They [erotic horror] [pansexual] [female/ ???] [oral] [weird] [long]

“They”
Xian Black

What are they?

Ree wondered this, even as something inside her balked at the awkward phrase. She was a poet. A lover of the old language, for all its flaws. She knew that traditional gendered pronouns did not reflect the new understanding of gender as non-binary. “They” was the term preferred by most people who lived within the vast curved spectrum between the poles. Ree understood this, too, but it was difficult for her to move past the principle that “they” was plural.

Whatever else this person was, this person was utterly singular.

Standing against the railing on the opposite side of the rooftop, apart from the party, haloed by the city lights diffused through the smoke of their cigarette. Hair dyed cherry-red. Their feline green gaze seemed to absorb the glances Ree had been sending their way since she got here.

Ree’s fascination with androgyny bordered on a fetish. As a teen, she’d masturbated beneath posters of David Bowie and Tilda Swinton. Her lovers had always been feminine men, or masculine women, or individuals transitioning in one direction or the other. Gender-fluid. Genderqueer. Agender. Ree prided herself on her ability to identify where a person stood within this wide range of expression. She had an intuitive awareness, developed from years of careful study, of the tell-tale signs of surgery and hormone therapies.
This person flummoxed her, though. Like a jewel that appeared to be different colors depending on how the light struck.

Tall, thin. All sharp angles, with no trace of either feminine curves or masculine bulk. The squareness of the jawline suggested maleness, but their throat betrayed no hint of an Adam’s apple swell. The loose-fitting silky blouse was open wide to reveal a smooth, hairless chest and the slightest hint of small breasts. Unless that was a trick of the light, Ree making too much of suggestive shadows.

Of course, she stole a glance at their crotch. No discernable bulge.

Their ethnicity was as ambiguous as their gender. Vaguely Eurasian features, but with emerald eyes so bright Ree could see them across the roof. Their complexion was difficult to discern with the pulsing colored lights, but this person seemed to have an almost olive skin tone.

Ree was enthralled.

The party was hosted by Jerry and Ellen France, the alpha and alpha-bitch wolves of Wall Street, on the sprawling balcony of their penthouse apartment. The Frances called themselves patrons of the arts, but this was mainly an excuse for these billionaire emblems of one-per-center decadence to party with the city’s most well-heeled freaks. Artists and wannabes, musicians and hangers-on, underground filmmakers and transgender fashion models, avant-garde theater directors and more than a few individuals for whom no label could possibly do justice. The infamous couple themselves sat in their hot-tub throne in the rooftop’s center, a tragically young and handsome male model wedged between them as they ravaged the boy from both sides.
The France parties typically devolved into veritable orgies, exclusive to the very rich and the very famous and the very beautiful.

Ree was none of these things.

She was there with her husband. Mark had gained access to this stratospheric bacchanal because of the success of his first novel, an appropriately depraved and controversial pseudo-memoir entitled Cocksucker Blues. People were calling him the new Bret Easton Ellis. Some of them even meant that as a compliment.
Mark was an effete and charismatic bisexual, a master of strategic starfucking and socially-upward sycophancy. He and Ree had little in common beyond their shared interests in transgressive literature and blurred gender lines. Right now, Ree’s husband was on the other end of the roof, chatting up the CTO of one of the largest banks in the country. One of them, probably Mark, would be taking it up the ass within the hour. This bothered Ree not at all. They had an arrangement.

Mark wasn’t allowed to fuck other women, nor was Ree allowed to fuck other men, without express beforehand permission. (Unless, of course, they were in a three-way.) Same-sex and third gender encounters, though, were not only allowed but encouraged. The only rule was they had to give an extensive blow-by-blow recap afterwards.

Mark would definitely approve of Ree getting down with this mysterious person. This intriguing “they.”

A waiter passed by, carrying a silver tray laden with Swarovski crystalline flutes filled with Krug Clos d’Ambonnay champagne. Ree snagged a glass and gulped down several hundred dollars’ worth of the fizzing golden liquid in a single go. For courage.

She was already high as fuck. The Frances had asked all their guests to dump whatever pills they were holding into a communal bowl. Ellen had tossed this mind-altering salad and passed the drugs back out at random. Ree had taken something pink and something blue, with no idea what chemical interaction she was subjecting her body to on top of the high-grade weed she and Mark had vaped on the way over. The pills were kicking in now. Judging by how her brain and her clit were both pulsating, Ree suspected she’d ingested a Molly-and-Viagra cocktail. That was good. Her levels of both confidence and horniness were spiked enough for her to approach the beautiful creature.

Still, Ree felt a little self-conscious as she stalked across the rooftop in her blue chiffon dress. Like a teenager stoned at the prom. Normally, Ree strived for an androgyny in her personal style, but she had never been able to achieve more than a sullen tomboyish quality. Her body always gave her away. Unconcealable curves, annoyingly big boobs. This party demanded that Ree glam herself up, but she felt even less comfortable going full-on femme. Ree had frizzed-out brown curls on her head and freckles on her face. Her Frida Kahlo borderline unibrow defied all attempts at plucking or waxing.

Finally, she worked her way across the floor crowded with partiers, to the object of her desire. They were still standing impassively, still smoking, watching Ree approach with a studied disinterest.

This close, Ree smelled a strong, sweet scent wafting off the person. Less like perfume than the smell of an upscale florist’s shop, or a greenhouse where rare orchids were bred. Even the smoke from their cigarette smelled, not like tobacco or marijuana, but like some strange burnt floral blend.

For several awkward moments, Ree could do little more than inhale this intoxicating scent, while the person stood in silence, barely looking at her.

It was not in Ree’s nature to make the first move, but it looked like she was going to have to. She wanted to ask outright: “What are you and why do you smell so sweet?” But that would be rude.

Instead she said, “Great party, isn’t it?”

Lame, she knew, but goddamn, she was no good at this.

“It’s all right,” the person said.

Ree had been hoping that hearing them talk would give her a clue, but in this she was disappointed. Their voice was low and husky. Could have been a biological male going for Lauren Bacall, or just a biological female with a voice made raspy from the cigarettes.

“A bit cold up here on the roof,” Ree noted.

She hugged herself in such a way that the fabric was pulled taut across her breasts, drawing attention to her cleavage. Ree could feel how stiff her nipples were. She knew that they must have been poking through the diaphanous material.

The gesture drew not even an appraising glance from this person.

“It is, a bit,” they agreed in a flat, neutral tone.

“Do you know the Frances?” Ree asked, starting to panic a little. She was bombing here.

“I work for them,” they said.

“What sort of work?”

In response to that, this person looked directly at Ree for the first time. A tilt of the head, a slight roll of the brilliant green eyes.

“Whatever they want me to do,” they said.

Intriguing. Ree wondered if that meant what she thought it meant.

Growing bolder, she said: “Do you want to go inside and get out of the cold for a few minutes? Maybe grab a drink and talk for a while?”

The person gave a thin smile. “I wonder if you could afford that.”

No ambiguity there. Ree’s fascination was piqued even further. For all the things she’d tried in her life, she had never paid for sex. She saw how much simpler that would make this. No clumsy seduction, no awkward uncertainty. Just a simple negotiated transaction.

“How much would that cost?” Ree asked.

“That depends,” the person said.

“On what?”

“On what you want.”

Without thinking, Ree spoke her desire:

“I want to suck you off.”

Ree had a desperate oral fixation. It didn’t matter what genitals her lover had. She loved the sweet musky taste of a moist vagina, the twitching buzz of an erect clit. She loved the fleshy rod of a hard cock in her mouth, the hot splash of semen on her tongue, the slimy drip down her throat when she swallowed. Consuming human essence was for her a sacred act that lay somewhere between communion and cannibalism.

Stating what she wanted so bluntly made her swoon.

The person nodded thoughtfully.

“Five hundred,” they said. “A thousand if you want me to return the favor. Cash.”

As it happened, Ree had fifteen hundred dollars in her purse. Mark always made her carry money to these parties. He wanted to be prepared in case he ran into somebody selling coke, but he didn’t like the way a wallet ruined the cut of his pants.

“A thousand,” she said, shivering at the thought of those thin lips going down on her. “Fine.”

“All right. Follow me.”

The person flicked their queer herbal cigarette off the balcony. The tiny orange meteor streaked to the earth far below. They walked away without extending a hand or a glance Ree’s way.

She followed, her head spinning with drugs and keen lust. Her pussy was so wet, she could feel the moisture dripping down the inside of her thigh.

The person led her, not to the elevator that brought the guests up to the roof, but to a stairwell access far from where the party raged. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered on the verge of death; a sputtering strobe that only added to Ree’s sense that she had stepped into a dream-world. They went down two flights without speaking. The person opened a door. Ree followed them into a dim hallway, and from there into an even dimmer room.

The only light was that which came from the window; the lambent amber glow of the city, outside and far below. The only furnishings in the room were a small bed and a dresser against one wall. The person pointed at the dresser.

“Leave the money there,” they said.

Hands shaking, Ree counted out ten hundreds onto the dresser top, doing it slowly so they could see.

Satisfied with the stack of bills, the person turned away from Ree to face the opposite wall. They unbuttoned their shirt and leaned back to let it slide down their arms. It fell to the floor, unveiling smooth shoulders and a flawless naked back.

Ree watched, breathless, her heart barely daring to beat.

The person untied a sash around their waist. The pants slipped from their hips, drifting down their legs. They wore no undergarments of any kind; naked under silk. Buttocks as finely sculpted as a statue. The flower smell was stronger now, almost cloying in the small room. They stood still, not beckoning, not offering any invitation beyond their nude perfection.

Ree went to them. She fell to her knees. She kissed the smooth buttocks. Lips and tongue fluttered over the heart-shaped flesh. Fingers grasped the clean and hairless skin. Ree’s kisses found the cleft just beneath the hard knot of their tailbone. She ventured into the rift, licking her way down, searching for the aperture, her tongue finally finding a dry warm circle that gasped like a puckering mouth when Ree kissed her way around it. She penetrated the opening with her hard tongue, tasting a clean florid sweetness, this dark jewel too exquisite for any mundane human necessity like shitting.

Ree had rimmed many of her lovers, but the act had never driven her senses to delirium like this before.
Sometime later, remembering that she had to breathe, Ree lifted her head from the person’s perfect ass, gasping for air.

Then the person turned around.

Ree finally saw what they had down there.

She had to be dreaming.

Or hallucinating.

It was not a penis or a vagina.

It was a flower.

A small, tight bud, just beginning to bloom from the hairless groin. Petals a lurid pink, attached to the pubic mound by leafy green sepals.

Impossible, but Ree was too far gone to care. Too far gone to stop now. Still kneeling before this person (but were they a person?), Ree was frenzied with lust and the heady pheromonal redolence of their blossoming sex organ.

She leaned forward and took the bud into her mouth.

It felt both strange and familiar under her tongue. The organ possessed the thin vegetative softness of a flower, yes, but it was also fleshy and warm. Like labial lips or foreskin. Ree tasted a florid sweetness, like rosewater, but also a musk-flower creaminess that tasted like vaginal lubrication, and a thin, milky tang that reminded her of pearly beads of pre-seminal fluid. All of these things at once.

The organ swelled as she sucked it. It grew larger and stiffer, the erectile tissue of the petals engorging with blood. Like a penis or a clitoris. She ran her tongue in and around the trembling structure, coaxing it open.

The person, impassive up to this point, moaned with unmistakable pleasure. They put their hand on the back of Ree’s head, to press her closer. They leaned back and thrust their hips forward, forcing the organ deeper into Ree’s mouth. She gagged a little as it edged into her throat.

Ree pulled back, bracing her hands against the person’s hips. The flower had almost completely bloomed inside her mouth. She plunged her tongue inside to lick the complex structures revealed by the open petals. She remembered some of their names from high school Biology. Thin stalk-like stamens, erect as little cocks, were arranged in a whorl around an engorged, clitoris-like pistil. Ree’s tongue teased this trembling carpel, finding the hooded stigma in the center. Everything twitchy and alive under her pleasuring mouth, embracing her tongue with prehensile grasping, flooding her mouth with sweet nectar.

The person gasped, and every muscle in their body went rigid. They thrust their strange flower deeper into Ree’s mouth, holding her head between their hands. They cried out.

They came in her mouth.

The filaments of the stamens tensed and twitched, anthers opening to spurt forth grains of pollen. The taste was both foul and enticing, the sweetness of the flower so concentrated that it had become bitter. Ree wanted to swallow it, to consume this essence as she had consumed that of nearly every man and woman she had ever laid with, but the stuff was so dry and sticky that it coated her tongue. Some of it did go down her throat, but Ree’s inhaled breath drew the flakes of pollen into her windpipe. The grains of pollen went into her lungs rather than her stomach, wriggling like oversized sperm cells.

The person pushed Ree off of them and pulled their wilting flower genitals away. Ree gasped for breath. The pollen was inside her. She sneezed, repeatedly, convulsively, but this did nothing to relieve the itching in her throat, her nose, her ears, her eyes.

Ree clutched her throat, wheezing. Before she could recover, the door behind her opened. She heard more people enter the room. They surrounded her, strange flower people like the one she had just sucked to orgasm. All of them naked. Some tall, some short. Thin and heavy. Every conceivable skin tone. Ree, still on her knees, did not look up to see their faces. Only their flowers. There was an astounding variety, each of them unique. As different as roses were to orchids were to lilies were to tulips.

One by one these beautiful beings pressed their flowers into Ree’s mouth. Their nectar soothed her enflamed throat and nasal passages, but only while she was sucking them. While she was sucking them, she was lost in phrenzy. But after each one came, ejaculating more choking pollen into her crusted mouth, she regained her lucid awareness.

She understood what was happening. Flowers are the sex organs of plants, but plants do not reproduce by crude fucking like humans. They require a vector to pollinate.

Ree was the vector.

She was the honeybee.

When they were done with her, they left her on the floor, struggling to breath as the tiny flowers blossomed in her lungs.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/bhy249/they_erotic_horror_pansexual_female_oral_weird