Mental Emasculation: Captain Morgan’s Spiced Revenge Part 10

A phone call in the early hours of the morning is a painful, bewildering experience that will very rarely have a happy conclusion. Similar, in fact, to placing your penis within the lubricated nozzle of a vacuum cleaner before gingerly tapping the ‘on’ button with your foot. If only to see what all the fuss was about. 


The insightful proverb: Never poke your finger where you wouldn’t stick your dick, wasn’t warning enough to deter my own reckless curiosity. The same curiosity that nonchalantly stroked a cravat made from a recently skinned cat while pondering if you could re-energise flat lager with the help of a Soda Stream. 


So imagine my inherent shock as I was rudely awoken from a disturbingly erotic dream by the silent, disgruntled murmur of my phone vibrating against my leg. 


“Aww… bollocks.” I heaved a weary sigh, placed my hands upon my head and pressed my palms into my sleep-encrusted eyes. Hardly an auspicious start to the day, but living with Chasity and Francesca had that effect on a person. 


Unaware of the time and unwilling to relinquish the hazy comfort of my boundless ignorance, Common Sense ventured it was far, far too early for this sort of shit and that my best course of action was to bury myself in blankets and pretend to be a Land Harpy.  


This relationship was beginning to exert a toll upon my already fragile mind. One I believed would be best nipped in the bud before it blossomed into a complete, catastrophic breakdown of both sense and sensibilities and I find myself torn between the lesser of two evils. 


Society had quickly established that a grown man should never, under any circumstances, entertain any undue affection towards a domestic household appliance. Regardless of the gender they had been assigned during manufacturing. In my defence, it was hardly my fault Hetty-Hoover possessed such an invitingly flirtatious smile and was always eager to please. 


“… bollocks…” Forgiving my lack of eloquence and against all better judgement, I scooped the phone from my lap. 


Blinding myself with the impossibly bright screen, I glowered at the offending device, only to find further dismay at the foul expletive of Chasity infecting the screen like an angry red rash. A joint rebellion of cynicism and selective illiteracy had me pronounce the Manticore’s name Pandora. With a mournful sigh, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tapped the innocuous green button. 


Throughout the night, I had become the unfortunate victim of seven missed calls, three messages (two of which were a mob of deformed emoticons and random punctuation, the third blank) and two abusive voicemail messages. Both incoherent and downright offensive ramblings threatening terrible vengeance against the Manticore’s tail and her phone with equal vehemence. And for some strange reason, the term ‘goat fucking’ cropped up repeatedly?  


Neither myself nor Chasity were particularly well-versed with the explosive advancement of mobile technology. And while I had regrettably relented and allowed Francesca to drag me kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, Chasity still struggled with anything more sophisticated than a Nokia 3210. After watching the Terminator franchise of films, Chasity had developed the disposition of a technological troglodyte and lived in the fervent belief that should the machines take over, she could possibly outwit a Nokia utilising snake as it’s primary battle protocol. This from a woman who would simultaneously remove both the back cover and battery of her phone by dropping it on the ground like a monkey hoping to crack open a coconut. Successful as her method may be, it severely reduced the life expectancy of the device to that of a Photosensitive Epileptic Mothman. 


For a while, I simply sat in the darkness of the living room; thoughts adrift, mesmerised by the soft susurration of rain whispering against the window.  


Cold air prickled my skin with goosebumps and brought with it an evocative whiff of reality as my muggy mind lumbered from the dense fog of sleep towards the hazy light with the innocence of an iceberg drifting towards a busy shipping lane. 


As the mists slowly parted, I gradually became aware of a familiar weight in my lap. Reminiscent of a paw resting against my thigh, followed by the wet caress of a tongue slowly slipping along the length of my cock. 


Maybe Francesca had found her way home, cuddled up next to me as I slept and taken the initiative to nurse her inebriation with my cock? 


In the past, I may have cheekily suggested that ingesting semen was a natural remedy for the impending hangover the morning after. Even now, I could fondly remember the huff Francesca had thrown when I had spunked in a cup and presented her with a Wonderland Cream Tea. As opposed to whipping my dick out in her face and handing her a jar of smooth peanut butter. Aside from the fact it went against the tradition of proper tea etiquette, semen refused to dissolve and left a lumpy scum floating on the top like curdled custard.  


Proud as I was with that little glimmer of inspiration, there weren’t many ailments that afflicted monsterkind which couldn’t be treated with the medicinal application of semen. Whether it was liberally smeared over the affected area like an ointment, administered like a suppository or ingested orally, male essence appeared to be a magical elixir.  


Though I may have had my doubts regarding the veracity of this claim, I had to admit Francesca had never knowingly suffered a hangover under my homoeopathic care. Neither had Chasity, for that matter, though there was very rarely a morning after for the Manticore. Chasity practised ritualised hibernation after a heavy session, and would occasionally utilise her own tail as a convenient (if somewhat unhygienic) urinal as opposed to crawling from the comfort of her pit. Disgusting as the prospect may be, I couldn’t help but contemplate what she may do should her needs be a little more… solid, and could only hope her digestive system was robust enough to detain such impulses until her earliest convenience.  


Ready to welcome Francesca’s affection with plenty of head pats and praise for being such a good girl, I gently lifted the blanket covering my legs and found not only was I mostly naked from the waist down, but there was a warm masturbation sleeve slobbering over my manhood. A thick pearl of lubricant slowly rolled along the underside of my cock and gradually stained my already sodden boxers. 


“Oh…” Quite an underwhelming exclamation, given the present circumstances. Life, not only in this city but under the care of Chasity and Francesca, had seemingly desensitised me from all but the most outrageous of situations. And even then, I had my doubts anything could rival the moment a bashful Francesca unfastened her tight leather panties and allowed her walloper to dangle down between her knees. 


I had to admit, waking up half-naked with my chubby cock flopped out the front of my boxers and a mouth shaped silicone sleeve dribbling thick pearly saliva into my lap was neither the worst nor the most undignified situation I had experienced in my life. 


Back when I had first moved to the city from a stringently Ordanian rural community, I had once woken up bollock naked in a graveyard with the corpse of a Dullahan cuddled into my chest before being greeted by the sight of a rather graphic, cum dripping axe wound pressed against my face. To this day, I still wasn’t entirely sure which depiction of the euphemism I had witnessed, having become intimately acquainted with both possibilities throughout the night. Only that the girl’s head had been found propped against a gravestone nearby. A cum bubble pulsating from her left nostril as she snored amidst a glistening puddle of jizz congealing around the base of her neck.  


Nine o’clock on a Sunday morning was hardly the most appropriate of times to wander the grounds of an Ordanian chapel without a shred of dignity to my name. The sickening ache of an encroaching hangover was further exacerbated by the Dullhan’s indignation following my pragmatic suggestion on how I could conveniently cover my shame, whilst the Dullahan could simultaneously conceal her face. Personally, I felt a noseful of pubic hair, and a cock tickling your tonsils was a small price to pay in order to maintain your reputation as a straight-laced student. 


At some point in the evening, I must have fallen asleep on the couch. Idly watching a cumpilation of slime pornography while pleasuring myself with one of Francesca’s masturbation sleeves which had been conveniently left out on the coffee table. Alongside one of Chasity’s envenomed spines, a thick purple vibrating buttplug and a bottle of Succubus brand Sliquid. An odd centrepiece for the living room that didn’t quite match the aesthetic of the surrounding decor. However, given Francesca’s appreciation of contemporary art, the arrangement was preferable to the ceramic flower vase sculpted in the shape of an erect penis with an eyewatering opening for the placement of flowers. 


Knowing I would likely squander the opportunity of an evening to myself with frivolous pastimes such as catching up with the laundry or ironing Francesca’s blouses and penis pouches for the week ahead, my mistresses had taken the liberty of organising a simulated ‘play-date’ to keep me entertained for the evening. Which was almost touching, in a somewhat deprecating show of sentiment. Maybe I enjoyed laundering Francesca’s outrageously oversized cock-socks I had lovingly crafted by hand? 


From the edge of the couch, my phone murmured another polite little cough. Its blue light blinked impatiently with the subtlety of a tapping foot while the screen illuminated the darkness beyond. Without even looking, I instinctively knew it would be another heartfelt plea from the Manticore. An oppressive sense of foreboding emanated from the device like an inky black miasma. 


Under the ethereal glow of the Manticore’s summons, I was offered an unenviable perspective of each and every crusty cum stain that marred the stoor infested downlands of the couch like vast salts plains stretching out across a dry and dusty desert. I could have sworn; and did quite loudly, that I had dabbed, vacuumed and brushed every overspill of passion that blemished the faded, threadbare material. And yet evidence of our love still remained like an enigmatic tapestry that could only be truly appreciated under the medium of UltraViolet. 


Maybe it was time we considered trading in the tired and tatty Succu-sofa for a more youthful settee? One who’s stuffing didn’t sag and wouldn’t look lumpy when clad in tight leather upholstery. But most importantly, could be easily wiped clean with a warm damp cloth and a spritz of disinfectant. 


A gust of rain battered at the window with a soft, petulant slap. Unconsciously, I shrank back as if sheltering from the weather and gripped the edge of the blanket a little tighter in my fist. 


Nae danger I was going out in that just to receive an earful of Chasity’s shit! 


Pining for Francesca’s warmth and affection with just a hint of self-pity for no discernible reason, I pulled the blanket up to my chest, snuggled deeper into the motherly embrace of the Succu-sofa and allowed the Kobold’s scent to envelop my senses like a therapeutic bath of warm honey and lightly scented candles. A soft hue of coconut shampoo, bright floral perfume and an underlying shade of damp dog to further lull my own crippling insecurities. 


Tick, tock, tick, tock… 


Cracking open a single eye, I peered at the clock high up on the wall. One of those treasured yet tasteless heirlooms which resembled a grinning Cheshire Cat, where the tail swished back and forth nonchalantly like a pendulum while unblinking eyes watched every passing second slip away. The outline of that shit-eating grin hovering in the darkness allowed an unwelcome sense of voyeuristic exhilaration to crawl across my skin. Bloody faggot-cat clocks! 




Surely three mature, well educated and fiercely independent women could navigate the short distance back from the city centre with a little guidance from the conveniences of modern technology?  


At the very least, Francesca appeared to possess an almost instinctive sense of direction, as well as the unique ability to hear ice cream at a hundred yards. Even Chasity; burdened beneath the embuggerance of her own self-inflicted mental incompetence, had managed to stagger home one evening when no other options presented themselves. Whereupon she finally succumbed to the weight of her own merriment, serenading the sunrise with a humorously bawdy rendition of Little Bo-Peep the Randy Weresheep while managing to desecrate the neighbour’s birdbath from our side of the fence. An impressive display of marksmanship which covered a distance of approximately five foot at an elevation of forty-five degrees. And yet she couldn’t hit a pot directly in front of her… 


Nope! I’ll just sit here, with a lapful of lukewarm seamen-saturated lubricant and dose in the relative comfort of Francesca’s ghost. Puffing out my cheeks, I pulled the blanket a little tighter and crossed my arms determinedly. Any tighter and Francesca’s favourite fleece would likely tear under the strain of my own inferiority. 


Tick followed tock, bloody tick “tiny cock…” 


“Bastard!” Dust erupted upwards in a choking plume of silver-like motes as I sat up, spanked the masochistic Succu-sofa with a heavy-handed slap and glowered angrily at the clock. 


Shrugging off my indignation, the clock smiled back with a loathsome grin. It’s callous gaze filled with mockery, judging me, scrutinising my pathetic existence down to the very fabric of my patchwork soul. 


“Any more of your shit and I’ll get Chasity to wind your spring!” My vision flared, burning. Fleeting breath came in short sharp spikes of resentment. 


Difficult to tell if a clock could cower, but its gaze shifted uncomfortably. Contemplative rather than contemptuous. Nobody needed a reminder of the havoc Chasity had caused innocently attempting to heat a tin of soup by dumping the contents into the kettle and watching the element fail spectacularly with the flick of a switch. 


And just like that, the anger bled away, leaving a dreamlike emptiness in its wake. Drained and exhausted, I hung my head and sighed a cynical little laugh. Mindflayer. One of these days I had to go to a Mindflayer and get this… this shit sorted out. The complexity of emotions contained within the kitchen alone was bad enough, but now my authority was being undermined by a bloody clock! 


Opening my eyes, I was confronted by the glassy-eyed stare of my own erection. Standing proud amidst a swamp of gunky lube and stringy spunk webbing a nest of neatly trimmed pubic hair as if an Arachne had prematurely ejaculated a hefty wad of uncured silk across my manhood. The masturbator had rolled from my lap and started its own contribution towards the collage of passion and lust upon the canvas of the Succu-sofa. 


Really! What the hell was I supposed to do with that? The box of tissues sat at the opposite side of the living room, a logistical nightmare given the circumstances. Understandably, I didn’t want to tuck my sloppy cock back into my boxers, but at the same time, it was a bloody long and shameful waddle to the nearest sink. And I’d rather not spend my Sunday on my hands and knees scraping congealed seamen from the floors. Francesca’s little snail trail was bad enough without adding my own meagre contribution to the Kobold’s morning mirth. Which gave the impression of a sickly sweet cocktail of Malibu, pineapple juice and Peach Schnapps, served in a frosted high ball with a slice of lime. 


We had tried; in the past, to inhibit the Kobold’s natural secretion of protein-enriched nectar with the use of a condom, but the Order simply didn’t supply soul-saving prophylactics in such a prestigious (or as one minister proclaimed; abhorrent) size. In the end, we had wrapped a sandwich bag around the tip of her tonker with the help of an elastic band, but the near incessant rustle of plastic as it knocked around between her knees outweighed any short-term benefit it may have provided. 


With a sigh of the inevitable, I eased my slobbery todger back into my boxers and force-fed the residual lubricant glistening in my lap back into the eagerly waiting Onahole. Hopefully, the temptation of exceptionally sloppy seconds would provide a suitable distraction should Chasity feel the need to let off some steam.  


One issue dealt with, for the time being, now all I had to do was figure out what exactly Chasity wanted me to do with a Watermelon. And where I was likely to find one at this time in the morning?  

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