“Perish the thought!” Paisley declared. “You know what you want: a hot woman. Maybe even a lot of hot women.”
“All at once?” Sallie replied.
“I meant over a period of time, though it’s interesting that you instantly thought I meant more than one at a time,” Paisley told her. Sallie winced. “I just saw the look on your face. You got all…Moral Majority…on me. Did you get disgusted because the idea is truly not attractive to you, or because you think you’re supposed to be appalled?”
“Ummm…” Sallie couldn’t begin to answer the question.
“Why didn’t you let Larry fuck you in the ass?” she persisted.
“Because he tried one time and it really hurt,” she confessed after a pause.
“Well, it probably wasn’t because he was that big,” Paisley told her. “He just didn’t know how to do it right. I myself like to get fucked in the butt. Boyfriend Larry probably wasn’t the one to introduce you to the pleasures of taking it in the ass.”
Sallie was torn between embarrassment at Paisley’s language and excitement at how blunt she was. She couldn’t imagine saying those words herself.
“Would you like me to…” she began. She couldn’t finish.
“Plug me in the ass?” Paisley finished. “You are so cute when you blush. You want to do it, don’t you?”
Sallie could only nod. Paisley laughed and got up from the sofa. She retreated to her bedroom and came back in a moment with a dildo in a harness and a videocassette. Paisley tossed the contraption to Sallie and switched on the TV.
“Strap it on, sister!” she ordered as she put the tape in the VCR.
“What’re we going to watch?” Sallie asked, frantically trying to figure out how to get into the harness. Did you step in? Put it on backward then turn it around like a bra?
“What do you think? Porn!” Paisley said, as if to a backward child.
“Porn is…bad” Sallie stammered. Larry had tried to get her to watch it with him, but she’d found the women scary, and the boys mostly skeevy. She’d never been turned on by the girls with long nails kissing. It seemed very fake.
“Bad porn is bad,” Paisley told her, hitting the Play button. “Straight porn doesn’t turn me on. I like a fetish flick sometimes, but mostly, I like the men. Here…let me.” She got down on her knees and straightened out the harness and pulled the sides tight, giving little tugs and yanks that Sallie felt oddly arousing. “There!”
As Paisley spoke, the blue screen gave way to the title of the video, In the End Zone, and immediately there was a locker room with men in football uniforms in various states of undress. Some still had their pads on, others were naked save for their eyeblack, mud, and grass stains.
Sallie looked down at Paisley, who stayed on her knees. Paisley gave her a challenging look, then opened her mouth and started licking and sucking the dildo.
“I’ve never…seen…gay men…doing it…” Sallie managed to get out.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” Paisley said, then got down to serious dildo-sucking.
It was hot, Sallie realized, and Paisley going down on her was even hotter. She collapsed backward gently onto the sofa and switched her gaze from Paisley’s head bobbing up and down on the dildo to the men in the video, who were soon doing similar things to each other.
Paisley reached up and began to squeeze Sallie’s nipples, and of its own accord Sallie’s pelvis began to thrust forward. She’d never wished for a penis, but at that moment, she could imagine she had one, could almost feel Paisley’s lips on the head of her own cock. Her dick. Her prick. Her rod. She thought the words. She wanted to say them. She saw all the other dicks on the TV, and one guy was lying on a bench in the locker room, another man positioned over him, feeding his cock into the bench guy’s mouth. Then another player got between the lying-down guy’s legs, and began to tongue his asshole. Sallie wanted to see him put his cock there.
The dildo felt like it was part of her; she wished she could spurt out her come in Paisley’s mouth. See it dribbling down her face. Who am I? she thought. Where did this come from? She felt her rhythm faltering. Paisley looked up and stopped sucking.
“You’re allowed to be turned on,” she told Sallie. “In fact, it’s a crime if you don’t admit it. Admit it!”
“Suck me…please,” Sallie begged her. In the video, the man who’d been tonguing the other’s hole got up and rubbed his cock until it was stiff and shiny. He quickly rolled a condom on it. Then he spread the other man’s legs against his chest and drove his cock into the supine guy’s ass. There was a long close-up of the hard dick going in, and in and in, and Sallie gave a moan that was almost a sob.
Paisley’s hands left Sallie’s breasts and she groped on the floor. She came up with a bottle of lube and her own condom. Sallie’s breath came in gasps, and she quivered as Paisley put the condom on her dick.
“Stand up!” Paisley ordered. She did, on shaky knees, and Paisley led her around behind the sofa. She leaned over the back of it, facing the TV screen, her ass in the air, and said, “Lube! Lots of lube!” Sallie obliged, and worked the slippery stuff in and around Paisley’s asshole, and coated the dildo with it.
“Fuck me…fuck me in the ass, Sallie.” Sallie wasn’t sure what to do. “Finger! Start with your finger…” Paisley said urgently. Sallie put her forefinger to Paisley’s little brown hole, and it slid in easily. Sallie’s eyes were glued to the TV, and she found herself thrusting her finger in the same rhythm as the man on the screen was ramming his cock in the other guy’s ass. Without being told, she somehow knew to add two, then three fingers. Paisley urged her on with “Fuck…yeah… harder…in me…go in me…” and Sallie knew it was time for the dildo. She pulled her wet fingers from Paisley’s relaxed hole, and slowly guided the dildo in.
“What do you want to do?” Paisley grunted. “Tell me!”
“I want to fuck your ass,” Sallie cried in a voice she didn’t recognize. It was so low and serious. She didn’t know she could sound like that. “I want to pound you. Fuck you in the asshole. Now! Hard!”
And she did what she said. She rode Paisley’s ass like the men on the screen, shoving her own hard cock into the receptive hole. The man getting fucked screamed he was going to come, and the guy whose cock he’d been sucking rubbed and rubbed it, and suddenly he came on the bench guy’s chest and face, spurting and rubbing it in. Then the guy going up his ass pulled out and he came, too, and the two men rubbed their come onto the first guy’s body. Then the lying-down guy, smeared with the other two guys’ come, came himself with a loud, guttural cry.
Sallie thought she’d come herself, even though there was nothing inside her. The dildo rubbed against her clit. She wanted to come inside Paisley, to ride her until she shrieked with pleasure. Her cock had a rhythm of its own, her hands reached around Paisley and squeezed her nipples. She sank her teeth into Paisley’s neck. She put one leg over the back of the sofa, so she could drive even harder and deeper into Paisley. With a sudden lurch and a cry, Paisley came. Sallie felt it in the dildo, then radiating back throughout the rest of her. She thought she might come, too, and reached down behind the harness to stroke her clit, which was ready to explode. She pulled out of Paisley as she rubbed herself, and in a moment, she dropped to her knees in her own orgasm.
Paisley slid down next to her on the floor, and they held each other, both still quivering. Sallie felt her cheeks wet with her own tears. She almost always cried when she had an orgasm. Paisley licked the tears, and it seemed the most intimate gesture she could make. Sallie buried her head in Paisley’s chest.
“Thank you,” she finally whispered.
“Oh babe, that was…fucking awesome,” Paisley murmured back. She did not seem like the glittery, teasing girl who had stood a little ahead, a little above Sallie since they’d known each other. “You could…totally dominate me. Who would’ve thought…” she trailed off. Sallie held her tighter. Then she felt Paisley pull away a little, and she rolled away
so they could both get up. Paisley went to the bathroom, and Sallie slowly unstrapped the harness and pulled on her undershirt. She turned off the video. When Paisley came back, she’d washed her face and run a comb through her hair.
“Are you up for dinner? I’m starved. And maybe a club after? I know a band that’s playing at the Middle East tonight….”
“I thought we could, you know…keep going,” Sallie said. “That was pretty…spectacular.”
“What was?” Paisley asked, challenging.
“When I fucked you in the ass. When you liked it,” Sallie said, and the words came smoothly out of her mouth.
“You got in pretty deep,” Paisley said, and Sallie couldn’t tell whether she meant physically or emotionally. It did seem like both. And for some reason, Paisley was unnerved by it.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you…” she began.
“Oh no, it felt real good,” Paisley told her. “It felt. I felt.”
“And that scares you?” Suddenly Sallie was the one asking the questions.
Paisley just shrugged and went into the bedroom.
“Did you bring something other than a parka and mukluks?” she called from the other room. “If I’m taking you places, you have to look nice. I have my reputation to think of.”
“What reputation is that?” Sallie called back, thinking it was silly to be in separate rooms after an experience like they’d just shared.
“I’m cool, you know?”
“I know,” Sallie told her. “I think I’d rather be hot.”
Paisley muttered something in the other room. Sallie couldn’t hear her. “What?”
“I said: you don’t have to worry about being hot.”
Sallie wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. She looked through her things. She didn’t feel like putting so many layers back on.
An Incident in Whitechapel
Catherine Lundoff
Max was out late again, her feet stumbling their way over the cobbles in a fog that flowed like water through the streets and alleys. She had been looking for Smiling Jack—the Ripper himself—tonight and every night for the last fortnight. It had been her cousin Annie whom the bastard sent to her grave, and the murder filled her dreams until she could not sleep for the blood, the flash of steel. Annie had been good to her, even when the drink took her; she had deserved better than to die like a butchered hog. Max would have his heart for it, or she would know the reason why.
The gas lamps, scattered as they were, gave the fog a ghostly glow, making it even harder to see down the dark alleyways. It was a prime night for the Ripper and any other hunter who haunted the shadows of Whitechapel. A nearly toothless woman made Max jump as she shouted something from a doorway. Her thick Cockney was blurred by blue ruin until she was nearly impossible to understand. But the grimy finger that she ran over Max’s greatcoat spoke for itself.
“What are you doing on the street, mother? Aren’t you worried about Jack? It’s no time for that.” She brushed the woman’s hand away as the whore grinned and pulled a long, wicked-looking butcher’s knife from her sash.
“Reckon I’m ready for ’im. You ’im?” She waved the knife menacingly toward Max.
“If I were Jack, mother, you’d be dead now and not chatting me up. Get inside to safety, woman.” The old woman snarled at her words, or perhaps just her lack of interest, and vanished into the fog. Max drew a deep breath. If he was out tonight, she was having no luck finding him. Time for home and Isabel, as she’d promised. Her way wound up the darkened street onto the better-lit and more populated thoroughfares.
By the time she reached those more prosperous avenues, the thought of Bel’s soft curves lent wings to her feet. The bobby on the corner nodded as she turned the corner for home. “Evenin’, Mister Cruthers.” Max tipped her hat in response but said nothing. Mr. Cruthers, the knife and scissors grinder, was a quiet man, after all. Kept to himself, just him and the missus living up at the end of the lane and no questions asked. Respectable tradesmen were rare in this part of London, and if Mr. Cruthers seemed a bit odd, well, he was no worse than many.
Max bounded up the wooden steps to her small home and Bel threw herself into her arms the moment she closed the door. “I’ve been so worried!” The soft country burr reached Max’s ears. “Why must you do this? He’s sure to kill you, and then what’ll become of me?” The blue eyes tilted up reproachfully from Max’s shoulder. Max reached up into Bel’s mass of red curls and yanked so that her lover’s face turned up for a kiss. Bel uttered a small yelp of protest, then returned Max’s embrace passionately.
“I made an hot toddy for you. Did you want it now?” Bel’s big blue eyes anxiously searched her face. Max nodded, and she trotted off to the kitchen. Bel had been fresh out of the country when she’d been turned out from a fashionable milliner’s because she would not oblige the owner’s son. She’d been forced to take up whoring then, but the country bloom hadn’t been lost to city grime when Max met her.
Her upbringing still showed in her manners and in the way she kept their home. The little house was warm and cozy, filled with the smell of baking bread and the bright warmth of dried flowers. To Max, it was almost as though those desperate, hungry months on the streets had never happened.
Their home had been Max’s inheritance, left to her by her father by way of a dowry. Not that any man was good enough for her, except for him of course. She’d wear the scars he had given her to her grave, never forgetting the mixture of joy and pain that filled her when he died of the wasting fever some years back. She swore then that no man, whether husband or lover, would use her like that again.
But if she wanted to live free, she hadn’t the looks for what little semblance of freedom whoring might give, even if she had the inclination. There was nothing for it but to take up his clothes and his trade. Clothes make the man, she thought as she put up her greatcoat and hat. From a clothing change and her own lack of womanly curves was born Master Maxwell Cruthers, a man who knew how to whet the edge of a blade until it sang a song only he could hear.
Until she met Bel, no one had known her secret, and she’d sworn to herself that she’d never tell a soul. Never mind the lonely nights, the strange looks from the neighbors—she could bear it all. That’s how it was before she found she longed for the touch of the blue-eyed whore who worked Tavern Street. She wooed Bel for months, protecting her, feeding her, nursing her when she was sick. Max chuckled to remember the look on Bel’s face when she found out that Maxwell wasn’t a man. Bel, in turn, had introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh, the way Bel liked them when she trusted someone.
With that thought, the bonny lass herself emerged from the kitchen with the toddy. Max smiled at her, then pulled them both down into the big chair so that Bel sat on her lap. Between sips, she unlaced the top of Bel’s nightgown, casually kissing her lover’s neck until she heard the gasp she’d been waiting for. All the while, Bel chattered on about the shop where she worked as though nothing was happening. All the while, her small gasps and half-closed eyes told a different story.
The toddy abandoned on the nearby table, Max went to work in earnest unlacing the top of the gown. A few moments’ work and she could see the graceful curves of Bel’s ample breasts with their hardened nipples. Bel writhed on her lap, trying to reach Max’s earlobe with her teeth. Max evaded her and worked a hand up under the heavy nightgown to stroke Bel’s soft thighs. Her tongue slowly crept over her lover’s exposed neck, tasting, savoring the salty tang of her skin. As if she could not bear such pleasure, Bel gave a desperate twist and stretched for her goal, her teeth closing on Max’s lobe.
Max grabbed her long red hair and for the second time that night pulled her face away. “What have I told you about that? You know what happens to bad girls now, don’t you?” Bel flushed pink, and favored Max with the slow, lazy grin that had won her heart. “Very well, then.” Max’s voice took on the proper accents that she affected when she felt like this. “I want you upstairs and pres
entable by the time I count to twenty. We’ll break you of this habit yet, my girl.”
With that, she pushed Bel from her lap and the other woman scrambled up the stairs as fast as she could go. Max started counting loudly as she stripped off her jacket and cravat, then marched up to the bedroom to make her own preparations. Stripped to the waist, she advanced briskly toward the hall closet where she kept her tools. A quick glance into the bedroom showed Bel, naked and face down on the bed’s faded coverlet, her white skin glowing in the firelight.
The sight roused Max to greater speed as she got prepared. Tonight she had something different in mind. Leather straps in hand, she approached Bel and tied each of her limbs to the bedposts, checking to see that each loop was snug, but not cutting. Bel squirmed with anticipation, prompting Max to smack her bottom so sharply that the print of her hand stood out in red. A strangled yelp greeted the blow and Max smiled in anticipation.
Once Bel’s limbs were tied securely, Max went for her favorite tool. The whip had been made by a traveling saddler, one who knew his trade. The handle was all coarse braided strips, the lash of soft and coarse strips bundled together. Its solid feel in her palm made her flush red, her thighs moist with anticipation. Tonight, she’d make Bel sing as she never had before.
She ran the long leather strands up and down Bel’s back, over her thighs, even pushing the braided leather inside her briefly. Bel moaned and quivered, red hair tossed back over her shoulders and gold-lashed eyes closed. The wetness between her legs glistened in the light until it was all Max could do not to reach down and taste her. Instead, the whip sang downward and Max grew wet to the music of Bel’s groans and yelps. She loved that feeling of power, that sense of fulfilling her lover’s every desire. The whip sang downward until Bel’s back was streaked with red, but the skin remained unbroken.
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