14. januára 2006 17:55:39 CET
It was his turn to be the flinker.
He had been dreading it for months, although he knew perfectly well that it was inevitable. He also knew that it was likely to be worse than the last time, for now that there were fewer available males there would be more women at the scortium.
He dragged his feet as he walked, although he knew that to be late would be unthinkable. Even so, he was still reluctant and was wondering if there was any way that he could avoid it.
He was met at the door by two of them, and instructed to disrobe. Miserably he left his clothes in a pile and entered the benglion.
As he expected, there were more of them than ever. At least, he told himself, the majority of them were vixlings. That would make it easier for him to keep the slambold that would be demanded once the smuntering was over. Failure would result in an unthinkable punishment unless the scortium took pity on him.
There were a fair number of matogles and nagolds too. It made little difference how many there were of each. The energy of the vixlings always seemed inexhaustible and although the matogles and nagolds might be less energetic, their requirements were always quite as demanding.
All of them turned to look at him as he walked in. Some of them rose from their comfortable chairs to see him more clearly.
He heard a voice, “Not very pleased to see us, is he?” A ripple of unpleasant laughter went round the benglion, setting the tone for the session. This was not a scortium likely to take pity, whatever hardship he suffered during the smuntering.
A vixling asked “What first?” Clearly it was the first time for her. He heard a matogle reply in a low voice, but he could not catch her words. He did not need to hear them. He had heard them a hundred times.
Four of them advanced on him. Two took hold of his arms while the other two stood in front and behind him. Why they bothered with the ritual was always a mystery to him. He knew where he needed to go and what he needed to do. It was not necessary for them to force him. He knew, as every flinker knew, that no amount of resistance could avoid the inevitable. He had done it many times before, and would continue to do it until, one day, at one of these sessions… he shuddered and put the thought out of his mind.
He heard a nagold giving instructions. “Harlia, watcher. He is not to lose consciousness. Jilnira and Manglia, lifters – just in case. Make sure you listen carefully to Harlia’s instructions. Granchen, scramper. If Harlia instructs you, and ONLY if Harlia instructs you then make him scream once and then stop. Are we all ready?”
There was a question from the back of the room.
“Ah yes,” said the nagold. “Time limit.”
There was complete silence in the room.
“I think,” said the nagold slowly, “That on this occasion there will be no time limit.”
There was a gasp, an excited gasp from all of them.
“We have waited some time for this,” continued the nagold, “And I do not intend to rush it. If we are here for days, or for weeks, then so be it. Let it commence.”
No time limit! Surely, with so many of them, they could not possibly do that to him? Surely he would not survive it?
He had no more time to think about it. He was, as he knew he would be, pulled down onto his back on a wide padded table in the centre of the benglion. His ankles were buckled into place, and then his wrists too were securely attached with the buckles that would hold him inescapably to the table and prevent him from moving too much until the scortium was over. Granchen grabbed his gelkins and squeezed painfully in demonstration and to test how much pressure would be needed to make him scream. She recited the rules: “Teeth, and you scream. Lack of effort, and you scream. Any attempt at avoidance and you scream. Make the required effort and all will be well.”
The first, a vixling, was already clambering eagerly onto the table. Kneeling with her legs either side of his head, she raised her short skirt and lowered herself gently onto him. Obediently he started to kiss and lick, well aware that Harlia was watching closely and ready to give Granchen instructions if he failed to perform in any way.
“Don’t rush it,” advised a nagold who was standing close to the table. “You’ve got all the time in the world to enjoy it, so make the most of it.”
The vixling pressed down onto him, smothering him completely for a few seconds but for no longer than that, this time. He knew, as she did, that Harlia’s job was to watch for that too. He knew that Jilnira and Manglia would lift the vixling immediately on her command if he started to lose consciousness – but he also knew that it would only be momentary, for just long enough to allow him to regain consciousness properly. As soon as the watcher judged he was in no immediate danger, it would continue. He knew too that feigning unconsciousness simply was not worth the risk. Granchen held him tightly, ready to squeeze at Harlia’s command.
The vixling started a slow back and forth motion on him. Slowly. Very slowly. She had taken the nagold’s advice not to rush. It was not going to be quick.
There were at least fifty of them in that room...
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