Chapter 6
Artemis Schwartz looked up from the thick volume she was studying and rested its weight, opened along the heavily bound spine, in the center of her lap.
She looked through the heavy leaded-glass windows of the abbey's turret, gazing out across the landscape of bosomy snowclad mountains, thickly thatched patches of twatlike forest and penile stands of frosted pinetrees, glittering and threatening within their spiky condoms of ice.
Nearer, nestled among the trails that led to the spa's ski runs, stood the small ceremonial grove that the Thelemites were now decorating with mistletoe and holly.
It was here that for one brief season of folly, as part of the spa's program of special events, the men would rule the domain that was rightfully that of the cruel white goddess.
They would symbolically usurp the powers held since the beginning of humanity as the dominion of the mistress of pain.
Artemis had been reading about the celebration of Saturnalia during the classical period of Rome. Her research had involved as well medieval and renaissance variants.
In her new role as Abbess of Theleme, Artemis Schwartz had a great responsibility to her Thelemites, as well as to the investors.
She had brought her exquisite sense of design to her post, and this would be well reflected in the costuming for the upcoming festival.
Tonight, for instance, the Saturnalia would open with a renaissance-style banquet, with duelists, dancers and music.
Then, later, would come the more sublime acts of their celebration.
The ones that would depict women and men, stocking up for their hunger at the fleshmarkets.
The advent of the ceremonial display of masculine power would add a certain desperation to the activities of the marketplace.
There would be all manner of opportunity for abuse, humiliation, domination and damnation. All would be encouraged to display their personal follies and preferences.
Choosing from delights displayed and prepared for them in the meatmarket just prior to a glitzy high-tech renaissance carnival.
This segment would be audience participation.
As had become the tradition at the spa, Diana Cazadora's unique mechanical contraptions would be among the centerpieces.
Pierced nipples.
Hooked twats.
Men with rubber collars about their necks and slightly smaller models choking off their cocks to purple-headed madness.
And the mistress herself was scheduled to appear.
This aspect was a bit uncertain as of now, however. Of course it might add a little suspense to the Saturnalia, but the Abbess was in charge of planning the schedule of events.
Diana, or, rather, her little doxie Cynthia had called on behalf of her mistress, from Los Angeles this morning.
She had left a message informing the Abbess that the videotaping of Hecate's Horrorhouse was running past schedule.
That would brew havoc enough.
But Cynthia had also advised the Abbess to expect the arrival of a special guest. One that the mistress herself had invited.
Artemis knew that her husband Francis Dash wood and his partner in the venture Alistair Weed would be furious.
They needed no nonpaying guests at Spa Abbey of Theleme, especially not at these affairs.
This weekend alone would cost each aficionado in attendance twenty-five hundred dollars.
And drinks outside of those selected and scheduled for the series of planned parties and meals were extra.
Diana's devices would be for sale, and Artemis would be taking orders for a line of athletic wear derived from her costuming for the event.
Since prices were extraordinary and the taste of the clientele likewise refined, every element of the scheme had to be of the ultimate quality.
Every morsel to feed their hunger would be of the most toothsome variety.
Every pleasure machine would produce the most stylish pain ever theretofore unimagined.
So why give it away?
Especially to a cop.
Artemis thought Diana must have gone off the deep end somewhere out in LA. Falling for a police detective like that.
And Cassandra Derringer wanted to find Zahndra Jergens. There were reasons-Artemis did not understand them entirely-that the money-musc-lemen Francis and Alistair wanted to keep Zahndra's transformation under wraps.
Possibly some kind of publicity they were contemplating for Dashwood's Scented Garden.
But Artemis knew they would be pissed at the attendance of the dyke cop.
If only on principle.
Spa Abbey of Theleme was supposed to be a secluded retreat for only the most special types of connoisseurs.
Exclusivity, of course, meant prices in the astronomical range.
Artemis felt a splendor in her grass. The tingle spread from her clitbud to her ass.
She, too, had that warm response to the flow of cash, like some cool green jism.
She could understand her husband and his partner. But right now she couldn't understand the way Diana was acting.
Artemis had the flash for an instant that perhaps Diana did not after all deserve to be the mistress of pain.
Not anymore.
If she had broken, she would no longer be deserving. Diana was weakened.
But Artemis felt stronger and more powerful each day. Her ferocity sometimes scared her. But at least she was in control.
She could dominate her own hunger.
Not lose it all the way Diana Cazadora had done. To some dippy little trainer-groupie or a tough-titted cop from the art squad.
Perhaps it was time for the Abbess to succeed her mistress.
Artemis had much money of her own.
As things now stood, though Diana was a partner in the spa, her financial involvement was a limited one.
Her income from the syndicated cable series Hecate's Horrorhouse was not bad at all by most standards, but it was nothing compared to the resources upon which Francis and Alistair could draw.
In fact, Artemis thought, Diana was actually their slave.
Of course Artemis Schwartz would be a more potent mistress.
The designer's actionwear was seen peeled from the sweating hardbod asses in Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, Paris, and Milan.
Artemis Schwartz's workout suits were worn out fucking by athletes in New York, Mexico City, London and Rome. Her jeans were whipped down the legs of Panamanian faggots and rawhide bulldykes in Singapore flings.
Every person who wore her clothing saw himself as a star.
Artemis Schwartz had the power of charisma as well as that derived from her money.
In many ways, Artemis Schwartz would be more than a match for her husband Francis Dashwood and his partner Alistair Weed.
She would certainly be more valuable to them. Considerably more so than Diana Cazadora could ever hope to be.
That would be Artemis's edge.
"Pandora," the Abbess said to the young lady in the ruffled dress who sat primly with her white legs sticking out from the hemline, propped up on the secretarial desk.
Artemis held out a long thin set of fiercely nailed fingers.
"You wish Pandora's box, mum?" the lady in the ruffled dress said.
She spread her legs slightly to reveal the split in her golden blonde pussy patch.
"Yes," Artemis said slowly, "and I think I'll want some of Dicksie's cup. Would you mind calling him up."
Pandora wedged herself onto the Abbess's silk-stockinged leg. Artemis stroked Pandora's box with the sharpened tips of her fingernails.
Pandora reached behind her and buzzed up Dicksie on the intercom.
The youth pranced into the Abbess's suite of offices wearing a small cup about his genitals, carrying spray of mistletoe and a selection of lewdly decorated switches.
There were straight and whiplike lengths soaked in water. A variety of bludgeons in die form of animal horns and antlers painted silver.
And many-tailed instruments that were shaped like tree boughs, with jagged metallic leaves attached to their golden-hued branches.
Pandora flipped Dicksie's cup away from his tummy and the boy's cock flipped out and up, smacking him in the flatness of his stomach.
His nuts were wadded up under his belly in a crinkled sac. Dicksie's stiff penis bobbed and came to rest, heavy with blood.
Pandora affixed the spray of mistletoe to the thorn between Dicksie's legs.
Then she made him stand upon the Abbess's desk and spread his legs.
Artemis and Pandora joined in embrace between the boy's succulent cheeks. They looked up and saw his brown asshole winking at them.
The two women smiled at the mistletoe bouncing away as the faunlike boy's balls bloomed gaily to enormity, the prick throbbing festively.
"Before we kiss beneath the mistletoe, I should remind the Abbess," Pandora said.
"What is it, dear one?"
"Tis the season to beat Holly."
"Why, yes, Pandora," Artemis said as she selected a limber golden bough. "Won't you fetch her for us now."
Zahndra Jergens relaxed in a smile as the needles were inserted into her ripe ass. One in each cheek.
She could swear she felt the hormones at work already. At play in her body tissues.
Francis Dashwood nodded his head in approval as the Thelemite attendants inserted another needle in Zahndra's arm, this time to draw blood.
"Zahndra's looking pretty damn good, Alistair, if you ask me," Francis said to the tall sandy-haired man just entering.
One Thelemite oiled up a long, narrow plastic nib with holes in it and spread open Zahndra's pliant asscheeks.
"Hello, Alistair," Zahndra said, looking up from the padded table.
"How do you feel today, honey?" Alistair said, placing his hand reassuringly on her neck.
"Never felt better," Zahndra said, moving her rump to accept the plastic length.
It slid into her interior and a narrow rubber tubing was attached to its open breech.
Zahndra propped herself up on her elbows to show off her tits.
Alistair reached down to them and flicked the nipples to a stand.
They barely jiggled. So tight and small across her flattening chest.
"Not bad indeed," Alistair said, looking over at Francis's wolverine grin.
"All she needs is a cock," Francis said.
Gurgling sounds began to trickle as the syrupy concoction was driven in mild spurts up Zahndra's rectum. It set off a fever in her.
Fed her hunger.
"I've decided to keep my twat," Zahndra said. "At least for the time being."
"Fine," Francis said.
"You can always get a penis-and-sac later-if you become envious," Alistair joked.
Zahndra began shaking her hide. One Thelemite inserted her rubber-sheathed fingers into Zahndra's bustling twat.
"When do you think I'll be coming out?" Zahndra said, her clit buzzing like a drill bit.
Alistair exchanged glances with Francis.
"I think she's ready right now," Alistair said, raising his eyebrows.
Francis nodded in confirmation.
"Yes, Alistair. Particularly since she's keeping hold of her cunt for now."
"Maybe we can work her into the Saturnalia somehow," Alistair said.
"This weekend?" Zahndra said excitedly.
"Yes," Francis said, reaching into his pants and holding his stiff prick aloft.
He began to flag it, watching Zahndra's rump thrash and churn.
"How's Saturday night sound?" Alistair suggested, his adrenaline pumping.
He snapped his fingers and a young Thelemite attendant clad in white latex came up to him. She stretched his cock out from his pinstriped pants and took the stinger in her yip.
"We'll have to inform the Abbess of the news. She'll be delighted," Francis noted.
He brought his cock into contact with Zahndra's jibbering jaw.
A Thelemite began to undo his pants, wielding a long syringe in her fingers.
"It will certainly be a surprise for our mistress of pain," Alistair added.
He sighed as an attendant untied his cravat and opened his wing-collar shirt.
A shiny metal choker was placed around his neck. Another of the same design pattern was clamped about his purple genital regalia.
"I am afraid our mistress Diana Cazadora has a little surprise of her own," Francis said insinuatingly, cock caught in Zahndra's neck.
He shivered as he took the injection right in his asshole. Vitamin B12 was one of his favorite highs for rutting.
"How so?" Alistair queried.
He was becoming sick of Diana's undependabil-ity, her missing important events due to her television work on the West Coast.
"She shot off her yawp to some hardass detective we both know," Francis said between grating teeth as he drove down Zahndra's neck.
"We expected that," Alistair said, now dressed only in matching rings about his neck, wrists, ankles and genitals.
"But we didn't expect that she'd send Cassandra Derringer as her guest to Saturnalia," Alistair said with a sneer.
A Thelemite removed the long plastic nib from Zahndra's punk hole and gestured to Alistair that she was ready.
Two clamps were attached to stretch Zahndra's buttocks apart.
"But Diana doesn't really know a thing, does she?" Alistair said, climbing onto the massage table just below Zahndra's spread ass.
"I haven't said anything to her," Francis affirmed as he held Zahndra's head to his cackling cockmeat in her maw.
"Maybe that's part of the problem," Alistair said, shaking out his long dick into Zahndra's struggling rump.
"She didn't do it on purpose, of course," Francis said. "But her not being privy to our important matters has not provided us the cover we wanted to use.!.'
"In fact," Alistair agreed, dragging his choked cock ever so slowly along the seam of Zahndra's hustling buttocks, "she has proved a weak link in our chain of operation."
"I think our Abbess will really be showing her stuff this weekend," Francis remarked diffidently, flapping his balls over Zahndra's churning chin, kissing her drenched locks.
"Artemis would, however," Alistair said, slapping the hard ass beneath his dangling purple dong, "be more than a paper partner."
"That's the advantage," Francis said. "She would have an active interest in our behalf. A Schwartz has power and money. We might as well avail ourselves of it."
He squeezed Zahndra's shrinking tits, as if they were twin clits on her chest.
Zahndra chewed on the hog in her jowls with her hungry choppers. She whipped her legs around Alis-tair's oiled hips.
"You've been pushing for this ever since Artemis became involved, Francis," Alistair said. "You think she's got the right stuff?"
He sank into Zahndra's ass and jabbed her with spasmodic thrusts of cock in her bun.
"Yes, I think my wife would make a perfect mistress of pain," Francis said, yanking his dick from Zahndra's mouth.
He took one step back and hoisted his cock.
Huge glops of come were lofted through the air, scattering like fiery opal cabochons across Zahndra's hair and face.
"Can I be Abbess?" Zahndra snickered, licking her hair for droplets of jism.
"Better make that Abbot," Alistair said, fobbing off a load of come into her arse.
"Sergeant, you stink," Lieutenant Gardenia said, pinching his nostrils.
"Can't do anything about it now," Cassandra said, partly unzipping the front of the oxblood-colored calfskin bodysuit she was wearing for the third day in a row.
"You can get out of here as fast as possible," Gardenia said.
"A pleasure," Cassandra said as she took out an unfiltered Turkish cigarette and shoved it between her teeth.
"I take it the missing persons investigation has been coming along." Cassandra nodded, blowing smoke out in dirty gray plumes.
"You've filed the paperwork?" he said, crinkling his nose at the aromas of stale cuntjuice and dirty musk wafting from the detective.
Cassandra nodded again, noting Gardenia's discomfort at her body rut smell. She lowered the zipper at the front of her ensemble to allow the fragrance to escape more freely.
"Good," the lieutenant said with finality. "Then I don't have to see it."
He took a glance inside the unzipped top and saw the outline of her tough tits held painful prisoners in their leather-and-steel harness.
"What's the dope on this disappearance?" Cassandra said, standing with her legs split apart shoulder width.
"Well, first of all, the collector says she is getting heat from her eventual buyers-"
"She?"
"Yeah."
"Endicott Peabody is a she?" Cassandra said.
"Yeah. What's wrong with that? If you can be a she, anyone can."
"Very funny," Cassandra snorted.
"It seems that Ms. Peabody," Gardenia continued, his eyes on Cassandra's tits, "has accepted money for the sale of select items prior to their actual delivery, and now-"
"Let me guess," Cassandra said. "Ms. Peabody has a cash-flow problem and the pieces in question are now whereabouts unknown." Gardenia nodded.
"What about the insurance angle?" Cassandra said, shifting her weight.
She allowed one hip to rise, drawing the crotch of the calfskin bodysuit tightly up between the lips of her cunt.
"You'll like this," Gardenia said.
"So tell me about it."
"The insurance was taken out by Investors Artistic, Ltd. Can you guess who is on the board of directors of said corporation?"
"Not offhand," Cassandra said taciturnly.
"How about Alistair Weed and Francis Dashwood for starters?"
"Sounds good," she said, drawing her zipper down past her navel.
She kept careful watch on the lieutenant's eyes as she slit a finger into the partially opened front of her outfit.
"Anyone else of interest?" she said.
"Yeah, that television horror-movie hostesswhat's her name?"
Cassandra shot her hips forward a bit. She saw Gardenia's eyes charge in.
"I know the one," Cassandra said. "Just saw her in LA in connection with the missing art-groupie slit whose parents got all hot in the tits. Hecate's
Horrorhouse. Diana Cazadora is the cunt's moniker."
"You got it," Gardenia said. "Now go get it," he said, passing to her several foil pouches.
Cassandra looked at them. Purse-kit perfumed douches and vaginal antiperspirant.
"I'll, see if I can wrap this one up quick, baby," Cassandra said.
Gardenia looked amused.
"Wrap her up however you like," Gardenia said. "I know it's rough out there. Just make sure you wash out your snatch after the next hunk of cuntmeat you go after on assignment."
"Police, ma'am," Cassandra said through the intercom, looking into the eye of the video camera focused in front of the building's locked foyer.
"Come right in," the light voice replied.
A dissonant buzzer sounded, and Cassandra Derringer pushed her way into the ground-floor hallway of the brownstone.
A narrow doorway opened at the end of the hall, and a pair of almond eyes in an olive-complexioned head peered out.
"Officer..." Ms. Peabody began.
"Sergeant Cassandra Derringer, art squad," the detective cut off, stepping quickly through the door.
"I...I didn't know when to expect you," the woman said. "I was just getting out of the shower."
Cassandra thought that she herself could certainly use a washing. She saw Ms. Peabody adjust the weighted cord tied about her hips to keep her raw silk kimono together.
The hand-painted Japanese robe was probably from the late nineteenth century. Remarkably preserved, the art squad investigator observed.
"I already have the background details as you confirmed them," Cassandra said, taking a peek at the woman's ripe bosom.
She saw a gilt cord tied over one shoulder, disappearing within the folds of the kimono.
"But would you mind recapitulating the events for me?" Cassandra said.
"Of course, sergeant," Ms. Peabody said, hauling out a cigarette and inserting it into a long Chinese ivory cigarette holder.
As Ms. Peabody related the discovery that a number of pieces of the Hellenistic works she had purchased on a recent swing through Greece and Turkey, Cassandra felt the rut rise from within the antique kimono.
"Let me show you the photographs," Ms. Peabody said, rising from the couch and going to a small Chippendale desk topped by a sleekly designed telephone answering machine.
Cassandra observed her thin ankles as she walked across the richly textured living room.
She saw the tautly muscled formation of Ms. Peabody's calves and the way her ass was succu-lently outlined as she bent to select a medium-sized manila envelope from the desktop.
Ms. Peabody sat close to Cassandra as she reas-sumed her seat next to her on the thick brocade of the couch's upholstery.
She smelled the thick fumes emanating from the detective's oxblood calfskin bodysuit.
Cunt and perspiration.
Leather and piss.
Burnt rubber and oxidized metal.
As Cassandra riffled through the photographs of the missing pieces, Ms. Peabody was able to catch a peek inside the detective's bodysuit.
Ms. Peabody saw that, like herself, the sergeant had her breasts in bondage. They were sisters in the adoration of perpetual pain.
They could trust each other.
"There are some exceptional pieces represented among these," Cassandra mused.
She had been particularly struck by one photograph, which she carefully had devoted no more time to than any of the others.
It was a statue, executed in purple-grained marble, showing a womanly bust covered with female breasts.
It was cataloged as a second century BC copy of the original ebony icon of the goddess Artemis as depicted in the sanctuary of her temple at Ephesus on the Aegean coast of Asia Minor, modern Turkey.
Cassandra could sense her own juices beginning to brim up in her quim.
Her body heat was energizing the dried essences that had been absorbed by the fibers of her oxblood calfskin bodysuit.
The metal of her nipple rings was so intense against her tit that she could almost smell the pain. Just as she could almost taste the cream of Ms. Peabody on her teeth.
Almost feel the cunt hairs that she was sure were to be embedded there.
"You can keep those prints," Ms. Peabody said, peering over Cassandra's shoulder. "I have another complete set."
"Thanks," Cassandra replied. "Do you have any photographs of the pieces that were not missing-or any of the actual pieces?"
"Uh, sure," Ms. Peabody said, flushing suddenly and rising from the couch.
Cassandra watched the woman proceed across the room to the desk. She saw the way her asscheeks parted as she bent slightly and felt around, handling another manila envelope.
"The actual pieces would be better," Cassandra said impatiently.
Sometimes you had to play rough. Many people had some ingrained predisposition to keep the whole story to themselves.
It was as if they feared cops.
Something inherent. They weren't all necessarily criminals, either.
Master criminals and other professionals of course held no fear for the law.
They might of course hold back information, but they would do so under some sort of guise that showed they at least were familiar with the workings of police routine.
Not something like this. Something that showed Ms. Peabody did not know that policemen too were rational, sentient beings.
The amateurs, innocent and guilty alike, were far more likely to be obviously reticent.
Witholding in a way that could only be explained by either complete dizziness or hope that the cops would simply not notice something.
Such as complicity or guilt.
Surprise, Ms. Peabody, Cassandra thought, police detectives have minds, too.
"Well, where are they, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra said, lighting up another cigarette.
Endicott Peabody stopped flipping through the envelope of photographic prints.
"The pieces that you haven't gotten rid of yet?" Cassandra said.
She saw Ms. Peabody bring her hand involuntarily to her throat, clutching the golden cord.
"Now, come on, Ms. Peabody," Cassandra said lazily, "the big pieces are being run through Canada via Spa Abbey of Theleme. Now who are you, just some dumb cunt?"
"I don't understand," Ms. Peabody said, drawing to full height.
"You don't understand that you are brokering illegally obtained artifacts that are then sold on the black market."
Ms. Peabody retreated as Cassandra stood and walked cooly toward her, hips pushed forward. She darted her eyes about as if there were some way she could simply run away from it all.
"No!" Ms. Peabody said. "That's not true! That's not true at all!"
"If it isn't true, Endicott darling, then why are you so worked up now?"
"It's you," the cowering woman said.
"And just what did I do?"
"Well.. .sometimes the police work people over."
"How do you know that, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra snorted. "The same way you know that you are not in fact dealing with stolen art, resold in such a way as to both collect the insurance and avoid the Internal Revenue Service."
"You don't know that," Endicott tried.
She moved closer to Cassandra, letting her robe part slightly.
"I know I'll find out," Cassandra said, easing her arm about. Ms. Peabody's slender waist.
"Well, if Alistair and Francis are fucking around like that, I sure don't know anything about it," Ms. Peabody allowed.
She pressed her fanny against the steely haunch of the police detective.
"I know," Cassandra said as she brought her forearm up over Ms. Peabody's tits.
She could feel them beneath the raw silk fabric. Nipples pointed as darts.
Hot as match heads.
"You were only hired to receive the pieces, right, Ms. Peabody?" Cassandra said.
"What is this?" Endicott said.
She tried to twirl from Cassandra's deceptively gentle embrace.
"Let me go," Ms. Peabody said.
Cassandra felt the woman kick to her shins. Then she went at her face savagely with her sharply manicured fingernails.
Ms. Peabody broke loose and the detective reached up to swipe the droplets of blood from her eye. She saw the woman go for something on the desk and kicked blindly.
Ms. Peabody folded to the floor, clutching at her quim.
"Sorry, honey," Cassandra said, "but you're dangerous."
Cassandra looked down at the woman, writhing on the floor. Tears were heavy in her eyes and her kimono was open.
"What were you going for, a letter opener?" Cassandra leered.
She saw the drops of blood spattered about Ms. Peabody's vulva.
"No, I swear I wasn't," Ms. Peabody said, rolling her firm ass over the flooring.
Cassandra reached inside her bodysuit and drew out her Walther PPK, aiming it at Ms. Peabody's mouth.
"Which one is it?" Cassandra said, fingering through the envelope containing the complete set of photographs.
"Which one what?" Ms. Peabody said, holding onto her bleeding cunt.
"Say, aren't you getting a little sick of that game, baby?" Cassandra said.
She kicked the fallen woman in the pussy once more, saw the way her face collapsed.
Cassandra hit herself in the tits with a start.
"I should have known," she said softly. "You've got the Hellenistic artifact right up your very own jimjam."
Ms. Peabody just groaned.
"Art in the twat," Cassandra said, kicking Ms. Peabody's hands away from her centerpiece.
She pointed her firearm again at the woman.
'Take off that fucking Nip outfit-what are you, anyway, some kind of gook whore?"
"My father was British, stationed at the embassy in Japan-"
"I get the picture," Cassandra said, watching the woman disrobe.
She pressed the woman onto her back at gunpoint and unzipped her bodysuit.
Cassandra shrugged her own clothing from her shoulders. She licked her lips at the unfolded cunt-meat before her eyes.
She felt her harnessed nipples, hard and senseless as bullets, between two fingernails. She gave her tits a couple of tugs.
Then she reached into one of the outside pockets of her discarded bodysuit.
Still training the firearm on Ms. Peabody with her left hand, she brought up with her right a heavy set of pliers.
"What on earth?" Ms. Peabody said.
Cassandra edged in between Endicott's splayed haunches, her studded bracelets and armlets glinting in the late-morning sunlight.
She saw the frisky pusscurls on the woman's bleeding cunt. There was cuntjuice flowing among the oozing red.
Ms. Peabody's lush breasts were sweaty and thick in their halter of golden cord.
Cassandra spread the lips of Ms. Peabody's cunt wide with her thumb and forefinger. The flesh seemed to come apart like wet tissue.
The heavy pliers worked their way into the juicy quim. The flesh shook.
Ms. Peabody strained her face in withering heat. Pain so intense she could not bear.
She wrenched at her own nipples in an attempt to stop the foulness in her pussy.
The buzz went up her spine. Her lurch into orgasm was as unexpected as it was humiliating, and she burst into tears.
Cassandra flickered her fingers over Ms. Peabody's clit as she worked the pliers harder, deeper into reddened cunt.
There was a clatter in the quim.
Cassandra peered menacingly into the split opening. Listening carefully, she darted the tips of the pliers to and fro.
The heavy metal rippled the flesh. Tearing velvet tissues and sparking off other floods inside the struggling woman.
Gushes of blood. Fuckjuice in the bleeding gash of fuckmeat.
Finally, as Ms. Peabody whelped in orgasmic spasms, Cassandra fastened the head of the pliers to a small, hard object.
She twisted and yanked. Ms. Peabody jabbered incomprehensibly from between sputtering lips. Her thighs cavorted in mania.
Cassandra extracted a bloody statuette from the ravished twat.
"Quite a valuable piece of snatch you are, Ms. Peabody," Cassandra said.
She hoisted the blood-and-come wad through the air. As the juices dropped heavily from it, the piece was revealed as a miniature Hermes stela, featuring the god's curled horns and immense prick in delicate alabaster.
Cassandra placed the piece on the floor below Ms. Peabody's drooling pussy. Then she reinserted the pliers deftly.
Into the raised olive-toned pucker.
Ms. Peabody's snapping bun accepted the hefty set of pliers graciously, offering absolutely no resistance whatsoever.
The asshole gyrated madly as the slick dark length was withdrawn.
"A bronze phallus of the Lesbian court at Mytilene," Cassandra observed.
"I don't have to tell you how much that metal dildo is worth," Ms. Peabody sneered.
"What else you got on you?" Cassandra said, flailing the pliers across Ms. Peabody's strung-up burning tits.
She bent forward, sucking ravenously upon the woman's rampant field of pussflesh. "Just try me," Ms. Peabody said.