Strawberry Cheesecake By Charles E.J. Moulton

Julia’s strawberry cheesecake melted on my tongue and devoured me in bliss. Absolute bliss. The delicious purity of the berries mixed with a crispy crust brought back memories that had me swinging. I had not tasted something this good since I had been a child here back in Wicklow. Our mutual memories of childhood, sitting by the seaside and devouring her mom’s cake, watching that sun set, laughing at silly jokes until the stars came up: all of that came back in a spur of the moment. All of that joy lay imbedded in a strawberry cheesecake.

I looked up at Julia and smiled. She gently lay the spoonful of cake on her tongue and giggled. That splendid new hairdo fluttered in the Irish breeze, one swift lock of blondish red hair falling across her chest and landing on her bosom. The wind threw me a scent of sensual magnolia by the way of a perfumed memory of expensive eroticism.

“Julia?” I asked, seeing this woman in the light of the setting sun just where we had played so many years ago.

“Yes?” she mumbled, swallowing the bite of her seductively tasty cake.

“Why did we take so long to reacquaint?”

Julia looked up, the beauty of her brown reindeer eyes glittering in the light of that red candle. She shrugged, her flowery dress losing one ribbon and letting it drop down toward her breasts. I saw that woman’s beautiful Irish shoulder and compared it to the sound of the waves behind her. Wicklow, I thought to myself, thou art a memory recollected, a new life relived, a girlfriend well met.

“Will you marry me and give birth to my children?”

Julia stood up, laying her spoon aside, fixing me with that stare, grabbing a lock of her hair and gently putting it in her mouth. Circling the table, she ended up on my side and pushed aside all the other things that lay on it. Soon enough, her feminine scent turned more intense and I found myself actually wanting her more than I ever had wanted anyone in my entire life.

I stood up, embraced her face with my hands and tenderly, ever so tenderly, moved my lips in slow motion toward her mouth, seeing those cherry flavored lips moving nearer to my vision by the second. As we met, our lips and our hearts and our souls reacquainting, our eyes closed. I could still taste the strawberries on her mouth and smell the magnolia on her skin.

We breathed out through our nostrils, feeling the heat of our embracing bodies mingling and intertwining. I leaned over her, sweetly opening the buttons of her dress, one by one. Their soft cotton clad covered plastic textures were symbols of her soul. Beautiful and handcrafted, feminine and graceful. A white brasserie met my gaze under that dress, roses decorating the white bliss. I reached over to her shoulder and pulled down the straps, pulling them down a few inches below her bust, displaying openly what I could guess would be a healthy and lucious C-cup.

Time stood still as I, almost in slow motion, reached down and put her pink nipples in my mouth, circling them with my tongue. Julia threw her head backward, smiling, groaning, moaning, grabbing my head and caressing my hair. Inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, I worked myself down toward the temple of her lust. With the gorgeously lustful sounds of the ocean waves against the Irish coast swooshing into my eardrums, I pulled down her soft cotton underpants and landed my tongue in her sweetly tasting vagina. Digging deeper and deeper into her body, I found myself actually filling my entire face with her juices. Her tasty clitoris reminded me of the salty air of the English coast or a delicious garlic paste that I had eaten down in the Provence.

Her juice literally dripping down off my face, I stood up again, grinning like a crazy man. While gently massaging her breasts, she sat up on her terrace table and rubbed my gender. She slid off the table with a horny thump like a seal sliding into the ocean from its home on the rocky hills of the German coast.

Julia went down on her knees now, waited patiently for my gender to swell some more. She knew that it ached to plop out and say: “Hello!”

Slowly raising her hands, those fantastic hands with red elegant fingernails, she opened her eyes wide, making a very indicative “Ooh!”-movement with her lips upon seeing what was waiting for her. Her one index finger grabbed the buckle of my belt and seductively felt how hard it was. As hard as my cock? That were her thoughts at that moment, I was sure of it. With a very spiritual and candescent looking grin, Julia opened my belt and pulled down my zipper with a sexy howling sound. When she finally pulled down my pants, the revelation of my erect penis inside those white drawers caused her to whimper. Ever so acutely, Julia pulled down my drawers and caused my six inch gender to literally catapult out of my pants almost into her face. It dangled there a bit befor she did anything. It seemed she was inspecting it like she would inspect a painting by Vermeer: as a work of art.

Her open mouth, pulled wide open by the pure awe inspired wonder of seeing my flagpole swaying in the wind, ejected a chuckle. With a happy moan, Julia took that erect penis into her mouth, hugging it with her lips and swallowing it inch by inch. I lifted spiritually into bliss, my soul literally rising to the heavens. My old girlfriend from Kindergarten, my school pal with whom I had played chess on this very porch, now knelt before me just feet away from where we had eaten ice cream and read comic books at age 9. Her closed eyes indicated her absolute recovery from her painful past, my erect cock in her prosperous mouth. Me, her first male friend. Me, her first painful loss at age 14. Me, her hopeful lover gone astray. Me, living years and years abroad. Me, getting a job in Ireland after a difficult divorce. Me, remembering her. Me, seeing her face in the local Irish paper. Me, here with Julia, living alone in her family’s old house by the coast. Me, here with Julia, another divorced soul. Us, happy at last.

In what would be a musical largo, Julia got up from her knees and gave me a kiss, her lips now tasting of precum mixed with strawberries. When she turned her flabbergasting ass toward my cock, I parted her butt cheeks and slid in my dick into the hot glory, at first very slowly pounding her butt and making those wonderfuls buns wobble, her hair blowing in the breeze, a couple fucking in the open Irish springtime.

When we accelerated, we lost our touch with reality and disappeared into ecstatic lust. The speed of our frenzy caught the wind and made our hearts fly. Soon enough, my explosive sperm caught the wind and shot its load into her fertile body.

I felt like flying.

We rested together for a while on her comfortable terrace chairs. When we were ready to look into each other’s eyes again, sweaty and lucious and relaxed and juices dripping off our bodies, naked Julia turned around and faced me.

“The answer to both of your questions is yes,” she smiled. “If we’re lucky, my body will accept your sperm and catapult it into the glory of my pregnant future.”

I smiled.

“Where do you want to marry me?”

“Here in my house on the terrace, where we just fucked. Where else?”

Naked, laughing, horny and hungry, we walked into the house again, brought out some ice cream, read comic books, played games all night and tickled ourselves to sleep just like old times. After we fucked for the sixth time that night, we made arrangements to turn our horny bliss into a nuptial paradise.

After all, we had a lot of matrimonial fucking to do.

Once our kids arrived, we couldn’t fuck outside any more.

So we did the only sensible thing, even when she was diagnosed as pregnant.

We made love in every possible corner of the house and my wife rarely needed to eat breakfast. She had all the protein she needed right in my fabulous and very explosive gender.

Ah, Irish bliss.

Moonshine Ember By Charles E.J. Moulton

My lusciously rich beauty. My fabulous cocksucker kitten.

I secretly wondered if the museum now worked on displaying live and moving artwork. In that case, I would probably have walked up and touched the treasure. What parts? Well, I would’ve started with the knockers and slowly fumbled myself down to her ass. The crowning glory would then be trying out her damp snatch. Ah, artistic bliss. Ah, wet pussies.

The living artwork in question? More opulent than a 9 feet by 9 feet Rubens painting, more tranquil than a Monet, more exquisite than a William Turner and more crazy than a Jackson Pollock galaxy spread. Her beauty certainly outshone most artworks that I had seen in my days. And I had seen a lot of art in my young life.

At that point, though, when I saw her first in that art museum in Vienna, she was all new, all sexy, all cockraising and all flabbergasting.

I would’ve fucked her right there on the spot.

I had done quite a bit of tit examination in my day. Having chosen to specialize on baroque art was no coincidence: my love for buxom vixens really went into the extreme. I just loved big tits and round asses.

This time, I hit the jackpot.

Damn it, I told myself. I had come here to do some research for my thesis, study the details in Rubens paintings, take notes and map out a plan for my literary work. After all, my final exam was coming up and I needed to get plenty of material for my paper. Vienna’s Art Museum provided me with all I needed, including several experienced colleagues with inside information of all those fantastic baroque painting techniques and anecdotes as to who painted what in which of Rubens’ artworks? Snyder, Jordaens, Bruegel?

Rubens’ art was like sexual intercourse: a collaboration.

Well, I put my thesis on hold that spring day. My cock only cared about making itself comfortable inside its new home: her wet pussy.

I had to have her. It was as simple as that. I saw that woman and I was lost.

I wondered why the guards didn’t ask her to stand back and watch the paintings from afar. Her inspection of Rubens’ rather voluptuous and naked second wife Helene Fourment, wearing only a fur, bordered on the obsessively meticulous. Somehow, though, something told me that the guards had hard-ons as well, every male trouser in this room bulging like crazy. I could actually see them drooling.

Okay, I drooled, too. Her tight black skirt embraced her ass in a way that had my sperm factory working overtime. I really didn’t know where to look first: her ass, her boobs or her long flowing hair? It also really did not help that her skirt ended in stockings with patterns of flowers and butterflies, elegantly positioned silvery decorations squirted on the fabric. They reminded me of cumdrops or small droplets of flowing clit juice. It made me seriously wonder if her panties were as pink as her pussy. On the other hand, pussies never had the same color, but all of them tasted good.

I really did try to go back to the studying of the painting. I worked really, really hard at it, too. I even went to the length of actually turning away from the woman and going to another part of the museum just to spite myself. I mean, I couldn’t be gawking at her like a silly sophomore, could I? I mean, I was no teenager. I was close to my Master’s Degree in Art History. An art master with a hard-on? Okay, we men all have hard-ons, but during scientific research? Sexual research, maybe. Stranger things have happened.

No matter how hard I tried, though, and I did try hard, I constantly went back to where she stood. Every time that woman bent over to look at a painting, I swooned. I could see the buttcrack and it sung an aria by Mozart to me:

“Oh, art thou sweet, thou noble derriere. My rock of ages in her cleft so fair.”

It made me want to rip that skirt apart and stick my dick inside her wobbly ass, pumping her like a fucking rabbit, watching the buttcheeks bounce like two balls in unison.

It got stranger and stranger, actually. I kept finding reasons to follow her just so I could study the size of her boobs. As I said, my reputation as a boob-man became renowned even early in high school. My best friend found a couple of copies of Penthouse in my sock drawer in my room, a magazine filled to the brim with big, luscious jugs. We ended up wanking all night, telling my mom that we were working on a school project.

Anyway, after following this incredible woman for about an hour I decided that I really had to fuck her. I didn’t know how, but my cock would definitely land in her cunt eventually. Oh, how fantastic she looked when she studied those paintings, her breasts dangling down, her elegant black blouse hugging her tits like crazy. Those things had to be C-cups. D? Mmh, I dunno. Getting my hands on those lucious breasts would, in any case, be like dying and going to heaven.

So, accordingly, I had discreetly glanced over and see if the blouse had a cleavage. When I realized that it did, I tiptoed over to where she stood more than once just to sneak-peek into that wonderful oasis of mammary love and cockteasing bliss.

Long and sensually curved hair, her black locks gently falling across her gold necklace, spilling over those large round earrings. It made that precum pop out of my dick with a happy: “Hello, swallow me!”

I knew what those big earrings symbolized, as well: her love-holes. Sexy women always wore these round earrings to show men how willing they were to fuck. This girl had big round earrings, so I felt fucking lucky.

The lipstick made me feel like shoving my entire manhood onto her tongue and shooting my loud load onto her tonsils, giving her wet stomach the protein dose of its life.

While my testosterone battled with my brain about whether to leave the museum and go home or just study her buttcrack for the rest of the day, her phone rang. Everybody in the room looked up. It wasn’t as if nobody had noticed her. She was probably the most fantastic looking woman in the room, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever. Some chick in the museum, a dowdy looking things, even gave her boyfriend a dirty look for giving that fuckable lady a half-smile.

When the sexy woman’s phone rang, however, it gave that other chick a reason to think how much of a slut this girl actually was.

She didn’t care, did she?

Any man would’ve been unfaithful for Miss Perfect. She knew that.

When the girl threw her head to one side, letting that marvelous head of hers float and dangle and curve and sway, I melted. I think I came twice, actually, my sperm making little squirts in my Gucci underwear.

“Natalie Imrie here,” the woman chirped. Her accent sounded British. Hot damn, I told myself. I am in the hands of an English lass. She gave the caller a sexy laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, if you want to, sure. Where are you right now?”

This girl spoke with a posh London accent that had me want her even more.

I think I flied and went to Brazil when that woman, whom I had wanted to fuck for over an hour now, actually came and sat down on the couch next to me. Yes, I’ll admit it. I had my notepad and my pencil in my lap and I had written lots of gibberish in silly letters about the paintings I had been looking at, just so anyone wouldn’t think I was just here to study how incredible an ass that woman had.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said and smiled again, throwing me a shot of her Chopard perfume my way just by throwing one of her sexy arms onto the seat next to me. “I’ll go right ahead. No, no, that’s no problem. Well, I’ll see what happens, okay?”

Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? An associate? Her father?

What was she going to do?

“Maybe you’ll get some good ideas. Yes, dear. I know who you mean.”

The small pause and the obviously sexy chatter by some man at the other end – and it obviously was a man – had me wondering what she was talking about. Was she going to be unfaithful? British girls, however, had the reputation of giving spectacular blowjobs.

“Bye,” the woman that I now knew to be Natalie Imrie told bid her caller farewell.

As if she had just been given a signal of some sort, Natalie Imrie with the fantastic jugs turned to me and looked me straight in the eye.

I grew red in the face at first, but then I got lost inside the color of her eyes. They were brown, but with an interesting quality that had me think of ember, the glowing, hot coal made of greatly heated wood. Her eyes glowed like a campfire on the night of a full moon, the moon being the seas of white round her ember iris in each eye. Actually, her gaze made me feel like a werewolf. Natalie looked like a kitten, her long eyelashes curved outwards with more black visible toward the edges of her eyes.

I stammered a quiet: “Hi there!”

“Hi,” Natalie sing-songed, making me tremble. “You American?”

I nodded, giggling, now feeling that I rushed steadily into the welcome parade of Natalie’s cunt. “Yes, I’m from Michigan, but I am studying art here in Vienna. I’m about half a year away from my Master’s Degree. What about you?”

Natalie arched her back, obviously giving me a closer look at those absolute incredible looking breasts. She knew it, too. “I work here.” She shrugged once, glancing over at me with a knowing glance. “I am already finished with my Master’s. I came here a year ago. My mum’s German, although I grew up in London. When I was offered a position here as an Art Director, I took the job. I have the best of both worlds.”

She looked at me for what I really felt to be three hours, although it probably just amounted to three seconds.

“What brought you here?”

Well, although I looked at her boobs all the time and not into her eyes while I spoke, I told her that I had painted since childhood, that my family had taken me on a trip to Vienna when I was a boy and that I finally decided to move here in order to study art.

When I looked up at Natalie, she glanced at me with that disarming look that had me screaming for sex. She started chuckling. Out of nowhere, she put her hand to her mouth and giggled in such a knowing way that I almost felt insulted.

“What?” I asked, feeling ashamed of myself and not knowing why.

“You,” she finally said, putting her one hand with its long red fingernails on my leg, “are so easy to see through. Mr. Transparent.”

My mouth twitched a bit. I now felt insecure. Was she toying with me?

“Why?”

“Mr. Bulge-in-his-pants.”

I cleared my throat, feeling like someone just caught jerking off in a public place.

She shook her head. “What’s your name?”

“Uhm, Kevin.”

“Okay, uhm, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“You have been following me around this museum for over an hour!”

“You noticed?”

She laughed even harder now, her boobs jumping up and down as she did. A couple of visitors looked her way as she did, probably thinking she was just a stupid slut and not the Director of the Vienna Art Museum.

“Uhm, Kevin, the moment I walked into the Rubens Room, you made me feel like a painting by Rubens,” she added provocatively. “I bet,” she added, leaning over to whisper in my ear, making me smell that Chopard perfume even more intensely, “that you have had lots of fantasies about me over the course of this hour. Me, naked, pouring honey over your cock and licking it off with my elegant lips …”

I started chuckling nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on, uhm, Kevin,” Natalie whispered again, now touching my ear with red lips, “you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

Her sultry gaze had me cum again.

I nodded.

Natalie continued: “I don’t know why I am doing this, but I might be willing to let you inspect my pussy a bit closer.”

She now put her hand on my lap and rubbed it gently.

“It’s shaved, you know.”

I giggled quietly and frantically, if such a thing is possible.

“Where do you want to fuck, Natalie? Here?”

I kept looking behind me, above me, to all sides, just to see if anyone overheard our conversation. Everyone seemed to be busy studying art, while I was studying Natalie’s C-cups. She shrugged.

“Let that be my concern. Fancy a shag, love?”

I giggled again and nodded, feeling like a little schoolboy.

“Then cum!”

Natalie stood up, shook her tits a bit, took my hand, looking like Venus. I literally felt like a school boy being pulled by his mom to art class. Natalie escorted me through the Monet rooms, the Rubens gallery, the Bruegel chamber, past the Van Eycks and Vermeers and Velasquez paintings of the Spanish Habsburg Infantas. When we arrived in a rather posh office with a large chandelier, Natalie closed the large white door and locked it.

Surrounded by silver trays and expensive art, I held a woman’s hand who had been just a wet dream a moment ago. Natalie still had not arrived where she wanted me to be, obviously. She escorted me into an even smaller room, equipped only with a bed-like couch, a nighttime table, a few books and a lamp.

She locked that door, as well, once we came in. I think I lost my nerve, because I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and my shoulders shivered.

And I got the biggest hard-on of my life.

Natalie, who up until now had been amused by me, looked down on the growing bulge in my jeans and couldn’t stop groaning.

“What’s that?”

I shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Look promising,” she mused. “Is it already Christmas?”

She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.

Slowly, she took a few steps up toward me, her high heels shuffling against the carpet. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded me of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip my pants, she made me feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.

“Holy shit, uhm, Kevin,” she moaned. “It’s huge.”

“9,4 inches,” I said proudly. “24 centimeters.”

Natalie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around my shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process.

That fabulous sensation made me see stars. She licked my cock, gave me deep throat, sucked on my balls. She was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew she could be.

The helmet of my penis was now blue, all of the blood in my body pumping into my crotch. “Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” she mused.

I banged my cock into her mouth, my big tasty cock dripping like crazy. I felt like flying, moaning and groaning in higher and higher tones.

With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, it sounded like she had just finished a lollipop, she took out my long dick out of my mouth and wiped off her own saliva with an exclamation: “Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy.”

I didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders, my dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind.

In fact, Natalie Imrie stripped faster than I have ever seen a babe strip. Her boobs made my dick laugh, sing, holler, dance, squirt, love and cha-cha-cha all at once. I think I disappeared into that cleavage for an hour before moving down to drink me some pussy. I had the feeling that I buried my face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw her shaved pussy as pink as her knickers.

The sound I made was quite similar to the sound I made when I ate me some spare ribs: sloppy. There were liters of salty clitty juice in there and I was going to drink it all. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

I heaved myself out of her crotch, my face dripping wet with cunt-liquid. When I thrust my prick into her cunt hole, Natalie sang, actually sang Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. She seemed to ache with excitement, her grunting telling me that every part of her clit throbbing with pain, a pain that she actually enjoyed.

I withdrew my dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, her insane gaze giving me the impression that’s she was in a sexual trance. Willingly, she crawled about on the couch toward my throbbing cock, looking like a seal, swirling around from her position on her back to a position under my dick, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones.

“Give me your cum,” she moaned, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”

My hand movements now accelerated, my face grimaced, my head bobbing, my dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, my cock erupted, a long string of cum skyrocketing into onto her tongue. The second portion shot onto her left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on her nose. Every portion of her face was covered in cum. She licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over the room, our mutual copulation inspiring us. The office became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire.

Then, she laughed.

There she was, naked, full of sperm, shouting with laughter.

First, it felt cool. Then, I wondered what she was laughing at.

Laughing with me or at me?

“Man, uhm, Kevin, you were the best fuck of my life. Wait until my husband hears about this.”

It felt like I had been stuck with a pin, my cock almost immediately shrinking down to the size of a peanut.

“Your husband?”

Natalie sat up, rubbing her boobs as she did.

“That was the guy I talked to on my phone when I came and sat down next to you,” she began. “We go to lots of swinger clubs in our free time and keep looking for things to spice up our sex life with. He called me on my cellular and told me to try to get you to fuck me. It wasn’t hard, though. I think he got some good tips in how to fuck me well.”

“He saw me watching you.”

She caressed my cheek. “He’s a security guard here.”

Natalie raised her voice.

“Wolfgang?”

In a jiffy, a back door opened and another naked man wandered in, holding a camera.

In a thick Austrian accent, he said:

“Fantastic fuck, uhm, Kevin!”

Flabbergasted by this turn of events, I started laughing as well.

Not only was Natalie’s husband naked, his equally long cock raised, a film obviously now available on DVD for our mutual viewing pleasure. He had also brought something else with him from the back room: three naked ladies, one blonde, one brunette and one redhead, all of them with huge boobs, all of them ready to have themselves some dick.

I definitely knew that if I played my cards right, I could get a job here.

After all, I would have fucking nice colleagues.

Ah, my moonshine ember and her wonderful friends.

Runaway Slave By Claudette Harlow

Jo turtled into the peacoat collar’s thick warmth as the wind gusted off the snowy canal below. Passing the few open coffeehouses, the aroma of marijuana and hot coffee almost distracted her. She shook her shoulders to signal the path ahead. If a cockring would keep Pau’s dick harder, then she was going to find him one. Today. Now.

She was mentally repeating those instructions when she bumped into the tall muscular back of a man on the sidewalk. As he spun to face her, her foot slipped and she felt herself stumble to her knees. Reaching up to stop falling, her hand had scraped down his crotch and over his generously proportioned cock and balls. Jo drew her fingers back as if they were on fire.

Jo swallowed hard and pretended to fumble again, lightly spreading her fingers to measure the length of his cock. She couldn’t stretch them wide enough. She half snorted a gasp as her thumb pressed against his plump cockhead.

He calmly grasped her outstretched fingers and started to pull her up as a gust of wind caught under her unbuttoned coat. The first thing he noticed was her collar. Then her eyes. He puffed out a chilled breath when he saw the rest of her.

Above her fur-trimmed boots, beneath her black peacoat, Jo wore the high fetish fashion that only the wealthiest Masters and Mistresses buy for their toys and slaves. It revealed and concealed the body in sensual surprises as she shifted from leg to leg and finally stood. All the while, her eyes locked into his.

His eyes were milky brown and made her think of morning coffee and fucking at dawn. The mental image of her lips around that cockhead her thumb had grazed was burning in her mind. It was a stranger’s cock and it frightened her what she was feeling, what she was wanting. She wanted it.

She swayed and weaved until he touched her shoulder, dipping his head to look closer into her now half-lidded eyes.

“Are you stoned?” he asked in a raspy voice.

Her only response was to slowly lick the oval of her mouth.

He laughed lightly. She pulled her coat closed and took a hesitant step closer. The scent of her perfume and the brush of her hair made him alert as she whispered hotly at his ear.

“Take me somewhere and fuck me. Please.”

Jo was shocked to hear herself. It wasn’t just that this stranger’s cock was bigger and thicker. That was a bonus. It was that she wanted a stranger’s cock to suck and worship and to fuck her until she lost herself again to the feeling. That dangerous, who-knows-what-will-happen fucking and pleasuring.

“Please,” she repeated in a softer voice.

His fingers traced along her jaw then his thumb grazed across her collar, suddenly slipping his thumb through the ring at the center. He pulled her tight against his body. She could feel his cock hardening against her thigh.

“Again,” he commanded.

“Please fuck me.” Jo closed her eyes and draped her body along his, her hand between them caressing up and down his cock.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he rapsed into her hair. He pulled away and smiled brightly. “But I need to buy a new leash for this first,” he tapped the thick collar ring with a finger. “Then I will take you home and fuck you until you weep.”

Jo remained silent as he linked their arms and guided her along the sidewalk. The wind kept gusting into her eyes and making her shiver. As they walked, she tried to sneak glances at his cock, still hard and straining at his pants.

She wanted to stop him. To fall to her knees in front of him and unbuckle his belt. She wanted to slowly and carefully unzip his pants and engulf his cock in her mouth. She wanted to feel her throat resist until she swallowed and relaxed, feeling his thick cockhead slide down her throat. She could think of nothing but fucking his cock with her mouth and tongue, worshipping it, exulting in it, and with it.

She followed his lead, slowly building a mental scene in her mind. His hand snapping the clip of the leash on the ring of her collar. His fingers gripping the fresh leather strap, pulling her like a half-tamed animal to his erect cock and taking her – raw and hard and – Jo felt her knees weaken and she stiffened, leaning closer against him.

His upper arm, biceps well developed, skimmed against her breast as they walked. Jo felt it like edging. So close, such squeezing pressure but she wanted him to…do things to her nipples. Lick them, kiss them, bite them, suck them, pinch them, tease them…while she was unable to stop him. Tied up or restrained, open to his desires.

“Make me cum,” she pleaded silently with each footsep.

He pulled her through a doorway and stood looking around at the shelves. “Stay here,” he said, moving toward the back.

Jo tried to slow down her heartbeat and take deep breaths. She gazed uninterested around the shelves of the store until she saw a glass case displaying cockrings. She stepped closer and drew her forefinger slowly across the glass top. Like a double exposure or a ghost image, she envisioned Pau’s cock multiplied within each of the various rings and cock jewelry.

I’m wearing this one right now,” grumbled a voice in front of her. She looked aside and saw a man with his pants down and his cock and balls standing straight out at her. She saw a series of black leather straps encasing various parts of the man’s ball sac and cock shaft. The man swatted his cockhead and the shaft swung back and forth like a pendulum. “Hard as a rock. He grinned and pulled up his pants. “You want a cockring?”

Jo’s lips squenched. She wanted the stranger – she didn’t even know his name – she wanted him to come back now and put his leash on her collar. Her voice was so soft. “Please.”

“Well,” said the man stepping behind the counter and leaning closer as he played finger games with himself. “Tell me about this cock worthy of adornment.”

Jo felt a surge of lassitude rise up from her feet to the collar around her neck. She felt drained and sleepy. Her voice droned in her ears.

“Perfect. It is a perfect cock. Steady. Pulsing.” Jo’s knees buckled again and she steadied herself against the case, her hand uncontrollably rubbing over her pussy. “Master’s cock…” She groaned and pressed her thighs tightly together.

The man behind the counter followed her lead and started rubbing his cock through his pants. “Ohhh,” he moaned. “Yeah, yeah.”

“This one, I think,” said the stranger, clipping a hook to Jo’s collar ring and pulling the leash tight.

Her hand immediately stopped and Jo slumped. Her eyes were wet as she looked shyly up at him. She dipped her head in a slight bow and smiled gently. She sighed loudly. “Please fuck me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please.”

The man behind the counter didn’t pause in his stroking. “You fuck her here. Now. No charge for the leash. It’s a freebie.”

The stranger leaned close to Jo and bored into her eyes. His gaze was as hard as his cock and Jo went glassy-eyed.

“Lock the door,” he said.

The man behind the counter nodded eagerly and flipped the deadbolt. Putting up the closed sign, he spun around and slid his hand down his pants. “Fuck her,” he groaned.

Jo peeled off her clothes in an awkward slow dance until she stood behind the cockring counter. Like a snake, her hand and arm moved inside the case, lightly touching this ring and that. She flicked her eyes up at the store man.

He nodded. “Any one you want,” he gasped, stroking his pants harder. A darker wet stain spreading beneath his fingers.

Jo brushed her fingers across the rings again and again. Some were gold; some shining silver and chrome. The leather ones yielded beneath her touch. She finally chose a black leather strap with a buckle.

Jo swiveled her neck and shrugged her shoulders, settling easily to her knees. She held the cockring in one hand and with the other beckoned the stranger.

Jo breathed warmly on his cock as she looped the strap around his ballsac and the root of his shaft and tightened it. She pulled it snug then a notch tighter before slipping the buckle closed.

She kissed the taut curves of his balls and glanced up at him.

“I want your cum. Every last drop.”

The store owner slid down to the floor watching and listening, his hand pumping inside his pants.

The stranger’s cock looked huge now, the skin taut and flushed. He was mostly shaved with a trim narrow path just above the shaft root.

The pink and purple skin tones, the throbbing blue veins were contrasts to the starker black leather strap and the silvery buckle.

Jo’s pursed lips lowered, widened slightly, and engulfed the wide head of his cock in her mouth. Her tongue flicked across his cockhole and she sucked gently, then harder. At the first taste of him, she felt herself drifting into subspace.         She loved gliding her tight wet lips slowly over the head, catching them in a pause at the rim, licking the circle of the rim quickly, and then plunging his mouth all the way to the root of his cock. She slowly dragged her lips back up the shaft and stroked the head in a rhythm with just her tight lips. Long slow sucking down his shaft then quick sucks on the head. Her tongue swirled around the head and when her mouth was filled with his cock, she stretched her tongue out to lick at his tight balls.

When Jo’s tongue brushed over and wetted the leather cocking, the store owner groaned loudly. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m cumming!”

He pulled his cock from his pants and jerked it a few times before shooting thick spurts of cum down his pant leg and on the floor.

The stranger pulled his cock roughly from Jo’s mouth and pulled her leash until she was on her hands and knees. He pulled and guided her over to the store owner’s slumped body.

The stranger pushed Jo’s head down until her nose was an inch from a puddle of cum. She closed her eyes and slowly slid out her tongue. Before the tip touched the cum, he yanked her head backward by the leash.

The store owner’s eyes blinked. He waved a limp hand toward the door.

The stranger kept a tight grip on Jo’s leash as they walked to his home.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he told her several times on the short walk.

“Please,” she answered.

Just Lie Back and Enjoy By Stephen Faulkner

The woman is young, perhaps in her early to mid-twenties and clad only in a loose fitting, soft linen robe with a sash-tied closure cinched tightly around her slender waist. Her palms are sweaty with anticipation for the service that is soon to be performed for her benefit. She is led through a door marked with a plaque reading “Consummation Room.” The room is long, windowless and furnished with ten identical, specially designed chairs. Stirrups like those employed by gynecologists for pelvic examinations are a part of each chair and gleam brightly in the glare of the overhead lights. The room is white tiled from floor to ceiling; the effect is at once sterile, institutional and uninviting. Apprehensively, the young woman takes the seat indicated to her, the one nearest the far wall, and dutifully places her bare feet in the stirrups before resting her weight against the cushioned back. The chair is very comfortable; she relaxes a little as she tries to calm her anxiety.

At a silent signal the shadow lights came on around her and with them is offered the first illusion of the experience she is about to undergo – that of privacy. It is an illusion because she has been told that in the Consummation Room she will be alone, that the experience will be given her in total solitude. Forget about the other nine chairs with their similarities to the one in which you will be resting, staff members have assured her. You will be all alone is the lie she has been told and which she believes as she unties the sash at her waist and throws open the robe, baring her body to the pleasant warmth of the room. The shadow lights surround her with their enveloping opaqueness, making the small pool of light at its center of the darkness her only reality. Speakers rise from either side of the headrest of the chair and slowly converge on her to cup her ears, encase her in muffled silence. Now she can neither see nor hear the action taking place in the other nine chairs as similarly alluded, willfully gullible women take their appointed seats in the room. Each woman is led in one at a time until each individual set of shadow light comes on to mask the presence of each woman in the room from the others.

The young woman places her hands along the inside of her thighs, sliding them sensuously inward, tracing tickling lines toward her pubis that surrounds and covers her vulva like a feathered mesh as she wonders when it will all begin and what it will be like. She has known the solitary pleasures of masturbation before and so now she focuses on those memories and what she recalls of what her girlfriends had told her of their experiences in the Consummation Room, their descriptions of ecstasy unspeakably wonderful feelings flooding through them and the explosions of emotions coupled with physical reactions never before imagined. Some of the experiences those friends chose to share seemed to hold a rather violent edge with the use of words like “explosive” and “convulsive” and “near to a seizure.” So she had been apprehensive at first, uncertain even when listening to their assurance that the experience was pleasurable, all delirious, wonderful, indescribable orgasmic bliss brought to the nth degree. “Your fingers wouldn’t even know how to begin to do what their machines make you feel,” her best friend insisted. Feel like what? she wanted to know, expecting another horror story of seizures and convulsions. Her friend shook her head as she sank into a private reverie of her own last time in the Consummation Room. She looked up and shrugged. “Best way to describe it,” she said, “is that it’s like going to heaven and coming back again.” With that last, unequivocal assurance the uncertainty that had lodged in the young woman’s mind like the solid, impassible winter ice on a shallow river was broken. The balance of her indecision had been tipped and she agreed to take the chance. So here she is though still understandably apprehensive about the whole thing. And now doubly anxious for it to begin, her curiosity is heightened, nervous shudders vibrating pleasantly through her skin. Nothing to fear, she recalls the words of her friends: no fear of pregnancy or disease and no emotional hang ups. Just the glorious feeling of love (ye, love) surging through you with a flow of incredible orgasms without any emotional obligations owed to anyone.

The womblike warmth of her little private sanctuary sooths her and she closes her eyes as the volume of the speakers slowly rise, encasing her in its own little world of sound. The music she hears as a soft background is that which, on her preliminary questionnaire, she had noted as her favorite band and the voice, whispering from the shadows, ripples through her naked body like an aural caress, a fantasy coming true. Sonorous yet sweet, it speaks to her intimately, knowingly. If asked later what that voice from the speakers had so sweetly and caringly said and promised, she would be unable to recall. It would be like trying to remember a dream that has already begun to fade back into the depths of the subconscious. All she would be able to say, then, would be that it was just wonderful, say that she had the perfect lover. She would say he as if she had been with a real flesh and blood man whose words, caresses and expert ministrations were true and not simply the product of the answers she had given on a printed form – loving, considerate, gentle, deep-voiced, sexy, caring. HE as a person, a man, a human being, a lover known, knowing and real. The illusion, then, gains momentum.

A cool flat surface lowers and rests across her forehead, molding itself to the forward cranial slope above the eyes and is soon equalized to the temperature of the skin and is quickly forgotten, Sonically, it probes the pleasure centers of the young woman’s brain and, finding their particular wave patterns, it hums softly in waiting as the man-shaped phallic thing rises and patiently poises between her stirrup spread legs. Were her eyes open so she could witness its rise from its holster concealed underneath the specialized chair, she might interpret it intended use as for something vile and wicked, its thickness and length as a weapon of some kind. But her eyes are closed, the tendrils of the high frequency stimulations focusing her attention on the artificially produced sensations which are running through her body and the responses those stimulations cause: the raising of gooseflesh on the skin of her arms, lower abdomen and thighs; the gradual rise in body temperature; the tingling heat that runs like liquid fire in concentric circles around the aureoles of her nipples; the increased rate of her heartbeat; the unexpected panting labor of her breathing; the increased flow of vaginal secretions; the sudden giddy clutch and release of her abdominal and vaginal muscles.

Words are no longer heard as the wet tickle of kisses are felt up and down her naked torso, the strange sensation of a second tongue in her mouth which she accepts, invites, with which she eagerly plays and wrestles with the strength and slippery slide of her own tongue. The face she sees is of her own creation, her own beautiful fantasy lover. The illusion is now so complete that he is no longer just a notion, an idea, but a solid reality to her, a man with a face (no matter how shadowily seen) and a body with heft, texture, heat. She moans in rapturous bliss as he lowers his weight on top of her, his groin pressed to hers, his exited (exciting, inflaming) sex so near her vulva that she is overcome with the intensity of her desire to feel him inside of her. She says something encouraging that no one else hears, something mildly demanding. The stimulator on her brow also senses this and reacts, moves the progression into its next phase.

The small motors that position the dome ended dowel at the splayed pink juncture of her thighs whine and whir, unheard by the young woman who is bathed only in sounds that she has chosen, the lover’s voice which she has described. Subtly, the sonic stimulator adds the new tone which is necessary to bring her to the final, heightened need. As always with new subjects it comes quickly and the stimulator compensates for the young woman’s swift reaction by shifting directly to what the programmers of the machine call the “consummation tone.” Blood floods tiny capillaries, engorging the center of her clitoris and she lets out a weak cry at the unaccustomed sensation before sinking back into the increasing frequency and intensity of the ebb and flow of her building orgasm. “Don’t be alarmed,” says the voice soothingly as the little motors move the pseudo-penis to touch the glistening, sensitive flesh of her labia. “I’ll be gentle,” it says as the thing eases forward, achieves a slow and gradual penetration into her vaginal canal, making her a virgin no more. This is not a thought she has at that moment, only a consideration later brought to mind: virgin no more. Consummation. The upper extension of the device massages and stimulates her clitoris in a way, as her friends had promised, that she could never have managed alone with only her own artful fingers and furiously working wrist. The feeling of fullness, of being lovingly violated along with everything she had been warned to expect in her bodily responses are all there, coming at her, flooding her in a continuous barrage of stimuli and reactions: the convulsive intensity, the rapturous seizures of both body and mind, the explosive tingling running the gamut of nerve endings from head to toe though centering on the genitals, breasts and guts. They whorl and rise, expand and condense within her in an ecstatic dancing rush that seems to go on forever. Eternity must be like this, she thinks with what mind her reeling emotions have left her; heaven and hell gloriously intermixed.

The words are all wrong, she finds herself thinking as the sensations wane, the orgasmic responses lessen and die, the ersatz hard on is slowly removed from her vagina to be sterilized and housed in preparation for its next use. Her private lover of the mind kisses her his last and draws his weight and warmth, his beautiful sexy voice away. Explosions, convulsions, seizures, yes but how to describe it all without frightening away one who has not experienced it. Soft explosions? Loving seizures? Convulsions emptied of fear? Little deaths? Journey beyond self and soul into the enclosing, embracing, protecting arms of…?

A warning sound foretells the end of privacy. She draws the robe closed around her as the various pieces of paraphernalia are drawn away from her skin. She clutches the soft cloth tightly at the throat and navel as she momentarily forgets the sash-tie in her rush to cover her nakedness. The shadow lights dim, then blanch, The Consummation Room, fully illuminated now, is still white tiled and institutionally characterless, holds ten specially designed chairs once more.

She walks down the row to the exit door, is surprised when she touches a seat for balance and feels the warmth, the telltale sticky texture of another woman’s recent “consummation.” She smiles. Illusions are a humorous thing when understood, she thinks, a business after all, one which provides a necessary outlet. Soon. Her mind conjures the word unbidden as she leaves the Room and walks down the hall to the Changing Facility where her clothes and possessions are safely locked away. Soon I will come here again.

Consummation: the word surfaces in her mind as she drops the robe as she stands before the locker. Orgasm, illusion, ecstasy, all for a fixed price. Price: the only obligation and that all had been dealt with at the front desk. Yes, she thinks again, I’ll definitely be back here again. Hadn’t her friends told her that one time wouldn’t be sufficient? Such a harmless addiction, really, they said. And now her own voice would echo their wonder and certainty her face become a mirror to the looks on their faces, softened and frozen in remembered rapture.

She changes into her street clothes in silence. On her face is the same distracted, lost-in-reverie expression exhibited on the faces of the other nine nude and semi-clothed women in the room with her. The Changing Facility – nothing more than a locker room, really, as it always is after individual “consummations” have been completed, a place where modesty is superfluous, a room peopled by women momentarily blinded to their surroundings by their obsessive thoughts.

On the street again the young woman, overcome with a sudden clarity of recall and reason, realizes that the word chosen by her friends to describe the experience meted out in the Consummation Room is quite an apt on: addiction. No wonder the Center for Sexual Fulfillment turns such a handsome profit each year. Ecstasy, once proven to be a safe and available commodity, will always be in demand.

The thought is lost, however, clarity of insight hazed over as she mentally tallies her savings in order to determine when she will have enough in the bank to afford her next :consummation.” The end result quickly calculated, is that she will have to wait a full month. Not soon enough, she tells herself dejectedly as the crosswalk light turns to green.

I don’t know if he will wait that long for me to return.

Stabbing Pleasure By Sunni Brock

I smell your desire
Inhaling your breath
As our tongues touch then embrace
And I reach downward
Smoothing the warm mist of perspiration
Over the tingling hairs of your navel

You rise suddenly and
Your arrow pricks my finger
Leaving a single drop of sticky sweetness
On my throbbing fingertip

My nipples are racing
To escape their bindings
I feel my thighs trembling
My stomach tightens

I am clenching
Moist, warm, and waiting
Engorged with the thrill
Of your immanent entry

Maneuvering my hips over yours
Freeing my full breasts
And cupping them
Into your face

Biting, teasing, nibbling
A direct nerve
Between my bosom
And maidenhead

I feel your arrow tapping
Ready to accept my invitation
I am so swollen it aches
Engorged to the edge of ecstasy

Breath held for a moment
My lips part in anticipation
Then the tip barely probing
I feel myself spreading slowly
You gliding gently, firmly in

In…

In…

Deeper,
Slowly,
Ever deeper
Until I can hardly –

Your
Arrow
Plunges
Deeply
Into
My
Open
Heart

…and I gasp as I teeter on the brink

and you retreat

then stab again

and again

and I die a little

again

and again

Until I break open
Gushing love from my legs
in a torrent release of rapture
flowing down the creases of our bodies
into rivulets over the sheets

Queen of the Black Pyramid By J. Malcolm Stewart

From the Diary of Jean Martin Samael: Isla de la Sangre, off the coast of Belize, 5th of March, 1929

After days and nights of fighting through the teeth of the wilderness, I came to the clearing where stood the Black Pyramid.

It rose from the floor of the jungle; its massive, chiseled blocks of black, volcanic stone wrapped in vanishing mist. The structure shimmered in the light of Luna, anticipated the evening ritual.

With failing legs, I ascended the steps of the exterior, leaving the sounds and smells of the untamed darkness behind me. The distant sound of drumming was lifted to my ears by the wind.

And from somewhere, I heard a wolf howl.

I paused for moment to take a drink from my canteen. The last swig of water contained within passed through my lips like a whisper. It barely touched the thirst that was within me. The dryness that spread throughout my body had less to do with sweat or dehydration and more to do with a need I did not want to put in words.

The guides and the witch doctors who had told me how to find this place had also warned me. They had warned me of the growing thirst in my body that would become a physical need. A need that had propelled me through the humid jungle nights to these steps. A need that could only met by the queen of the Pyramid herself.

I knew she was waiting there in the shadows of the main, upper chamber. The night air had the taste of her ritual and her madness. The heavy air bore the scent of her into my nostrils like an obscene perfume, damp and earthy, a touch of evergreen in the passing.

The memory of her scent brought renewed vigor to my tired legs. With a final surge, I made my way up the final steps to the Pyramid’s apex.

The rising moon’s light became muted as I made my way under the Pyramid’s archways. The semi-darkness that greeted me was punctuated with flicking flame from the torches on the wall.

I stood a moment to see my reflection on the surface of the smoothly polished walls. I saw myself bent and distorted by the curvature of the stone, like some underwater creature viewed from the surface of a turbulent sea. My brown hair showed a hint of grey at the edges and my eyes, usually the color of the sea, looked pale and washed out in the glasslike wall. A wild, stringy beard was forming on my cheeks and chin. A sad consequence of my journey away from civilization.

I marveled at myself. Only months before, I had been a respected, reputable man of industry having left my beloved Corsica to make my fortune in the newly reformed republic of Mexico. The new overlords of the country, eager to quench the smoldering fires of the revolution, rushed to embrace the progress that came with my building projects.

It was there where I first found her. In the ancient remnants of Tenochtitlan, underneath Mexico City, my workers and I found her chamber. It had waited buried and undisturbed for nearly five hundred years. The superstitious amongst my workers fear to enter into what they called in Spanish La Morada de Diosa de Bestia: The Abode of the Goddess of Beasts.

I dismissed their fears, entering into the chamber to prove myself a modern man, a man of reason. It was there I came into her presence. Not merely a feeling, but a taste, a smell of something forgotten and buried. Something ancient and primal. A presence that spoke of wild nights of bloody sacrifice and the sound of howling wolves.

For months I poured over the legends and the histories of the goddess, delving into a ritual that predated the landing of the Conquistadors by centuries. I forgot all other pursuits, my business concerns, my social standing, my family obligations. To me, the goddess was all.

The stories and rumors eventually lead me here to the Island of Blood, the last known stronghold of the Queen of Wolves. Here into the chamber of her worship.

In the side of my vision, there are glimpses of animal shapes, loping on all fours through the chamber’s corridors. This night she had gathered her children to her. To bear witness to the task for which I had been summoned.

A few more weary steps brought me to the altar. I stopped to run my hands over the smoothed stone of its black surface. The grooves and indentions all told a story to me. A story of pain and passion, of lives given and lives taken. A story old when the salons and cathedrals of Europe were young. A story written in bloody, dark stones.

All of it whispered to me while I stood there. Again in the rippling stones of its surface I saw myself transfixed by its power, seduced by its mysteries.

“What do you see there in the stones?” echoed a woman’s voice from the chamber’s darkness. “A man? Or a monster?”

The dry roof of my mouth almost prevented me from forming words.

“I… I,” I began. “I don‘t know…”

“Really, my love?” said the voice from the dark, lingering over the last syllables in her phrase with a mocking joy. “Do you know what means? To come to me in my temple underneath the fullness of the moon?”

“Yes, I do,” I said.

I heard the sound of footsteps moving purposely over stone.

“Are you truly ready Jean Martin Samael?” said her voice as it came closer to me. “Are you ready to give yourself upon this altar to me without reservation? Are you prepared to throw away your reputation, your standing, your veneer of civility to have me? Only me?”

The dryness in my mouth was unbearable. The sound of her voice alone brought my body alive with the touch of fire and ice, from the tip of head into the depths of my groin.

“Yes!” I heard my voice calling out into the humid air. “I give the only worthy sacrifice to your greatness. Myself!”

The queen entered the chamber in the fire light, her violet eyes piercing the shadows.

I saw her taught, sculpted body was covered only by the burgundy robe given to the Pyramid’s high priestess. Her hair blossomed dark against her pale creamy skin like dyed silk. Above the robe’s clasp was her string of pearls, which glittered as dark as the night skies above.

I could see the shape of her erect nipples against the fabric of her robe and her coal-painted fingertips hovered on her stomach just above the form of her trimmed vagina.

As she walked toward me, her lips beckoned a bloody red smile against her white teeth. Without the need of words, I heard my name whispered in her eyes.

She came to a halt in front of me, our bodies almost touching. With a single motion she brought the robe’s clasp undone and let it fall from her shoulders.

She stood a moment there in front of me, unveiled in the half-light, the perfection of her pear-shaped bosoms framed in my eyes. Against the nature my desire, I wondered about the fate of those who had beheld this sight across the centuries.

Her smile was wicked and her eyes danced with a darkly held desire. A desire chained and held to Earth by flesh of our bodies. Then her hands were at my chest, disposing of my coat and undoing my shirt with shredding of fabric and thread.

I felt her lips across my chest, lingering over my nipples with her tongue. In the next moment, her hand fell downward to my belt buckle and pants. With a girlish giggle, she slid to the floor on her knees.

With her nimble hands, she worked the belt and pants to the floor to reveal my erect penis. I felt the touch of her lips to its tip, joyfully rolling her tongue across its edges. With her right hand, she firmly stroked the base of it further into her mouth. Her left hand applied a light caress of my scrotum, following the course of my erection as it continued to grow against the top of her mouth.

The power of her action left me groaning and weak. I could myself building and surging towards letting go. But in manner of a woman who knew all the forms of erotic cruelty, she took her lips away from her task, sliding her body up against mine until our lips met in passion.

The same tongue that had given pleasure to one part of my body rolled and turned through my mouth like a tidal wave. Then, with a firm push to my chest, she moved away from me to lie on the altar.

Again, she exposed her full body to me, displayed against the cold stone surface of the altar. She held me in place with her eyes, reaching down again to touch herself, not allowing me to release my lust.

With the laugh of an imp, she turned herself over on the slab, showing to me her naked bottom and the wolfs-head brand on the small of back.

Arching her back, she brought her backside against me, letting the smooth texture of her bottom meet my penis. As I took hold of her waist, I felt the damp touch of her vaginal walls encircle my member. A sucking gasp escaped her lips.

“Fuck me,” she demanded.

I let myself enter her. The world became a sensation of thrusting and moaning, both hers and mine. The touch of her against my body spurred me faster and harder until the chamber came alive with the sound of our slapping bodies. The scent of damp evergreen rose in my nostrils until I could remember no other thing.

Somewhere underneath me, I heard her voice repeating the same two words of before, the form of them building and rising with her excitement.

Then I heard another voice joining in with her. A distant sounding man’s voice, almost like my voice but filled with a passion I had never felt before. And that voice was close to climax, meeting passion with passion, fire with fire.

I felt myself let go with a release of ice, surging past boundaries of flesh and gravity to enter into the core of her being. The queen’s body tensed, grabbing my organ with her inner walls, receiving my worship to her with an overwhelming joy.

I heard her cry out once more and then release me. The last of my strength gone, I fell to her side on the cool stones of the altar.

After a moment of gasping and heaving, I felt the presence of her lips next my ear.

“It’s done, my love,” she said with the wind of her breath against my face, her body damp with the sweat of our passion. “You, of your own free will have come to the queen of the Black Pyramid and worshiped her body and soul under the light of the full moon. Now, and forever, you are mine.”

The weight of my deeds rested alongside the euphoria of my climax. I knew what she was saying and I knew it to be true. But I no longer cared about that. I had found her. She was mine. And I was hers.

Ven, mi amor,” she said, beckoning me to my feet with an outstretched hand. “Come and see what I have prepared for you.”

Rising, I followed her from the chamber into the adjoining throne room. There, on the raised dais, sat two thrones side by side, made of human bones. They shone like pale death in the filtered moonlight. Before the dais were the rows of her assembled subjects, the creatures of the night come to pay homage to the throne of the queen and her chosen mate.

We ascended the steps to take our place amongst our kingdom, playing the role master and mistress to the dregs of darkness.

“Now and forever, you belong to me,” said my dark queen as she stroked my cheek. “The outside world will no longer touch you. No longer will you fear or doubt. The only things that exist in your world now are the icy touch of my body, the sound of my voice, the caress of my lips.”

With that said, I took another taste of her red painted lips, the sharp taste of evergreen remaining in my mouth.

Before me on the floor of the throne room was the torn remnants of the night’s prey. Whatever it had been, human or animal now lay mangled in the half-light. It shone bloody in my eyes, the smell of it filling my nostrils and the copper taste of it already in my mouth. Against the sides of my tongue, I could feel tips of my incisors sharpening in anticipation of my lover’s feast.

“Now, my love,” whispered my queen. “Arise and eat.”

Somewhere in the darkness, I heard the growl of an animal which transformed into a howl. The sound of a beast full of rage and passion. A monster lost forever to the cold embrace of the Queen of the Black Pyramid.

Far, far too late, after my body was full of blood and flesh, I came to understand that the cry of the beast had been my very own.

Lilly White By Madeleine Pryze

Lilly looks up at a mansion of sandstone and leaded glass. Birds tweet nearby. When Lilly moves, the gravel whispers beneath her feet.

She mounts the well-worn step and reaches for the knocker. It has a peculiar shape that she can’t decipher – a bow on its side? A handlebar moustache? It makes a noise like any other knocker.

Lilly waits in the aural ocean of rustling leaves.

She starts to wonder if she has the right estate.

How long must one wait before it is no longer rude to knock again?

The door opens. It is Genevieve Reynolds, beaming from ear to ear. “Sorry I left you for so long, our manservant is on his weekend at home! Come in!

Genevieve moves like a dancer; her feet don’t make any sound on the polished chessboard of the long hallway. This is the sister of the man I’m supposed to meet? Lilly thinks. Mother wouldn’t set me up with anyone less than a proper gentleman…

“I was making a cool drink, would you like one?”

“Please.” Lilly follows.

From what must be the kitchen, Genevieve calls, “I’m dreadfully sorry that Sebastian and Bertie aren’t here. They knew we were to dine early but they’re still on one of their silly hunts in the woods. Three guesses who shall have to wash the muzzles of all the hounds when they return!”

“I can’t abide fox hunting. Those poor animals.”

In the kitchen, Lilly is passed a glass of fresh orange juice. She sips it; the glass is cold and the juice delicious, slipping down her throat.

When she lowers her glass, Genevieve is looking at her intently. “You have a lovely neck. The gown last night failed to show it off.”

Lilly swallows the last of the juice. “Maybe that’s why none of those eligible bachelors took a shine to me.”

“Oh, you don’t want any of those little boys. Debutante balls aren’t the matchmaking wonders that our parents would wish them to be. There just aren’t many ripe apples left around here anymore. Look at me, twenty-three and not married! I’m a spinster!”

She laughs, and Lilly watches her. This young woman has so much confidence, so much poise. She is so very womanly, and yet not girlish at all. Genevieve is utterly at peace with herself.

“I wondered at your accent,” Lilly reveals, “until you told me your name.”

“Mother was French. Sebastian allowed it. He was a rogue, to find himself a Parisian bride and drag her back here once I was born! You know, he wanted to pass me off as an orphaned niece? The things people feel they have to say to fit in! England is a stuffy old place, isn’t it?”

Lilly opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t get the chance.

“I say, have you ever heard of a French gentleman named Manet? He wasn’t stuffy in the slightest. You know, he painted the filthiest picture of this girl Olympia, who was an honest-to-goodness—” She looks around conspiratorially, “—fille de joie!”

“A what?”

“A… professional, a… lady of the night!”

“Oh!”

“It was downright blasphemous,” giggles Genevieve, and leans back with her arms pushing up her breasts, blowing a kiss up to the heavens and fluttering her eyelashes.

Scandalous! Lilly thinks, but at the same time feels a trill of excitement run up her body at the naughtiness of it all. And Genevieve goes on:

“Of course your father is fun, isn’t he! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sebastian laugh so much, not since Mother died.”

“You call him by his given name?”

A brown newt runs under a door that joins the kitchen to the garden. It tastes the air, turns around on its hooked toes, then hides in the cool shade of the iron oven.

“Father and I don’t … understand one another. We are very different. I am much more like my mother, and he didn’t understand her much either.”

“How so?” asks Lilly, and immediately regrets the question. Who is she to ask anything of this young woman, who she hardly knows and met less than twenty hours ago? To interrogate a stranger in their own home…!

Genevieve takes a glance through the window at the verdant orchard outside. The newt dashes away from her feet and escapes the way it came in with a papery rustle.

“Sebastian and Bertie could be hours. Let’s go upstairs – I want to show you something!”

A girlish pleasure takes over Lilly. She never had a sister and her mother kept away anyone who could have become a close girlfriend. To see Genevieve’s excitement is to be infected by it; together they dash, giggling, up the huge sweeping staircase that takes them from the hallway to the upper landing.

“The east wing,” says Genevieve, checking the degree of dust on a door knob before entrusting her white glove to it, “is where we keep our skeletons.”

She looks Lilly in the eye. “You aren’t scared of ghosts, are you?”

Lilly shivers.

Genevieve laughs a deep, booming laugh and slaps Lilly on the shoulder. “Come on, I’m teasing! Follow me!”

The door opens into a long corridor lit from the right by dozens of sash windows. The left side is a wall of paintings – landscapes of exotic places Lilly recognise as Prague, Paris, the Nile in Egypt – interrupted occasionally by mahogany panelled doors, all closed.

The last door in the hallway is the one that Genevieve stops by. “This was my mother’s private study. Sebastian wasn’t expressly forbidden to enter it, but… Well, I don’t think he was always comfortable here. Or wanted to think about her amongst all these things.”

Genevieve opens the door with a strange expression on her face: excitement? Or apprehension? Is it possible for it to be both at the same time? Lilly doesn’t know, but at first she is confused when she steps into the room behind Genevieve.

It looks just like a normal room. A bed, some cabinets, and two tall bookcases against the left wall. To the right, a small table in each corner display sets of curios in wood, glass and bronze. The walls are otherwise occupied by paintings and photographic portraits, an array of sepia and oil.

In all respects perfectly normal.

“I don’t…” Lilly begins, then tapers off. Genevieve is examining a large painting beside the door, positioned so that the light from the windows frames it perfectly. The painting is about as big as the door itself, produced landscape and gilded in gold-leaf wood.

In the picture, a woman lays on an untidy bed. At first, Lilly mistakes it for Titian’s Sleeping Venus, the classical depiction of that most famous Roman goddess. But in this painting, “Venus” has a bracelet, a choker, pearl earrings, and in her demeanour has something else… Something in her gaze that marks her out as different. A knowable, even forgivable sin. Everything in the picture gives off a sumptuousness: the flower in her hair, and the rich oriental blanket on which she lies.

“She is cast in such hard light,” Lilly murmurs. “It shows everything except what she covers with her hand…”

“A shame she does that, yes?” suggests Genevieve, with laughter in her voice. “That isn’t a lilly behind her ear, before you ask – a white orchid.”

Suddenly it strikes Lilly. This isn’t Venus at all – but Genevieve’s fille de joie – a prostitute!

“She’s…” Lilly chokes on the word.

“She is a real woman.” Genevieve looks with deep appreciation at the picture. “But the painting is a copy only – the original has yet to even be put on display to the public. What a stir it will cause in Paris!”

Lilly’s eye catches a small portrait next to it, rendered in rich oils. Another nude, but this lady laced in the most outrageous manner, as though those loose shifts were never intended to cover her nakedness at all! And a third picture, a photograph in smudgy sepia, of a thin young girl putting on – or taking off – her stockings. She is otherwise naked. Her lips are painted bright red; there is a wink in her eye.

“Pornography!” Lilly is embarrassed by having to state the obvious, but she cannot help it. “The police…”

“They don’t know anything about this room. It was Mother’s interest and no-one else’s business. Sebastian was very… generous to let her maintain this hobby of hers.”

Every painting, every photograph – even the lamp, which is shaped like a man’s… The size of it! And the clock on the table, with moving hands tracing invisible lines over the contours of a couple engaged in—

“I must sit down!”

Genevieve smiles as Lilly sits in a velvet-lined armchair. She hands Lilly a fan, which Lilly opens to prevent herself from fainting. The image inked into the folds is another nude woman, wearing a fur hat and covering herself with a fur glove.

“Don’t look at it,” Genevieve scratches her temple, “if that helps. Or the chair…”

Lilly’s hands grasp tighter at the chair’s arms. She daren’t look down, but she isn’t in control of her head, which swims with cool vapours. The rich velvet of the seat’s covering seems maroon at a glance, but is shades of red. In the swirls of its pattern are tiny running figures, boys and girls, grinning as they’re chased by obscene fauns and satyrs with engorged…

“My goodness.”

“Are you okay?”

Lilly takes a breath. “I’m fine. This is quite a shock. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Isn’t it fabulous?” breathes Genevieve. When she talks about these things, her accent thickens. This must be a little like how her mother sounded when she spoke, thinks Lilly.

…Her mother!

“This room was hers, you say? Your mother’s?”

A smile spreads like wildfire across the young woman’s soft features. “She had an interest in archaeology, much like Sebastian. But their interest diverged there, I’m afraid. Sebastian was there in Pompeii a few years ago.”

“That buried Italian city? Father mentioned it last summer…”

“They found all the buildings that those poor people lived in, right before the volcano blew up in their faces! The houses were preserved with people and furniture and all their things… Those excavators are there right now, scraping ash off the wall to reveal all their frescos and graffiti and… all sorts. Do you know what else they found?”

“I dread to ask!” Lilly gasps and then, despite herself, giggles.

“Disgusting drawings and paintings and murals, all with people doing it!

“That’s terrible!”

“The ancient Romans evidently had a different view on nakedness. They thought it was just ordinary… even fun. Not shameful at all. Eroticism was a good thing, for them – not illegal blasphemy like our good Queen would have us believe. Why, it’s the most natural thing in the world!”

A series of loud noises erupts from the lower floors.

“Sebastian!” Genevieve gasps. “And Bertie! They’re back! Come on!”

Giggling, the two girls return to the hallway. Lilly is almost sorry to leave the soft velvet of the chair, even with its hidden erotic images. It is only when she stands that she realises the arms, which she’d been holding so tightly, are the ends of long, smooth phalluses.

Genevieve pulls the doors closed and messes with her hair again. “Sebastian doesn’t like me going in there. It’s forbidden! I’ll tell him we were in the solarium…”

Downstairs, the men claim to have forgotten all about the arranged dinner, and certain distinct gestures belie their attempts to hide the numerous nips they must have had from flasks concealed about their persons; Bertie has, according to his father, suffered a fall as a result of a desperate vixen and sprained his ankle. Dinner is called off; Genevieve apologies profusely, but her words hide the pleasure at being the main attraction of the afternoon, and she winks as Lilly makes her departure.

Outside, Lilly wonders whether she should ask Sebastian Reynolds to arrange for her a carriage. It wouldn’t be out of order. But just as she is waiting in the gravel for her overwrought mind to make a decision, the front door opens again and Genevieve slips out.

“I wanted to give you this,” she exclaims, “but didn’t want Sebastian to see!”

Before Lilly can protest the young woman plants a decorous kiss on her cheek. The lipstick might not have left a mark, but the warmth remains.

As Genevieve disappears back into the house, Lilly looks down at the package in her hands. It is a large book, wrapped in soft red felt.

# # #

“How was Sebastian’s lot?” asks Lilly’s father upon her return.

“Very nice, father, and quote accommodating.”

“Did they show you a good time?”

Lilly thinks about this.

“I think they were holding back a little.”

# # #

That night, she undresses and dons her nightdress to sleep. Her bedroom is a small, lonely room in eggshell white and forest green, like her eyes. It hasn’t been redecorated since her birth. When she sleeps, she feels as though her four-poster bed is a cot and she sleeps within, like a child, protected.

She doesn’t go to sleep immediately. Lighting an oil lamp, she intends to study her gift from Genevieve. The weight and shape of the package have already revealed it to be a book, but it’s only when she unwraps it that she realises it’s something the like of which she’s never seen.

Leather-bound with no title, at first she wonders if it’s a portfolio of newssheet clippings… but upon opening it, she’s greeted with a lurid inner title page with words drawn laterally across a pair of full, round breasts.

She closes the book with a slap. The afterimage of the etching print fails to fade in her mind’s eye. White on black, it throbs in her mind: two full, round breasts. A matching pair. Nipples described in fine detail, areola and all.

Why would she give me something like this…?

Slowly, convinced that she is alone (as always) in her bedroom, she opens the book again.

The title page stares at her from atop those curved profanities. A LITHOGRAPHIC PORTFOLIO OF THE LADIES OF THE MOULIN ROUGE, PARIS. The inner pages are in turn fascinating, disgusting and exhilarating. Each lithograph, reproduced expensively yet faithfully on each of the heavy pages, produces a new frisson of excitement in Lilly.

All the portraits are women, many of whom are clearly, almost stereotypically French. They are arranged into “scenes”, each “scene” encompassing nine or ten lithographs. The first is named “1840-1845”, and seems to show a different age. But the things that don’t change are voluptuous and in sharp focus: an erect nipple or tuft of hair.

And yet, Lilly finds this not as shocking as she thought she might. Have I been corrupted so quickly?

The last section covers 1960-1864 – the book is very recent indeed – and she is stunned to find that she recognises one of the last girls.

Two pages from the back, a young blonde is reclined against a mountain of cushions. One arm is wrapped around a tall narrow bottle of green glass, whose label has been scraped away and replaced with a small card reading “GREENE MUSE”. The bottle is empty; the girl is entirely naked. Her fingernails are painted green. Her legs are spread and between them, the fingers of her right hand part the lips of her womanhood, exposing its purple depths to both the photographer and the reader.

Lilly drops the book down the side of the bed, but an afterimage of the girl’s magnetic gaze lingers in her mind.

…Genevieve!

She stares at the discoloured images within its pages, wondering at the decency of what one person might call evil, what another might call natural. How can it be anything but natural? she thinks, and jumps at something under her nightdress.

She had wondered if it were an animal – the newt from Genevieve’s kitchen springs to mind – but is shocked to find that it was her own hand. She hadn’t realised what it was doing, of its own accord. The thought occurs that she could turn a blind eye to its antics. What happens behind closed doors, in one’s own bedroom, is of course utterly private.

Mimicking, in part, the posture of Genevieve of the Moulin Rouge, 1965, Lilly allows her fingers to explore a place that had, until then, been a void of wickedness to be covered up. She finds that if this is a void, it is filled not with wickedness, but deliciousness to be savoured.

What would Genevieve think of this? she wonders, and this thought quickens her breath, quickens her wrist, quickens her first arrival of the night.

# # #

Lilly has never seen the room where Genevieve sleeps. Genevieve confesses that it bears no imprint of her personality. It is, she says, just another room.

The next time they get the chance to be together, it is November. They go instead to the secret museum of her mother, which they discover is now locked.

“My father,” muses Genevieve, fishing about in her purse. “He must have known I was in here and locked it. But I had John create me a replica.”

She produces the key from her purse with a wicked grin. Lilly’s heart leaps. You know what is in here. Lilly can’t wait for Genevieve to sweep open the door and close it behind them, sealing the boundary of their privacy. You know that this is the threshold to more than just a room.

They steps inside. When Lilly asks if they can open a window, she does so in a whisper that Genevieve teases her for.

“No-one is home, Lilly, and nor will they be until the early hours of the morning.”

“You are sure?”

“I am.” She drops her purse into the velvet-lined armchair that had been the vessel for Lilly’s introduction to this new world. Even seeing it now makes Lilly feel light-headed, as though the miniature figures frolicking within the stitches of the velvet are visions of her future.

Lilly takes her eyes from the chair and the purse and settle them on Genevieve, who looks right back at her. Without severing the link between their eyes, Genevieve peels loose the ribbon that keeps her hair in place. Blonde coils unravel around her face and neck, bouncing on her shoulders.

She turns around.

Lilly sees the laces of her dress. Her hands have a life of their own. They find the bow and untangle its strands. The laces hang free. Without turning, Genevieve pinches the shoulders of her dress and spreads the fabric. The laces loosen, slipping from the eyes of the rich fabric, which then slides free from the delicate scaffold of Genevieve’s shoulders.

She turns within the sliding cylinder of the dress. It drops as she reaches up, running her fingers through her hair. When the dress is a velvet puddle around her feet, there is only Genevieve’s bodice and stockings. There is no skirt support or bustle, no under-petticoat.

“I am overdressed,” says Lilly, embarrassed. It could take an age for her to reach Genevieve’s state of bareness.

“Layers,” replies Genevieve, “are like hor d’oeuvres.”

“Whore’s what…?” Lilly’s smile, she hopes, is voracious.

Genevieve takes her time with Lilly’s dress. The outer layer is peeled away, then a silky under-petticoat, then the crinoline. It rests on its curved wires in the corner of the room, quivering, as Genevieve tackles Lilly’s corset.

“When this is removed,” says the voice behind Lilly, “you shall breathe a new air.”

“I know it.”

“And I… shall keep the lace as a bracelet.”

Lilly giggles as the corset breaks open like a pecan shell. There is little loose flesh to sag free; she gasps as two slim hands arrive under her chemise and stroke the ticklish lines of her waist.

“I want,” breathes Genevieve, “to lay my lips on this white skin.”

Lilly murmurs, “I want to let you.”

But her heart beats in her chest like a drum. Genevieve admits to hearing it and guides her to the bed. “Lie here. Don’t worry. One does not need to be afraid when one knows the procedures are in the hands of an experienced professional.”

“A professional like your Olympia?” Lilly teases.

“If I were,” Genevieve drapes herself over Lilly in a single fluid motion, “I should be far richer than I am.”

The girl on top works her fingers into the neck of Lilly’s chemise. Its hem dips between her breasts; so do the girl’s fingers, which stroke lines that Lilly can feel like they were scored with a knife. Those lines burn as Genevieve describes new ones, down the curve of each breast, then up, then between her prominent collar bones, where Genevieve kisses, taking Lilly’s breath away.

The chemise comes away and flutters to the burgundy carpet. Genevieve’s breath trickles over her nipples. They stiffen; Lilly murmurs something unintelligible; muscles contract within her that she has rarely exercised.

“May I?” whispers Genevieve, with her fingers hooked into the hem of Lilly’s drawers.

“Don’t ask me. Undress me.”

Are those my words? Lilly wonders, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Without this sense, another has room to grow: she gasps at every kiss that is imprinted on her breasts, stomach, the curve of her pelvis. Genevieve’s fingers stroke her as they tug the drawers away. Lilly has never been naked with anyone but Orpha, many years ago. And yet I’m not nervous, or—

A warm kiss, directly on her sex, throws all words from her mind.

It was brief, but the warmth remains. In fact, a fire has swept through Lilly’s loins and stomach. She opens her eyes to see Genevieve kneeling over her, her thighs forming an arch over Lilly’s belly. Sunlight streams behind her and through her hair.

A nightingale alights the windowsill and trills in two voices. The sunlight appears to brighten.

Lilly is reaching up to run her hands over Genevieve’s elaborately decorated bodice. It is deep blue, bone-ribbed, and adorned with silver birds and butterflies sewn into the silk. Similar butterflies made of ribbon are attached to the garters; the suspenders are silken elastic that Lilly slides her fingers beneath to grasp Genevieve’s hard thighs.

“The stockings are from Paris,” intones Genevieve, biting her lip, “the bodice is haute couture from Worth and Bobergh. I have never worn it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Unclip the stockings.”

The clips are tiny silver hourglasses. The elasticised blue silk springs back and in a sudden, elegant movement, Genevieve is no longer on her knees but on her back between Lilly’s legs, with her own legs straight as arrows up in the air; the stockings are peeled away in a second, revealing white lustrous skin and ankles like pearls.

When Genevieve coils into a sideways sitting position beside Lilly, it is a momentary ballet that is less seen than existing only as an afterimage in the mind’s eye.

“You’re like a dancer,” breathes Lilly.

“I was a dancer. But not the kind you’ve ever seen.”

She is over Lilly now, her hair tickling Lilly’s face, arms planted either side. Over her shoulder, Genevieve’s bodice is seen to shrink and disappear between the orbs of her pale buttocks.

Lilly cannot admire them for long. Genevieve’s kiss is long and hot. Before Lilly knows what is happening a tongue is snaking into her mouth, and its muscular intrusion arouses her intensely. She responds, and their tongues intertwine.

Then Genevieve rolls aside, onto her back. Her eyes stare upward at the roof of the bed, and her hands rest palms-up beside her face. Lilly understands that she is to do something, so she moves onto her side and slowly unfastens the front of the bodice. Its laces are tight but once the clasp and first knot are out of the way, they loosen themselves so that a pale strip of flesh is shown: Genevieve’s sternum, her belly button, a tuft of blonde public hair.

The bodice is spread. Only the garters remain. “You can leave them on, if you like.” Lilly’s mind reels from the lessons she is learning, lessons she had never expected.

Then Genevieve is pulling her close, with the bodice opening like a flower to admit both their slim lengths. Two hot bellies press against each other, transferring warmth. Each girl feels the other’s nipples as small hard objects between them.

“Let me—” begins Genevieve, but she needn’t finish. Lilly has already made enough space between them for Genevieve’s slender arm to lower. Just like the time in the bath, her expert fingers both spread Lilly and touch the soft flesh between the folds. Her longest finger strokes slowly, slowly, and when it encounters moisture, enters.

Lilly feels herself close around the finger. It is slick enough to move in and out even under the pressure of Lilly’s muscles. Genevieve knows when to crook the finger and when to straighten; it is as though she draws shapes on Lilly’s inner wall, inveigling powerful jolts of pleasure.

Another kiss, this quicker and harder than the first. Between their pressed lips Genevieve breathes, “Do me.” Lilly’s hand is already groping embarrassingly at Genevieve’s flat stomach, now slick with sweat, in its attempt to find another place.

There: it has found it. Lilly hasn’t learnt the configuration that will allow her outer fingers to spread and inner finger to stroke, so she uses two to furrow through Genevieve’s soft down, and then the softer silken passage beneath.

Genevieve gasps; Lilly lets the gasp become a kiss, and they are breathing each other’s air, breathing each other, their gasps their breaths.

The speed of it shocks Lilly. Not already! She contracts and her whole body wants to curl toward the sensation quickly building in her loins. She cries out, sheets sticking to her bucking body, and comes hard in waves. A spurt of clear fluid jumps between Genevieve’s fingers, and she giggles naughtily.

Shocked, Lilly pulls back. “Is that not normal!?”

“It is for some girls.” Genevieve licks juices that are running down the side of her hand. “You taste delicious.”

“You are positively filthy!”

“I am told I taste sweet.” It is an invitation. Genevieve waits for instruction, a look of amused patience on her face. Nervous and unsure, Lilly says, “You could kneel.”

“Would that be nice?” teases Genevieve.

“You tell me!”

Genevieve rises to her knees and throws aside the bodice, which has collected their sweat. Upright, her body is lithe and very slender. Her ribs are just discernible down her side. The arc of her clavicle, the sweep of her underarm down to her breast, is exquisite to Lilly.

Slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly, Genevieve kneels. She dips her back and elevates her buttocks, which – I can’t! But I want to… – Lilly nips with her teeth, eliciting a gasp and a giggle. Genevieve’s small but shapely breasts hang like ripe fruit. Lilly cups them in her hands. To do this she must press her thighs against Genevieve’s, her pubis against her exposed sex.

“Your body is so hot,” whispers the kneeling girl. The girl behind relishes the weight of the breasts in her palms, admiring the stunning beauty of the one who is almost prostrate before her.

Lilly is jealous of this girl’s beauty and sexiness. But she is pleased, empowered, by the thought that she owns that beauty and sexiness.

“You are mine,” she whispers, unintentionally, and then winces when she feels Genevieve’s body tense. Genevieve does not look around. Then she lowers her stomach again and shifts her balance, so that she can use one hand to brush her hair away from one side of her face.

There is a smile there.

Lilly breathes a sigh of relief. Thank goodness!

“Yes,” Genevieve replies, pouting. “I am.”

Unexpectedly, there is no puzzle about approaching Genevieve here, no mystery of how to unlock the potential pleasure awaiting in this engorged diamond of pink flesh. It seems natural for Lilly to take it in her mouth as though drinking from a small jug, and sucking gently.

This elicits an immediate gasp and low moan from Genevieve. Lilly smiles, and this reshaping of her lips produces further effects. It’s working… She uses her tongue to lap at this supple cup, exciting the outside as well as the inside. Genevieve is breathing hard; she has rebalanced again so that she can massage her breast with her right hand.

By the window, the nightingale chirrups and flutters away.

Lilly has to control herself. The greatest pleasures that Genevieve has shown her were derived from patience and tenderness. She will not suck too hard; she will not employ a finger her when her tongue will do.

It seems to work. Genevieve pressed her body into Lilly’s face, and for a panicky moment Lilly cannot breathe; then there is a hot rush of thick liquid on her tongue and yes, Genevieve hadn’t lied: she tastes very sweet.

# # #

It is the eighth day of September 1866 and today is Lilly’s birthday.

A gift in a small box awaits her between plat principal and dessert. She deftly pulls aside the ribbon – she has become an expert in using her fingers deftly – and lifts off the tiny round lid. Within the box is a necklace: a small bird, in flight, on a silver chain.

“Genevieve, it’s beautiful.”

“There was a bird in my mother’s room,” Genevieve purses her lips to receive her wine glass, “the first time we were together.”

“I hadn’t thought you’d noticed!”

Genevieve swallows crisp white Sauvignon Blanc. “Of course I noticed.”

“Thank you.”

The maître d” is correcting someone’s order, “Il n’y aura pas de charge, bien sûr,” and a waiter tops up somebody else’s glass. The clatter of crockery and cutlery is audible only when the kitchen doors swing open.

“You look sad,” Genevieve observes.

“Sometimes my mother would buy me gifts like this.”

“I understand. But your mother only wanted to show you her world. She wouldn’t have stood for me showing you another.”

Lilly nods. “Perfectly true.” She smiles. “Whereas yours…?”

“Mine,” says Genevieve, raising her glass, “would be willing me back to our apartment to bathe and then…”

“And then?”

Genevieve bites her lip. “I would like to see you wear your gift. And nothing else.”

A laugh cuts through Lilly’s sadness. It always does. Genevieve is always the one to do this: her tutor, her lover, her guiding star. The orange light of dusk strikes the curve of Genevieve’s face, and Lilly thinks, she is everything I want to be.