Mental Emasculation: Captain Morgan’s Spiced Revenge Part 9

A light misting of joyful drizzle swept the rain-slick streets in waves, gradually washing away indiscriminate puddles of overindulgence as it gurgled through the gutters like perverse laughter. Caught in a sigh of wind, rain danced and billowed through the neon haze of pink and blue, forcing Chasity to avert her gaze from the gaudy spectacle.  


Thanks to the attention of a culturally insensitive stereotype, Chasity hated getting wet. The Manticore found herself far too drunk and disoriented to entertain the idea of anything that was neither edible nor a cosy little hole to crawl into. The Bitch’s would be preferable, but any port in a storm no matter how rocky the cove nor murky the waters. 


Hovering just behind the Manticore and circling her sodden foot-paws in a low, lazy orbit, You followed at what it hoped was a respectable distance. Along with Bastard, You was an affectionate pet-name Chasity had adopted for her mischievous tail and was derived from; ‘You, get yer face ootta there!’ or the more common ‘You dirty wee bastard!’. Should Chasity happen to be in a particularly foul mood, however, she would often self-deprecate her own vagina with a less than polite ‘You Rancid Cum-bucket’. 


Unlike many of the mind-altering substances Chasity was fond of abusing, alcohol had a profound effect on the Manticore’s mental well-being, blurring the lines like a five-year-olds finger painting until the distinction between Manticore and tail became one glorious whole. A rather apt juxtaposition, You believed, as many people already regarded Chasity as an orifice of one form or another. 


“I’ll shut yer hole in a minute!” Chasity was never the most convivial of people at the best of times. While she continued to wallow in the unfathomable depths* of her own mental incompetence, her tail had transcended to an almost Zen-like state of inebriation as it bobbed and bounced along the cobbled street like a helium balloon that had long lost its buoyancy. Navigating the world when you were blind, deaf and struggled with the paired concepts of spatial awareness and depth perception was challenging to say the least. The susurration of rain only served to exacerbate the tails spiralling sense of disorientation. 

*(33.713 fathoms to be exact. Common sense made a point to measure the abyss for future reference.) 


Droplets of water beaded upon Chasity’s fur like morning dew, dampening the Manticore’s already scandalously short top into nothing more than a sodden strip of indecent material that clung to the swell of her juicy, ripe tits. Chasity’s vest was roughly two sizes too small to begin with. A sentimental reminder from her adolescence that increasingly exposed her cuddly stomach while rejoicing in the delicate roll of love handle that topped the waistband of her low slung jeans.  


Half-an-hour Chasity had spent carefully adjusting various abundances of anatomy in front of the mirrored doors that stretched the length of Francesca’s walk-in wardrobe. Half-a-bloody-hour until finally, a tentative compromise between suggestive indecency and blatant exposure was struck. Self-denial clung to the mistaken belief the garment still fit like a glove. You had earned itself a half-hearted slap after comparing Chasity’s struggle to stuffing an oversized sleeping bag back into its holdall. 


Not that Chasity gave her appearance much thought, delighted the figure-hugging material allowed her to exhibit her assets while still pertaining to the utopian ideals of feminism. Though her breasts were nowhere near as corpulent as Danielle’s udders, their charm lay in the Manticore’s fat, deliciously sensitive nipples currently probing the extremities of the material’s flexibility. They also made a fantastic chew toy for the more aggressive lover. A role the Bitch would reluctantly perform if given the right provocation. 


Though the rain wasn’t particularly heavy, the insidious precipitation fell with a dogged determination that managed to seep through even the most robust waterproofs like lecherous fingers undermining the protection of a comfortably austere bra. Again, this inconvenience failed to deter Chasity who neglected to wear any form of lingerie ever since her mammarie hammocks had been utilised as a convenient collection of novelty grow baskets for Francesca’s brief fascination with gardening. The delicate, lacey cups offering the support, protection and drainage the Kobold’s saplings had required while retaining a sense of style with frilly butterfly print and embroidered roses and bows.  


The forlorn garments in question were merely grateful to finally fulfil their raison d’être. Happily cradling a bountiful harvest of fertility that had nothing to do with the questionable composition of the semen saturated compost supplied by Chasity in the hope of cultivating herself an Alraune. Little Shop of Horrors had a lot to answer for. 


Now, Francesca’s burgeoning Begonia and flourishing Fuchsia had long been forgotten and left to prosper in the warmth of the conservatory. The Kobold having reverted back to her childhood and rekindled an aspiration to learn the violin. A hobby which came to a mysteriously abrupt conclusion after the tortured instrument committed suicide by efficiently; if somewhat violently, dismantling itself in its locked protective case. 


And now, an exceptionally drunk, somewhat damp and mildly disgruntled Chasity wandered the streets.  Aimless as a leaf blown in the wind and lost, like a… well, leaf without a tree, she supposed? Similies, metaphors and analogies weren’t a particularly strong aspect of Chasity’s repertoire. Unless, of course, the subject was a sweet, delicate pastry that shared a resemblance to the reproductive organs. There was nothing quite like a big, thick, cream-filled eclair to inspire the Manticore’s poetic eroticism. 


Burdened under the weight of an unconscious Francesca slumbering in her arms, Chasity hunched her shoulders a little further and staggered onwards through the night in search of any available shelter. Puddles splashed beneath sodden feet, damp denim caressed her balls like a Ghouls cold, wet tongue, and her hot, hazy breath hung in the air as she serenaded the night with a humorously bawdy rendition of hickory dickery dock. All the while discussing a number of questionable lifestyle choices with her tail. 


Self-reflection wasn’t a habit of Chasity’s, but as she tottered through the stillness of the early hours, her thoughts naturally meandered down the twisting, overgrown path of nostalgia at a more than leisurely pace while her tail happily harassed the local wildlife. The smelling of flowers, however, was strictly prohibited. Not least because of Chasity’s aversion to pollen, but also thanks to her blatant abuse of silvervine whenever she got the chance. Snorting lines of the potent stimulant was one thing, but to actively administer a homemade suppository was quite another.  


All-in-all, it had been quite an eventful evening. If Chasity swivelled her ears and ignored the burble of water through the broken drain pipe disgracing itself across the pavement, she could just make out the angry tone of Danielle having a rather heated discussion with the slightly bruised bouncers from Bugsy’s. Maybe she should feel guilty, or at least partially responsible, seeing as she had technically started the fight, but it wasn’t her fault the big red bitch didn’t have a sense of humour!  


In the background of her subconscious, Chasity’s brain leisurely clicked away with the ponderous deliberation of an old, mechanical clock that measured time with a robust clonk-clack, as opposed to the traditional elegance of tick-tock. Neurons and synapse fizzled in the dank mire of Vodka, sputtering out sporadic impulses like the cognitive equivalent of premature ejaculation while the silken tapestry of her limbic system slowly unravelled between the shared consciousness of Chasity and her tail. 


Handi-crafts weren’t a particular past-time of Common Sense; who was more at home with the composition of snarky eMails and unhelpfully patronising post-it notes for the convenience of other personification, but she couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as she gazed upon the frayed, grimy yet overall cherished blanket of nostalgia that spun out before her. A tattered, threadbare quilt haphazardly embellished with itchy wool, plush velour and even a few scraps of luxuriant silk wrapped around her battered and bruised hippocampus like surgical gauze and stemmed the worst of the emotional haemorrhaging. 


A shudder quaked along the length of Chasity’s tail, issuing forth a bubble of thick mucus as the appendage pointed out she had forced several analogies she knew nothing about. 


“Here! I ken plenty aboot anal orgies!” Chasity humphed, puffing out her cheeks just slightly in another trademark pout. No.7: Thinly veiled vexation, coupled with an indignant inclination of her ears. She would’ve crossed her arms for full dramatic effect had they not been full of soggy Kobold.  


Not for the first time, You believed Chasity looked quite cute and almost girly when she got all flustered and pouty. This remark earned the tail an even more adorable scowl. 


How the Rancid Cum-Bucket could look so smug without the aid of a face was unknown to Chasity, but it’s bloody condescending grin was starting to get on her tits. Why she should feel inclined to take advice from someone happily rolling around on the street was anybody’s guess.  


In reply, You simply shrugged. A strangely expressive gesture for a creature lacking shoulders. Stinking semen receptacle wasn’t a particularly dignified state to find oneself, but You could hardly argue the point as it lightly touched upon Chasity’s sense of smell and found it was both offended and aroused by its own musky odour. 


Following a flurry of indecisive cursing and a further argument with her tail regarding the consumption of a soggy takeout scattered across the pavement, Chasity eventually flopped herself into the corner of a doorway having finally found one not awash with bodily fluids of some description. Granted, the last little alcove had been safe until she herself had been found wanting.  


Lamenting her lack of gymnastic dexterity, Chasity groaned as she carefully adjusted the weight of an unconscious Francesca bundled in her lap. Even with an abundance of seductive padding, the cold granite doorstep didn’t make for one of the most comfortable of seats. The Manticore trying to massage some life back into her plump backside by surreptitiously fidgeting her hips while a hinge prodded her in the back like the accusing glower of her embittered conscience.   


Although underwear was generally regarded as a mild annoyance to the socially promiscuous Manticore, Chasity conceded a comfy pair of boxers wouldn’t go amiss right about now. Even a pair of the Bitch’s horribly tacky excuse for underwear would do, providing it helped mitigate the effects of a chilly todger as her body attempted to ingest her lightly furred bollocks. The temperature having dropped to a point where Chasity believed numbers were inadequate and resorted to expletives instead, leaving the chill factor hovering somewhere around ‘bastarding’ cold. Should her cock shrivel any further, however, it would creep into the realm of ‘fucking’. 


“Urp…awf, birty bastard.” A soft, almost seductive groan escaped Chasity as her Vodka laden curse hung in the gloom of her refuge, threatening to ignite in the glowing ember of the gnarled cigarette hanging limp and forlorn from her lips. 


Curled at Chasity’s feet, You proceeded to noisily bugger itself with a dented tin of lager amidst a chorus of smacks, slurps and happy little burps. Metal crinkled as the tail smiled around the crumpled can and audibly gulped down another lump of pulpy oatmeal. The taste of flat, insipid lager lingered upon the back of Chasity’s tongue while the effervescent ejaculation fizzled through her cunt. 


“Think ‘am aboot tae spew m’ring up.” Usually, Chasity was more than willing to turn a bloodshot eye from her tails minor indiscretions, but deep-fried white pudding* had a tendency to gunk up her insides and left her pussy looking as if it had contracted an array of venereal diseases. 


*(To the unenlightened, white pudding is a simplistic accompaniment to many British Dishes of oatmeal, suet and spices, wrapped in a skin like a sausage and allowed to sautee in stews in order to absorb the gravy while adding its own delicate flavour. (sometimes they sneak in a shred of pork, though the quantity and quality is questionable at best (brackets within brackets? Obviously the sign of a disturbed mind, like superfluous exclamations at the end of a sentence (or an enigma, wrapped in a lie and encased within pastry!!!!!)))) 


In many regards, Chasity’s tail was similar to a newborn puppy and blindly explored the world through the mediums of touch and taste. Along with chocolate, greasy oatmeal seemed to upset the natural balance of her vagina in much the same way as an offering of mature cheddar brought upon the wrath of a lactose intolerant volcano god. It wouldn’t be so bad, but her tail was incapable of absorbing anything more substantial than semen, alcohol and milk, oddly enough?  


In saying that, Chasity reasoned (with great difficulty and a little subliminal justification from her tail’s extensive vocabulary) that like the luxuriant lactations of Holstaur, Wyvern and Sand Worms, semen was essentially a variety of milk. Or cottage cheese if you happened to be unlucky enough to discover a vein of sweat ripened smegma. 


Even for the most philosophical of scientists and psychologists, Chasity’s tail was a bit of a dilemma. Forgiving the suspicion the appendage had developed its own consciousness during the turbulence of Chasity’s headlong rush into puberty, the appendage seemed to of adopted a number of unique biological traits over the years.  


Like most Manticore’s, the tails primary function was the collection and distribution of male essence throughout Chasity’s body. Thanks to a biological quirk, however, Chasity was capable of producing her own daemonically enriched essence, which made her tail somewhat redundant. Unhappy that it was nothing more than a parasite and subjected to years of unparalleled perversions by the insatiably inquisitive Manticore, You had gradually adapted its cum gullet to resemble an extension of Chasity’s gastrointestinal tract. Through trial, error and a few minor bacterial infections, You was eventually successful in absorbing nutrients and water through its extensive network of mucous membrane which could then be transferred to Chasity’s digestive system in due course.  


It was firmly believed one of the reasons Chasity was able to consume such a prestigious amount of alcohol over a relatively short period of time with little to no apparent ill effects was by feeding her tail pawfuls of ice. This unconventional tactic not only kept the Manticore hydrated while simultaneously freshening her tails breath, but it also distracted her unlawful vagina from harassing not only herself, but any innocent bystander who happened to stray too close. At home, Chasity was guilty of keeping her tail preoccupied with a squeaky dog toy, though was cautious not to leave it unsupervised for too long after the incident involving the rubber chicken. 


This convenient arrangement gave rise to a number of obscure complications. For one, Chasity could taste whatever the tail was currently digesting. Whether she liked it or not. 


Secondly was an issue of hygiene; as was often the case with Chasity, and what should be done with the waste once the tail had wrung out as many nutrients as possible. The appendage could only absorb a limited number of liquids, and what was often leftover was a pale, mucus-covered lump of paper mache like pulp that resembled a semen saturated turd after a protracted evening of vigorous anal abuse. 


What little nutritional value could be gained from the greasy white pudding had long been syphoned away, and now the tail continued to masticate the creamy cud for the sheer pleasure of feeling it squish between its internal folds of seductive flesh. 


Through the symbiotic bond they grudgingly shared, Chasity could feel the lump of thick, gelatinous slop slowly squelch in and out of her tail’s cum gullet like a hot, greasy cock probing the entrance of her oesophagus. To make matters worse, the taste of rancid chip fat filled her mouth in a flood of saliva that trickled past her lips as the mass of oatmeal aggressively stimulated her swollen vestibular gland: a sensitive sack of nerves that sat just at the entrance to her tailpussy’s vaginal-intestinal tract that failed to control her secretion of venereal juices. 


For the first time in her life, Chasity pondered the dilemma of whether to spit or swallow, and wondered if this was how some women perceived a discourteously abrupt mouthful of spunk? For a brief second, the notion You may feel a little bit loved and special should Chasity deign to swallow the rancid muck crossed her mind before her bottom lip trembled, parted and allowed the accumulation of thick, gloopy spit to trickle down her chin and shamelessly splatter her cleavage. 


Perched upon her knee and gazing expectantly at the Manticore, You allowed itself a rueful smile, coupled with a long, slobbery purr of betrayal as the bulb dripped… well, just dripped. Chasity didn’t believe it was necessary to go into details of what delicacies her tail attempted to inauspiciously conceal and conceded her vagina was simply dripping. 


As if divulging a scandalous secret, You burbled a hiccup. A thick wad of oatmeal impregnated phlegm splashed off and fizzled on the ground. Amber liquid that carried the suspicious tang of urine and stagnant lager frothed between its fat, fleshy lips. Filaments of milky-white mucus stretched between its glistening petals as the tail’s expression twisted into something akin to a sneer. 


“Gadz,” Chasity growled her disdain, prodding at her vagina with a clawed foot as the bulb proceeded to simultaneously self-deprecate and defecate itself before sucking up the steaming pile of slop and resuming the lengthy process of chewing over the cud. 

“Jist makin’ a right cunt o’yersel’ ain’t ye?”  


You wasn’t nearly as offended by the Manticore’s poor attempt at wit as by the unflattering memory of the sloppy, cum dripping moose hoof Chasity believed the appendage resembled after Francesca had become an unwitting yet enthusiastic participant of a donkey show in a shady Mexican bar.  


Far back in the murky past and long before they had found the relative stability offered by the Bitch, the demure Kobold had seemingly been chosen at random to be publicly pegged on stage by a grinning Donkey wielding an inappropriately sized strap-on. Much to the delight of the predominantly female audience. 


Which was fine, until the rather drunk and overly rambunctious Kobold whipped out her similarly-sized walloper. The grand unveiling was met with further cries of delight amongst the audience. The following scuffle found Francesca riding the petite Centaur like an animal, encouraging the poor girl to ‘Giddy Up ‘ while slapping her flanks with an obscenely large double-ended dildo. 


Unable to conjugate its displeasure in a simplistic series of mental images Chasity could comprehend, You gulped down a mouthful of damp air and belched a scathing rebuke.  


“Brrraaa~aaap!” A low, rumbling baritone of disdain quivered along its sinuous length as frothy mucus and globules of congealed oatmeal spattered Chasity’s already sodden feet. The sound reminiscent as if someone had violently sodomised a trombone with a pineapple. Whether it was possible to gently violate a brass instrument with a prickly tropical fruit was a question science had yet to answer. Chasity’s tail knew first-hand a pineapple wasn’t a particularly polite fruit and caused considerable distress on the way down, as well as the journey back up. Regardless which direction it was facing! 


Not for the first time in its existence, the tail bristled with envy towards the ear’s ability to effectively communicate their emotions without the mental equivalent of a pop-up picture book. Cute little folds of velvety fur fluttering their intent like an innocent girl gazing upwards through her eyelashes. 


Daemon Lord, how the tail loathed those simpering folds of tufted fluff! Nobody ever thought the tail was cute. Well, apart from Francesca, but You wasn’t about to accept the opinion of a woman who believed her own fat bulbous walloper resembled a cute little silkworm. Providing it wasn’t currently spitting uncured silk in her face, of course. 


But then again, it was difficult to find even an abstract beauty in what was essentially a representation of the more vulgar aspect of the female identity, teetering upon the cusp of social morality. You could almost feel the ears flicking their silent mockery. 


Chasity unceremoniously grabbed her unruly tail by the scruff of its neck before curling the wavering appendage into her lap alongside the form of a slumbering Francesca. Passed out would have been a more accurate, yet somewhat undignified prognosis. Both offenders providing a little warmth and affection on this cold and otherwise lonely night.  


It wouldn’t do to get sappy, but Chasity couldn’t help but wish she had her Bitch to cuddle. Earlier attempts to contact her bitch had failed after autocorrect believed she wanted him to ‘swallow fun from her thriving watermelon’. 


The dozy Kobold shifted in her sleep, mumbling incoherently as she nuzzled further into the Manticore’s lap. Sleepy paws reached out; threatening the wrath of a plastic spork should they dare exploit the ticklish Manticore, before Francesca cuddled up to the similarly afflicted tail, rubbing her cheek against the vulgar bulb as they both drooled into Chasity’s lap.  


When was the last time someone had willingly buried their face in her pussy? Must’ve been back when her gluttonous appendage attempted to eat that inquisitive Shitsu. The way it’s frantic little tail disappeared between the lewd lips like slurped spaghetti still made the Manticore laugh. Then again, given her current stupor, stepping in a lump of steaming dog shit would probably yield the same level of hilarity.  


A sense of unease permeated the Manticore’s hazy comfort as she gazed upon the scene even Chasity could appreciate was cute yet disturbingly lewd. The Manticore folded her leathery wings around herself. Gratefully sheltering from the biting wind while protecting her freshly acquired prize.  


Fidgeting her hips, Chasity’s increasingly expansive arse ploughed through the debris-strewn doorway like a glacier, heedless of the chewing gum no doubt glued to her jeans as she squeaked open the large polystyrene box containing a selection of glistening meats. The waft of chilli made her eyes water. Now that was a good sign. Tears of agonised delight rolled across her flushed, freckled cheeks, reminiscent of taking Francesca’s knot into her arse for the first time. No doubt the after-effects would yield a similarly gratifying sting. 


Pakora, Chicken kebab and Donor, liberally slathered in day-glow orange hot sauce you could use as a disinfectant: More than likely guaranteed to kill 99% of everything. Realistically, Hass’ hot sauce was only a few steps away from being weaponised towards chemical warfare, happily dissolving the Bitch’s shrill warnings as to what it was likely doing to her insides. Should Chasity ever find herself admiring her guts, she’d be facing more significant problems than what they looked like! 


Possessing a long, intimate and somewhat turbulent affair with Hass’ ‘Just One Fucking Drop’ chilli sauce, Chasity knew she would need to work quickly before the box started to dissolve. The polystyrene base had already become malleable enough to leave paw prints in the soft container. A herd of sickly-brown lettuce cowered in the corner from the carnivorous feast, cornered by the lake of molten chilli, looking towards a few slices of raw onion for protection.  


“That can get tae fuck.” Chasity flicked the offending growth of warm, flaccid lettuce from her cocoon to the pavement with a sneer, providing the brief entertainment of three seagulls squawking over the scraps in a flurry of feathers. Drops of chilli sauce spattered Chasity’s already soiled jeans, the caustic condiment instantly bleaching the fabric into a pale pastel orange. The Bitch would have a fit when he saw the state she was in, hinting to the fact a hopeful Chasity may get ‘punished’ with the business end of a toilet brush. 


“Piss off, ye greedy wee bastard.” Chasity brandished an accusing claw towards her tail as it cast a surreptitious glance towards the Manticore. Drool oozed past its fleshy lips as it savoured the sharp fragrance of temptation as Chasity shovelled a sporkful of glistening donor into her gob. Liquid fire dribbled down the Manticore’s chin, leaving a pleasant numbness in its wake as molten saliva dripped into Francesca’s hair. The Kobold squirmed and pawed at the irritation before settling back into the comfort between Chasity’s legs.  


Resting the polystyrene box on Francesca’s otherwise peaceful face, Chasity uttered a low growl, having difficulty skewering herself another morsel. Jabbing at her kebab proved a futile endeavour, the pointy bits of her spork had gone bendy from bathing in hot sauce. Chasity discarded the useless implement with a disgruntled curse, the deformed plastic clattering to the corner alongside crumpled cigarette butts and splotches of chewing gum. Depth perception seemed a distant memory as Chasity tried to pluck at the chunks of meat with her claws, blindly pinching at the air and Francesca’s ears while endeavouring not to get any sauce in her fur. A burning bellend wasn’t the sort of surprise she needed next time she went for a piss. 


Ingenuity flashed before the Manticore like the shimmering glow of headlamps as she carefully plucked a spine from her tail, hoping not to disturb the Kobold. As to whether utilising her envenomed spines like a handy little skewer or an ill-advised toothpick was a good idea or not never once occurred to Chasity as she set about the glistening meat with relish. The term ‘meat’ being a very loose and possibly inaccurate description. 


“Heymin!” A cloven foot prodded the Manticore’s leg with more force than was necessary, indicating Danielle was still pissed with her. 

“Rides here, move your arse.”  


Inhaling the caustic vapour of her offensive snack, Chasity choked on the acidic retort scorching her tongue and inadvertently growled a disgruntled prayer to the Almighty Fuckyou! Maybe it was for the best. No amount of sarcastic remarks, insincere apologies or finger thrusting was going to soothe the Minotaur’s mood in a hurry, though Chasity was willing to bet a good, stiff cock would do the trick just fine. 

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