Interlude: A Simple Request to Read Erotica Until Every Empty Pussy Cums
Now that the men of the village could use the local pussy-sluts without a single restriction, it seemed inevitable that our guild's work would dry up. There was a time when that anxiety spread through every female slave in the guild.
Of course, a female slave's proper duty is to become an organic masturbation sleeve that men can use at their convenience—and, through that, to grant those men peace of mind and happiness. If they could simply take care of their lust with the pussies close at hand, a female slave ought to rejoice at it, as befits her station.
But we female slaves are rotten to the core, filthy and jealous besides. Just imagining our share of cock shrinking is enough to set our insides on fire. We are animals who cannot help ourselves. Feeling anxious was only natural.
To cut to the chase: our guild's work never decreased. If anything, it grew. Freed from worrying about what anyone else might think, the men started summoning the guild's female slaves even more freely than before.
It makes sense, if you think about it. Compared to females, for whom happiness is nothing more than a cock stuffed into a pussy, a man's lust is far more artistic, far more creative. Why would men like that stay chained to the same village holes? Of course they would put our guild's pussies to more active use and enjoy themselves properly.
Sometimes a man would hire one of us as a live-in tutor, complaining that the lady of the house was in no fit state. Sometimes they called us over because they wanted to try feeling several pussies at once. And quite often they summoned us to restore discipline when the pussy at home was getting too full of herself.
And that was not all. The sluts whose holes sat empty while the men were busy using someone else would come to us as well—to soothe their loneliness, or for a little self-improvement.
Unlike our naive terror that once one demand was satisfied the producers would simply wither and die, this world was running on a virtuous cycle. And I am proud to say that I, Camille, am doing my part in that cycle again today.
Shaimin.
Once, that was the name of an ancient religion that had vanished from the face of the earth. But now Shaimin has torn through the long darkness of oblivion and succeeded in reclaiming a new form.
"Mm, the current name really is so much cooler than the old one!"
I have already forgotten whatever this village used to be called. It was probably some forgettable, nothing name anyway. They say a name reflects the essence of a thing, do they not? It may be nothing but a small village now, but I have no doubt that one day the name Shaimin will spread across the entire empire.
"Oh my, you're with the guild, aren't you? You work so hard~"
"Yes, thank you~ You too, ma'am~"
There was a time when simply stepping into Shaimin made me painfully self-conscious. I always wrapped myself in a thick cloak to hide as much skin as possible, and making small talk with the villagers was a dream I did not even dare to have. These days, though, the people of Shaimin treat us like a second set of neighbors, and they are warm about it.
I do not know the name of the woman I just traded greetings with. Even so, we have reached the point where we can smile and say hello. Watching the semen drip from her asshole, I cheered her on in my heart. May that pussy and that ass of yours keep on delighting the men's cocks—plenty, plen~ty of them—for a long time yet.
I would love nothing more than to serve the men with my own pussy the way she does, but today's assignment is not that sort of work, so I will have to restrain myself a little.
"Hello~ Sorry to keep you waiting!"
The moment I opened the door to the village hall, a rank stench of cunt came rolling out in waves. They had not been able to wait for me, and had clearly been buried in their own filthy holes. A model attitude, for a pussy-slut.
"Ah, there you are, Miss Camille. We got so tired of waiting we started jerking off. What took you so long?"
Tiribel—the slut who had been greedily fingering both her holes—was the first to spot me, and she clicked her tongue in complaint. I did not so much as flinch.
"Ehehe, I don't think I'm actually late… And late or early, you were going to try plugging that cockless ache with your fingers anyway. Once you started going at it, I bet I wasn't even on your mind, was I?"
"Ufufufufufu! Well, that's true♥"
In the old days a jab like that would have left me stammering, unable to get a single word out. Now that I have grown close with the village pussies, the banter comes naturally. Before I joined the guild I was hopeless with people. I lived buried in books, and hunting for something as ordinary as a shared topic of conversation was as tangled as unpicking a ball of yarn a cat had destroyed.
It is different now. I have learned that pussy-sluts can become one around a single shared obsession: serving cock. Even when there is no cock in the room, cock is still what binds pussy-sluts together in the end.
"All right, everybody, listen up! Miss Camille is here, so pair up and slow the tempo a little!"
Tiribel shouted at the women who still had not noticed my arrival and were putting their backs into it. She had told them to ease off—not to stop—and that alone proved how well she understood the nature of her village's pussies. Why on earth would they halt their masturbation just because another pussy-slut had walked in? Slowing down a notch and collecting themselves was already doing more than enough.
"Ah, it's Miss Camille! Welcome! What kind of story are you going to tell us this time?"
"I came so hard last time listening to that one about getting gangbanged by bandits, you have no idea. I'm looking forward to this one too!"
"Yes, thank you."
Basking in the village women's welcome, I sat down in the chair set at the center of the hall. The pussy-sluts who had been scattered around, or clumped in little groups, fingering themselves, came trotting over and settled around me, eyes shining with expectation.
"I want a story about a highborn noblewoman getting fucked this time! I want to really feel that those bitches who parade around dripping in jewels are the same filthy cumrags as me once you peel off one layer."
"Ugh, no! I like the ones where a village virgin becomes the town's public Meat Toilet! That one's easier to put yourself in, you know?"
"Then it's no different from our everyday lives! You listen to a story to have an experience you don't get otherwise!"
"That's true, but if it's too far from us it doesn't do anything for me either!"
Oh dear. They had started squabbling among themselves over what I ought to tell them. This was not a new problem—yesterday or today. Opinions and tastes in stories are as numerous as grains of sand on a beach. Mediating that is part of a storyteller's job too.
"Today I prepared a story about a self-made merchant lady who buys a slave boy, only to be broken by him in turn and stripped of everything she has. I'll have stories for other tastes ready soon, so please be a little patient."
When the storyteller herself puts it that way, even the ones with a complaint or two go quiet and nod along. They trust my sense for the stories they need.
Telling a story for the girls who were not chosen by the men that day, and who have to soothe their lonely pussies themselves—that is the request I have been getting more and more often lately. A pussy-slut's greed has no bottom, and without a man's cock in reach she starts craving higher-quality material to get off to. I suppose you could say I am the one who provides it.
In a little village like this there is no shortage of women who cannot read, and even the ones who can tend to drift toward one or the other if they try to finger themselves and follow a page at the same time. So I take over the reading. For someone who has always loved the written word, it is the most perfect request imaginable. The faces of people hanging on my story are already reward enough.
"Then I'll begin."
I started to read. The opening might have been a little dull from the standpoint of ordinary villagers. It was the part that established what an exceptional merchant the heroine was, and how fiercely she had built her company. Naturally, that sort of thing does not sound very important to a room full of pussy-sluts. Their attention is fixed on one question: how savagely the heroine is going to get fucked by the man.
Even so, this stretch cannot be skimped. You have to say first how magnificent she is, how powerful, how thoroughly she looks down on men—because that is what gives the later scenes, when she bows her head in misery, their weight. And if an important passage that might otherwise bore a pussy is going to land, it needs to leave a vivid impression.
"Enraged by a subordinate's bungling, the merchant screamed. 'You useless wretch! You cause a disaster like this and you can still swallow your food? Pathetic, incompetent fool! And on top of that you slink in and out of the brothels every single day, gnawing away at our company's name! I hear even a piglet calms down once you castrate it—why don't you try that yourself!'"
The women who had been showing the first signs of boredom at my reading all erupted at once.
"What the fuck is wrong with that bitch? That's how she talks to a man?"
"This is exactly why those sluts who go around calling themselves self-made and showing off their abilities never work out. A woman just needs to cook a decent meal and keep her pussy nice and tight!"
"Ugh, she really makes my blood boil!"
It had landed exactly as I intended. The girls poured their hostility onto the merchant in the story, which meant they had started to sink into it. And that meant it was time for the delicious part.
"Then one day, the merchant thought to herself, 'There's so much that needs doing, and the household is getting harder and harder to manage. I ought to buy a slave to run the house.'"
Having had the idea, she went straight to the slave market and found one. Cheaply, too—a boy slave who, young as he was, already had springy muscle on him. Delighted, the merchant set him to every kind of housework, and he answered her expectations perfectly.
"Pleased by the slave's loyalty and competence, the merchant widened his authority little by little. In the end she even handed him the right to manage her own bedroom. It was her instincts detecting a superior male and putting on a kind of courtship, in their own way—but the merchant herself never realized it."
And on the very day he received that authority, the slave walked into the bedroom where she lay sleeping and took her.
"The merchant startled awake and said, 'What do you think you're doing! Do you honestly believe you can survive this? Get off me this instant or I will tear you to pieces!'"
The audience laughed as one at the merchant's stupidity. A fish on the chopping block. A pussy in front of a cock. How ridiculous, for a thing with nothing left but to be conquered to keep putting on airs until the last second.
To answer that expectation, I laid a spell on my own throat, warped my voice, and spoke.
In that instant, cunt-juice burst from between the legs of every pussy-slut listening. There is not a pussy alive that would not go into heat hearing a perfect man's voice like that—myself included. My own hole gave a dull, sweet throb. I had used magic to reproduce the voice of a flawless conqueror, a man's voice. That is why I can be more than someone who simply reads the words aloud.
I activated the magic artifact I carried, the one shaped like a conch. The hall filled with the coquettish moans I had so carefully stored up the night before, the cheap slap of skin on skin, and a man's rough breathing. In that strange atmosphere the listeners' eyes began to shine. Pussy-sluts are not very bright, so they confuse fiction and reality with almost no effort at all. By now their brains were probably already convinced they were the ones being broken in by the slave boy. Helping that delusion along a little faster is my job.
And the audience, listening to my story, apologized in the merchant's place. The spectators becoming the character. How ideal is that?
"Ah—aaaaah!! Nnh, I can't hold it anymore!"
Someone cried out like that and finally climaxed, squirting as she came. As if that had been the signal flare, the other females hit their limits one after another, and a climax relay unfolded all over the village hall, gushing like burst dams. Cleaning that up is going to be a pain, I thought—and still I was proud.
While they go unused by men, they can gather like this and listen to a story, and ease that loneliness, even if only with a lie. Knowing that I am the one at the center of it makes me so happy I can hardly stand it.
From here the story would run its course: the merchant heroine broken with savage thoroughness, gang-raped even by the subordinates she used to work like dogs, and at the end reduced to a Meat Toilet for the lowest dregs of society and thrown out of her own company.
How many times could I make these pussy-sluts cum before we got there? Just thinking about putting my own skill to the test was enough to get me excited.