Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [40]
The deaconess chuckled in his ear. “They were definitely right when they told me you’d like this.”
They, Hudson thought, but kept sucking.
This went on for minutes and minutes; Hudson was cross-eyed when she pulled her breasts away and then actually looked at her watch.
“You’re . . . timing this?” came the nearly delirious query.
“Oh, yes.”
He managed a frown, even as the voracious sensations rose. “Let me guess. Sixty-six minutes?”
“Of course,” she whispered. “Only thirty-four to go now. Try to enjoy every one of them. The more excited you are, and the more seed you produce, the more positive the conduction.”
“The conduction,” he groaned. His penis felt strained. It felt like a spring about to break.
The desire to climax was excruciating, and his desire for that to happen wiped his mind, even as his unheard thoughts stretched like rubber bands: I can’t-I can’t-I can’t let this happen . . .
The deaconess had leaned briefly away, and returned.
Where did she—
She came back, but seemed intent on her watch. Hudson felt brainless now, his body nothing but an arrangement of frantic sexual nerves beginning to short-circuit. Then—
“Now, now,” she snapped abruptly and took Hudson’s erection into her mouth. Her lips stroked over it at a mad speed; Hudson was reeling—knowing the dreadful sin of it all, knowing that he must pull away and leave this evil place, but before he could—
His climax occurred like an ash can going off. The deaconess mewled as Hudson felt his ejaculation belt into her mouth, and when he was finally finished, he fell over.
The orgasm had beclouded him. The prostitute crawled to a corner, muttering, “Bunch’a nutty bullshit.” When Hudson looked again, the deaconess was spitting his copious ejaculation into the baby’s skullcap. It looked like a mouthful of thin yogurt.
“This really is some fucked-up shit,” the prostitute remarked, but then the deaconess was briskly approaching her.
“Up, up! Quickly.”
“Hey!” the prostitute squealed when the other woman’s hand grabbed her hair and lifted.
“The seed must be covered without delay—”
The deaconess held the top of the baby’s skull beneath one of the prostitute’s sodden breasts, and with her fingers she began to urgently milk the nipple. The white fluid sprayed out at first, then began to dribble. “As much as possible. Help me.”
The prostitute looked disgusted when she girded the breast with her hands and squeezed. The extra pressure trebled the volume of milk coming out. When the lactation began to peter out, the process was switched over to the other breast.
Hudson could only watch, head spinning.
“Good, good,” the deaconess murmured, transfixed. By the time the second breast had been exhausted, the skullcap was over an inch deep with milk.
“Now . . .”
Hudson stared, and so did the prostitute. The deaconess stood firmly with her legs parted. She lowered the skullcap to her crotch.
What’s she going to do?
The prostitute shrieked, and even Hudson yelled aloud in his stupefaction. A tiny glint showed him what the deaconess had produced: a razor blade, which she immediately slipped right up the middle of her clitoris.
Instead of screaming, herself, she moaned in what could only be ecstasy.
“Lady, you’re fuckin’ cracked!” spat the prostitute. Hudson looked away but something kept dragging his eyes back to the event. Two fingers were kneading the split clitoris, squeezing out blood. The blood ran right into the skullcap.
“There,” she announced when she was done. Between the sperm, the milk, and the blood, now the skullcap was over half-full.
“Can I go now?” the prostitute asked.
“Bring me that box,” the deaconess said, “and remove the stand, then, yes, you may be on your