by Lynn Lake
“Hey, you. Where’d you get that?”
I tossed the dildo over my shoulder and dug even deeper into the drawer with both hands. I’d hit the pussy-lode. I discovered Martha’s secret stash of sex toys: dildos, vibrators, jelly dongs in all sizes and colours and speed settings, battery-operated and otherwise. I pulled them out, briefly examined them, then laughed and threw them aside, pawing my way through Martha’s personals.
She jumped up off her bed and rushed over to me, yelling, “Get out of there, you!”
Next, I found a butt-plug. A stubby, black, thick-at-the-base and pointed-at-the-tip butt-plug. I stared at it, then yelped and flung it at Martha when she reached down to grab onto her naughty baby. I shot right in between her legs, out the other side, almost knocking her over. The race was on.
As she gathered up her goodies and deposited them back into her drawer, I tore into her closet and began throwing shoes and sandals around. Martha charged after me and just missed capturing me a second time.
I booted over to her desk, pulled drawers open, and dumped paper and notebooks and school supplies onto the floor—pausing only briefly when I uncovered Martha’s collection of pornographic magazines in the second drawer down on the right-hand side. Issues such as Girlfriends and Pink Heaven and Muff Divers, full of shocking pictures of naked young women engaging in all kinds of lewd and lascivious lesbian acts. I only had a short moment to be surprised, before I burst out giggling and sprinted away on my hands and knees, when Martha let out a bellow and bolted over towards me.
I went to baby-town on her bookcase next, while she rounded up her skin mags. I swept an entire shelf clean with a swipe of my arm. Paperbacks hit the floor with spine-shattering violence, revealing a hidden row behind the vampire and Victorian classics. There were stacked-up DVDs with titles like Where The Girls Are, Scissor Sisters, and MILF and Nookies.
I gulped, gaping at the brazen covers as I pulled them out. These were Martha’s dirty magazines come to pixelated life. There wasn’t a BFI Top 100 Film amongst the entire filthy, girly lot.
Martha spotted me dissembling her video library, and steamed towards me. I giggled wildly and hurled a pair of hardcore cases at her. Only this time, when I tried to squirt away from her grasping hands, she caught onto one of my little ankles and jerked me back.
I squealed like a stuck piglet, frantically trying to paddle forward on my hands and one good knee. Who knew what other kinky secrets I’d innocently discover on my rampage? I was about to find out, Martha showing me the way.
“Bad girl!” she chided, swatting me on my bottom. Then she dragged me by both legs back over to her bed.
I was pulled along the floor flat on my face and tummy. I screamed and shrieked and clawed at the carpet, kicking my legs out in Martha’s strong hands. My t-shirt rode up to my chin, my bare boobs getting a buzzing good carpet-burn.
Martha dropped down onto the edge of her bed and dragged me up over her bare knees. “You’re a bad little baby for getting into mommy’s things and making such a mess!”
She yanked down my shorts. My bum cheeks popped out like twin scoops of vanilla jello. Martha smacked my bare bottom.
I instantly stopped wriggling. My butt cheeks flared with the sting of Martha’s hand—and something perverted like pleasure. Her hand cracked down again, and I yelped, and quivered, my bum jiggling with feeling, my body juicing with emotion. Martha spanked me firmly, warmly, repeatedly. I gasped with each and every swat, butt cheeks and body burning, nipples and pussy brimming.
I coiled around her thighs, pressing my bare breasts into her leg on one side, my bared pussy into her leg on the other side. The motherly blows of her hand on my rump guided my nipples and slit and clit up against her hot legs, thrilling me even more. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was feeling. It was discipline and delight all mixed up with mommy punishment-worship. All I knew was I liked it and didn’t want it to end.
Martha felt the squirt against her thigh when she smacked my glowing bottom one final time. “Has baby gone and wet herself?” she said, almost sympathetically.
I twisted my head around and looked up at her, my face flaming like my bum, tears in my eyes. She pulled me right up into her lap and wiped away my tears, then laid me out on my back on her bed, my legs dangling over the side. My butt sizzled against the cool material of the bedspread, my pussy simmering.
Martha stood up and grasped my shorts at my knees and pulled them right off. “You are wet, aren’t you?” she said, looking down at my pussy.
I smiled shakily and stuck a finger in my mouth, feeling the trickle between my legs and the throb of my clit under my matted pubes, on display before another woman’s eyes. Martha pulled a towel out of one of the dresser drawers I hadn’t gotten to and rubbed it over my pussy. I jumped, jolted by her touch on my most intimate parts, the texture of the fuzzy towel on my furry sex.
“Let’s get you nice and dry. Then mommy will feed you.”
Martha rubbed between my legs, pressing deep down on my slit, mopping me dry for a moment. Until I surged and seeped with more juice, gazing up at her smiling face and pointing nipples, basking in the heated, dizzy sensation of her stroking my pussy. This was bad mommy/good mommy the best I’d ever experienced it before. My emotions roiled all over the spectrum. I was already confused enough by it all without her mentioning something about feeding.
Martha dropped the wet towel and climbed onto the bed with me. She crawled all the way up to the headboard and then leaned back against it. “Come into mommy’s lap, baby girl,” she said. “Time for your feeding.”
I craned my neck and rolled my eyes up at her. She hoisted up her t-shirt, showing me her boobs. They were taut and conical, tanned golden-brown like the rest of her body, capped by jutting, shining nipples. I gulped and gripped the bedspread even tighter, suddenly struck with a strange hunger I’d never experienced before. It was all so weird, but warmly wonderful. It couldn’t be stopped, I had to do what mommy said. I had to obey Martha and my instincts. I swung my legs up and around and rolled back onto my hands and knees, scampered towards Martha and her bared breasts at the head of the bed.
She took me into her arms and cradled me in her lap. “You must really be hungry after all your naughtiness,” she murmured, reading my mind and desires.
She brought my head up, my mouth to her breast. Her nipple was thickly engorged, sticking straight out. I opened my mouth, took it between my lips, and sucked on it.
Martha moaned, her eyelids fluttering. She brushed some stray hair out of my face, beaming down at me. I stared up at her all gooey-eyed, earnestly suckling on her nipple, tugging with my lips, my reddened cheeks billowing. This wasn’t your mother’s breastfeeding, by any stretch. But it was so natural and sexually nurturing I wondered why I hadn’t done it before.
I lifted my hand and grabbed onto Martha’s other boob, squeezed the hot, smooth, thick flesh. She moaned again, her lips parted and wet.
I sucked on Martha’s one breast, squeezing the other. I didn’t draw milk, just meaningful excitement out of both of us. I shivered with joy, tingling all over in Martha’s arms. She gently rocked me, tilting her head back and sighing. Feminine family fun had never been so wanton and wicked.
Martha shifted me around in her lap so I could suck on her other breast. Her one nipple popped stiff and slithered out of my mouth, and I eagerly consumed her other flowered bud, swallowing up half her breast at the same time. She gazed down at me pulling on her boob with my mouth and gently stroked my face.
I choked on her breast—spat up all but the succulent tip—as Martha’s fingers traced all around my boobs, circled my nipples, making them seize up and pulsate like hers. Then her soft, rounded fingertips brushed down my tummy and into my bush, over my swollen pussy lips. I sucked her nipple so hard I thought it would pop right off into my mouth, her fingers strumming my sensitive lips, stirring me up to new heights of girly delights. I clutched her other breast and tugged on that nipple with my fingers.
Every part of me quivered. Martha’s lips were so soft and warm and silky wet, like plumped-up rose petals after a summer rain. She kissed me again. I grabbed onto her head and smooched her right back.
“Does baby want to lie down again, while mommy plays with her?”
I couldn’t argue, because I couldn’t speak. Martha set me down flat on my back on the bed again. Only this time, she lay on top of me. Her thick, wet nipples pressed against my throbbing buds, our shimmering boobs squishing hotly together, like the rest of our bodies. She kissed me, staring into my eyes. I impetuously darted my tongue in between her lips, into her mouth and up against her tongue. Our slippery lickers swirled together, speaking a lustful language that was anything but baby-talk.
Martha arched her bum up and slid her shorts down and off. I gasped when her damp, ginger-furred pussy kissed down onto my sopping mound. Her mouth covered mine again, our boobs joined at the fired-up tips, arms wrapped around one another, pussies melding together. She pumped her hips and her cunt into mine, and I groaned with all of my heart into her mouth.
Martha positioned her pussy just perfect for maximum wet-heated friction against my pussy, thrusting at just the right, sensuous, lip-rubbing and clit-tripping speed. She had so much to teach me, and I was so anxious to learn. I grabbed onto her tight, clenching butt cheeks and she ground her pussy into mine even faster and harder. I undulated up against her, adding to the awesome erotic pressure of our passionate sexes coming together.
Martha pulled her tongue out of my mouth and cried in my face, “Oh, baby. I’m going to come.”
The bed rocked, our bodies bouncing, pussies pounding together. I gurgled, “Me, too.”
My lover’s nude body stiffened in my arms, then shuddered. I felt her hot juices flooding my pussy even more. Then I felt nothing but sheer bliss, gripping Martha’s spasming butt cheeks and shuddering and gushing with my own wild orgasm. We melted together, body and soul.
*
I quickly matured from the baby-steps of girl-girl curiosity to very adult, full-fledged lesbianism. Martha mothered me every chance she got, and I babied her back with equal intensity.
Purple Prose
Lillian Russert awoke to a splitting headache and a ringing telephone. She rolled over and snatched up the candlestick from the nightstand, unhooked the earpiece and squawked into the mouthpiece, “Yeah?”
Her greeting almost backed up on her, along with the contents of her stomach. She’d tied one on so tight the night before she beat like a drum. It was the Roaring Twenties, after all.
Lillian swallowed hard, then opened up her eyes and ran a hand through her dishevelled brown hair. “I mean—yes?” she croaked.
“Lillian Russert? You sound like hell. It’s Brisbane. Get your little tush down here pronto. Got a story assignment for you.”
Click.
“You didn’t have to hang up so loud,” Lillian groaned.
She recradled the earpiece and set the candlestick down, flopped back over onto her back. After the motion sickness passed, a smile spread over the pretty young woman’s fresh face.
A story assignment. She’d been in the Big Apple, throbbing heart of the pulp magazine business, for three months and it’d been slim pickings. She had six story sales on her resume when she’d arrived from the boonies, had made the rounds of all the editorial offices peddling her new yarns, and hadn’t made one single, solitary additional sale. Her money was wearing as thin as her one good dress.
“Mmmm, what was that?”
Lillian’s violet eyes went wide. She jerked her head to the side, and gaped at the woman laid out naked next to her on the bed.
“Hiya, sweetheart. You sure get up early, don’t you?”
The clock on the nightstand opposite showed fifteen minutes after noon. Lillian’s eyes jumped back from the dial to the dame. She was long and sleek, her skin as smooth as ivory, a neatly trimmed swatch of ginger fur between her lithe legs. She had cascading red hair, sultry green eyes and a wet pincushion of a mouth. Her breasts were large and soft, except for the protruding pink tips. She was old enough to be Lillian’s mother.
The woman suddenly grabbed onto the startled girl’s head and mashed her plush lips against Lillian’s. Lillian felt tongue jump into her open mouth, thick and wet and writhing. The woman pulled back, reeling Lillian’s tongue out of her mouth with her teeth. She sucked on the slippery appendage, bobbing her red head quickly back and forth, her red lips sealed tight. Lillian went cross-eyed watching her, trying to remember who she was.
“My, did we ever have ourselves a good time last night,” the woman said. “You were one naughty girl—after a couple of bottles.” She smiled lasciviously. “Mother had to spank you before she could get you into bed.”
That explained the throbbing in Lillian’s head and bum, and the satiated heaviness of the rest of her girlish body.
The woman reached back and snatched a bottle off the nightstand, knocking over the clock. She took a long, deep pull, her pale, slender throat working. Then she emptied the rest of the contents into Lillian’s hanging mouth.
Lillian jerked her head away, gagging and spluttering. Alcohol gushed down her chin and all over her bare chest. Cheap bourbon, she was somewhat relieved to taste. She sure couldn’t afford any better.
The woman grabbed onto Lillian’s breasts and slurped madly at the liquor and skin, lapping Lillian’s puffy, cherry-red nipples, swirling her tongue around and around her pebbled areolas. Lillian shivered, her nipples popping anew. The redhead had a wicked thirst, and a wanton appetite. She was licking her way down Lillian’s trembling body for some hair of the pussy to diffuse their hangovers, when the sudden death clang of the alarm clock reawakened Lillian’s jangled senses.
She had a story assignment—a chance to earn some honest-to-goodness writing money. That was the main reason she’d come to Gotham. She couldn’t pass it up now.
Lillian grabbed the woman by the red hair and yanked her tongue out of her bellybutton before it was too late. She grinned sweetly and chimed, “Gotta go!”
*
Bill Brisbane was the editor of High Plains Rider and seven other pulps at a big Manhattan publishing house. Lillian had briefly met the grizzled ink vet when she’d been dropping off stories in hopes of snaring some work. He grunted when she peeked her head in his office door, picked up a cover painting and flung it at her.
Lillian jumped inside the office and caught the painting, dropped it and scrambled to pick it back up.
“I need a fifteen thousand word novelette that goes with that painting,” Brisbane snarled around the smoking stub of a cigar. “By high noon tomorrow. Get on it!”
Lillian flipped the cardboard-backed painting over, right-side up, and looked at it. The searing five-colour picture portrayed two men on rearing horses firing guns at one another from close range, two women on the backs of the bucking broncs clinging to the broad shoulders of the fighting cowboys, fiery sagebrush all around. “Um, you mean… just make up a story that goes with this?”
“Saddle and ride!” Bill nodded.
Lillian almost tore the painting in half when it caught in the door as she dashed out of the office with her assignment.
This was her big chance to get in good with a big publishing house. At a penny a word. If she could give them what they wanted, she’d get more assignments. This was how Edgar Rice Burroughs had gotten started, after all.
Lillian halted her excited flight halfway down the hallway. Her typewriter—a battered, second-hand Royal portable—was back at her apartment. But she couldn’t write there, not with the lovely redhead still in her bed. She’d need all of her powers of concentration, and no interruptions.
Lillian rushed out to the receptionist.
“Excuse me. Do you have a small office with a typewriter I could use?
” She held up the cover painting. “Mr. Brisbane’s given me an assignment that I have to complete right away. Um, he said it was okay.”
The receptionist was a buxom, fleshy blonde, spilling out of a tight, white blouse and taut skirt. She put a pencil to her lush lips, studying Lillian’s young body in the almost see-through blue dress. Her greedy brown eyes focused on the twin points of Lillian’s nipples indenting the thin material of the frock, and her lips flowed over the pink tip of the pencil to briefly suck on it.
“Well… I suppose it’s all right. There’s an empty office down the hall to the left, next to the ladies’ room.”
Lillian didn’t even hang around to say thanks, or see the blonde hike up her skirt behind the high counter and plunge her left hand into her silk panties. She just tucked the painting more securely under her arm and dashed off in the direction indicated.
“Maybe you can write something about me sometime?” the receptionist called after Lillian. She brought her hand back up out of her panties, and slowly licked and sucked her own hot juices off her fingers. Until a group of executives boiled out of the hallway and charged for the elevators, headed for lunch. She gave them a glistening smile.
*
Lillian stared at the bold Western cover painting propped up in front of the dilapidated Underwood. The office was the size of a broom closet, just as stuffy and dimly-lit, a single overhead bulb dangling down to partially illuminate the four close, drab walls. The sound of flushing toilets came through the wall Lillian was facing.
But she hardly noticed. A good writer—okay, a good hack pulp writer—could write anywhere, under any conditions. Just set the yarn to spinning and the keys to flying. Lillian’s slender fingers trembled, hovering over the typewriter keys, her glazed eyes glaring at the painting: two cowboys on horseback, two ladies behind, guns blazing, horses snorting, scorching sun parching the dun-coloured rangeland.
