Nymphomaniac

Paraphilia Jones stared in massive approval at what to all appearances was an enormous reticulated python growing in the crotch of the passenger seated across from her in the morning express train. She could feel her own wetness as her juices spilled over the plastic seat. She ground her crotch against the rock-like wonders of modern polymer science.

She lowered her shoulders to give her admirer a better view of her casabas, which threatened to burst free from the puny containment of her titanium pushup bra at any moment. She bent over to retrieve the pencil she had so conveniently dropped on the floor just moments before, affording her horny traveling companion a clear view of her outsize dark areolas. She watched his anaconda grow even larger as she spread her legs beneath her miniskirt and presented her vertical eye of approval to his hungry, hungry snake. Her fluids poured out of her as she saw a damp spot of precum growing on his pants, surpassing even that of most untimely released bladders.

Her cunt ached for him, and she could contain its fire no longer. She crawled to him on her hands and knees. She reached out and slid her hands up and down his muscular thighs. She then grabbed his balls, savagely crushing them and releasing them in time with his panting breath.

The fire and need grew cruelly within her now. How long at it been since she last found release from the emptiness that haunted her? Gotta be almost six hours now. If she went any longer, she risked death, as all did all of her kind if deprived of the precious jizz of a human male animal for any length of time.

She grabbed his Midgard Serpent with her right hand, unable to close over it because of its mighty girth. With her left, she began to unzip his fly even as she continued to pump his mighty shaft through his pants with her right hand. Finally, she managed to spring his sequoia free.

The old lady sitting to the right of the well-endowed fellow commuter exclaimed, "Well, I never!"

Paraphilia used her telepathic skills to retort, "While that's right, Prudence. If you had ever, Mikey would still be with you instead of with that crack ho down in New Orleans."

Have I mentioned that the few successful attempts to genetically engineer a race of obligatory nymphomaniacs that would spread across the globe via retroviruses inevitably had the side effect of conferring psychic powers on what have become known as licensed nymphomaniacs? They can read your mind and enter your dreams, even take you to hell or heaven depending on your personal preferences, as determined by your score on the Stanford Nymphomaniac Susceptibility Inventory. They could even get you a selfie with God herself, if you were into that sort of thing and the Fuhrer was not available.

Another repressed passenger shouted "Right on, sister! Throw the perv from the train."

A small chant grew up, "Throw her off, throw her off..." All that was lacking were the axes, pitchforks and torches.

That's when Paraphilia pulled out her badge and held it up to the incensed mob.

"Paraphilia Jones." she shouted. "Licensed nymphomaniac."

That quieted the house, at least for now, as she swung her badge through a 360-degrees revolution so that all and sundry could see her credentials. The crowd grew somber. One defiant voice rose from the peanut gallery. "Hey, don't paraphilia mean sexual perversion? Did yo' mama name you that?"

A small smile crept over Paraphilia's soon-to-be-well-exercised mouth at the depth of this yokel's knowledge of Greek etymology, despite his apparent lack of access to proper dental care. "Don't you be talking about my mama!" she warned the outspoken imbecile. "She raised me to perform any sexual act with dignity and consummate skill. At least as much dignity as possible with a salami shoved up my ass, a golden shower streaming from my pee-pee and a cock filling my esophagus.

"Do any of you buffoons have problem with that?"

The unruly mob grew suddenly quiet. It was a Federal crime to interfere in a sexual act involving a licensed nymphomaniac. Licensed nymphomaniacs were genetically modified so that they had to chug down or otherwise ingest at least a quarter liter of jizz, groin gravy, man chowder, white gold, sploodge, boynnaise, poone plankton, or the spermatic euphemism of your choice every six hours. If they were unsuccessful in their quests, they would die. That's right, flat-out die. Furthermore, the jizz had to be hot and fresh from the groin. No cold packs. No bonk-juice-flavored granola bars, no spermato-crisps.

Thus, any attempt to thwart a licensed nymphomaniac in the initiation or completion of a sexual act could be construed as attempted murder. Also, licensed nymphomaniacs had received endangered species protection from the Department of Natural Resources and Poontang Conservation back in 2072.

The genetic engineering described above was carried out under the mandate of the Men's Liberation Act of 2061. Unfortunately for men everywhere, this genetic engineering was only successful in 2% to 3% of the women undergoing the procedure, and worse, the other 97% to 98% of the women became harpies, shrews, frigid, cockteasers and all-around bitches. In other words, the operation was a total SNAFU, to use the jargon of GIs everywhere. However, these sexually deficient cockteasers still attracted males in droves, but frustrated and nagged the living shit out of them. Let no good deed go unpunished. The commuter train was filled with horny, depressed, lonely men and tsk-tsking prudes, as were all the other cars on the morning B train.

But along had come Jones. deep-plunging Jones, sashaying Jones, hip-swaying Jones, wide-open lean and lanky Jones, to immediately solve the horniness problems of the owner of the aforementioned 14-inch schwantz, whose holy scepter she had freed from his Levis. It now pointed at the ceiling like the steeple of a church that had extracted every last dime from its impoverished flock.

Paraphilia slapped the offending organ, setting it in motion like a hypertrophied metronome at a child's piano recital. The attention of entire train was now focused on the swaying tempo enforcer. Paraphilia moved her head back and forth in an attempt to ingest the moving target in the same way a teased kitten might try to capture a moving sock dangled before it.

Finally she caught it and downed it into her welcoming throat, her years of sword-swallowing practice paying off mightily as she managed to plunge a full foot of his kielbasa well past the little speed bag of her uvula at the back of her throat. As she looked around the train and saw the natives getting restless once more.

One of the yokels cried out, "Throw the bitch off!"

The rest of the assembled goons picked up the chant: "Throw her off! throw her off!," predictably changing it to the Trumpesque cadence of "Lock her up! Lock her up!" As if acting with one mind, all the passengers on the train who were not in the process of sucking Goliath's tallywhacker rushed Paraphilia to take her prisoner. They were immediately blown back by the psychokinetic force field that Paraphilia. sent out.

"Mall ob du a swipes goff defrain. Mow," Paraphilia said.

"We can't understand you," said a sallow-faced hausfrau.

"You shouldn't talk with your mouth full," another daily commuter observed.

Paraphilia pulled her head off the big guy's tonsil-tickler, and enunciated her prior remarks more clearly. I said, "All of you asswipes - Get off the train. Now."

A pimply-faced ass-wipe raised his hand.

Paraphilia looked him up and down like a robin assessing the nutritional vale of a worm. "I wasn't planning on a Q&A session while I'm trying to suck this guy off, but OK, what is it?"

"Wh-what if some of us d-don't want to get off the train? What if we want to get sucked too? Aren't you required by law to perform any sexual act we ask you to?"

"Well, you got me there," Paraphilia admitted. "I guess you all might as well form a line. Thank god for the Nymphomaniac Vaccination Act of 2075. Some of you lads look a little sketchy to me, especially that guy four seats down whose nose just fell off. But just so you know, I've got be somewhere in a couple of hours. But first, I've got to extract a liter of giant cum from this behemoth here. The Hunger is very strong in me now, and I could die if I don't feed immediately.

"Can someone fluff this guy for me? I'm going to need more than 14 inches to quench this thirst, although this guy's balls are big as softballs, so maybe not."

Long ago the Progenitors had inserted snake genes in the forebears of licensed nymphomaniacs. To accomplish this, they used the CRISPR/Cas9 gene-splicing technique that had been all the rage in the Lost Pre-World, the world before Coyote emerged from the Underworld and rode the B train into Central Park.

Meanwhile, back at the present commuter train, Paraphilia Jones instinctively dislocated her jaw in order to engulf the giant's proffered Cyclops, just like a python downing a pig or even a whole man in one swallow.

"Oundme upm down god siilla." she said.

One of the assembled cretins called out to her. "We can't understand you, Holy Whore -Mother, when you talk with your mouth full."

Paraphilia obligingly pulled her mouth from her temporary lover's swollen trouser meat once again. "I said, 'grab my head and pound it up and down on the guy's Godzilla thumper," she told the assembled congregation, who were awaiting their own turn to pork the Blessed Eucharist. All in good time.

Two eager volunteers grabbed the sides of Paraphilia's head. A third palmed her skull like a bowling ball and then stuck his giant thumb a la Little Jack Horner into her Paraphilia's blessed fontanel (the neonatal soft spot at the back of her skull, which usually closes up in normal humans well before Paraphilia's current age of 29). Or was she 230? She can never remember. However Paraphilia's skull cunt was mercifully still open thanks to the retractors she had been forced to wear as a licensed nymphomania cadet until the plates of her skull became locked in their upright and target positions.

She sure as hell didn't want these assembled cretins pulling out a magna power drill and then re-trepanning her skull and brain any time soon. The assembled posse didn't look like professional carpenters, although their delightful ass cracks teasingly appeared from time to time as they bent down to retrieve various ominous power tools from their satchels. But this only made her wetter, her juices now flooding the trolley floor.

Suddenly, leather straps on the floor of the train car seemed to materialize out of nowhere. The assembled lynch mob wasted little time in dragging Paraphilia off the trolley bench, stripping her completely, and strapping her to the trolley floor in the locked and doggy-style position.

Perhaps inspired by the residual depression in Paraphilia's scalp over her well-maintained fontanel, the guy directly in front of her began to fantasize about brain-fucking her. Of course. our intrepid heroine was telepathically aware of every sordid detail of her prospective cerebrum-boffer's depraved fantasies. In fact, Paraphila's own fantasies were far more extreme, more revolting, and more depraved than anything her would-be cerebrum-schtupper could ever dream up by himself without access to Paraphilia's encyclopedic extensive cache of sick and depraved fantasies, impulses and memories. Her approach to all things erotic might be best described as extreme prolonged voluntary masochism combined with extreme submissive pleasure, often involving both the direct raping of her cerebral cortex and deep invasive foreplay involving multiple cocks sliding through the soft convolutions of her brain before shooting their wads directly into the warm fluid of her ventricular cavities. Fortunately, the guy holding her skull like a drilled bowling ball was also furiously fantasizing about brain-fucking her like there was no tomorrow. These fantasies were not entirely his own of course; most of them were telepathically encouraged or entirely planted by his soon-to-be-fucked licensed nymphomaniac paramour.

Paraphilia felt a distinct "pop" as Little Jack Horny withdrew his thumb from her soft fontanel and the warmth of her brain. She saw bright lights and felt a deep sexual frisson and a growing emptiness as this lovely invasion of her physical mind was so cruelly terminated. She tried to clutch Jack's balls with her phantom limbs, but to no avail.

Finally she resorted to her physical arms, which now seemed to be mysteriously unbound by the leather straps that had so strangely appeared on the floor of the subway out of nowhere only minutes before.

But not to worry, our not-so-little Little Jack hauled his cock back and then buried it up to the hilt in the sensuous mushy warmth of Paraphilia's gray matter. He retreated and rammed her again, his shaft's helmet now buried in Paraphilia's limbic system, the center of her animal passions and the source of all pleasure. Her right foot rose like that of an itchy beagle and scratched her ear over and over again.

She began to circle to Jack Horner's right in an attempt to gain purchase on his leg so that she could dry-hump it, but to no avail. Horner countered by driving the tip of his hooded cyclops straight into Paraphilia's left brain centers governing language and analytic thought.

Suddenly, she felt the absolute joy that knows no bounds, as experienced by right hemispheric stroke victims everywhere. She began to drool in non-cognitive delight.

She was now one with the universe, one with all universes in the multiverse, and most particularly with her thumb-thrusting savoir. She tried to communicate these feelings to her partner and to her fellow travelers on the B line. Although she thought she had clearly enunciated her feelings, all that came out of her mouth was "Go, go daddy umph, fuh me tru me eye socket , Oh yeah baby, oh yeah, the kindness of strangers. Ah do declare, you can be on mah dance card fo'evah, kind suh." Suddenly she understood the etiology of Jamaican etymology. They were all aphasiac from smoking too much weed (or possibly from being skull-fucked by one too many Rastafarians).

The unholy trio seized Paraphilia's head from all sides and began to ram it up and down on the mega-goon's Brobdingnagian shaft, driving it well down her esophagus. It was more pain than pleasure, but then again Paraphilia Jones often relished pain far more than pleasure. One must be a connoisseur to fully appreciate the sexual arts.

She closed her cheeks around his meat, feeling it tremble as she swallowed and sucked him with all her might. His shaft grew even larger, and its owner gasped as she closed her lips tightly around his kong dong, as the three faithful volunteers pounded Paraphilia's head violently up and down on his redwood. She tasted his sweat and felt the violent shaking of his limbs as he struggled to delay his orgasm. He must think she was a spider woman, one of the those obligatory nymphomaniacs who paralyzed their mates right after they came and then devoured their bodies, often with a side order of fava beans.

Her sweet giant could not contain himself any longer, and he came like a high-pressure fire hose, shooting Paraphilia's head a good foot into the air. Her small army shoved her head back down on his shrinking rod, and she eagerly licked down every drop of hot colossus cum that she could find.

"I need him inside me," our intrepid licensed nymphomaniac shouted at the unruly crowd. "Now!"

The largest of the trio of nympho-attendants duly lifted our heroine's desperately sucking head off of the giant's mighty root. Said root came free of Paraphilia's mouth and desperately searching tongue with a mighty smack.

"OK boys, now I want you to impale me upon his World Trade Center. I want you to do this with extreme prejudice and without mercy. Can a ho' get a fluffer over here?"

"OK boss. What if his pile driver goes deep enough to come out of your mouth?"

"We'll cross that suspension bridge when we come to it." Paraphilia told her imbecilic associate. "In that case, I may have to administer an inverse fellatio on him from inside his body cavity. Don't worry. Things will turn out OK. They always do."

Paraphilia leapt into a ballet split unattainable by those who don't own tutus, landing on the floor of the train. Six riders who luckily happened to wearing swan costumes gently lifted our licensed nymphomaniac heroine, carefully maintaining her split. Seven other passengers grabbed the acromegalic giant, sat him down, stripped him and tied him to one of the poles. She looked at his cock. Up to 15 inches and throbbing now, in eager anticipation of the coming festivities.

They spread Paraphilia's nether lips until they attained the diameter of the mega-shlong that was the current apple of her eye. They pulled apart the lips of her hood and stretched them so that they encompassed the entire one-eyed helmet that was the center of the giant's being. They pushed on her thighs so that that she was impaled up to four inches on the acromegalic's jackhammer. She felt herself being spread apart as his pole began to push rhythmically inside her. Surely, she was going to be torn apart by the object of her current affection. Fortunately her training as a licensed nymphomaniac included artificial impregnation with two 30-pound Siamese twins. conjoined at the head, the idea being that if she could pass that baby(-ies?), she could accommodate anything. Needless to say, this happened before the Great Stem-Cell Shortage of 2076.

Paraphilia began to bounce up and down on her new love's light saber. Soon she had least three feet of him inside her. Where did those extra 9 inches come from? She began to enter the throes of ecstasy, sending wave after wave of contractions down his cock, milking it of all four gallons of jizz in his quivering testicles. She felt something tear inside her, and soon the monster's cock was battering its way right past her lungs, up through her trachea and out of her mouth. Thank God the genetic engineers had programmed several orifices in the diaphragm of each and every licensed nymphomaniac to accommodate such deep penetration in the soon-to-be-performed sacred act of internal fellatio.

The crowd grew silent and fell to its knees in awe as Paraphilia's new boyfriend's trouser snake emerged from her mouth. She clamped her lips on its hood, sliding them up and down his shaft in time with the big guy's thrusts along her tongue . As he rose higher in ecstasy, she began to take each of his grotesquely swollen balls into her mouth, sucking them hard and painfully un till he could take no more. The single eye of his meat torpedo exploded in a torrent of white sticky rain that shot up to the ceiling and then dripped down on the assembled parishioners. Many of then lapped the sticky goo from the floor and from each other's skin, as if they too could share the sublime powers of a licensed nymphomaniac if they only drank enough love juice.

"OK guys, I've got something new to show you," Paraphilia informed the horny assemblage. "Somebody get the little flashlight out of my purse.

"OK, now shine it on me, motherfucker, and I will give you all the rides of your hitherto pathetic little lives."

The flash-light-retrieving yokel flipped the switch on the penlight and shined it on our nymphomaniacal heroine. Paraphilia's skin began to glow with a fluorescent green, the manifestation of a firefly reporter gene named luciferase that had been inserted into her genome in utero. The assembled commuters had their mouths agape as three orifices emerged on each side of the licensed nymphomaniac's glowing body, each one suitable for fucking. Six eager volunteers charged at her and buried their joysticks deeply within Paraphilia. She cried out in ecstasy at this sextuple violation of her body. Fluids poured out of all six of her luciferase-controlled neo-cunts, as the men began to rock and pummel her in earnest. The ecstasy was easily six times that of a solo encounter. Just when Paraphilia felt she could get no higher, somebody plowed his nine-incher right down her throat. She caught the intruder's shaft and began to slide her lips up and down its length with deep enthusiasm. She cried out as somebody unexpectedly cornholed her from behind, always the greatest and deepest violation (except for those described above, of course). As might be expected, she eagerly submitted to her new anal master.