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.
Too long, thought Shardine after nearly two minutes had passed without any visible movement from the vixling. ‘If the flinker can’t breathe then the watcher should have told the lifters to move the vixling before now.’
As that thought went through her mind, the watcher gave the command, and the two lifters grasped the vixling’s arms to raise her slightly. This time there was no sound of the flinker’s intake of breath, and in fact no sound or movement at all from him.
Surely they can’t have finished him already? thought Shardine, looking at his slambold which had not yet become a plimpy, although that did not necessarily indicate anything much. Shardine had witnessed several scortiums at which the flinker was permanently finished and yet his slambold remained. This time, however, the flinker did move after a few minutes, and the vixling was allowed to resume her smuntering...
As the next vixling approached the flinker, there seemed to be some sort of argument going on. Shardine could only hear snatches of it, but it appeared that the vixling wanted the slambold rather than the flinker’s face, and would not take no for an answer.
The scamper was becoming most indignant. It was, after all, her right to have the slambold after the others had finished or at any point she chose during the proceedings. Most scrampers did wait until the end when they could have the flinker to themselves, although these days when the numbers at each scortium were increasing it was becoming more and more common for the scramper to take her pleasure while the others were still smuntering.
Of course, the others would be allowed to have the slambold when the scramper had finished with it, if the flinker could keep the slambold or be cajoled and caressed into another one. This, however, became less of a possibility these days when the smuntering at most scortiums involved so many. Only ten years ago there might have been only four or five at each scortium. Now, however, it was the norm to find well over twenty present, and the results for the flinkers were all too obvious.
On this occasion the scramper, quite properly, refused to give up her rights, and the vixling stormed out of the room with a furious look on her face.
Now a nagold was making her way through the room towards the flinker. The others parted to let her through. She was not one of the most senior nagolds, but she was certainly one of the most intimidating. Taller than most, she was also wider than most yet with a smoothness that any matogle might have envied. With legs resembling tree trunks she stomped her way through, her huge brumples swinging from side to side at every step and the layers of heavy, bulging flesh wobbling threateningly.
The nagold did not wait for permission but climbed onto the table, puffing at the effort. She knelt by the side of the flinker, and with an almighty effort swung one enormous leg over his head. She was unable to see him at all now below her massive body, and she reached underneath her with one hand to locate his face. Having fixed his position, she adjusted and separated the rolls of her flesh, aimed, and descended onto him. His head disappeared completely beneath her as she sat down with a grunt of satisfaction.
“He’s not trying,” she announced to the room, turning her head to look at the watcher.
The watcher nodded to the scramper, and the scramper’s squeezed. The flinker’s screams of pain were muffled under the nagold. His body tensed, then flailed frantically and helplessly against the buckles holding him. The nagold was lifted briefly from the table, and an expression of satisfaction came over her face. She rocked slightly backwards and forwards on him as his frenzied struggling subsided, smiling to herself and closing her eyes to concentrate on the sensations.
The watcher peered worriedly, not able to see the flinker’s face at all and concerned about his breathing. “I’ll tell you when he needs air,” the nagold warned aggressively when she opened her eyes and saw the watcher’s head only a few inches from her huge thighs. The watcher backed away with a hopeless expression on her face.
“I felt his teeth. He bit me,” declared the nagold. No one moved.
“HE BIT ME,” shouted the nagold.
Reluctantly, the watcher nodded to the scramper again, and she squeezed once more. The flinker’s cries were heard by everyone this time, as he convulsed uncontrollably under the nagold.
The expression of satisfaction returned to the nagold’s face, and once again she started her slow rocking on top of him, making little sighs of pleasure which were accompanied by ripples in the flesh on her legs, buttocks and stomach as she squeezed herself onto him.
From time to time she did lift herself, or at least reduce the pressure of her body on his face enough for him to suck a little air into his aching lungs. The watcher tried to ask her to take it more gently and to give the flinker more space to breathe, but the nagold just glared at her and continued. The flinker’s arms and legs twitched each time the nagold settled firmly down onto him, but each twitch had less strength in it than the last, and finally he did not appear to be moving at all.
“He bit me again,” asserted the nagold.
“He can’t have bitten you,” said the scramper, “He hasn’t the energy left.”
“I tell you he bit me.” The nagold looked round angrily at the scramper. “It’s none of your business anyway. You just do what you’re told.”
“I agree with Granchen,” said the watcher. “He can’t have bitten you. At least, not deliberately.”
“And if I make him scream again,” went on Granchen, “I’m risking real damage to him. I don’t think his gelkins will take much more.”
“ARE YOU DEFYING ME?” screamed the nagold.
The watcher, the lifters and the scramper all stood back away from the flinker and the angry nagold. She looked at them as though she wanted to kill them, but instead she turned her attention to the flinker, grinding herself down onto him with all her weight concentrated on that contact between herself and his face.
Shardine watched in horror as the nagold went on and on pushing down on the flinker without a break. No one made any move to stop her. There was no way, thought Shardine, the flinker could possibly survive treatment like this.
Shardine got up and walked sadly from the room. She had seen enough to write her notes and to compose part of her report. After that, she knew she had to find another scortium to observe, and then another, and another. It looked as though it was going to be a very tough week.
