Svanhild was done talking, which was fine by Steel, though he was struck by how she got into purring and groaning and grunting, sighing and gasping. It was as if she was euphoric to be rid of all language and to express herself as some mere cavewoman, perhaps of over 60,000 years ago as she had just been saying.
Somehow that awakened Steel like nothing else. Here he had done the sensible thing, first seeing his personal care physician. He in turn had recommended a urologist, and that man in turn had recommended the Luckey Institute. If Svanhild was making any kind of sense at all, then they had unwittingly betrayed Steel to a conspiracy of women -- a conspiracy so secret that even womankind itself was never aware of it. It was a conspiracy that sprang into action, after lying in wait for thousands of years, the minute Steel innocently entrusted himself to the care of health professionals who just happened to be female.
He was tired of it, tired of the pretense of science being used as the excuse to make him a prisoner purely for sex. He thought of how he had fucked Siobhan out of spite, how magnificent and therapeutic it had felt to fuck all hell out of Dr. Luckey, if only to be able to search her office -- and now, as he had this Svanhild, as he held her pelvis close to his and then explored her large firm breasts, he wanted to fuck. He specifically wanted to fuck his way to freedom -- but he was ready to fuck to do it. At last, Steel embraced his situation. He would fuck a battalion of women if he had to, one by one by one, over and over, if he could only fuck his way out of there.
So, as Svanhild twisted and bucked and yowled, Steel thrusted and roared and growled. His subhuman noises, far from threatening Svanhild, made her grip him with her hands and arms and wrapped-around legs all the harder, and as they went on grunting, the six other women looked on and took up the grunting in a bizarre primal chorus, grunting not to mock the lovers -- no, not the lovers, hardly the lovers, the FUCKERS -- not to mock the fuckers but to convey their intense envy of Svanhild. Svanhild climaxed magnificently, but Steel didn't care. He cared about something beyond pleasure. He wanted to destroy. Hadn't Svanhild just claimed that every woman secretly wanted her mind, her identity, her very sense of self annihilated by some ultimate act of fucking? Then he would deliver that annihilation -- if only he could get the hell out.
The trouble being, as he went on destroying Svanhild, mercilessly driving her through climax after thrashing climax, he no longer felt any of the old detachment. He simply felt much too good, much too into it, and as Svanhild kept grunting and screaming and the six women kept on grunting and moaning in reply, Steel at last knew satisfaction. The sperm pulsed out of him, and he roared with caveman triumph, and he drove and drove and pulsed and pulsed -- until at last he realized just how incredible it had felt, shattering his vision into thousands of little sparkling stars of all colors as his eyes crossed. And so, having no brought seven women into rendezvous with unconsciousness, it was now at last time for his own. |