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 Laura Croft and the Venus Thigh Trap

   Part 1 of ?

   Laura Croft, adventuress, is raiding the ancient Temple of Phali, to
steal the fabled Golden Lingam.  Her researches into this legend had taken
several years, uncovering various improbable and no doubt exaggerated
references to a huge, solid gold phallic totem, nearly two feet in length,
massively thick, with an intricately veined and ridged surface encrusted
with numerous fabulous gemstones.  She had persevered in her combing of the
old records in the monastery at Pinchu Myars, sure that there must be some
truth behind the legends.  She found mostly dark allusions to a terrible
Guardian of the Lingam; yet the best translation she can manage of the
guardian's name is 'seeker of nectar', which doesn't sound very scary to
her.  Strange people, those pre-Mayans.  Finally, she obtained a script
that gives a clue to the artefact's location - deep in the jungles, far
from any present day civilisation.  What a surprise.

   So here she is, a month of difficult and solitary trekking later,
entering the rainforest cloaked ruins of the Temple of Phali.  She has told
no one of this expedition, or its objective, lest some uneducated villain
attempt to beat her to the treasure.  Or worse, get the wrong idea about
what she wants it for.  Strictly for curatorial purposes, of course!

   Laura abseils down into the subterranean chamber of the temple, the last
fifty feet spent unfortunately swinging in and out of a falling plume of
water, that pours smoothly from the giant granite penis of a huge fertility
idol high in the domed ceiling.

   Soaked through by the time she descends to the pool into which the jet
pummels noisily, yet still overly warm from her exertions in the cloying
humid air, Laura lets herself drop the last few feet into the cooling
waters.  Submerged for a moment, in the dim light she sees below her in the
clear water a dense tangle of black roots, with here and there a glimmer of
white.  Bones, held tightly amid the mesh of fibrous roots.  No doubt the
remains of barbaric human sacrifices, she thinks, as she surfaces, and
looks around to get her bearings.

   Swimming to the masonry side of the pool, rope in hand, she climbs out,
dripping, ties the rope to a stone block, then surveys the chamber.  Before
her, across a wide uneven floor, is the altar of the Lingam, a single beam
of sunlight shafting through a small opening high above, illuminating the
glittering artefact.  Even from a distance, she can see that perhaps the
legends did not exaggerate after all.  What a prize it looks, and what a
surge of excitement she feels, to think of bearing this wonder back to be
studied, to be wrung of its tales of history, its juices of knowledge!

   Laura considers the dim chamber around her, soaking up its air of age
and mystery.  All around, roots from the jungle far above have intruded
into the masonry, both cracking and supporting it.  The tangled, organic
mass is everywhere, looped and matted, hanging in long ropy veils from the
ceiling, down the carving rich walls, across and through the marble paving,
giving the whole place an ancient, yet organically alive atmosphere.  Only
the altar is free of the omnipresent, twisted roots.

   The water was not something she'd expected, or the roots.  Soaked, and
annoyed that the cut lunch in her pack may be getting soggy, she sits on
the pool's raised edge, emptying her backpack, wringing and shaking the
water out of her gear.  Fortunately she always keeps her photographic
equipment in waterproof containers.  But not her spare clothes, alas.  They
are soaked.  It is strangely warm in here too; somehow the water is almost
at body temperature, and the chamber is very humid.  She had worn a full
body leather jumpsuit for this subterranean foray, imagining dusty
crawlspaces, spiders and scorpions.  But now, with its being soaked, and
the humidity, she is finding it quite uncomfortable.  It has started to
shrink a little, and is chafing her as she moves, particularly around the
crotch.  Quite distractingly.  The journey into the jungle, and the search
for the ruined temple, had taken her over six weeks of hard, solitary slog.
Six progressively more lonely weeks.  Not something she wanted to be
reminded of just now, not when she was so close to achieving her goal. 
Letting her horniness flare up now could make her lose concentration. 
Which is not a good idea in these old temples, that might be guarded by God
knows what traps and magics.  She needs to keep a clear head, stop that
hot, aching itch in her sex from growing worse.  But the dammed wet leather
keeps shrinking, and is even starting to pull into her slit, the seam
abrading her clit, which is developing an awkward swelling.  Something must
be done!

   Never one to hesitate, she spends some moments struggling to strip off
the jumpsuit, having much difficulty with the straining zippers as the
leather shrinks even more.  She intends to change into the safari shirt and
shorts she naturally brought, and which will dry faster, and won't
constrict her movements.

   Ruefully, she surveys her naked figure, wishing once again that her
feminine charms were perhaps not _quite_ so generous, or sensitive, and
especially not so prone to popping up into distracting, tingling hardness
at the slightest provocation.  As her nipples and clit are now.  It really
can be a trial, she thinks, the way her silly clit gets so large, pointing
out between pouting labia, looking like a small tongue poking fun at the
world.  Shaking her head, she thinks "people may consider my lips are
unusual, its lucky they don't know about this clit of mine!" She thinks her
lips are just nice and sensual, but this clit!  It's so embarrassing!

   She 'humpfh's' at it, thinking she really should have made the time to
wash some underwear, and put it on, before coming in here today.  Once
again, her impatience to discover the ancient has cost her discomfort in
the present.  Without knickers, even her loose shorts will torment her clit
with every step.  She knows this from sorry experience, from a time or two
when leading museum archaeological expeditions, and her clit had popped up
for some reason, and she'd had to keep walking all day, pretending to her
associates that everything was normal.  Forced to endure a constant,
inescapable stimulation of her oversized most sensitive part, with no
opportunity to get away from the group, and her underwear all packed deep
in the porter's burdens.  Luckily it was so hot - everyone was sweating
like pigs, so as the day wore on and the crotch of her shorts became
thoroughly soaked, no one seemed to notice anything unusual - everyone's
clothes were equally soaked.  That was also the last time she made the
mistake of planning a 'light' expedition, in which only one shared tent
kept them all from the vicious mosquitoes.  The night had been a torment of
frustrated desire, an overstimulated clit stubbornly refusing to soften of
its own accord.  Both her own refined upbringing, and the proximity of her
academic peers sleeping lightly on uncomfortable narrow fold up cots either
side of hers, had kept her from resorting to an act she considered
distasteful yet sometimes sadly necessary for peace of mind.

   With her wet equipment and clothes (and holstered pistols) spread out
beside the pool, she stands, naked, and looks across to the altar.  Perhaps
she can skip the clothes for now, till she is leaving.  Till hopefully, her
sex has settled down.  Nobody here, after all, but us roots.  Her naughty
little pun makes her smile for a moment, before she thinks that she really
must get her mind off such things, and get down to business.  So she sets
off, barefooted, carrying only her camera bag, across the woven jumble of
roots to the altar, and its glittering, fascinating prize.  This place is
so open, and the roots have bound everything so tightly over the ages,
surely there can be no working traps left here, among all this shifted and
split stonework.  None that could move an inch, anyway.  So no threat to
her.

   She treads carefully, barefoot across the root criss-crossed paving,
avoiding stepping on the rough, sinewy plants.  Unseen behind her, thin
tendrils glide up out of the tangle, silently, rapidly, following the
outlines of her spread equipment.  The dark, almost flowing members are
near invisible in the semi-gloom.

   Reaching the altar, she is intrigued to find that its cultural
influences seem quite unique.  She had expected some sort of ornamentation,
perhaps unknown scripts she could at least transcribe for later research.
Some records of the ceremonies, on which to base another paper on these
primitive idolaters.  But strangely, disappointingly, the whole arrangement
seems plain, almost utilitarian.  Totally out of character with the
richness of the surviving decorations throughout the rest of this temple.

   A wide flat, bare stone dais is raised just a foot above the floor of
the wider chamber.  In its dead centre, the golden Lingam glitters, held
upright at the apex of a short conical stone plinth.  But it is held barely
even waist high, hardly a fitting presentation for such a totem.  The cone
is also almost wider at its base than it is high, making it more of a
cylindrical pyramid than a column.  Its sides are a smooth, unadorned dense
black granite, but as she bends closer to examine the mounting, she sees
that there is actually some sculptural work around the mating point of the
Lingam and the stone.  In fact...  She draws a sharp breath, and feels
herself flush.  The very top of the cone is shaped in a likeness of plump
female genitalia, spread wide around the penetration of the Lingam's base.
Very skilfully carved too, in a realism style most unusual for this class
of artefact.  Why, even the fine anatomical detail is accurate, if one
neglects the exaggeration inherent in the grossly unlifelike diameter of
the golden shaft around which the stone labia are contorted.  But then,
perhaps _some_ women _could_ fit that...  Then she laughs, as her eyes take
in more of the inverted sex effigy.  The sculptor has portrayed an erect
clitoris that puts even her own to shame.  With both the outer and inner
labia well spread, the clit stands proud.  A blunt finger of stone, it
points up and out, almost a little penis, inches out from the fold of its
hood stretched tight around its base.

   Laura shakes her head, bemused.  Hopefully _something_ about this find
will be suitable for general publication.  She certainly won't be able to
include photos of this stone mount in any article for her sponsors,
National GeoPictorial.  She giggles - not unless they changed their name to
National GeoExplicit!  Nonetheless, she takes a set of flash-illuminated
close ups of the Lingam and its finely crafted but X-rated mounting. 
Through the viewfinder, the stone genitalia seem even more lifelike and
erotic.

   The golden phallic symbol though, that seems to be far less an attempt
to depict, even symbolically, an actual penis.  True, it has an ovoid
thickening at its tip, vaguely suggestive of a glans.  But rather than one
urethral aperture, as in life, it has multiple small openings spread over
its surface.  These seem to be fairly deep, perhaps even joining up inside.
There are even a few similar holes down the sides of the thing - not a
common feature in working penises.  In her experience, which is rather
sparse.  And especially so lately, she thinks sadly, reminded once more of
the persistent aching itch in her sex.  Nor are the two deep fluted slots
down opposite sides of the shaft very reminiscent of any penises Laura has
ever seen.

   But time to stop dallying.  She has been kneeling at the base of the
cone, leaning forward with her hands higher on the cone, to examine the
carving.  She wonders if the Lingam is easily removable, and with one hand
grips it firmly around the base just above where it 'enters' the stone. 
Damm!  Her fingers don't even close around it, it is so huge.  There must
be kilos of gold in this thing!  Yet for a phallic idol, it is even less
realistic than that overstated stone clitoris, she thinks.  It gives her an
odd shivery feeling to think it, but it reminds her somewhat of a very
obscene item she'd once come across in the British Museum's locked
storerooms.  The documents with that had claimed it to have been produced
in the mid 19th century, in Victorian England, by a medical implements
company specialising in equipment for use in private asylums for the
unsound of mind.  Female unsound of mind, obviously.  The set is complete,
in an ornate wooden box, with a quaintly phrased booklet of instructions,
and assorted accessories.  Reading the instructions, alone there late one
night, she had been left breathless, pulse pounding, sorely tempted to
abuse the museum's entrustment of such rare artefacts to her professional
care.  The booklet had described it as 'For the Induction of the Female
Crisis or States Near Thereto, Strictly Upon Medical Orders'.  A number of
very explicit line illustrations and step-by-step guides had left nothing
to the imagination.  It was a diabolically formed, oversize dildo, intended
solely for use on asylum inmates, by the medical staff.  In the 'actual
case illustrations', a number of serious looking medical gentlemen and
stern looking nurses were present, showing mild professional interest as
one or other of them applied the dildo to a young, nubile, naked and very
definitely restrained 'patient'.

   Listening acutely for sounds of footsteps in the silent storeroom, she
flips pages rapidly, finding numerous illustrations detailing the various
methods of restraint, all allowing convenient access to the patient's
vagina.  Other pages of text described the product's "Benefits for the
Treatment of Sexual Manias"; detailing regular controlled application of
the Implement, carefully judged to halt just short of the climactic
seizure. Thus focussing the patient's mind on the natural sexual pleasures
of wholesome matrimony, while avoiding the 'little death' and subsequent
dissipation of spirit felt to be so damaging to the prospects for recovery
of the unsound of mind.  An appendix reviewed the use of 'The Implement'
during patient evaluation interviews, to 'facilitate an enhanced state of
patient cooperation'.  And no doubt the respected Freud look-alike, with
the naked girl strapped spread-legged to his couch, found the process of
facilitating her cooperation (via the dildo he held deep in her vagina) far
more exciting than his expression in the old print suggested.  As if in
some advertisement for toothpaste, the young lady subject's facial
expression, where visible, was invariably a most unlikely study in rapt
interest and gratitude for the helpful attentions of the kind medical
staff.

   In an appendix, she finds a sternly worded caution - that on no account
should the appliance be left in the presence of unsupervised and
unrestrained patients.  It warns of the extreme risks to patient wellbeing
associated with self-administration of the treatment, absent of qualified
supervision.  Any such use would be morally unacceptable, being the sin of
masturbation and wholly lacking in any redeeming medical benefit.  In a
table of possible consequences of uncontrolled use, are listed: Addictions
to sexual fevers, Self-induction of the climactic seizure, Dissipation of
the spirit, Genital and masturbatory fixations, Moral dissolution,
Increased requirements for patient supervision and restraint, Harm to
matrimonial prospects, Relapse into harmful behaviours, Psychological
injury, and numerous other dire sounding outcomes.  Below that, it
recommends that even in the case of long term inmates (judged to be cases
of hopeless addiction to unacceptable habits and so requiring permanent
chastity restraint), episodes of 'tension relief' prescribed for good
behaviour should be administered by qualified staff.  For best effect and
in consideration of staffing costs, such episodes should be very
infrequent; no more often than biannually.  Though in these hopeless cases,
for maximum effectiveness of the reward the treatment should be
administered vigorously, and with the objective of inducing numerous
seizures over at least a full day of application.

   Shivering and flushed, Laura had replaced everything in the wooden case,
run her fingertip once more lightly along the ridged and well-worn
impressive length of 'The Implement' lying in its rich crimson velvet lined
recess, then carefully closed the lid and replaced the box on the dusty
shelf where she'd found it.  She'd soon after realised herself too
distracted to continue that night's archive search, and had gone home.

   For many nights thereafter she had slept poorly, dreaming of lonely
young Victorian ladies, discovered in shocking acts of self abuse by strict
parents, and discreetly committed to remote country asylums for fear of
social disgrace.  Of them kept constantly naked, restrained, and subjected
to daily 'refocussing on their reproductive role in society', yet never
allowed to cum.  Sometimes she imagines herself a nurse, but somehow more
often to her puzzlement, she sees herself as the patient.  Sometimes, to
her great and private shame, she is unable to restrain herself then from
the very self-abuse of which those Victorians so disapproved, and bringing
her own shameful climax.  Her dear departed father would have been
outraged.

   That device had been hardly thinner than this Lingam, she muses,
recalling how holding it, stroking its ridges and bumps, running her
fingertips over its bulbous, pointy head, with the mushroom lip behind the
head, had made her sex burn with a shocking desire.  Her fingers had not
met around that one, either.

   She finds she has been kneeling there, holding the gold shaft, and
daydreaming.  Which is not helping quell the maddening arousal in her belly
one bit.  She shakes herself, and tries giving the gold a seriously hard
twist.  It moves, but barely.  She twists it the other way, and it gives
again, though in an odd, sluggish manner.  She tries lifting it straight up
but there is barely any give that way at all.  It seems somehow fastened
into the stone.  But the legends suggest it must be removable, since it was
used as a totem in various ceremonies.  It must come out somehow!

   To get a better leverage, she stands.  But finds that she can only stand
above the golden object if she straddles the cone with her feet.  It is an
odd position, not something she would do if anyone else were present. 
Especially naked, with her clit....  To pull straight up on the Lingam, she
must stand with her legs spread at fully forty five degrees, either side of
the cone base.  Now she can...  In a flash she realises that in this
position, her sex is almost exactly level with the peak of the stone
cylinder.  So that the phallus is now very convenient indeed to grip, being
just in front of her pubis.  Suddenly, she feels like a complete fool. 
Goodness gracious!  Could it be, that this was actually _used_ in
ceremonies of 'that' sort, right here, like this?  That some female
mounted...  or was forced to mount, this, standing here like this?  After
all, although the thing is frighteningly thick, most of it seems to be down
in the hole in the stone.  Only about seven or eight inches project up...
that should be...  doable?  Perhaps not for a younger, or smaller woman,
but a mature adult like herself should be able....  ??

   She wonders if, purely professionally of course, she should verify that
it is possible.  She is sure that the damned heat in her sex, that is
flaring up even more at these thoughts, is not influencing her professional
judgement.  But it certainly is convenient that her sex is presently fully
aroused, and well lubricated.  Realism, after all.  It would be fair to
expect that the ceremonial maiden would have been 'prepared' for her act.
Perhaps would have been in 'preparation' for weeks beforehand - which she
admits, is not unlike her own condition of overheated deprivation.

   "Well Laura, why not?" She speaks aloud for the first time in the
chamber.  "I certainly deserve a good fucking, for making it this far." She
gasps, shocked at her unaccustomed use of such a word.  She really must be
a little overexcited.  Yes, she probably is.  Standing naked in a
subterranean tomb, clit erect, considering impaling herself on a thousand
year old relic is hardly in the Croft family tradition.  But she couldn't
help the tight suit setting her off.  Not after weeks of abstinence, and
with weeks more to come...  er to go without on the walk back.  Her sex is
positively twitching with the need.  It is all she can do to restrain her
hands from touching herself, her clit that is now so hard she can feel it
pulsating with her rapid heartbeat.

   The thought of setting up her camera tripod, on timed release to capture
the historic procedure, crosses her mind.  Considering this, she at first
thinks that such photographs would be very...  well, far too easily
misinterpreted.  Most definitely of no use in her official documentation of
this find.  And yet...  she finds herself considering that it would be
almost negligent to fail to document such an investigation of the likely
original use of the artefact.  After all, the images need not be made
public.  She might need them for reference in her own studies of the
object, or perhaps tracing figure outlines from them, for illustrating the
'hypothetical' means of usage by the native culture.  Yes, she should. 
After all, no one need ever see the film but her.

   Setting up the tripod, and screwing the camera, flash, autowinder and so
on together, she can't help feeling a thrilling streak of excitement at the
idea of not only doing this thing, but actually filming herself doing it!
Its by far the most outrageous thing she's ever done, and she shivers to
think of what would happen to her career if these shots ever....  Setting
the timer that will take each shot, and wind the film, she considers how
many frames this will take.  She'd casually imagined that she was just
going to set herself on the Lingam, wait for a couple of shots, then get
off again.  But some instinct she doesn't care to closely examine prompts
her to load a fresh, extra long roll of film in the camera anyway.  Just in
case.  She arms the flash, sets the timer to take the first 10 shots at 30
second intervals, and stands back, triggering one shot of the altar, base
and Lingam alone, no 'sacrificial maiden' in sight.  It makes her feel a
wicked thrill, imagining this chamber full of chanting acolytes, as the
beautiful, naked maiden (herself) is led, resisting futilely, out to the
altar, and manhandled onto that huge gold projection.  How long would they
have kept (left?) her there?, she wonders.  What _else_ would they do to
her, and how did this all relate to those bones in the pond?

   At this point, her body seems to say 'enough procrastination' and she
finds herself starting the camera and beginning the process of mounting. 
Which is not easy.  The first flash catches her still experimenting, trying
to find a way to approach the attempt.  She has to get her entrance up over
the head, but the only way to do that is to place her feet on the sides of
the cone.  Which are steep!  Her feet keep wanting to slip back out and
down to the floor.  She tenses her thighs, pushing her feet inwards against
the cool, smooth stone for extra grip.  Her bare soles curve around the
surface, and give her enough purchase that she can inch upwards, holding
onto the prong tip with her hands for balance and extra lift.

   After some struggling, grunting with effort, she has her sex above the
tip and must transfer her hands back to the stone at the base of the shaft,
so the end is free.  She places it against her opening, moving it slightly
in the slickness there.  With good timing, another shot is exposed. 
Feeling the tip nestle into her slit, it seems like there is plenty of
lubrication, if not too much- her other lifelong curse.  A vagina that
produces far too much of the sexual juices, at the slightest provocation.
She has always had to dress carefully with that in mind when in society. 
Ahhhhh....  as she lowers herself ever so slightly, she feels the fat tip
nosing into her, and it is very nice.  Flash.  A bit more...  Mmmmmm... 
her legs are getting tired, so she had better go a bit faster, if she
doesn't want to just drop suddenly all the way.  Another inch, and she
feels the back ridge of the head pop inside her entrance.  It is a very,
very full feeling, but not painful.

   Once she is right down, and her hands are free, she must
investigate.......  ohhhoooooo!!!!  She has reached the first of the
knobbly, bejewelled ridges on the shaft.  Her hips give an involuntary
shudder, and the blunt points now inside her tickle her inner membranes. 
She almost loses control of her legs, and slips down another couple of
inches.  Ohhh god, she is really starting to feel it up there now.  Another
inch.  Now there is little room for her hands still on the stone - the
backs of her hands are rubbing against her sex.  The next bit seems
difficult.  Can she lower herself without her hands on the apex?  She tries
shifting them to the sides of the cone, just below the apex.  Yes, if she
makes a ring of her fingers, and grips inwards, she can put enough weight
there to.....  ummmmmmm oooowwww.....  let her feet slide down and out,
till her toes touch the floor.  Her cunt feels like it is being impaled on
a telephone pole.  It is such an overwhelming sensation, that she quite
forgets herself, and lets her feet down unthinking.  Thus driving the last
bit of the ancient dildo into her needy twat, with enough force to make her
scream OOowwwhhhooo OooaAAAAA Ohhh fuck thats huge....  oh fuuuck oh
fuuuck.....  With her eyes closed tight she barely notices the blink of
flash light.

   It is actually on the verge of painful, deep up in her belly, where
something is being pushed where it never was before.  She twists herself
sideways, trying to settle things down, and is startled by a sudden flash
of sensation from her clit!  How can...?  Looking down, she sees that her
own projecting clit has brushed against the tip of the oversize clit
sticking up from the stone.  She does it again - mmmmm...  that is very
nice.  And so is the twisting feeling inside.  Very nice....  she does it
again, and back again.  Mmmmm...  definitely a good feeling....  for a
while she twists back and forth, in a daze of pleasure.  Every little (and
not so little) shape on the rod's surface seems to stroke and tease her
inner walls.  She can feel her labia puffing up, swelling with her blood,
and her juices beginning to seep in profusion onto the stone sex pressing
against her own.  Another flash reminds her of the passage of time, but by
now she is thinking that maybe this will not be a brief on-it/off-it
exercise.

   For the last few moments she has been holding her hands out from the
sides of her body, rigid, fingers spread wide, needing only the feel of the
thing inside her.  It is awesome!  Feels like it must come up past her
belly button inside.  To reinforce the sensations, she places her palms
flat on her belly, and leans back a little.  Sure enough, there it is - she
can feel the blunt thing inside her, making a bump in her abdomen, pressing
back against her finger tips as they indent into her soft flesh.  It is so
stunningly erotic, that forbidden act or no, she slides a hand down, to her
clit, and clasps that centre of masturbatory sin firmly, kneedingly.  Her
hips start a front to back thrusting that does not come from her conscious
control, that shudders the pole around within her, and things start to
become quite disconnected.  A collage of powerful, thought quenching
sensations, each one shoving her about like a toy fought over by children.
She stops even trying to resist the storm.

   Some probably brief time later she has her first orgasm, and screams it
out at the top of her lungs.  It resonates around the great chamber,
echoing off into the passages, but she takes no notice of the echoes or the
regular flashes, since she is already feeling the building of another.  Her
juices are pouring from her, running down the face of the smooth black
stone mount in rivulets.  Where they meet that threshing of her feet, her
movements smear the juice across the stone.  The now very slippery, smooth
black stone, which does not dry at all in the warm, humid air.

   She is so absorbed in her little anthropological experiment, that she
does not notice the roots.  When she had mounted the platform, it was free
of the roots.  Now they are covering it, thin, seeking tendrils growing
visibly across the stone surface, seeking....  that thing their dim plant
memories recall from long ago, that they hunger for yet.

   After about her tenth screaming orgasm, Laura begins to get things into
some sort of focus once again.  Her sex is still pulsing and shaking on the
phallus, and her hands still clutch and rub convulsively at her sex,
breasts and nipples, but she becomes once more aware that she is doing
these things.  That time is passing.  The shaft of sunlight has drifted
away across the floor, and now the platform is in dimness.  The great space
is lit only by small bright chinks of light above.  It has been a long
while since she noticed a flash from the camera.

   Dimly, she thinks that she'd better stop this soon, if she wants to get
out of here before nightfall.  There is a torch in her pack, but finding
that in complete darkness might be dangerous.  Reluctantly, she considers
lifting off the pleasures of the golden Lingam.  Which she can feel seems
to have worked a little looser in its stone mount, with all the shaking she
has been giving it.  Oddly, she could swear it has worked up a bit higher
in its seating too, if the feelings from inside her can be trusted.  She
holds still for a moment, resting, panting and slicked with sweat, her sex
throbbing and sensitive from her orgasms.  What!  Did that move?  It felt
like the rod had lurched slightly in her, of its own.  Moved ever so little
upwards.  How could that be?  Is there some ancient mechanism still working
in this place after all?  She holds still again, waiting, concentrating on
the hugeness within her cunt.  And it moves.  Again, and definitely.  So,
so little, but it moved, upwards, adding just a tiny extra tension to that
deep stretched feeling that is really so very nice, so very...  close to
all she could take.  Again.  It moves, a short jerking rise.  Perhaps she'd
better get off now, and find out what is going on here.  Up here... 
whatever.  She giggles.  'Up _me_' she corrects herself.

   Weakly, she gathers her strength, preparing to reverse her actions in
mounting herself on this...  huge, golden, cock....  that again steps up
into her, without even asking.  Getting quite definitely to the point of
discomfort now.  With her hands around the top of the stone, she worries
'wow, did I really juice this up so much?  Hope its not too slippery to
grip.' Putting a little weight on her hands, she tries to place her feet
against the sides of the cone, and push up on them.  Her feet instantly
slip down to the floor again, everything slippery like....  like cunt
juice.

   Just at that moment, the camera flash strobes the chamber brightly
again, and she halts her efforts, confused.  What?  Then realises that once
the ten shots she set the timer for were done, the unit must have defaulted
to some longer interval between shots.  How long has it been, ten, fifteen
minutes since the last?

   The post notches upwards again, another fraction of an inch inside her.
She begins to realise that this is not so funny.  Tries to wipe her feet
off on the floor, but even that seems strangely slimy.  Surely that could
not be all hers?  Squinting in the gloom, she examines the floor around
her. Something, dark lines in the dimness....  She moves her foot about,
looking for some place that is not covered with the slippery...  whatever
it is.  Nowhere.  Everywhere she can reach seems to be coated in the goo,
which now that she tries dabbling her toe in it, seems sort of tacky, far
too different from girl cum to possibly....  Eeeeeek!  She jumps, or tries
to, but of course her golden friend pins her to the spot.  Something had
brushed against her ankle!  She swings her foot about, afraid of spiders or
whatever, but contacts nothing.  And the gold jerks up in her again.  Time
to seriously get off this, she thinks, trying to calm her racing pulse. 
Probably just have to do a push-down with my hands, enough to launch me off
this, even if I do land in a heap in the goo.  This could hurt, if I launch
off at a bad angle, she thinks.

   Its a very awkward thing to try.  She can sort of get her fingers around
the base of the shaft buried in her, but her own body gets in the way too
much for a clean grip.  And everything up there is dripping with her own
traitorous juices - this is definitely hers.  Not wanting to think about
possibly falling back without achieving separation, she prepares herself,
trying to regain calm and energy.  Trying to ignore the movement of the
pole, which increments deeper into her twice more as she prepares.  With
her hands in there, between herself and the stone vulva, she can inch up a
bit higher.  But she is sure that thing would really be starting to hurt if
she let right down again.  She is just doing a 'Right.  On three.  One,
two....' when 'Arrrrhh!  what?' Something has snared her left ankle!  She
kicks, or tries to, but the thing seems to have a good grip, and quite a
bit of give.  As though she is kicking against a strong elastic cord. 
Which is now pulling, dragging her ankle outwards, away from the cone! 
Quite strongly!  She struggles to hold her leg in, to keep even her toes on
the ground, at this angle, she has little leverage.  The thing gripping her
ankle tightens, and pulls harder, and her leg lifts up and out, despite her
efforts.  In the dim light, she can see a dark ropelike thing wrapped
around her ankle and leading off to the side.  It seems to have secondary
tendrils, waving dimly in the gloom.  It is too frightening, too much to
react to.  She just clutches her hands around the dildo where it enters
her, trying to take her weight on there and her other leg, but feeling the
sideways pull of her body against the shaft inside her.  Gradually, her
fingers are slipping.

   Then the same sensation, on her other ankle.  She screams, a shrill cry
of terror, but simply cannot move that foot, since her hands will not take
her entire weight at this awkward angle, and the alternative...  But now
her remaining foot is being pulled outwards...  and then slips out from
under her, rising into the air.  She is left doing a wide splits in midair,
her cunt impaled on at least seven inches of pole, with maybe two inches
between her twat and the stone twat below it.  Her hands are slipping... 
slipping....  and suddenly they give way completely in the cum-slimed space
below her, and she falls.....  smack!  Her crotch hits the stone labia and
she halts, painfully, all her weight on the small area around her strained
cunt entrance.  Inside, the pole has thrust violently up into places she
didn't know existed.  It hurts, but mostly it is a feeling of having her
insides stretched and rearranged to a degree she'd have thought impossible.
It must be nine inches or more up her; clutching her belly with her hands,
she can feel the solid shaft within extending clear up past her belly
button.

   She makes a futile effort to bend sideways and reach an ankle.  Of
course, she can't come anywhere near; the thing in her abdomen prevents
such movement.  Looking over in the direction of the waterfall, she thinks
of her guns, sitting there by the side of the pool.  Curses herself for
having left them, just when she really needed them!  It must be mid
afternoon by now, she guess there will only be an hour of two more of any
light down here.  There's her torch too, over by the pond.  Brilliant!

   Studying the things that bind her ankles, she realises that they look
very much like the roots that are all over this place.  Can this get any
worse?  Not just trapped on a dammed sex object, but actually _rooted_ to
it.  Bloody hell!  Trying again, desperately, to grip the post under her,
painfully twisting herself on the shaft, she tries again to thrust herself
up and off it.  But it is impossible.  The tendrils holding her legs are
pulling out and down, and hold her firmly impaled.  'What next?' she
thinks, 'Is this thing going to keep shoving up me, till it rips...?' 'And
why, _why_ am I getting _turned_on_ again by this?'

   For she is, she cannot deny.  The post is quite painful inside, but
somehow the _thought_ of how deeply it is violating her has a strange kind
of kinky excitement to it.  A phrase from that Victorian manual swims into
her spinning mind "Should the patient attempt feigned aloofness to
applications in the general manner of natural coitus, merely increase the
vigour and depth of penetration, proceeding so in a gradual fashion, to
ascertain the patient's true limits of accommodation.  In most cases these
will be found to be quite surprisingly great.  Especially if the patient be
brought gradually to a condition of sexual fever, in which the organs
acquire an unsurpassed elasticity."

   Well, 'sexual fever' fairly well describes her state now, she thinks. 
Once again she can barely restrain herself from clutching at her rehardened
clit, or aching nipples.  The worst is, that with her sex now mashed down
hard on the stone sex, her clit is in unavoidable contact with a surface of
the stone clit that seems designed to torment.  It must have lots of tiny
little roughness's - it almost feels like someone rubbing sandpaper on her
most sensitive spot, with every tiny squirm she makes.  This is going to
give her an orgasm eventually, she can tell.  Not that she wants another.
The pole gives another sudden shiver in her, but it seems like this time it
didn't actually move up.  Just shiver.

   Looking down at the junction of her crotch with the stone, she can't
even see the gold inside her any more.  She realises she is spiralling into
blind panic, and takes a deep breath, desperately grappling with her fears,
sure that panic is the greatest danger to her right now.  Surely if the
pole up her...  inside her, was going to spear upwards in a lethal, spring
driven thrust, it would have done so by now.  So she must concentrate, find
a way out, or rather off this trap she stupidly fell...  onto.  Perhaps she
can work her ankles free of the..  the...  whatever the hell those things
are.  Damm, this thing inside her....  and every time she tries to shift,
to ease the painful pressure on her sex, the sandpaper-like surface scrapes
across her aching clit.  It is hard to focus her mind on anything but that
storm of torment between her legs.

   Yet she must....  and when she looks out at her ankles again, she wishes
she hadn't.  Where before there was just one ropelike root around each
ankle, now there are several, and thick tendrils are spiralling up her
shins, barely touching her skin, but their creepy, vine-touch quite plain
now she focuses on it.  They are nearly to her knees already! 
Contemplating their slow but steady progress, horrified, her mind in denial
on the matter of where they might ultimately go, her attention is suddenly
shocked back to the matter of her existing intruder by the sensation of a
probing touch _deep_inside_ her over-stretched cunt.  Somewhere up around
where the fat head of that shaft is pushing her uterus to one side,
something _touched_ her, like a sharp fingernail pressing on flesh.  Then
again!  And...

   It does it repeatedly, rapidly, a sharp staccato tapping on her insides.
Placing a shaking hand on her belly, she can even feel the vibrations
through the flesh of her body.  Then another starts up, in a different
position inside...  and another.  More...  she can no longer discern the
many as separate touches, just that the whole inside of her sex seems to be
suffering hundreds of tiny but firm rapid tapings.  Like little tiny
spankings, from the inside.  But how?  She recalls the openings in the
head- yes, something is poking out at her from those holes, slapping at her
in there, completely beyond her ability to reach.  And its damnably
distracting too.  More than...  No!  She mustn't let it uhh...  mmmhh! 
God! oh thats...  *got* to concentrate, find a way off...  ooohhh uuhhhh...

   Laura shudders and twists on the thing so deep in her, so powerfully
overwhelming her senses with its drumbeating on her inner core.  Beyond any
hope of controlling it, she feels her passions rising, her pulse racing,
that hot, congested tension growing in her sex, driven by the beating
inside her.  Her head tossing and body twisting, she blindly sees the
tendrils reaching their web up past her mid thighs, and does not think of
it.  She can think only of the drumming, the tapping inside her, and the
ache of her yearning.  She is hardly conscious of her hands, that they are
clutched low on her belly, massaging the swell of her flesh where her sex
is mashed down on the stone.  Everything is building, she cannot.. 
something now is even clasping her arse...  smooth coiling around her
waist, and inside, she is being driven to a height of frantic...  she
must.. cannot...  a strange sensation around her hands and she realises she
is shudderingly close to orgasm, head thrown back, eyes tight in a grimace
of effort, reaching, and her hands...  she somehow manages to coordinate
enough to look down again, and she knew that she would see: her hands,
being drawn up and back around her waist by a web of fibrils wrapped close
around her wrists, hands, between her legs, and extending up the sides of
her waist and around her back.  Only her heaving, shuddering belly is free
of the firm lacework of tendrils.

   But with the drumming inside, its promise of fabled orgasm soon to cum,
her sexual delirium allows no room for conscious contemplation of captured
hands.  She simply shudders on, the power building in her, awaiting the
coming storm, the first bolt of lightning, her body one supercharged fuck
capacitor, discharge inevitable.

   Then it stops.  With Laura just moments away from a thunderous climax,
the impacts inside her suddenly cease.  Nothing is moving except that
violent hammering of the blood in her veins.  Laura's instinct is to grab
for her clit, and boost herself that little, teeny bit further to
release... but she cannot!  Struggling, she finds that yes, it does matter
that somehow her hands have become fastened behind her back.  Doubly
stuck...  stuck on a gold dildo, stuck just moments from cumming....  She
feels wetter and juicier inside than she has ever been before, her sex
sitting slippery and soaked on the stone, but for all the good that
lubrication is doing she might as well be superglued to the shaft inside
her.

   Now, despite the haze of her frustration, without the fiendish hammering
inside stealing away her senses, she can feel what the roots are doing to
the outside of her body.  Sensations which bring her to look down her front
once more, to see: thighs and waist entirely enclosed in a close spaced
mesh of interconnecting black tendrils, her lightly tanned flesh showing
creamily through the many small interstices.  The mesh extending even now
as she watches, down into her crotch, and upwards from her narrow waist. 
From the sensations behind her, much the same is happening there, with the
fibrous feelers slipping down into the crack of her arse, from the web
tight-stretched across her backside.  Something touches exploringly on her
arsehole, then seems to move on, forward.  A relief short lived however,
for moments later the stalk, which seems to be thickening in her widespread
arsecrack, somehow buds off a fresh shoot - right where it crosses her
anus. She feels the touch, and instantly clenches as tightly as she can,
but it simply *grows* into her.  Not a thrusting against her unlubricated
insides, merely an effortless invasion and expansion, as though some
microscopic fibre infiltrates the smallest crevice, then rapidly expands
into the new territory.

   In moments she can feel it deep inside her, and still going, invading
far into her bowel.  Struggling only brings home the helplessness of her
position - now her hands have been drawn right across to opposite elbows,
and her forearms seem locked together and to her back by the web.  At about
the same time she becomes aware of the tendrils reaching her cunt, and the
area of her breasts.  They work their way easily in around the pressure of
her weight pressed sex to stone sex on the plinth.  Enclosing her, shaping
to her every fold, squeezing and exploring.  Something enters her urethra,
and heads inwards with that same expanding fibre sensation.  The one in her
arse is already grown quite thick, and for a moment, as her urethral
intruder swells rapidly she panics, imagining it growing to inches and
tearing her apart there.  But just as it becomes distinctly stressful, it
quits growing wider.  The end reaches into her bladder, and she feels it
exploring, poking around in there.

   With so many sensations of outrage occurring inside her, she almost
misses the first assault on her clit.  It starts as a soft pressing
sensation against the flesh around the base of her still aching and
cum-needy bud.  Focussing, she looks down to see that while she was
occupied, her entire clit has been enclosed in a kind of nodule, like a
root tuber, projecting out from her body.  It is held in place by just a
few tendrils, and has a soft, padded base pressed tight in against her,
around her clit.  For a few moments, nothing happens, except for all the
other worming explorations elsewhere inside her.  Then the bulb quite
suddenly expands in size, and she feels an incredible suction on her
already tight swollen clitoris.  It is mindshattering.  She'd thought she
was aching hard before, but as fresh blood rushes into her swelling clit,
expanding it into the semi-vacuum inside the enclosing tuber, her clit
reaches a state of tortured engorgement she'd never imagined possible.  Yet
nothing at all is touching it - the walls of its chamber are too far for it
to reach even in its exaggerated size.

   By now she is past frantic, past panicked, past desperate.  She knows
she is sure to die, she feels she will die if she doesn't cum soon, she is
mortified and invaded worse than death, yet more aroused and alive than she
has ever been before.  She hangs suspended, helpless, her body no longer
her own - a body converted to an instrument of delicious torment and
tension.  She cannot think any more, and thoughtless, can only feel. 
Feeling so much sexuality, she can only lust - a kind of erotic zen state,
the cumless climax.

   Somewhere in this state, it filters through to her that something is
happening to her breasts.  The mesh has reached up her back, grown around
under her armpits and over her shoulders, meeting around her breasts then
grown over them, enclosing their soft bulk like a firm bra.  She had been
distracted from that, by the sensations of the root mesh around her legs
and abdomen seeming to squeeze inward, tightening and becoming rigid.  The
struggles she makes no longer result in any movement down there - as though
she is encased in a tight fitting latticework sheath of solid wood.  In the
gloomy light, the dark lines of the lattice press deep into the soft flesh
of her thighs, which bulges out between the lines as if her body had become
some bondage fetishist's fantasy.

   Now her breasts too become enclosed in rigid formwork, but in its
tightening this behaves differently.  It does not simply draw tight around
her natural curves, then stiffen.  Instead, the ring of animate vegetation
closest to her chest begins to constrict, closing around the base of her
generous globes, causing them to bulge outwards from her body.  Dimly,
distracted by the incessant sensory clamour of the intruding explorations
of her every pelvic opening and the near orgasmic frustration they are
maintaining, she thinks that the sensations from her breasts could be
pleasant in some other context.  The tightening is making them feel
incredibly full, sensitive, her nipples becoming even harder as more blood
is forced into them.  She becomes aware that the framework of roots up her
back and around her shoulders is hardening now, resisting even movement of
her upper body.  Her head is still free, and she looks down her chest
again, and gasps at the sight of her breasts turned nearly into complete
spheres.  The constriction at their base has shrunk to an amazing extent,
making her breasts ache with tension as they stand tightly free of her
body.

   Even more frighteningly, the tendrils that loosely enclose those orbs
are forming bunched nodules around her nipples, and worse, are developing
small offshoots along their lengths that look suspiciously like thorns.  A
flash brands the vision into her retina - her breasts constricted into
swollen globes, encircled with thorny vines, and strange knobbly growths
clustered around her grossly extended nipples.  As if to confirm her fears,
a sensation of many fine needle points pressing against her tight stretched
breasts develops.  By the time her eyes can see again in the dim light, the
sensation is becoming acute - as if the many thorns are pressing hard
against her, threatening to break her skin.  And her eyes confirm - all
around her globes, the tendrils have grown wicked looking thin spines or
thorns, mostly pointing inwards, and indenting her soft flesh sharply.  She
screams, struggling uselessly against her rigidly confining woody
restraints.  Achieving nothing except that her shaking has caused several
of the spines to puncture her skin, letting drops of dark blood well around
the points.  With small sharp stars of bright pain, another needle point,
then another slips into her flesh, like fine syringes, barely felt except
as a quick flare of stinging.  Then all over her breasts, many points of
that fire flare briefly, then subside.  It seems like hundreds of fine
needles are penetrating her, and she screams again, long, shuddering,
helpless, as the plant turns her breasts into pincushions.  Each thorn digs
in only millimetres, but there are _many_ of them, and they _sting_!

   Finally, gasping and panting in shock, she regains control through her
panic.  Her breasts are aching, on fire, a strange, deep burning, as though
some venom is at work in her flesh.  They ache, and itch, and she can do
nothing about it.  If it was possible, she would swear that her poor
breasts felt like they must explode with the pressure of the cruel tight
grip around their base.  That even now is getting tighter...  or so it
feels like, until she opens her eyes again, and realises that in fact the
constrictions around the base of her breasts is actually widening, visibly.
Yet her breasts feel like they are bursting!  In fact, they are actually
growing, visibly, swelling and expanding to take up the extra room granted
by the vines.  And so are her nipples, which are elongating as if in some
time lapse movie of sprouting plants!  It terrifies her to see this - in
just a few moments they have nearly doubled in length, to over an inch!  An
inch of aching, pressured torment, the dark flesh feeling as if about to
burst from overpressure.

   The sensation is so strong, it pushes aside all the jangling, demanding
sensations from the rest of her ordeal- the things inside her, in her cunt,
arse and bladder, and the maddening suctioned over-erection of her clit. 
She fights her restraints desperately, frantic to somehow ease the blinding
torment of her nipples, staring at them aghast as they extend even further,
surely to the point of tearing apart at nearly four centimetres long, and
as thick as small sausages!  Eventually, defeated, she is reduced to
tormented sobbing, the nipples so close to her face, yet beyond any hope of
reaching them, even if there was anything she could do to relieve their
torment.  Despite the chaos in her mind, she knows the plant must have
injected her breasts with some irritant via the thorns, to produce such a
swelling and unbearable itching, pressured aching.  Even so, she is not
ready for the next development.

   It comes just after another flash catches her tearfully staring at the
outlandish condition of her now hugely swollen breasts.  Without warning,
the root nodules bunched around the base of her nipples quickly tilt
inwards, pressing painfully into the tight flesh of her nipples.  Once
again she screams in pained fright, and astonishment, as even in this dim
light she can clearly see the fine jets spraying from the tips of her poor
nipples, and breaking up into a milky mist that hangs before her in the
still air.

   The nodules relax, loosening their grip on her nipples.  Then again,
that tight gripping, and another painful spraying of her milk.  Again... 
She cries out with each woody clench on her poor flesh, mind reeling at the
bizarre form of rape she is enduring, and the strange plant hormones
coursing in her blood.  Shaking her head, dazed beyond conscious thought,
every intimate part of her body invaded and manipulated.  It goes on and
on, her breasts now jetting strongly with each squeeze.

   She is far beyond noticing, as the sprayed milk mist settles onto the
plant tendrils around and on her, and triggers the plant's next response.

   The Seeker Of Nectar was long ago a species of tree climbing vine, that
evolved an interesting symbiotic relationship with a species of small tree
monkeys.  The vine got to spread its pollinated seeds further, and catch
some nitrogen-rich monkey secretions - so valuable in the forest canopy. 
And the monkeys...  well, the females presumably found something attractive
in the process.

   Then, humans stepped in.  Perhaps those early forest dwellers merely
found the sight of a monkey being held and raped by a vine entertaining. 
But of course, last century's imaginings and ribald jokes are this
century's religion.  So over perhaps ten thousand years of prehistory,
cuttings of the vines were selected for more complex 'ceremonial'
behaviours.  With the end result, being a plant exquisitely sensitive to
trace scents from human females, and highly dependent on substances in
human sexual secretions for the plant's own sexual cycle.

   As Laura's milk triggers the plant's next stage, the vines go into a
frenzy of branching and reaching, all around her.  Her shuddering form
becomes enclosed in a solid thicket of the twisting tendrils.  This pushes
upwards, lifting her slowly up from the stone plinth.  The Lingam is
carried up with her, now released by the roots that had held its base solid
in the plinth.  It stays locked into her sex by the thick casing of vines
around her body.

   All of which are budding now with the plant's flower pods, and are also
becoming phototropic - seeking light.  Long ago, the vine would be trying
to shift its flower buds into the sunlight.  Now, here, it seeks the light
entering through the holes high in the chamber.  Laura, encased rigidly in
vines, shuddering and whimpering as the plant continues to extract both
breast milk and pussy juice from her, is carried along with the twisting
thicket, as it rises higher, and moves a little towards the pool.  But by
now it is dusk, and as the light fades, the plant loses directionality, and
simply holds her in place, milking her slower as darkness takes hold of the
chamber.

   For Laura, it is a very long night.  The plant never quite stops any of
its activities, but it does slow right down in the dark.  Under the
lessened deluge of sensations she gradually regains the ability to think,
and be afraid, and....  frustrated.  There are still slow, stroking motions
inside her, and the bulb fastened to her clitoris still cycles through
quick clenches, and long, sucking expansions, that keep her own bud swollen
and aching.  She cannot cum, but neither can she sleep, from the need to.
The camera must be out of film by now, but still fires its flash on the
half-hour.

   As the first rays of morning sunlight enter the chamber, the plant
renews its activities.  Most spectacularly, the flower buds have all opened
up in the dark, and she is now enveloped in a cloud of deep crimson blooms.
She can barely see out between them, and through her haze of tired
frustration, thinks she must be a sight.  A naked woman, sweaty and
shuddering in sexual heat, bound about tightly in vines, with her hugely
swollen breasts, held aloft in a cloud of crimson, slickly gleaming petals.
She wonders if anyone will ever have the pleasure.  Probably not, she
thinks.

   By now, her vine carrier has been lifted several meters off the floor,
held aloft by creepers that have pulled up to the surrounding walls.  She
is nearing the waterfall, and the whole mass has tilted over until she is
now almost fully upside down.  Another couple of hours, and the flowers are
wilting, their petals falling away.  The surrounding mesh of enclosing
vines also withers and shrinks away, leaving her once more held only by the
close fitting tendrils tight against her flesh.

   Soon, she is directly under the waterfall, and in her now fully upside
down position, discovers a new feature of the Lingam.  It acts like a
funnel - the falling water hits its open end, and blasts into her via the
holes.  Exits via the fluted sides.  Her insides are being water-jet
pounded.  Now she begins to have rapid, uncontrolled orgasms.  Also, when
she sways, the jet finds her arse (now free of vine.) Her belly fills with
water.  Her breasts are positively jetting milk with each pulsing of the
nodules around her nipples, and the thing cupping her clitoris seems to be
stimulated to rapid sucking actions by the watery pounding.  Her milk and
juices mingle with the falling water, and in the pool bright underwater
blossoms open, and ripen.

   For some reason, once the vines holding her are being soaked in the
waterfall, the supporting vines cease their light-seeking quest, and simply
halt.  Leaving her fixed exactly under the falls, upside down, legs held
wide and far apart.  She loses track of time again.  Exhausted, sexually
overloaded, coming over and over as the water relentlessly pounds on her,
into her.  In fragments of thought, she expects to die here.  Wondering how
many days of this she will last.  Now she understands the bones in the
pool.


   [to be continued]