“Now we begin,” she said. In front of the panting, supine Natasha, she laid out the five, gradated dolls. The first three were warm from her bottom, the second-biggest was slick from her cunt. She threw the smallest into the shadows of the cabin.
“We do not need her,” she said. “These,” she said, touching the next three, including the one with the whatevers inside, “these I am going to slide into your pretty arsehole. Is that too much?”
The last one of the three had just been in her pussy. It was quite big. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek in wonder.
“This,” she said, holding up the longest and largest, the queen of the dolls, “this I will put up your cunt. Do you want me to fuck you in your cunt, until you come?”
Natasha moaned her permission.
“With this little lady doll?”
“Yes, please.”
Lara set about her work. Natasha was bent over on all fours once more, her face on the covers, her arse in the air. Lara creamed the three dolls liberally and inserted them, in reverse order, into Natasha’s well-worked rump, the biggest first, slathered with cream. The shapely mannequin made Natasha wince and puff out her breath like a train.
She yelled as Lara forced it in deep with two slippery fingers. Natasha felt the top of her head trying to come off. The next was easier but lumpy and full of beans, and the last, the little nut-shaped one, popped in like a button. Lara licked shut the full arsehole and stood up.
At the foot of the bed she dropped her coat and stood naked before Natasha for the first time. Natasha, splayed on her back, simply stared. The structure of the shoulders, the round belly, the glory of the breasts, swaying in time to the horses’ gallop, overwhelmed her. Where were they by now, wondered Natasha, half mad with pleasure and crammed to capacity. Mongolia?
Lara took a series of straps from a trunk. Natasha wondered if she was to be flogged. She simply did not care. She felt that she would come, and come hard, if she were flung naked from the coach, such a state was she in. No. No flogging. Lara was passing the straps between her legs, fastening them behind her regal buttocks. She took the largest of the dolls, a pert madam with the decency at least to blush in two cherry-red drops of lacquer, and, filling each half with fine black sand, reconnected her, and slipped her into the straps. The little woman stood out from Lara’s body like a beautiful, dark, painted horn, springing from the woman’s luxuriant hair. She bobbed with her newfound weight. Lara looked terrifying in the shadows, the swinging lanterns casting umbrae and flames across her awesome, sculptural nudity. Natasha’s eyes widened. She could feel her clitoris swelling.
“Be brave, my dear. My pretty little dolly is very big. I don’t want to split your little cunt.” She spread golden oil over the doll’s bulging head then lay down on her back next to Natasha.
“Ride me now,” whispered Lara. “Ride me for your fare!”
With difficulty, as she was very full, Natasha swung one leg over Lara, straddling her partner. She crouched over the curvy doll and lowered her craving cunt onto Lara’s hips. Lara urged her on, cradling her buttocks from beneath, kneading and stroking. Natasha eased herself onto the doll, feeling the mouth of her passage stretch, feeling the honey ooze around the doll as she was filled to her utmost, front and back, arse and cunt, Lara kindly but firmly driving the doll in to the hilt from beneath. Their private hair curled together. Natasha’s breasts hung soft over Lara’s neck and tears of sweetness fell onto the woman’s eager face.
The horses plunged ahead. Every bump in the ground, every rut the wheel took askance sent a tremor up the doll and throbbed against Natasha’s cervix. They caught the rhythm of the coach, Natasha raising and lowering herself onto the luscious woman beneath her, Lara still cradling Natasha’s bottom in one hand, squeezing her swollen breasts with the other, rolling her hips gently, fucking the girl fully and certainly from beneath. Each thrust rattled the secreted Babushkas, vibrating the beads, making them roll and shift and fuck subtly her unspeakably beautiful arse.
Natasha rode Lara until she began to moan urgently. She was getting close to orgasm but knew she couldn’t come with three Russian dolls in her rectum. “I’m close, L . . . Lara,” she sobbed.
“Good girl. Now let me have it.”
“Uh?”
“The first little woman? Hmn? Just the little one. Push her out.”
Natasha kept up the fucking motion of her shaking thighs, but staggered into a crude squatting position and squeezed. The smallest doll was right at the head and slipped out easily, giving the girl a shudder of joy.
Lara changed their positions, rolling Natasha off her and then dragging her onto all fours. Again the two rear dolls moved, scraping with sweet discomfort. Lara mounted Natasha like a donkey, pushing once more into her sopping cunt. The girl moaned afresh as Lara began to fuck her in earnest from behind, again, again, fucking to the pounding rhythm of the coach. She was so full, front and back. Natasha’s breasts grazed the silk of the bed. She bit the pillow and swung her hips to the rhythm of Lara’s hammering. She could hear the kneeling woman grunting with the effort of driving the slippery doll in and out of her pussy and as the sounds reached her ears, her rectal muscles twitched involuntarily around their welcome intruders.
It did not take long for Natasha to reach the trembling, whimpering stage. As she looked round at her perspiring assailant, her face was a mask of appalled arousal. Lara said, her breath ragged:
“Okay, the next little woman. Show her to me.”
Natasha groaned, maddened by the perversity of it, her mouth full of the burnt taste of desire. She knew her lover was looking between her buttocks – at her pleated little hole, she relaxed, felt it open, and the head of the doll peep out.
“Can you see it?” she gasped.
“I can see it,” she purred, “come on now, give it to me. Give – me – my – doll!” With each word she fucked the shaking Natasha with a swing of her hips.
Natasha pushed, feeling her tight ring widen and stretch. She felt the itching, burning pleasure of that special stretching and the slippery caress of the doll’s sinuous, substantial body passing out of her anal cavity. The bump, bump of Lara’s belly knocked the doll, fucking her ever so slightly in the arse as she fucked her cunt, but Natasha fought it and expelled the intruder with a wave of triumph and a wash of terrible pleasure.
“Precious!” crooned Lara as the Babushka rolled past her pubis and onto the bed. She fucked Natasha extra hard as a reward, grabbing a fistful of her young flesh on each side and pulling her yawning cunt onto the stiff doll. Natasha wailed her joy, the bed beneath her soaked with her sweat, saliva and spots of pearly juice.
Lara withdrew and Natasha collapsed onto the bed. She was as close to coming as she was to a kind of delirious sleep. Lara sat in the middle of the bed, her strong back straight, and asked Natasha to straddle her lap. Once more Natasha lowered her pussy onto the doll, wrapping her legs around Lara’s buttocks. Lara took the shaking girl in her arms and holding her haunches, raised and lowered her onto the doll. Natasha cried with pleasure as she felt Lara’s strong arms take over, the doll fucking her cunt, the woman fucking her mind.
“Now when you come, give me the last doll. The big one. Only when you are about to come.”
Natasha was seconds from coming. Her every sound was a warble of need. Lara pulled Natasha’s arse cheeks apart and she rode and rode the doll, squeezing and releasing her anus until, as the storm gathered in her cunt, and the blood rushed to her head and her toes, she bore down on the last, large, bumpy doll, stretching her poor anal ring wide. It came out half way and Lara, minx-eyed and panting with exertion, took it in her hand and forced it back again.
“Ah! Ohhhh!” yelped Natasha, as Lara fucked her arse to the same rhythm as she was fucking her cunt. The double assault had the desired effect.
“I’m coming. Oh, shit, I’m coming,” howled Natasha, as Lara forced the doll deep in her tunnel once again. She bounced savagely on both the dolls, soaring imp
ossibly high on wings of climax and then it hit her in a sweet wave: the orgasm. The rapture which starts as magma in the pit of the stomach and travels like the ripples in a pond, like the wrath of a typhoon, until it turns the hair to seaweed, caught in the current.
“I’m fucking coming,” she screamed, holding Lara in a ferocious grip. She howled as her orgasm turned her inside out, wrapped her in oblivion, so strong she could not at that moment have told you her name. Lara released her hand and Natasha passed the last doll from her bottom. She rode and rode, wringing the pleasure from every inch of her body, feeling her very skin catch fire as her paroxysm slowly ebbed.
They held each other, drenched and drained. Lara licked the tears from Natasha’s face and laid her gently on the coverlet, withdrawing from her vagina the immense, strapped-on Babushka. It was thick with opalescent come and steamed slightly in the already warm air of the cabin. The coach rolled on.
Natasha kissed her strange lover, her eyes closing. The swing and sway of the coach seemed a lullaby. Her nerve endings crackled with the almighty climax she had experienced, her heartbeat palpable in her engorged clitoris. With the room reeling about her she touched herself there, and turning circles on herself, and sleep took her to its deep violet waters.
Natasha dreamed. In her dreams a huge, life size Russian doll leered at her, its suggestive mouth half-open, its wooden surface glossy with varnish that could have been the glow of perspiring lust. She lay back in the dream, spreading her thighs, and allowed the doll to suck her with its motionless painted mouth. The sensation was like the good itch of an approaching sneeze. The doll reared above her. From its loins protruded an object, long and smooth, a tiny human, flesh and blood, with cat-like eyes and a sour-plum mouth. Dream Natasha, reclining on a couch of fur, raised her legs to her breasts and allowed the doll to come between them. It entered her, the little Lara between its legs smiling as she disappeared head first into Natasha’s dripping cunt. In and out slid the woman, smiling as if it were her birthday.
Natasha awoke to dawn’s shattered light in the coach. It was still moving. She sat in bed. Lara had gone. Natasha stepped gingerly down from the bed. Her body ached from its exertions. Her rear passage throbbed and her vagina felt stretched and raw. A quick inspection showed that not only had Lara gone but so had Natasha’s clothes, despite the fact that they were nothing more than rags. Her worn boots, her laddered stockings, her knickers, slip and blouse were all gone. She was alone and the only stitch in the still moving cabin was the opulent fur, its front stiff with patches of oil, ointment and her own salty emissions. Smiling to herself, rocked by the endless motion of the carriage, she put it on.
Exotic Music
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Allison scooped up some baba ghanoush onto a piece of pita, then looked her friend Daniel in the eye. “Are you sure this is a good idea – introducing me to this belly dancer?”
“Don’t say it in that tone, sweetie. She’s not a stripper. She’s a dancer, just as much as any of us.”
Danny’s boyfriend Raoul, his mouth full of stuffed grape leaf, nodded in agreement.
Allison flushed at being included in the us. She tried to cover her consternation by continuing the argument. “It’s not that. I know Silvia’s a good friend of yours and I’m sure you wouldn’t introduce me to anyone trashy. It’s just that belly dancing sounds so . . .”
“Fluffy?” Danny grinned. “You won’t hang out with ballet dancers any more, except for my choreographer self, but you still think like one. You don’t have any luck dating non-dancers. I figured this was worth a try. At worst, you’ll see something new and I think you’ll enjoy it. I know I was astonished.”
“Besides,” Raoul added, “even I think Silvia’s a babe.”
As the lights dimmed, she fingered the charm on her necklace, the charm in the shape of the satin toe shoes she could no longer wear. Even to Danny she couldn’t admit her anxiety: that alien as non-dancers were, she was terrified that any professional dancer would be put off by her weight gain and the awkward stiffness she still suffered in damp weather. And every time she watched someone else dance, it filled her with conflicting emotion – joy in the artistry itself, bitterness that she was barred forever from it.
The band in the corner started: a heavy, unfamiliar rhythm on the drums, an odd, nasal-sounding flute, a violin, and an electronic keyboard reproducing the sound of several instruments Allison couldn’t identify. The effect was exotic and sensual, yet lively. Then the dancer emerged. She probably entered from some place as mundane as a back room, but she did it with a panache that suggested she had materialized out of Aladdin’s lamp.
For a few measures she stood poised, veil held like wings, the light catching the beading on her green and gold costume on fire. Allison was struck by Silvia’s regal carriage and the energy invested into that stillness. It was the mark of a gifted performer, she knew, to say so much with so little motion – and it was much harder than a non-dancer could imagine. At the same time, she was slightly bewildered by Silvia’s appearance. She had expected a Middle Eastern sylph, someone with an Arabic look and a long, lean body. Instead, Silvia was below average height and fair, with a mass of strawberry blond curls. She was also very curvy, not fat, but definitely heavier than what Allison, who had been studying ballet since she was four, thought of as a dancer’s body. Her instinct was to be put off, but almost immediately old-fashioned accolades like “voluptuous” and “a real hour-glass figure” came to her mind, and she found herself wondering what all that lush flesh would feel like. Those breasts . . . Most of her lovers, like herself, hadn’t had much in that department, and the soft weight of Silvia’s cleavage, enhanced by the beaded bra top, looked like it would be marvellously fun to play with. But she couldn’t help wondering how fit could Silvia really be if she had enough body fat for such attributes.
Then Silvia started to move and as she watched, Allison’s world view shifted. This tiny, curvy lady projected a queenly strength that equalled anything she’d seen in a ballerina – partly spiritual, partly erotic. Even though the dance style was utterly different, she was reminded of the Alvin Ailey troupe, how they could touch your emotions and make you drool at the same time, without doing anything that would offend your grandmother. Silvia made eye contact with everyone, male and female, old and young, and to each she seemed to offer some secret. Her hips snapped in precise time to a beat so foreign that even Allison’s trained ear found it hard to break down. The moves looked deceptively simple, but Allison could appreciate how much work lay behind making everything look so clean and precise. As for being fit, there was definitely muscle underneath those curves. Her back was exquisitely defined, and as for her abs . . . she might have a little pooch, but anyone who could make her belly undulate up and down and sideways had to have good abs.
“You know,” Danny whispered, “this is all improv. And the musicians are improvizing too. Middle Eastern music’s like jazz. Even if you know what tune they’re starting from, there’s no guarantee it’s going to sound the same way it did last time.”
Allison’s growing respect turned into awe. This was all spontaneous? That spoke of skill – but also of a great soul. Even if you had all the skill in the world, it took something special to improvize and make it look wonderful instead of merely acceptable.
She watched with growing fascination through several changes in music. What really captured her was the slow, languorous section. Saying that Silvia undulated, or that the effect was sensual, was true, but inadequate. That quivering thing she did with her abs looked like a woman in the middle of a series of mind-blowing orgasms, yet her smile remained serene and innocent and her hands caressed the air with graceful, birdlike gestures, making the effect sexy but not vulgar. She moved, Allison thought, sometimes like fire and sometimes like water, and without doing anything lewd, she led Allison through fire and water as well, or at least left her hot and somewhat damp.
When the music ended, it was much too soon
.
Eventually, Silvia joined them at the table and Danny introduced them. In a simple dress, with her curly hair pulled back and her stage make-up washed off, she looked less exotic, but no less pretty. Allison tried not to gush at her about how impressed she’d been, realized she was gushing anyway and decided to roll with it. To her surprise, Silvia blushed. “Thanks. I was a little nervous knowing you were out here. Danny told me you’d danced with the Boston Ballet.”
“But Danny . . .”
“Has been my friend since high school. If I were a professional golfer or an economics professor, he’d still find a way to say he loved my work. You’re an objective audience.”
“Not any more,” she blurted out. Then it was her turn to blush.
Needless to say, Silvia ended up giving her a card, saying, “Call me if you’re interested in lessons.”
Needless to say, Allison called, and not about lessons.
On their first date, they talked until two in the morning. On their second date, they made out like teenagers in the park at the end of Long Wharf, and discovered that they both had a fascination with light bondage.
On the third date, they bypassed the date part of the evening altogether, picked up a take-out and went to Allison’s apartment. The take-out was still on the living room coffee table, where Allison’s cat was probably enjoying it while nesting in Silvia’s blouse. It occurred vaguely to Allison, as they fumbled towards the bedroom, that they probably would be hungry later after a dinner of about three crab Rangoons and a lot of kisses. Oh well, the pizza place up the street was open all night.
They stumbled toward the bed in a classic late-night-cable blind clinch. In the movies, though, the couple never actually steers into the bedpost, which they managed to do. Silvia broke the embrace to see what had whacked her on the head. “These toe shoes look practically new,” she said, touching the virginal pink satin. “I thought you’d retired.”
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica Page 9
