The Flinker
by Susan Strict
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2006 Susan Strict
Published by Strict Publishing International
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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...
The Council was worried.
Although the nagolds dismissed the problem as a normal population cycle, the matogles were less sure.
There was, without a doubt, a serious shortage of flinkers for the scortiums. Recent reports indicated that many of those listed as available had either disappeared or had proved to be so badly damaged as to be unusable when they appeared at a scortium.
Some of the Council members placed the blame squarely on the Council itself, and their failure to pass the legislation banning vixlings from being scrampers at a scortium. After all, it was hardly reasonable to expect the young to have the experience to know a flinker’s threshold between pain and real damage, and perhaps a similar ban on vixlings being used as watchers would also have saved more than one flinker from total suffocation.
The nagolds muttered and, in fact, argued vehemently that it would be a betrayal of tradition to pass any laws giving the flinkers additional protection and, more importantly, to restrict the vixlings would inevitably have far-reaching consequences.
The matogles suspected there was more to it, and that with the ageing population there was also a change in the needs and activities of many of its citizens. They kept their opinions to themselves, knowing the potential dangers in upsetting the nagolds, but privately they had a shrewd suspicion that the damage and loss of flinkers was as much to do with over-enthusiastic nagolds, whose needs took far longer to satisfy, than with inexperienced vixlings. There was a time, they said amongst themselves, when a nagold’s role at a scortium was little more than supervisory, but these days every nagold seemed to expect to be taking an active part in the proceedings. If indeed the watchers and even the lifters were vixlings, they could hardly be expected to have the confidence to argue with a nagold, or to stop a nagold’s smuntering when she was nearing grasmic, even if the flinker did suffocate.
The Council laid these problems squarely on Shardine’s shoulders. “Go and research,” they told her. “Attend a few scortiums, take part in them, and report back to us. You have seven days.”
It was with this brief that Shardine entered the benglion where the fifty vixlings, matogles and nagolds had gathered for the scortium. She was in time to see the first vixling just about to lower herself onto the flinker as he lay restrained, and to note the rigid slambold with a matogle grasping his gelkins. She prepared her papers, ready to take notes. This might be an interesting assignment, but Shardine wondered how her report to the Council could be worded without upsetting one group or another. In the meantime, she was obliged to observe and take part in as many scortiums as she could. That, at least, would be an interesting experience.
When Shardine looked up again, the first vixling was finishing. Already the flinker looked a little the worse for wear, and Shardine wondered how many times the lifters had had to remove the vixling from his face to prevent her doing real damage. He looked bruised, and she looked exhausted. Shardine guessed that, as with many of the vixlings, she had been a little over-enthusiastic with her smuntering although she was small enough for the lifters to have handled her easily and unlikely to have caused the sort of problems Shardine suspected were happening with many of the nagolds.
Shardine found a seat near the back, but where she could clearly see everything that was happening. With luck, she herself would have the opportunity to smunter the flinker, even though there were many ahead of her in the queue. She had not, of course, heard the nagold’s earlier declaration that there was to be no time limit.
The second smunterer was a matogle of around Shardine’s own age. Experienced and efficient, the matogle wasted no time. She swung one leg over the flinker’s face before settling herself comfortably onto him. Shardine saw the flinker’s slambold twitch in response as the warm, resilient flesh covered him. She heard the happy sigh of the matogle when the flinker started working at her with his lips and his tongue, mindful that the scramper was ready if the watcher suspected he was failing to make the required effort.
The matogle shuddered and started to rock backward and forward. The watcher crouched down and peered as closely as she could under the matogle. She seemed unsure as to whether the flinker was able to breathe at any point of the matogle’s movement that looked as though it was set to carry on right up to her grasmic. Evidently the watcher decided there was enough air for the flinker, although from where Shardine sat she could see no sign that the flinker’s nose or mouth ever appeared from underneath the sleek flesh of the matogle.
It took only a few minutes. The speed of the matogle’s movements increased, and her faint moans rose in volume to a crescendo of screaming motion. Her body convulsed, her legs gripping the flinker’s head in the uncontrollable rush of her climax, pressing down onto him with the full weight of her body and the full force of her honed muscles.
When she finally relaxed and the lifters helped her from him, the flinkers gasp and intake of breath was audible throughout the benglion. A few of the vixlings applauded the matogle as she staggered away helped by two of her friends, and there was a general ripple of approval. That was how it should be done. Shardine agreed. It was perfect. Damage to the flinker was minimal; the matogle was completely satisfied. The whole business had taken less than ten minutes. Perhaps, Shardine thought, some of the vixlings could learn by what they had just seen. She resisted the temptation to approach the matogle and see if she could persuade her to be involved in education classes for the vixlings. Right now she needed to stay as anonymous as possible, for she was sure the scortium would become nervous and unnatural if they knew they had a Council representative watching and reporting.
When Shardine looked back towards the centre of the room she was shocked to see that a vixling was already kneeling over the flinker and lowering herself onto him. Five minutes, thought Shardine. You always give the flinker five minutes between smunterings. Anything less and he may not survive, particularly with as many as there were here.
The vixling had settled herself on him and was sitting upright without moving. Several other vixlings were craning the necks to seem what was happening. The vixling had her eyes closed, but Shardine could see from the slight movement of the flinker’s slambold that the vixling was flexing her strong, young muscles on him. The watcher was peering forward too and talking quietly to the lifters, perhaps asking their opinion.