yowling pucker within her long incisors. She slipped her yip smooching up and down the sleek hovering crack.
The arsemeat was slick with saliva and mucoid cunt essences.
There was a tang of rutsweat that sang in her nostrils. Made her clit buzz like a hive of honeybees at work for their queen.
"I crave cock," Diana chattered through vibrating jaw.
Cynthia kicked Diana in the cunny with her free foot. With her right hand, she went for her clit and gave it a jab.
Then she picked up a chromium cock machine with revolving leather tasselated tip.
"You want cock, my love Diana," she murmured, "just tell me where."
"Mouth," Diana mewed.
The humming head sank into Diana's teeth, driven by electricity and the deftness of Cynthia's wristwork at her maw.
"Underarms," Diana barely was able to say with the greased leather tassels flailing away at her tongue and tonsils.
Cynthia flagellated Diana's armpits with whiplike attacks of the mute engine. 'Tits," Diana yelped. "Hit my tits," she implored. "How hard?" Cynthia intoned. "Until I scream," Diana said.
"Scream for what?" Cynthia said rudely. "Scream for more!" Diana yowled. Cynthia slashed the grimacing machine-metal cock crisply across Diana's breast. "More!"
"Piss for me, you smut-sow," Cynthia leered.
She then brought the heavy metal down at an angle across Diana's facial features.
The leather tails of the tasselated tip of machinework prick next whipped up a froth in Diana's quim.
"Shove it in," Diana whined.
"Not until you piss for me, you grunge," Cynthia spat foully from her jeering jaw.
She drove it into Diana's dripping dugs. Then she sank it into her bustling bellybutton.
Cynthia then shot it up underneath Diana's kicking rump. The leather head attacked her flanks and snipped at her dangling cunt hairs.
It bit at clit and snapped the raised ring of Diana's prim punk hole.
Then the moistness erupted with a new sparkling liquid. The urine pulsed from the puss in a frothing spill down the insides of her thighs.
It drenched back under her rump and smarted up her tightening and flaring asshole.
"Now can I fuck it with my cunt?" Diana asked of Cynthia in low tones.
Cynthia brought the raging machine down into
Diana's screaming quim.
"Oh, Cynthia, please let me come," the white television goddess pleaded, tears streaming down her mouth cheeks.
Something dark and leathery caught Cynthia's eye. That wasn't how the attendants dressed out here. It was an unexpected intruder, but it would surely have had some kind of official clearance to have gotten itself past the security.
It must be important if they would interrupt Diana's training session.
Diana felt the tug on her ringed nipples as she felt Cynthia twist about. It savaged her to the brink of orgasm.
Cynthia was murmuring something to her now, even as she cascaded into another dimension of come. She heard another voice, unfamiliar, and she opened her eyes.
Diana looked up into Cynthia's face, then at that of the other woman.
She wanted to fuck her too. Her hunger had grown so much during this session.
Diana wafted her eyes over the new woman's robust figure, seductive in her draped leathers and high-heeled spurred booties.
Still jiggling on the end of the metal fuck machine, Diana was stunned into the center of a whirling vortex of orgasmic come.
The new woman wore her hair slicked down in a part, and it was the vibrant chestnut glow of the coat of a fine thoroughbred mare.
The front zipper of the woman's oxblood calfskin bodysuit was drawn down to the bottoms of her boobs. Cynthia and Diana could see the edges of the nipple rings on a harness underneath.
Before the two entwined fuckstresses could speak, the chestnut-haired woman had unzipped her bodysuit clear past her navel.
With her left hand, she peeled away the front of the oxblood leather outfit and revealed a luminous white tit, held captive in a harness fitted with steel nipple rings.
Through the fine skin of that tit was pinned a police detective badge.
"Detective Sergeant Cassandra Derringer, art crime division," she said, pointing to her badge and flipping her tit.
Cynthia and Diana couldn't move their eyes away. Next to the pinched and pinned tit was a slick Walther PPK, holstered on the ribcage.
"How may we be of help, sergeant?" Diana asked.
Cassandra dropped her hand along the smooth firm slope of her pubis. She frigged her moist clit gently and flared her nostrils.
She then drew her zipper down past her rippling cunny. Cassandra then opened her legs and slit the leather suit underneath her crotch and up around back past her asshole.