The Lady Galatea

Water overflowed the bathtub, spilling all over the Lady's feet as she helped him in. She settled beside him, tipping fragrant milky water over his body. He reached to cup her cheek, to kiss the exquisite creature, but she slipped away from his hands, running her own down his chest. He tried again, to stroke the enticing feline curve of her back but she arched away from his palm and it fell, exhausted into the water.

Her gaze fixed to his hard phallus, eyes swollen and greedy. She spoke to it. "Isn't this wonderful?" She ran her hands along his shaft, drawing it from its sheath. Her tongue traced her lips. "Hot, rigid flesh."

Then she blinked rapidly and shook her head. "Apologies, sir. I promised to reveal my father's secret."

She climbed into the bath, standing astride Harris's chest, the globes of her bottom toward him, the lips of her sex swollen and slavering below. She dug her fingernails into her buttocks as she perused his powerless form beneath her.

"My dear Frederick, your Editor. He discovered your moonlight activities. He is quite sickened by the profit you make from the trust of young women. I asked him to send you to me. A favour he performs every once in a while." She sighed, long and loud. "But it has been too long, this time." She shivered and -- looking over her shoulder -- lowered her hips onto his face.

Lady Galatea's sex slithered over his mouth. Harris's arousal turned his fear of constriction in on itself, inverting it into a twisted delight. His tongue, at least, worked, and he put it to good use, seeing to her the way his girls would pleasure each other.

Lady Galatea moaned, braced on the side of the bath and splayed over him. "Mr Harris, you are an expert, I see. But please silence your thoughts, I can see quite clearly where you have learned your skills. You should know by now, your horrible mind is loud as a bell to me." She lifted her hips off him for a moment, her sex dripping over him. He tried to lift his head back to it, but could not. She glared over her shoulder. "Those women you profit from. Do they profit too? Do they give freely? Or is their intimacy ripped from them by a fraudster promising eternal life?"

Harris did not care. This fraudster wanted to drink from that sweet blossom again, it wanted her liquid heat inside him. It wanted her orgasm.

His thought both exasperated and enlivened the Lady Galatea. She leaned back at him and ground her sex hard to his mouth. In moments she burst into climax, rubbing almost painfully over his whole face, shoving it under the water.

He pushed up at her, gulping and thrashing. She howled above him, ear-splitting even under the water.

Just as his vision sparkled and his limbs jerked stiffly, Galatea stood and he spluttered to the surface, coughing and gagging. Galatea watched him, fingers cupped over her mound, shivering feverishly as she turned to face him. She replanted her feet either side of his hips.

"Now, I will kiss you, pretty fraudster, and you will get your power back. If you so wish, then you may leave, change your ways and live a happy life. Alternatively I will give you the orgasm of your life. It is your choice."

Galatea stooped, and pressed her lips to his. A simple kiss, accompanied by a sigh so long and so lonely that tears sprung from his eyes. When she pulled away she swum in his vision. She smiled. Her voice hummed behind his brow.

--You are a good man after all.

Then his veins lit up like frozen lightening. Power flooded back. More power than he'd ever known. A low, crackling growl escaped his throat. He reached up to the woman poised above him, grabbed her hips and hauled her down onto his throbbing meat.

She screamed like a banshee, "Yes!" and rode his thrashing form full-gallop. He grabbed her hair, but it came off in his hands. Smooth skin covered her pure doll's head, no longer human. Better. An angel.

He thrust so hard he tossed her in and out of the water, sloshing bucket loads out all over the room. She gasped and cackled and hung on, her sex gulping at him, her veins pulsing bright blue in time with his. Each pulsation flaring their orgasm brighter, balling plasma-white at their conjoined hips, until -- with rumble of thunder -- it exploded.

Harris arched and screamed, thrusting the juddering woman high as he erupted into her. Her hole swallowed at his jets, guzzling them deep into her core as she ground down at its full length, chewing at it. Hauling his energy out of him and into her. Sucking him inside-out.

The orgasm gradually dissipated, drawn up into the writhing woman. But it left no calm. His veins dulled, but his muscles screamed for a blessed relief, and were denied.

Trapped.

Jammed between heartbeats, between breaths. His limbs profoundly locked into the arch of climax, his contorted face fixed. His entire world was choked to the shimmering blue of his vision and hissy whispers that came not through his eyes and ears, but seemed to arrive complete in the middle of his head.

Lady Galatea swung off him. She sighed and stretched and clapped a slow applause.

--Very good, sir. Very good.

She stroked his marble-white skin from toe to brow and wrenched suffocated moans from him. He clamoured for her hand. He desired but her touch for eternity. For the touch of life.

"Please," he said, within. "My Lady. More."

--Hush, Pretty Fool

She washied off swathes of his hair.

-- I shall place you with the others, away from my room. Away from my husband. There is no need to increase his torture by having him witness me with my lovers, is there? Poor dear, he was the first. We tried to share this eternity, but went too far. My husband gave me immortal life, unwittingly, when I received his climax in this very bath.

She picked him up in her arms, as if he was a child. She carried him down the stairs.

--And since. I suppose it is greedy of me, to consume you all so. To leave you husks. But then, I am barren. That is my loss. I can never create another life with your seed. It gives life to me, and me alone.

The glasshouse hummed with voices; plaintive moans that Harris had been deaf to before. She rammed his feet into the soil among the other murmuring sculptures. The other men.

She stroked his chest and he wept. She stooped and pressed her lips to his marble manhood and her kiss exploded across his cold, hard skin. He begged her again, desperately, for more. More warmth, more feeling, more life.

But his bitter beseeches were lost amongst the others. Their phantom voices, music about her divine form. And she danced naked for their torture. To their song:

"Please. My Lady. More."