Slug Orgy
©2008, Made in DNA
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This short fiction is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are all drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Slug Orgy
It was the year I turned seventeen; late summer, sometime at the end of August. The night air under a moonlit sky had that heavy, intoxicating smell of festivals, high spirits and the onset of fall. Officially the obon season was finished and school activities had begun once again, yet there was a pervasive recklessness that would not allow itself to be contained—as if our ancestors were still drunk from all the sake offerings left at family alters and gravesides.
Being a weeknight, I was on my way home from cram school and still dressed in the powder blue and white summer version of my school’s sailor-style uniform. In a fit of youthful flirtatiousness and rebellion, I had rolled the waist of my skirt up into several folds so that the hem teased my slender, fair thighs and more than a few of the boys practicing baseball on the school fields earlier that day.
I walked through the dead of the business district to a large park where on the opposite side, I would catch a bus home. While the city was quiet, the interior of the park was still quieter. I often enjoyed my silent walks through it despite my mother's worry-wart warnings of perverts. It was true that there had been an incident or two every year, but volunteer patrols of older men in the neighborhood had reportedly brought incident numbers down. I was hardly concerned.
With plenty of time before my bus, I walked along one of the many whimsically-winding, narrow, concrete paths through the tree-laden park. Despite the heavy presence of their sprawling limbs, the moonlight through the branches was as bright as any of the scarce lamps along the path. It created a very stirring effect for lovers who did on occasion take advantage of it.
With the entrance to the park well behind me, streets and tall buildings around me obscured, I spied, some meters ahead, a shimmering stream of silver. It lay across the path—with a width almost that of the path itself—and disappeared into the tall grass hemming the trees on the other side.
Curious, I stepped closer to inspect it. Two steps, three. Nothing; I still could not make it out. The shimmering, which I could see now was an effect, distorted something almost intangible below. Four, five, six—I felt like a little girl playing hopscotch, my steps becoming great bounds. Until then... a great gust blew through the park forcing me to close tight my eyes and hold down the front of my skirt and blouse; a feat not easily accomplished.
When it had passed, I dusted myself off, stopped at the edge of the stream—the tips of my sneakers dipping into the waters—and squat down to examine it. Behind my fashion glasses, my eyes widened and an amazed gasp softly escaped my full lips: slugs! Hundreds, no, thousands! of slugs sliming their way across the park path. Where on earth had so many come from? And where were they all going? Were slugs migratory, and did they migrate in such numbers? I did not know and, honestly, I did not care... but I was fascinated none the less.
To say that I had never been a fan of any kind of creepy-crawly in my life was an understatement. By all normal accounts, I should have leapt up right then and there and screamed the girlish, scatterbrained, bloodcurdling epitaph any young woman had right to. But I did not. No. I wanted those slugs. Wanted? Yes... wanted.
Though I am positive as to what possessed me now, at the time, it was not even an inkling in my mind; I was simply quite satisfied to be engaged by the stream of slugs. So much that, in fact, I straddled it and reached out to touch the wriggling little creatures in their struggle to cross what must have been a vast expanse of cement lifelessness for them.
Their epidermis was transparent and thick with the slick excretion that enabled both their protection and mode of transportation. I did not see the silver-metal reflective touch that had drawn me to them initially. Rather, as I was now blocking the light of the moon above, I could see within them bizarre skeins of red, blue, green. I held my breath in excited-fear, as if the sound of my breathing my frighten them away. I was completely entranced.
As they wriggled under my poised fingertips, they gave off a great warmth!—a bath warmth, or the heat of a lover's skin after sex. Delightful! I swept my hand over them again and again each time with a desperate desire to feel more of them with more of my own flesh.
Pressing my hands down upon them flat to the cement, a shudder ran through my spine as they squished and popped under my weight. I grabbed a handful and the goo ejected from between my long fingers like dollops of gel. Undeterred, more slugs took the place of their mashed comrades as the silver river continued its mad race to places unknown.
Under me, despite the loss of direct moonlight, their glow returned and strengthened a hundred fold until they illuminated all, from the sweet flesh of my thighs up to the curves of my vulva—which had become swollen and now threatened to burst from the light cotton panties I wore. The heated curves of the entrance to my pussy begged to be free, their outline clear in the silvery glow.
Slamming my hands down again, I squashed more and more slugs, pounding against the ground like a petulant child who knows she cannot have her way. In response, the illumination intensified and a heat rose up out of them.
My head began to spin as the heat consumed me. Yet though I felt faint, my balance was rock-steady. I closed my eyes and raised my head slightly to soak it in. The heat rippled up my legs to my thighs and finally to my pussy where it redoubled. Sexually agitated, I fell back onto my firm ass splattering more slugs, staining and wetting my buttocks in a creamy flow. I wriggled my ass in quick, short bursts that made me laugh.
When I could stand it no longer, I reached down with my slime-drenched hand to masturbate myself to oblivion when I discovered the truth of the intense heat and pleasure. The slugs had made their way up the whole of my lower body; wriggling and sliming over me as if I were part of the natural course of their former path.
My hand plunged into my school bag and pulled out a pair of scissors. I slashed my panties, shredding them along with several more slugs which popped over my hands and face. The slugs had completely engulfed my pussy and were working a magic that was indescribably orgasmic. Instead of aiding them, instinct tossed my hands and head back to enjoy their lecherous intentions.
My breathing increased until it was a frenzied panic on the edge of destroying my sanity when the visage of a silvery outline the size of a very large dog began to take form in the trees in front of me. My very breath strengthened its form with each desperate pant until it was as solid as the oaks behind it.
The slugs had teased my engorged, pink clitoris to an insensitive level from which there was neither relief of orgasm or anticlimax of falter. Quite literally my hips and abdomen quivered in a permanently agitated state. Could I have extracted it myself, I do not know that I would, as I would have happily spent eternity in pre-orgasm limbo.
But my fate was not to be such as the form slithered out of the darkness and over the river of its children, revealed as the god of slugs. This knowledge came to me via the orgasmic rhythm channeling through my body, which connected me to a non-space beyond dimension, a realm of gods and devils, ghosts, goblins and saviors. By straddling the river, I had crossed a boundary that humans are not allowed to do so without consequence. Such were the things that the slug-god whispered in my mind along with sweet desires, ideas and understandings.
I resisted not as it slimed up my body, its weight heavy, yet not impeding or unpleasant. It was a weight that spoke of ability and intension. I blushed with the recognition of our intertwined desires.