Kink (Filthy Stories)

by Sable Drake

  "I hadn't never much looked at Lu Win, like I says," Jake said. She heard the creak of leather as he shifted position, the scuff and thump as he moved his booted feet. "But I couldn't not look at her now. She hadn't a stitch on, and though she was still tiny, I could see that she wasn't no little girl. Her hair was all down from this bun what she usually wore it in, long and silky and black."

  "She was with your brothers, both of your brothers?" Emma asked, seeing Lu Win perfectly well in that mind's eye, too.

  Jake nodded. "Bennett, he was standin' behind her like, just as naked as she was, kinda holdin' her up with his arms hooked under hers and his hands… well, busy with her, up top, you know. Her head was on his shoulder and her neck bent around so's she could kiss him. And Cal, he was down on his knees, just there on the bricks, him naked too. You sure you want t' hear this?"

  "Yes."

  "Cal, he had Lu Win's legs up on his shoulders, so she was slung out between him and Bennett, diagonal-like. He had his head in between, you know… um… kissin' her down… down below, if'n you know what I mean."

  Emma closed her eyes and saw them, plain as day. Two older versions of Jake with Lu Win suspended between them, their erections sticking out silhouetted in the glow from the embers.

  "I know what you mean," she said breathlessly.

  "They didn't see nor hear me, and after a while Cal lowered Lu Win so's he could sit her on him while he knelt there. She was limber as a snake, that gal was, and she just slid herself down Bennett and twisted and arched and bent her back so that while she's sittin' on Cal's, she's got Bennett's way down deep in her throat."

  She moaned a little, unable to help it.

  "I seen a sword-swallower once in a travelin' circus show," Jake mused. "Made me think of that, seein' what Lu Win was doin' t' Bennett. I wouldn'ta thought a woman could do like that, see… Bennett, he's almighty big that way. The girls down t' the Rusty Nail Saloon, they call him–"

  "What?" Emma asked when Jake broke off.

  "Tain't right t' tell a lady."

  "I'm sure they use fouler language in the books I read," she said, feeling reckless now, entirely out of control.

  "They liken him to a horse in that regard, ma'am. That's all as I'll say."

  "Oh, my."

  "Anyway, Cal spots me there, starin' and unable t' believe my eyes. Nary missin' a stroke, he calls me t' come in and join the fun."

  "Did you?"

  "No, ma'am," he said in a shamefaced tone. "I was sure that Pa'd walk in and catch the lot of us, and there'd be hell t' pay."

  "I know what that's like," she murmured.

  "No, I went back up t' my own room–forgot all about bein' hungry, too, I can tell you that. And, well, took care of my own self."

  It was full dark outside the windows, the coach rumbling along with the lanterns swinging on their poles. Emma could no longer see much of the other passengers at all. They all still sounded the same, low even breaths and snoring, but for all she knew, any or all of them could have been wide awake and listening to every word.

  She found, with a sort of blessed relief, that she didn't care.

  "Jake," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "I think," she said, rustling her skirt, "that there is something down here you can help me with after all."

  "Drop somethin'?" His voice had gone husky.

  "I might have. Would you see if you can find it?"

  He was a shadow in the darkness, moving quietly toward her in a bent-kneed crouch as he maneuvered around the center bench. His outstretched hand touched her knee, and it was like a bolt of lightning going through her. Slowly, Jake sank to his knees and slid his hand down her calf to the hem of her skirt.

  "Down here?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  "Under," she replied in kind.

  Then she felt his fingers move up over the tops of her shoes to her stockings, and the lacy ruffled hem of her pantalets just below the knee.

  "Here?"

  "A little higher, I think."

  His hands on her thighs, and Emma slouched in her seat and let her legs part like water. Mrs. Avery's shoulder was against her own but she didn't care. All that mattered was the wonderful sensation of Jake's hands caressing their way up and up until –

  "Reckon I found it," he breathed as his palm cupped the mound between her legs. His thumb rode up and down the seam of her pantalets, a seam that was moist from her arousal.

  "Ribbons," she gasped. "At the waist, they tie with ribbons."

  Moments later, the laces were undone and he was working the pantalets down. She raised her bottom to help him. The garment was gone in a flutter and a sigh, and under her dress and loose chemise, she was suddenly bare from her stocking-tops on up.

  He put his hand back where it had been, on downy hair now instead of cloth, and it was her seam his thumb found. He stroked along her warm and dewy flesh while Emma trembled and bit her lip against a moan.

  "Is this what you wanted me t' find?" he said.

  "Yes, yes, that's it."

  "Seems like you need some help here, ma'am."

  "I might."

  "You want I should take care of this for you?" He had both hands there now, fingertips gently opening her folds while his thumbs explored.

  Emma couldn't speak. She nodded in the dark, but that was enough. Her own hands groped out, finding his shoulders, finding his face. His chin was as coarse as she'd imagined, and the contrast with that coarseness and the smooth strokes of his thumbs dizzied her.

  He kissed her fingers, sucked one into his mouth, rolled his tongue around it the way he might a stick of molasses candy. She wanted to wail from the sheer pleasure of what his hands were doing–no, just the one hand, just one hand now, he had withdrawn the other, but the one that was left had Emma quivering and melting.

  "You sure about this, Emma?" he asked.

  Again, she could only nod, but again, he understood. He took her hand away from his face and brought it down. Her fingers skated over gunbelts and leather chaps, and woolen pants that had been unbuttoned at the front, and then she felt him, the size and shape and wonderful heat of him, and gripped him with such fervor that he drew in a quick breath.

  "Easy, there, darlin'," he said softly. "You do that too good, we're done afore'n we start."

  "Oh, Jake, please, please," she whimpered.

  Jake raised her skirt and petticoat, bunching them in her lap so he could kneel between her legs. She found that she could raise one foot and brace it on the unoccupied center bench, and brace the other on the stagecoach's door handle. Curling her fingers at the nape of his neck and around the knot of his bandanna, she pulled him close.

  He didn't ask her again if she was sure. The firm and rounded tip of his erection rubbed her leg and then was there, touching her, parting the pouting folds of flesh, entering her tightness with a slow and steady push.

  There was pain, but only a brief and unimportant stab that was quickly lost in the overwhelming sensation of him going in, in, filling her until she thought she couldn't breathe and didn't care if she could or not.

  "Emma," he groaned. "My holy God, Emma!"

  Mrs. Avery snorted and turned, smacked her lips, and was still. Above, the driver and the marshal laughed about something.

  None of this mattered to Emma. She clutched Jake as he rocked, not caring that his gunbelts were chafing her inner thighs, only caring that he was inside her, that he was giving her what she'd wanted and needed for so long.

  It was like going over a waterfall of fire, a roaring cascade that thundered and spun and churned, every part of her body first seizing and then dissolving in a long series of shudders. A low, broken cry came like a string of beads, and Jake silenced her by, for the first time, closing his mouth over hers.

  Moments later, he went rigid against her and thrust deeper than ever, bruising her lips with the intensity of his kiss as that part of him buried in her bucked and jumped like a bronco. He settled against her, the tension ebb
ing from him.

  They stayed like that for some time, neither of them able to move. Then the slowing motion of the stagecoach brought Jake's head up in alarm.

  Hastily, with limbs that still quivered, they disengaged from each other. Jake returned to his seat as Emma put her clothes in order and patted wildly at her disheveled hair. She was aware of a thick trickle soaking into her petticoats and couldn't find her pantalets.

  When she whispered as much in agonized dismay, Jake found them draped over the center bench where he'd tossed them. But there was no time to wiggle back into them. She stuffed them into her valise, instead.

  By the time the driver opened the door and shined the lantern in, waking the sleeping passengers, Emma had got herself back in order. She kept her eyes downcast and said little, letting Mrs. Avery assume that she had napped like the rest of them.

  They spent the rest of the night camping out in the hayloft of a barn that belonged to the stagecoach company. The next day, Emma wished with all her heart–but in vain–that the others would nap again. She had to settle for exchanging glances with Jake when no one else was looking, and it was with dismal disappointment that she realized the next day, she'd be leaving the coach and never seeing him again.

  Wild fancies drifted in and out of her thoughts, fancies of running away with Jake. But Mrs. Avery perhaps sensed something, because her previously cordial attitude toward the cowboy had turned to ice, and she was ever at Emma's side, hovering, protective as any mother hen.

  At last, the stagecoach reached its final stop. They had come to the town nearest Mr. Carson's ranch. Emma watched glumly as her trunk was unloaded, and turned when a man's voice spoke her name.

  "Well, sakes alive," Mr. Carson said. "You have grown up a'right, haven't you?"

  She still did not remember him, this portly cattle baron with his black suit, string tie, and iron-grey sideburns. He stood appraising her with his thumbs hooked into his waistcoat. She saw no particular lust or appreciation in that gaze, but it was just as well, because there was nothing about him to inspire anything similar in herself.

  He looked past her then, and smiled. "Why, Jake! What the devil you doin' here, boy?"

  "Pa," Jake said, strolling up with his saddle slung over his shoulder.

  "Your father?" Emma said. "He's your father?"

  "You don't mean…" Jake trailed off.

  "Well," Mr. Carson said, the fingers not hooked into his waistcoat patting at his ample belly as he rocked on his heels. "Jake, son, I see you've met the little lady who's come t' be your stepmother. Emma, dear, this is my youngest boy, Jake."

  She was going to faint, here in the dusty streets of this cow town. Her legs just would not hold her. The world seemed to spin.

  "Yep," Mr. Carson continued. "He's got five older brothers just like him, back t' the ranch. I'm sure as sunshine you'll all get along."

  ###

  My Brother's Wife

  by

  Jack Strait

  And while they were in the field,

  Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.

  Then the Lord said to Cain,

  "Where is your brother Abel?"

  And Cain replied,

  "I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper?"

  Genesis 4:8b-9

  * * * *

  I sat at the table watching as the twelve people who had decided my fate filed back into the jury box. One female juror looked at me and smiled, but the rest avoided my eyes and kept their faces devoid of any expression that would betray their decision.

  "The defendant will please rise," the judge intoned after they had all taken their seats.

  I stood up, along with my attorneys, while the jury foreperson–a middle-aged black woman in a business suit–handed the bailiff the sheet of paper containing the verdict. He, in turn, walked to the bench and handed the paper to the judge. The judge read it, refolded it, then handed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreperson.

  During this transaction, I took a moment to look around the courtroom. Behind me, I saw Cindy, the woman I loved and who loved me. She smiled and held up both of her hands, each of which showed crossed middle and index fingers.

  I looked at my lawyers, who conducted, I thought, a very effective defense on my behalf. One of them smiled and clasped my hand to reassure me.

  And I looked across the aisle at my mother and my sister. They did not smile. I wondered what was going through their minds at that moment. How conflicted were they by these events? I hadn't spoken to either of them in well over a year, so I had no way of knowing.

  My crime? I killed my brother. That fact was uncontested. I shot him to death one fateful night after he broke into my home. As far as I was concerned, it was self-defense. He'd been armed with a baseball bat and had threatened me repeatedly in the previous months.

  The prosecution, however, claimed I had lured him into an ambush and shot him in cold blood. And, since he was a person of importance, a prominent business owner and a state representative, they had mounted a vigorous prosecution against me.

  All of this flashed through my mind in a mere moment's time, then my attention was jerked back to the present by the voice from the bench.

  "Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked the foreperson.

  "Yes, Your Honor, we have," the woman answered. Her voice was stone cold, and I shivered.

  "In the matter of the People versus Scott Luke, how do you find?"

  "We, the people, find the defendant, Scott Luke..."

  * * * *

  Her name was Cindy Duncan, and I fell in love with her from the first time I saw her. I soon found out the feeling was mutual, something I suspected right from the start.

  We both just looked at each other with an, "Oh, my God!" expression, and I could feel the tumbling of my stomach and the nervous hesitation that accompanies such momentous occasions.

  There was never any doubt about my feelings for her, and I soon made a vow that she would be mine no matter how long it took. I was prepared to wait.

  There was just one problem, and it was a big one. She was my brother's fiancée. I was meeting her six weeks before their wedding, just prior to a bridal shower my sister was hosting in her honor at my parent's home.

  In the days leading up to their wedding, I could see the confusion on her face as she wrestled with the decision of whether or not to go through with it. By that point, she and her family had put too much into the wedding for her to back out, so she married a man she didn't love. Or, rather, didn't love enough.

  Cindy is such a decent person that I truly believe she tried her best to fight the attraction between us for as long as she possibly could; tried hard to be Gordon's dutiful wife. I, however, was under no such obligation. I never felt the least bit guilty about being in love with my brother's wife, and I never wavered in my desire to have her for myself.

  If that sounds incredibly selfish, well, perhaps it was. And, perhaps once my full story is known, it will sound differently.

  To say that my brother and I didn't get along would be a gross understatement. Oil and water, that's what we were. In fact, more than one person dubbed us Cain and Abel, and which of us filled which role depended on whose side you were on.

  Our father, Gordon Luke, Jr., inherited the textile factory founded by his grandfather late in the 19th century. It is a matter of record that my father saved the business, as well as the economy of the mid-sized city in which it's located, from catastrophe. He completely renovated the factory and got the company involved in the retail end of the business, setting up stores at dozens of outlet malls from coast to coast. In the process, he took an already considerable fortune and multiplied it several times over.

  The problem with his success was that it pretty much cost him any real chance to be a father, at least to me. I was the middle child, with all the baggage that comes with the position in a family heirarchy.

  Gordon was the golden boy, the family namesake, and the one who re
ceived most of the attention from our mother. She came from one of the area's oldest and most prominent families, and she was—and remains—about as snooty as they come.

  I was not quite two years younger than Gordon. Karen is my younger sister. Whatever attention my father spared for his kids was lavished on Karen. Father did eventually take to Gordon when it became obvious they were two peas in a pod.

  Gordon toed the family line, and he was the one who got involved in the business. Karen went to law school and became the company's legal eagle. They were both content—eager, even—to fall into the avaricious corporate culture which was my father's stock and trade.

  Me? I didn't get squat when it came to attention from my parents. That was actually fine with me, once I got used to it. I was always different from Gordon and Karen, different from anyone in my family. It suited me—and my personality—to be left alone.

  I've always marched to the beat of an entirely different drummer. While my brother and sister were boisterous, aggressive–even pushy–I was quiet, introspective, and I had absolutely no interest in the family business or the family's considerable fortune.

  From a very early age, I had a gift for working with my hands, and one of the few indulgences I got from my parents when I was growing up was my own workshop. Plus, any sort of tool I wanted, too. Perhaps it was guilt that led to their generosity in this regard. Or perhaps they just wanted me out of their hair and were happy for any harmless activity that captured my interest.

  I also became engrossed in music and learned to play the guitar at an early age. Like every teenager, I went the rock-and-roll route for awhile. When I was seventeen I discovered bluegrass, fell in love with that style of music and submersed myself in the whole subculture. I chose to combine my two passions and began to make instruments for a living. I spent four years as an apprentice to a master craftsman in the Tennessee mountains, and I learned well.

  As it happens, I managed to develop a nice business as a craftsman. I still play, and I periodically travel to street fairs and other events to market my work. I handcraft every single piece, and over the years I've made a slew of guitars–acoustic and electric–banjos, mandolins, balalaikas, even a few violins and violas.