THE CURE 9/ Her Mental Cyborg Brother

Off on a perving expedition. Back on Wed 18th Oct.
10th October 2017
THE CURE 10 / Immaculate Infection
25th November 2017
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THE CURE 9/ Her Mental Cyborg Brother

Her brother. You can see the resemblance. The mutilated boy is a younger male version of your circus freak capturer. Lanky and nervy where she’s powerfully build and fluidly lethal.

If he touches you again, you’ll try to probe his mind. See whether he shares her electro-magnetic mental gifts. You suspect he doesn’t. And there’s something chillingly vacant about his grin.

Little brother might be a weak link which you can work to your advantage. Provoke into doing something stupid.

‘Come from a long line of side-show weirdos, do you? What’s your nan’s stunt, a flaming ping pong show?’

The boy turns his metal gaze at you. His right eye narrows. No, it isn’t jade like his sister’s, but much paler, hospital green. But something flashes in the iris. A reflection, generated by his other eye socket, the one fitted with the miniature blowtorch. Is it a spark? You fancy you detect the stinking hiss of gas.

‘No Shawn!’ Snaps Blaze. She pounces, a lustrous blur. The full weight of her body lands, tensed, on your bound chest, and you steel yourself for another jolt of pain. What will it be? An electric charge twisting your nerve ends or those scalpel nails cutting you open?

Nothing happens.

Opening your eyes- you didn’t even realise that you shut them tightly in order to withstand the awaited punishment– you find your nose and mouth covered by warm rubber. Your head, the only part of your body restrained solely by a metal strap rather then sheathed in the straitjacket, is now entombed by Blazes crotch.

Judging from the fact you still have all your teeth and the chemical taste in your mouth, she’s no longer wearing the mock armour fire- breathing knickers and breastplate she sported at the fair.

Your dazzled eyes confirm that her strapping tights are now encased in semi transparent latex.

The foxy pubic fur and deep rouge folds of her labia lips are pressed and distorted by the tight shiny film, making her cunt appear raw and exposed, like the spilling guts of a fighting cock.

Blaze’s knees are pressing tightly around your temples. You start wiggling under her, as the oxygen supply to your brain is gradually cut off, when she lifts her cunt from your face for a split second, and the peacock tails tattooed on her ass are spread further by the moulding grip of rubber.

You exhale with confused relief at this show of consideration and the sight of her starfish ass-hole poking between the hard round cheeks. But when Blaze speaks to her brother, you realise she’s not paying you any attention what so ever. This isn’t for your benefit. Not quite.

‘Shawn, NO.‘ she says again, this time in a slow and reasonable voice. You think you can sense both genuine concern and a slight irritation. Like a Transport For Central station manager pacifying a would-be jumper during rush hour.

‘You can’t burn him. Not without hurting me. And you don’t want to hurt me, do you baby bro?’

The boy’s reply, when it comes, sounds oddly laboured and mechanical.

‘He slagged off our nan. Shift your arse. Please.‘ Blaze doesn’t move a muscle.

‘That’s very true. Fuse-Face did talk out of his hole. And we ARE going to make him sorry. Gonna make him wish he never opened his big gob.’ She emphasise this by squeezing your head between her tights, crashing your temples.

’But we spoke about this, didn’t we Shawn? No permanent damage to the head before the operation, or he’ll be useless.’

Shawn omits a grunt. He sounds like a an electric Moped having troubles revving up.

‘OK sis. You’re the boss. But I can slap him around a bit, can’t I?’

‘Oh, you can do better then that bro. Why don’t you teach this mutant some manners by fucking his filthy mouth?’

You can hear Shawn’s greedy intake of breath even through the thumping of your racing pulse and the latex swooshing and crackling in your ears.

‘Aye, I’d like that. Shove this lady boy’s nasty words right down his gullet.‘

Blazes removes her hot and pungent weight from your face. You gulp the musty air as she shimmies down to your chest, her rust and jade eyes meeting yours with something like amusement. You look away, unwilling to admit any bond between you, while seizing this opportunity to take in her currant incarnation.

One could define her getup as a boiler suite, matching Shawn’s grubby white uniform. But hers is sparkling clean, and made entirely of translucent latex.

Well, it’s more of a cat-suit, really, considering how snugly it clings to Blaze’s Amazonian form. But maybe the boiler suit impression is maintained due to the garment’s multiple zipped pockets. The standard pristine white the lab coat she’s wearing over it is it’s open, so when she reaches out to undo the two top white leather straps off your straitjacket, you catch a glimpse of her ruby nipple studs.

Blaze slides her hand, that astonishingly chip-free militarised extremity, under the worn cotton duck.

‘This straitjacket is proper vintage.’ She comments, conversationally, ‘I dug it out especially for you from the boxes we found in the the basement. I swear it’s at least 100 years old. Possibly mid-twentieth century. Not that practical, but I’m an old fashioned kinda lass. Like it?’

You try to shrug. This isn’t a simple feat when strapped into a straitjacket on an operation table with a homicidal vixen striding you. So you incline your head in a non committal gesture, as far as the aluminium band around it permits, just as her slithering fingers reach your chest.

The scalpel blades are still contracted under her nails, but when she twists your nipple, Blaze also discharge a low doze of electricity. You lurch, and your cock-cunt, already swollen and rather moist, is jolted into stiff attention.

You are focusing on Blaze, so caught unprepared when Shawn shoves his crotch into your face.

The fly of his filthy boiler suit is open. Evidently, this family does not believe in underwear.

You are assaulted by a overwhelming odours – rancid sweat, engine oil, mentholated spirits, gas, and something organically foetid, like festering flesh.

Shawn’s cock slaps your face like a bouncy toy truncheon. It’s not fully erect, but you can already see that this boy’s scraggy frame is no indication of the content of his tool kit. His semi- placid crooked salmon shaft is at least 8 inches long already. It’s not that thick, but the head…Shawn’s synthetic voice distracts you from trying to work out the strange markings on the bulbous end of it’s member.

‘Talking shite about our fam mutant? I’ll give you something else to put in your mouth.’

This is punctuated by swift action by Blaze, who reaches with her other hand and presses on your jaw joint, forcing your mouth open, as if you were a misbehaving pony.

Then the onion sized fuchsia head of Shawn’s cock, speckled with – and yes, your eyes aren’t deceiving you, gleaming brass freckles – forces itself into your mouth.

You have no time to wonder about the nature those raised pinheads before the the bent bony cock is starts fucking your face.

Blaze operates your mouth like a mannequin: open, close, grip.

Suck him, Mind Fucker! Work this cheeky tongue!’

You try to retain some remnants of dignity by feigning deafness. But Blaze zaps you a higher doze of electricity, and you hastily obey.

Blaze moves up your chest a little, closer to your face, and, as her brother ram’s his cock down your throat, humps her rubber groin against your chin, keeping your head immobile between her tights. Your mouth gapes open on it’s own accord as you watch the thick cunt juices gathering inside the latex catsuit. She no longer needs to hold your jaws open.

Shawn’s strokes are harder and deeper. Methodically merciless. He chuckles digitally as you gag on his hard cock.

‘Not such a smart arse now lady boy, are we? Just another of my big sister’s good little cock suckers, aren’t you?’

You taste pre-cum, and gag once more at the notion of this nasty brain damaged boy-drone shooting his vile load in your mouth, when Blaze’s hand grabs her demented brother’s prick.

No Shawn. Not yet. You know what happens when you come. We have to wait for the operation to start before we do that. ‘

Grudgingly, Shawn extracts his cock, now 11 inches long, from your battered throat.

Get him wired-up.’ Blaze commands, and shifts further up on your face.

Reluctantly, Shawn removes his flexing saliva smeared nightstick. He doesn’t tack it back in the spluttered boiler suit, but leaves it dangling, dripping menacingly under his tool belt.

Then he moves to the other end of the medical chair, and starts cluttering something. Once more you catch a whiff of antiseptic and diesel.

You try to crane your neck to ascertain what equipment he’s fiddling with, but your limited view suddenly fills with something far more engrossing.

Blaze has opened a strategically placed zip in her latex catsuit, and the mossy scent and sensation of the hot sap coating her inflamed lips are such a shock and a boon, that you automatically stretch your tongue to catch every drop of cunt juice.

She doesn’t stop you. You try to tell yourself that this is a cunning way to sneak past her defences, maybe send a jolt of electricity into her brain when she’s distracted by your energetic ministering. But the truth is, you just can’t help yourself. You are simply unable to do anything else at this moment then lay there under Blaze, trapped by her strong latex clad body more efficiently then by the leather straps, and send your tongue darting around her inner labia, your mouth sucking on those succulent outer lips, then your tongue again, flicking and lapping around her erect clit.

Blaze moans, a silky animal sound, as you flex and twist your tongue around in and out of her cunt hole, then lap the gushing serum, which start streaming over you like beguilingly pungent magma.

She’s still crushing your skull bones and fucking your face so hard that your tongue is nearly torn off when she speaks again, but you note with satisfaction that her voice sounds a little raspy, and quivers, however slightly.

‘I’m ready to start. More then ready, to be honest. Hot to trot.‘

Her manner is worlds apart from the condescending tone she employed with Shawn.

Who else is prowling this abandoned derelict institution? And what sort of person could command such coy respect from Blaze?

And then heavy steps pound the concrete floor again, and you remember that unaccounted for pair o work boots which entered with Blaze and Shawn and stopped, unseen, some distance behind you.

You still can’t see him, with your head strapped and Blaze straddling your face. But you can smell a hauntingly familiar blend of leather, musk, and aftershave.

His scent is a smouldering hole in your recollection. Your body throbs with the yearning to remember.