Fingering Lohan By Roger Leatherwood

The music and strobes worked into my mind and stirred up the tequila and I fell against the bar and bumped the driver. He was worse off and he laughed, and spit onto the front of his shirt and wandered towards the door.

There was light in the other room from a jellyfish blinking at 320+ BPM scanning in blue then red then yellow over everyone and I pushed against the redhead ahead of me and a tray fell; glasses rang on the linoleum and she turned and her dress opened up and she had no underwear on and I felt her ass up and then I realized the driver was pulling her in the other direction and she laughed too but never looked at me.

The loud music laid onto the beats behind me and I was pushed by two club girls, one with a sequin bra trying to get to the door, too hot and too noisy and I was sweating out the toxins and weaving.

I handed my tall shot glass to this cute brunette in front of me with short hair and a snap brim and she put her arm over my shoulder and kissed me and tongue tasted tequila and she felt the front of my pants and my erection, then pushed against me by someone behind her, the driver from earlier, who had lost the redhead again.

The redhead had pale skin and a white dress with slits down one side and undone buttons. Someone else was whispering in her ear, a big guy with a black goatee and a denim jacket and sunglasses. She just laughed at him but I couldn’t hear it over the thumps and the swinshas coming from all corners or the murmur, the ahhhs or the yeahs cutting through the music. The girl with the hat pulled me past Guido to the front and we breathed the cigarette smoke and the condensation from bodies collecting outside under the awning. Flashes from 580EXIIs burned the corners of my peripheral vision and Hat turned me to the door, then:

The redhead rushed out like a sluice gate surrounded by three large people and they rushed through us and then Hat was pulling me along into a towncar. The others including Goatee got in the one behind us and I was pushed in the backseat racing up to the red light and turning right without stopping, sitting next to Hat and across from the redhead.

Redhead giggled and pulled the hat off my companion and then revealed a bottle of Remy Martin Club out of an ice bucket in the armrest. “This is service,” I said and she poured it into a pair of flat weighted glasses that sat in a cubby in the leather. She opened her legs and showed her pussy, pink and bald, no doubt a real redhead because the pale inner godhead glowed in the streetlights as they washed forward and back as we drove.

“I brought you a diversion,” Hat now no hat said and turned to rub my thigh then my crotch, then reached over and pushed the thighs of the redhead wider.

Suddenly serious she asked, “You like pussy?”

“Where we going?”

“To the next club.”

“I don’t know,” the redhead said.

“Too many people were looking and no one was dancing.”

“I was lonely,” she said and offered herself in the back seat. I reached over and put my hand on her thigh, moved up and stuck my fingers inside the edges of her lips – she was dry and hot. Shaven with the stubble of a job poorly done, an amateur in a hurry without proper concentration. I placed my fingers carefully on her clit and began to message it between my fingers, moving in an inch and bringing it out, from inside. She gasped and Hat no hat switched to the other side and kissed Redhead while I fingered her, looked down and pulled her dress farther up her waist showing her stomach, watching me. Watching my fingers inside the redhead creases.

The brandy sploshed in the glasses as we ran along a warehouse district and began to weave through cars going in the other direction. I looked into Redhead’s eyes but her eyes were closed. She reached for a glass and drank, still lost in her private darkness and Hat pulled my hand with hers, a strong thin set of fingers harder in, “fuck her so she can feel it,” and then the car stopped.

“Wanna drink?” she asked. Redhead turned and looked through the windshield. There were blue lights ahead and a line and the door opened and I grabbed the other Remy and walked over through the line. The heartbeat of the sound system bled through the street and Goatee had joined us from the car behind and led Redhead by the arm – poised carefully on her silk forearm towards the door.

The hipsters in black dresses and Wasteland stripes moved like taffy to let them pass. At the rope the guy with the brick wall looked at me and said, “We have policy,” and glanced at Hat no hat, who looked back at me, shrugged and said “Sorry – we know some people in here” and they left me outside without a cover.

I walked up and turned and was three blocks off La Cienega after all and I found a strip joint and I told the guy behind the counter and he believed me, saying some girls did that all the time.

The Cost That Lies Between Heaven and Earth By Matt Piskun

The sweet perfume wafting from the grape vines was strong that morning, making one dizzy despite the fruits lack of fermentation. Isabella studied the figure before her, its features hidden in the shadows of the mid-summer sun.

“Do you know what it means to call me, child?” The beast’s growl was deep and rhythmic.

“I do.” Isabella was not afraid. The young girl moved slowly forward, struggling to contain the anxiousness brimming inside her.

“I sense a kind heart in you. It is merely buried under several layers of venial sins. Why do you seek me? ”

“My brother, Henry, has stolen my inheritance left to me by my father, the King.” Her olive eyes narrowed. “He leaves me with nothing. Am I to beg for crusts of bread? Furthermore, the family fool, Alfonzo now threatens my path to the throne. Spain is my birthright, but he desires it as his own and would toss me aside as one would a barren cow.”

Sensing her ambition the figure in the shadows smiled, its breathing now faster. “I don’t know if I’m drunk from the nectar that drips off these vines, but I think I am falling in love with you, child.”

Isabella’s cheeks flushed pink as she moved toward him. “Let me see your face.”

Emerging from the darkness came a young male demon. The sunlight made his skin, the color of ripe plum flesh, all the more brilliant. He was slender and muscular with two small horn buds protruding from his forehead. Two majestic wings of burgundy leather were folded neatly behind his back.

Isabella smiled and extended her hand to be kissed.

“I may be a youthful demon but I am no fool. I can help you reach the throne.” He looked into her eyes of lime-colored sea and knew this was what she was waiting for. “Although royal blood may course through your nubile body, it’s you who will be subservient to me.” The young hell-spawn spread his great wings and hovered above her.

Isabella took pause. She had vowed to never let any man hold dominion over her. Surrounded by incompetent males trying to prevent her ascent to the throne, she knew in her heart that she would still one day be queen and any man that was lucky enough would be her king. However, this was no mere man that floated above the earth before her. A feeling spread through her that she’d never known before. An ember of admiration and desire lit inside Isabella and the beating of leather wings now fanned it to flames. Isabella took a knee and bowed before his floating body.

“Save yourself for me, girl.” He grabbed hold of his horns. “When you become a woman I will come back for you. It is with your first blood that we will consummate our arrangement.”

Isabella, looked up into the swirling ash of his eyes and told him, “For my rightful place, I will wait for you…”

“Ingot, my name is Ingot.” With that being said he sailed up above the clouds and out of sight as Isabella clutched her pounding heart.

# # #

Father Juan de Valera watched with pursed lips, shaking his head back and forth. He pulled his beard, dotted with black hairs drowning in a chaotic sea of grey, into a fine point. His queen spoke through clenched teeth of sheen ivory and cruelty.

“Whore!”

A young woman kneels before her, nude and covered in binding chains. Long, red hair sticks to her face as she trembles with fear.

“I can smell your sex, that which you give so freely and without commitment from God. Whip her again!”

The high priest, whose fat and swollen face is hidden beneath a brown hood, cracks his whip. It sounds like thunder and the young girl whimpers as the lashes tear thin, scarlet lines into her milk-white flesh.

“Again!” Isabella commands, her fist raised.

The priest snaps his whip repeatedly and the wooden cross hanging from his neck swings back and forth wildly. Large droplets of sweat fly from the darkness of his hood.

Every cry from the naked girl elicits a small burst of excitement from Isabella. She presses her thighs together tightly, enjoying the hot pleasure building between her legs. When she can no longer endure the mounting desire she commands the high priest to take the girl away and convert her to God. “If she does not admit to believing, make her do so! Spare not one inch of her!” A sweaty smile spreads beneath the hood of the priest.

Isabella, Queen of Spain, tries to hide her lust as she speaks but her eyes, wild with desire expose her growing passion. “I’ll pray for your success, priest.” Father de Valera, his tanned and wizened face looking all the more angular from his sharpened beard, watches as she turns and enters her private quarters. He makes the sign of the cross, whispering the names of the holy trinity as he turns to leave, unseen.

Closing the door behind her, the Queen loosens then drops the purple ceremonial robe she wears exposing her scarred skin. A myriad of criss-crossing magenta scars decorate her breasts and abdomen. She runs her hands over them and shudders as her fingertips play with the grooves in her skin.

“I yearn for you,” Isabella moans. A small flame deep inside her flickers, reminding her of the first time she laid eyes upon him. She thinks back to that day as a young girl in her garden, but she can no longer remember the sweet smell of the flowering vines.

# # #

Her scars writhe as if alive in the candlelight that illuminates her bedroom. Ingot sits in a chair with his arms resting on his now sizeable belly.

“You are a wicked woman, Bella.”

“I need satisfaction, my lord.” Isabella kneels before him.

Ingot stands and strokes the great, curved horns that sit upon his head. “So be it.”

She takes the demon’s member in her mouth and works it feverishly until her pleasing him results in the monster’s orgasm. He releases his semen upon her chest and it sizzles leaving a new pattern of fresh scars that ooze bright red in their infancy. Isabella moans with pleasure and writhes in pain, unable to tell the two apart.

Ingot sits back down in his chair and sighs. “Must I always please?”

“I’ve another favor to ask of you.”

“You’ve such greed in you! Did your brother, Alfonso, not suffer from an unfortunate case of poisoning, along with a slit throat for good measure? You were there grinning in the shadows as he choked, gurgling on his own blood, knowing I did this for you, for your crown. And what of your other sibling, Henry? For wronging you I removed any chance he could have to bear children. Like grapes his manhood were in my talons, oozing from the palm of my hand.” He ran a long black fingernail across her face racing her cheekbone. “And yet you need more?” The swirling embers that made up his eyes grew a little brighter. “I suppose this is why I love you.”

“My kingdom needs land. The people demand it from their Queen and I am not accustomed to disappointing my citizens.”

The demon smiles with jagged, yellow stained teeth and waves a hand in Isabella’s direction, causing his stomach to shake. “You are a good Queen. There is a man who prays to my black kingdom for fame and discovery. He’s not a Spaniard but he will suffice if you will have him. His name is Columbus. I will deliver him to you and he will discover new lands in the name of Spain, allowing you to keep hold of your coronet.”

Isabella winced as she put her ceremonial robes back on. “I will do as I must. Now I must return to the business of running my kingdom.”

“And I think I will pay a visit to mine.”

# # #

Father Juan de Valera finishes his tapas of chorizo and bread then puts on the surplice and purple stole he wears for the sacrament of confession. He’ll confront her today. He has finally seen enough and will tell her that he can no longer sit in silence as she performs atrocities in the good lord’s name.

The torture, the sacrifice, and the experiments must come to an end.

His Queen comes to him in a simple green dress, her straight, brown hair, tipped with gold, flows over her bare shoulders. She likes to appear a simple woman when confessing to him.

“Good afternoon, Father.”

“Blessed to see you, Isabella.”

She will not allow herself to be called Queen during penance. Isabella takes the velvet, padded seat across from Father de Valera who twirls the grey hair of his beard between his thumb and forefinger.

“I no longer love my King.”

“We must meet together, the three of us.”

“No. He is more of a house pet than a man. I no longer know what to do with him.”

“We can annul the marriage if you feel the relationship can’t be mended.”

“That carries risk, father. The people grow restless and I do not want to give them further cause with the belief that I have chosen an impotent and spineless king who can’t handle his woman. I will pray for an answer.”

Isabella rises to leave but the priest quickly stands and raises his hand, signaling for her to wait.

“What is so pressing that you choose to waste my time?” The gold of her hair twinkles as if full of stars in the candle light of the tabernacle.

“That young girl today…”

“The harlot being whipped?”

“Yes. What became of her?”

“Are you spying on me father?”de Valera twisted his beard into a fine point. “All that concerns our loving God finds it’s way to my ears.

The Queens eyes looked black in the deep shadows of the church. “I don’t know yet, but whatever happens will surely be God’s will and then I’m sure it will make its way to your foolish old ears.”

“You talk of God’s will and yet I heard her cries of torture,” he looks Isabella in the eyes as he speaks, “as I have the screams of all the others.”

The queen’s expression does not hide her surprise at the priest’s audacity. The sparkle in her hair vanishes as she stands. “The Lord knows what I do in his name and he allows it.”

“It is not God’s place to forbid you, it is your choice. Also, I respectfully disagree that God would want his teachings forced upon others.” Father de Valera bows his head and stares at the deep wrinkles around his knuckles in silence.

“You dare! You crusty, old eunuch! You may spread his word but the Lord speaks through me.”

The priest sighs. His highness’s reaction is expected. He looks at the silver cross that adorns the bookcase beside him. Its rubies sparkle in the candlelight as his Queens hair did moments ago. The images of Christ dying on the cross, the spear poking through his ribs, the briny rags stuffed in his mouth, fill his mind. He can feel his lord’s last breath across his cheek and finds the courage to truly speak his mind. “What sort of sins are you atoning for? What possesses you to produce converts in such a manner?”

“I do what I must.”

“You serve the devil when you act this way.”

Isabella’s olive eyes narrow and her hands ball into ring covered fists. Her chin quivers as she speaks. “Wrong! You are wrong! What I do, I do to fight the devil! You may have read of him in your texts, but I have met him, touched him! I create an army of worshipers whose belief in God’s kingdom will oppose such evil. I do what needs to be done!” Spit sprays from her thin, red lips, “Cross me or speak out against me again and you will meet God much sooner than you desire!”

The Queen turns and leaves, slamming the wooden door of the church with such force the stain glass windows quiver. Juan de Valera sighs long and hard then picks up the silver cross next to him. “You do what you must.” He pulls the top of the cross off, unsheathing a steel blade. He looks at his reflection and frowns. “Now I must do as I must.”

# # #

Isabella tosses and turns on her bed. The silk cloth that adorns her canopy sways as if alive. She sweats into her cotton sheets as her heart races. Her king sleeps alone in an adjacent bedroom, but her thoughts are not of him, they are of Ingot and Father de Valera.

A bead of sweat slowly slides down from between her breasts onto her stomach. Isabella feels as though the aged priest saw right through her. Maybe he knew her secrets, but who could read his withered old face? It hardly mattered if he did. The price of her throne was Ingot and Christ forgive her she loved the foul beast. Ingot was the only male she had ever been with that truly understood her. Despite loving as only a devil can; she thinks his feelings are genuine nonetheless. It’s with great sadness that she builds a kingdom of Christians to combat her lover’s dark realm, but the web of power stretches wide and is taught with deceit. Just as her sovereign duties must be necessitated, so too must the obligations to her soul be met. Her sheets are now soaked with sweat as she wonders how much more her conscious can take. A decision must soon be made and tomorrow she will make it. Satisfied with this resolution, Isabella closes her eyes to sleep, but as she does Ingot appears before her.

# # #

It’s dark. He can smell the wisps of smoke from the recently snuffed out candles that line the hallway to the Queen’s quarters. Father de Valera shuffles quietly across the stone floor his blade gripped tightly in one hand, the other stretched out before him feeling into the shadows. He stops as the darkness shifts before him. The priest flattens himself against the wall and hears what sounds like the scrapping of claws against stone. The air moves around him and he feels a cold, heavy darkness pressing upon his skin. He prays to God the almighty for courage then continues forward. He pictures, for fortitude, his lord carrying the True Cross, whipped and bleeding as his crown of thorns tears into him. Finally he comes to the Queen’s door made of carved cypress. De Valera hears talking inside and puts his ear to the door. In between beats of his heart he can hear Isabella shouting. “I love you! I love you! You are a part of me!”

Father listens for a response, but hears no answer to the queen’s admissions. He presses his ear more tightly against the sculpted wooden door. If she were with someone else he would have to terminate his holy mission. The priest is old and tired. He does not have the strength, physically or spiritually, to take two lives, but he fears he will never have the courage to get this far again. He holds his breath to hear more clearly and is quite sure he hears only Isabella’s voice inside. He presses his hand against the door, finding it unlatched. After making the sign of the cross he slowly pushes Isabella’s door open.

The door opens with a slight creak that may as well have been as deafening as canon fire. His Queen spins around to see who has entered. She is naked and the priest gasps, not at her nude form but at the great maze of scars that covers her flesh in various shades of scarlet.

“You abandon me now?” She turns and shouts to a fluttering shade of black silk that hangs over an open window. A small vase of citrus scented oil is heating on a black iron stand in the fireplace, making the room smell fresh and sweet.

Still lost in the labyrinth of maroon gashes that decorate her peach colored skin, Father de Valera keeps his knife at his side. Isabella grabs hold of the poker that lay across the hearth and swings it across the priest’s face. He screams, dropping his knife and covering his face with his hands. He gags as blood pours out from between his clamped fingers.

“You dare, priest, to invade my privacy? First you question my motives then you come to me uninvited?” She looks down at the jewel-encrusted blade on the floor. “And you have come to kill me.”

Father de Valera reaches out for the blade but Isabella brings her weapon down across his hand snapping his fingers. The priest shouts out in pain and brings his gnarled fingers to his chest. Blood drips steadily from his beard. He gets to his feet and charges her, hitting Isabella in the chest with his shoulder and knocking the poker from her hands.

She lands on her back by the fireplace, the priest on top of her, his one good hand pressing down on her throat. Isabella puts both hands around his wrist to remove it but can’t. Blood from the father’s nose falls steadily on her naked torso filling the scared channels in her flesh. De Valera’s eyes flicker with the fires roaring light. The Queen reaches behind her into the fireplace, grabs hold of a smoldering log and brings it down across his head, knocking him off with a showering of embers.

The priest rolls onto his back, consciousness coming and going, with Isabella standing over him. Her breasts heave as she struggles for breath. Queen Isabella’s body is sticky with blood and ash. She holds the smoking log overhead as the priest weakly covers his face. Suddenly, Isabella drops the wood in her hands. The Queen turns as she hears the beating of wings.

“Coward, you come to me now that the fight is over?”

Ingot comes in through the open window, the black window shade across his shoulders resembling a cape. “I can not lay hands on a holy man. It’s a treaty older than time itself.”

“You disappoint me, Ingot. For that you will pleasure me.”

The demon flies in on outstretched wings and lands in front of the fireplace. Isabella approaches him on her knees. ‘This disappointment is the end’, she thinks, ‘I will launch a grand inquisition today, forcefully shaping, as if from clay, an army of Catholics. Their faith will save me. I may give my body to hell but my soul is still Gods!’

Father de Valera opens his blood-encrusted eyes to see Isabella on her knees talking to herself. Her hands stroke the vase of boiling citrus oil as she pours it onto her chest, searing the skin where it hits causing more wounds to bubble and blister. She wails and writhes in ecstasy.

de Valera starts to crawl towards the blade that is still on the floor. He inches forward and grips the jeweled handle, but when he does he sees Isabella’s reflection in the blade. “Don’t worry, lover, I will take care of the priest.”

With blade in hand he turns over to face Isabella who is holding the iron poker in her hands. He points the blade at her. “You’re mad! There is nobody here but you and I!”

Whispering she tells him, “Tell God I do what I must.” Then the Queen drives the poker through his ribs.

With his hands wrapped around the iron protruding from his chest, Father de Valera’s vision begins to fade as shadows start to ebb out the light. He gasps for air as his punctured lung collapses. Isabella turns and walks toward the fireplace. Once more she appears to be talking to no one. From within the encroaching darkness the priest hears the rhythmic beating of his dying heart; or is it, he wonders, the beating of wings?

 

Temptation: The Anthology is out now!

Temptation: The Anthology. is out now!

Temptation: The Anthology, a diverse collection of erotic fiction from around the world. From the sensual caress of a lover, to S&M torture, fantasies and filth… A wild ride, a passionate embrace, all of it awaits you…

Featuring:

Seven Foot Two, Fur of Blue By James Hartley

Charlie’s Room By A. A. Garrison

Sister Patience By Jerome Brooke

Bird of Paradise By Jax

Finding Elsbet By Peter Baltensperger

Don’t Go By S.L. Johnson

For The Love Of Rachel By Laura J Campbell

Shoot Me By Albert Tucher

A Pound of Flesh By Charles Langley

Inspiration By Ken Goldman

A Little Bit of Lovin’ and a Bushel of Winter Wheat By Charles Langley

The Collar, The Leash and The Wife By Aiden Mulane

Nympho Librarian By Mike Sharlow

A Good Night’s Sleep By Franklin Sr.

Down By Ralph Greco

Barbara’s Waterboarding By Sandy George

The Art of Women By Jerome Brooke

For The Love Of Legs And Feet By Michael F.

Ms. Welsh After the Interview By Paul Henry

Devil’s Delight By Matthew Wilson

The Muse By Jerome Brooke

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

The Hangover Cure By Holly Day

Olivia’s Ordeal By DirtyMartini

Grey By Caitlin Hoffman

After Dinner By Jerome Brooke

Original fiction and the very best reprints from the successful Temptation Magazine blog: http://temptationmag.wordpress.com/

The book is available now!

The printed book is available here:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/temptation-magazine/temptation-the-anthology/paperback/product-20528099.html

The ebook version in several formats is available here:

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Coming soon to Kindle!

For The Love Of Legs And Feet By Michael F.

I no longer know how to stand.

It is the way she is seated on the bench by prearrangement, her husband on the other side of her with his newspaper turned open as he feigns to read the latest headlines when in fact his eyes are perusing me.

My body aches its way toward the vacant spot next to her on the bench.  My hand then does as we originally discussed, moving slowly, lightly, as casually as a leaf in the breeze, toward the nylon clad thigh that awaits there, the smooth knee beneath the mesh, the rising and tapering calf, the foot deep into a wave of straps and spike and leather, flitting unceremoniously back and forth near the walkway where the pigeons gather restlessly for remnants of some other stranger’s crumbs.

When my fingertips make first contact with the nylon I am a fountain of arousal, the sensation extending as if through my bloodstream down into my legs which weaken with it, my heart beating out a military cadence, my throat as arid as Sahara, my passion rising so that I must cross my legs in order not to divulge it.  Divulging it would go against the rules that we have predetermined.

This is to be casual, her husband’s gravelly voice demanded, it is to be innocent while at once be fiery with suppressed desire.  For the love of legs and feet, of stockings and leathers, is alternately arousing and hidden in the nature of our society.  There are many like me who wander about day to day, dazzled by the click of certain footsteps on the walks, the faint pungency of a shoe half dangled from a stocking foot, the gentle arch of said same foot like a triumphal passage into a conquerable and conquered city.

My reach extends further onto her thigh and even slightly up the skirt which has convenient slits along the sides for such surreptitious inspection, my hand flat against her hip, my body sorely tempted to drift over to her, closer to her, when it must not.

As if anticipating my anxiety she adjusts closer to me and the pressure of my hand against her hip grows more fervent, stronger, deeper, warmer and more proximate.  She opens her legs ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly to the passing eye but to me it is the parting of the Red Sea, a biblical proportion of exposure, almost as if I could smell the oceanic conjure of her desire in the deep crevasse between her legs.

In another setting, in a closed room, I would surely by now be down upon my knees, rubbing my hands against her thighs in order to open them still further, burying my face deep within her, rending a tiny slit within the crotch of her panties so that I might taste the full pungency of her desire.

Instead I must content myself with the hand deflecting off and brushing along her calf as I traverse my way downward, falsifying motions like I am offering a crumb to one of the bobble headed pigeons nearby when I am in fact now caressing the heel of her shoe and seeking to open it ever so slightly, for all of this is about opening, all of it is about the concealment of this special form of lust and then opening it in all its raw red beauty to the world around us so that it must forcibly accept it once and for all, so that there are no more assignations on park benches to leave its occupants to later masturbate in darkened rooms.

No instead there should be a full exposure of the shoe, the foot, the leg, the nylons, so that there might be full exposure of my desire as well, and then hers, so that the pornography, the atomization of the body into these component parts, at last bears a connection to the tongues and fingers and penises and vaginas that will bring the entirety of the figures into total climax.

Instead I recognize the gesture of the husband folding his newspaper to tuck beneath his arm, his hand encasing his bride’s, the two of them standing up and dusting themselves off as if from my contact, he nodding, she nodding, I nodding, all of us like ridiculous wind-up dolls bobbing and nodding as we depart from one another sans climax, sans satisfaction, just bearing memories that we will take to other rooms and other lovers and scatter them like pollen in the covers to plant deeper seeds within our souls.

Nympho Librarian By Mike Sharlow

I visited my friend Tom, almost always without notice, because he didn’t have a phone. Tom was about six-two with a bushy unkempt moustache and long curly blond hair similar to Custer’s. Tom had bad teeth, because he pathologically avoided the dentist. He said that he couldn’t stand to have someone sticking their fingers, anything in his mouth. It made him have panic attacks. The way he talked about it, it made me think someone at sometime stuck something truly rotten and revolting in his mouth. Now his teeth were decaying.

Tom smoked generic cigarettes, and being a recovering alcoholic, he washed them down with coffee rather than booze. As long I had known Tom, he had never been employed. Like a lot of recovering alcoholics, he discovered, that once he stopped drinking, the mental illness he had always had took the opportunity to rear its ugly head now that the booze no longer kept it at bay. Supposedly, Tom’s mental illness was so debilitating that he couldn’t work. He got social security since he was disabled. I kind of thought it was bullshit. Granted, he was kind of fucked up, but I didn’t know anybody that wasn’t. I guess the stress of a job was too much for him. It would cause some kind of break down for him. Tom appeared to function quite sanely, lucidly, and even highly functioning. He was quite intelligent, and spent much of his free time in the library reading up on any subject that interested him. Sometimes he got a little abstract, which some people found strange, but he made more sense to me than most people I knew.

I knocked on his door. I heard the TV on inside so I knew he was home. Before he answered the door, he turned the TV off. I thought it was his etiquette, but after I got to know him very well I realized that he didn’t want anything else in the room vying for my attention. Tom liked to dominate conversation, and he liked an audience, even of one. Tom felt like he deserved an audience. He believed his intelligence gave birth to ideas and thought that the rest of the world should pay attention to, and at least give him the proper respect he deserved. Tom talked like he was an undiscovered genius, and he was resentful that mankind hadn’t acknowledge him yet. But I wanted to ask him, “Don’t you think you should do something of genius for mankind to acknowledge that you have that value?”

“Hey buddy,” he said when he opened the door. He was visibly happy to see me. He always was, to varying degrees.

“Hi Tom.”

“What’s new? Have a seat. Wanna cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” I said.

“How’s the kids?” he asked, although I think he only saw my kids once, the one time he visited my house. He was visibly uncomfortable being in my home. I never took it personally that he didn’t want to visit me. My life, my home, reminded him of everything he didn’t have. Tom lived in an efficiency apartment. I had a house, a family, a decent job. He envied my life, but I also envied something he had that I didn’t. Freedom. Free to do whatever he wanted to do on any given day.

Most of our conversations were about writing. That was how we became friends. Tom was a friend of one of my brother’s friends, so we crossed paths at some birthday party for someone neither of us knew very well. The subject of books came up which led to writing, and I shared that I had published a novel in the small press. Tom was a poet, but he had aspirations to write a commercially viable science fiction novel, something that would make him a lot of money, something that would get made into a movie like a Michael Crichton novel. Tom wanted to collaborate on it with me. I got the feeling that it was why he wanted to be my friend. Tom was a man of a lot of ideas but little action. I saw exactly how it would have worked out. He would be feeding me plot and storyline, and I would be pounding the words out. The whole idea of collaborating with him gave me anxiety. I finally convinced him that he could do it on his own. And he did write it. It was a crappy piece of shit, but a lot of crappy pieces of shit go on to get published. His never did. But while we wrote our novels, we became each other’s muse. I always left his apartment feeling creatively charged.

I hadn’t seen Tom in few days, so we spent a couple of minutes catching up.

“Writing much lately?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have been. My wife has been giving me a bunch of shit for how much I have been. You know, if I published a book and made a million dollars it would be a different story.”

“Course it would,” he said and got that look on his face that showed restraint. I know he wanted to tell me that she was fucking bitch and that I should leave her. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t know how I could. “You’re a lot different than she is,” he said. It was his way of saying that I shouldn’t be with her.

“How’s your writing going?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk about my wife anymore.

“I just sent my novel out again. I still don’t know what I want to write about next. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to invest the time in another novel, until I see if something happens with this one.”

I figured this was the way a lot of pseudo-writers quit writing. They don’t acquire the success they want and they quit. I always thought that writing wasn’t a choice. For me, it was something I needed to do, had to do to feel like my life meant something. Without it, I think I would eventually blow my brains out. It was how I defined myself. Mind you, this didn’t ever mean that I was a good, or even an adequate writer. It meant that I didn’t feel like I had a choice. Doing it was living. Not doing it was a slow death.

“I went to the library today,” Tom said.

So, I thought, you always go to the library.

“I found some pictures.”

“Pictures of what? What kind of pictures?”

“They fell out of the paper towel dispenser, when I pulled a towel out to dry my hands.”

“They fell out? Pictures of what? Nude pictures?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said and smiled uncomfortably. Tom wasn’t a prude, so I didn’t quite understand his apprehension.

“Who are they of?” I was asking for specifics like, male or female, old or young. I was looking for physical attributes to see if I wanted to see them. “Do you have them?”

“They’re of one of the librarians,” he said.

“What the hell?”

“Yeah,” he said then paused. “Want to see them?”

“Yeah,” I said excitedly.

He started to get up, and then he said, “I don’t know I feel lecherous showing these pictures. I’m sure she doesn’t know they were in there. Probably some pissed off ex-boyfriend put them there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t tell anybody about them.”

“I won’t. I understand.” Tom didn’t give a shit about exposing this woman. He was concerned that I might rat him out. He could be a bit paranoid.

He handed three 5×7 color photos to me. She was kind of cute. She had mid length reddish-blonde hair, and it was her true color. All of the photos were basically the same. She was completely naked. She was lying or leaning back with her legs spread apart to varying degrees. Her pussy looked very red and swollen like she had just had sex.

“Wow, I think I recognize her,” I said. I was no stranger to the library either. Odd as it was, I stared at her face as much as the rest her body at its vulnerable best. She was a little chunky with pale Irish skin. She was smiling like she was pleasing someone or had just pleased them. I think both. I wanted to keep the image of her face in my head for the next time I went to the library, which would be at my first opportunity. “What are you going to do with them?”

“I thought about giving them back to her so she knows what some asshole did to her. I’m all for taking the pictures, but he didn’t have to do that to her.”

I was thinking that Tom probably jerked off to her more than once since he found the pictures. Who wouldn’t?

“As unlikely as it seems, maybe she put them there herself,” I said.

“I doubt it,” Tom said. “I think I’ll just throw them away.”

“Don’t do that. I’ll take them off your hands,” I said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I won’t show them to anyone.” Both of us knew I was lying. I would be discrete with them, but at some point I would show them to someone. How couldn’t I?

“I think I’ll just throw them away,” Tom said with a tone of integrity in his voice that I thought was probably bullshit. He was one of the biggest horn-dogs I knew. As long as I knew him he hadn’t had a girlfriend, nor do I think he had even gotten laid, and it wasn’t for lack of want or trying. He wasn’t going to throw those pictures away. If there was a possibility that they could get him laid, he would use them. What assumptions or conclusions he would come to in his somewhat complex and convoluted mind were the unknowns. Once Tom and I went to a strip club, and on the ride home he kept talking about one of the strippers and how she had special interest in him. “She kept looking at me,” Tom said. “I think she really liked me. Damn, I should have asked her for her number.” I don’t know how someone can be so intelligent and so deluded at the same time. The girl was a stripper. Her job was to make every man think he was special. That was how she got tips. It had been way too long since Tom had gotten laid. Jerking off satisfies a temporary urge, but only real sex truly treats the malady

I went to the library a couple of days after I visited Tom. For some reason I didn’t think she would be there, but she was. At first I wasn’t sure it was her, because I imagined her shorter from the picture. She had also gained some weight from the picture, but for all I knew she might have gained and lost a couple of different times since the pictures had been taken. She was wearing a dark blue skirt with nylons and a buttoned up white blouse. Her shoes, although I didn’t know what they were called, were also conservative looking. By the way this woman dressed, I didn’t think she would pose for the kind of pictures she did.

I checked out a couple of books I knew I would never read. Not that I would never read these books. It was just that I had a pile at home I was working through. The other librarian checked me out, but I got a better look at the red head, and I heard her voice. It was high and young in tone.

It was probably just me, but I got a sense that she knew I was up to something. After I left the library, and as I walked to my car, I realized how much I must have been staring at her.

Four days later I had a chance to visit Tom again. I wanted to tell him that I had seen her. I wanted to see those pictures again after I had seen her in person so recently.

I heard the TV on inside. I thought it was strange that he found so much to watch even though he didn’t have cable. Without cable only five stations were available. For a guy who lived alone I could see how the background noise of TV could help alleviate loneliness.

Tom turned off the TV and opened the door. He was as glad to see me as he always was.

“I saw her,” I said.

“Yeah, so did I. A couple of times. I talked to her.” Then he hesitated for a moment and said, “About the pictures.”

“Really? How did that go?” I hoped for the best but expected the worst.

“I asked her if I could to talk to her in private, and we walked up to the nonfiction upstairs way in back.” Tom introduced himself and learned that her name was Cindy. He told her that he found something in the men’s restroom, and he handed her one the pictures in an envelope. Tom left the other two at home. How would she know that he found three? She stared at the picture, and her pasty Irish complexion became a dark pink, as her green eyes welled. Tom told her he was sorry, but he thought she should know.

“Do you have any others?” She asked. She obviously knew how many had been taken.

“She was really intimidating. I didn’t know what to say, but I said no, and she didn’t believe me.”

“I want the others,” she demanded. Being a librarian, she knew how to talk harshly but quietly.

Tom admitted to having two others.

As she snatched the one from his boney fingers she asked him why he didn’t bring the other two.

“I said I wanted to take her out on a date, maybe for coffee, but she called me a freak and accused me of knowing her ex-boyfriend and that we were in it together.”

“In what together?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I didn’t have a chance to.”

She stuck her finger in Tom’s chest and told him that he better go get the other pictures, “Now!”

“Then she pushed me. That woman is strong.”

Tom reeled back and fell into a book shelf. The shelves didn’t domino over like in the movies. Library shelves and sturdy and well supported, but Tom said, as he crashed into the stacks that about a hundred books fell off onto the floor, and ended up on the floor himself.

“I hit my head. Look at this lump,” Tom said meekly like a battered husband, as he pulled his hair back to show me.

He had a small knot.

“Did you take her the other pictures?”

“Not yet, but if I ever want to go back to the library I’ll have to,” he said and sighed heavily.

“It will be okay. I’ll go with you if you want?”

“No. I hoping that she’s had some time to cool off, and we can still have that cup of coffee.”

“Really?” I didn’t think there was any way this woman would be interested in establishing a relationship with Tom based upon an introduction from the chance finding of explicit pictures. “Would you want to go out with someone that has the ability to physically abuse you? Maybe she beat the shit out of the other guy, so he retaliated by humiliating her with strategically placing the pictures in the library.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Tom said.

“I would just drop the other two pictures off and walk away. Let it go.”

The next time I saw Tom he told me that he tried to give her the pictures and walk away, but Cindy found him a little later, when he was browsing through the fiction section. I know Tom well enough to know that he wanted her to approach him; otherwise he would have left the library after dropping off the pictures. “She apologized for pushing me. And thanked me for bringing them.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“She asked me if I showed the pictures to anyone else who knows she works here, and I told her I didn’t, so don’t say anything when you meet her.”

“What?” I said.

“We went for coffee, and then she took me back to her place and fucked my brains out,” Tom said with his chest puffed up like a rooster.

I had never seen him feeling quite so good about himself. I was dumbstruck and then envious. I didn’t know if I should congratulate him, or be concerned for his welfare. “When do you think I’ll meet her?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see how things go.”

Well, I never did formally meet her. Tom only saw her one more time when she came over to his place and screwed him a couple of days after she screwed him the first time. Tom thinks she wanted to be sure he had given her all the pictures. But he also believed she had a thing for him, because she didn’t necessarily have to fuck him twice to find out if he gave her everything he had. Of course, he regretted ever telling her how many he found. “If I had only said I had one other at home.”

“At what point were you going to use it to have her screw you again. And do you think it would be worth the ass-kicking she’d give you afterwards?”

“She couldn’t take me. I’d be ready for her next time,” Tom said and nodded subtly but confidently.

For the next six months I listened to him talk about Cindy and the lost opportunity. And for the next six months Tom parked himself within eyeshot of the bathroom, and after almost every visitor to the men’s restroom (he didn’t bother with the real old guys), Tom checked the towel dispenser.

“Don’t you end up going into the restroom a lot? Doesn’t anyone ever say anything to you?”

“One of the librarians did, but I told her I had a bladder condition.”

Tom never did find anymore pictures. I have to admit, when I go to the library and use the restroom, I slide my fingers up the paper towel dispenser just to make sure.

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

Kamalia’s high school guidance counselor once told her to find something she was good at—something she loved—and then find a way to make money doing it. It was a no-brainer for her. Prostitution hadn’t been her first choice. She’d tried to be a legitimate adult film star, but all of the lights and cameras gave her performance anxiety. It all worked out though. In fact, she preferred to be her own boss.

Kamalia wasn’t your average two bit-hooker that stood on the street corner in fake leather boots and imitation snake skin mini-skirts hollering, “Hey baby! You looking for a good time?” Her boots were real and she preferred silk to snake skin. She was a full service, professional hooker—the kind that dealt with a very elite clientele. Threesomes, gang bangs, fetishes, bondage, sadomasochism, role playing, erotic asphyxiation…whatever your pleasure, Kamalia was more than willing to accommodate. She drew the line at rim jobs and getting tea-bagged though. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Of course all of that was back in her glory days; back before she became the devil’s concubine. Kamalia smiled at the reference. Her protégé was always chastising her about referring to her herself as a concubine and her husband as the devil. But until she found a more suitable description, Ian Daniels would be known as The Devil.

# # #

“I hear you deal in risqué matters of the flesh,” he said.

Kamalia remained seated at the table as he spoke. She looked him over. He was tall with short black spiked hair and eyes such a deep shade of purple they looked like the midnight sky. The stranger was attractive enough, except for the beer gut that flopped over the waistband of his khakis.

She nodded for him to sit. He did. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Ian.”

“Tell me, Ian, why have you come to see me?”

# # #

Kamalia hummed the theme to I Dream of Jeanie as she sprinkled a generous amount of seasoned salt on top of her perfectly shaped meatloaf before covering it with ketchup. Ian loved ketchup. He ate it on everything from scrambled eggs to bologna sandwiches. He even dipped his potato chips in it. No wonder he was so fat, she thought. She put the pan in the oven and wiped her hands on her stained yellow apron. Her life had gone to hell.

# # #

“So, what’s your pleasure, darlin’?”

Ian dropped a small red duffel bag on the bed of the cheap motel room he’d rented for the evening. He slowly unzipped it and pulled out two pairs of metal handcuffs.

“Bondage, huh?” Kamalia smiled. “You or me?”

“You,” he stated. “Would you mind putting this on first though?” Ian handed her a strap-on dildo. It came equipped with an engorged head, faux veins, and balls.

“Impressive,” she said, slipping it on.

“Lie down on your back,” Ian instructed.

Obediently, Kamalia lay down on the bed and assumed the spread eagle position. Ian cuffed her wrists and ankles to the bed. She watched as he meticulously took off his clothes, folded them and set them on the dresser.

# # #

Ian would be upset if she wasn’t dressed in red leather and black heels. That was her meatloaf attire. It was better than the white corset, lace thong, and running shoes that he required when she cooked chicken parmesan. Which reminded her, she had to run out to the store and pick up some lemon-lime Gatorade for him. That was his drink of choice with meatloaf. God knows she wasn’t in the mood for the rubber tickler he’d use to punish her if a tall ice cold glass of his favorite drink wasn’t served with his dinner.

Kamalia chuckled as she slipped on her trench coat. God knows. That’d send Ian into a fury if he ever heard her speak His name. It’d serve him right though. Fucking narcissist.

# # #

“Just lay still,” Ian said. He had his cock in his hand, slowly stroking it as he approached the bed.

She rattled the handcuffs and smiled. “It’s not like I can do much anyway.”

Ian leaned over Kamalia’s naked body. He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked on it for a few moments before moving to the other one. His mouth was hot and her nipples always were super-sensitive to touch. Kamalia arched her body to him.

“I said lay still.” He left her nipples and kissed his way down her stomach. Ian continued to stroke his cock as he sat on his knees between her legs. He bent over and took the dildo into his mouth—all six and a half inches of it.

Kamalia had seen a lot of things in her line of work. She’d watched two guys have oral sex and anal sex. But never had she seen what she was seeing right now. A small smile formed as Ian’s head bobbed up and down. She could hear his moans vibrating against the fleshy dildo.

# # #

“Kami!”

Only one person called her Kami. She looked up to see her neighbor, Mrs. Roter waving to her from the opposite end of the juice aisle. Kamalia smiled and walked towards her. “Hello, Becky.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Becky smiled.

“Not really,” Kamalia said. “It’s the curse of living in the suburbs. Only one grocery store.”

Becky laughed. “You’re always so funny.”

“I used to be a comedian in a former life,” Kamalia said dryly.

Becky’s high-pitched giggle pierced the quiet of the aisle. “I’m making roast duck for Charles tonight. You and Ian should join us.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. Well, I really need to get going.” Kamalia tapped her watch before walking away. She hated her neighbors. Every last one of them. They were nosy, annoying, and boring. She was willing to bet money that “Perky Little Becky” had never had a toe-curling orgasm. Grabbing an eight-pack of lemon lime Gatorade, Kamalia rushed out of the aisle. The happy homemaker, “vanilla” scene was getting to be too much.

# # #

Kamalia continued to watch as Ian gave the dildo a blow job. She had to admit, she was impressed. He knew how to give head. Maybe she could get him to teach her a few tricks.

“You like that, big boy?” she asked, thrusting her hips up, shoving the dildo deeper into his mouth.

Ian took the dildo out of his mouth. “I told you to lie still,” he said, pinning her hips to the bed with his hands.

“Just trying to help you out,” Kamalia said, a hint of humor in her voice.

“I don’t need any help.” Ian straddled Kamalia’s waist, his back towards her. He grabbed the base of the dildo and held it still as he slid down on it. His deep, throaty groan of pleasure filled the tiny room.

Kamalia lay perfectly still as Ian fucked the dildo hard and fast. His left hand grasped the blankets, anchoring him to the bed while his right hand feverishly stroked his cock. The faster he moved on the dildo, the harder he’d jerk off. The harder he jerked off, the louder his moans became.

There had been a few rare occasions in her professional life when she’d been bored, but this was a new low. She slowly thrust her hips up, meeting Ian as he slid down on the dildo. He didn’t yell at her to lay still. She moved a little faster.

“Talk dirty to me,” he said breathlessly.

“You like the feel of that big, hard dildo stretching your ass open, huh? It makes you want to come doesn’t it, Ian?”

“Call it a cock,” Ian demanded. “It’s a cock, dammit. Call it a cock.”

Kamalia sighed in frustration. Why hadn’t he just hired a male prostitute? she wondered.

# # #

Kamalia arrived at home just in time to save her meatloaf from burning. Ian refused to eat anything burnt which was rather ironic considering he lived for anything that flamed. Especially men.

She set the pan on top of the stove and busied herself with preparing the vegetables to put in the steamer. Ian would be home in less than half an hour.

# # #

“That cock feels good doesn’t it? You like feeling it slide in and out of you?”

“Deeper,” Ian said while stroking his cock harder.

Kamalia thrust her hips and the dildo deeper into Ian’s ass.

“Your voice,” he breathed. “Make it deeper.”

She fought the urge to laugh. Deepening her voice she said, “Ride that cock, Ian. Fuck it hard.”

“Deeper!” Ian shouted.

He was joking, right?

Ian stopped riding the dildo and bent over. He bit Kamalia on her leg, just above her ankle.

Nope. He wasn’t joking. Kamalia deepened her voice until it physically hurt and said, “Make yourself cum, Ian. Stroke that cock. Fuck that cock harder. Deeper.”

Ian let out one final howl. Seconds later, Kamalia felt the warm gooeyness of his cum on her leg.

# # #

Kamalia scraped the vegetables off the cutting board and into the steamer. It was time to make the final dish—potatoes. Ian demanded to have hot mashed potatoes with three tablespoons of butter on top. She always saved their preparation for last so that they’d be at a temperature of his liking and because she absolutely despised peeling potatoes.

It was a small wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet with the way he eats. She’d never get that lucky. That particular night though, the night he’d made his offer, she’d thought she was the luckiest prostitute in the world.

# # #

Sexually frustrated and prostitute don’t typically fall into the same category but there was no other way to explain her encounter with Ian. It was one of the strangest nights of her working life. Up until that point, turning tricks had always been exciting for Kamalia. Her clients always left satisfied and so did she.

“Why do you do this?” Ian asked, interrupting her thoughts. He drew a long puff of his cheap menthol cigarette.

“Do what?” Kamalia asked.

“Engage in depraved sexual acts for money?”

Kamalia raised an eyebrow and smiled at him over her shoulder. “They can’t be too depraved. You enjoyed them.”

Ian crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside stand. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his khakis. “Don’t you want more out of life?”

“You paid me for sex. Not pillow talk,” she told him coolly while slipping her feet into her silver studded green stilettos.  “So it’s all about the money?”

“And the sex.” Kamalia smiled.

“What if I could offer you the money and the sex without the danger?”

# # #

Ian made Richard Simmons look straight. She should’ve known. It was right in front of her the entire time. But, she had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And look where it’d gotten her? Married to a man who was in serious denial about his homosexuality. Kamalia was nothing more than his trophy wife—a cover for his true identity.

She’d tried to get out of the business a couple of times, to no avail. The moment a potential suitor learned of her previous entrepreneurial skills, he’d drop her like rotten garbage and run for the hills. She had to face the fact: At thirty-seven, Kamalia’s body wasn’t what it used to be. She knew it was time to find another way to support herself. Ian was her answer. So, she had allowed him to marry her. And they had tried to consummate the marriage.

# # #

“Why are we here?” Kamalia asked.

“I thought it’d be romantic to spend our honeymoon at the same place we first made love,” Ian said with a smile.

Kamalia looked at him with disbelief. Made love? She must’ve missed the part of that night where she’d gotten any pleasure from him. The La Fiesta Motel was the cheapest motel in town and one she frequented with her clients. It was the last place she wanted to spend her honeymoon.

“Come on. I got the same exact room,” Ian said.

Kamalia faked a smile and followed him to the room. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the only thing she had to fake that night.

It didn’t take long for both of them to strip naked. Kamalia lay down on the bed and waited for Ian. He wanted to do it missionary style because he felt it was the appropriate way for a husband and wife to have sex. Kamalia thought it was boring but marriage was about compromise and it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

Ian approached her and positioned himself between her spread legs. He pressed the engorged head of his cock into the hot, wet opening of her pussy. Kamalia sucked in her breath at the feel of him. It was the first time she was going to feel him inside of her and her anticipation was high.

Unfortunately, her pleasure was short lived. After two shallow strokes, Ian went flaccid inside of her. He pulled out, closed his eyes, and stroked himself hard. He entered her again. And once again, he went flaccid.

“Maybe we should try a different position,” Ian said.

Thank God, she thought. “Sure, darlin’. How do you want me?”

“On your knees, head on the pillow and ass in the air.”

Kamalia obeyed. Doggy-style was one of her favorite positions.

Ian continued to stroke his cock until it was hard, a small bead of pre-cum glistened on the head. He stuck it in Kamalia’s ass with a single, hard, forceful thrust. And as long as Kamalia didn’t speak or moan or scream or look at Ian, his dick stayed hard.

# # #

The sound of Ian’s powder blue Prius pulling into the garage snapped her back to reality. Kamalia put his plate of food on the table along with his glass of Gatorade. She did a quick inspection of the kitchen. Ian hated messes.

“Better put that away,” she mumbled, screwing the top onto the jug of antifreeze and tucking it away under the sink.

Kamalia met him at the front door. “Hi, honey. How was work?” she asked just like she did every night of the week.

“Good,” he replied in an effeminate voice. “I see we’re having meatloaf.”

“Your favorite,” Kamalia said, following him into the kitchen. He sat in front of his prepared plate and picked up the glass of Gatorade. Ian took a long slow drink then puckered his lips, smacking them together. “Mmm, tangy,” he said.

Kamalia leaned up against the counter and fought back a smile. Soon, she thought. Soon her nightmare would be over and she could go back to doing what she loved.

Olivia’s Ordeal By DirtyMartini

So many things were going through Olivia’s young mind as she rode in the back of the van. Though she was uncomfortable from the cuffs and leg irons digging into her lovely olive skin, this was barely a distraction as she replayed the recent events of her life over and over in her head. It was dark in the back of the transport van, and the 20-minute ride gave her plenty of time to think. How could she have not known her boyfriend Kenny was dealing drugs? He seemed like a nice guy and always bought her nice things. How could he have set her up to take the fall? He had told her he loved her and they would always be together. What was life going to be like in her new home? She heard so many stories. Were all those dykey girls going to be staring at her pretty young body? God, the thought of it made her cringe…

She can still hear the judge’s words, “90 days in the woman’s unit at the county jail”. She can still hear her lawyer telling her what a great plea bargain deal he got her. Great deal for whom, she thought, him? He gets paid and gets to go home to his wife. I’m the one going to jail.

After what seemed like an eternity, the van finally arrived at the main prison entrance. The driver said something into the radio and Olivia could hear the main gate squeal loudly as it slowly rolled open. Once inside the walls the van slowly drove down the long road to the intake building. As it rolled past the streetlights, each shone its light beam in through the small window on the side of the van, lighting up Olivia’s blank expression with a slow motion strobe effect.

After a few minutes the van stopped at the loading dock. A few more minutes and Olivia could hear voices on the other side of the van door. The door opened quickly and Olivia could see two female guards.

“Step out of the van please.”

Olivia got up and slowly walked to the back of the van, the chains from the leg irons clanging in rhythm with every step she took.

“Watch your step.”

The two armed officers slowly escorted Olivia past the loading dock to a door. When they arrived at the door, one of the officers spoke into the intercom.

“One prisoner from central holding.”

A loud buzzing sound signaled the unlocking of the door and Olivia was led in. She was escorted to a small, hard, wooden bench and told to sit. One of the guards took out a key and released the handcuffs from one of her wrists. She then took the freed cuff and locked Olivia to a large metal hook on the bench. Next, she bent down and released the leg irons from both ankles and tossed them in a heap against the wall. The guard then went over to a desk where a large female officer sat and handed her an envelope containing Olivia’s jewelry and personal property. After a few moments of small talk, the two guards that brought Olivia in left. As they passed by Olivia one of them spoke, “Someone will be with you in a few minutes.” Then they walked back out the door.

Gee, someone will be with me in a few minutes, Olivia muttered to herself. Well, they can take their sweet time. I’m in no hurry. She looked over at the officer sitting at the desk. She was a large, black woman about 30. She did not look up and did not seem in any hurry. At no time did she even acknowledge Olivia’s presence.

Olivia looked around the jail. It was cold sitting on the bench. Olivia had goose bumps and the small hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. She was not shivering, but she was cold.

The gray painted cinder block walls did nothing to give the place a feeling of warmth. There were girls’ names etched into the walls everywhere. In some cases a heart would surround two girls’ names. Olivia stared at the wall where ‘Lisa loves Pam’ was prominently etched in bold letters and let out a small chuckle. ‘That could never be me,’ she thought.

After a half-hour or so, the large black officer finally got up. She walked over to Olivia and stood directly in front of her. She was a large, imposing figure with a look of authority. She held some papers in her hand, which she kept looking at. After a moment she asked, “Your name?”

“Olivia Diaz” was the reply.

“Your age?”

“19.”

“Social security number?”

“178-88-4953” was Olivia’s quiet reply.

The officer then pulled out a key and unlocked Olivia’s handcuffs. “Follow me” she said.

Olivia followed the officer to a small room down the hall that contained a desk with a computer and not much else. The officer reached into a closet and pulled out a plastic storage bin. She then removed a paper form from the top desk drawer and began filling it out. As she did she handed the plastic bin to Olivia.

“Remove all your clothing and place it in the bin, including your underwear. I see you have a shirt, pants, bra, panties, two socks and a pair of sneakers. I also need you to sign this property receipt.”

“Can’t I keep my underwear?” asked Olivia.

“No. You can’t have anything you can hide things in.”

As soon as she handed Olivia the property receipt, the officer reached in the bottom drawer and removed a pair of latex gloves from a large box. She put the gloves on.

“I need you to turn around and face the wall.”

As Olivia turned and faced the wall, she could feel the officer’s fingers probing her ears, bending each one back slowly. She then lifted up Olivia’s long black hair and ran her fingers slowly through it in a deliberate methodical kind of way.

“You have anything on your person you should not have?”

“No,” said Olivia; “I was searched just before I entered the court house.”

“I have to do it again. Procedure, you know.”

Olivia could feel that the officer let go of her hair as it fell back onto her neck and shoulders.

“Bend over for me.”

‘Oh God,’ thought Olivia. Olivia could feel the officer’s gloved hands gently spreading her butt cheeks. She could feel her fingers probe her butt hole. Her fingers started to work their way down.

“Bend over a little farther for me. Touch your toes.”

Olivia could feel the officer’s fingers make their way down to her womanhood. Suddenly she felt a finger being inserted slowly into her and she let out a muffled moan. This was so degrading, she kept thinking. She tried not to think about it but the officer’s slow movements actually felt good. After a moment she removed her hand.

“Turn around for me.”

Olivia did as told.

“Open your mouth, wide.”

As Olivia opened her mouth, the officer pulled out a small flashlight from her pocket and started examining her mouth.

“Lift your tongue.”

Again Olivia did as told. As the officer turned off the light and put it back in her pocket, Olivia breathed a sigh of relief. The officer walked over to a small cart and came back with a one-piece orange jump suit.

“Put this on. This is what you will be wearing for the remainder of your stay. The snaps go in the front.”

Olivia put on the jumpsuit as the officer watched intently. As she put it on she noticed only two of the four snaps actually worked. She could see in a nearby mirror that her breasts were clearly visible from the sides and if she leaned over, the top portion of her neatly trimmed pubic hair was exposed.

“Do you have another jumpsuit? This one is missing snaps. Please.”

“No,” said the officer. “It is the only one in your size.”

Olivia was frantic. ‘Oh my God,’ she thought. ‘This is a nightmare. Someone please get me out of here. Please.’

The officer led Olivia out of the room and down the hall to a holding cell. There was another inmate in the cell, also in an orange suit.

“Wait here till we have your cell ready,” the officer said. “It should be soon.”

The officer closed the door with a sharp clang. Olivia tried not to stare at the other inmate. She was a large woman with close-cropped hair and faded monochrome tattoos. Olivia could make out the name Wendy tattooed on the girl’s forearm. Oh My God, she thought. I would hate to be her cellmate.

“Hi, I’m Andy,” said the other girl. “What you in for?”

“Possession,” quipped Olivia. “My boyfriend set me up.”

“Sounds like a boyfriend you don’t need. Ever been with another girl before?”

“No, and I don’t intend to,” said Olivia sharply.

“Don’t worry. You will. You’ll be Gay for the Stay, just like all the rest. You’ll see.”

Gay for the stay. Those words cut through Olivia’s mind like a hot knife through butter. There was no way Olivia would ever let that happen.

“Andrea Jackson?” a guard asked at the cell door. “Come with me.”

Andy was led out. Olivia was hoping she could get her cell soon so she could lie down in peace and collect her thoughts. She was cold, she felt naked and she was scared. About 20 minutes later another guard appeared at the door.

“Olivia Diaz. Come with me.”

Olivia was led down the hall to her awaiting cell. There were a few hoots and whistles from some of the girls in the cells as Olivia passed by. They finally arrived at the cell.

“24 North,” shouted the guard. “Open.”

The door opened with a loud buzz.

“Welcome to your new home.”

Olivia didn’t say a word as she walked into the cell.

“You get the top bunk,” a voice said from below. Olivia could not see the face at first, but the voice sounded familiar. It was Andy. Oh my God.

“Hey, look who it is. We’re going to have a real good time, you and me.”

Olivia climbed up to the top bunk and lied down. She was tired. It was a long day. In a little while she was asleep.

Sometime later Olivia awoke to find a hand on her thigh. It was Andy. “What’s up precious?”

“Please don’t touch me. Please. I’ll scream.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” with that, Andy put her hand over Olivia’s mouth and began climbing up the bed and into the bunk. She got next to Olivia in the bed, keeping her hand over her mouth the whole time. There was barely room for the two of them in the small bunk. The big woman had her leg between Olivia’s legs, her thigh firmly pressing Olivia’s thigh and moving her leg up and down along Olivia’s legs.

“Feels good, don’t it?”

Andy began to feel Olivia’s breasts with her free hand. At first she gently caressed them and then she firmly squeezed her left breast.

“Oh, these are nice,” Andy said, “I can see we are going to have a good time you and me.”

Andy gave Olivia’s left nipple a soft kiss. With that she released her breast and stopped stroking her leg.

“I’m going to release your mouth and if you say a word your ass is mine.”

Olivia was paralyzed with fear as the girl took her hand away. Olivia just lied there shaking as the other girl got down.

There was no other incident the rest of the night. Still, Olivia had a hard time sleeping. The other girls in the cellblock made noise all night, hollering and talking trash. The hard mat was so uncomfortable. Of course it was cold.

The next morning started with breakfast. The whole cellblock ate at the same time. Olivia quickly got her food and found a seat. She felt the whole room was staring at her. She hoped she could eat quickly and keep a low profile. Her hopes were dashed when she looked up and saw Andy approaching. Andy put her tray down in front of the seat right next to hers and walked up behind Olivia. Olivia began to get nervous in anticipation of what might happen next.

“Hey all, I want to introduce you to my new celly, Olivia.”

“She looks fine. I’ll give you a carton of smokes for her!” one of the inmates shouted across the room. There was laughter from other inmates.

“No, she’s a keeper. All mine.” With that, Andy started to run her fingers through Olivia’s long black hair. She then started caressing her neck and ran her hand up and down her cheek.

“Keep your hands off me!” screamed Olivia. With that, Olivia picked up her orange juice and threw it in Andy’s face.

“Bitch!” shouted Andy as she slapped Olivia hard across the face, knocking her onto the floor. Andy got on top of her and the two started going at it. Olivia’s nipples could be seen plainly exposed by her ill-fitting jumpsuit as the two rolled on the floor. Other inmates gathered around and started cheering. It was instant mayhem as the two girls went at it like animals.

The ensuing struggle brought almost immediate attention from the guards. In moments two correction officers were standing over the sweaty girls breaking them apart. One of them lifted Olivia up off the ground by her shoulders. Andy got up.

“Alright, what happened here?” shouted the guard. “Hey Andy, welcome back!”

“Yea, glad to be here, Pam,” said Andy. It was clear they knew each other.

“What you in for this time?”

“Picked up on an old warrant. Bullshit,” answered Andy.

“I have to take yous and write yous up you know.”

“That ain’t fair, she started it!” said Olivia.

“Don’t matter. There is no fighting.”

Pam led the two down the hall to a small office. She seated them and proceeded to fill out some paperwork. After about ten minutes she handed a paper to Andy and told her she could go back to her cell.

“We all taken care of?” Andy asked.

“Yea, we good,” Pam said, “You can still get shit?”

“Hell yea!” quipped Andy. It was clear these two knew each other and there was something going on other than a normal inmate guard relationship. “I got peoples coming next week. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t forget me,” said Pam, “You go. I want to have a talk with the new girl.”

“OK. I’ll get back at you next week.” With that Andy left the room.

Andy’s exit left Olivia alone with Pam. Pam smiled up at her with a sinister looking grin and then walked around to the front of the desk. She sat down on the edge of the desk and stared at Olivia with that grin on her face.

“I have to write you up for fighting, you know,” Pam said. “That is a whole ‘nother charge. Could keep you here another six months, maybe longer.”

“Please, no, please!” pleaded Olivia.

“I have no choice. Sorry.”

“Please, please. I’ll do anything! Please!”

“Hmm. That is what I wanted to hear.”

With that Pam removed her nightstick from its holster and started to slowly rub her own crotch with it. Slowly, up and down she rubbed the front of her pants between her own legs.

She then took the nightstick and in one sharp, quick upward motion undid the two snaps holding closed Olivia’s jumpsuit. Olivia’s breathing became so heavy you could hear every breath. Pam started to tease Olivia with the nightstick. First she started stroking her cheek with it, then on down to her breasts. Pam got off the desk and walked around behind Olivia’s chair.

“Get up,” she said as she hoisted Olivia out of her chair. As Olivia got up her jumpsuit fell to her ankles. She was standing in front of Pam stark naked her beautiful olive skin in full view. It was a feast for Pam’s eyes. Pam took the nightstick and dragged it up and down Olivia’s butt crack. She then walked around in front of Olivia and stuck it hard right between Olivia’s legs. Olivia closed her eyes as she let out a sharp moan. The nightstick was cold against her clit. Pam started to slide the nightstick up and down against Olivia’s neatly trimmed bush. Pam could hear Olivia’s faint moans and sighs with every stroke. Pam again walked around behind Olivia.

“Bend over, bitch!”

“Oh please, no!” Olivia pleaded.

“It’s this or six months more. Your choice.”

Olivia slowly bent forward. She again felt the nightstick against her butt this time edging slowly against the resistance of her butt hole.

“Lean against the desk with your arms wide,” Pam insisted.

Olivia did as told. She could feel Pam back the stick off her butt, but instead Pam started to ease it into Olivia’s tight pussy. Olivia started to moan as Pam slowly started to ease the cold nightstick in and out. First it was just an inch or two, then farther and farther. The stick was cold and its large diameter was more than Olivia was used to. Pam kept at it, each time pushing the stick up further and further into Olivia’s tight, moist cunt. Pam started to push it in and out faster and faster as Olivia felt Pam’s finger’s from her other hand reaching between her legs and finding her clit. As degrading as this was it was starting to feel really good to Olivia and in minutes she started to moan deeply and could feel an orgasm coming on. Within moments Olivia was spread out on the desk, writhing in delight, the nightstick humping her tight pussy like a dog.

Pam slowed her movements down as Olivia came back down from her climax. Pam quickly jerked the stick out of Olivia’s pussy and thrust it into Olivia’s butt in a quick motion that caused Olivia to scream. Once again Pam started pumping the nightstick. Her thrusts became quicker and quicker and Olivia’s moans became louder and louder. Once again the girl became overcome with pleasure, wetting the desk with her cum and wetting Pam’s hand. The inside of Olivia’s thighs glistened with her juices and her back was shiny with her sweat. Pam pulled out the stick quickly once again and placed it down on the desk next to Olivia’s face.

“Put your jumpsuit on and get out of here,” Pam said. “If you tell anyone, you’re a dead girl.”

As Olivia started to walk out, Pam suddenly jumped up and stood in front of her. “You know what?” Pam said coyly, “I don’t think I’m done with you. Down on your knees Bitch!” Pam was shouting at this point. “On your fucking knees, Bitch!”

With that, Pam took the nightstick and put it between her thighs up by her crotch. The stick was angled up at about 45 degrees, like an erect penis. “I want you to suck me off! And make sure I cum.”

Olivia hesitated. Pam grabbed the girl by her hair and held her head inches from the stick. “Are we going to do this the hard way? I can shove it through your teeth!”

Olivia opened her mouth and slowly placed her lips on the hard stick. She could see streaks of shininess from where the stick had just come out of her own ass.

“Come on Bitch, make me cum!” She began to move Olivia’s head up and down by tugging at her hair. Her movements became more and more violent with every thrust.

“Come on Bitch!” she was shouting once again, “Come on Bitch! I said make me cum!” Pam was aggressively moving Olivia’s head up and down on the stick. You could hear Olivia’s mouth making slobbering sounds as the saliva ran down the stick. Pam kept shouting,

“Come on Bitch! Make me cum!” as she just kept getting more and more violent. She was wildly moving Olivia’s head up and down on the nightstick as Olivia’s drool ran down the stick and started to puddle forming a wet stain on Pam’s pants. Finally, after about five minutes Pam stopped.

“I guess it ain’t gonna cum. I bet it’s the hardest dick you ever had!” She was still shouting. “Snap up your suit and get the fuck out of here.”

Olivia ran out the door as fast as she could before Pam could change her mind. Once around the corner she stopped and leaned against the wall in an effort to catch her breath. She was panting from excitement. She couldn’t talk, just pant. A few minutes later she walked back to her cell.

Upon being buzzed into her cell, Olivia immediately climbed up to her top bunk and lied down.

The ordeal she just went through took a lot out of her. She was hungry, tired and felt the need to take a shower badly. She asked Andy when lunch was, and was told she had just missed it. She also asked about taking a shower and was told shower privileges were at two. That was about an hour away. She had time to rest and try to calm her mind.

Two o’clock finally arrived and the inmates would be allowed to move about the jail, within limits of course. Inmates could watch TV in the dayroom, play basketball in the gym, use the phones or take showers. Olivia really looked forward to the shower. She got a clean towel and facecloth from the trustee for her cellblock and headed down to the shower room.

When she arrived at the shower room Olivia was pleased to see it was not crowded so there would be no wait. Olivia undid the snaps on her jumpsuit and let it drop to the floor. She picked it up and placed it on a hook on the wall. She made a mental note to try to get another clean jumpsuit as soon as possible. Hopefully one with all the snaps in the front.

Olivia got in the shower and turned it on. The water was a bit cold but boy did it sure feel refreshing. She stood there for a couple of minutes and let the water just run over her body, the drops running off her long black hair and down her back. Oh, did it feel good.

After a few minutes of this Olivia grabbed the soap from the rack and began to soap up her body. First her arms, then her legs and on up. As she stood there soaping herself up, with her eyes closed and her face pointed up towards the oncoming stream of water, Olivia suddenly felt a hand on her butt. She turned around to see Andy and two other girls, all completely naked. She was so engrossed in the shower she did not notice them enter the room.

“Looks like you need some help soaping up,” said Andy, “We’re here to help.”

Andy bent down and took her bar of soap and started soaping up Olivia’s legs one at a time with long firm strokes while her two friends each held Olivia by the arms. Andy started to kiss and nibble at Olivia’s lovely firm ass which was right in front of her face. She then slipped her tongue between her butt cheeks and darted it in and out while going up and down her butt. She continued moving the soap upward from her legs and started to soap up Olivia’s ass with firm massage like motions. She made sure to carefully soap up her asshole and as the running water ran down Olivia’s butt crack, Andy would flick her butt hole with her tongue and re-apply the soap. In the meantime, the other two girls were nibbling at Olivia’s ears and soaping up her upper body paying special attention to her breasts and hardening nipples. Olivia was covered with quite a bit of soap at this point. The girls turned her around and Andy judiciously soaped up her soft bush.

“I could use a good cleansing brush,” she joked as she rubbed her face against Olivia’s soaped up mound.

“Looks like it’s time to rinse her off,” Andy said and with that the girls each grabbed Olivia under the arms and Andy grabbed her by the butt and they hoisted her up with her legs in the air with her soapy mound nearly eye level directly under the stream of cool water. Olivia shut her eyes and let out a moan as the cool water hit her clit. Andy moved her right hand up to Olivia’s pussy and slowly inserted first one, then two and finally three fingers, vigorously working the girl into a frenzy. The water was rushing over her body and with her butt aimed high in the air the soapy water was rolling down past her rounded breasts and streaming down her long black hair. With her head tilted back her hair nearly touched the floor as the soapy water dripped off it forming a slippery puddle on the tile floor. The girls continued to soap and fondle each other in the shower for some time enjoying the feeling of the water rushing over their bodies. After it was over they took turns toweling each other off accompanied by lots of giggling and caressing. After a bit of playful towel snapping and long kisses they helped each other get dressed and headed off to the dayroom.

Later that day at dinnertime Olivia and Andy sat next to each other. Andy would sometimes reach over and caress Olivia’s leg or arm. If she was bothered by it, she certainly didn’t show it.

Olivia ended up getting released after serving half her time. She did the remaining time on probation.

When it was time for Olivia to leave, Andy handed Olivia her phone number on a slip of paper. “I should be out of here in a couple more months,” she said.

Olivia took the paper and thought, ‘the nerve of her, I have a boyfriend.’ Olivia thought about her recent past and what Kenny had done. She stuck the piece of paper in her pocket.

A Little Bit of Lovin’ and a Bushel of Winter Wheat By Charles Langley

The Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of  Millie’s Boarding House and State Senator Misty Garth got out without waiting for the driver to open the door for her. She stepped gingerly

around the mud puddles and mounted the steps. Millie came dashing out the door, drying her hands on a dishtowel as she ran.

“Is it all right to hug a Senator?” she asked.

“It’s all right to hug an old friend,” Misty said, grabbing her in a bear hug.

“Bill with you?”

“Left him in Raleigh to take care of things. Since he sold the farm, he mostly just cleans up business matters for me.”

“Best thing you ever did, marrying that man. I knew when you moved out on Jed Purdy and went back to school, you were going places. Marrying Bill cinched it.”

“Bill got me started off in politics. They wanted him to run for Councilman. Told them he didn’t have the time. Suggested they offer it to me. Backed me all the way ever since.”

“You sure look different now from the way you did when you came here offering to work for room and board. You still have that little girl look, but now it has authority attached to it.”

“Still have that little girl feel. Especially with Bill’s arm around me. Nothing  like a good man to convince you life is worth living. And nothing like a no-good one to let you know it isn’t.”

# # #

When Jed Purdy brought home a bride from the backwoods of Mittford County, neighbours took bets on whether she would freeze in front of  the fireplace without a sufficient supply of logs or starve in the lean-to that served as an ill-equipped kitchen. There was the third possibility that she would work herself to death trying to clean up the mess and grime that had accumulated there since  Purdy had taken over the hardscrabble farm. Whatever her future, they felt sorry for the fourteen year old waif who arrived with her entire wardrobe on her back and a pair of ill-fitting brogans on her sockless feet.

“With twenty more pounds on her skinny carcass and some tar soap for her hair, Misty would be beautiful,” Lee Petersen opined, “but as it is she’s just cute as a pearl button.”

If you were extremely kind you would say Purdy was a victim of hard luck and misfortune, but it you were at all truthful you would add that the hard luck and misfortune that accounted for his downfall was Jed Purdy himself.

Each Spring he either planted his crops so early that late frost killed them, or put them in so late that they didn’t have sufficient strength to survive the rains. What little crops he was able to reap went quickly to the society for the preservation of itinerant moonshiners or ended up an ante in the pot of Bud Hawley’s everlasting crapgame.

Misty decided on death by hard labour and set forth on the Herculean task of cleaning up the equivalent of the Augean stables. In no time at all the wide pine boards that were the floor gleamed from lye and hand scrubbing. The inside of the log walls was whitewashed. Years of smoke stains were removed from the mantle and fireplace front and the run down premises began to take on signs of human habitation.

Folks thought her habit of hard work would rub off on Jed, but such was not the case. He fished, and hunted, drank and gambled, but still had no time for chopping wood or tending the farm.

“Bill Garth got more of everything than he will ever use,” Jed told Misty. “I want you to go over to his place and git us some wheat for flour.”

“We got no money to buy anything,” she answered. “How you ‘spect to get wheat?”

“Garth ain’t had a woman at his place since his wife died four years ago. I’m sure you got something you can swap for food we need,” he told her.

She looked at him in astonishment.

“It ain’t like you was a sweet young thing never done nothing,” he continued. “You can give away all you want and still have plenty left for any three men.”

Next morning she walked the two miles to the Garth place.

“Jed wants to know do you have a spare bushel of wheat?”

“I don’t keep any more of my crop than I can use,” he said. “The feed store can accommodate him.”

“We got no money for the feed store. He thought maybe I could swap somethin’ for the wheat. Something kinda personal like.” She turned her face away from him while she was talking, so he wouldn’t see the blush on her cheek.

“You mean what I think you mean?” He saw by the look on her face that she did.

“That worthless son-of-a-bitch. Swapping your body for things he should have earned. I’ll give you the wheat, you don’t have to do anything. But tell him not to send you back again.”

“I cain’t take no charity. I cain’t swap for it, we’ll just have to do without.”

Misty went into the tidy bedroom and began undressing. She shed her housedress and petticoat and was taking off bloomers with the Gold Medal flour trademark still evident when Garth came in. She lay back on the bed to wait for the ten minutes of grunting, thrusting and moaning that was considered love-making in her home.

Half an hour later he was still kissing her on her eyes, her throat, her breasts. His hands were caressing her, bringing her to fever pitch, in a feeling she had never had before. When he finally took her it was with tenderness and care.

“I’ll leave the wheat at the millers,” he told her as breathlessly she was putting on her clothes.

“You can pick up your flour tomorrow.”

When she got home Jed was waiting.

“Sure took long enough,” he told her. “He have to grow the wheat?”

She said nothing, just went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Jed came in, pushed her backwards on the bed and climbed on without taking off his shoes.

Misty tried to push him off, but he was too strong.

“Don’t you even want to kiss me or put your hand on me first?” she asked.

“What other whore things he teach you?”

“He didn’t teach me nothing. It’s jest there’s more to it than wham, bam.”

“You ought to know, Whore.” he spit out the words. “No, you ain’t even a whore. Whores git money. All you’re good for is a bushel of wheat.” He grunted and groaned for a few minutes, then rolled off and went into a drunken sleep.

Two weeks later Jed had needs again.

“Bill Garth got cords of dry firewood under tarpaulins. More’n he’ll ever use. I want you to go over and git us a cord of that wood. Gittin’ cold in here with jest picked up branches.”

“You got as much timber on your place as he has. All it takes is cutting and stacking.”

He struck her across the face with the back of his hand.

“When I tell you to do something, do it. Or else I’ll  larn you a thing or two.”

Next day he came back from a hunting trip with a fruit jar of corn squeezings but no game. A pot of pinto beans simmered on the stove, but Misty was long gone. He unscrewed the jar top and started on the liquor. More important things to do than worry about a woman.

Misty went to the boarding house with just the scanty clothes on her back. Good help was hard to get and Millie greeted her warmly. Weeks later when Misty went to the town’s only lawyer to inquire about a divorce, she got a surprise.

“No record of you ever being married,” he told her. “No license taken out and the preacher who married you was never ordained. You’re free as a bird.”

But not for long. Bill Garth came courting as soon as he heard she was free.

# # #

“Thing’s turned out so well for you,” Millie told her over a pot of sassafras tea. “And to think the whole thing started so simply.”

“You’re right. My life and my career started at Bill Garth’s farm, with a little bit of loving and a bushel of winter wheat.”

Barbara’s Waterboarding By Sandy George

Barbara lay on her back on the waterboard, her wrists manacled under it. She didn’t know how she got there. She only remembered sitting at the stylish bar in the hotel when the bartender came over with a drink for her. He said a man had bought it for her because she was a beautiful girl. Her only other memory was a vague one about getting into a luxurious car.

Even though she was blindfolded, he knew she was on a waterboard because her Tormentor had tipped her up and her head had gone underwater. She had felt like she was going to drown then felt the unimaginable pain of inhaling water into her lungs. She knew her Tormentor was a man because she had heard him speak, a deep, resonant baritone that made her moist between her legs. She wished he would come back and talk to her again; maybe he wouldn’t hurt her next time. She heard a noise, a scraping followed by a footfall. She knew the Tormentor didn’t walk like that. It must be someone else.

Suddenly she felt something between her thighs, something hard and cold. It moved up between her thighs until it reached her cunt. Then it pressed firmly against her lips, pushing them apart and entering her. It must be an enormous dildo. She cried out as it was forced into her, stretching her more than she thought she could be stretched. She begged whoever was doing it to stop; she was afraid she would rip, and the pain was becoming unbearable. Then it did become unbearable as the dildo was revolved while in her, the massive head ploughing in a circle inside her cunt and she screamed. Then she heard the laugh. It was a sniveling snicker sounding like fingernails scratching sandpaper. The rotation stopped and the dildo was jerked out of her, hurting her, but what followed was worse. She heard the awful laugh again as she felt his fingers press against her anus, and she realized he was smearing a creamy substance on and in it. The fingers went away and the dildo returned, shoved hard against her ass. Again she screamed, out of fright this time, as the huge tool was jammed remorselessly into her. Again she felt like she would tear, but the lubricant kept that from happening. The head was now inside her and the revolving began again. It wasn’t as bad as it had been inside her pussy, and in revolving it passed over her spot, giving her a surge of stimulation. Then she felt fingers at her cunt and a hand pushed inside her abruptly. It reached her spot from that side and it and the dildo worked it together. She couldn’t keep from responding to the implacable assault, and was bucking and thrusting against the hand and the tool inside her. She felt the climax building, then washing over her in savage waves until she collapsed, limp. The abuse didn’t stop. She was so sensitive now that it was unbearable, but the hand pulled out and pinched her clit hard. She screamed but the pinching continued, now jacking up and down the clit’s tiny shaft. Then she felt the board tip, and once again her head was underwater. She held her breath as long as she could, but the stimulation of her clit made her gasp and the water came in. The pain in her lungs and the anoxia from not being able to breathe morphed into an explosion as a massive wave roared through her. Her mind drifted; she had almost passed out.

With relief she felt the board tip up and heard the shuffling footsteps fade away. Then softer steps were coming toward her. Could it be her Tormentor? Yes! His deep voice commanded her to spread her legs. Drowsily, she complied. She felt him over her, kissing her breasts, each in turn. His hand closed over her mound, softly squeezing her sore pussy, then caressing inside her labia. She moaned as she responded to him, her nipples growing inside his mouth. He pulled her closer to him, and she felt his enormous cock pressing against her cunt. He entered her slowly, as she felt her pussy contracting around him. He pushed his cock completely inside her, and began slow, excruciatingly exciting strokes, moving almost completely out of her, then impaling her all the way as she quivered beneath him. In spite of the soreness of her clit, she started to heave up toward him, taking him as deeply as she could. She began to feel her climax building as he increased the pace of his thrusts, his balls thumping against her ass. As her climax grew she felt his prick swell and then his semen gushed inside her. It made her come now, her body wrenching in ecstasy as she clutched him deep inside her. He stayed in her until her body slowly calmed, then he withdrew gently and kissed her mouth. He unshackled her wrists and she could hear him leaving. She removed the blindfold and saw a stooped old man’s back as he went out the door. Before it closed she heard him laugh, a sniveling snicker.