Forbidden Fruit

by Kojo Black

  And Magda has come many times, visualizing herself as that fulsome woman, long gone yet not forgotten.

  Today, though, she has little time for daydreaming, for the urge is strong upon her and she selects the biggest and most robust of the Automations for her purpose. Madame smiles knowingly when Magda makes her choice and quietly whispers a sum in her ear, and, though there is a momentary hesitation, Magda nods and delves into her pocket for the requisite Centimes, passing the warm copper coins to Madame in a seamless fluid movement, as if they were both still out in the street with the Patrol Ships hovering overhead.

  “Your usual room, Chérie?” the older woman asks in an accent that bears no resemblance to French, but Magda nods and plays her part. And thus we find her, on this stiflingly hot Saturday afternoon, in that little airless chamber on the third floor, impatient and already naked, waiting for her paramour.

  And, though some say that Madame’s Automations lack the rough masculinity of those of other houses, with their Marcel-waved hair, fine features and soft latex skin, Magda finds them long-running and insistent, their jerky clockwork cocks molded exquisitely into a permanent state of arousal and fitted with small vibrational units that rub oh so softly on your clit; plus, beneath the surface, there are intricate Swiss watch-maker’s mechanisms that skilfully delay ejaculation until they feel the tight clench of pussy muscles well absorbed in the throes of climaxing.

  But now a Maid brings the machine that has been ordered and she looks approvingly at Magda’s denuded body, while straightening imaginary creases in the bedding. “This is Victor,” she says by way of introduction. “He has been fully wound and will be everything you have ordered, Miss, possibly even more. Enjoy!” And she trails a soft hand imperceptibly over the curve of Magda’s alabaster behind as she leaves, a wistful look in her eyes.

  “Good day, Magda,” Victor sing-songs in his slightly too-high voice, like an antique clockwork nightingale trilling in its golden cage, and there is only a tiny—almost indiscernible—pause between his stock greeting and her name, a tiny click as the delicate jeweled gears in his voice box seamlessly select the correct identifier disc. “Which position do you require for satisfaction today?”

  And Magda smiles at his directness. She has heard tales of a machine in the brothels of Buenos Aries which can actually hold a conversation and seduce its users, but none of Madame’s robots are capable of such subtlety.

  “I think, from behind, today, Victor, dear. Hard but not fast,” she says without blushing and the Automation nods, his chest almost girlish in its smoothness but his cock huge and lubricated, making Magda swallow with desire and experience a shiver all over her naked body.

  She had tried to suck the stiff prick of one of the love machines once, many years ago, filled with a romantic desire to swallow all its thick, tapioca-starch semen, but, though it had looked real, the substantial blue-veined member had tasted only of lubricant, and she had sunk back onto the softness of the bed, pouting and unsatisfied, opening her legs wide in invitation and clawing at his cold body as he pounded steadily into her hot pussy, splitting her open like a soft peach in summer.

  Today, though, with the urge strong in her, she has no fanciful needs and quickly bends over on all fours on the narrow bed for Victor’s purpose. She is a tall girl of around twenty-nine years in the conventional calendar, with long and athletic legs and a firm well-sculpted bottom—peachy someone once called it in some other life— and her cunt is an Aladdin’s cave of pleasure which yawns like an open secret, all her sugar pink and ruby red petals on show to the Machine’s appraising eye.

  “Do you require manual stimulation?” Victor asks with a slight catch in his voice as his hand traces the damp folds of her pussy, and runs a finger slowly up her ass crack, circling her little pinky-brown starfish, but Magda shakes her head.

  “Not today, Victor, I’m too horny, just fuck me,” she whispers through gritted teeth and the machine immediately obliges, his big cock expertly nosing its way into her wet and slippery crack until the huge plum-like head is submerged, pausing only momentarily until he feels her vaginal muscles grip him, then he gives a gentle push and slides right in up to the hilt, his large firm hands gripping her hips as he begins to build a slow, insistent rhythm.

  “That’s right, fuck me like that,” Magda pants, grinding her sleek ass up into him to anticipate his thrusts. “Now harder, but don’t speed up, just keep that same pace but really push your cock into me and make my pussy yearn for you. Yes, that’s it, that’s it … Yes, harder, harder, harder. Yes, yes, yes …”

  There are several thousand finely-crafted brass cogs inside the machine that is Victor, and a hundred million glittering gem stones ensure that each tiny twirling wheel is perfectly balanced, all of his several hundred flawlessly articulated joints moving in syncopated rhythm as he hard-fucks Magda to orgasm, his light, bird-like voice whispering her name again and again as he pounds and thrusts, a tiny heat unit inside him warming his artificial seminal fluid to just the right pitch before he speeds up and hammers into her, the hot jism shooting out of the tiny gaping hole in his pulsing member like a burst hydrant and filling her up just like a good boy should.

  And she feels him coming just as her own orgasm begins to abate, then feels the familiar dry itch inside her tighten up and convulse again, and before she knows what has hit her she being tossed on a tidal wave of pleasure once more, this second helping of sensations even more earth-shattering than the first, Victor’s firm hands still holding her thrusting hips in check like a wild piebald mare he’s breaking, matching her frantic pace in a way no living man could do and still pushing into her, harder, harder, harder until he utters a strange half mangled shout and comes again, a first for a machine, all his delicate clockwork joints grinding with effort as he pounds his huge prick mercilessly into her slit, saying her name over and over again until he finally runs out of wind and slumps down beside her as she lies back, sweat-drenched, thrilling to the sound of her own iron heart pounding in her ears.

  Chapter Two – Cynthia and Grandmamma

  One dreamy day, at the end of childhood, Grandmamma takes Magda to the theatre.

  She has just turned eighteen and has celebrated her coming-of-age by having all her luxuriant golden hair bobbed into a neat razor-sharp fringe.

  And though her birthday gifts that morning have included three new rainbow-hued flapper frocks in fashionably short lengths; a string of clickety-clack amber beads that glow with a phosphorescent fire when you hold them to your eye; and a gramophone with a big brass horn and pearlescent teak-wood cabinet to hold her records, it was the trip to the West End which still stuck in her mind all these years later. The journey in the taxi cab through the rain-slaked streets; London, learning to sing again, stretching its arms like a sleeper awakened after the long drab years of the Great War; the bustling department stores laden with treasures; the crowds surging along Oxford Street; the shouting newsboys on all the corners; and the lights, oh the lights, of Piccadilly Circus.

  They had all had supper at Simpsons on the Strand and then taken up their box at the Empire, a big gold-encrusted bower which nestled among the old theater’s giant crystal chandeliers, high above the rest of the audience who scurried around in the stalls below them like ermined ants, their furs and jewels winking in the klieg lights reflected glow.

  Crowned heads of countries long-forgotten had sat where they now sat, and famed thespians from Garrick to Irving had taken their bows and then smiled up in their direction. And tonight they had come to see The Cherry Orchard, the first real play that Magda had ever been invited to attend. She had been to the circus and the pantomime many times before, of course, but these flimsies were mere vaudevilles for children and tonight was different; tonight was theatre and here she was resplendent in shimmering silk and in the best box in the house, the entire audience peering up at her through their gleaming brass and mother-of-pearl opera glasses, con
jecturing on what daughter of what crowned head this little debutant was with her neatly cut hair and scintillating amber necklace.

  And, crowning glory, on her lap, in a beribboned red and white candy-striped box from the best bonboniere in Bond Street, was a casket of Matinee Selection, lush pastes and marzipans shaped to resemble luscious cherries hand-tinted in blush pinks and chrome yellows and soaked in kirsch and maraschino; fat sugarplum damsons in the darkest purples and indigos, liqueur-steeped and sweeter than butterfly wings and summer wine. Grandmamma always said that chocolates were vulgar and suited only to middle class taste, and that the true confectioner’s art lay solely in nuts and pastes. And so, even from their earliest days, she had always brought them candied fruits fat as waxy gems; brightly colored boxes of San Toy selection from nights at Daly’s; and Arabian almonds coated in brittle sugar shells and tinted in the palest pastel pinks or robin’s-egg blues.

  And tonight the rush from the alcohol in the bonbons going straight to her head, and her little heart, delirious with happiness, is pitter-pattering like a pecking-chicken-toy by the time the house lights finally go down and the gas jets in the huge brass spotlights flare to an icy blue hiss and illuminate the sedately rising red velvet curtain and the great Russian dacha set that waits beyond.

  The program in her hand has stated that tonight’s play is to be a comedy, but that inadequate word conveys nothing of the great depth of feeling that this intricate work will present. And Magda watches, breathless, with tears in her bright blue eyes as she shares the agony of Madame Ranevskaya and her family as their estate and entire way of life slips through their blasé fingers like warm sand on a summer day at the beach; yet, when the final curtain falls on the poor stooped figure of Firs, the faithful old butler, abandoned by the family and entombed to die in the now derelict château, her whole body shakes with unconcealed rage at the cold-blooded callousness of her own privileged class.

  “Did you like the play, my dear?” her grandmother asks as they emerge, gasping and out of breath, into the tinderbox aroma of the rain-washed London streets, hansom cabs and taxis vying for their trade in the hiss of gaslight, and Magda grasps the older woman’s wrists and whispers, “It has changed my life,” little realizing how prophetic this statement will be.

  And thus the interminable Season and that long hot summer drags on, with London society blissfully unaware that the First Great Pestilence will soon sweep across Europe and decimate almost the whole of her population in a matter of weeks.

  Party membership is also on the up, with shipyard workers striking in the streets and the great Stepney docks lying idle, rusted hulks with rotting cargos becalmed up and down the hot, foetid waters of the sluggish Thames.

  Magda, meanwhile, has also joined The Party—secretly, of course—and she is sending most of her generous allowance to help boost their scanty funds, though she has not yet adopted the austere mode of dress favored by some of her contemporaries, and she still glitters with the lightning-white fire of diamonds when she accompanies her Grandmamma to the Opera—but she is a quieter, more earnest girl than that tipsy young Deb so affected by a Chekhov play in what already seems like another life.

  And tonight is the night of her own cotillion and she stands resplendent in the Savoy ballroom before the cream of London society in a shimmering pearl sheath dress that clings to her slender body like skin, a tall and athletic girl with hair the color of wild primroses, bobbed and razor-fringed, naked save for the million sparkling tears that shield her modesty from the hungry wolf-eyes of the salivating young men who compete fiercely for the honor of possessing her in their pre-booked suites in quiet hours of the early morning. Though, in truth, she had already lost that particular flower to her best friend, the Honorable Cynthia Negus, amidst the pungent scent of salt-sea breezes and coconutty yellow furze on a Brighton cliff-top many months previous.

  Tonight, though, the girls are in the mood for adventure and, once the speeches have been made, the dance-card obligations fulfilled and the waxy white corsages worn and wilted, they gather up a herd of young bucks and escape, speeding out along the nearly-deserted Strand and off towards the black hiss of the river in Freddie Heathcote-Willoughby’s bright red roadster, laughing as the warm breeze rushes through their hair like lovers’ fingers. They’ve already explored all the intricate petals of each other’s cunts, sucked on engorged sugar-pink nipples like hard-jelly jube-jubes and thrilled to the rhythms of their own bodies as they lay gasping like iridescent fish in the blood-pumping afterglow of orgasms; and now they’re ready for cock. In fact, a whole carload of it, half a gallon of the most valuable semen in London all pent up in one tiny vehicle and eager to be spilled for their pleasure.

  And Lady Cynthia knows of a cinema beyond the south bank. You know the kind of place we mean. Perhaps you’ve even been to one. Certainly not one of the grand cathedrals of Leicester Square with their smartly uniformed usherettes and a great orchestra humming with haunting melodies; or the friendly palaces of Upper Tooting where you first laughed at stone-faced Buster Keaton or melted under Valentino’s blistering gaze. No, this particular stereopticon lurks in a shady side street in Thornton Heath and boasts of no neon-lit stucco frontage or plush red velvet curtains, and its continuous performance of scratchy “imported” movies boasts of no melody save the whir of the projector and the soft moans of the patrons as they watch their unfolding erotic dreams with unabated longing.

  Freddie pays for all their admission and adds a generous tip to the tired fat woman in the tiny booth by the door to ensure discretion, and then, like Alice and her rabbit burrow, they all tumble headlong into the velvet darkness within, both girls surrounded by eager young men as they take their seats and look up at the flickering images of Wonderland on the screen before them.

  And it’s all flesh. Naked young hopefuls from the outer fringes of the brave new Hollywoodland, pretty little things with sweet faces and stars in their big blue eyes, striking “artistic” poses on a sunset Venice Beach as the warm red wind caresses their bodies, their little breasts quivering and their nipples rubbery; then heavier older women who have already walked the mean streets and who see the film industry as the softer option, laconic in their own large-breasted nudity, rotund bellies lying unashamedly welcomingly below soft portly tits; thick hairy pussies lurking sleek and contented like fat tom cats between their milk-white thighs.

  And Magda can feel the boy beside her stiffen—feel his body stance stiffen, that is, though that other thing is almost guaranteed to be stiffening too—and a thrill runs through her as she takes his hand and immediately connects to his racing pulse, getting caught up in his virulently contagious excitement as they watch the voluptuaries cavorting before them.

  Then another film clunks clumsily onto the screen. Somehow opulent in its blurry sepia tone after the stark monochrome of the previous epic. But this particular burlesque is harder core and no mere girly parade. Hell, it even makes a crude attempt at a storyline.

  Three girls stroll on a beach on a hot summer day, and two quickly strip off and splash in the water while the third watches, fully dressed. Then we see the mermaids laughing and beckoning to their friend to join them, but she demurely shakes her head, no, but, instead of respecting her wishes, the naked nymphs run brazenly back up the shale, buxom bottoms like white full moons, and lay hands on her, pulling the clothes from her body and quickly denuding her.

  And these are no coy starlets or sweet Mary Pickford look-alikes, but strong-limbed working girls, fresh-faced farmer’s daughters just off the bus from Ohio or Indiana, with heavy breasts and thick hair under their armpits. And yet Magda feels her own pussy turn to water as she watches the stocky girl (who so resembles one of her mother’s kitchen maids back in their country house) have the clothing ripped from her body; groans aloud as her bra falls to the ground and her huge white tits tumble out, the nipples walnut brown and already hard, her fat cunt covered with thick blonde hair a
nd unapologetically bestial.

  “Bet you’d like to do that to me,” she whispers mischievously into the ear of the boy beside her, her hand already on his thigh and traveling upward, heady from champagne and astounded at her own boldness as she fumbles with buttons and reaches for the thing that she has fantasized about for so long.

  “Rather!” he agrees, his eager hand burrowing up her skirt in return, but she pushes him off.

  “No, not yet,” she breathes and wrestles with the cool cotton of his underwear, her nimble fingers quickly finding thick hair and hot flesh. “I just want to feel you while we watch …”

  And, with her dainty little hand wrapped tightly around his huge thick shaft, he nods agreement, powerless to resist.

  She has his cock right out now and tears her eyes away from the three naked graces on screen to sneak a peep, his member huge and standing out in front of him like a thick branch from a gnarled old tree, the soft chamois leather of his foreskin warm in her hand as she slides it up and down like the tiny plain-covered books she and Cynthia have pored-over in bed have advised, marveling at feel of him, his unyielding hardness and animal heat.

  On screen the girls have started to kiss and touch each other and she knows that it’s arousing him to boiling point, watching while she runs her hand slowly up and down his shaft, not rushing it or milk-machining him like some cold English Rose impatient to get to the money shot and drop the hard, beautiful thing she is holding like a hot coal; but, instead, she delights in torturing him as she drags his hood right down and denudes his slippery wet head to run a fingernail around the rim before resuming her steady up-and-down rhythm again.