The Dunwich Romance (13 page)

Upon the experience’s fruition, Sary lay in near paralysis: drenched in sweat, eyes rolled back, tongue lolling from an agape mouth. When the most remote traces of cognizance leaked back into her consciousness, she detected very easily that the previous feeling of
stuffed-to-fulness
 was no longer present in her vagina. She dopily slipped a hand there for verification, inserted a finger, and found the feminine cavity very wet, very tender, and very absent of obstruction. Her uneducated thoughts then detailed to herself:
I en’t never come like that in my whole life!
though what she’d actually undergone was an orgasm precipitated by a para-human constituent. All that her physical investigation divulged of the indicia was a vast region of wetness saturating the sheets between her thighs. She presumed at first that this must be the result of her own womanly fluids escaping during her bliss, but—

There seemed an
awful lot
of such fluids.

She lay like putty amid the sheets, and with some exertion turned her head toward Wilbur, who sat now at his writing desk, looking on with contentment in his dark eyes and strange visage.

Her lips worked to generate speech but the initial attempts failed, leaving her able to only mumble a slew of “blub-blub-blub” noises. The monumental orgasm’s remnants had her feeling as though she’d been dipped head to toe into warm vessels full of luscious, alien tinctures whose very contact with human flesh triggered pleasures as potent as they were unearthly. In time, though, she regained more semblance of composure, and was able to chunter: “Holy
jiminee,
Wilbur. Didn’t think it were even
possible
ta come like that.”

Wilbur’s large head nodded in the shadow-diced lamplight. “I knowed yew’d like it, and am glad ye did. Way it ‘twas ‘splained ta me by my grandsire’s that gulls come a mite fierce, and fer longer, on account’a me bein’ different from fellas hereabouts.”

Fellas hereabouts,
the words repeated in her head like stones dropped into hot tar. He’d used that term a number of times, hadn’t he?
Yew’re different, all right, and I dun’t keer none long as yew put a fuckin’ like that ta me more’n onct.

“And I can tell—like I told ye before—yew got yerself a right pile’a questions ‘baout
haow
I’m different, but all’s I can best suggest is ye jest leave it be. It en’t nuthin’ but a bunch’s stuff ye likely wouldn’t understant anyway.”

Sary smiled then, like a sated feline, when she recalled the extent of the pleasures he’d treated her to. “Wilbur, I wun’t ask yew
nuthin’
‘baout
nuthin’
‘cos yew gotta sumpin’ abaout yew that cud have every woman this side’a Miskatonic River chasin’ you like mutts chasin’ a meat wagon.”

The giant man seemed to fall into a muse just then, as if in some mode of personal rapture. Then he said, “It been a long day had by ye, so yew jess go on ta sleep naow. I’ll relax back in my writin’ char and ketch me some shut-eye here.”

Her response was immediate. “If’n yew sleep in that clunky ole cheer, Wilbur Whateley, I will likely shriek so’s ta wake up all the dead aout’a the old buryin’ graound, I will.”

Wilbur’s long, high brow went deep with furrows. “Why...what’cha mean, Sary?”

“Yes sir, I will haowl at the blammed moon...if’n yew dun’t come over heer right naow and sleep with me!” and then Sary slid back to afford more room on the cot, and reached her arms out toward Wilbur.

Wilbur rose forthwith, and appeased her supplication.

Ten

Without constraint, however, Sary felt inclined to question Wilbur’s obvious intention of coming to bed still donned in all of his clothing, yet an intuition—one formulated in previous observation—at once commanded her to make no such query. Wilbur had already demonstrated some preoccupation anent to his physical aspect, so Sary considered,
Why ask him sumpthin’ that he dun’t wanna speak of?
No, she mustn’t needle him, for fear of imparting a displeasure in his attitude as far as her presence was concerned. She conjectured, instead, that if it were Wilbur’s wish to sleep with his clothes on, it was his right as well. But when his awkward frame lowered beside her upon the great cot, he gave voice to several points almost as if he were possessed of a qualification to decrypt her own very concerns while they remained solely with the confines of her mind. Wilbur, sounding drowsy now, said, “Aw, I know theer be lots ‘baout me that’s got a buzz in ye’re bonnet—as my grandsire used to say—and I ‘spect that afore, when we was jess gettin’ started, ye might’a felt suthin’ beneath my shirt, and daown one’a my pant legs, that struck ye as mighty awry, but it be jess like I been sayin’...that not everyone be ‘zactly like all folk hereabaouts and what’cha be used to. I’se different, is all, so I don’t see that it matters more’n a tittle.”

“Oh, it dun’t, Wilbur,” she was quick in her assurance. “I guess I be a bit nosy sumptimes, ‘tis my nature, I guess, ‘least my ma used ta say so. So’s I’ll dew my best not ta rankle ya with silly questions that’d pester ya.”

“Aw, naow, dang, Sary,” his deep vibrating voice grew lower. “Thar en’t nuthin’ ye could do ta pester me...,” but soon it became apparent to her that the day had stricken Wilbur with a formidable budget of fatigue.
I best juss let him sleep,
her better judgment suggested—though the deferment to her better judgment was quite often not her forte. In fact, even just moments after her monumental orgasm, Sary admitted that another such experience was most notably the object of her desires; and disappointment was not in wait of her.

Again, she was unable to repel this lusty perseverance, and no sooner than Wilbur had begun to snore, she slithered atop him, commenced to abrading her groin to his, and to titillate him with her hands in a most urgent manner. However far removed his penis might be from that of other men, Sary did not now care. She creviced one hand beneath her bare belly in order to re-arouse him, but even upon the instant, a foot-long cylinder of turgidity was effortlessly discerned at his crotch. Her breath felt hot as fish broth, and she whined, “Wilbur, I dun’t mean ta disturb yew but—”

The behemothic man did not need to be coaxed further; in fact he seemed just as fidgety for intercourse as she. His huge hands slipped downward, unfastened his trousers, and extracted the sought-after member...

Their previous coupling was reprised posthaste, and ensued correspondingly. Panting, short of breath, and nearly teary-eyed in anticipation, Sary straddled Wilbur and again impaled herself upon the bizarre, rootlike shaft; and after two or three pelvic strokes, her bedmate was seized by ecstatic convulsions. After several moments came a gasp on his part, as his climactic tensions all ran out of him. But now Sary’s curiosity thrummed as intently as her craving for more release. That deep fullness was indeed present again in the channel of her sex...

Even after she unstraddled him and left no doubt that genital congress had been cessated. Wilbur’s voice croaked, “Aw, honey, that thar was sooooo good...” A moment later, he was asleep.

Sary promptly lay back on her side of the cot. First she let her hand inspect the area just within Wilbur’s opened trousers and, unequivocally, her surprising observation of before was repeated. The erection, like a long, raw, and oddly cool pork loin could no longer be found anywhere amid the man’s groinal region; instead, only a sheer film-like length of...something...had seemed to replace it. Again, Sary’s “empty sausage skin” simile came to mind. Ludicrously, she wondered even if Wilbur’s erection had
separated
itself from his body upon climax, to remain sheathed in her sex, only to
re-grow
for a future copulative opportunity. But this supposition was too outre to take with any sober regard. Hence, a logical conclusion to the conundrum remained to be speculated, and the question had no choice but to coruscate:
What
,
in the name of all notions analogous to Sary’s conception of normality, could explain the undeniable material breadth that now existed in her vagina?

Next, she felt about her own private region, admitted a finger, and—

What’s IN thar?

For something surely was, and the object seemed to parallel quite closely the dimensions of Wilbur’s erection. In fact, the substance’s morphology indicated that, with the proper level of adroitness, she might even be able to extract it.

Sary finessed her fingers in a way that such an extraction might be made—

But that is when time ran out.

She was at once stolen away on the rushing tide of another sexual culmination. Her body clenched and quaked, her sex seeming to open and close akin to the mouth of a fish out of water. So
infused
she felt with such impossible sensations, it seemed as though some capacity of her brain had entered into arcane collusion with her sex, to unloose the most dense, heady, and intoxicating spasms of uninterrupted carnal delight. She churned mindless atop the cot, grinning lewdly, licking her lips and molesting her breasts, and even shrieking and giggling aloud as she drooled through one bacchanalic fusillade of bliss after another. The experience throbbed on for no less than thirty minutes’ time.

How long afterward she lay stupefied, immobile, and incapable of thought could not be estimated. Even after the orgasmic avalanche, she twitched there on the cot in some raw-flesh
denouement
of pulsing nerve-reactivity. More unconscious than sentient this time, her hand feebled to her exploited sexual portal to verify what she already presumed: the “fullness” within had changed to flux, leaving another great splotch of sopping moisture in the sheets. Whatever the object had been, it almost seemed as though the rigors of her orgasm had caused it to liquesce during the relentless contractions.

And Sary felt liquesced herself; the experience had left her like some
thing
that had melted to semi-solidity. It was long before she could move, so all-consuming that second orgasm had been—if anything double the potency of the first.
I gotta have this, like, ALL THE TIME,
her mind squeezed out the greedy thought. Through one of the little windows, the moon glowed, admitting a bandeau of ghostly light. The black patch of her pubic hair shimmered tinsel-like, while the cream-white skin of her belly appeared burnished with oil. Wilbur snored quite resonantly beside her.

Later, Sary found she could move and even teeteringly rise from the cot. She warned herself to be cautious so not to waken Wilbur even before she acknowledged to herself what it was she meant to do.
The lantern,
she thought, and she’d manoeuvered herself off the cot with the utmost gingerness. Her bare feet touched the wood floor, then in a calculated slowness, she padded to the looming desk where the oil lamp remained, turned so low as to emit nearly nothing in the way of illumination. The moon’s gossamer radiance alone would not suffice; Sary, ever-so-incrementally, eased the wick up until there existed enough luminescence to make a more detailed scrutiny yet not so much as to breach Wilbur’s slumber...

She crept back to the cot, Wilbur’s side this time.

It was not the expected empty “sausage skin” that awaited Sary’s next delve of hand, but instead...

Another erection.

I juss dun’t get what’s goin’ on...

It was indubitable: Wilbur was different, all right, and given the utter numerousness of patrons Sary’s profession had convoked, she was unable to deny his unique genital exclusivity.
What a WEIRD dick it be he’s got on him,
her muse put it another way. The organ seemed to vanish after climax and then undergo a momentaneous rematerialization. Like her sausage skin notion, another absurd metaphor occurred to her: a stocking’d foot and then suddenly the foot no longer occupied it...but then a short time later, a
new
foot appeared within. What could explain this?

Closer attention seemed in order.

Sary had been informed, on a myriad of occasions, that one act she possessed an efficacious proclivity for was the act of fellatio; and it was this act, then, that she began to perform upon Wilbur. But so not to wake him, she implemented great care in not jostling him in any way, and not touching him other than with her mouth; and a slow and very dainty process it was. Back and forth her head went, sliding her wet, skilled lips up and down over the queer, foot-long shaft; this adroit action did not persist for long, however, before—

Sary lurched backward in an amount of time far less than it would take for her brain to register alarm and dismay. It seemed as though Wilbur’s formidable erection had somehow come
detached
and then
launched
itself into Sary’s mouth with more than a little force. Her eyes crossed in the shock of it, yet she remained at least subconsciously apprehensive of the need
not
to awaken her mysterious host; somehow she managed to avoid clunking to the floor from the force of the genitally derived
thing
now jammed in her mouth. As well, she governed herself enough not to gag, as much as she felt inclined, for the object had not only invaded her mouth but also had pushed deep down her throat. The first impulse was to swallow it whole so not to choke...but if she did so, she’d never divulge the object’s exact nature. Instead, she trembled, affecting a “crab position,” and was able to circumvent what would surely have been a very loud hacking noise. She steeled herself, and slowly and concentratedly forced the bizarre intrusion back out of her throat and onto her bare belly.