Although it was too late when I finally realized I had a call, I fumbled for the remote anyway. Pressed Stop. “Fuck,” I said under my breath, thinking it might have been Una. I picked up the receiver and heard a string of short beeps indicating a message. I plugged in the code and there, indeed, was her voice. “Hey, Kitty,” she said. “Guess you’re not home. I’ll call back later.”
“Fuck,” I said again—already wondering what Una meant by “later.” After all, when she’d left she’d said she would call “soon,” and “soon” had ended up being five days. I shuffled to the kitchen for another beer. Then back in the bedroom, I lit a smoke, turned the volume down, and pressed Play.
The screen filled with Karen’s crotch and I realized two things: a third party was filming, pressing Zoom, and Karen was packing. Jeans bulging. Slowly, she undid her belt and fly, and I heard the sound of leather pulling tight, metal clicking cold. A lurid purple cock bursting out. Karen’s fingers slipped off screen, coming back with lube—lube she dribbled on the head, squirted on the shaft. Then she choked that dick like she really could milk it. Her hands strong, her nails blunt. But Una was whining in the background, wanting some.
Karen took a seat on a hard wooden chair, her legs cocked open. “Come here, baby,” she said. “Come get your treat.”
Una skipped over and said please just like she was told to. With sugar on top. With a cherry. Then she got down on her knees and sucked her Daddy off. Flicked her eyes up to his face as she licked the shaft. And flicked her eyes up to the camera as she stretched her little mouth around the head. But (midswallow) I had had enough and hit stop.
I missed Una and I just couldn’t wait until “later.” I picked up the phone, pressed *69, and wrote the hotel’s number down inside an empty pack of smokes. I guess I knew, though, that calling her was a dumb idea because I stabbed the buttons dialing fast, my heart pounding. Four rings. Nothing. Then, on five, Corey picked up—Una in the background shrieking and laughing. “Hi,” I said. “This is Terry. Can I talk to Una, please?”
“Uh, she’s busy right now. Is there a message?”
I let my hatred seep through the line; let it leave a pause. I hated Corey and Mel. Hated their mannerisms and little twin outfits. Tidy cargo pants and baby T’s. “No, no message,” I finally said, hanging up.
After that I thought about going out to shoot some pool, but instead I just stared at the cracked ceiling, the clothes on the floor, the lone limp plant. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Twenty. Then, the phone still silent, I decided to watch another video. A different one—a normal one—one starring only Una.
I popped out the Daddy tape and slid it back into its place on the shelf between two other tapes, one labeled “muzzle” and another unlabeled. I pulled out the unlabeled one, but I didn’t wonder why it lacked a name or think about how hard it felt against my fingers. I just put it in the machine and pressed Play.
Una’s face—immediately the entire picture—glowed pale against a severe black wig. Her lips, painted blood red, were slightly parted for a sly glint of teeth. And her eyes, rimmed in black, were heavy with iridescent green lids. She winked and the camera traveled to nipples poking out from behind a curtain of faux hair. Traveled to countable ribs and a navel jewel. Shaved slit and thigh-high boots. The very same boots that, three weeks earlier, Una had pranced home in and tried on with different panties. That made this video three weeks old. Tops.
I tried to gloss over the terrible gut feeling I suddenly had. Tried to hit Stop. But it was like I was mesmerized. Charmed by a snake—movement, skin, bone, muscle—at once beautiful and repulsive. I kept watching. Watched a hand creep to Una’s cunt. Not her hand, or mine. Not her finger moving in and out. Not my fingers: two, three, four, fist. Rather, Corey’s. Corey and Una sliding against each other—grinding sweat and juice into my bed. The bed I was in now—blankets tangling my legs, tears falling into my pillow. Everything growing wet.
And it only got worse; the camera suddenly cutting to twin outfits but not cargo pants or baby T’s this time. Just flashes of thumb rings, harnesses, and one-eyed snakes. Corey and Mel were standing with Una between them and she was jacking them off—two lube-slippery fistfuls. Stuffing dicks in her mouth one at a time, sliding her fingers under harnesses.
Then Mel got flat on her back and Una straddled her—cock pressing into snatch. I heard the two of them panting, the bed frame thumping against the wall, the springs groaning. And I watched the camera pan from Una’s bouncing tits to her swollen cunt, then zero in on her ass. Mel and Corey each had ahold of a cheek and they were spreading her open as Corey lubed the pucker and slowly slid in her cock. Making the trio look like some kind of perverse boot sandwich—spike heels digging into my mattress.
I started to sob then, hating how Corey had taken Una by the hips and hating how Mel’s eyes were closed into tight pleasure-slits. But, both her holes now stuffed, Una was getting louder and the veins in her neck were bulging. She was getting close—and strangely, so was I. My pussy was pure slick and I was grinding into my hand.
So this is life with Una, I thought, crying and quivering until I came, until we came together—juice on the sheets. The two of us so much louder than the phone ringing.
Sno Ball’s Chance in Hell
Renee Rivera
I know I said that I wanted to go to hell for just a little while. I didn’t know it would be one long pajama party and that I’d be lying around in pink fuzzy mules watching Grease, Grease II, and all the Gidget films over and over while the devil girls eat Hostess Sno Balls and give each other manicures and pedicures.
I thought it would be big burly butch devils with thick-veined hands and cocks the size of baseball bats splitting me open in a night that would never end. I thought I’d be Vanessa Del Rio in The Devil in Miss Jones, and instead I’m getting just sick and tired of listening to those devil girls’ dull chatter and—good god—I hate Hostess Sno Balls!
I ask the devil girls what they do for fun around here, “Don’t you ever get a shipment of cute little butch boys in to pinch and bite and fuck silly and generally terrorize until they break down and sob? You know what crybabies butches are….” I manage a grin of conspiratorial encouragement but the devil girls just look back blankly. The first one asks without turning her gaze from the big-screen TV, “Isn’t Grease II just your favorite movie?” The next devil girl leans in, sympathetically offering the tiny red vial of polish and one of those electric-blue foam toe spacers, “Why don’t you try Ruby Rum Punch on your toes this time?” And then the only other one who was even paying attention says, “Here—have another Sno Ball.” If I have another Sno Ball I am going to vomit.
When I thought of myself here, the devil butches encircled me on cloven hooves, no two alike. The one who hoists me hard against her chest, feet off the ground, at the edge of the dark pit, is a great strapping brute of a butch devil wearing nothing over her ruddy skin and muscular limbs but the black cock, thicker than my forearm and just as long, traced with thick raised veins and lashed around her hips and through her legs with one long length of rough-cast chain. Above that, pressing against my back, she wears a leather breastplate buckled around her ribs and over her broad shoulders with two stud-traced star-shaped cutouts, one over each enormous brown nipple, leaving the erect flesh free to press against my back like two strong thumbs. Her horns are sawn short to match her short dark crew cut.
The small one who skitters up to start wrapping my naked body in cool soothing chain is as wiry as the first one lifting me is meaty, and her horns corkscrew to points through slicked-back greasy hair curling behind filthy protruding ears. As the little butch bends, coiling a loop around each of my thighs and pulling roughly outward, I can see a small piglike tail poking out of her bare bony buttocks. The crowd of butch devils watching from the other side of the pit are a jumble of snorts, hoots, stink, broad bellies hanging over leather- and cock-strapped loins, heads and crotches shaved to coarse stubble, chins with goaty twists of h
air, and everywhere wet grins, grasping hands, and bobbing cocks, as they jostle and poke each other in anticipation.
I’m jolted from my reverie of remembered fantasies by the devil girls.
“I know! Let’s crank call our exes!” the head devil girl says, shaking her short red curls. The credits are rolling on Grease II and absolutely everyone’s toes glitter with Ruby Rum Punch. The devil girl grabs the big red Princess phone from the floor where it sits almost engulfed by the white shag carpet. She thrusts the phone into the hands of another devil girl lying on the carpet belly down kicking her drying toes in the air, and snatches the copy of Us magazine out of her hands, provoking a squawk from the busty blond devil girl.
“You can call my ex, and I’ll call yours,” the red-headed devil girl says. “I’ll dial.” All the other devil girls crowd around.
Boy, I’ve been here too long—even the devil girls are starting to look good. For a moment I consider just diving face first into the abundant cleavage of the busty blond devil girl holding the phone, the other one having just finished dialing the number.
“Hey, baby,” the blond started in a breathy husky voice. “Oh baby, I just had to call, I can’t stop thinking about the other night, and how you…” she trailed off and after a pause, “What are you doing?” Another pause, “I’m just waiting for you…. Anything you want…. Yeah baby, of course I remember….” All the devil girls are covering their mouths with their hands, and burying their faces in each other’s shoulders or laps to keep from laughing out loud. The one on the phone is gesturing to show she’s got the poor dumb butch on the hook. “Oh, don’t you worry your sweet little head about that, baby, your girlfriend doesn’t need to know about that.” The devil girls are turning red and rolling around on the carpet now with the effort of keeping silent. “Oh baby, I need you, I’m just waiting for you…. You remember where to find me. I’ll be here waiting for you, baby. Don’t keep me waiting.” The blond devil girl hangs up and all the others burst out squealing and laughing and tumbling over each other on the rug. “Omigod, that dumb butch,” the blond gasps out between chortles. “She thought I was her trick from last Saturday night. Boy, is she going to get a surprise when she gets to that girl’s house.” All the devil girls cackle all over again, and then they all start demanding the phone to get in on the fun.
Back in my fantasy the devil butches have got me all locked into my chain harness, and I’m hooked, like a hay bale going into a hay loft, onto another chain hanging from the dark cavernous ceiling. The big butch holds me out over the pit so I can feel the blast of hot air rising up out of it, and I can see the glow of molten lava far below.
“That’s where you’re goin’ when we get tired of you—so have fun up here while it lasts.” I spin there on the hook, feeling the chains dig deeper into my inner thighs and tighten across my hipbones. The butch devil’s incongruously cool blue eyes look right through me, and then past me to the gaggle of panting devil boys on the other side of the pit. “Hey boys,” the big butch calls across the pit, “ain’t this a tasty one?” The big butch’s hands are all over me, spinning me back to face across the pit, but holding me from swinging over. Her huge hands are cracked and lined with dirt and end in long yellow split nails. Raised veins crawl like worms up the back of her hand and along the curve of her muscular forearm. Callused and dirt-dark palms drag hard across my bare chest, one hand grabbing the chains crossed there, while the other reaches down to pinch a handful of skin in the softest part of my inner thigh, pulling that leg open. “Yeah, all that’s for you, boys,” the big butch devil calls across the pit to the gibbering mob on the other side. “Have fun, boys!” And then I’m swinging over the pit—to the mob—hot air searing my crotch as I soar across. The blast of sweat, onions, tar, and ammonia overwhelms my senses before I even make contact, but then I’m up inside the cloud of odor, clutching hands, and cocks poking in from every angle, jammed up against my buttocks, my belly, looking for purchase. The devil boys grab and pinch at each other, as much as at me, as they fight for the prime spot between my legs.
The devil girls have tired of their games on the phone. After an hour of fun, things have quickly deteriorated into scratching and hair pulling, and more than one devil girl is sporting long red marks on a cheek, or breast, or buttock, from another devil girl’s long Ruby Rum Punch nails. But now things have calmed down and the red-headed devil girl has popped another Gidget film into the VCR and squealed, “Oh, this is my absolute favorite!” and flopped belly down in front of the TV on the shag rug, her short marabou-trimmed robe flipping up to show bright-red panties. As soon as the titles roll the other devil girls quiet right down. One drops the phone back on a kidney-shaped end table, and then they are all riveted in front of the TV again.
My thoughts stray back to the devil boys and the pit, reentering my fantasy midswing. Rough hands are wrapped around my hips from behind as one of the bigger butch devils, who has fought all comers to take her place, is thrusting her huge cock in my cunt and it feels like it will just split me apart. From the front another pair of hands wraps around my ears to entwine at the back of my skull, and I’m pulled down into the mass of flesh and stink to find myself facing another huge shaft, with several more pressing against my cheeks. Facing the choice between one and three, I dive on the nearest cock, taking as much of it into my mouth and throat as I can, while the hands behind my head pull me down even harder. Hands and thighs and arms and cocks are pinching and rubbing and pulling at me over every inch of my exposed flesh.
I’ve no idea how much time has passed when suddenly the bodies part, pulling out and away from my battered and abraded body, and I swing free over the pit again, with the melting heat blasting up onto my raw skin. The butch devils are grinning and punching each other, and a couple are fumbling with the stiff leather straps around their hips, and moving their cocks aside to reveal thick mats of hair, or shaven mounds with huge swollen clits. I have just a moment to wonder what the hell they’re up to when the first one lets go with a glittering golden stream arching to hit my right thigh as I slowly spin over the pit. Suspended as I am in the rising tower of heat, the liquid feels cool even as it stings my raw reddened skin. One devil boy after another starts to piss, onto my body or down into the pit, and I can hear the hiss and sizzle on the rocks below. The cloud of ammonia vapor envelops me and I see it rise off my dripping skin. I hear a metallic rattle and then I’m falling through the piss steam cloud and down into fiery oblivion.
I sigh, though not loud enough to attract the devil girls’ attention, and pick at a half-eaten Sno Ball that’s in danger of being ground into the carpet. Who would’ve thought it would be so boring in hell? One devil girl gets up and picks her way through the prone bodies on the carpet on her way to the bathroom. The movie has grown quiet and I hear a couple of snores, and then a cheery tinkle through the open bathroom door. Hell is not all I had hoped it would be.
Sound Check
Scarlett French
“And…cut,” exclaimed my director. “Nice work, Juliet. Perfect first take. We’ll have a short break before we do the vox pops. Back here in twenty minutes.”
George, our sound operator, leaned his boom against a wall and drifted toward the gate for a cigarette, his headphones dangling around his neck. I took a drink from my water bottle and started toward the main dance floor at the other end of the complex. We’d been shooting solid for an hour—intros, outros, pieces to camera, interviews with revelers. I loved being a TV presenter but I needed a break. Presenting for the biggest queer dance party of the year would bring a lot of kudos for me in the community, but it was a story I would have preferred to be part of, rather than covering.
My crew were great guys: Dave was director and camera op, a difficult balance at times. George was sound op and purveyor of stylish clothes. Every time I saw him he was impeccably dressed in tartan trousers and black turtlenecks, or in some other offbeat and eclectic combination. Both Dave and George were straight, but they were s
ensitive to queer issues and didn’t do that suppressed cringe common to straight men around gay men. They were both freelancers, but I used them for every story because they were reliable and appropriate and we’d built a good rapport. George had hit on me once, and I must confess there was a bit of a spark between us. But it was never going to happen—I wasn’t interested in men in that way even if I fantasized about it occasionally. It was one of those erotic thoughts that just wouldn’t work in the flesh.
I was feeling pumped, full of adrenaline and the enjoyment of being looked at by hungry eyes as I strode past a seating area full of bulldykes, heading toward the far dance floor to look for my girlfriend. I was wearing a black halter neck and very tight black nylon trousers that went up my crack and rubbed my clit as I walked. I knew they hugged my tight little arse and they shone a little in the light, accentuating its peachlike curves. I felt myself being watched and I relished every step, all the while feeling a building heat in my cunt as I thought about my beautiful girlfriend and felt the rubbing of the trouser seam on my hardening nub.
I reached the dance floor and took the stairs up to the balcony overlooking the DJ. I leaned my elbows on the rail and looked into the pulsating crowd searching for my girl. It took only a minute. There she was, right in the middle of the floor where she said she’d be, caressed by the music, moving with a deep primal rhythm. My soft butch sexy bitch, grounded and grinding, under the strobing colored lights. She was magnificent. I wanted her. I always wanted her. Our hunger for each other hadn’t waned since the day we’d met outside a bar in the rain. Outside a bar in the pelting spring rain, waiting for cabs. I keep our meeting story gritty by the detail that no soft-focus lens could capture—her nipples visibly hard and rosy through her sopping white T-shirt and, minutes later, my eager tongue flickering over them, sucking them into my mouth through the wet cotton. That’s what it was like with us: hot, urgent. Always. My mouth watered watching her and I felt my pussy lurching with want, the crotch of my thong saturated.
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