Mental Emasculation: Captain Morgan’s Spiced Revenge Part 7


Part 7 

“Come on, swallow it ye useless bitch!” 

  

Pleading, tear-filled eyes gazed up at Chasity, cowering within the darkness of her imposing presence as oppressive red light cast a sinister shadow upon Chasity’s sickening grin. Closing his eyes, humiliation ran down Fat Neck’s face, cheeks puffy and damp from the abuse suffered at the paws of the vindictive Manticore. Face pulling into a grimace, he forced himself to swallow, almost gagging as the sickening liquid slid across his tongue and burned down his gullet. 

  

“Good lad!” Chasity smiled and shared a glance with her leering vagina before knocking back her own shot of Vodka. Against all anatomical probabilities, the Manticore’s tail hiccupped a watery queef. Around her, the lounge was in an uproar. Most of the occupants huddled around her small table scattered with shot glasses and an empty bottle of Vodka. A dense crowd of sweaty, drunken revellers banging on tables and stamping the floor as they chanted along to the spectacle of self-abuse. Scantily clad hosts of the club giggled, clinging and fawning over their unassuming clients, making sure their victim’s attention didn’t stray for too long. After all, a strippers success was often measured in both the quantity and quality of notes stuffed into her G-string.  

  

The lounge itself was a dimly lit pit. Sticky floors, tacky cushions, discreet spotlights of red, purple and green carefully positioned to give the seating areas a semblance of privacy while still allowing the four Red Oni working security to keep an eye on the customers. Shining like a beacon for lost souls, the bar was huddled in the corner, forcing patrons to run a gauntlet of scantily clad sirens with seductive smiles before a drink could be acquired. In the far corner, separated by heavy, velvet curtains were the private rooms for the less discerning customers. This is where Chasity had expected to be by now, with some tidy wee lassie in her lap as the Manticore flashed a pawful of high calibre notes. Though security didn’t like the arrangement, a blind eye was turned when a few selected regulars whispered about extras. What goes around comes around, and over the years, Chasity had bribed most of the staff with money, alcohol and sexual favours. 

  

Drifting back towards the drinking contest, two participants had already passed out. One recumbent figure lay face first in a puddle of his own vomit; the green light overhead tinting the pale bile in a sickly hue, leaving Chasity and the pathetic arsehole across from her she had dubbed Fat Neck. A corpulent man who seemed to sweat profusely, his piggy face plopped atop his body by thick rolls of fat like a snowman made of lard and left out in the sun. Chasity got the impression if he were to wear a necktie and belt simultaneously, the external pressures would transform him into a string of gout-ridden sausages. 

  

“Slurp, burble squish-squelch!” There was an impatient gurgle from her tail, blowing bubbles as it noisily sucked a mouthful of ice cubes garnished with a slice of lime. 

  

“Ye think?” Chasity scowled, piecing together the nuances of her vagina’s emotional well being. Only Chasity could understand the gargled language of her own vagina, yet even she was sceptical of her fluency. There was a limit as to how much emphasis you could place on the pronunciation of ‘squelch’. 

  

“Gurgle schluck.” Sarcasm belched past Chasity’s ear, dampening the tufted fold which flicked in annoyance. 

  

“We cannae dae that, can we?” Both Chasity and the tail shared a sinister smirk before turning their attention back towards the struggling Fat Neck. 

“Fa’d clean up the mess?” The tail shrugged as Chasity poured another two shots of Vodka and carefully slid a brimming glass towards her victim with the bulb of her slobbering vagina. A foamy scum floating around the rim of the glass. 

  

“Oops! Wee bit a pussy mucus, but fits the harm, eh?” Chasity winked, flashing an innocently saccharine smile. The tail hovered, allowing a second sliver of drool to drip into the glass which slowly sunk to the bottom. 

  

“Looks like ye got yersel’ a wee vodka sour.” Chasity leant forward, malice glinting upon her pointed canines in a show of contempt as she slapped a crisp £50 note on the table. 

“Fifty sez ye cannae drink it.”  

  

Staring across the debris-strewn table towards the generous wager, Fat Neck forced himself to not be drunk and succeeded in feeling terminally nauseous as his gaze slowly unfocused. A woefully familiar tightness bubbled in his throat. It was fair to say things were looking bad, which was to say blurry, disoriented, and for some reason, tragically hilarious. 

  

Reluctantly, Fat Neck placed fifty on the damp table and gingerly raised the tainted glass towards his quivering lips. Just the smell of the sickly tangy-sweet Vodka was enough to make you boke; carrying the suggestion of overripened bananas allowed to ferment in the back of a kitchen cupboard.  

  

How had things ended up like this? Less than half-an-hour ago, the Manticore had seemed like an easy target. Half-cut, snorting lines of Almighty knows what and arguing with her own vagina… 

  

Well, there was no way he was about to let this arrogant bitch of a Manticore make him look like a clown! Fat Neck stared at the offending liquid. It was only a little pussy juice… Even if it did look like a glass of watery wallpaper paste with a few foamy globs bobbing near the surface… Monsterkind couldn’t catch embarrassing diseases, so nothing to worry about. Right? With nothing left to lose and a rather hefty tab looming on the horizon, Fat Neck closed his eyes, tipped the soured Vodka into his mouth and forced himself to swallow the slimy gloop. 

  

Silence fell. Anticipation hung heavy in the air awaiting a spark. 

  

Excitement flashed with a loud, watery snort. Fat Neck’s blotchy red face bulged, reminiscent of a pufferfish as he vurped into his mouth before clamping a trembling hand over his strained lips. The table clattered, knocking over the empty bottle of Vodka and several shot glasses like skittles as he lumbered towards the toilets to a chorus of mocking laughter. Had he been able to say ‘Meep Meep’ the resemblance would’ve been uncanny.  

  

Three feet away from salvation, disaster struck. Vomit sprayed through his fingers like slurry, peppering both the toilet door and the slick wooden floor. Driven forward by the momentum of desperate need, Fat Neck slipped in his own puke, legs flying out from beneath him as he arched through the air.  

  

Landing heavily on his back, the breath was torn from his lungs, dragging along the contents of his stomach, forced out in a repugnant fountain of Vodka, stomach bile and what appeared to be pizza. You could still make out slices of half-chewed pepperoni among the discharge splashing across his face. 

  

As if an intricate choreography had been set in motion, a Green Slime slid out from behind the bar. The quaint little cubby concealed by rows of sparkling optics and a pane of one-way glass. Wheeling out a large black screen similar to what they used for shooting a lame horse, was a Shoggoth known affectionately as Miss Palm. 

  

In the distant past, an inquisitively inebriated Chasity had once inquired what the screen was for and ended up spending a surprisingly happy evening in the passionate embrace of Miss Palm and her five stepsisters as they demonstrated their rather unique and meticulous cleaning services. Curiosity may not have killed the cat, but Chasity had found hours of satisfaction at the mercy of inquisitive, sucking tentacles. People paid good money to witness; and even more to experience, what went on behind the thin sheet of black plastic. To think, all it took was a little public humiliation and possibly a ruined shirt. Slime stains were a bugger to wash out if they didn’t dissolve through your clothing first. 

  

Now she understood why the Bitch had a secret infatuation with Slime Pornography; a perversion that had somehow bypassed Chasity’s attention, having stumbled upon his rare (and technically illegal) collection by accident. Which was mostly true, seeing as she never would have considered looking for false bottoms to the drawers after almost turning the entire house upside down in search of his stash. The Bitch had not been impressed, more by the mayhem left in Chasity’s wake than the invasion of his privacy, and persisted in calling her Hurricane Bawbag for the following week. 

  

In a childish show of spite, the Bitch had withheld sex from the Manticore for five days, leaving Chasity to literally ‘Go fuck herself’ after an insincere apology and an ill-advised slap on the arse done little to improve his mood. The bastard had no sense of humour! There was just no need for such an unnecessarily cruel punishment. Especially since that traitorous little bitch of a Kobold had scorned Chasity’s advances, relishing in the exaggerated show of affection lavished upon her. When masturbation had lost its thrill, Chasity had been forced to sexually molest the Bitch’s trainers. Hobbling around with a peculiar squelch for a week and questioning if the heat had given him cheesy feet.  

  

One of the four Red Oni working security (also sister’s, Bugsy’s was very family orientated) descended in a thunderous fury as the Green Slime set about her gruesome task with worrying glee. The hapless victim was away to be mercilessly stripped, experience a once over by the ‘cleaner’, and providing the Oni could wrestle him from her slimy grasp before she digested all his clothing, tossed into the street in nought but his underwear. Though it wouldn’t be the first instance someone had been ejected from Bugsy’s bollock naked. 

  

Skidding across a cobbled street on your arse wasn’t particularly comfortable, especially if you were unlucky enough to catch your todger on the edge of a loose cobble. Still, at least the slime residue reduced the worst of the friction against the smooth granite cobbles. Thank the Daemon Lord the dank little alley wasn’t tarmac! Unless, of course, you wanted to be picking small stones from your red-raw cheeks for the next few days and waddling around as if you had been rudely surprised by a cucumber? Bloody masochist! 

  

The fastidious cleaning services provided by Miss Palm were essential for an establishment such as Bugsy’s, concerning the removal of any and all offending bodily fluids. There was always the chance an exceptionally ambitious and stupidly brave inspector would shine a dark light around the lounge under the stern, pitiless gaze of the Shoggoth. One such inspector had never fully recovered after the unfortunate mishap involving a table leg. 

  

Basking in the glory of the crowd’s adoration, Chasity knocked back the final shot of Vodka, slamming the glass into the table where it shattered under the weight of Chasity’s inflated sense of triumph. For once, the Manticore found herself the centre of attention for something more positive than being manhandled into the back of a police van and was loving every glorifying second.  

  

Bumbling in silent bewilderment, a fluffy-pink haze of spiteful stupefaction enveloped the Manticore as if she was being molested by an enormous, lecherous marshmallow. Waiting for the sickly sweet cumshot to send her into a sucrose induced coma. It was impossible to tell exactly how much she had drunk tonight, with the term ‘drunk’ open to interpretation. Several glasses worth having saturated her damp T-shirt, clinging to the luscious curvature of her plump tits. Even Chasity, who laughed in the face of danger and tweaked the nipple of adversity, was now reluctant to smoke in fear of spontaneous combustion. 

  

Admittedly, the drinking contest hadn’t been a particularly good idea. Still, by that point in the evening, Common Sense had been bent over her desk and spit-roasted between Bravado and a rather obnoxious whisky. Disqualification through the loss of consciousness or regurgitation usually made for an entertaining yet messy affair.  

  

Although it had seemed like a good idea at the time; in the same manner attaching a car battery to your Vaseline smeared balls while watching Raiju porn presented itself as an inspired innovation, the little escapade bestowed future Chasity with a crumpled IOU and a few painkillers lounging around with carefree optimism. The creased scrap of paper an illegible scrawl of misspelt curse words, gratuitous use of the term ‘fanny’ and little in the way of sincerity.  

  

Future Chasity was left shaking her head, fostering a sneaking suspicion she could easily experience the past flash before her eyes in reverse. Splattered across her furry feet in some dismal alley, leaving behind an abstract art montage in the medium of audaciousness. It was hard to tell if the flashback caused the queasiness or the other way about, but the phenomenon tended to make a mess of her jeans. Which were already in a sorry state.  

  

Looking around the crowd of fuzzy, unfamiliar faces, Chasity’s triumph smouldered into ash. Or maybe it was a reminder of the cigarette she had mistakenly eaten, leaving behind a painful brand of stupidity upon the tip of her tongue, alongside a veritable thesaurus of forgotten synonyms? 

  

The fickle exaltation of the crowd proved to be a hollow trinket when compared to the admiration of her supposed friends. The lush, low hanging fruit revealing itself to be a bunch of deceptively sour grapes of non-fulfilment, soon to meet an abrupt end at the paws of a wrathful Chasity.    

  

Francesca had reliably sought out the girl with the biggest tits. A Holstaur going by the name of Buttercup who bulged around a snug two-piece that left little to the imagination. Much like her parents when it came to naming their children. Though admittedly, not as classy as paying homage to the nightclub they were conceived with a name like Destiny. Not that Chasity was entitled to throw stones.  

  

The buxom Buttercup’s strained mammarie hammock only just managed to contain those corpulent melons, offering a tantalising glimpse of flowers tattooed across the Holstaur’s left shoulder, just begging to be unveiled by Francesca’s eager paws. Chasity had assumed they were buttercups, her limited knowledge of flowers extended to them being mostly green and the dirty little buggers let their spunk float about the place. Afterall, hayfever was nothing more than a nose full of plant-jizz. Chasity possessed firsthand experience that a load of spunk up your nostrils caused red, watery eyes and an exceedingly messy bought of sneezing after an unfortunate masturbation mishap caused the Manticore to give herself an unexpectedly unpleasant facial. 

  

Safe to say biology hadn’t really captured Chasity’s imagination. The adolescent Manticore hoping for something lewder than cellular reproduction, and spent most of her time doodling moustaches on pictures of sperm alongside anatomically inaccurate sketches of male genitalia. 

  

It looked as though the Holstaur was genuinely enthralled by the Kobold’s exuberant re-telling of a heavily embellished story. All the while, Francesca shuffled closer into the lap of the otherwise naive girl. The friendly little rapist sneaking in a few gropes of those bountiful knockers with each exaggerated gesture of her paws while her tail and ears performed a pantomime of interpretive dance. The bubbly cow-girl giggled away innocently, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. 

  

How the hell did she get away with it? Even Chasity couldn’t argue the Kobold’s natural charm, but there must be a limit as to how far being disgustingly adorable should be able to carry you? Not that Chasity was jealous in any way, shape or form. Unable to redirect the bitter resentment towards (possibly) the best friend she ever had, Chasity strove to bury the loneliness gnawing at the tattered remains of her consciousness and turned away, scratching at the floor with her foot. 

  

Hating to admit it, Chasity pined for her Bitch. Knowing she could be snug in bed, cuddling up to him in search of her hole while being told under no uncertain circumstances to ‘fuck off’. Chancing her luck, Chasity would often try and slip her cock home regardless. Sometimes he’d play along, discreetly arching his back to allow her a more comfortable angle for entry. Muffling his moans into Francesca’s fur while unsuccessfully pretending to be asleep and trying not to cover her back in spunk. It was a wonder the Kobold managed to sleep through the sensual commotion, though she often reminisced over some rather vivid dreams in the morning. Most of the time, a swift elbow to the tits or a surprisingly nimble heel to the balls would discourage any further advances. 

  

Trudging away under the duress of self-pity and the vain hope to drown her sorrows in the fetid depths of alcohol and flesh; preferably both in equal abundance, Chasity’s vision swam, almost focused then doubled before staggering into a stool she could’ve sworn (and did quite vehemently) wasn’t there a moment ago. Lashing out at the disobedient furniture with a growl only served to further increase her frustration and discomfort, stubbing her toes after booting the offending stool. Flirting with gravity and it’s spiteful disposition towards those who over-indulge in fermented ambrosia, Chasity floundered and cursed, clutching her furry foot with both paws while hopping in an increasingly erratic circle. 

  

Slobbery susurrations like a sadistic snigger caused Chasity’s ears to flick, a frown creasing her already troubled expression as she sought out the culprit and received a face full of her own vagina. In the moment of lewd perplexity, gravity struck with the insidious malice of an electrical plug waiting in ambush in the dead of night. Time slowed as weightlessness wrapped itself around Chasity, her stomach lurched as if a lump of raw chicken was throwing a tantrum while she found herself inexorably drawn towards the event horizon… whereupon she promptly faceplanted the sticky floor. 

  

“Ye dirty… cunt!” For the first time in her adult life, Chasity found herself bereft of a suitable insult. Peeling her face off the Velcro floor, Chasity grunted and shuffled into a slouched sitting position, wiping musky vaginal juices from her face with the back of a sticky paw. Shrugging off the advances of her pussy with a flick of her wings and a deep growl, Chasity’s mind lumbered like a cargo ship as it ponderously plotted a course of vengeance against her own tail. Confused as to whether stating the obvious could double as an exclamation of acute displeasure, Chasity cast a few furtive glances towards the smug appendage curled in her lap, paranoid it should discover her nefarious intentions. 

 

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One thought on “Mental Emasculation: Captain Morgan’s Spiced Revenge Part 7

  1. Howdy folks! Still enjoying the shenanigans of my favourite Futanari? Well Chasity & Francesca need a little extra lovin’. So if you sell your artistic talents and have a particular character or scene that tickles your fancy, drop us a message and we can talk commissions.

    To any and all who have managed this far, thank you kindly for your support.
    (You’ll just need to imagine a Kobold bowing humbly)

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