AMATEUR XXX STORIES
-
ALPHABETICAL SEX STORY LISTINGS:
A -
B -
C -
D -
E -
F -
G -
H -
I -
J -
K -
L -
M -
N -
O -
P -
Q -
R -
S -
T -
U -
V -
W -
X -
Y -
Z
Risa01 Breath of Spirit
*If you are younger than 18 years
If sex is to your neighborhood peers
If offended by words full of sexual sleaze
Do us both a favor and skip this please.
Please ask permission before posting this elsewhere.
(c)2000 by Cat's sara
Many thanks for the encouragement through trying times, and for the
inspiration so many of you given me. This story, which promises to be
much longer than this beginning chapter, takes inspiration from many
mainstream authors and many of the authors I have met here.
-Sara*
----
Breath of Spirit
by Cat's sara
Categories: FF, FD, MF, MC
----
Part One
*No one should spend their vacation in the rainforest, that's for
sure,* thought Stacey, as she walked through the humid, misty umbrella
of trees. For nearly three weeks, she had been following her hired
guides in search of Kalabuzdi, a legendary witch-man in the area who
was said to have a potion that would "protect the lungs," loosely
translated. More accurately it was "save the spirit-breath." Asking
what this meant, she had been told that several people had been cured
of cystic fibrosis, lung cancer, and emphysema by this inhalant.
Promising, indeed.
Stacey was a field agent for Sanderson Pharmaceuticals. Usually these
legends had some true-to-life basis, and it was her job to separate
myth from fact, and get agreements to harvest or produce the refined
drugs, should they prove useful. It was actually miserable work, but
the financial rewards were enough that she would be able to retire at
the age of thirty-two. She was twenty-eight now.
Her current assignment was looking fruitless, however, and her
patience, after months of preparatory work and several weeks of
wandering, was running a bit thin. Finally, the small party decided to
camp for the night, and Stacey settled into her tent, logging the day's
events in her journal. It had been a particularly grueling day, and as
she finished her entries and observations, she fell asleep in her
folding canvas chair.
Suddenly, Stacey snapped awake. How long had she been sleeping? She
walked outside and stood straight. Looking up at the canopy of trees in
the bright moonlight, she thought how it looked like a great hall in
the moonlight. The branches began to undulate, creating patterns of
raised triangles and rectangles, moving in and out, like the breathing
in her chest, but infinitely more intricate and complex.
It occurred to her that she was either dreaming or under the influence
of some hallucinogenic agent, but the thought was thin and flat, and
turned sideways and slipped away. Her body seemed suddenly stiff and
she turned, seeking the safety of her tent, but it was gone, along with
the rest of her hired associates. Had she been walking? It didn't seem
so, but the surroundings seemed foreign and surreal. She shivered as
she felt a cool wind rushing past her face.
Her thoughts **turned** again, and the memory of her purpose in being
here was modulated to a pitch too high to understand. It was a hair on
her head, inconsequential, as hard to find as one particular hair would
be; it was nothing, it was less than nothing; she didn't even know it
existed.
The undulation of the trees was becoming more pronounced, moving in
subtle undercurrents into everything around her, and she fought to
remain still. Her body, however, was beginning to sway and move in
concert with it, and her thoughts were becoming rhythmic and
disjointed... trying to think cohesively but only managing phrases that
made no sense to her even as she thought them.
She spun and saw a large mirror where she thought her tent... no, where
the mirror had been. Yes. The mirror. Her eyes dilated and wide as
saucers, so wide that her eyelids hurt, she stiffly walked to the
shimmering glass.
She saw her self in the mirror, fascinated as it began to warp and
bend, joining the orgy of movement around her. She saw her fingers
begin to open and close, and looked down to see her hands. She saw them
flexing over and over... she held them up, and saw her skin rippling,
falling into the primal decadence dancing around her. She felt her jaw
working now, and her legs... her body in some kind of dance, some kind
of thrall of deep bestiality, but even that simple recognition was
beyond her racing mind.
She was vaguely aware that it felt... *erotic* but the thought passed
as she was consumed by the dance of her body, pleasure beginning to
pulse through her like repeating blasts of heat from a white hot
cauldron, searing her brain, ripping open her thoughtless mind, the
undulations guiding her, seducing her, transforming her... the heat of
her loins irresistible, spreading through her like beautiful poison,
calling outward through her passion-inflamed screams of lust...
*Kalabuzdi looked down at the writhing form of the female pinkskin.
Although she had no strict western concept for it, the witch-woman knew
that stealth was a good and proper thing to use against the invasion of
the ignorance of the world outside the forest. She had made her own
legend into a fearsome male, and had kept the truth of Breath-of-Spirit
hidden in the subtle misdirection of great fortune. This one would
soon be surely a wonderful Breath-Maker...
As she watched her family-tribe carry the strange pink-skinned woman
away to her new and soon to be permanent home, Kalabuzdi smiled for the
first time in many ages.*
----
Risa Latham watched the films that had been returned to her by the
covert CIA operatives in Africa for what was likely close to the
thousandth time. She watched as the entered the thatch hut deep
in the rainforest, and panned around the inside walls, guided by an
unseen cameraman.
There were ten women standing with their backs to the outside walls,
their faces painted colors that were starkly bright in the dark space.
She estimated that the floor was about sixteen feet square, with a
floor of compressed dirt and grass mats. Through the camera's
microphone, she could hear the sounds of deep, intense breathing. Even
from a room thousands of miles away, and months after the fact, she got
an eerie sense of ritual that she couldn't quite place.
There was something she *could* place, however. It was the face of the
woman who now lay in a quasi-catatonic state in Risa's isolation
laboratory. It was the face of Stacey Newman, scientist and
pharmacological researcher, who had been missing for nearly six years.
Risa's attention returned to the film which, up to this point, looked
like a standard field investigation journal.
She watched as the agents, dressed in camouflaged fatigues, approached
one of the women. She unconsciously leaned forward as she watched -
this was where things got interesting.
The woman's eyes opened, strangely pearlescent in the glow of the
camera lights, almost like those of a or other creature of the
night. She looked directly at the and, almost as if she recognized
him, her eyes widened as she breathed in deeply. As her chest reached
its fullness, her lips, as if in slow motion, pursed into the tightened
"o" of someone blowing out a candle.
As her breath blew into the face of the man, Risa watched as he
staggered back, shaking his head as if he had been given a sharp blow.
He fell to his knees, looking as if he were about to pass out, but
instead, unzipped his pants and pulled out his erect penis, his hand
stroking with as much intent as his vacant eyes no longer showed.
Then, all the women in the room breathed in, an exact reproduction of
the scene so recently displayed, and breathed outward in a great sigh
of unison.
Other agents appeared in the field of view, stripping out of their
clothes, in every appearance no longer aware of their surroundings or
mission, much less the fact that they were now being filmed. All of
them had cocks as hard as Risa had ever imagined, and they surrounded
the first agent, masturbating, and chanting something softly as they
compulsively pumped their turgid poles.
Unexpectedly, the fell to the ground, showing nothing at all but
relentlessly the sounds as the scene continued. In less than
two minutes, the bare feet of the cameraman scurried past the vigilant
lens, and the chant increased, the sounds of masturbation and voices
mixing in the spell of the powerful aphrodisiac air.
Finally, and as always, Risa could make out the chant. *"Kah-lah-buhz-
dee... Kah-lah-buhz-dee... Kah-lah-buhz-dee..."*
And, completing a ritual that had begun with her first viewing, Risa
exploded into orgasm, whispering the mysterious name in unison with the
agents in the field...
----
Risa stood in the isolation suit, watching Stacey as she slept. At
least, sleep was all she could think to call it. It was more like a
period of dormancy, a time when the blank, staring eyes closed, and
Stacey's metabolism slowed for recuperation.
When she was awake, she would eat when given food, drink when offered
water, but it had to be fed to her by nurses. It couldn't be called
consciousness in any typical sense.
When roused, Stacey would breathe to them - long, wispy breaths full of
*something.* Whatever it was, it didn't make it through the suits, and
it was airborne. Risa was fascinated.
Using human volunteers (having found that no were affected by
Stacey's breath), the scientists in Risa's charge managed to find
filters that would not allow the substance to pass. Whatever it was it
was incredibly powerful, evidenced by the fact that it took two weeks
of constantly circulating air to collect a usable sample.
Analysis of the compound revealed its origin, which was a witch's brew
of some exotic chemical compound mixed with Stacey's own DNA, which was
ejected through the lungs into the surrounding air, affecting anyone
nearby. Eventually, the compound broke down, making long-term study
difficult, if not impossible.
After interviewing several rainforest locals and the agents who
survived the final raid where Stacey was found, a began to
emerge. Apparently, a witch-woman named Kalabuzdi would cause a victim
to ingest a substance that would create blissful, libido enhancing
hallucinations, and at the same time alter the genetic structure of
that person. The result was permanent psychosis and the "substance"
which, according to all the tests Risa had run, was manufactured in the
victim's own body.
Technology was not up to the task of reversing the process. The victim
was, in essence, a prisoner to her own genetic code. The biggest
mystery though, was in the transference of "Kalabuzdi worship" and
sexual abandon to those who inhaled the intoxicating breath of Stacey
and those who shared her fate. It wasn't logical or reasonable, but
there it was, nonetheless.
Deep inside, Risa fought the temptation to remove her headgear. There
was something about the way the subjects reacted that stirred a
darkness deep within her. It was as if her primal self was calling to
her, seducing her, begging her to share, to be set free. Shaking her
head to clear her thoughts, she turned to the task at hand.
It was time for an experiment.
Risa pulled out the pictures of the assassinated Kalabuzdi and held
them before Stacey's wide, unblinking, pearlescent eyes. "Stacy,"
intoned Risa, "Kalabuzdi is no more. Kalabuzdi is dead.
"There is no place left for those who worship Kalabuzdi. Only those who
move forward can survive. This means you, I hope, Stacey."
Risa had half-turned to walk away when she noticed a twitch at the
corner of Risa's eyes... and she turned back. "That's it..." Risa
whispered. "Fight it. Come back..."
Without warning, Stacey's eyes filled with fear and dread. She began to
jerk her head around, her eyes quickly moving from place to place in
the room.
"You're in a special hospital Stacey," soothed Risa, her concern
showing in her face.
"Who... arrrrre... you..." Stacey choked out through her long atrophied
vocal cords.
"I'm Risa, your doctor," replied Risa, by rote.
"Reeeeesssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." rasped Stacey.
Before she even had a chance to think, Risa reached up and unfastened
the clamp that held her airtight helmet to her suit. Whether it was
compassionate instinct or something altogether different, it was too
late to turn back. The seal had been broken.
Risa finished removing her helmet and sniffed the air. *"No unusual
smell,"* she noted.
Stacey began to make a gurgling noise and Risa's doctor's instincts
took over. Grabbing Stacey by the shoulders, Risa looked into her eyes
for signs of trouble.
She never even saw the blast of air from Stacey's pursed lips coming.
----
Risa lifted herself from Stacey, her still tingling from the
ministrations of her beloved's tongue. She didn't need to think... she
knew what had happened. She shivered as delicious waves of pleasure
undulated through her in complex patterns, crashing her lusts together
in new and insane ways.
Ways that she now embraced without hesitation.
As she left the confines of the isolation laboratory, she looked at the
coffee cup sitting on the table outside. The name "Denise" was hand
painted on its white surface. Risa seemed confused for a moment, and
then she visibly relaxed. She placed a finger on her tongue and wiped
her newly tenacious spittle around the rim.
Smiling, she turned and beckoned lovely Stacey, and they walked out of
the outer lab together. Neither spoke, nor did they even acknowledge
each other,
their newly born relationship of Mistress and slave evidenced only by
the fact that they were walking in the same direction.
Risa thought of her new purpose, of her first slave... the first of
many yet to come. She thought of Denise, the cute nurse who would
be having her first cup of coffee of the day in less than seven hours.
*"What a wonderful Breath-Maker she will be."* She smiled for the first
time in ages.
----
Part Two
*Risa slept and dreamed. She was lying on the grass in a meadow,
looking up at the sky. There was nothing to do, nothing to be, nothing
calling her. Totally in the present, there were no distractions - not
even thought.
She watched as the sky began to swirl; a gentle whirlpool of color,
reaching down to her, as she felt herself become the focus on the
bottom of an ocean of air. The swirling began to quicken, and then
slowed and pulled away again.
Somewhere inside of herself, she realized her breathing was pulling on
the sky. As she breathed inward, the swirling sky quickened and
lowered, like a soft tornado, reaching nearly to her nostrils. She
became aware of a craving to breathe it in.
She discovered that if she breathed in hard and quickly, letting it out
slowly, that the swirling sky did not diminish as much... she began to
breathe to pull it into her... her body pulling and pulling to get the
taste of... *>something<* inside of herself.
Then, as if a light came on, she breathed in... and there was no need
to breathe out. Her lungs became a vacuum, pulling in the essence of
the sky in one unending, glorious breath...*
In a moment of realization, she felt that she was in her own bed, and
saw that she was blankly staring at the ceiling. She did not remember
falling asleep, or waking up. It was more a vision or a waking dream
that had consumed her, her in, to show her something mysterious
and wonderful. She felt, for the first time in her life, both satisfied
and full of clarity.
Looking back at the events of the last few days, Risa was somehow,
innately, beginning to understand the mysterious process. The "rules"
were complicated and a bit convoluted, but the reality of her
experience made it much easier to understand... inevitable to accept.
The most important of these, at least to Risa, was a rite of ascension
through the death of Kalabuzdi, as there had been with those who came
before her. Upon her death, the next person "infected" by a Breath-
Maker would rise to become the next "queen."
Rationally, Risa could still tell that it sounded tenuous at best. Yet
here she was, her blood burning, her need to create her tribe coursing
through her veins more strongly with every moment. Through the rapture
that she felt increasingly washing through her, Risa had a brief moment
of realization that she was as much trapped in her destiny as Stacey
was, along with everyone Kalabuzdi had "recruited". Then, the moment
was gone, her opinions no longer of any consequence, stronger
compulsions now chanting endlessly inside her rapidly surrendering
mind.
And, for lack of a word that fit, she felt... hungry.
Stacey still lay beside her, her pearlescent eyes of green staring
upward at nothing. Risa was not one for automatons, for mindless robots
of flesh. Although Stacey was capable of bringing Risa to shattering
orgasms thanks to her oblivious ministrations, Risa found herself
wanting someone who could interact... improvise, provide surprises.
Besides, Stacey's current state made it impossible for Risa to return
the favor.
Knowing instinctively what needed to be done, Risa kissed across the
face of her loving, enslaved researcher, and pressed her lips to the
subtle moistness of the girl's own facial labia... and breathed a piece
of the sky into her.
Now, there was nothing that Risa could do for Stacey but wait for the
change. In the meantime, she had work to do, and she picked up the
telephone, dialing a number she could just barely remember.
----
Dr. Jessop didn't know what to say. Her classmate Risa Latham was
on the phone, telling her what had to be the strangest she had
ever heard. While slightly incredulous, she listened patiently and
intently, on the chance that it might be true.
Once the closest of friends, in the time since medical school and
residency they had managed very little contact except through email and
websites. Time had done to them what it does to so many, and they had
lost track of each other except for the occasional note. Dr. Jessop
knew that Risa had gone to work for the government, bypassing what had
promised to be a lucrative career. Specializing in associative
disorders, she had been a brilliant co-intern as well as personal
confidant. Distance and time had not changed her affection.
And now, quite suddenly, here was Risa, telling her a that
sounded a little like something from a third-rate science fiction
novel. It was full of government conspiracies to kill a patient they
thought was dangerous, a patient that Risa had helped escape.
Regardless, if true, she had no choice but to help her friend, and the
patient in question.
"Risa, if this is some kind of silly joke..." began Dr. Jessop, but
Risa cut her off.
"No, really, Pam... I've never been more serious in my life!" blurted
Risa.
"But why would you need a gynecologist? I don't think I have the skills
to help you with this case. Besides, I don't have half the knowledge
you had even when you were in school," worried Pam.
"Whatever this is, Pam, it's systemic. A gynecologist has as much
training as any other doctor, and I need help - Stacey is a very ill
young woman. I wouldn't be surprised at all to find that she's been
given some kind of slow-acting poison or other nasty chemical agent.
You've just *got* to help me figure this one out..."
"Okay, Risa, count me in. But if I get caught in something illegal,
I'll say you forced me at gunpoint." The smile in her voice carried
easily over the telephone line.
"Agreed, Pam," laughed Risa. "Thanks... you don't know how much you're
helping my goal - er - of helping this patient! We'll be right over!"
With that, Dr. Pamela Jessop hung up the phone, a shadow of both
interest and concern crossing her face. *How very odd,* she thought, as
she walked out of her office.
----
Pam looked at the woman lying on the examination table. If she had
fostered doubts before, they were erased now. The was definitely
not well, and there was something not quite natural about it. In truth,
she had never seen anything like it, at least in real life. *So much
for cheap science fiction,* she noted.
Of course, there were the eyes... pearlescent and green, as if she were
shining a light into a cat's eyes at night. There was something else,
too, buzzing around in the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite
place it; something nagging at her thoughts.
She began her examination by checking for motor reflexes, response to
stimulation and other signs of present consciousness. Stacey could
react to guided manipulation, such as holding her head where Pam placed
it, but did not appear to have reflexive reactions based on external
stimuli. Pam noticed the odd mix of vulnerability and strength, and
found herself almost feeling a kind of muted admiration for the
unresponsive woman. Vulnerable because she had no protection, strong
because nothing seemed to affect her. It had a kind of mystique,
almost... *erotic*, although Pam was not sure the adjective fit. Even
so, she let her eyes wander up and down the naked female, and was
slightly surprised to find her hands shaking.
Looking in Stacey's ears, but finding nothing, Pam moved quickly to her
eyes. Although they seemed cloudy with green iridescence, they reacted
normally to light. Next she looked into the girl's nostrils, and into
her mouth and throat, but couldn't find anything that would indicate an
infection. Feeling the girl's breath against her face, the doctor felt
a surge of warmth move down her body and let herself enjoy the intimacy
of the moment... immediately feeling guilty and returning to her
objective analysis.
The swimming thoughts in the back of her head were getting annoying
now... clearly stronger... they were almost audible as she continued to
look over the green-eyed researcher, noting that Stacey's state almost
seemed like a form of autism. She took a step back and shook her head.
Letting her eyes again creep down Stacey's body, Pam realized her
nipples were becoming erect. The strange hum in her head was starting
to throb, and it was affecting her ability to think clearly. Her hands
moved to her breasts, as if to rub dirt off her lab coat, and she
shivered as the touch sent sparks of pleasure to her moistening folds.
*What a sexy woman,* mused Pam, blushing as she caught herself flushing
with the tendrils of unfamiliar arousal. She paused at the foreign
feelings of sapphic desire and, blinking her eyes a few times, somehow
managed to get her wandering thoughts back to a professional level.
Almost.
Pam pulled out her dictation recorder and began to speak into it.
"Subject is thirty-four years old, Caucasian, with associative
disorders similar to autism, which appear to be caused by being so
damned cute - um, I mean caused by non-biological agents, at least on
first examination." Pam frowned to herself at the distraction and
nuisance of her wandering, rebellious thoughts. *But so nice,* the
voices inside her whispered.
"The condition doesn't appear to be natural - perhaps caused by a
chemical agent ground into her... her... by searching, needy
fingers - no, strike that. Introduced to her orally, from the... the
lips of my hot little slit - I mean, by pill or perhaps even
hypodermic."
*What the fuck is wrong with me?* Pam shouted inwardly, before
attempting to relax and continue. "Stacey is possibly under the
influence of some mind altering... mind altering..." Pam fought to find
the right word now, feeling profoundly shaken and dizzy, "...ORGASM!
Fucking HOT orgasm from a slick little burning pointed tongue like
mine!" she suddenly blurted out.
Now visibly shaken, she quickly turned off the dictation machine and
tried again to collect herself. Her brain was alive with harmonic
phasing now, her thoughts coming faster than she could keep pace.
Thoughts of sex... so delicious... so nasty... so wonderfully
perverted... *Dear God I have to quit this... I have to finish my
initial report... analyze... observe... fuck... tongue...cum with
her... help her... cum... burnnnn... *
Her heavily dilated eyes now gazed at Stacey with dread and pure
burning lust, locked in an unholy marriage of thoughts that were
dissipating like sprinkled confetti around Pam's exhausted defenses.
Her nipples were a blazing torrent of need, a need she was unable to
ignore... *pulling* her... ripping into her eyes and mind and and
clit and body and soul like a sexual ball of hot plasma.
Struggling to gain control of the raging wildfire within her, she
breathed slowly and deeply to try and ease her building passion.
Desperately she tried to push down the lascivious, brazen thoughts, but
her years of trained analytical objectivity betrayed her, abandoned
her, and she could not call it back, could not remember how.
She tried to scream away the lustful, intruding thoughts that were
taking over her mind, but all that would come forth was a sound she
only knew by her effort was her own. She could hear her moans as they
left her mouth, rippling down her body and through the charged air...
and still she fought for control, for something to grasp that would
pull her up from the deadly quicksand of her explosive fucklust.
Then she found it, the branch she needed, the saving grace of reason...
only to have it turn and ravage her with a thousand million tongues of
mocking sexual depravity and wanton pleasure.
Looking in vain for anything familiar to save her from the sensual
avalanche, she blindly turned on the dictation machine again, and began
to babble into it, "Secondary causes of... slut cumming mind fire...
inoculation of... anal violation... ecstatic mucous membrane...
medically necessary... tongue fucking... no... treatment of same... hot
flowing juices... cumming hard... nerve endings... no control...
cummmmm together... "
Somewhere deep inside, with the last remaining part of her that knew
she was in trouble, she fought to find safety. Her fear was a sandy
beach washed with waves of unquenchable desire. Her eyes filled with
panic and desperation, but it was impossible to tell if it was
desperation to back away, or to plunge carelessly onward; in fact, they
were exactly, irrationally, the very same thing.
Pam staggered back in confused, raw heat, her mind splintering. Looking
up, it appeared that the light on the ceiling was glowing with orange
and green streamers cascading away from it... making her sex begin to
emit a stream of electric jolts in concert with the colors that were
both compelling and alien... powerfully relentless and irresistible.
Her legs began to buck with the culmination of the attack on her
pleasure centers, her fingers and toes out of control with ecstatic
spasms. Too disoriented to think, too possessed to move, the last tiny
fragment of self-preservation suddenly leapt out from a pocket in her
mind, crashing her body to the floor and forcing the door open, even as
her body caved in to the orgasmic mind-numbing fire that was the apex
of the assault. Her moans transformed to unearthly screams of universal
passion and bliss, and her eyes saw only the pinwheeling colors of
unstoppable pleasure that was now her world...
As her mind began to clear from the rapturous episode, Pam looked up to
see Risa standing in the doorway above her. Expecting to see alarm in
her friend, some sign of help, she shriveled as the reality of her
situation swept over her... manifested in Risa's wide, knowing smile.
Risa reached down to take her friend's hand, and, helping her slowly to
her feet, guided her back to the table. Pressing Dr. Jessop gently
over, she guided the pliant doctor's head until her lips were a scant
half-inch from Stacey's own.
"It's easy, isn't it, Pam," reassured Risa. "All you have to do is
breathe..."
----
Pam screamed, biting into her fist again as she came so hard that she
saw stars dance. Every time it was better and better... a gift from
Risa that she could not deny herself. How long had it been since she
gave herself to her Mistress? Certainly at least a week, but time had
no real meaning to her at this point.
Just the thought of Risa... beautiful, irresistible Risa... made her
juices flow even more strongly and her hot yearn for another
release. But Mistress had given her a duty, a solemn purpose she would
have to accomplish before she could play again.
She got up from the examination table in her office, the musk of hot
sex and arousal wafting behind her. She caught a glance of herself in
the mirror, and stopped to stare, taking a brief moment to reach inside
her lab coat and sharply pinch her nipples. *"So obscene,* she thought,
*so hot...*
She recognized the Heat-Giver in the reflection not as Pamela Jessop,
but only as the property of her Mistress, and felt a shiver run through
her body at the unspeakable honor of what she had been allowed to
become. She slowly, reluctantly, let her hands fall to her sides in
obedience to her mission.
She turned and left the room, walked out to the reception desk, and
looked down the list of patients. Checking through the statistical
questionnaires, she found what she was looking for. "Sheila Crandall?"
she called. A woman of perhaps twenty, with long hair
and a cute roundish face stood and walked to the door that led from the
waiting area the examination rooms.
Pam smiled at the nervous woman, and said, "Just go on into Examination
Room Three, and I'll be with you in a moment." Satisfied the woman
could find the proper room, Pam slipped into the nearby stockroom for a
moment. Picking up a douche, she remembered how long it had taken to
collect enough of Mistress' juices to mix effectively with the
cleansing wash. She laughed for a moment, remembering her curiosity
about Risa's choice of a gynecologist to help her. Actually, it was
perfect.
After knocking on the door and entering the room where Sheila waited,
Pam instructed her to go into the adjoining bathroom and use the
douche, prior to the examination. Sheila objected slightly, "But I used
one before I came in, Doctor."
"And I *do* appreciate it, but those products leave chemical traces
that can corrupt any tests we do, if needed, and this will neutralize
anything that might give us a false result." Pam shrugged," It's really
no big deal, and it'll just take a minute, okay?"
Sheila nodded, apparently satisfied, and went into the bathroom to use
the adulterated douche, while Pam went outside, checking her watch.
Risa's sexual lubricants were the most potent of her mind-and-body
altering secretions. After only ten minutes, Pam prepared herself to go
in and harvest the new Breath-Maker. While true that it would take
another day for Sheila to begin producing the Breath of Obedience, her
mind would already be in the throes of deep and permanent change.
Even though she knew what she would find, she felt a rush of sexual
pleasure race through her as she saw the partially transformed Sheila,
writhing on the floor in a will-shattering orgasm that would become her
only experience until Mistress decided to bring her back to
consciousness, if ever.
Unable to stop her own burning passion, Pam slipped two fingers into
her slick, satin wellspring of bliss, thumbing her clit, pressing and
bruising it, taking herself farther and farther into ecstasy as she
watched Sheila's motions become more and more obscene. Pressing her
other finger into her hot, clenching asshole, she let herself free into
the unbound worlds for which she now constantly ached.
Pam felt her toes curl and her belly quake as she let the hot, pure
waves of blissful worship and sexual abandon take over her body and
soul, sending her into the realm of Kala - Spirit - where she found the
Will of her Mistress guiding her, the Will of Kalarisa, pulling her
ever deeper into need and surrender, shaking her soul with orgasmic
creation, higher and higher, until she could remember nothing but
Mistress... Kalarisa... and she passed into the oblivion of obedient
rewards....
----
When she regained consciousness, Pam walked over to the still writhing
Sheila, and placed the finger covered with her own sexual nectar to the
young woman's lips. Instantly, Sheila calmed, and her eyes opened,
staring blankly upward, her orgasm internalizing, the writhing still
uninterrupted in her newly remade mind.
Pam noted that her eyes were already beginning to show signs of the
green crystals, a sign of who and what she was, and forever would be:
Breath-Maker for Mistress Risa and her Heirs.
Taking the newborn Breath-Maker Sheila by the hand, she raised her
gently to her feet, and guided her down the hallway to what had once
been Examination Room Five, but had since been emptied, needed for a
higher purpose. Pausing outside the entrance, she relished the sound of
deep, unison breaths that issued softly through the door.
Pam opened the wide door and guided Sheila to a place on the wall,
backing her up to it, and looked around. Sheila was joining five other
Breath-Makers, ranging in age from sixteen to thirty-eight. Unable to
help herself, Pam breathed deeply of the air that had consumed her
will, relishing the even deeper surrender she felt galloping through
her mind. Soon, as the Breath-Makers matured, it would only take
seconds for the transformation from woman to Heat-Giver to transpire.
Reluctantly leaving the Breath-Makers to their unified task, Pam
returned to her office and private examination table, where, placing
her feet in the stirrups, bodily offered homage and obedience to the
woman who was now the reason for her feeble existence... and as she
began her climb back to the spirit-world, she softly joined the chant
which was becoming her mantra...
*"Rrrrrrreeeeeessssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh..."*
----
Part Three
It would be the epitome of understatement to say that the lab was in an
uproar. The disappearance of both Stacey Newman and Risa Latham was
mysterious at best. Even with the security cameras, it was hard to
tell exactly what had happened. with infrared devices and
fingerprint brushes had turned up plenty of evidence, but nothing of
use. Likewise, the bio-technicians had found nothing that was not
already known.
Pete Duncan, Director of Security, watched the surveillance tape again,
searching for any clue that he might have missed. He watched as Dr.
Latham entered the isolation room where Stacey lay and began an
attempt, the last in a long series, to communicate with the catatonic
patient.
There apparently had been a breakthrough. It appeared as if Stacey had
finally capitulated. With no real warning, she reacted strongly,
seeming alarmed and disoriented. Dr. Latham obviously had tried to
comfort her, and even had some success as the patient calmed. They
appeared to be talking when Stacey suddenly appeared to grow agitated
again, possibly from choking. Up to this point, it all made sense. But
then, suddenly, Dr. Latham reached up to remove the helmet of her
isolation suit, going against all safety protocols, especially
considering what they had discovered.
The doctor reached over to shake Stacey's shoulders, obviously
concerned about something... and then straightened, her movements
strangely slow and deliberate. Her hands reached to the side zippers of
the suit, and slowly Dr. Latham shed the protective shield that had
been her safety net. Her clothes came next, and Pete watched as she
shed the jumpsuit, bra and that were her only clothes when
working inside the bulky protective gear.
Outrageous, and it only became more so as the raven-haired Risa climbed
up on the table and perversely straddled Stacey's partially open mouth.
Pete watched as Dr. Latham's hands fell forward to the edges of the
table, eyes closed, her upper body leaning towards Stacey's feet, her
hips slowly sliding to and fro, but building steadily in fervor and
speed. Within moments, her hips were grinding uncontrollably, her back
arching and reversing with impossible agility, and the wanton,
obviously crazed doctor screamed and bucked so forcefully that Pete
could almost hear it despite the lack of sound on the tape.
Then, inexplicably, Risa became nearly still, her body quivering as she
tensed. After nearly ten minutes of shivering and drooling in place,
her mouth closed, her eyes opened, and she dismounted the patient,
whose tongue, still extended and writhing, became still and returned to
its dark cavern. *Must've been the 'big O' to end all 'big O's'*,
thought Pete, shrugging off the dark sense of voyeurism he suddenly
felt.
Bringing the patient to her feet (an action that had initially
surprised Pete... he would have expected atrophy), Risa dressed the
woman in a hospital gown, and herself in her recently discarded
jumpsuit. They left the lab through the previously sealed escape door,
and were lost for a moment until picked up by the hallway camera.
Risa and her charge walked the rest of the way out of the building
virtually unnoticed, with only the cameras as witness to their
departure. Whatever had happened to Risa had not affected her ability
to think... she had quite handily bypassed the rather daunting security
of the protected facility.
Pete unconsciously rubbed his swollen prick. This whole thing was so
fucking *weird*. It was like watching something from his worst
security nightmare and a triple-x at the same time, and it had
only happened six hours ago.
There was a knock on the door and he quickly jerked his hand away from
his crotch and gruffly called, "Come in!"
It was Denise Masterson, whose help he hoped would prove useful, since
she was the only person other than Risa Latham intimately involved with
the work surrounding the enigmatic case of Stacey Newman.
"Find anything?" asked Pete, his eyes wandering over the assistant.
*Great hooters, nice ass... but a face that's a bit too horsey for my
taste*, he thought for the hundredth time, despite his "gender
sensitivity training."
"Well, we *did* find a pinhole in the left armpit of Risa's... I mean
Dr. Latham's isolation suit, which would perhaps explain her initial
variance from protocol - and the properties of the patient's breath
would, at least in part, help to explain her... increasing
impropriety," Denise blushed. She had seen the tape, along with a
handful of other people who had been called in at three in the morning.
"As for why they left, or the differences in the effects of Stacey's
genetically altered breath on Risa as compared with other test
subjects, I have no clue, Mr. Duncan. Of course, I'm still trying to
find something that will tell me more than the videotape." Looking down
at the swell in Pete's crotch, she added, "Besides, the tape is a
little... um... distracting, don't you think?"
*Damned intrusive bitch*, thought Pete, turning red, but he said,
"Well, I suppose. I hadn't really noticed." Taking the tape from the
machine, he handed it to her, saying, "Take this over to the vault in
Building One for the time being. I haven't had time to make a copy yet,
so don't lose it, whatever you do. We'll need it later for the report,
and it may help piece together what's happened. Other than your
pinhole, it's the only solid evidence we have."
Denise nodded and took the tape, and added, "I was just on my way to
finally get a cup of coffee. I haven't had a chance to wake up with all
the hoo-ha of this thing. Can I get you a cup?"
"No thanks, I've already got some," Pete answered. "Actually, once you
drop it off, why don't you go home and get some rest? You've done all
you can for the moment. It's really time for the men's work now,
anyway." Pete grimaced as the words came out. The last thing he needed
was a sexual harassment suit on top of a security breach. *Well, if she
didn't have such luscious tits, she probably wouldn't have the job
anyway*, he added, silently rebelling against the Gods of PC.
Denise left the security office and walked down the hall to the break
room. *What an asshole*, she thought, smiling grimly. *For all that he
tries to hide it, he's just another macho lech with a little power...
and bullshit!* Pulling her regular mug out of her lab coat, she poured
herself a cup and took a sip. She looked at the stoneware mug with her
name painted on it. It had been a gift from Risa after working together
for two years. Tears formed in her eyes and she silently cursed, *Why
couldn't it be fucking PETE who took off instead of Risa?*
She decided she really must have been more tired than she had thought.
The walls seemed to be moving as she sat there fuming. Almost like they
were breathing... She stood and grabbed the elevator to the first
floor, trying to clear her head.
As she left the building for her car, she felt a wave of what she
thought was drowsiness wash over her, nearly making her keel over.
*God, I DO need to get some rest, and despite his bullshit, for once,
Pete's being human. Soon as I get this tape over to Building One, I'm
definitely due for a visit to my boudoir...* she thought. By the time
she drove the several miles to the gate that led to Building One, she
had completely forgotten about the delivery. As she headed home, more
from instinct than awareness, all she could think about was bed and
sleep.
And Risa.
Denise walked in the front door of her small house and staggered
through the living room to her bedroom, shedding her shoes as she went.
She tried to unbutton her blouse, but her fingers simply weren't
listening to her brain. Besides that, her body was tingling in an odd
way... not that she minded... it felt awfully nice.
Falling onto the bed, she rolled onto her back, and stared at the
ceiling as it began to undulate, like the break room, as if it were
breathing...
*Wonderful*, she hummed, *fucking wonderful...* as her body began to
writhe with building pleasure. Her thoughts filled with images of
painted faces, melding with Risa's face... faster and faster they
danced, like a tornado, ripping out the past, leaving an empty
vessel... and now she was dancing, too... *god, it feels like...
like...*, she gasped inside her mind, as the first tendrils of
impending orgasm swept over her body.
Very soon, she would have no thoughts at all.
----
"God *damn* it! Goddamnedfuckingcocksuckingcuntheaded *bitch*!!!!" Pete
ranted inwardly. At least in his head, he didn't have to edit his words
or opinions. *This would *never* have happened twenty years ago.
Fucking woman doctors and woman bosses and woman screw ups. Give me a
man every time. Give me someone I can depend on*, he continued, the
stress of his situation wilting the more tame and reasonable attitudes
he had been forced to adopt, outwardly.
Denise had not dropped the tape at the vault in Building One; in fact,
she hadn't even *been* to Building One. “I'm already in deep enough
shit with this fiasco - I don't need some horsey-looking BITCH to fuck
it up even more!” he shouted from his office to no one in particular.
Not only that, but there was no answer from her home phone, her cell
phone, or her pager. He knew from experience that it was probably
something like a flat tire, or running out of gas, but she would have
likely called in that case. All that was left was the probability of
the typically scattered brain of a woman, or the less likely
possibility of foul play. Not that he cared about either one, really;
he just wanted the fucking videotape saved. Without it, he was dead
meat. It was the only solid evidence he had that anything strange had
happened, and, more importantly, that he could not have prevented it
from occurring.
As he considered his course of action, he became increasingly angry
that he had to deal with Denise's typical lack of focus on top of his
larger, looming problem. With mixed feelings of satisfaction and
regret, he decided to call the head office to speak with the Human
Resources Department.
Pete dialed the number on his speaker phone. "Veronica? Listen, as of
five p.m. today, I want Denise Masterson terminated. <pause> No, not
killed, you idiot, just fired. Usual purge of records or ability to
reference. Okay? Oh, and the same for Risa Latham. I don't think she's
necessarily done anything we can prosecute her for, but her status is
now officially *persona non grata*. Got it? <pause> Thanks." *What is
it about women today*? he silently grumbled.
He picked up the phone again and quickly put it back down. "Fuck this
shit - I'm going to find that irresponsible bitch myself," he muttered
as he stormed out of his office. The slamming door didn't even raise
any eyebrows. Pete was upset again. It was business as usual.
----
Outside the door to Denise's house, Pete stood for a few minutes,
considering how he should handle the situation. Not only had Denise
made it home, but the door was ajar, allowing anyone to just wander in.
Luckily, at least in his opinion, that included Pete Duncan.
He stepped carefully into the house, looking around. While he was
fairly certain that Denise had just been a typically careless,
irresponsible female, he wasn't stupid, and it was not inconceivable
that there had been foul play.
Pistol at the ready, he went from room to room, checking for signs of
intrusion. *No sign of the fucking tape, either*, he thought. Finally
making his way to the bedroom, he pushed the door wide open and felt
his jaw drop, quite literally.
On the bed, flat on her back, was Denise Masterson, still partially
clothed. She was writhing, hands gripping the air, nearly foaming at
the mouth, her mouth silently working as if trying to moan softly. Her
eyes, green-tinged and wide, seemed to be looking at a spot on the
ceiling, or maybe nothing at all.
For the first time since this investigation began, he was truly
horrified. All thoughts of anger dissipated in fear and panic at the
lewd display. He was turning to go to the phone when a wave of intense
arousal hit him full force.
Like a needle on a compass turning to north, his suddenly rock-hard
prick spun him around. His eyes washed over with lust and he realized
he was in pain... struggling to think... to focus. Suddenly it hit him,
and he knew... realized completely... the pain was the clothes keeping
his manhood trapped... As he released his turgid single horn from his
slacks, a wave of pleasure nearly knocked him over as the air touched
his skin. His hands, following a new craving, ripped his remaining
clothes off to get to more of the addictive, blissful feeling of
nakedness, as he fell to his knees.
Then, for a moment, the feeling seemed to lessen, and he remembered the
tape, Denise, and why he had come here. Sensing the danger he was in,
he attempted to stand but only managed to lunge for the door. He
crawled across the room, *almost... got... almost... there...*
Somewhere in his addled mind, he heard the front door open and close,
and footsteps. "Here!" he yelled, "Don't come! Dan...ger...ous..." he
screamed as he felt his motivation wax and wane. His eyes fell to the
carpet, which was suddenly very interesting and... *arousing...* as
colors began swimming through its fibers. His cock was screaming to him
now, begging for his hand, telling him to just *feeeeel* how good it
could be, like never before, like how it could feel in the deepest of
wet dreams...
"Looking for this?" came a laughing, familiar voice. It was the sound
of heaven. It was the source of life and purpose. Of love. His eyes
jerked upward, against his will. It was the voice of Risa Latham.
And she was holding the tape.
"You know, Pete, everyone at the lab has always hated your chauvinistic
bullshit. Oh, you've tried to hide it, but it always finds a way out of
you. Even the have been embarrassed at your sexist comments and
attitude. I think they'd like what you're going to become. And I don't
think anyone will miss you at all."
Pete listened, drinking in the words. He simply couldn't help it. They
were the fabric of the universe.
"Do you know what the real definition of chauvinist is? It's someone
who stubbornly holds on to a lost cause. You might know that if you
ever checked a dictionary.
"In your case, it's particularly appropriate, don't you think?" grinned
Risa.
Pete felt his head nodding up and down, and felt his surprise shift to
wonder at Risa's amazing wisdom.
"Now you," continued Risa, "would have run away, leaving poor Denise to
suffer." Pete watched as Risa reached into a small bag, and pulled out
a vial full of an amber liquid. She opened the small bottle and poured
the contents into her hand and fingers, spilling it freely. Her fingers
shone as if wet from the nectar of hot, molten sex. Pete felt drool
drip off the bottom of his chin, unable to move or speak.
Risa walked over to Denise and touched her finger to Denise's lips, and
Pete heard rather than saw the quiet and lay still. "Breathe
deeper, Pete," winked Risa. Pete obeyed without even truly hearing the
words.
"Pete, I am merciful; I know you can see that. You likely deserve to
die. But your efforts in the past at equity, while pitiful, are perhaps
evidence that you *might* be reclaimed. Is that what you would like? Is
that what you truly want?" Pete nodded again as he felt tears begin to
roll down his face. For the first time since childhood, he felt
ashamed. Ashamed of who he was, ashamed of his arrogance, ashamed even
of the turgid pole that was screaming its need to fuck.
"You will bond with me, Pete. You will fuck me. Your puny life will
have real purpose which you will never need to doubt or question. Once
we are bonded, my life will be your life. My death will be your death.
Joy. Pain. All. And perhaps for the first time, you will feel complete
surrender and love.
"Much better, don't you think? You may speak, Pete."
"Yesss," said Pete, in rapturous agreement. He had no choice.
"Now, I know you want to fuck me. I know you want it more than anything
you have ever felt," Risa crooned, watching Pete shudder in agreement.
"But you must prove yourself worthy."
"I have a list of things for you to accomplish. You will not remember
this meeting until you have accomplished them. Then you will return to
me to complete our bonding. There will be nothing more important. Do
you understand? Good boy.
"First, you must destroy the tape, and forget that it ever existed.
Then, you will forge papers showing the transfer of Stacey, Denise and
me to a privately held laboratory. You will pretend that you have found
these papers, and out of the embarrassment of having created a crisis
where none existed, you will resign. You will do this in a way and in a
time that raises no suspicions.
"If you are caught, and cannot convince your persecutors of your
innocence, your heart will stop. Truly stop. You will not breathe. You
will not think. You will quietly die. You know this is true, don't
you?"
"Yes," replied Pete, filled with the clarity of Risa's commands.
"You were not here. I was not here. None of this exists until you can
return. Go."
Risa smiled suddenly as she watched Pete stand, and added, "Be sure to
stop by home and put on some clothes. This seems only natural, right?
You always have to go home when you lose your clothes..."
"Right."
"Go."
Risa watched the naked Pete Duncan get into his car and stared as he
drove down the street and turned the corner. *Not the only corner he's
turned today*, she smiled to herself.
Then, turning to her first new Breath-Maker, she finished removing the
tangle of clothes her assistant still wore and, lifting herself to the
bed, straddled her protege's slightly open mouth, and said,
simply, "Lick..."
----
Pete Duncan, former Security Director for Isolation Building Two, felt
the rapture of Denise's breath on his body again. The tasks he had been
given had been easier than he could have imagined. Risa, glorious Risa,
had been right. No one had seemed to mind that he was leaving, and had
barely looked over his report long enough to accept his humble
resignation. The only sticky problem he had was when Risa's and
Denise's friends and associates asked how to contact the pair.
"Classified," he would answer, "on a 'need-to-know' basis."
And now, he felt his arousal swelling to new heights as Risa approached
him. His cock had never been so hard, so completely solid, and shivers
ran through him from the tip of his purple glans, through his asshole,
all the way to the base of his skull... and he knew deeply that it
would only get better.
He watched as Risa removed her clothes, her movements fluid and
graceful. Her skin was completely smooth and without blemish... not
even hair graced any part of her svelte, perfect form from the neck
down. Pete felt his consciousness reaching out from the vessel of his
body; he could almost see the vapor-like twisting as his consciousness
twined with Risa's in the ether-space between them. Risa's eyes closed
as she savored the coming moment... the moment that she would complete
the Circle of Spirit. After this, the tribe would only add to its
depth... all parts would be as they should.
Risa closed her eyes, following an ancient ritual of centering that was
revealing itself to her with each new moment. She felt her insides and
mind *shift* into something more... something existing in multiple
worlds. Primitive and elegant and mystical and physical and spiritual
combined to form a new whole, previously unknown outside of the tribe
of the Kala, the world of the Kala, the spirit of the Kala... a world
which existed in many places at once, and nowhere at all.
As she opened her eyes, Pete saw the deep turquoise of something new in
Risa... it was as if light was shining from them, bathing everything in
turquoise heat, infecting every molecule in the room with lust and
wild, primitive abandon, everything centered on the inviting, relaxed,
heavy-lidded Risa. He felt his mind falling into line, like the falling
of dominoes, and it was as if they floated toward each other, called by
the ecstasy of destiny beyond choice...
Risa pulled him towards her, backing herself up to a wall, her eyes
burning into him closely now, making his own vision hot and flushed.
Standing solid and tall, he allowed her to lift herself upward... her
swollen, flooded sliding down his belly and finally finding the
tip of his swollen member.
Holding herself there, she whispered, "Now we bond. Now you become
Guardian of Kala..."
Her lowered slowly over his incredibly distended steelflesh
pole... he could feel the incredible heat in her as it quivered and
clenched against him. Her lips met his and he felt her breath flow
into his lungs and he could see his cock, like a candle, melting, but
not getting any smaller, waves moving downward along the shaft as he
began to pump.
His mind was moving everywhere... and memories started to blow through,
almost of their own accord... he was driving a busy street at night in
the rain... walking in a field in the morning, iridescent dragonflies
clutching the tips of the grass as they still slept... chasing a friend
in a game of cops and robbers... all memories he cherished... he
watched as they dissipated like fog in sunshine, never to return.
With every scene that washed away the pleasure increased... the molten
waxy waves moving further and further into his body, until he was
offering every nook and cranny of his mind and soul to the voracious
turquoise dream-eating of Risa... every lost reality making her more
real, more erotic, more perfect, more worthy of his obedience...
He realized that he was embracing his own slavery, surrendering his own
past, but by the time the thought came there was nothing left to argue
about. There was only the bliss of Risa, of surrender, of slavery, of
obedience.
He felt his balls pulling up hotly, his whole body melting and growing
with the wax now, reshaping who and what he was as the heat in his
balls prepared to make his very essence the gift that would seal his
destiny to... *Risa... *
The turquoise heat filled his mind, his body, his every thought as he
pumped faster and faster, more and more urgently coaxing the hot
that was the last of his will out of him, planting his will in...
*Risa...* the friction was unending, perfect, better than any dream or
fantasy... everything was Risa and Risa was everything...
He felt Risa's body shift slightly... and he *came* so hard that he
nearly pushed Risa through the wall with his body... he screamed the
scream of the dying, the lost, and the depraved... and reborn, in pure
ecstasy... his will spilling into her, her coaxing every last
drop of cum-will from his spent tool. He could feel her cumming, body
*undulating,* her absorbing his semen, absorbing *him,* owning
him, Risa, her cunt, her words... his life... owning his soul in life
and in death...
As the bonded couple slid down the wall to the floor, Risa tried to
grasp a handhold, but merely waved her hand in the air as the sweat
dripped from her face and body. Her face bore the exhaustion of bliss,
of completion. When she finally opened her eyes, they were once again
clear, as they were before the bonding began.
Finally, she wrestled herself free, standing before the who had
been Pete, but was now a shell, an extension of Risa's will.
"Guardian," she said. She shivered in pleasure as Guardian looked up at
her with deep turquoise eyes. "You are the first of my protectors.
Though there will be others, you will always be cherished."
Guardian knelt in honor and obedience. As for his happiness, Risa had
been right. But then, Risa always was, and always would be... right.
----
Risa watched her tribe sleep, before falling into the sleepless visions
that were coming more and more frequently. Soon, she knew, she would no
longer require sleep at all. She could let her spirit rest in Kala
while she worked in the world of humans. She did not regret the end of
her life as she had known it. Soon, she would know the bliss of the
Turning, when she would be not simply Risa, but Kalarisa... like the
native Buzdi, before Risa.
And as she was entering a new realm of existence, she would be taking
others with her... and, there would be changes coming. Although the
Kala had limits, how it was made manifest in the "natural world" was
very much within Risa's domain... so long as balance was maintained.
She thought of Stacey, and the torture of the unending orgasm of the
Breath-Makers, and wondered how she could change things to both serve
the Kala and her own compassion... and she felt a mist begin to cover
her eyes...
*Risa dreamed. She was lying on the grass in a meadow, looking up at
the sky. There was nothing to do, nothing to be, nothing calling her.
Totally in the present, there were no distractions - not even
thought...*
*Finis* - Next: "Keeper of Dreams"
----
*Please send any comments or feedback to cats_sara@yahoo.com. Please
mention the name of the on which you are commenting.
- Sara*