Category: Stories

Snow Angel

Alaskan Territory, 1879

Tuwaluk smiled broadly as she took in a deep breath and felt the raw cold enter her lungs and swirl around in a little eddy. She had a lot to be thankful for lately. Since leaving Nome an hour ago, the wooden runners of her dog sled had not bounded over a single rock, but instead found the snow to be deep, slick and smooth. Zipping along the wilderness trail at a respectable clip, Tuwaluk heard the sitka spruce runners make a constant unwavering whoosh as they passed over the snow. None of the nine dogs ahead of her barked as they made their traverse through the snow, but she could see their breaths in the form of vapor clouds as they panted at the strain, but knew they were thrilled at the run they were making as well.

In front of her, and strapped tightly to her sled, were the equipment and supplies of the new miners, not nearly enough to provide all the new white men that were digging up the sandy beach and panning for shiny metal flakes. “Gold,” the strange men from far away called it, and while none of her Eskimo family cared about the useless dirt, using their dog sleds to move their freight would net them two new rifles, which would make her father and her brother’s daily hunts so much easier. Tuwaluk smiled at the trade as she peddled up a small incline on the frozen tundra as dog sledding was second nature to her. Just being able to take her dogs for a two-hour run would have been worth it, though trading a half dozen trips for two rifles almost seemed like stealing to her.

This was her third trip, and she had already gotten to know the trail pretty well. It wound its way from Nome and then inland a bit, and then across the tundra to a point of land on the coast that was forty miles north of anyone else’s claim. Two white men had made their claim there, as gold in the sandy beach in Nome was steadily becoming harder to find. Tuwaluk doubted that gold existed on their newly staked ground, but she was not about to inform the two strange men of her suspicions. Instead, she would complete three more runs, collect her two rifles and then please her father with her gift to the family.

Tuwaluk ran behind the dog sled pushing as hard as she could to crest the hill knowing that for the next mile, it was a gentle down hill grade. She jumped on the runners and hollered at her lead dog, Kimbundu, to break out into a run so the heavily laden sled would not run into the back of the last dogs.

Kimbundu instantly reacted to her calls, just as she knew she would, and began to pull at the gangline, in turn guiding the other eight dogs as their harnesses strained and the dogsled began to move faster and faster down the grade and closer towards the flat frozen muskeag land at the bottom of the grade. As she neared it, Tuwaluk saw a strange sight in this frozen wasteland of the frozen north. Two wooden poles stuck out of the snow on each side of the trail. As she neared it, the tan hemp rope stretched between them was nearly invisible to see until it passed just over the head of Kimbudu.

Tuwaluk ducked, but her reaction was far slower than the speed in which the dogsled was traveling and she knew she was in trouble when she heard the rope sing as it stretched across the branchbows of her dogsled just before it caught her square in the chest. She was instantly catapulted backwards and sent sprawling into a heap in the cold snow. Dazed by the sudden turn of events, Tuwaluk took a moment to collect herself, and then pawed her way up through the snow expecting to see her dogs and attached dogsled running off into the distance. She was not worried. She had confidence in her training, and in her lead dog to know that they would soon miss her commands and return to find her. When she pushed a patch of cold snow away from her face however, what she saw completely surprised her.

Two cheechekos, white men she had never laid eyes on before, had snubbed her dogsled up short not more than three hundred yards from her. Now the one farthest from her was trudging up through the snow towards Kimbundu. In his tightly gripped wool knitted hands was a long hunting knife, and he had it raised up high and about ready to lash out.

Tuwaluk screamed out loud, for the moment forgetting that they did not understand her native Eskimo language. It did not matter. Her scream caused them to look in her direction and notified them that she was alive. Still the knife in his hand plunged downward, and before Tuwaluk could scream again, the deed was done. Or at least the task the white man wanted to complete.

Tuwaluk expected the sharp knife to be slid across her dog’s throat to keep him from barking and gnashing with his teeth, but instead the knife only parted the gangline. The man gripped the harness tightly and began tugging the stately dog towards his own dogsled. Tuwaluk saw it now to her left as she scrambled to right herself in the deep snow and head towards her favorite dog. She knew in an instant that the two men had no inclination to kill her dog, but to steal it from her. Theft of dogs was growing more and more common as the more and more white men moved into the area.

“No,” she screamed, remembering her English now as she prepared to fight for her dog. “He’s mine. I have trained her for many, many months. You cannot have her.”

“Shut up, you Eskimo bitch,” the second man said as he ran to intercept her. Tuwaluk faked a run to the right, and ducked quickly to the left, a move that outwitted the man, but her physical ability was what enabled her to skirt past him in the deep snow even though he lunged quite humorously at her. Ordinarily she would have laughed, but she was intent on keeping her dog team intact, and was not about to let any cheechakos take any of them from her.

Avoiding a big clumsy white man in the deep Alaskan snow was one thing, however, grasping her dog by the harness and wrenching it free from the second man was another. He was bigger than the first, but not necessarily fat. He held firmly onto the dogs harness as well and gripped her hand and squeezed it until the pain overcame her anger and she felt the bones begin to cave under the mans amazing grip. With a scream she let go, just as the second man scrambled through the snow to grab her from behind and throw her into the snow. She sprawled backwards and lay on her back as he knelt to deliver her a hard blow to cheek. Tuwaluk kicked, pummeled and clawed at the man in her defense, but he still managed to land two hard slaps to her face despite her revolving, defiant limbs.

“You snow bitch!” he growled when one of her fingernails connected just right into his forearm and cut him. Seeing the blood, he went to hit her again, but his punch glanced off her arm this time and landed harmlessly into her clothing. Or at least harmless in regards to pain, for when the punch landed, his balled up hand caught on the seam of her caribou clothing and tore the hide from her torso revealing her rather large fleshy breasts.

For a second, time ceased to exist. Tuwaluk was just as shocked at her disrobement as he was, and it took a second for her to recover from the shock to throw the caribou hide back over her bare chest. It was not from the Alaskan cold that made her cover herself back up, but from an ashamed feeling that she had never felt before. Even in her native Alaskan culture, to be showing a man her charms was forbidden and to be showing them for the first time to a white man was even worse.

“Take that back off,” he demanded now, though Tuwaluk noticed that his eyes and demeanor had changed. She only shook her head in defiance, and gripped her caribou hide even tighter out of fear.

The commotion had caused the second man to turn his attention to her plight and watched as her face was slapped again. It was a calculated move, and as Tuwaluk went to cover her face from the blows, he took her defenseless clothing and flung it open for his partner to see.

“It’s has been a long time my friend,” he said with an evil smile as he swooped down to grab her hands and pin them high above her head. Tuwaluk knew what the two men were referring too. She had never been wed and thus never had been taken by a man, but had caught her parents twice in the throes of passion and understood its meaning. She had also been warned by her father and brother to stay clear of the white man for that very reason and now looked up at them in fear.

The man holding her arms above her head tossed the very knife that he had used to cut her lead dog from the gangline to his friend. Helpless now, Tuwaluk felt powerless as he cut the remaining caribou hide that clung to the young Eskimo’s torso. It parted easily under the blade of such a sharp knife, though the caribou hide that made up her leggings took a lot more effort. Still, in a matter of minutes, Tuwaluk’s clothing was severed like a freshly field dressed caribou and she was laid out upon it to protect her fragile body from having to come in contact with the snow. Still, a cold chill began to overtake her.

The exposed Native Alaskan looked much different to the two men then the two dollar whores they had bought in San Francisco just before leaving for the gold rush to Alaska. She had short brown hair for starters, was perhaps twenty with a muscular build from years of the hard work and the nomadic lifestyle her people lived. Now nude except for her mukluks, she lay sprawled out on a carpet of caribou hides and let the men stare at the first naked Eskimo girl they had ever seen.

She was far from the ideal, slender whores they were used to, for she was stocky and bristling with muscles. Her cheek bones were also high, giving her face a pudgy look that was heightened by her short cropped hair. Her skin was lacked the pale, translucent look that the San Frisco woman displayed, since she spent every day outside exposed to the ungodly cold. Wind-burned and weathered, it looked more like leather than it did soft skin. Still she had what they so desperately needed, a receptacle for their passion.

One man knelt by her head, his heavy pack boots pinning her muscular arms to the makeshift caribou hide mattress as his partner grabbed her feet and forced open her legs. He smiled as he gripped her thighs, for unlike the whores in the United States, he legs were slender and well-muscled, with not an ounce of fat to be found. They were stretched out for what seemed like miles on the snow.

“Nice legs anyway,” the man said as Tuwaluk screamed out to the emptiness of the Alaskan wilderness.

“Scream, scream, my Eskimo whore. No one will hear you out here. No one,” he repeated and waited for her to see the futility of trying to pry an arm or a leg from out from under the two men’s grasp.

“Please don’t,” she spoke in plain English, as if using their own language would convince them to stop what they were about to do. “Please don’t,” she constantly spewed out of her mouth as if she thought that words would protect her any more than her tied up dogs would help her. Only the ever present north wind greeted her ears as she waited for a reply to her screams. None of the dogs bayed or even barked at her cries, and certainly there was no sound of wooden runners on snow either. No one knew she was here, for her freight hauling business was a secret in exchange for a present her father and brother would have to have in their hands to appreciate. Even the two men never spoke, to each other or to her, instead letting the solitude of the great north speak volumes for her helplessness.

She waited patiently for her rape, splayed out on top of the caribou hides, the cold creeping in from the snow below as she trembled, but remained silent as the hardy mountain man loomed over her, his torrid intentions ever so clear as he pulled off the layers of woolen clothing. Even here he was careful, tough enough to travel the many miles by steamship to Alaska, but not so tough that he would take his clothing all the way off. Just down to his knees, this was all that was required for his needs. She was not even allowed the modesty of having her feet covered. The man enjoyed the seductive curve of a woman’s foot, and pulled her mukluks off her feet and tossed them unceremoniously into the deep, frigid snow.

Posed as he was, that being nude from his waist to his knees, and being in close proximity to her legs, he took the liberty of forcing her feet far apart and maneuvered himself so that he was hovering over the defenseless virgin Alaskan Native. As the cold north wind whipped at his genitals, he quit all efforts at foreplay and positioned his cock as best he could. With no warning, he simply moved his arms out from under himself and dropped upon her, driving his shaft into her giving her no option but to submit. The sudden pressure of having all his weight upon her took the wind out of her lungs and she sucked in a deep breath just as she was impaled.

Her only savior was the snow that now crumpled and compressed below her caribou hides. It settled, but with it, so did the man on top of her and she felt this shaft begin to penetrate her and sink within her with no regard for her own admittance. It also burned, a stark contrast from the cold snow that was only separated by the thickness of the caribou hides. She cried and screamed beneath him, even bit into his shoulder to try and stem his hard thrusts into her, but the man was only spurred onward by her actions. He could feel her begin to open for him, if only for a bit, and then reached her virginity. At this he grinned, looking her in the eyes at the pleasure of knowing he would always be her first lover. Then he thrust, driving her back deeper into the snow so that she was pinned at an odd angle. He thrust again and felt the hymen being parted, then the ooze of warm blood and his shaft sank straight into the young snow whore even if he was taking her virginity.

From where he knelt above her, the second man could see the snow beneath her pelvis begin to turn pink with blood. He knew her virginity had been taken, but also knew his partners wrath and chose to remain quiet about the knowledge. As it was, he could see his friend become absorbed in the additional pleasure and watched as he looked into her pain riddled eyes and mocked her with indifference. When the woman tried to look away, he gripped her pudgy cheeks with his hands and snarled at her, forcing her to stare up at him as he prepared to plant his Caucasian seed in the young Eskimo’s womb.

“Fucking snow whore,” he snarled again, enjoying his degrading words as her body slowly began to accept her fate and began to go limp beneath him. “That’s it, bitch, accept it. Take it, hell you might just enjoy it,” he said and gave her another hard thrust that surprised her. She cringed at the ploy, but let it buck inside her and patiently waited for him to finish.

The man holding her arms noted his own grip could be relaxed and knew his friend could not hold back for long. It had been months since they had been with a woman, any woman, and being a tight, untouched woman would only spur him onward. His thought had hardly entered his head when he watched his friend close his eyes, bang into her pelvis with one more hard, impatient thrust, and then groaned wholeheartedly into her horrified face.

Tuwauk felt the last thrust and expected the worse. A second later she was greeted with the rush of hot semen being jettisoned inside of her for the first time. I was not the pleasure she had imagined, but hot and sticky, but thankfully coated her bruised and irritated vaginal walls. Her indignation was not quite done however. He brought his bearded face down close to hers and began to pepper her face with kisses, even slipping the tip of his tongue into her mouth to further mock her even as he went limp within her. Only then did he roll off her shivering body.

“Your first go-round is always painful my dear, but you will soon learn to enjoy it,” he scoffed and then turned to look at his partner. It was only a look, but already the man was tugging at his belt and pulling his woolen pants down to his knees.

As his shaft sprung free, Tuwaluk marveled at its size. The first man had managed to keep his genitals from being reviewed, but at this new sight, Tuwaluk realized why she was so sore. She had seen male babies in her village, but she never realized that it increased its size with age. Perhaps it was an attribute of their white skin color, she thought as she watched it protrude, twitch and curl ever so slightly to the right. She began to push backwards in the snow as he dropped down to her knees and approached her. It was futile she realized to cover herself up with the caribou hides, and in uncovered feet, even more futile to try and run for her dogsled, two hundred yards distant.

She felt the icy wind be stemmed as the second miner hovered closer to her, creating a wind block just as his rough woolen clothing landed upon her skin and began to crush her deeper into the snow pack. He was heavier than the first and more patient as he wiggled for what seemed like hours to position himself advantageously to enter her. She no longer cared as she felt his hardness slide steadily from off her stomach lower and lower until it began to slip between the curly hairs of her neither region. She just remained still, hoping that by doing so, she would survive, this attack being no different than enduring a Polar Bear mauling. Soon she hoped, the white men’s curiosity with her would be quenched and they would be on their way.

When the man finally thrust, his shaft aligned easily with her hole and slid deep into her depths from being pried open and lubricated by the first man. He heard her grunt loudly as he bottomed within her, pushing his pelvis hard into hers as he enjoyed the warm cavernous hole. Her breath escaped her mouth in a huff of visible vapor from the cold air surrounding them as her very breath was compressed out of her lungs. Then he plunged within her again, and again and again, in strong powerful strokes that mimicked that of the huge steam pump that ejected water from their old mine in Nevada. She huffed and wheezed with each forward stroke just as the pump did, a tiny puff of vapor being emitted each time as well, both in desperate need of lubrication for the operation to continue. For she was still hot from the friction of being forced open from his friend, tightness the man had never gained while engaged in the company of whores. Now he reveled in it and worked himself inside the virgin with vigor, feeling every vein and ripple of her inner walls as he sought his release.

It came quick, perhaps quicker than his friend and just as powerful. She watched him close his eyes just as a tiny droplet of pleasure began to overtake her allowing her the realization that pleasure could be derived from copulation with a man. That morsel of pleasure only intensified as she felt the hot sticky rush of his semen being pumped inside her. She counted the waves at four until it slowed to an ooze and then finally went limp within her. Only then did he withdraw from her, quickly rising from out of the cold wind to retreat to the warm confines of his clothing. Tuwaluk was not so fortunate, with the second man now removed from her body, she lay exposed to the cold wind blowing across the muskeag bog and shivered.

“Get dressed,” the first man barked at the culmination of her second rape. “We have many miles to travel before dark,” and tossed her discarded mukluks at her. Tuwaluk quickly put them on and draped herself in her caribou hides, more out of fear from the man’s course words than for her warmth from the cold. As she bent to tie the hide laces of her footwear, her split second inattention resulted in him clubbing her across her head sharply with a stout stick. Tuwaluk instantly began groggy and slumped forward into the snow, dazed.

“Why did you do that to her?” the secondary miner asked in shock.

As the darkness engulfed her, Tuwaluk heard him answer, “Because my friend, I believe she will be of equal worth to us as her dogs.”

Tuwaluk saw the glint of a knife blade out of the corner of her groggy eyes and twitched, sending the razor clattering to the floor. As it did so, the keen edge slipped across her thigh, slicing her ever so finely, but enough to draw blood as the woman that wielded it smiled and stooped own to retrieve it.

“You are awake now my dear,” she said as she returned with the sharp instrument. “Now just relax my pretty and we will get you looking like a civilized woman instead of a savage.”

Tuwaluk did not reply even in her own ethnic language, but instead began to look down at herself as her sight began to come into sharper focus. She was helplessly bound, both arms and legs and stretched tightly across the fresh laundered linens of a bed. She deduced she was in Nome, only by the board and plastered walls that only white men would construct and tried to relax as the woman began to use the strange looking knife to scoop with lather from her nether region. She tensed up as the woman skillfully plied the sharp instrument near her slit and skillfully retreated with a clump of her pubic hair.

“A prerequisite for men,” the woman said quietly and in a soft subdued tone as she continued to work. “You will now be working for me now young lady. No more moving loads of cargo in the Tundra by dog sled, but by courting men. And unfortunately they prefer their woman prepped in such a way. See much more ladylike,” she said as she ran her hand along her nakedness and shaved a wisp of resistant hair from off her softly curved mound. Tuwaluk looked down her body towards her feet and saw that the woman had been working upon her for quite some time. Only small remnants of lather remained and these she buffed off with a soft green colored towel. Tuwaluk began to relax as the soft cotton fibers rubbed her skin and the woman smiled at her.

“I suppose you have never felt cotton on you before.”

“Only caribou hides and seal-skins,” Tuwaluk said.

“Oh my dear you do speak, and English too. What a surprise. You will learn quicker then. Here, put these on,” she said handing Tuwaluk a strange set of clothing.

Tuwaluk was too mystified by her surroundings to be defiant. The woman with the razor noted this, and began to undo the bonds that held her to the bed as Tuwauk ran her hands over the thin white silk of the negligee.

“Soft and smooth isn’t it? Most men like that, along with a little lace to add a touch of roughness to the act.,” she said as she balled the simple slip over the Inuit’s head, then let it drop and watched her form slowly fill it out in all the right spots.

“Now for the stockings; the most important article of your new profession,” she continued, dropping the white silk stockings at the foot of the bed and positioned Tuwaluk’s legs so that one was crossed over the other as she tried to help Tuwaluk slowly pull them up her legs without ripping. Once, when Tuwaluk tugged a bit too hard, the woman slapped her hard across the chin.

“Easy. These are expensive, so put them on once and never take them off, even for a man. They like how they feel against their skin anyway so let them have their fun.”

Tuwaluk nodded as she rubbed her jaw and stood up to allow the woman to tug on her stockings for her. It felt strange to her, the constricting stockings so thin and fragile against her legs, having no purpose she knew but to excite a man. It was the only thing they could do, she figured. They were far too thin to fend off the cold, and too fragile to provide protection from brush along the trails. Even as the madam of the house clipped on the stocking tops to her garter belt, Tuwaluk knew this strange set of clothes was designed to excite, just as her nakedness had excited her abductor when their tussle in the snow had ripped apart her caribou hides. Now as she pushed her feet inside a pair of high heeled black leather boots, Tuwaluk shivered at the thought of standing so provocatively in front of men so they could position themselves inside her again as the two cheechekos had done in the snow.

“Just in time,” the madam said as she looked at the small clock on the mantle, then gripped her wrist only to whisk her away from the small room and down the stairs to the parlor of the house.

“Now stand up straight, smile and look at the floor as these fine young men make their choices,” she urged Tuwaluk as three miners carefully choose their weekly distraction from a week of hard shoveling.

Tuwaluk did as she said, in part fearing another slap across her face, and because she feared the three miners that no doubt had strength in their arms to make her submit as the other two miners had.

Despite all the madam’s effort however at making the young Eskimo fodder for the young miners desires, they passed over her with hardly a glance, paused at three other prostitutes, made their choices and then slipped off to the upstairs rooms with their choices in tow.

For a week the scene continued to unfold itself. Miners would come in, some sober, many drunk, to choose their companions for the evening. Each time Tuwaluk was passed over, even when there were groups of inebriated miners. This caused the other girls of the bordello to mock Tuwaluk’s Northwest Indian features and heritage. She loathed the other girls, their degrading demeanor towards her and especially their ignorance at her Eskimo traditions. So she kept to herself mostly, only being within their company at dinner time and when show-girling for clients.

Tuwaluk was planning her escape from the dismal bordello one day when all the unoccupied ladies of the house were called down to show-girl for a client. Fear began to grip her as rounded the second landing and recognized the two miners that had stolen her team of dogs and sold her to Miss Patterson. The second miner quickly chose a blonde woman, long legged and posed properly with a heart-shaped face, she was popular among the businessmen of Nome and arm in arm, quickly ascended the stairs with the man that had once forced himself on Tuwaluk.

Tuwaluk quickly looked at the wide sitka spruce floorboards as the more authoritative miner began to make his choice. He circled around the room, toying whether as he pretended to be attracted to the other women but finally stepped in front of her and put his finger to her chin. Slowly he raised it until she was staring at him in his blue eyes, so dark with evil that they seemed to radiate as gray steel.

“Lift,” he demanded with a single word. With animosity, Tuwaluk placed her hands onto the hemline of her already short dress and hefted it up to her waist so the man could inspect her sex.

“I see she has cleaned up nicely Miss Patterson,” the man said as he spun around to face his former business partner.

“Perhaps, but for a week now I have been giving her three square meals a day without the least bit of interest in her. At this rate she will never pay for her room and board to say nothing about making me money.”

“She is an Eskimo; you’ll have to lower her rate.”

“I have already. Half of what the other girls get, and still there is no interest. Perhaps if you had left her a virgin, I could have recouped my costs, Andrew?” The man only turned to smile mischievously at her, then turned back to face Tuwaluk though he spoke to Miss Patterson, to everyone really.

“I’ll take her…again”, he added after what seemed like a long moment in time.

Tuwaluk grimaced and spun from the man’s grip on her shoulder, but when she did, the man reacted with a hard slap that echoed across the large expansive room at the same time it landed on her right cheek.

“Don’t you dare treat my girls in such a way Andrew.”

“She’s my little Eskimo. I’ll treat her anyway I please,” he said and landed another across her cheek.

“Perhaps you found her, but I paid for her fair and square, and I will not allow my girls, any of my girls, to be mistreated. Now take her upstairs and enjoy her proper or get out of my house.”

“Move,” he said, whirling from the evil stare of the madam to roughly shove Tuwaluk up the stairs. Tears began to stream down at her eyes at knowing what she was going to have to endure again, but still she knew she had no recourse but to step into her room and allow the man the pleasure of her body once again. This time however, for a meager amount of money.

The wooden door in the small room echoed loudly as it shut, causing Tuwaluk to jump at its report.

“Nervous are we?” he sneered; as he tossed his hat onto the corner chair ushering in an air of confidence just as he had been a week ago out in the Tundra. He had already begun to strip, and yet kept his eyes fixed steadily on her as he watched her gaze dance constantly from that of his growing erection back up to his cold eyes, and then back down again. He could see her visibly shake, no doubt remembering her first encounter with him on top of the snow, and reveled in how her fear was beginning to rise again.

With one pointer finger, he ushered her towards him, never touching her until she was standing just in front of him. Even then it was a light touch, both hands dropping to her shoulders and then pressing them down rather lightly.
“Kneel.”

Tuwaluk was naïve, but knew what the man wanted. Once she had the courage to peek through the keyhole of the blonde, popular girl, and had seen her kneeling before her latest customer, her mouth slowly sliding back and forth along his shaft. With the man moaning loudly, and with his eyes rolled into the back of his head, Tuwaluk knew it was a pleasure the man relished.

But as she sank to her knees, it was not the mans distinctive musky smell that caught her attention, or his pulsating shaft, thickening and beating in time to his heart beat, but the sound of a dogs bark, yelping in a tone that Tuwaluk knew instantly was that of Kimbundu. She fought the urge to get up and stare out the single window to see if it indeed was Kimbundu. There was also no need; she sensed it, just as any mother would have known their babies cry.

Her mind raced, just as fast as any mother would do in order to protect her off-spring. She remembered her icy rape and thought hard about how both men reacted. She remembered their savagery, but also their lethargic reactions just after receiving their pleasure, and quickly formulated a plan.

Her plan coincided with his somewhat, as he brought his hands forward upon her chin and leveled it with that of his shaft. He was surprised when he did not have to bark another order as Tuwaluk opened her mouth wide, and took his cock into her mouth with vigor.

“I see you have learned a lot while you’ve been here my little Snow Angel,” he said moving his hand from her chin to the back of her head so he could control her movements by gripping her black hair. It was far from subtle.

He used her black hair to force her mouth in and out along his shaft, making Tuwaluk gag a little with each thrust as his cock rode over her tongue and sank its head back far enough to touch the back of her throat. She struggled for breath, and struggled to withdraw it a bit more, and even struggled to please the man in a way she had never dreamed possible. All Tuwaluk could see was the man’s hairy genitals pressing against, and retreating from her own oval and high-cheeked face.

All she could think about was how his cock had been inside of her out on the Tundra. How his abduction, and sale to Miss Patterson had reduced her whole world now to that of just pleasing men, from shaving hair from every part of her body, to kneeling in front of men who had stolen her dogs. She fought off the urge to bite him, to make him feel the same intense pain she felt within, but just then Kimbundu’s bark reached her ears and she began to focus again on her plan.

Tuwaluk moved her tongue, using it to caress the sensitive underside of the man’s shaft. She might have been new to giving a man this sort of pleasure, but understood all too well what his moans of pleasure, and harder thrusts signified. She was trying to speed the climax actually, firmly focused on her plan to escape the rape of her mouth even at the cost of pleasing the man that had stolen her most prized possession.

Tuwaluk’s mind lost track of the time as she struggled to breathe in the onslaught of the male genitals she was receiving. She was thinking of her dogs when suddenly the miner stopped his rampage, and pulled his shaft quickly out of her mouth. For a moment she thought he had pleasured himself within her, but upon having the bravery to look up into his eyes, she saw a display of hatred within, as his shaft settled into his hand. There it pumped a few times, until his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Tuwaluk instantly knew what was about to happen, and had just enough time to close her eyes as it began spewing his hot, sticky, baby spunk all over her wind-beaten face.

“Take that…take that you snow whore,” he cried upon his degrading release.

Tuwaluk knew now was her time, and turned under the pretense of wiping off her spoiled face. Instead she bolted, surprising the miner completely as the sound of shattering glass reached his ears.

Tuwaluk had leaped through the brittle window, shattering the glass and the thin wooden muttons with ease, knowing that trying to make an escape through the main lobby would have been futile. Her only fear was that the snow shoveled from the street would not be sufficient to soften her landing.

Landing in a heap, she felt no pain to her limbs as she struggled for a few precious moments trying to untangle herself from the frilly outfit she had been required to wear inside the bordello. She also fought for breath, the cold snow stinging her freshly shaved and thinly covered silk legs, as she ran towards the sound of her barking dogs.

Behind the bordello, she found her dog. Not necessarily her team, but she had enough confidence in her dog sledding ability to jump on the runners of the dog sled, pull the anchor from the snow and mush the team into their highest gear. Not surprising, Kimbundu was leading, and pulled the sled and his rightful owner onto Nome’s main street and began to pull with all his might. The other dogs seemed to react instinctively as well, and soon the team was sliding through the icy covered streets in a ghostly display of billowing white lace and speed. Looking down into the cargo hold of the sled, Tuwaluk spotted the polished walnut stocks of two rifles and smiled, just as Kimbundu did with a huff of white breath as he pointed his muzzle towards home.

Posted in Stories

Passion in the Rue de Lune

New Orleans, 1952

It was a hot and humid night, the kind of night that makes a dress cling to a woman’s body in that certain way that is both uncomfortable and immeasurably sexy. It was the kind of night that makes people in the city kill each other in petty arguments, the kind of night that makes dogs go mad and chase down children.

Susan Alison sat in a darkened outdoor cafe on the Rue de Lune of the French Quarter of New Orleans, uncomfortable but sexy. She played with the neckline of her white summer dress and sipped a cold beer while she watched the street scenes around her. Couples argued on a stoop; a dog sat and scratched itself raw; an old woman sat in a window and dabbed herself with a towel dipped in ice water.

Susan relaxed and soaked in the city, trying to ignore the oppression of the Louisiana heat. It was thick with atmosphere—a distant saxophone howled at the rising moon; a car somewhere off in the night honked its horn angrily. The night wore on.

A cool breeze seemed to bring Susan out of a dream. She opened her eyes and drew in a long breath. The heat of the day had finally gone; the streets were empty; her beer had disappeared.

“Good evening.” The voice belonged to a woman, French accent, near. Susan looked up and found her sitting across the table. She finished off Susan’s beer and smiled. “A lady shouldn’t be out this late alone.” Susan sat up, bewildered. The stranger looked to be in her late thirties, very pretty, with medium-length straight, blond hair. “And,” the woman went on, “she certainly shouldn’t fall asleep in the street.”

“Yes,” Susan finally managed to say. “Thank you for waking me.” The woman smiled and stroked the rim of the beer bottle. She wore a black cotton v-neck dress with a matching hat and a red ribbon around her throat. Her lips were thin, her nose was narrow, and her eyes were very big. Her accent was genuine French. All said, she was striking.

The woman looked at her with kind hazel eyes. They were mysterious and deep and seemed filled with volumes of old writings. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” She spoke in low tones, soothing and probing at the same time. Sometimes young women found themselves in New Orleans without anywhere to go.

Susan felt very tired, slightly confused, and somewhat embarrassed. She collected herself and breathed deeply. “Yes,” she said, “Yes, I’m staying at a hotel. In the Hotel Zibeline, just down the street I think.”

“Oh, that’s a nice place—also on the Rue de Lune,” the woman said, “It has some lovely old architecture.”

Susan didn’t quite know how to respond, so she just smiled a little and stood up to leave. “Uh, my name is Susan—Susan Alison.” She extended her hand.

“Catherine Dubois,” she said, giving Susan her hand.

“Oh, you have cold hands,” Susan said in surprise. She wanted to put Catherine’s hand to her warm throat, to cool herself off.

Catherine smiled and drew her hand back slowly. “You are a stranger here, hmm?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I can show you around New Orleans while you are here,” she said. “How long will you be staying?”

“Two weeks,” Susan smiled. “I am on a long and very much needed vacation. And,” she added, “I would be very grateful if you could show me around town.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“When are you free?” Susan asked, “I have all day.”

“Oh, I’m busy during the day. How about if I show you the night life in New Orleans?”

“I have all night, too,” Susan said. “Besides,” she added, “I bet the night is more alive than the day, in New Orleans.”

“You would be surprised,” Catherine smiled. They walked off together toward Susan’s hotel, agreeing to meet the next night.

In the shadows of a building across from the café, a dark figure trailed them until they parted.

Susan awoke just after ten the next morning. She felt flushed, a little sick, and her body ached. She wasn’t used to the bed yet, she decided, and New Orleans was a little warm this time of year for her blood. She recalled the night before while she showered, feeling a little foolish about the way she had acted. She had been very tired and thoroly charmed by Catherine’s European grace, and had acted awfully girlishly. The cool water rejuvenated her, refreshing her skin, warm and sticky from the heat.

Susan walked naked thru the room to the bedside, where she took her makeup kit from her valise. She walked around the room casually as she tied her reddish-brown hair back, enjoying the cool, sexy feel of the air on her nude body, the thickly-padded carpet on her bare feet. She caressed her breasts proudly and showed her auburn bush to the full-length mirror, trying to decide if it was time to trim it again. The warm morning light streamed in across her backside, thru a crack in the curtains of the window by the door; her second-floor room exited to a promenade directly outside, a very New Orleans touch that allowed occupants to come and go discreetly at all hours.

Susan returned to the bathroom and put on her makeup with practiced ease. She tried to think of something to wear, but finally decided to go out and buy something. She hadn’t really brought anything for a fancy night out, and she wanted to seem a little more sophisticated. Besides, it would give her something to do during the day.

The young woman heard a noise from outside her room, not quite a knock on her door, but more as if someone had brushed past it. Still naked, she picked up a hand towel and clutched it to her chest, not that it covered much. Then, she went guardedly to the door to peek thru the peephole. She could see no one.

Then there was another noise to the side of the door, at the little window—more of a scrape, as if someone was trying to creep across the ground outside, out of view. She tried to cover herself better with the towel—tho she had to stretch it taut to make it even begin to cover her breasts and bush—and crept toward the window. Susan froze for a moment, heart suddenly thumping in her chest.

There was an eye peeking in thru the gap in the curtains, darting from side to side, searching for her.

Shocked, terrified, Susan snatched up a shoe and rushed the window, smacking it just where the eye peeked in, making a terrific noise. She could hear the scrambling of feet, but nevertheless retreated to the bathroom, heart pounding, her nude body flushed and tingling. When she saw and heard nothing more, she went to the bedside and dialed the front desk.

Voice trembling, Susan reported the peeping Tom and demanded that someone come to ensure he was gone. Then, constantly looking over her shoulder, Susan quickly slipped on a pair of white panties, slid into a dark skirt, and topped it with an oversized white blouse to wait for the hotel staff.

The hotel manager himself came, ensuring her that no men were on the promenade or on the street below, but it was cold consolation for the frightened woman. She thanked him and asked that someone check back later, and the manager agreed that he would personally check on her periodically thruout the evening. The way he undressed her with his eyes, the shapely woman had no doubt that he would.

Susan shook off the peeper incident and went out shopping here and there around town, especially in the more fashionable boutiques. She ate a late lunch at the same cafe where she had dozed off the night before. At the same table. In the same seat.

It was about five when she finally returned to the hotel and retired to her room. She kicked off her shoes and decided on another long, cool shower. She stepped out of her skirt and shrugged her blouse off. Just then, the phone rang. She answered it immediately, altho it made her feel uneasy to caught in nothing but bra and panties in the open room again.

“Susan? This is Catherine. Will you be ready in half an hour?”

Susan looked over her shoulder at the window before cradling the phone with her shoulder and ear and slipping out of her panties. “Half an hour?” she said, detached. “Easy.”

“Good,” Catherine said, “I’ll be there shortly.”

“All right, I’ll see you in half an hour,” Susan said. Then, in fit of girlishness, she added, “Au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” Catherine replied in her dusky voice.

Susan hung up and stepped into the shower. The water was cool and invigorating against her skin. It dripped from her hard nipples and flowed down her body in little rivulets. She lathered herself all over, imagining what she and Catherine would that evening, and spent long minutes stroking and caressing her body clean, losing all track of time.

Twenty minutes later, Susan was slipping into a pair of lacy white panties when there came a knock at the door. It startled her, making her heart race for a moment to be caught again in a state of undress. She hurried into a loose camisole and answered it.

Catherine smiled warmly as she entered. She wore a stylish, short black dress and high heels. The long, gold chain of a pocket watch hung between the pocket and the bottom button on the front of the dress.

“Hello,” Susan crooned.

“Hi,” Catherine murmured. “You’re not ready?” She took a seat in the day chair by the window to watch Susan dress.
“Not quite,” Susan said absently as she went to the bed.

The auburn-haired woman spread her purchases out on the bed and chose from among them. After a moment of indecision, she put on a dark gray skirt—short and loose, a skirt for twirling on a dance floor. She put the jacket on over the thin camisole for a chic, casual look. Catherine insisted she wear black spike heels. With her hair done up, little ringlets hanging over her temples, and with just the right amount of rouge and the perfect shade of lipstick, Susan was ready—and devastating. Her nipples pushed at the thin camisole and her heavy breasts swayed as she moved, the jacket only keeping the ensemble from being positively lewd.

“You look tantalizing,” Catherine teased.

“Have you seen a mirror?” Susan gushed. “You could stop a clock.” It was true. Catherine looked chic and dangerous in her short black dress, tightly tailored to accentuate her curves. It pushed her breasts up so high that Susan could see the top of her black brassiere when she moved. Neither of them wore stockings; their bare legs were shapely and toned; it would have been a shame to cover them and further than their short hemlines already did.

When they returned to Susan’s hotel room, a slightly drunk and rather tired four hours later, they had seen enough of what there was to see on the famous Bourbon Street.

“Did you like the jazz?” Catherine lounged in a chair near the end of the bed. Susan wandered about the room with a glass of wine as they talked.

“Oh, yes,” Susan replied. “I like Dixieland jazz best of all.”

“No, I don’t mean Dixieland. I mean the bluesy kind of jazz, with a saaaxophone.” She drew the word out, giving all the qualities of a lover’s name.

“Oh, a saaaaxophone,” Susan said, playfully mocking the other woman. She paused in her wandering to take off her jacket and lay it on a vacant chair. Her breasts swayed freely under her camisole.

“You know what I mean,” Catherine said. “It’s like a human voice. It’s sexy.”

“I know,” Susan admitted. “But how is it better than a singer, for instance?”

“I think the human voice is equally sexy,” Catherine said, “and it excites me to listen to jazz singers, but the saxophone is like a… a soft moaning voice: no words, just sound—soft, erotic sound.” She leaned forward in her chair, her blond hair falling forward over her shoulders. Her voice was liquid; her movements had a feline grace—beautiful but unnerving.

Susan sipped her wine. “Most jazz singers are women, tho. So a saxophone might seem sexier, I guess…” Susan sat down at the foot of the bed, looking out the window at the sky. Her nipples pushed at the fabric of her camisole when she leaned forward.

“Not always,” Catherine said. “A sexy woman can be more exciting than a saxophone, if the voice is right. It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman… perhaps it even helps. Men have difficulty expressing their sexuality.” She hung herself on the word.

It was a long moment before Susan replied. “But women don’t, do they?” she asked, turning. She toyed with her wineglass, looking at Catherine, meeting her stare. Catherine’s eyes glistened like woodland pools in the light of a witchcraft moon.

“No, they don’t. Women are more comfortable admitting that something or someone arouses them… And they are more free to act on that confession.” They were very close, so close that their elbows nearly touched.

“Catherine,” Susan said softly, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“I have no secret agenda, Susan,” Catherine said, gazing evenly into the younger woman’s eyes. Susan’s eyes were starry nights with hazy clouds.

“I’ve never done anything like that,” Susan murmured, but she would not look away. She stroked her thigh absently and sipped her wine.

“You only have to want to,” Catherine guided. Her gaze became hard and penetrating. Her full, rose lips were slightly pursed. She leaned toward Susan almost imperceptibly.

Susan continued to stroke her thigh in silence. She looked deep into Catherine’s eyes and found them serene and patient. She too leaned forward ever-so-slightly.

Catherine reached down and put her hand on Susan’s. Susan glanced down at them as Catherine curled her cool hand around her warm one. Their gazes met again as Catherine moved Susan’s own hand slowly over the soft fabric covering the woman’s thigh. She pressed the hand into the soft cushion of Susan’s womanhood, moving it in tight circles with steady, even pressure. Susan’s eyes closed and her head tilted back to expose her long and pale neck. Her nostrils flared and she breathed in slow, unsteady breaths.

Pleasure came in long, level waves.

Catherine pressed forward until she could smell Susan’s skin. Her nose brushed Susan’s throat; her breath was heavy and hot against Susan’s bare throat. Her free hand rested lightly on Susan’s soft shoulder. After a moment, she drew back and released the younger woman’s hand. She breathed heavily, nostrils flaring, and wetted her lips with a quick, pink tongue.

Susan caught her breath and rested her hand on the arm of Catherine’s chair. They said nothing for a time, staring into one another’s deep, cavernous eyes. Susan took another sip of her wine.

“Pour the rest of the wine down your front,” Catherine spoke quietly.

Susan hesitated for just a moment and then breathed deeply and poured the cool red wine down the front of her camisole, across the generous curve of her breasts. The thin white fabric was stained a reddish purple and clung to her soft skin. Her nipples were sharp, dark circles on the cloth. As the liquid soaked in and ran down the middle of her chest, Susan closed her eyes and let her head drift back; her nostrils flared, she breathed deeply.

Catherine remained still and merely stared at Susan’s wet breasts. She reached out a hand and traced the outline of the other woman’s nipples. Then she rose out of her chair and leaned over Susan, stroked her auburn hair, and kissed her passionately on the lips.

Their tongues were serpents, writhing, twisting, entangling, constricting. Blindly, Susan reached out and found Catherine’s leg. She stroked it upward to the thigh, pushing the hem of Catherine’s short, black dress up to her thigh. Catherine caressed Susan’s wet breasts thru her top.

“Take it off,” she breathed, her voice a husky whisper.

They parted, eyes locked, and Susan pulled her camisole over her head and let it fall on the floor. Her slick breasts were flushed creamy pink, with small, hard areolas. A drop of wine ran down her flat belly. Catherine kneeled and licked the sweet droplet up. She kissed and licked Susan’s body as the redhead lay back upon the bed. Then she rose and began undoing the buttons down the front of her dress. Under it, she wore a lacy black brassiere.

Susan pulled her close and began unbuttoning Catherine’s dress from the bottom up. She opened it and kissed Catherine’s ash-white thigh close to her lacy black panties. Catherine bit her lip and moaned softly as Susan’s tongue flashed across her soft flesh. She shrugged out of her dress and fell to her knees beside the bed again. The two women’s mouths met in another fiery kiss, their pulses pounding, their hands roving, touching, caressing.

Susan unlatched the frontal snap of Catherine’s bra, and the black lace fell away. Her soft white breasts spilled out, red-nippled and aching. Susan pulled the blond-haired woman close and tongued her hard nipples. She sucked and bit them softly. Catherine moaned desperately. Bent over Susan’s long and supple body, she stroked her lover’s breasts, teasing her nipples with soft pinches.

Susan stroked Catherine’s thighs, pulling lightly at her panties. The chic blond bent down and kissed Susan’s tan neck, her breastbone, her shoulder. She ran her hand down the woman’s belly and slipped it into her pants; she stroked Susan’s pubic mound. It was soft, moist, almost sticky. She toyed with Susan’s skirt clasp and then unfastened it and slowly slid the zipper down the younger woman’s thigh. Laying back the cloth, Catherine could see Susan’s auburn pubic hair thru the white lace panties. She stroked the thin cloth with one long, sharp-nailed finger.

Susan lay back upon the bed, moaning and sucking her lip. She arched her back each time Catherine touched her soft mound. She caressed Catherine’s bare skin from her hard, round shoulder to her soft, round ass. She stroked her leg and her thigh. She slipped her hand between Catherine’s legs and caressed the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, pressing the knuckle of her thumb into the soft womanhood beneath her panties.

Catherine pulled away reluctantly, going to the end of the bed to pull Susan’s pants off her long, tan legs. She kissed each inch of skin as it was exposed, licked the underside of Susan’s bare knees, tickled her ankles with her tongue.

Susan moaned, stroked herself gently, writhed with passion under the attention of Catherine’s sweet tongue. Catherine let fall the trousers and made her way up Susan’s body, licking, kissing, touching. She kissed the soft flesh inside Susan’s thighs, her hands caressed Susan’s stomach and breasts.

Finally, she pressed her soft, seductive face against Susan’s silk-covered womanhood. She slid the bridge of her nose up and down the mound, pushing deeper into its musky softness. Susan moaned uncontrollably, stroked Catherine’s blond hair, pressed her head harder against her pulsating mound.

Catherine kissed it, licked it, snapped at it. She caught the fabric with her teeth and pulled the panties down, down around Susan’s knees. “Suck me,” Susan said breathlessly, half moaning, half begging. Catherine kissed Susan’s soft inner thigh again, smelled the musky aroma of her pink gash. She kissed it, licked it, sucked at the soft folds of wet, warm flesh. Susan moaned, cried out, pressed Catherine golden head deeper inside her. Catherine’s tongue lashed out wickedly, strong and cool against Susan’s softest, warmest skin. Susan’s legs wrapped around Catherine’s waist, caging her, forcing her closer, deeper. Soft cries and gasps escaped Susan’s soft mouth. She caressed her own breasts, squeezing, stroking, pinching her nipples.

“Yes! Yes! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” was all auburn beauty could say.

Finally, she collapsed completely with a moaning cry and great gasping sigh. She stroked Catherine’s hair and shoulders. Catherine kissed her way up Susan’s body, her face wet and sticky with Susan’s lubrication. She kissed Susan on the lips, and the two of them fell into a deep, passionate kiss, tongues delving and exploring, entwining and encircling. They lay beside one another, kissing and touching, for several minutes.

Then there came a knock at the door. Startled, Susan leaped up, reaching for something, anything, to cover her nakedness. Clutching her stained camisole to her breasts, she was filled suddenly with shame. Catherine rolled over casually to look at her; her nakedness seemed beautiful, natural.

“Who could that be?” the blond asked.

“The hotel manager,” Susan said. “I asked him to check on me. There was a man creeping around earlier…”

The knock came again. “Just a minute!” she called. Immediately she regretted it. Now the manager would suspect something, and even if she went to the door fully clothed, he would surely know that she had been up to something wicked. Oh, how the male staff would snicker with him!

But she only threw on the camisole, still wet and stained with wine, which didn’t even cover her bush. And when she got to the door, instead of looking thru the peephole, she immediately turned the handle of the lock.

Seemingly in slow motion, Susan saw herself turning the knob to open the door, glancing back at Catherine looking beautiful on the bed, sitting up, clutching the sheet to her nude form, one long, bare leg touching the floor. Then Susan saw the window. Before, she had made sure the curtains were completely closed, but somehow, now, since Catherine had been in the room, they had come open slightly, leaving a gap again wide enough for someone to see in—to see the two women strip each other, make love, cry out in orgasm, lie naked together in the afterglow.

Suddenly, as the door opened, a black-gloved hand came thru the gap. It grasped at the air, startling the two women. A shoulder heaved against the door, throwing Susan back against the wall. Into the room burst a figure in black—a black dress! A young woman, her pretty face twisted into a mask of rage, stood brandishing an automatic pistol.

“Olivia!” Catherine cried.

“You whore!” the girl screamed. “You betrayer!”

“Olivia, no! Calm down, darling!” She rose, drawing the sheet off the bed with her, only barely covering her nude body.

The girl stepped aside and slammed the door closed, then turned the pistol on Susan. “You bitch! I knew you’d seduce her!”

“Oh my God!” Susan gasped, suddenly recognizing the girl. She had her in one of the shops earlier that day, and again at the café. It had been her who had spied on Susan thru the window in the morning!

“Olivia, darling, please, don’t do this,” Catherine begged, pushing her tangled hair back. “I’ve told you; we’re thru.”

“I’m not thru with you,” the black-haired waif spat. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done!”

Susan backed away, but had little room to move in the small room. She took a pillow from the bed to hide her nakedness.

“Darling, I’ve told you. I can’t be with you anymore. Don’t you understand? You have a sickness, you need to see doctors—”

The angry girl stabbed the air with the pistol. “Don’t you think I’ve seen doctors?! All they care about is that I’m a lesbian! They all want to cure me, all right! They want to cut out my heart!”
“Olivia,” Susan began, “Listen—”

“Shutup!” the girl screamed pointing the gun at Susan again. Then she turned back to Catherine. “Don’t you understand? I love you. I’ve always loved you. You were my first. And when the others made love to me, you were the one I saw. You were the only one I truly loved.”

“Darling, there will be more—”

“Never!” the girl screamed. “We were perfect together. We were happy. Don’t you understand? People like us can’t be happy. It isn’t allowed.”

Catherine crept closer to her former lover, a girl of just twenty or a little more; a girl who was once beautiful, with full lips and slender limbs like a child, now a twisted maniac with a gun. “Olivia. We can be happy again,” Catherine lied.

“Not with you, you betrayer,” the she-devil growled. She stuck the pistol out just inches from her lover’s breast and shot her point-blank. The report was deafening in the little room, stunning the girl as Catherine fell back and crumpled to the floor, the sheet falling away, a perfect red hole in her beautiful breast.

Susan screamed in horror, and screamed again in terror as the girl turned toward her numbly, smoking pistol in hand. She scrambled across the bed, ducking to avoid the gun, but the girl didn’t fire. The auburn-haired woman picked up Catherine in her arms and tried to stanch the blood. It gushed from the wound, surely near her heart. It stained Susan’s camisole again, this time red-black with blood mixing with the wine.

“Susan—” Catherine gasped weakly.

“Don’t touch her!” Olivia screamed. But she lowered the gun for a moment, and Susan grabbed a shoe and threw it at her head. Olivia ducked, and Susan leaped up, grappling with her, struggling over the gun. They fired it together into the ceiling, sprinkling little bits of plaster around the room, before Susan was able to overpower her. The half-naked woman pushed the girl back against the open door violently, banging her head. Olivia pushed back, and banged Susan into the doorframe. They struggled some more, Susan proving to be the stronger, forcing Olivia down to the floor. But Olivia kicked savagely and bruised Susan’s legs with her hard shoes. Susan pried at the gun desperately, but the madwoman wouldn’t let go.

“Help me,” Catherine wheezed. Susan glanced at her. She lay almost motionless in a growing pool of blood, clutching at the wound in her chest. The red ichor soaked and stained her naked, pale skin. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
Susan turned back and struggled again with Olivia, banged the gun into the black-haired girl’s forehead, cutting her deeply, making blood ooze from the gash. Olivia gasped and grunted and fought back. She got one hand down between Susan’s legs. She jammed her slender fingers into Susan’s pussy, saying, “Did you like it? Did you come for her? Did she make you moan?”

Susan thought quickly. “Oh, oh, yeah,” she faked. “Olivia, that’s nice. That’s good.”

“You fucking whore,” Olivia growled, digging her hand deeper into Susan’s cunt. “You like it, don’t you? You’re a dyke, too—just like Catherine.”

Susan let go of the gun and fumbled with the front of Olivia’s black dress. “Let me,” she whispered. It opened to reveal two beautiful little breasts with small, hard nipples. Susan sucked one, licking it like an ice cream bar, moaning her fake moan, the same moan she had practiced on the men she had let fuck her.

“Take off your dress, honey,” she urged. “I want to be naked with you. We can be together.” She rose up and peeled off her blood-and-wine-stained camisole, fully revealing her beautiful tits to the young girl at last, red where the blood had soaked thru on them.

Olivia panted and bit her lip, eyeing Susan’s luscious tits, but desire turned suddenly to hatred. “You fucking cunt-lick!” she screamed, and swung the gun up at Susan. But Susan pushed the gun aside with a growl and grabbed the girl’s hair savagely. She banged Olivia’s head against the floor, dizzying her.

The naked woman got up quickly then, and rushed out the door, screaming, “Murder! Police! Someone help me!” She rushed down the wooden promenade to the stairs and started down them. Just then, she saw Olivia stumble out the door, the dress torn from her shoulders, small tits protruding, clutching the pistol with one hand and the back of her head with the other.

Susan rushed down the steps, heedless of her nudity, the blood on her breasts and on her hands. She vaguely saw the hotel manager come out of the lobby, face aghast, his staff behind him, as she ran screaming into the Rue de Lune.

What she didn’t see was young Olivia, dazed and injured, stumble into the iron railing of the promenade, tumble over it, and fall fifteen feet to the parking lot below. Her head split open, gushing blood on the asphalt. She tried to rise, but she only wavered and fell back down, mashing her pretty face into the pavement, her body limp and lifeless.

Posted in Stories

17 Short Films about Hades and Persephone

He filled their bedchamber with narcissus each time Persephone returned, because he knew she found them beautiful. The flowers didn’t last long in the underworld, but their aroma lingered. To Hades, the flowers smelled no sweeter than her skin.

His brother Poseidon roared with laughter when Hades told him. Sprawled on his throne of coral, idly fondling the partially-exposed breasts of the Nereid curled in his lap, Poseidon poked at Hades with his trident which, Hades sometimes thought, his brother considered a subsidiary phallus. “Bumbler! You kidnapped the wench with narcissus! They don’t like to remember the first time, even Zeus knows that.”

Hades did know, but what else was he to choose? There were no flowers in his realm, so he had no idea what other flowers she might like. He had to have something to let her know her return was a special occasion, and she scorned his gold and jewels, no matter how intricate the workmanship.

Poseidon’s solution was to offer him a Nereid to “take the edge off.” Useless libertine. Despite her smiling flash of tiny, pearly teeth and her hand that traveled unerringly below his waist, Hades knew the slender creature in her transparent drapery was afraid of him. He couldn’t bear other women’s cringes when he sat too near, their flinches from his hands as if they sensed the cold of the grave. He wanted Persephone, if he could only wait for her.

The waiting was the most difficult part.

He wanted her to at least smile upon him, not the sad and terrible smile she gave to beseeching mortals, but the incalescent smile of the young maiden she had been.

Hence the narcissus.

He might not deserve her smiles, but he wanted them all the same.

His sister Demeter always made Hades wish to be elsewhere. Every time he looked at her matronly form, he was reminded that she had once rejected him, going to Zeus’ bed instead, and later to that of Poseidon. To her credit, she hadn’t struck at Hades with these encounters, but of course Zeus did. At length. He could never resist describing his conquests, stroking his glorious beard the while, as if it were Demeter’s fertile flesh. Their union had yielded Persephone.

From Poseidon, there was his usual braggadocio about his stallion rutting. Not only Demeter but woman upon woman—sometimes several at a time—succumbed to Poseidon’s carefree laughter and unbridled hands.

Hades was paler and slighter than his brothers, his hair and eyes darker, as if reflecting the darkness of the world below. His nose was long, his lips finely carved, his eyes heavily-lidded as if with sleep or eternal contempt; most could not tell which. He did not think himself ugly. Unlike his brothers, his hands were uncalloused, slender and smooth, his chiton always immaculate, his sandals never worn or frayed. He went cleanshaven for the most part, feeling a beard was too profligate, and cropped his thick hair short, though it made futile attempts to escape onto his forehead. True, his body held too much tension for beauty; he knew that; but he was not repugnant.

He could recognize himself in the statues mortals made to represent him, few as those were, and he received worship from mortals, even if that worship consisted only of begging his mercy while banging their heads against the dirt. And he was rich. All the stones and metals below ground belonged to him. He did not understand why women not only refused him but avoided him; not only avoided him but actively ran away.

Of course, had Demeter accepted him in the first place, Persephone might be his own daughter rather than Zeus’, and thus could not have been his wife. He supposed he had got the better end of the bargain. He did not know if Persephone agreed.

Persephone should have blamed Zeus for her predicament, not Hades. Zeus fathered her, and Zeus gave her away. Hades only took what he needed.

It began with a pomegranate. She would not linger with him voluntarily, so legality was Hades’ only recourse. She had eaten; she had obviously intended to stay. Hades presented the facts thus. Zeus agreed with him, Hades suspected, because he was tired of listening to Demeter’s endless plaints about their daughter. If not as romantic as Hades had hoped, at least he had a place from which to begin.

(He never forgot her lips suckling the fruit—scarlet pulp smearing her chin and her defiant eyes when he discovered her.)

Hades did his best for their wedding, belated though it was, and though he could not let Persephone depart his realm to spend the traditional proaulia period with her mother, he made certain all of the proper rites and sacrifices were made. He studded the palace’s ceilings with diamonds and set them alight with the touch of his hand. He carpeted the floor in plush moss and gave it the colors of his finest jewels, arranged into figures forming the war with the Titans. To accompany the sacrificial feast, he arranged for earthly foods, all the ones he hoped Persephone would like best: figs bursting with sweet nectar, cheese pale and smooth as her skin, honeyed sesame seeds, a rainbow of olives. Then he hardened his nerves and invited his sister Demeter. Luckily, old Hecate took Demeter in charge as soon as she arrived, forestalling a number of possibly ugly arguments.

Begun with song, the wedding continued with processions and the giving of gifts, purifying baths and the sacrifice of Persephone’s childhood garments. She presented a lock of her hair to Artemis and helped distribute fresh-baked bread to the guests. Hades endured it all, gazing upon his bride and no other, his trembling fingers tucked in the folds of his chiton. She did not appear afraid. Instead, she seemed to Hades to be more haughty than Hera, taking the guests’ homage as her due.

Persephone spent the entire ceremony staring at her mother through her veil. Being a god, Hades could see straight through to her face. Persephone seemed to be angry at Demeter; he could not conceive why.

She would be happy once they were alone again. Surely she would be.

Perhaps it began before the pomegranate, with the narcissus.

True, he did entice her into his realm with the flower’s wondrous scent. He’d been surprised and relieved by how easily she’d followed him.

If not Hades, then some other would make Persephone his wife, possibly even one who was not divine. She deserved better. She deserved a god. The King of the Dead was no less than her due.

On their wedding night he brought her to a bedchamber whose walls were streaked with wide veins of gold and silver, catching the lamplight like her eyes. He loved the cool smoothness of stone, but not as much as warm yielding flesh, so much more rare in his realm. He laid her among pillows and plush fleeces, permitting only the faintest plucking of a cithara to tremble in the air. Kneeling before her, he withdrew the pins and flowers from her hair, spreading her topaz tresses between his fingers. All the while, his eyes did not move from her face.

She would not look at him. When he brushed her cheek, gently as a moth’s wing, she turned her face away.

He had given her golden fibulae to pin her peplos, and a girdle of calfskin embossed in gold and decorated with freshwater pearls. He carefully unclasped the fibula at her left shoulder. He heard the shaft’s drag through embroidered wool as he withdrew it; his fingers closed over the sharp pin, convulsively, before he put it aside. His hands did not tremble as he unhooked the other and folded her garment down over her girdle.

Her breasts held a rosy glow, the nipples dark like the secret flesh of figs. They felt as round and weighty as quinces in his hands, no less perfumed but more yielding. She smelled like fresh bread and very slightly of lanolin, and the relentless odor of narcissus. Her eyes, dark and huge, flicked down to his hands, and back to his face, but she looked away again as soon as she saw him watching.

He had every right to touch her. Hades cupped her breasts and dragged his thumbs over her nipples, feeling the hot rush as they engorged, watching her pulse flutter at the side of her throat. Her skin felt so soft, softer than talc slipping and dissolving under the fingers.

Her nipple tightened in his mouth. He suckled it reverently as his fingers, seemingly unbidden, removed her girdle and pushed aside the folds of her peplos. A faint shiver passed over her skin.

Hades leaned down and kissed her. She knew now to open to him, though she gave him nothing else. Her mouth tasted humid and fluttery, like the wings of a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, and slick, too, like the creatures who lived at the edges of pools underground. He inhaled Persephone’s breath and softly tested the plumpness of her lips with his teeth, hoping she would respond in kind.

At last he had to withdraw so he would not fall upon her with his hunger, too great for even ambrosia to satiate. He forced himself to smile and stroke Persephone’s soft cheek with the back of his hand. Her lips brushed his fingers as she turned away, but not purposefully.

Frustrated, Hades blew out his breath. “Look at me,” he said. “I will not harm you, Persephone.”

Then she looked at him, but her dark eyes blazed with anger, not passion.

He flinched. “I only want you to look at me,” Hades said, softly.

“I hate you,” she said, and looked away, her eyes wide open, fixed on the wall like someone dead.

Well, she would have pleasure anyway. Their wedding night would be perfect. Gritting his teeth, Hades unfastened his finery. His fingers stumbled until, all at once, his bare flesh met hers, and it was as if he embodied phlogiston, ready to burst into flame.

He could smell her musk, almost like the mushrooms mortals ate in worship. He grasped her hips in his hands and lifted her sex to his mouth, for a few moments allowing himself to devour her melliferous petals with his tongue, sucking her tiny stamen between his lips and pressing it between his shrouded teeth. She cried out, a tiny, broken sound, like a soul trapped in Tartarus, and he would have recoiled had her fingers not sunk deeply into his hair. Then he understood, and the next cry from her tore his heart with hope.

Persephone sighed and fell limp. Hades lowered her slight form gently to the cushions and caressed her breast and her face. His hand curled softly around her cheek as he kissed her.

“I hate you,” she said.

Persephone spurned topaz and emerald, amethyst and tourmaline. After that rejection, Hades traveled above on foot to bring her armloads of flowers; she threw them in his face.

The first time Persephone left him to go back to her mother, Hades did not accompany her. He had not the slightest desire to see Demeter. The crone Hecate escorted Persephone instead. Hades pretended he was not watching to see if his wife felt sadness at leaving him, or joy.

It would not have been appropriate to send Persephone alone, and to escort her himself might have seemed too possessive. Hecate was a good compromise. She retained privileges in the underworld from some distant time before his own rule had begun; he knew vaguely that she had something to do with mortal childbirth as well, but that was not his concern. Persephone could bear no children after her congress with the King of the Dead.

Hades thought, since gifts proved useless, he could woo Persephone with poetry. That experience did not bear repetition.

For a time, there was comradeship between Hades and his wife. Persephone had known Theseus and Pirithous were coming to abduct her. Hades shared it with her, and revealed his plan for keeping her safe. She laughed with him at the simple cleverness of it. She took to watching the progress of the Heroes through their realm each afternoon, curled against his arm on a couch of cedar spread with wool carpets. For her pleasure, Hades made a wall into a vast window that followed the invaders like Thanatos himself, implacable. Together, they watched the aging Heroes distract Cerberus with honeyed cakes. Persephone cooed over the creature as if he were a lapdog. Hades had to laugh when she invented her own conversations for the two Heroes:

“Theseus! Oh! I’ve fallen into this pit! If you pull me out, I will lick your cock for you!”

“Nay! My mighty pillar of manhood shall not be licked by you, but by Hades himself only!”

“Then I, too, shall have only Hades for my bride, because to follow you is my only wish!”

Hades sometimes wished some other misguided fool would attempt to steal his wife, just so they could experience such happy times again, two beings with a single goal.

Persephone never came to him for lovemaking, yet complained when he left her alone.

Her hands on his body were never gentle, but he accepted her roughness as better than no touch at all.

Persephone flaunted the pleasure she found with Adonis, or so it seemed. Hades gritted his teeth and bore it. He would not look. He would not look. He could hear their laughter from her sewing chamber as Persephone stroked Adonis and whispered to him-Hades imagined all sorts of things, probably worse than reality, he told himself; surely Aphrodite, Adonis’ chief protector, would not allow Persephone such liberties with her paramour.

All his time underground, however, was fully occupied. Persephone led Adonis about the palace like a pet goat, holding him by the arm or the wrist or the hand, and once by his flowing hair.

She never touched Hades if she could avoid it.

She kissed Adonis in greeting and in parting, and not just a peck on the lips; she kissed his mouth in a leisurely fashion, then trailed her mouth across his cheek and finished with a soft brush of his ear, every time. She made sure Hades saw, and he watched, unblinking. Inwardly, he writhed. That should have been him. He’d meant to be in Adonis’ place: the object of her adoration and the source of her pleasure. Except he was not beautiful, not like Adonis, and his smiles chilled even the bravest mortal souls, and his touch somehow repelled innocence.

Adonis had no choice about his visits. For that reason, Hades could not strike him down, much as he desired to do so. He was not Zeus, wielding his power for petty revenges and momentary seductions. Instead, Hades took pleasure in surveying his domain from his chariot; counting his riches; admiring his favorite ornament, the Lapith prince Pirithous sitting in the chair of forgetfulness, his eyes wide and empty. Then he would picture Adonis in that chair, or in the empty one that had captured Theseus: just punishment for men who had tried to take away his wife and lover.

Inevitably, he would return to their bedchamber after his miserly evening meal of olives and bread and lamb, and pretend he was not waiting for her.

Persephone returned to Hades’ bed when Adonis left her at last. After his enforced celibacy, abstinence was impossible for Hades. He could easily have fallen on her, taking pleasure while allowing her none, but his pride would not allow that. He could not leave her unsatisfied and have her doubt his prowess.

Persephone’s body cooperated savagely in their joining while her words eviscerated. “Adonis,” she said, gasping with each thrust, “makes me—forget-words. With—one touch—he—”

But you are mine, not his, Hades thought. Afterwards, as they lay exhausted, he said, “He doesn’t love you.”

“I know that.” She might have been speaking of household accounts. “He cannot love me.” She paused. “I cannot love you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I am your husband. He is a paramour.”

“He tastes like honey and flowers. His touch is the sun and the wind.”

“He’s for the world above. You are for the world below now, as I am. You are its queen. Be content with what you have here.”

“I will leave you. Very soon now, husband.”

“When you leave our realm, Adonis still will not be yours. He loves Aphrodite. You took him when you could for your own pleasure, but you cannot keep him.”

“As you took me.”

“To be my Queen.”

“I care nothing for being a Queen.”

Hades knew she lied but, wiser than he had once been, he said nothing.

More than once Hades thought being without Persephone would immolate him.

“Led by your balls,” Poseidon scoffed, but Hades noted that his brother’s casual seductions never ended well, if not for him then for someone.

No, Hades knew a faithful marriage was the most prudent course for a ruler, and the most satisfying. And he wanted Persephone. Oh, how he wanted her.

After Adonis was killed, Hades thought to give Persephone a bouquet of the crimson anemones that grew up from his blood, in remembrance of her lover. Then she would also remember their marriage was eternal.

He thought better of it before she arrived, and resolved simply to make her forget that her body had known another.

Hades created windows to the world above, to watch his wife as she went about her daily routine of staining her mouth with grapes and weaving bright woolens and chasing pet piglets in merry abandon and dancing in the sunlight with her maids until they collapsed, laughing. He could not watch for long before his body would quicken, and he had to seek release. The nymph Minthe was enough aroused by Hades’ fine quadriga and plume-tailed black horses that she consented to lie with him, provided the horses could watch. Nymphs had strange ways, but Hades was not one to quibble. Poised on the brink of entering Minthe’s soft channel, he was brought up short by tender breath on his neck.

“I think not, husband,” Persephone murmured in his ear. “Consider what I have given up for you.” Curling one hand around his waist, she flicked the fingers of the other into the nymph’s startled face.

Crushed mint, he found, made a wonderfully crisp-smelling bed for lovemaking. Persephone bit at his lips and scraped her nails down his back even as her thighs urged him over her; gasps jerked from her mouth as her body skidded in the herbs and damp earth. She threw her head back and cooed in her throat like a dove.

But her eyes were closed.

As Hades wandered the palace corridors, he heard Hecate’s cackling mingled with Persephone’s sweet laughter. Once, when Hades went to pay his annual respect to the old bastard Cronus, he came upon the two wandering the fields of Elysium, arm in arm, heads bent close in colloquy. The friendship signified, he thought, Persephone’s acceptance of her place in their realm.

He wondered if they ever discussed him. He decided it was better not to know what advice Hecate might be dispensing.
Having taken Persephone from her mother’s bosom, Hades felt it was only right that she take Hecate as a weird and mysterious substitute.

As his queen, Persephone had the right to contradict Hades’ judgement, so he relented and allowed Orpheus to depart the realm of death with Eurydice. However, the singer could not resist looking back, thus sending Eurydice’s shade irrevocably back to death.

Later, Persephone watched in pity and grief as Orpheus, numb to his fate, allowed himself to be ripped limb from limb. “I did this,” she said. “I thought a love like theirs, at least, should endure. But I should have left well enough alone.”

Hades curled his fingers over her shoulders. “None can escape his destiny,” he reminded her. “This is none of your fault.”

Getting no reaction, he said, “They’ll be together again. When Orpheus rejoins his lover, they will be together eternally in Elysium.”

“Hecate said to me—”

“Yes?”

“You would not understand.”

“I am the queen here, am I not? I am the Queen of the Dead. Mortals look to me when they plead for favors.”

“You are, and that is true,” Hades said, hands clasped behind his back to restrain himself from embracing her, this day of her return. She looked more regal than he had ever seen her, his pale bride with her long topaz hair held back with a circlet of woven wheatstraw; the smell of sunwarmed stone clung to her skin. She met his gaze without flinching, brows arched, a small smile hinting at the corner of her rosy lips.

She had decorated their bedchamber with colorful hangings showing scenes of sowing and harvest, flowering plants and fruit-bearing trees, but there was a new tripod in the corner as well, surmounted by silver castings of snakes. A coil of rope rested atop the coverlet.

Hades took a step towards her. She held out one palm and said, “Stop.”

One eyebrow lifting, Hades obeyed. She seemed less like Persephone and more like someone else. Not Demeter. Demeter bore her responsibilities as Persephone did, but without that sense of leashed power; Artemis had the power, but not the calm control; Athena had wisdom but also violence. And Persephone was far from virgin Hestia, always above and uninvolved.

The knowledge in her eyes, as if she knew his every word before he could utter it-she reminded him of Hecate, as if the old woman had become her true mother.

Yet Persephone was also herself. More like to him than to any of the other Olympians, but beyond that, herself, a power in her own right. “What do you want of me, my queen?” he asked and, impossibly, she smiled at him.

The rope bound his wrists and ankles to the bed posts like Ixion to his flaming wheel. Persephone stood at his feet wearing a milky white peplos, her bare arms flickering with shades of rose and lemon in the lamplight, her hair loosed to fall down her back, a few strands clinging to her breasts. She surveyed his naked body. Whether she was pleased with his appearance or his bindings, Hades did not know.

“Do you want me to touch you?” she asked, her tone cool but her eyes hot. Of course he did, but could not decide what answer she expected. He had been wrong so many times.

Persephone tugged one of the ropes, as if arranging his legs more suitably for display. Hades said, “I always want you to touch me.”

“And if I choose not to?”

For a moment he could not speak. “Don’t do that,” he said, finally.

Persephone walked up and down, gazing at him the while, considering her answer. Hades sighed in relief as her finger touched his chest and drew a line downward, halting just above the navel with a sharp twist of her nail that caught his breath once again. Her nail traced his collarbone; then her fingers slipped into his mouth. “I will let you have this,” she said.

Hades nipped her fingertip with frustrated eroticism. He scraped the pad of her finger with his teeth; her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. He sucked the length of it.

She withdrew her hand and lifted it to her mouth; with a quiver in his belly he watched her nip the same finger as he had, her tongue curling around her own knuckle; she reached and touched her slippery fingertip to his left nipple. A shock of cold spread across his upper body when she rubbed gently; her hard pinch sent a jolt straight to his phallus.
Persephone’s hand soothed his skin. She said, “I liked that.” She smiled, slowly.

Hades wished his arms were free. Even one would do. His imagination taunted him with how her skin would brush against the inside of his arm, how her plump breasts would flatten against his chest. The tactile illusion was so distinct, he thought for a moment that he had managed to wrest his arm free of its restraint. He could have done so. But he would not.

Persephone bent and swiftly bit the top of his thigh, startling a jerk from his ankles. She smiled and bit again, and again lower down, teeth and tongue the source of a fiery blush on his skin. She paused and glanced up at him, eyes half-closed, wild and sultry. He gave up attempting to watch and let his head fall back, gasping for breath. She bit him softly above the knee and he sucked in air. More than anything, he wanted her to take him into her body, every fragment of him curling within her skin like a child inside the womb.

He had taken her. Now she took back.

“Close your eyes,” Persephone said.

Without sight, he felt as if the very air around him bent towards her, like a worshipper to an idol. Please, he wanted to say. Please. He remembered what his life had been like before her, before the assurance of her touch, no matter if she touched him in hatred.

“Say it.”

The word wrenched from his chest. “Please.”

“No.”

She did not want jewels. She did not want gold. She—”I would-I would set you free,” he said in desperation. “Do you want to be free of me, Persephone?”

The bed creaked with her weight. Her knees tightened on his hips as she took the tip of his phallus inside her. His breath escaped him on a moan.

“No,” she said. “I am your queen.”

Posted in Stories

First Class

Colin’s never flown first class before. Never had the money. Still doesn’t have the money, but he’s not paying for it. Coach was overbooked, but there was room in first class and he’d been the lucky one to get bumped up. Definitely not complaining, he thinks, swirling his wine. It’s even real glass.

The entertainment systems up here look better, too. Way better. The suckers in the back are stuck with regular old flat-screens, but up here they’ve got jacks and holo equipment. This almost makes up for having to make the long flight home without Aaron.

It makes sense, he supposes. After all, don’t want to spend the hols with your boyfriend’s family if you’re planning on dumping him; better to do it before. A month before, even, when your boyfriend is buying tickets and asking you how many days you think you can get off work. That is the perfect time to tell him you’ve been thinking about calling it off.

Well, fuck Aaron. He can stay in L.A., with its heat-wave December. Colin will take good old-fashioned Scottish snow any day.

He scratches at the still-healing jack behind his ear — Mum’s not gonna like that, but his hair’s long enough she might never notice — and pokes about with the options on the screen in front of him. The stewardess comes by then, asks him if he’d like another glass of wine. It’s complimentary, of course he will.

When she sees him flipping through the menu, she says, “We’ll be serving the first meal in about two hours, so feel free to take advantage of the holosystem.” She indicates a button on the wall of his cubicle. “You can slide the door here shut for privacy, too.”

He does when she’s gone, and fuck, but maybe springing for first class is worth it. Assuming you’ve got the dough in the first place, of course. Despite the thinness of the walls, he can’t hear a thing outside. The stewardess and the rest of the passengers might have disappeared for all he can tell.

There’s hundreds of films to choose from, new stuff and old, and he even finds they’ve got that one where he actually had a speaking role (even if it did get cut down to one line). Nothing sounds interesting, though, so he flips back to the main menu for a look at the more interactive options.

Games, games, games, he pages through the lists, … porn?

It’s a newer simulator than he’s got on his system at home, even. “‘Fully interactive,’” he reads, “‘choose from over fifty beautiful men and women’ … Don’t have to ask me twice.”

He jacks in, scrolls through the photos until a vaguely familiar and utterly fanciable bloke catches his eye. Colin wonders if these are real people or CG. If they’re actors then maybe that’s where Colin knows him from, but as he settles back and the program kicks in, he dismisses the idea. The guy solidifies in front of him, tall and fit, green eyes and artfully tousled hair, and looking so perfect Colin’s sure he can’t be real.

The airplane fades, or at least the real one does. The setting is still a plane, just a much more old-fashioned one, and Colin’s back in coach, wedged into a tiny seat barely wider than his arse. The person in front of him reclines nearly into Colin’s face and someone behind him has a kid who’s using the back of Colin’s seat for karate practise.

He can’t think of a worse way for a porno to start and he’s just about to pull the plug on it when there’s a hand on his arm and a voice in his ear saying, “God, they charge an arm and a leg for this?”

Colin glances over to see Mr Perfect smiling at him, and okay, yeah, maybe he won’t pull the plug just yet. “Tom,” Mr Perfect says, sticking out his hand. “I figured if we’re gonna be packed in here like sardines for the next few hours, we might as well,” his teeth are white and straight when he smiles, “get to know each other.”

The pause is obvious, but then, Colin reminds himself, this is porn. He grins back, hand lingering in Tom’s a bit longer than necessary. “I’m Colin.”

“Colin,” Tom breathes, leaning even closer. His hand is on Colin’s knee now, thumb rubbing over where the denim’s worn thin. “I think I know how we can pass the time …” And with that he’s standing, making his way up the aisle to the toilets. He pauses once, looking back over his shoulder to wink at Colin.

It’s harder for Colin to get up, what with the seat in front of him all the way back, but he manages somehow, and then he’s hurrying down the aisle after Tom. When he gets to the toilets, Tom is just stepping inside. He leaves the door unlocked and Colin waits a few minutes for a passing stewardess to leave, then joins him.

The toilet is even more crowded than their seats had been. Reaching around Colin, Tom slides the lock into place, grins at him as he grinds his cock into Colin’s hip. There’s not even room for anything other than this, but that’s more than okay with Colin.

He fumbles with Tom’s fly, pushes his jeans down around his thighs as Tom does the same with his. They’re skin to skin now, neither of them wearing pants, and Tom wraps his hand around both their cocks as Colin kisses him. He worms his hands between Tom and the sink, cupping his arse and squeezing, and Tom gasps into his mouth, lets out a needy little moan when Colin’s fingers brush his crack.

Suddenly it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough at all, and Tom seems to agree. He’s wriggling out of his jeans and spreading his legs, hopping up onto the ledge of the sink. “Lube?” Colin mutters, teeth scraping over Tom’s lower lip.

“Pocket,” Tom gasps out, and after much fumbling with Tom’s jeans, Colin manages to find it. He pops open the packet, working two fingers into Tom’s arse and then giving himself couple quick strokes to finish it off. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s going to have to be enough, and Tom seems more than eager.

Tom’s jeans dangle from one ankle, his feet — one of them shoeless — braced on the edge of the sink as he leans back against the mirror. His hole is glistening, inviting, his cock curved up over his belly. His face is flushed, his tongue flicking out over his lips, and as Colin positions himself and works his way in, Tom makes these little noises that go straight to Colin’s cock.

Now he’s in and Tom’s clinging to him, legs wrapped around Colin’s waist. There’s not much room to move, just enough to rock back and forth into Tom’s slick, tight hole. Tom is whimpering into Colin’s mouth, scrabbling at his back, and Colin reaches between them, wraps his hand around Tom’s cock.

It only takes a few good strokes before Tom is coming and it feels so good, it pushes Colin over, too. He groans, fingers digging into Tom’s hip, and it feels like ages before he’s steady enough to pull out. Tom’s eyes are glazed and Colin can see himself in the mirror, looking much the same. Well-fucked. It’ll be obvious to the whole plane when they go back out there, but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t have time to care, because the program is fading out, and when he blinks, the toilet is gone and Tom is gone. He’s back in his little cubicle and the only thing the same is he still feels well-fucked, doesn’t even care about the rapidly-cooling wet patch he can feel in his pants. At least it’s not gone through to his jeans, not much, anyway.

When he can finally move again, he pulls out the jack and slumps back against the seat in a half-doze, only to dream of Tom some more. Too bad he’s too good to be real, Colin thinks. Definitely worth wet pants for the rest of the flight.

A knock at the door interrupts his doze, the stewardess with his meal. He puts a movie on after that, and while he toys with the idea of another round of porn, he ends up playing games most of the time instead.

He gets up once, for a piss, and an open cubicle catches his eye on his way back to his seat. The guy inside is reading, frowning down at the page in concentration and not looking at Colin at all. Which is good, because Colin’s sure he must look like an idiot, slack-jawed and staring.

It’s Tom.

Colin scurries back to his seat and pulls the door shut, heart pounding. Is Tom an actor, then? Is that why he looked familiar? Or does he look familiar because Colin saw him in the airport before takeoff? What are the odds that he just happened to be on the same flight as a porn star whose film he watched on that very same flight? But if that’s not it, then what the hell’s going on?

Abandoning his game without even saving, he navigates back to the porn section, scrolls through until … there. That’s it. And now that he looks a bit closer, the program looks more than a little suspicious. “‘No actors,’” he reads. “No actors?” Frowning, he scrolls through till he comes to the fine print. “‘By using this program, you grant Erotica Enterprises, Inc. the right to use your likeness’ … I bloody well do not!”

The fasten seatbelts light blinks on just then, and a stewardess’s voice over the tannoy informs him they’re approaching Heathrow. Colin complies, but his head is spinning. Did he really shag this Tom, then? Or just someone with Tom’s face? Is someone shagging me right now?

He’s still trying to work it out when he shoulders his carry-on and shoves his way through the crowd of people streaming off the plane. Once in the terminal, he digs in his pocket for his PDA, looking up his ticket information to find out which gate he’s supposed to be at for his connecting flight to Glasgow.

“Sorry,” he mutters when he runs into someone, and he doesn’t know what prompts him to look up just then, but he does, right into the green eyes of Mr Tom Perfect.

Tom’s eyes go wide and he blurts, “Robert?”

His voice is different, Colin realises, and his accent’s English, not American. Shaking his head, Colin says, “Your name’s not really Tom, is it?”

“You’re Scottish,” Not Tom says, and then, “and it’s Jeremy.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “My name, I mean.”
“Colin.”

They stand there awkwardly for God knows how long until Colin says, “Erm. I’ve got,” he checks his PDA again, “a couple hours before my flight, do you want to … I mean, get a coffee. Or something?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says quickly. “Yeah, I mean,” he grins suddenly, teeth as white and straight as before, “or something. Definitely.”

Posted in Stories

House of Dreams

Melody came down the stairs, which were carpeted in red velvet today, better than yesterday’s white fur, which had been treacherous and slippery underfoot. A busty woman dressed in a frilly, short French maid’s outfit waved her feather duster along a low table in a desultory way, and Melody briefly felt sorry for her — the Master’s interest in maids had been waning for a while now, and the bevy of aproned beauties didn’t have much to do.

Melody checked a couple of likely-looking doors until she found the one where the wardrobe room was hiding today, and stepped into the long low space with its ranks of lingerie-hung rolling racks and triptych of full-length mirrors.

“I need help dressing,” she said, and a handmaiden appeared from among the racks, a young woman with small breasts and red hair cut boyishly short, wearing only a silver chain collar around her throat, with silver rings in her nipples and labia; the latter were hung with little tinkling bells. “You’d be nice to do a scene with,” Melody said. The handmaiden was a good contrast to the taller Melody’s bigger breasts and long dark hair. “I bet you wriggle beautifully.” The handmaiden ducked her head, embarrassed or flattered — Melody had the highest status of any of the women and men here in the Master’s house, and her attention could lead to great pleasure. Melody considered hooking her fingers under the handmaiden’s collar and slipping the fingers of her other hand into the woman’s silver-belled cunt, but the act wouldn’t even penetrate the Master’s consciousness — the wardrobe room was invisible to him.

“The red latex,” Melody said. That was her usual outfit, shed last night for an ambitious shower scene in a locker room upstairs, where she’d lathered up with a bevy of soccer-playing Brazilian women, groping and kissing and sucking on one another until the Master pushed Melody down to the slick, hard tile floor and fucked her in the ass while the others continued making out for his amusement. It had been a good scene.

The handmaiden powdered Melody’s skin and helped her into the skin-tight, wine-red latex bodysuit. An oval opening exposed Melody’s breasts, and the bodysuit was also crotchless and left her ass bare, so the Master could reach all her most delectable parts, leaving the rest of her sheathed in clinging latex, except her bare hands, and her feet in matching high-heeled boots. A snap in back closed a band of latex around her throat, and a silver ring hung in front, so the Master could leash her at will.

The handmaiden looked up at her, and Melody leaned down to kiss the petite woman, biting her lower lip a little and making her gasp. “Maybe I’ll come back later,” Melody said, and flicked the ring in the maiden’s right nipple. “Right now I have a scene.”

She left the wardrobe room, and went back into the mansion proper — which was vast enough to contain dark alleys, tropical islands, and dense woods when necessary — and headed toward the parlor, her latex suit hugging her deliciously, the cool air on her nipples, cunt, and ass making her feel open and available and, even after all these years, titillatingly dirty.

As she approached the parlor, she heard a man say, “That’s right, you’re going to suck all these cocks.”

Melody frowned. The action shouldn’t start without her. The scenes often had plenty of other people involved, but she was the Master’s longtime dream-slut, the perfect vision he most preferred to embrace and debase by turns.

She reached the open doors of the parlor — and stopped, unable to enter. The barrier was nothing so gauche as an invisible wall, just an inability to go inside, just as she was unable to wiggle her ears or stop her heart from beating. Crossing her arms over her chest, feeling defensive for the first time since her creation, Melody watched the new girl in the parlor.

She was struggling, but not too effectively. A blonde, not as tall as Melody, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed in sexy-schoolgirl garb. Her breasts strained against the tight white shirt, buttons pulled taut, almost to the point of popping, and her tiny blue-and-white checked skirt didn’t even reach mid-thigh. White knee socks covered part of her long, tan legs, and she wore polished, improbably high-heeled Mary Janes on her feet.

“You’ve got a lot of dicks to suck,” one of the men said. “I hope you’re ready to spend some time on your knees.”

There were six men — the Master was bisexual, at least a little bit, and he liked group scenarios — and they were smooth-chested, with the blandly pretty faces of underwear models, clothed in gray boxer-briefs. Two of the men had the girl by her arms, half-dragging, half-carrying her to the center of the parlor, beside a white couch on a hardwood floor. Two handmaidens appeared from dark corners, wearing outfits of leather straps that cruelly bound up their breasts, and they knelt to strap kneepads onto the struggling blonde. Then the handmaidens faded back, and the men pushed the blonde down to her knees. The six men closed around her in a circle, and Melody had to shift a little to see what was happening. She let out a low moan when the men pulled down the waistbands of their underwear to let their erect cocks pop out. Melody loved nothing more than taking a cock in each hand, one in her mouth, one in her ass, and one in her cunt — the Master loved that scenario, and played it often — but now Melody was being denied her place in that sticky paradise.

One man held the blonde’s arms behind her back and while another unfastened the first few buttons on her shirt, exposing her tits — bit, firm, with pink nipples — and gave them a slap, making the girl squeal. Melody loved having her breasts slapped, and usually urged her tormentors to do it harder, but maybe the Master wanted a non-consensual scene this morning. As if Melody couldn’t play that role just as well as this blonde could. Everyone here was equally consensual and non, all the Master’s fantasies, living their own lives in his shifting mansion whenever they weren’t immediately in their Master’s thoughts.

The men slapped their cocks against the blonde’s cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to turn her face away. Then the Master appeared, and Melody’s heart fluttered and her cunt got wet, as always when he arrived. A tingle ran through her. The Master was beautiful — intense dark eyes, lean long body, strong hands, a beautiful big cock she longed to stroke and suck. Sometimes she wondered what he really looked like, if his body in the mansion was an accurate reflection, but it didn’t much matter, did it?

The fantasy men parted and let the Master approach the girl. “So pretty,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “Want to suck me off, Valerie?”

Melody moaned. Names were rare in the mansion. She had one, but none of the others did, at least, not consistently. Their names changed often, as did details of their faces and bodies. Most had no names at all, beyond slut and bitch and fucktoy and darling.

Valerie shook her head, and the Master nodded, then reached down quickly and seized both her nipples, tugging upward on her breasts. Valerie gasped, opening up her mouth, and the Master swiftly slid his cock between her lips. She reached up to push him away, but two other men seized her wrists and wrapped her fingers around their own cocks. “Suck me, and jerk them off,” the Master said, rocking his hips, pushing his cock in and out of Valerie’s mouth. “Maybe if you please us all with your tongue we won’t take turns banging your ass, hmm?” She still tried to pull away, and he grabbed her ponytail in one hand and cupped her chin with the other, holding her steady and fucking her face. Melody, watching, parted her own lips and slid a finger into her mouth, sucking her own flesh, aching with longing.

The Master pushed Valerie’s face down until her nose nestled in his pubic hair and his cock filled her mouth and surely pushed into her throat. “Pretty girl has a lot to learn,” he said. “Be good and I’ll let you breathe.” She made a noise. “Jerk those cocks,” he said, and she began sliding her hands up and down their shafts. The Master pulled his cock out, a string of spit connecting her lower lip to the head of his dick, and Valerie gasped for air. He fucked her mouth, almost meditatively, for another couple of minutes while she obediently stroked the other cocks. There were so many men in there — why wouldn’t the Master let Melody enter, and be entered?

“Grab your heels,” the Master said, and Valerie looked up at him, eyes wide, kneeling, her legs tucked under her. “Wrap your fingers around your heels,” he repeated, and she did. The Master beckoned, and the other men lined up, tugging their cocks as they waited, each taking a turn thrusting a few times into her mouth, holding her by the ponytail and pushing against the back of her throat, commenting appreciatively on the tears that came to her eyes; Melody’s own eyes watered in sympathy.

“Get on all fours,” the Master said, pulling her hair, and she obeyed, hands palms-down on the floor, ass sticking out. The Master smacked her ass hard, bringing a cry from Valerie, then flipped her skirt up to reveal a matching blue-and-white thong that did little to cover her up. He pulled the fabric aside and stuck his first two fingers into her cunt. “Pretty girl’s all wet,” he said, and as if that were a signal, the other men began groping her, reaching underneath to slap her swaying tits, sticking their fingers into her mouth.

“Fuck my hand,” the Master said, and when Valerie didn’t react, he laid full-palm slaps on each cheek of her ass. “Fuck it,” he said, and Valerie rocked back, pushing her cunt onto his fingers, moving against him. “Good slut,” he said, then removed his hand, knelt behind her, and slid his cock into her cunt. He grabbed her hips in his hands and pulled her back against him as he thrust forward, pounding her doggy style. He gestured, and one of the men knelt in front of her, shoving his cock into her mouth. “Stroke,” the Master said, thrusting. “Stroke, stroke, stroke,” and soon he was fucking her pussy in perfect tandem with the man fucking her mouth, each thrusting themselves deep on the “stroke.” Then the man in front pulled out his cock and Valerie dropped her head down, gasping. Without missing his own stroke, the Master reached out, seized her ponytail, and pulled, making her lift her face up. The man who’d been throat-fucking her jerked his dick until he spurted all over her face. Valerie squeezed her eyes shut, but couldn’t turn her head away with the Master’s grip on her hair.

Then the next man knelt before her, and pushed his own cock into Valerie’s mouth, as the last one’s come dripped down her chin. Melody wriggled and fingered herself. She was the mess slut, she loved being dirty, so why was the Master playing with this blonde instead?

“Stroke, stroke,” the Master said again, and so it went, until all six men had fucked Valerie’s mouth and shot come onto her face, and her arms and legs were visibly trembling from the effort of holding herself up. When the last man was done, the Master pulled his cock out and said “Kneel up,” tugging her hair as she sat back onto her knees. “Grab your heels again,” he said, and she whimpered, but did as he told her. For a moment, the Master just looked at her as come ran down her chin onto her tits, then he murmured, “So beautiful. Open your mouth.” She did, and he slid his dick in, almost lovingly, and fucked her mouth faster and faster until he moaned and said “Swallow it, swallow it all.” He seized her ponytail, when stiff, and Melody sighed, because she loved the feel of her Master’s hot come spurting against the back of her throat, and this little bitch Valerie didn’t seem to appreciate it at all.

“Good girl,” the Master said, withdrawing. “Later on we’ll break in your ass.”

Then the Master stepped back, and was gone. The other men eased into fresh shadows and disappeared as well. Valerie still knelt, blinking, smeared, trembling. Now Melody could enter the room, and suppressing her jealousy, she walked in, snapping her fingers for the leather-strapped handmaidens, who emerged bearing damp cloths and fluffy white towels.

“Welcome, Valerie. I’m Melody. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I — what?” Valerie said, but she took the rag offered and wiped the drying come off her face and tits. She rose unsteadily to her feet, and she was a beautiful creature, Melody had to admit — a sweet face that cried out to be kissed and slapped, gorgeous breasts, an ass that looked like it would turn beautifully pink under the whip. Melody buttoned up Valerie’s white shirt for her — it was damp, but that would fade — then reached down to tug at the strings on the side of Valerie’s thong, pulling them up so they showed over the waistband of her skirt. The Master liked that look in his trashy whores, and Melody refused to believe Valerie was anything else.

“Not bad,” Melody said, noting the taut tanned strip of belly revealed between the bottom of Valerie’s shirt and the top of her skirt. Melody walked around the still-dazed blonde, and saw the word “slut” tattooed in fancy script in the small of her back. “He’s put some thought into you,” Melody had to admit. “Let’s find you a room.” If Valerie was the Master’s new favorite, Melody would just have to work with that, seducing her in public places, maybe ass-fucking her with a strap-on, knowing such spontaneous scenes would enter the Master’s consciousness as brief images that he might want to give his full attention to later on, in a more complete fantasy. Melody wouldn’t simply let herself be replaced.

She reached down to take the new girl’s hand, but Valerie jerked away, startling the handmaidens into hiding. “Who the fuck are you?” Valerie said. “What is this place? I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Out of where?” Melody said.

Valerie looked at her like she was crazy. “I just got fucked by seven strangers. I need to get out of this house.”

“Rape scenes can be hard, especially if it’s your first,” Melody said sympathetically. “But it’s just the standard unwilling-slave-becomes-eager-cumslut arc. You can play the role just fine, I promise. I mean, you had an orgasm, didn’t you? The Master always wants us to enjoy it, if sometimes despite ourselves.”

Valerie flushed, and Melody knew she had enjoyed it, but Valerie said, “The Master? Look, I don’t know what kind of sick place this is, but I’m not willing. I was kidnapped, picked up from college, dressed up in this ridiculous outfit —”

“The scene is over,” Melody said, exasperated. “The Master’s not here anymore, he’s watching TV or running errands or working or who knows what, but you don’t have to play this part anymore.”

“Listen,” Valerie said, her eyes wide and intense. “You’ve been brainwashed or something. Maybe drugged. He must have kidnapped you, too.”

“Holy shit,” Melody said, suddenly understanding. “You think you’re real?” This was new. “Sweetie. You’re a sexual fantasy. Tits that big with a waist that narrow? Doesn’t happen in nature without some surgical intervention. The Master made you up, just like he did all the rest of us. You’re in the mansion of his mind. It’s not a bad life. Good food, lavish apartments, all the naked volleyball you want to play. He reads a lot, so there’s a big library. You’ll —”

“God, you’re crazy,” Valerie said, reaching down to pull off her heels. “I’m out of here.” She fled the room, barefoot.

Melody sighed. She’d never met a fantasy who thought she was real before. The Master had imagined her too well. At least this was something different. Maybe it would be entertaining. Melody went in search of Valerie.

Valerie tore off her kneepads, too, and threw them on the floor of the long hallway. This house — this mansion — was a maze with no exits in sight. Walking was hard, too, because her legs were tired from the forced positions. Her cunt felt wonderfully well-fucked, and her lips were deliciously swollen and tingly from all the dicks she’d been forced to suck, and she hated her own body for enjoying the gangbang so much. She was a nice girl, or at least, she had been, until she’d been abducted from — from — her mind skipped away from that thought, and she tried another door at random, and entered a room with mirrored walls. Was it some kind of dance studio? There were ballet bars along the walls, and a pile of mats in one corner. Valerie caught a glimpse of something on her back in one of the mirrors, and twisted to try and see the reflection, but couldn’t, quite.

“It’s the word ‘slut,” someone said. Valerie whirled around and saw Melody seated on the stack of mats. She seemed utterly at ease in her shiny red latex suit, her dark nipples erect, black hair cascading in waves to her pale shoulders, eyes blue and intense. Valerie didn’t know if this woman was a fellow victim or a collaborator with her kidnappers, but right now she was more concerned with the marks on her back. “Slut?” she repeated, horrified.

“A tattoo, in rather pretty script.” Melody shook her head. “Still think you were kidnapped?”

“They — they must have given me this tattoo after they took me.” How horrifying, to be branded a slut, when she was a victim!

Melody snorted. “Honey, tattoos take time to heal. You didn’t get that thing yesterday.”

“They must have drugged me,” she said, reaching down to tug the thong out of her ass a little. She would take the panties off entirely, but running around bare beneath this tiny skirt didn’t sound like a good idea either. “Listen, can you tell me where the exit is? If I can just get out, I’ll be okay.”

“You said you were a college student?” Melody said. “What college do you go to?”

“I —” She drew a blank. “I can’t remember. I must be in shock.”

“Okay, then what’s your major? No? Your last name? Where were you born? What’s your mother’s name? Do you have any siblings?”

“I have a twin sister!” Valerie said — it was the one answer she knew instantly.

Melody laughed. “Yeah, me too, sometimes. The Master likes the occasional sister act. What’s your twin’s name? Which one of you was born first?”

“She — I think —” Valerie’s head hurt. She felt like she was clawing at fog. “Her tattoo says ‘cunt’.”

“The Master doesn’t give us much backstory,” Melody said gently. “Most of the fantasies here are a little vague, a few details dressed up in sexy clothes. Some of us get more attention, he imagines us more fully and more often, and gives us names. You and me, we’re lucky. We have a lot of power here. He imagined you really well.” Melody’s voice had an edge in those last words.

“This is impossible,” Valerie says. “I’m just … traumatized.”

“What are your hobbies?” Melody said.

“Sucking cocks,” Valerie answered immediately, then gasped.

“Do you like taking it in the ass?” Melody said.

“Yes,” Valerie said softly. “But I like to be forced first.” These were certainties, some of the only ones in her mind. She shook her head. “I’m going crazy. This isn’t possible.”

Melody sighed. “I’ll give you proof, okay? Follow me.” Melody rose, all grace, and Valerie felt a sudden urge to kneel before her, hands clasped behind her back, and lick Melody’s exquisite shaved-bare pussy. She shook her head hard, as if to dislodge the sudden urge, but it didn’t help. Melody led her out of the room, down a hall. “The Master imagined me as a dominatrix first,” Melody said. “Scenarios where I flogged slave girls or wore a strap-on and fucked them, things like that. Then the Master would arrive and dominate me, and the other girls, to show us who was really the boss. He grew very fond of me, until I showed up in nearly all his fantasies. Sometimes at center stage, sometimes just to hand him whips or lead in the submissive girls or harness the ponygirls to the carts he likes to ride around the grounds in. You wanted an exit.” She opened a door like any other, and sunlight poured in. Valerie rushed out, into open air, looking for a road or gate, but saw nothing of the sort. Three women in wet t-shirts and scanty cutoff shorts were washing a red sports car, laughing and pausing frequently to splash one another. Eight women clad only in g-strings, sneakers, and knee-high socks played soccer on the large lawn, their breasts all large, firm, and bouncing. Other women lounged topless by a pool, and farther on two naked women stood on tiptoe, their arms tied over their heads to a tree limb, while another woman wearing black leather boots sprayed them with a water hose as they squealed and twisted in their bonds. A woman approached bearing a tray, chains running from her thick black collar to the corners of the platter, a serving girl in bondage. She had a gag in her mouth, and walked with tiny, gingerly steps. “She has on a butt-plug harness,” Melody said, nodding toward the serving girl. She took a tall glass of some tropical drink from the tray and waved the serving girl away. “Do you believe me now?” Melody said. “This is a fantasy land.”

“They … they could be drugged, hypnotized, or hookers, or gold-diggers,” Valerie said stubbornly. Melody sighed, and Valerie turned back and jerked open the door they’d come through, rushing inside.

She stood, disoriented, because the hallway was gone. She was in a classroom, with blackboards, rows of small desks, and a big teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Melody came in after her, the door clicking shut behind her, and when Valerie looked back the door was gone, with windows in its place.

“Twice in one morning?” Melody said. “He must have the day off. At least I’m here this time.”

Valerie frowned, then noticed a couple of blandly handsome men, not unlike the ones who’d violated her earlier, sitting in the back of the class. Where had they come from?

“Make out with me,” Melody said.

“What?”

“Unless you want to be ass-fucked, which the Master promised you was next, come here and kiss me.”

Valerie nodded and went to Melody, who stood by the teacher’s desk. Melody was half a head taller than her, and she tilted back her head so Melody could kiss her. Valerie parted her lips to let Melody’s tongue in, and the feeling inside her was beautiful, like melting into sunlight. Melody’s arms enfolded her, and Valerie breathed in her scent, baby powder and lean skin, and she sighed and leaned into the embrace.

Without letting go of her, Melody took a few steps, turning in a circle so her back was turned to the classroom instead of Valerie’s. She kissed Valerie’s neck just below the ear, then whispered, “Slide your hands down to my ass and spread my cheeks open so they can see.” Valerie ran her hands down Melody’s latex-covered back, to her bare ass, and took hold. Melody’s high heels lifted her ass up and out, and Valerie pulled the cheeks apart, opening her up. She glanced past Melody’s shoulder and saw the men in the back of the room perk up and lean forward for a better view.

“Smack my ass,” Melody said, then went back to nuzzling her neck, sending little electric thrills through Valerie’s body. Valerie smacked, tentatively at first, then harder, and Melody gasped, then whispered, “Good, now kiss my breasts.” She turned to give the men a look at her profile, and Valerie gently took one of Melody’s hard nipples in her teeth and flicked it with her tongue while Melody ran her fingers through her hair. Without prompting, Valerie slid her fingers into Melody’s warm wet slit, hooked her fingertips up in hopes of finding the g-spot, and fingerfucked her. Melody pulled her up by the hair — Valerie didn’t mind it from her — and said, “Now bend me over the desk and play with my ass. Lube and toys are in the drawer.” Valerie realized that Melody was trying to spare her a hard ass-fucking by making the men pay attention to her instead, and said, “Yes ma’am.”

Melody stood in a wide-legged stance, looked back over her shoulder at the men in the back of the room, and leaned her upper body over the desk so her ass was pointed directly at the watchers. Valerie opened the desk drawer and found a pump bottle of lube and a big metal dildo that sat cold and heavy in her hand. She squirted lube onto Melody’s ass and slipped a slick finger inside her tight warm hole. Melody moaned and rocked, saying “Yes, yes, fuck my ass,” and so Valerie lubed the toy and worked it in. Melody gasped, at the cold, Valerie assumed, and Valerie slapped her ass, enjoying herself now, working the toy in and out as Melody tossed her hair and made short-breathed sounds of pleasure. The men were excited now, standing up, their clothes gone, their cocks hard. “Tell them to fuck me,” Melody said, and Valerie said, “Come fuck this whore.” She put the dildo aside.

One of the men stretched out on his back on the floor, and beckoned. Melody walked over, straddled him, and eased herself down on his cock. Valerie glanced at the other man, wondering if she should make herself available — but where had that thought come from? She was trying to avoid being used! But his eyes were fixed on Melody anyway. Melody straddled the other man as he reached up and played with her tits, tugging her nipples, squeezing and slapping her breasts as she rode him. Then he grabbed her by the neck and pulled her down, making him lay on top of him, her exposed ass now thrust up, still shiny with lube. He reached down and pulled her cheeks apart, and the other man came forward. He was, somehow, the Master now, and his slipped his cock into Melody’s ass. The two men double-fucked her, and she moaned and thrashed in pleasure as they pounded her in both holes.

Valerie suddenly felt very tired, and she sank back into an inviting shadow that offered an end to lust and worry, both.

Melody adjusted her schoolgirl skirt and tugged at her g-string until it pulled tight, running between the lips of her cunt and up the crack of her ass. She pulled on the knee-high white stockings, which were quite comfortable compared to her usual latex outfit. Her tight white t-shirt was cut off so short that it left the lower halves of her breasts exposed, only barely covering her nipples. The word “slut” was written on the t-shirt in black lowercase letters, centered between her tits. The Master’s tastes were changing, but Melody could change with them. She looked hot, now, in pigtails and pink lipstick, even if she did say so herself. She took a last admiring look at herself in the mirror, then gestured for the new handmaiden.

Valerie came forward, dressed only in a thin black leather collar. The Master hadn’t conjured Valerie into a fantasy since Melody had highjacked the classroom scene, but Melody had enough power here to keep Valerie from dissolving forever. It was nice to have someone else with a mind to talk to — Melody’s mouth was usually full when she spent time with the Master, so they didn’t chat much. And everything Valerie and Melody did together in the wardrobe room was hidden from the Master’s view, so there was no chance of him accidentally remembering Valerie, and deciding he liked her best after all.

“Do you still think you’re real?” Melody said.

“Yes,” Valerie answered. “But I like it here with you anyway.”

“You’ll be waiting for me here tonight?’ Melody said, caressing Valerie’s cheek. “Kneeling with your leash in your mouth?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Valerie whispered.

“Kneel and lick my cunt,” Melody said, pushing down on Valerie’s shoulders. “Do that thing with the tip of your tongue.” Melody made a happy sound, deep in her throat, as Valerie complied. “I need to get nice and wet before my next scene with the Master.”

Posted in Stories

Historical Inaccuracies

Posted in Stories