Forbidden Fruit

by Kojo Black

  “Oh, I have my ways,” Chlotilde says, tapping the side of her nose and winking at Magda.

  “Oh, do be quiet, Chlotilde,” the Toy Maker butts in rudely. “She doesn’t care about your bootleg liquor-makers, she’s just being polite. Now, Magda, eat your blasted cake and listen to me. The Party has summoned you here because you entered into the State Lottery and have been selected as our chosen candidate to be a mother to the next generation. The Pioneer Generation they’re calling it, in their infinite wisdom. Now, as you know, there are not many fertile males remaining since the Pestilences, and procreation is vital if we are to survive. Therefore, if you will consent to bear my heir, your prize is that you may live here and raise our child without having to perform further labor. And, though I am not a young man I am still fertile, and your intelligence scores almost match those of my own, making us a perfect breeding unit …”

  “And I would have to … make love with you?” Magda interrupts, half aroused, half horrified.

  “Ah, the wheelchair …” he says, a little sadly. “Yes, some degree of intimacy between us would be required, but this would not be a marriage. Sexual contact would be solely for the purpose of impregnating you. Now, I am a man of initiative and not debate. Time is off the essence. Our data says that you are at the peak of your fertility cycle today, and it is therefore essential that we act immediately. So, Magda, what do you say. Will you perform your patriotic duty to the Party and be a mother to a Pioneer?”

  And, with an odd, half-remembered sensation like a caged bird fluttering frantically in her ribcage, she slowly nods, her face flaming and her cunt beginning to pulsate.

  “Yes, Sir, I consent,” she says in a small voice. “You may do with me as you will, I will not resist …”

  They have given her the Room of Windows, an old viewing gallery set, like an eyrie, high above the Palm House and at the apex of the glass dome of the semi-derelict palace, the lights of Paris spread out all around her like spilled gemstones on a vast black velvet cloak. Chlotilde has undressed her and drawn her a bath, and she luxuriates now in the scented foam, watching the older woman as she potters to and fro in the flickering candlelight.

  “What he said, about me not caring about your cookery. It wasn’t true. I wanted you to know that,” she says suddenly, reaching her small wet hand from the large circular tub and taking Chlotilde’s big work-hardened fingers in her own.

  “I know, Cherie,” the other woman says softly, not quite meeting her eye. “But you must not worry, I am used to him and his petty temper tantrums.”

  “Then we are friends? I could not bear to live here if we were not on good terms …”

  Her voice trails off as Chlotilde utters a small noncommittal grunt and makes to turn her back, but Magda holds her firmly. “If we are truly friends, you will help me, Chlotilde?”

  “What do you require?”

  “To be, you know, intimate, with him, well, the thought of it partly excites me, but it also makes me afraid. Will you help me prepare myself for him?”

  “Prepare yourself how?” Chlotilde asks, looking at her half quizzically, half with interest.

  “Like this …” Magda replies bluntly, taking the other’s rough hand and squeezing it to her bare breast, her fine athletic body slippery with scented bath oils.

  “Ah, this I can help you with,” Chlotilde purrs, her fingers surprisingly nimble for their size, cupping Magda’s tits and quickly bringing the nipples up springy and hard.

  “But you must not let me come,” the girl breathes, her whole body already shaking. “I merely want to be as slippery as sea-stroked rocks after the tide has departed when I go to him …”

  “And you doubt his ability to instill such a reaction in you? Pourquoi? I assure you, I assist him with his ablutions and have seen his body. He is a fine specimen and will not disappoint you.”

  “Yes, but he is, by his own admission, an impatient man,” Magda pants as Chlotilde’s big hands slide under the foamy water and start to caress her lower belly and inner thighs. “I fear that he will not waste much time seeking to arouse me, and I would like to be ready to receive him when he wants me …”

  Chlotilde laughs kindly as her hands find soft and secret places. “You went with men in the old life? Or solely with women?”

  “I liked both,” Magda breathes softly as the other’s fingers enter her, gently but insistently, pushing deep inside her, then slide back out and start to circle round and round her clit in ever closing rings.

  “You like?”

  “I like. Kiss me …”

  And the older woman hesitates but Magda is adamant and pulls them together, and their lips suddenly join as if they have been molded to interlock with each other, tongues gently dueling, not invading or pushing in, but delighting in the sensation of each other, hearts beating in unison, pussies turning to water …

  And Magda is on the brink of coming as Chlotilde abruptly breaks their embrace and backs quickly away, standing flattened against the glass, breathing heavily and with a strange haunted look in her eyes, her whole body shaking with desire.

  The Toy Maker has been lifted from his chair and reclines on a low dais in the center of the old dance floor, two elaborate candelabras dripping ruby-red wax behind him and the big animatronic panther stretched out at his feet on the cold black and white marble.

  He is completely naked and his body is powerful and sinewy in the soft light, his arms, legs, chest and abdomen covered in thick white hair like a snow wolf, his long thin cock standing up like the sole lightning-blasted tree on a barren heath, his cynical eyes watchful and alert.

  “I please you?” he asks quietly and Magda nods, her heart thumping and her cunt desperate for fulfillment.

  “Then Chlotilde may disrobe you?”

  She nods again. She has dressed for the occasion, not in an old-world gown, but her best suede-lapelled Dandy suit in a soft moss green worsted with an antique frilled-front tuxedo shirt beneath, half tucked in to the waistband of her pants, half out and gleaming white in the flickering light. But she has left her boots in her room and stands barefoot before him, delighting in the chill of the cold marble beneath her as Chlotilde’s big fingers gently undo the buttons on her trousers and help her to step out of them.

  And her bare cunt is still as magnificent as it was on that day atop the Brighton cliff when Cynthia Negus had first inched her silky panties down and gasped aloud at her loveliness, run her hand through the thick clump of cornflower yellow hair and slipped her curious fingers inside and claimed her maidenhood. And today even the urbane Toy Maker tries not to swallow as he beholds her long tapering legs and proud pussy, but is betrayed by his long wolverine cock which twitches like an eager tup in the presence of her fecund nakedness.

  “Remove everything else except her brassiere,” he coughs and gruffly instructs Chlotilde who willingly obliges. “Then bring her to me …”

  She wants to go down on him straight away, take that huge bare head, already glistening with glassy drops of pre-cum, and suck him till he begs for mercy, but he’s fearful of wasting any of his seed and won’t permit it, so she has to satisfy herself with merely touching and a little squeezing, reacquainting herself with the feel and scent of real cock before he enters her.

  “You visit automation houses?” he asks in a tight voice, a voice she recognizes as that of a man trying hard not to come too quickly, and so she nods, yes.

  “Which?”

  “Madame Augustine …”

  “Ah, my early prototypes, they satisfy you?”

  She pauses in her ministration to his cock, deliberately pulling his foreskin down as far as it will stretch and keeping it there, squeezing him just gently enough to make more pearls of clear liquid form around the little eye-shaped slit in the fiery-red head.

  “Satisfy me? No, they are cold and unfeeling machines, how could they satisfy me?
But they scratch the itch and make the longings go away, for a while, at any rate …”

  He nods, more to himself than to her, as if making a mental note.

  “But, come,” Magda says, climbing onto him. “Enough talk, I need you inside me …”

  “It is not good for conception this way …” he starts to protest but she silences him by taking hold of his prick and guiding it gently into herself as she lowers her pussy down onto his hardness, and he gasps as he feels her wetness and heat.

  “Good?” she asks, beginning to ease herself slowly up and down and he nods breathlessly.

  “Then let me fuck you in earnest,” she gasps, lifting her tight buttocks into the air and then slamming down on him again, her big slippery cunt sliding up and down his erection, up and down, like the great pistons on the city generation plant. “Fuck, your cock is amazing. When we’re done, I want to take it in my ass … feel you going right up my tight little back hole and really stretching me till I come …”

  He lets out a moan and, with a manful effort, just manages to stop himself from shooting his load, then he pushes her gently off him, his dick sliding out and lying on his tight belly, all slick and slippery from her pussy juices.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asks, but he shakes his head.

  “No, you did everything right,” he pants, gasping, lying her down and turning onto his side. “Too right, in fact. Chlotilde, come, assist me, I need to mount her properly for procreation …”

  “Ah, such a romantic,” Chlotilde smiles, lifting him into the place he wants to be, though all the while her eyes are busy eating up Magda’s nakedness. “There, you are in position, treat her well …” And she makes to step out of the circle of candlelight but the girl stops her and takes her hand.

  “Stay,” she whispers as the Toy Maker nudges his long thin cock inside her and begins to thrust, hard, and Chlotilde nods.

  “I am here, but you must hold him,” she instructs, letting go of the girl’s hand, and Magda nods and grips the Toy Maker’s tight buns and pulls him towards her, trying to meet his lips but finding that he evades her as he plows mercilessly into her.

  “I’m so close,” he begs, thrusting hard and fast. “Tip me over, make me come …”

  And she nods again, remembering a secret from the little beige books she read in the life before, and slides one hand into his asscrack, quickly finding his anus and stroking it, then deftly worming a finger inside and pushing hard, feeling his heat as he slams into her with a yell, his hot white semen shooting hard and fast into her as she claws at him mercilessly with her free hand.

  Chapter Four – The Cherry Orchard

  She lies breathing shallowly in the big bed in the Room of Windows, naked and alone, a sleepless princess in her ivory tower with all the lights of Paris spread out around her like phosphorescent gem stones in the silky dark.

  She has not come, the Toy Maker having rolled off her as soon as his seed was spent, shouting bad-temperedly for Chlotilde to come and help him up, and Magda had crept away, angry and humiliated, clutching her clothes to her front, back up the long winding staircase to her room, her whole body shaking and her knees weak, desperate to climax and knowing that manual stimulation will give her no respite.

  And she wants to blame the Toy Maker, heap abuse on his head for his lack of human decency and, oh especially this, his inability to satisfy a woman. And yet … And yet a little voice in her head reminds her that this was not to be a marriage, and sex between them would be solely for the purposes of procreation. And that there was never any mention of her satisfaction in their bargain, and she doubted if the Party had ever even considered it.

  Clenching her fists she wonders if she should try to sleep. Then she wonders if she should pace the floor. Or drag the plump and silky bolster up and down between her thighs like a saw horse until she finally comes, or … And then she hears the unmistakable sound of soft footfalls on the long iron stairs that lead to her bedchamber.

  “Who goes there?” she calls melodramatically down to the darkness, knowing the answer already.

  “Only one who loves you,” comes the reply in that familiar voice. “One who has come to finish what she started.”

  “That may be hard, for I am in need of much satisfaction …” Magda begins, but the other cuts her short.

  “The Toy Maker sleeps soundlessly down below and we have all night! To kiss and touch and leisurely explore …”

  And then Chlotilde is in her arms and their lips meet, furiously, hungrily. Aching for each other. Hands everywhere, bodies pushing desperately against each other, Magda’s hungry cunt rubbing urgently against the coarse fabric of Chlotilde’s rough worker’s trousers.

  “Strip me, bare my skin so that I can hold you naked,” the tall woman eventually begs, and Magda doesn’t hesitate to oblige. It’s only a matter of seconds to pull off the striped sweater and unfasten the jeans, and she has Chlotilde stripped down to her corset within a minute.

  “My, my! Did somebody wear this for me?” she asks coquettishly, running inquisitive hands up and down the whalebone and silk, frantic fingers fumbling furiously for the fasteners.

  “I did indeed,” Chlotilde agrees, her breathing ragged. “And I’m not wearing anything underneath …”

  And Magda groans as she investigates, lets out an oh so soft moan when she finds warm cat-like fur and slippery wetness.

  “Oh, I’m going to eat you …”

  “Strip me first, I want you to see me naked before you fuck me!”

  But Magda’s skillful fingers have already unlaced the silky basque and the bulky garment slips soundlessly to the ground, revealing a body that is like a lost continent of ice in the silver moonlight that streams eerily through the windows.

  Chlotilde is a big woman with heavy hips and broad shoulders and her body is a moonlit arctic expanse, her huge breasts rising and falling, her dark brown nipples already hard and rubbery like glacé fruit, her hips and thighs like frost-kissed alabaster, her cunt an enchanted forest covered in a dense undergrowth of thick dark hair that looks coarse but feels like silk when Magda strokes it.

  “I know you are impatient to climax but, please, kiss me again first,” Chlotilde begs, taking Magda into her arms, their breasts rubbing gently together as they embrace naked for the first time, skin to skin, made for each other.

  But Magda’s impatience has melted like snowflakes on a wet pavement, and she takes her lover gently into her arms, luxuriating in their shared intimacy. “We have all night, beloved, so you may kiss me as much as you like …”

  “Oh, I shall, and for every night to come if you will let me.”

  “Don’t talk anymore. Just kiss …”

  And a cautious dawn caresses the edge of the horizon, threatening to turn the whole sky into a raging conflagration at any moment, when they finally acknowledge satisfaction and lie back, exhausted, on the big bed.

  Magda is all for falling quickly to sleep before the ferocious sun floods the glass room and makes it uninhabitable until dusk, but Chlotilde seems to want to talk, and sits up, her big naked body like an iceberg amidst the turbulent sea of rumpled bed linen, her opalescent skin practically glowing in the early morning light.

  “I know it is too early to speak of love,” she whispers. “But there are decisions which must be made in haste, and such as you or I have not the luxury of time in which to make them. So, I beg of you. Could you love me?”

  And Magda remembers the heat of their embraces, the way that Chlotilde holds her, the fact that they have both come together again and again, their cunts pulsating in absolute harmony as if they have once been joined and still function as one being. And she nods. “Yes, I could love you. In fact, I think that I maybe already love you just a little bit …”

  And Chlotilde swallows and looks, for a moment, like a woman trying to decide whether to jump from a roof or
not, and then, with a heartfelt sigh, she makes her decision and plunges.

  “The Toy Maker, he has lied to you,” she begins. “There is no lottery and there have been many women here before you and many will come after. And there will be no reward, no life free of labor spent happily bringing up your child. They will test you in a day or so, and if you prove positive you will be transferred immediately to a breeding unit in England until you give birth. Then they will take the child into the Pioneer Program and you will never see it again. Just as you will never see this house or that man. And I do not yet know where they send the mothers once the children are born. There are many, many conflicting stories, but the best of what has been whispered to me is that you will be sent back to your place of work alone.”

  She pauses for breath, and then continues.

  “But I can offer you a different life. You, me and the child. You have tasted the food that I cook so you know that there are other lands, lands beyond the great mountain ranges and the Contagion Barriers where the sky is not on fire and the trees still grow, and I know that they exist because I have met the people who steal out from them to sell their wares and I have seen the fruit from them in my own hands. And though I do not know how to get there I have studied your papers and I know that you are a cartographer, and that you know all the forbidden maps like the palms of your own hands, and that you could guide us over the mountains …”

  “I could do that,” Magda interrupts, her heart pounding. “But what of the patrols?”

  “I have his papers, his identity discs and a handful of his credits. If we disable his wheelchair while he sleeps he will be stranded here alone and it will take him days to summon assistance, time enough for us to be clear of the city and the great airships with their watchful eyes. But our time runs short and already the sun rises and is burning off the clouds, so what do you say, my best beloved, will you come with me on this journey and learn to love me as I already love you?”