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M-60328 A Cunning Among Lesbians by Kimberly Kemp

1

My breasts felt huge and hot and heavy, unbearably swollen inside the cramped cups of the bra, the turgid nipples already raw with the pleasure-pain of anticipation. I knew she was going to kiss me. My whore. My whore for the afternoon. My big beautiful lesbian whore, bought and paid for. But we were still strangers, practically, and had only just finished securing the latch on our motel cabin door; perhaps it would amount to no more than a fleeting brush of her lips, this first intimacy between us, a mere gesture to ease the tension. Wouldn't an experienced prostitute tend to be overly conscious of protocol in such matters?

I hoped not. Let it be good, this first embrace of ours, let it be grand and glorious, this kiss I had been waiting for, yearning for - my first lesbian kiss in a long time, far too long! - let it be soft and slow and sweet and taste of woman. . .

And so it would, of course, I could see that now - the way she licked her lips and smiled and then licked her lips some more, so bold, so sexy! My gaze focused on the pink tongue. The moist pink mouth. And I could only stand there transfixed, impaled on the intensity of the moment, watching the glistening pinkness close in on me. Protocol of a sort, no doubt, a binding of the pact with our mingled breath and blood; wasn't it rather like some primitive pagan rite?

But there was no ritual, no ceremony, no rhyme or reason to the tongue itself once inside my mouth, only a flurried frenzy and a. furthering of lust. I licked back at it avidly, at the coarser grained top surface and then the deliciously contrasting texture of its silky-smooth underside. Choking on a sob of desire, I raised my arms and dragged her deeper into the kiss - the big woman and her big tongue - sucking all of that strength and power into the depths of my body. Until it became too much for me to contain, too potent a weapon against my weakness, and I had to repent and hang on for dear life, sustained only by my need for more. More of that long thick tongue. More! In whatever way it cared to fulfill me. Ravish me. Fuck me?

So it seemed - as though the rest of my flesh was being turned into one voracious vulva. With that big tongue fucking it, fucking me, plowing the length and breadth of my body somehow, and yet never quite pulling away from the hot pulpy place where it kept slithering in and out. A cunt all by itself, that place - my mouth, my hot pulpy hole of a mouth - and so terribly possessive, too! Just like a cunt, I thought crazily, oh shit, wouldn't you know? I'm all cunt now. . .

The instant the kiss ended, I kicked my shoes off and went to work on the zipper of my dress. It hissed, jammed momentarily, and then ran slick again as if my muttered oath had scolded the stupid thing into functioning.

"Relax, honey." Ingeborg's voice was a murmur, incongruously calm after that heated embrace. She had the closet door open, almost languid in her movements. "What's your hurry?"

"I - I can't relax."

"Oh?"

"Sorry. It's been so long. Do you mind?"

"Long time between drinks, huh? Well, in that case. . . " The languor vanished and she started undressing.

It took only a few scant minutes. For both of us. Ingeborg understood my plight perfectly and didn't bother to hang her clothes up, even though she had already plucked a hanger from the rack. Our two sets of garments were heaped awry on the single chair. Nylon stockings and pantyhose dangled every which way. A garter belt fell and caught on the bottom rung, one suspender trailing limply to the floor. But at last we were naked. . .

Both of us. Naked. My first time with a woman since Pam moved out of town. In an agony of impatience, I flopped upon the bed, no more than vaguely aware of the nude body about to join me. It was big and beautiful and perhaps even breathtaking, but I had little regard for aesthetic values at that point. Not while needles of fire pricked my flesh, like the tiny tines of some fiendish little imp's pitchfork! "Honey? The bedspread. Let's yank it off first."

"Later. Not now."

"Say, you are in a hurry. You're burning up. I guess you need cooling off, huh? You want Ingeborg to cool you off?"

"Yes. Do. Please. . . "

"And then we can relax and take our time afterward. It's no good to rush like this."

"Please. Please?"

"Sure, honey. Poor baby. Jillian. . . "

The sound was muffled as she bent her head, the sound of my name on her lips, a sweet sound, sweeter than "honey" by far. I liked that, a kind of last-minute acknowledgment of something more than just business. At least she knew whose body those lips were kissing. Not that it mattered, considering my own prompt but purely physical response. I gasped and then gulped an indispensable lungful of oxygen as her mouth took possession of my flesh. The air oozed out in a purring sigh as my limbs unfolded and clasped. As my flesh took possession of her mouth. As the lick-and-thrust of her tongue centered and synchronized itself to my throbbing clitoris. And by the time that first purr faded, my orgasm was already in the making, the same pent-up orgasm that my poor unknowing husband couldn't release with a can-opener, much less that blunt instrument of his. My tits shook and my thighs tensed and the blast blew me halfway to the ceiling before I came down shattered but satisfied. Oh, so satisfied! Was she really that good? Or was it just me and my big need. The woman thing. Lesbian. Lying there in the sweet lassitude of the after-math, I couldn't help but wonder. . .

"Hey. You came so quick! I never even had a chance to show off for you. Show my stuff, I mean. I'm pretty good, you know."

She must have been reading my mind. I blushed and felt almost apologetic. "I'm sure you are. But there's still time."

"Plenty of time. All afternoon. Evening too, if you want - my bus isn't due till eight o'clock."

"You're leaving town tonight? But you can stay right here in the motel if you'd like. It's paid for. I can't stay with you, though, I've got a husband to feed and comfort. So the place is all yours for a good night's sleep. Why not wait till tomorrow morning?"

"Thanks. Nice of you, Jillian. Very tempting, too. But I'd better play safe and get my ass on that Chicago bus tonight. Otherwise I might chicken out and not go at all."

"Chicken out? I don't understand."

"Oh, it's not important. Just a gig that I don't happen to like. But it's for a whole week - even longer, maybe - and the money is good, so I can't afford to pass it up."

"You - you don't like the . . . uh. . . "

"Client. That's the polite word for it. This one's a rich old broad who tosses a party for her gay buddies every so often, the kind of party that goes on for days. She's okay, really, but the madhouse atmosphere gets pretty wearing after a while. Especially with me right in the middle."

"Oh. You'll be with more than one, then."

"Sure. In a deal like that, everybody loves Ingeborg. But what the hell, it's a living. Damn good living, too."

"Ingeborg. That's quite a name. New to me. I never knew an Ingeborg before."

"There aren't many of us around. It's real, too. Ingeborg Dietz - some handle, huh? In my business, who uses her real name anymore? Ingeborg Dietz, the honest hooker, that's me." She stood up and started hanging her clothes in the closet. "Long as we're in no hurry now, I'm going to grab a quick shower, okay?"

I nodded and then had to keep myself from staring. Ingeborg Dietz - the honest hooker - was a creature of sheer magnificence. Her hair was lighter than mine, I realized with a touch of envy, almost silver blond, and apparently natural. Blue eyes, too - Scandinavian probably, although her full-lipped sensuous mouth hinted of Latin warmth and passion. But if there was any cause for envy it was that body of hers, surely. In clothing she had seemed somewhat on the blowzy side, compact but a trifle overfleshed, downright plump but for the saving grace of her height plus the added inches of her spike heels. Naked it was discernible only as a ripeness, a voluptuous flowering of her womanhood; somehow she appeared even bigger without the shoes. Big in all the right places. And yet she managed to move lithely and with a kind of imperturbable elegance, even in such a mundane task as putting her clothes in the closet.

Only she wasn't hanging up just her own things now, I noticed. "Ingeborg, you don't have to do that. Go take your shower."

"Your dress will get all wrinkled. Besides, I'm a bug about neatness and such. Everything's got to be just so. Must be some sort of compulsion, I guess." Then, grinning, "I'll bet that sounds funny coming from me, huh?"

"No. Why should it?"

"Well, this suitcase of mine, look at the size of it - not much more than an overnight bag. I'm going away for a week without even a change of clothing."

"Oh. You didn't check anything in at the bus station?"

"Nope. This is it. Just enough for traveling. After that, well, what's neater than a bare body?"

"You - you'll be naked for a week?"

"Uh-huh. That's how my hostess expects me to entertain her guests. And as long as she's paying for it ... " Ingeborg's expression became suddenly serious. "With me the customer is always right. I take pride in my work. What I just did to you, for instance, I'm good at that and proud of it. I'm a very good cuntlapper - as you'll find out for yourself in just a few minutes. Or does my saying so shock you, maybe?"

She chuckled and strode into the bathroom without giving me a chance to reply. Not that I had anything to say. I wasn't shocked, just a bit surprised - good or not, the word itself didn't sound like something to be proud of. Cuntlapper. Even in my longest and most intimate lesbian affair, my contented days with Pam, neither of us had ever spoken it aloud. It was just something we did; who needed words? Pam was my neighbor then, my neighbor and best friend, and we had a nice secret relationship until her husband got a big-money job offer and they left Garnock and moved to New York. I still heard from her once in a while, but we were just friends now, lovers no more, and the tone of our correspondence was above reproach. Except, of course, for that one letter when she mentioned a certain professional-type woman who would be passing through Garnock on the way to Chicago and might be persuaded to stop off for a few hours. In case I was interested in a short but guaranteed discreet rendezvous. In case I was interested, oh brother! Oh sister?

Anyway, to me Pam Kendall had always seemed a little prissy about dirty language, more so than myself certainly; no wonder I was surprised to hear it from her discreet professional-type New York acquaintance. Not shocked, though. Excited, in a way. I was in the midst of a rendezvous with a cuntlapper. About to have my cunt lapped. Again! But slower and better this time. By a very good cuntlapper who took pride in her work. Pride in her ability to lap a cunt. My cunt! Oh shit, I was hot already. . .

I got up and removed the bedspread, folding it nicely enough to meet the requirements of any neatness compulsion. Moving around created a problem, though, since I wasn't exactly in drip-dry condition crotchwise - with no towel in sight, worse luck. But a hasty rummage of my handbag unearthed some tissues, and disaster was averted as I mopped up the drainage and dropped the debris in the wastebasket. I rubbed an ocean of perfume into the critical area for good measure and did a nervous once-over of my hair and makeup, all pretty makeshift but hopefully sufficient to cover the situation. Then, lighting a cigarette, I lay back down on the bed and waited. In a state of suspense. My skin practically crawling with renewed desire. . .

2

From behind the bathroom door the noise of the shower remained an audible burden upon my patience, faint but unrelenting. I could almost see that great golden body scintillating under the spray, all burnished and bejeweled with the quicksilver and pearl arabesque of moisture. A nude goddess splashing about in a sunlit cascade. Or was I waxing a wee bit rhapsodic, perhaps?

Oh sure, I knew well my nude goddess was nothing of the sort. Just a naked whore scrubbing herself down in a motel bathroom shower. Only I didn't feel condescending anymore and couldn't think of her as a whore now, not without conscious effort. Let her be a sex-goddess then, somewhere between mythology and the movies - that ought to be whorish enough!

Hmm. Ingeborg Dietz, the honest sex-goddess? Not exactly a press agent's dream! It was her real name, too, unique even in that much, its usage alone, hardly the prevailing practice among ladies in her walk of life. Or many a safer and more sedentary walk of life either, for that matter. Even my own name was a shade less than genuine, something I hadn't thought about in ages. Close, certainly, just a shade of difference, but still not quite what I grew up with. . .

Nor did I have time to think about it now. The sunlit cascade had stopped cascading at last, and I struck what I hoped was a particularly seductive pose on the bed. The cigarette helped. Bad for the heart and lungs, but a fine prop for the shaky sophisticate - all that smoke spiralling upward so lazily, reminiscent of sinful assignations in sexy boudoirs. The bathroom door swung open and slaughtered it with an added air current, but I was no longer that interested by then, what with the atmosphere turning suddenly sexy with no help from me or my cigarette. Of course. Wouldn't a sex-goddess just naturally create her own atmosphere?

She stood in the doorway all clean and fresh and shiny, her superb breasts quivering ever so slightly as she leaned back inside to hang up the towel. Her skin was darker than I recalled, smooth and sun-bronzed, the color broken only by her round nipples and the triangle of hair. No white whatsoever, not even the usual narrow strips left by a bikini.

"Where did you get that terrific tan? Nudist camp?"

"No. Sunlamp, mostly." She ran her palms down in a sweeping self-caress. "Takes a lot of time, but it's worth it. Wouldn't you say so?"

"I've already said so. Terrific. And so are you - and I mean all of you." I raised my arms. "Come. . . "

"Still in a hurry, huh? Relax, relax."

"I'm relaxed. But are you just going to stand there? Come on. The customer is always right, remember?"

"Not this time. I know better, Jillian. It'll do you good to wait awhile. Still, if you insist. . . "

"No. Be my guest. I'm not insisting on anything. Frankly, I'm so darn glad to have you here ..." I reached for the pack of cigarettes and held it out toward her. "Want one?"

"Not at the moment, thanks. You go ahead, though, I'll just sit right here." She pulled the chair closer and parked herself on it, sprawling and yet quite graceful, always with an inherent touch of elegance. "Tell me something. How come you're not getting enough sex? This is a pretty fair-sized city; I should think you'd make out okay here. A beautiful girl like you. Beautiful blondes always do okay, why should you be an exception? You've got a good body, good enough to get whatever you want. I like your eyes too - gray, aren't they? Uh-huh. Gray. Sexy eyes. Yeah, you're a sexy kid, all right. So how come no sex?"

A hot chill rippled through me. From such a gorgeous creature, that was indeed a compliment. A whole string of compliments, and I wasn't sure how to reply to them. Was I supposed to answer in kind and say something nice to even things up? Gush a little, maybe? Luckily, I was still working on my cigarette, lighting a fresh filter-tip from the butt of the old one, and had time to digest the flattery without going off half-cocked. The clamor inside my skull subsided to a dull roar. All clear. It was simple, really, once I recognized my own lack of perception; this was a cool and confident woman of the world, not some insecure local belle whose ego needed bolstering. Protocol wasn't an issue here except in my own nervous mind. Only her question was important, nothing else, and I shrugged off the rest and addressed myself to that alone.

"Don't let this city fool you, Ingeborg, it's just an oversized small town. One industry - owned by one family - and just about everybody is beholden to it for their daily bread, if you know what I mean. Including my hard-working husband. So the danger of gossip is just too much, that's how come no sex. I can't afford to play around. Not unless it's something safe and sure."

"Hey now, aren't you exaggerating a little? It can't be all that bad. You and your friend Pam, well. . . "

"Hah! We were friends for a long time before that happened. Close neighbors, too, and both of us afraid to declare ourselves, afraid of a rejection and even more afraid of possible scandal. I'm not even sure how we did manage to get together, you know? Believe me, it's no exaggeration, especially for the wife of a rising young executive. That's why I drove this far out of Garnock to find us a place to stay today. Out of range of Emma's eagle eye."

"Emma?"

"Emma Glough; Maiden name Garnock. Social dictator of the town and most of the surrounding county. If an executive wife misses a menstrual period, Emma is the first to know. I mean that seriously, too, she's got a way of finding out. Rumor has it that she even knows who's flushing which toilet."

"Some rumor." Then, chuckling, "If I lived here, that wouldn't bother me. I'd go pee in the backyard. Fool her, huh?"

"Don't kid yourself, nobody fools Emma very long. You'd probably get a note - on embossed stationery, deckle edge, Garnock Mills' best - asking you to water the flowers in her garden, too."

We chatted like that, in a humorous vein mostly, and I felt pretty relaxed and began to accept Ingeborg as a friend rather than a sex-object. Although she was still a mighty sexy female sitting naked in that chair, those big breasts prominently on display with every change of position. Her knees were crossed, allowing only a fringe of darkish gold hair to peep through down there, but that long length of leg was adequate compensation, delectably alluring from this angle. Even the dangling foot had a certain shapely charm, her red-tipped toes smooth and sleek and remarkably free of blemishes. Still the same sex-goddess, regardless of all our nice friendly chitchat. And I finally had to bring up the subject of a possible second meeting, an impulsive but extremely pertinent query, almost intrusive in our flow of conversation.

"Ingeborg, will you be heading this way again after your Chicago deal? Unless you're planning to fly, of course."

"No flying for me, I'm just not happy off the ground. But if this is an invitation, hadn't you better wait and see if you really want me? Once might be enough for you. Hmph! I could name a couple of gals who would say once was too much. I've been known to be pretty goddam bitchy, I must admit."

"I'll risk it. Do come, won't you?"

"Ask me later. If you still care to. Right now we've both got something else on our minds, I'll bet. Yeah. Baby, you're beginning to sizzle. Me too, as a matter of fact. How about just inviting me to bed, huh?"

"You're invited. Or would you like a note on embossed - "

"Watch the cigarette, here I come!"

I scrambled to prepare for her. Just in time. Aware of my haste to ditch the butt and make room on the bed, she chuckled inside the juncture of our mouths. But the urgency was hers as much as mine now, and I liked that. She held back then, teasing, making only a tentative venture with the tip of her tongue, but my lips puckered to a tight circle around it and I just sucked all that softness right in. After that there was no more chuckling, no more teasing, no more feigned coyness, just a ruthless rape of my mouth that duplicated our first kiss in execution but went beyond it in scope and intensity. And despite my advance knowledge and preparation, I was electrified by the onslaught, paralyzed once again, shocked to a state of total submission as that great big thick tongue fucked me between the lips and stirred up a hornet's nest of excitement between my legs. Agony. Such delicious agony!

She took pity on me. Sensing it, no doubt - a sex-goddess with compassion, tempering her diabolical skill with a touch of sweet sympathy. Quite a touch, too. The rape-kiss never let up, but now a hand was gliding down over my belly deftly, about to soothe that excruciating sting down there. It reached me and I gasped around her tongue and into her mouth as my torso arched upward in a spasm of frantic anxiety, spurred by the increased torment of that hand, the cupped palm clutching the hairy mound of my flesh with alternate contractions and dilations that dissolved my insides in liquescent response. My need had achieved a new level, a new threshhold of pain - it was a need I hadn't even known existed.

Then, mercifully, her fingers dipped and penetrated, evoking a grateful shudder of rapture that verged upon delirium as my clitoris reacted to the scrape of a fingernail. I writhed and moaned and didn't realize that our kiss had ended until the sound of my own voice registered, choked but no longer muted. Her mouth was at my breasts now; I opened my eyes and looked down at her bright golden hair and then beyond it as the mirror on the closet door caught my attention with a flash of activity. The motion came from me, a jerking and twisting of my leg below the knee, and by tilting my head just a bit to one side I adjusted to the slant of the door enough to view the entire picture. Or most of it, anyway, a vivid reflection of the scene on the bed in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the drawn blinds.

Fascinating! Another source of pleasure, quite unexpected this time. Our bodies were exquisite together, soft feminine body upon soft feminine body, woman and woman, beauty and beauty, a thousand curves telling a single tale, the poetry of lesbian love. Something happened to me then, something even more unexpected: I accepted myself as my eyes saw me. A lesbian. Not just a housewife having a little innocent fun on the side. Not any more. And hadn't I always been like that? A lesbian who should never have married a man. Mrs. Cleve Rossiter, lesbian. Jillian Rossiter - nee Jill Hogarth - lesbian . . .

But I couldn't dwell on it now, of course. Such a revelation had to be mulled over at leisure. Better stick to the reality of the moment. And the reality of the image? Both real. Hard to know where to focus, though. I couldn't even see her lips kissing me. Ingeborg's lips, beautiful lesbian lips. But I could sure feel them, her teeth too, tender and fierce in turn, scourging me with a kind of subtle erotic violence. First one, then the other. My breasts. Nipples. Tits. My beautiful lesbian tits. Beautiful lesbian tits! No use focusing there, how about down below? Those fingers. The hand is quicker than the eye; now you see it, now you don't! Never mind. Nice pair of buttocks, all sunny gold in the glass, beautiful lesbian ass, so perfect; oh shit, between the heat in my lesbian cunt and the cool perfection of that lesbian ass, who could tell where to concentrate? Again, never mind! Just to be a lesbian and enjoy. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy the lovely lesbian enjoyment!

Only it was still pretty hard to get organized; all of a sudden there was another sensation to enjoy. One I was really ready for, though. Tongue in my cunt. Lesbian tongue, lesbian cunt, lesbian thrill of thrills - wasn't this what my body had been waiting for - and yet I sure wasn't ready for the way my foggy mind seemed to be responding. Then again, maybe the fog had lifted for the first time in my lesbian life, maybe I did know what it was all about, maybe I was awake now after years of sleep.

Okay, my sex-goddess was a whore, so what? Wasn't that all the more reason to suck her as she was sucking me? How else could I persuade her to stop off on the return trip? I had to treat her "sizzle" as she was treating mine; golden goddess or gold- greedy hooker, it didn't make any difference now, I wanted Ingeborg Dietz back for another fling.

She resisted my tug, a little puzzled apparently, but soon her body lost its tension and followed my urging. Until it got close enough and the scent struck my nostrils, the overwhelming smell of woman, overwhelming everything but my impetuous desire and desperation, and nothing could slow me down then. Besides, burying myself in her cunt solved the more immediate problem of my concentration. -No mirror could tear me away from this. . .

3

Late that night, long hours after Ingeborg had caught her bus to Chicago, I settled down to do some serious thinking. My husband was already fast asleep, bless his untroubled heart, and the silence of the house was conducive to meditation. A little introspective brain work seemed in order. I had to put the stunning revelation of this afternoon in its proper context, and that meant going back in time, back to the thing with my sister Stephanie. The thing I hadn't thought about in years.

Just like my name. I hadn't thought about that either, not until today - I had almost forgotten that it used to be Jill instead of Jillian. But that too dated way back, of course, back to the beginning, back almost before the first blush of childhood's end. Right back to "Princess Jillian." My little sister was the one who called me that. And it wasn't just some kind of put-on, oh no, the kid actually worshiped me.

As a matter of fact, it was Steffi's worshipful atti- tude that started the whole mess - although I had only myself to blame for letting it get out of hand. It couldn't have been the kid's fault. There were reasons why she felt like that toward me, reasons easy to understand. Big sister, little sister. High school belle, middle school nobody. Glamorous blonde, mousy brunette - glamorous in Steffi's eyes, at least, despite the exasperatingly slow development of my too-slim figure. Nor was the kid herself quite that mousy at the time and there were already some luscious curves shaping up under her layer of clinging baby-fat; for a while there I even figured she might win the family tit-race. Still there was a big difference between us, a difference in age, a difference in looks, a difference in temperament - all in all, a difference that somehow became far more important than it should have. Terribly important. And terribly foolish, too. Because it was a difference that we exploited in our secret games by pretending we weren't even sisters!

Those weird games. . .

Well, maybe it wasn't so weird, maybe there were sisters playing the same secret games all over the world. Ours was Steffi's idea mostly, accompanied by much hilarious giggling, and it all seemed refreshingly natural at first. Just good clean fun. Then too, the strange relationship inside the game had no bearing on reality, not on the two basic realities of our lives, the reality of the dead parents we couldn't remember and the foster parents we had known and loved almost from infancy. Steffi's vivid imagination was of the magic carpet variety, turning the world into a wonderland with just a snap of her fingers, practically - a wonderland with no room for such pragmatic nonsense as dubious birth certificates or mixed-up orphanage records. She needed no phony excuses to dissolve our blood ties and zoom off into some flight of fancy that featured us as a storm-tossed twosome brought together by chance rather than consanguinity.

Outside the fantasy, naturally, such a thing never even entered our minds. Quite the contrary. On those rare occasions when the subject of our adoption did come up, we talked only of how lucky we were that Dad and Mumsie Hogarth and the County Orphanage people had all agreed that sisters shouldn't be separated. What if we had gone to different families! The thought was just too gruesome. We were truly kin and glad of it - except for those exotic moments when little Steffi's imagination took over and changed her from Jill Hogarth's sister into Princess Jillian's slave. . .

Ah yes, that was the trend of the games, an outlet for the kid's worshipful attitude, and it began without any definite form but eventually evolved into the relationship between "royal princess" and "humble slave." Steffi could turn herself on at will - it was almost second nature with her - and then, giggles and all, her gift for improvisation had sufficient verve to make me a believer instead of just a player. Damn near, anyway. And even more so after the rather broad range of casting finally narrowed down to those two enduring roles.

In the earlier versions of the game, the trend had always been evident but not quite so radical in its departure from real life. Radical enough, though! Once when I was primping to go to a dance, for instant, in came Steffi to wait on me hand and foot, the devoted personal servant of a rich young society debutante. Service with a smile, too, running a hot bubbly tub and laying out my clothes and tittering about how nice it was to work for such a beautiful mistress. (We shared a big bedroom with an adjoining bath, so the actual mechanics were never a problem.) Another time - right out of the blue! - she announced herself as a special hired maid sent over by the studio to help me get ready for the Academy Award presentations. So I was a movie star that night, a shining Hollywood star - until the horn of my date's jalopy broke the spell and honked me back to Northvale again. But that didn't bother Steffi much. As it turned out, my date was dishwater dull and I came home tired and glum, only to find the little "studio maid" still awake and anxious to serve me. And so sympathetic! Not about my crummy date though, oh shit no, wasn't it an absolute crime that I hadn't won an Oscar? No wonder I felt so awful, the whole deal must have been rigged. But just wait till next year! I'd show 'em. Because I was the most beautiful and glamorous star on any stage or screen, a real gorgeous glamor:queen - the new America's Sweetheart - oh shit yes, and I was, too, right then and there with that remarkably clever and capable little maid kneeling at my feet and peeling off my nylons and telling me she had never seen such beautiful legs. Most photogenic limbs in Hollywood! They deserved an Oscar all by themselves - two Oscars, one for each gorgeous gam. . .

Which gave rise to sudden hilarity; yet the fading illusion lingered awhile and it still wasn't just my giggly kid sister down there on her knees saying those nice things about me, oh no, at that point wouldn't any good-natured young maidservant have done some giggling? For that matter, even a lowly slave girl might giggle and not seem disrespectful, not as long as she groveled a little afterward and gazed up soulfully to beg indulgence of her noble mistress. And whether slave or servant, Steffi could sure look up with a soulful gaze. Always up - and not just because I happened to be the taller. She loved going down on her knees to me, eager to grovel at the slightest provocation. Or the flimsiest excuse, more often - like the time she knelt to brush a speck of dust from my shoe, an alert little secretary to a youthful lady executive, not very farfetched, really - until the secretary went into a low nosedive for close-range scrutiny and then stayed down there buffing the spot to a gloss with her fingertips; an inch lower and it would have been the tip of her nose, groveling again, secretarial groveling, what humility! But that was Steffi's way, of course, and it must have been this overwhelming need for self-abasement that ultimately narrowed the choice of roles. Modern-day scenes simply didn't allow for the medieval degree of worship she craved to offer, and her magic-carpet mind at last created its own unique pattern out of a jumble of myths and fables and fairy tales and little-girl dreams. A pattern that added strange new dimensions to our secret fun.

Some pattern! The new game was all-inclusive and covered our past games too, a sensible and surprisingly slick concept for a kid just groping in the dark. Ingenious, almost. Only she sure picked an unseemly moment to spring it on me, unseemly and certainly unexpected; the recent death in the family pretty much precluded that sort of skylarking, I figured. True, the prolonged illness had more than prepared us for Mumsie's inevitable passing, but there were copious tears shed just the same and we both still felt some strain so soon after the funeral and the sad duties involved with flowers and sympathy cards. In his own quiet manner, Dad had taken it hardest of all - I knew his dear old heart was breaking - but he faced life with calm dignity and pressured us into doing likewise. That was my junior year at Northvale High, and with crucial midterm exams coming up Dad decreed only the briefest of mourning periods and an immediate adjustment to the daily grind. He even suggested that I start going out socially again, anything to keep from just hanging around and brooding. So I did have a flick date that night, my first one, but it still wasn't very good timing on Steffi's part - the house seemed empty and bleak without Mumsie's cheerful presence, and I couldn't have cared less about sitting through a third-rate picture at the Jewel - anyway, it came as a distinct shock to step out of the shower and run smack into a fluffy towel and a flustered but resolute little maid. Nothing was farther from my mind than those wild and woolly games of hers!

She looked like a scared rabbit, though, and I held off on the criticism - a cute little bunny rabbit in baby-doll pajamas, nervous and fidgety and pinkcheeked with awe. Besides, what could I have said? By tacit agreement none of us even mentioned Mumsie anymore, so there was no legitimate reason for me to refuse the kid's help. This was her adjustment to the daily grind; could I turn my back on the little sister who needed her big sister so much?

I just stood there. Steffi began rubbing and patting my wet body dry and it was pretty embarrassing without the giggles. No noise at all, except for the whisper of the towel and the faint sigh of breath. It upset me. She hadn't spoken a word yet, no sign, no hint of what we were playing - nothing but a busy maid and an uneasy mistress, that was the extent of the game so far. When she knelt to do my legs I glanced down to probe for some clue in her usual soulful gaze, but that just made everything more difficult. Only her face was turned up, not her eyes, and I became self-conscious all of a sudden, conscious of my naked body, conscious of the pale blue eyes that weren't meeting mine, conscious of the irritation of every intimate towel-touch on my bare skin. Conscious ... oh shit, conscious of my cunt ?

"That'll do, Steffi. I'll finish in here myself."

Ordinarily the kid might have uttered a little giggling protest at such an abrupt dismissal. But this wasn't the night for giggles and my tone of voice sent her scampering. I fussed with the towel awhile and then decided that my outburst had been ill-conceived if not downright ridiculous. Conscious of my cunt, imagine! I'd be conscious of it later tonight if Tommy Nickerson tried to cop a feel at the flicks; now there was a reason to be self-cunt-conscious. But my own sweet little sister? Ridiculous! I strode out of the bathroom in disgust. Just disgust, nothing else, why even bother to put on a robe?

Another shock awaited me. A minor one this time, but now my impulsive nudity complicated the issue. Steffi had dragged the big leather hassock in from the living room; it was set in front of our one soft chair and her fluttery little hands were laying out my nail-polishing equipment. A new wrinkle, cer- tainly, since she had never attempted to do my nails before, not even fingernails, and the hassock setup could only have signified a toenail job. Fine. A free pedicure? Fine and dandy. Except that my bare-naked cunt would be staring her right in the face; oh shit, I regretted leaving that robe hanging on the bathroom door now. But fetching it would have been a cowardly cop-out, so I just went ahead and nestled my bare-naked bottom into the chair and tossed my feet onto the hassock. Also bare-naked. Only I wasn't foot-conscious, just cunt-conscious - a little bit, anyway, even though it was still pretty silly.

"Well now ..." I smiled down and was glad to see the blue eyes meet mine. "You're very quiet tonight, little maid."

"Oh. I - I'm not a maid."

"Hmm. Is that so?"

"I am Princess Jillian's slave."

"Princess who?"

That was it: exit Jill Hogarth, enter Princess Jil-lian. For a few talkative minutes Steffi became my kid sister again and blurted out this idea of hers, all about how I had always been Princess Jillian and she had always been my slave - right from the very beginning! - because Princess Jillian had magic powers and could transform herself into a film star or a society debutante or a businesswoman or anything else, but she was still Princess Jillian, always, no matter what, and her maid or secretary or whatever was still Princess Jillian's slave. . .

Something like that, anyhow. I lost track and got restless and wriggled my toes impatiently, less conscious of my nakedness now; after all, why should I be - in front of a mere slave? Steffi saw the motion and her voice trailed off. Sitting back on her haunches, she hesitated for a long moment and then her head went into a little downward bobbing arc. Once. Twice. After that she began her work, only I hardly noticed it with those two moist lip-prints dominating all my senses; the darnn fool kid had actually kissed my feet! No more than a peck, one quick kiss on each, but the weird tingly thrill hadn't faded yet and I found myself, making the delightful discovery that I was foot-conscious.

Well, not exactly, at least not the way I might have been conscious of my tits or my ass or my cunt. It just wasn't the same thing. I felt stimulated but couldn't attach any sexual significance to the sensation. No, it was more of a feeling of power - that was it, power and possession. Ownership. That little creature down there belonged to me. We were no longer playing a game; I really did have a slave girl!

A pretty useful one, too, as it turned out. The job on my toenails was somewhat less than perfect, but damned good for a first attempt. Good enough to make me want my fingernails done also, only I glanced at the clock and realized there just wasn't time. Even now I'd have to hurry; the feature at the Jewel was due to come on in less than half an hour. Which meant that my date would be picking me up in about fifteen minutes.

Worse yet, the polish on my toes was still damp and tacky, another complication - until I decided that "Princess Jillian" just wasn't in any mood for either the Jewel flick or Tommy Nickerson. Not tonight. My own kid sister was more fun. My own sweet little slave girl. Princess Jillian's slave! Why go out for entertainment when I already had it right here crouching at my feet?

"Steffi, listen. . . "

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

The title took me by surprise, but her use of it reinforced my decision. "I'm staying home tonight. Go phone Tommy and tell him not to come by for me, will you? Just say that, no more. You won't have to make any excuses. He'll understand."

"Oh yes, Your Majesty. Right away."

As she scrambled up off her knees, I extended my arm in a regal gesture. "That'll give you a chance to do my fingernails too. Looks like they need work. How about it?"

I shouldn't have turned the command into a question. There was no need to. Steffi performed a cute little curtsy and pressed her lips to the back of my outstretched hand. A real kiss this time, not just a peck. But not a sexy kiss or anything like that, just the grateful kiss of a grateful slave girl.

Still bent over, she giggled shyly. "I'll be glad to, Your Majesty. Thank you very much." And with another giggle, less shy now, she scurried out to the phone in the front hall.

The sound of those giggles eased whatever guilt I may have felt about standing up Tommy Nickerson. Just hearing the kid made me feel good all over. Mumsie was really dead and buried now and our house would soon be cheerful again.

I leafed through a schoolbook to pass the time until Steffi returned, but this new game idea occupied my thoughts. The name, for instance - Jillian - I sure loved that. I wondered where she had dug it up. But 1 wasn't curious enough to spoil the mood by quizzing her about it. Nor was I in any hurry to cor- rect the form of address she had used. It should have been "Your Highness," of course, but I rather liked her version even though it was more suitable for a queen than a princess. "Your Majesty" had such a nice majestic ring!

On the way back from the telephone, she got stopped by Dad in the living room and I heard him asking about the hassock. This was his TV hour and he always watched with his feet propped up and a glass of beer at his elbow, often falling asleep in the middle of the program. Anyway, when the kid came in I just raised my legs and motioned for her to take the thing, avoiding any discussion that might have affected the spirit of our game. I didn't even mention the phone call again, aware that she would have told me herself if anything had gone wrong.

Steffi hauled the hassock out. I pulled my legs up a little to get more comfortable, careful not to smear the freshly painted toenails. They might have been dry by then, but I figured that wasn't any concern of mine, not as long as my efficient slave girl seemed so anxious to be of service. And for the next few minutes I actually concentrated on the page of French idioms and didn't even move my head when she entered our room again and closed the door behind her.

As she sank to her knees, though, I shifted my attention from the book, still motionless but now peering outward through the lashes of my lowered eyelids. Steffi touched one toenail, testing. It hadn't dried yet, I could tell by the slight frown on her face. Then the frown vanished and she uttered another little giggle, turning sideways and going into a deep ball-like crouch with her head low and her legs tucked under her bent body. The arm nearest me reached out and kind of scooped up my feet, lifting them at the ankles and setting the heels down to rest upon the arc of her back. Until at last my limbs were as relaxed and comfortable as they had been upon the hassock just a few moments ago. Only the hassock was alive. . .

That weird thrill shot through me again, a thrill of power, of possession, a feeling I couldn't analyze but didn't really care to. My most urgent thought was to show approval in some manner, and after a while I slid one leg over a bit and stroked her hair with the sole of my foot. She made a tiny noise in her throat that began like another giggle but subsided to a purr, a soft sound of contentment. So I had a contented kitty now, not a timid bunny rabbit. Only she was neither, of course, and yet I didn't think of her as my sister either at that delicious moment, oh no, my living footrest was Princess Jillian's slave!

4

And that was how it went, this things of ours, this strange relationship between sisters. The fantasy game grew more and more important, always hidden from the rest of the world even though neither of us had ever mentioned any need for secrecy. We must have known it was naughty, somehow, or at least something that other people just wouldn't understand. Outside our own room Steffi called me Jill, not Jillian, and except for a worshipful "kid sister" glance now and then - quite natural, really - she never showed her true feelings in public. Only behind closed doors did we loosen up and give way to impulse.

I soon became accustomed to parading around naked in front of my slave. Just good clean fun, still. Other than her kisses on my hands and feet, there was no body contact between us. But those ritual kisses were pretty exciting, I had to admit, especially when she let her soft lips linger, nibbling my fingertips moistly, for instance, instead of planting the usual quick smack that signified devotion. One time she started to nibble my toes like that, but I pulled away hastily and ended the game with some excuse about having homework to do. Not because I thought it was wrong, oh shit no, not wrong, just embarrassing - I had been walking around barefoot and didn't want the kid kissing my dirty feet.

That led to a new development, in a roundabout way. I was invited to a masquerade party that specified "homemade" costumes only, and Steffi helped me work on mine. It was a harem outfit, very sexy, with big voluminous trousers that were sheer enough to show my panties underneath. Finding the right shoes was a problem, though, and I finally wound up buying a new pair. Thong sandals with mid-high heels, thongs between the toes - and the kid polished my nails to a hot glow on the night of the party.

Made-up and ready, I checked myself in the mirror,a beautiful although slightly undernourished harem houri. Or a harem princess, maybe, depending on one's viewpoint. The business of dressing had been too hectic for any fantasy games, but now, suddenly, the mood came upon us. Or upon Steffi, rather - as usual! - always the eager originator in these secret adventures of ours. Right there in front of the mirror, she crouched low and licked my feet. All over. Touching her tongue to every inch of skin unprotected by leather. Toenails too, of course - just to make sure that no stray speck of dust would mar the perfection of her mistress - "Jillian, Royal Princess of the Harem" - that was how she worded it. Oh shit, I looked at our crazy reflection in the glass and felt absolutely grand! Even if I never got to the party at all, my costume was a howling success.

I was almost tempted to skip it, too. But I couldn't, really, not after so much fuss and preparation - to say nothing of my solemn promise to the hostess, a good friend and classmate. Nor was there even time to relax and luxuriate in the awe and admiration of my little slave a minute or two longer, worse luck. No time whatsoever now. And yet it seemed only fair that I should allow my humble little helper to enjoy her handiwork; she had labored long and hard to put me together and certainly deserved more than just a quick lick of my feet. Even a princess couldn't be that selfish. Noblesse oblige!

The situation called for a compromise, then. Why not leave the party early? Better yet, why not have Steffi meet me there - around midnight, say - and we would walk home together; that way I could avoid the boys and their "late date" offers more easily. And since the party was right close by in the neighborhood. . .

I broached my idea to the kid and was met with immediate and near-ecstatic acceptance. Still kneeling, she lifted her face and rolled her eyes upward in a warmly liquid gaze that literally overflowed with gratitude. Just seeing her like that made everything worthwhile for me, ample payment for my sacrifice. Then, swiftly, she bowed her head and resumed her footbath tongue-kisses with renewed fervor, displaying her gratitude in a more tangible manner. I had to step back and break it up almost brusquely to stop her and get going to the party.

All well and good. Except that it happened again, only in less fortunate circumstances this time. It was at the party, right after she came by for me. I met her on the front porch of the house and that was where it happened; she curtsied and then just sank down and kissed my feet. Luckily, nobody was there to spot us like that, but anyone glancing out a window would have seen the strange action for sure. Or what if someone had come out the door?

On the way home I scolded her pretty thoroughly - one sister to another - but soon recognized the futility of such an approach. Her respect for me hadn't diminished, but she was still a bubbly and irrepressible youngster who might forget herself and do something embarrassing again. The fantasy had gone beyond the confines of our bedroom, apparently; who could tell when and where it might crop up now? Even calling the game off would be rash - if not impossible! - a deterrent that might easily backlash and drive the poor kid toward greater excesses. No, my power over her lay inside the game itself and I didn't dare throw it away. Nor did I dare settle for just a scolding, either, and that was how this new but obviously necessary development came about. The minute we got home.

Punishment. . .

What else could I have done? Not even .the threat of a spanking made much impression. She listened to me with more emotion than understanding, the expression on her face half-penitent and half-sulky, a childish figure in her fragile blouse and short skirt. Childishly stubborn too, it appeared. After a moment she simply stripped her panties off and laid herself over my lap, giggling now, challenging me to carry out my threat.

In an abrupt flare of anger, I rucked up the skirt and raised my arm to let her have it good and hard. But the sight of her denuded plump little bottom hit me with a different kind of jolt, something with a slew of sexual overtones. I was afraid to touch it! That bare ass. If anything, my desire was to kiss it instead, a thought too monstrous to believe. My own sister! Could I bring my hand down upon that coquettishly postured flesh?

No. Never. Never in a million years. And yet I couldn't back out either, not without losing face and practically giving up my rank in the household. My rank in the fantasy too, for that matter, since I was still in costume, still as much "princess" as older sister. A princess with a defiant slave . . .

Hmm. Shouldn't such a slave get whipped rather than spanked? Of course! And I wouldn't have to touch her with my hand that way, an ideal solution to my predicament. Provided I could find a suitable weapon. A belt, maybe. Not a hairbrush or anything like that, oh no, this little slave had a whipping coming to her!

I rose, dumping her from my lap. "Get undressed."

"Huh?"

"Get undressed and wait for me."

That was all I told her. Then, whirling, I strode away and went off on a search. It didn't take long. Nor did I have to accept any halfway measure in my choice of weapons, either. It wasn't a whip, exactly, but I sure wound up with the next best thing. A fistful of rawhide. Just right! Leather laces that Dad had bought for his old hunting boots and then never used when we gave him new boots for Christmas. I found them on a shelf in the hall closet, neat and clean and all but begging for a chance to become part of the world again. Doubled up in my hand, they made a lovely little whip, just perfect for that lovely little bare ass.

Steffi was naked when I returned, naked and lying on the bed expectantly, as though she had known I wouldn't quit. I let her have it then, wasting no more time on lectures and such. She didn't scream out, but there was none of that impudent giggling either, no further sign of disrespect. Her skin twitched and quivered a lot and after a while she began to whimper. Pretty soon the sound became almost a groan, and yet she made no attempt to roll away from the cut of the leather lash, just lying there and taking whatever I dished out to her. A sweet sensation for me; if ever the kid was in my power, this was it!

Then - even sweeter - the instant it was over, she dropped off the bed and wrapped her slim arms around my legs, truly penitent now as her slavish kisses covered my feet. . .
Again we had peace and harmony and fantasy fun-games, a nice long stretch of pleasure for both of us. Too much pleasure, perhaps, and it blinded me to what certainly must have been the gradual growth of an unhealthy relationship. Although I did strive not to let it go too far, often hurting the kid's feelings with the denial of some intimate privilege or other, something too close to the taboo line of incestuous lesbian sex. Only it became increasingly difficult to deny someone I loved so much. Especially when her own attitude seemed so pure and innocent, still just a little girl basking in the glow of her beau- tiful big sister. Beautiful on the outside maybe, but I was glad no one could pry into my soul and see the ravages of my lecherous lust. Unindulged lust, true, but no less appalling because of that. Oh, the dark dreams that plagued me! And the darker dreams to come, too, the shadows on the verge of taking shape; was it any wonder that my nerves got taut and twangy?

Steffi's birthday finally gave those nerves of mine their worst workout, the last straw, a workout to end all workouts. After receiving and opening her gifts with all the hoopla usually associated with birthdays, she requested another one later that night. A special present from Princess Jillian, no wrappings or ribbons needed; what more could a loving slave ask for than to attend the royal mistress in her bath? She spoke her piece in the midst of a smiling curtsy, her eyes bold, pretty confident of my answer even though it meant something new between us.

I shocked her, though. "No, dear. I'll bathe myself. After you run the tub for me, naturally." I patted her cheek in a friendly but firm gesture. "And do stop your pouting, please. This isn't the end of the world." Then, softening a bit, I tilted her sad face up and pressed my lips to her forehead sympathetically.

The dam broke. With a loud wail, she buried her head in my lap as I gravitated to the edge of the bed. She clutched my legs and cried, her small shoulders shaking in emotion. The hysterical outburst scared me a little, but I could only grimace as her tears trickled down my thighs to turn me physically as well as mentally uncomfortable. I stroked her hair once, hopefully, but the touch of my fingers only made her cry all the harder. Until my nerves snapped and sent my voice to a wrathful pitch.

"That will do, Steffi. Stop it!"

"Y-yes . . . I - I'm sorry. . . "

"There, that's better. Now go run the tub."

Still tear-drippy, she rushed to obey. I sank back upon the bed and felt pretty awful about leaving her like that. And on her birthday, too; wasn't I acting kind of self-righteous? By the time she returned, my mind had lost some degree of resolution. That mournful expression would probably haunt me for the rest of my life. Couldn't I end the cruelty with a little compassion?

I moved one leg sideways and prodded her with my toes. "Still want to help me with my bath, darling?"

"Oh! Your Majesty . . . yes ..." Her hand gripped my foot tightly, almost crushing it in her eagerness. "Let me attend you. Let me do everything for you. Let me - "

"Easy there! You'll break it."

She loosened her grasp. "Oh, I'm so dumb. Did I hurt you? I'll kiss your pretty feet and make it all better."

"Never mind. You've got a job to do. Let's go."

It was the most luxurious bath I had ever known. Steffi's finger work was swift and sure and businesslike, despite the sexy implications of such intimacy. Soft fingers, too, backing up the washcloth at first but then doing without it after a while. All for the sake of efficiency, though, and I just let her go ahead and bathe me. Until it was too late. Or was it? Lolling languidly, I had lapsed into a state of dreamy lassitude, only vaguely aware that my slave girl was twisting and stooping low in order to perform her task with both arms. I was delicately overwhelmed with a sense of beatitude. Which turned to something far less beatific shortly, but we had already gone too far. Did the kid know? I couldn't tell. I had no idea if those busy fingers were washing my cunt or just soaping me to a nice warm slippery climax. Nor would I be able to worry about it until later. . . .

5

Regardless of the strange circumstances, it was a most gratifying orgasm - with no sign of acknowledgment from either of us! - and afterward I was exhausted, too sleepy to do much worrying one way or the other. I probably should have, though. Because that nice warm slippery climax turned out to be a climax of a different' character, the climax of our crazy game. Unwittingly, we had ridden the crest of our fantasy-wave.

I awoke the same night, slowly, languorously, my tired mind lingering in a dream while my body sensed reality. It took awhile to get myself oriented, long enough to soften the shock when realization finally struck. The kid was kissing my feet! Licking the soles and sucking the toes and having herself a ball, evidently. I lay still and let her do it, a bit queasy but too curious to call an immediate halt; just what the hell was going on down there? More than I could figure out at this point. There were fingers creeping up my legs now, weightless fingers that moved step by step, almost methodically somehow, like a tiny inch worm taking measurements. Only they weren't measuring, of course - and yet it didn't feel like a caress either, exactly, nothing quite that obvious. . .

What, then?

Oh. Uh-huh. Very sneaky. Those furtive fingers were merely testing, that was it, testing the apparent soundness of my sleep. With a view toward future possibilities, no doubt, an exciting if somewhat ominous notion! Ominous indeed, oh shit, now the moist lips were straying, too, leaving my feet to glide upward and skim over my ankles. I almost wished my mind could have clouded again, slipping back into that peaceful dream, perhaps. With the soft veil of darkness to blur all this sharp-edged clarity. I wanted comfort once more, the comfort of just feeling good without having to fret about causes and consequences.

Only I couldn't go back. Reality was here and I had to accept it. Reality in the form of my guileful little slave girl. I wondered just how far she would extend her worship. Or should I put a stop to it right then and there? Decisions, decisions. My body seemed light and buoyant, about to shoot sky-high and drift among hitherto undiscovered delights, but the burden of my unresolved mind kept holding it down. Decisions, decisions. Sharp-toothed gears meshing inside my skull. All around me, wheels within wheels. Oh, if only I could hide behind my sealed eyelids and return to that enchanted rose-garden of sleep! The land of laissez faire, a paradise for someone in my predicament, all rights and no responsibilities . . .

But those fingers had something to say on the subject. Even in the thick black silence, their message was coming through loud and clear. Lips, too, just as quiet but no less eloquent, spreading a wet film of slavish suck-kisses above my knees now. It was her hands that finally ended the suspense, though, anxious hands that reached too far and too fast, forcing my legs apart all of a sudden, prodding the vulnerable flesh wide to open me up. She must have known I was awake, but it didn't seem to matter. Once there, her fingertips were quick to take advantage, scooting up the sensitive inner swell of my thighs as if they had just been given the key to the city. I could almost feel myself being split and entered and practically invaded. Was it really happening? This thing, this unspeakable thing, with her mouth, too?

Panic told me it had already gone beyond my power. I couldn't stop it now. I just couldn't! I couldn't stop it any more than I could stop the great spasmodic shudders that were wracking my body and choking every shriek of protest to an unintelligible groan in my throat. No movement was all my own doing, not even the lurching effort to dislodge and shut out the invader. A futile struggle anyway, tying myself into knots only to find that hard little head crushed between my thighs. And even with my legs wrapped around her, all tensed up and tight, she just kept right on digging away at me with that busy little tongue of hers. Until I was ready to surrender and let my body go buoyant again. Ready to blast off and drift. Anytime. Anywhere. Anywhere but here. . .

But no, something was still holding me down. Not a decision this time, there wasn't that much left to decide. So why the foolish delay? Why shouldn't Princess Jillian try a flight of fancy and use her sexy little slave while the using was good?

I didn't have to puzzle over an answer to that one. It was right here anchoring me to the polluted earth. Conscience, no less! The anchor of my conscience. Could I turn my darling little baby sister into a pervert?

That cooled me. Chilled me. Froze me. Enough to go one-hundred percent moral at the most immoral moment in my life! I lunged for the bedside lamp and clicked it on bright, the reading bulb, a glare to devastate any mood inspired by darkness. The kid shook off her daze after a while and then we locked horns in battle. She never had a chance, though, not when I could offset her every pro with the same unbeatable con: ''But you're my sister!" Or some version thereof: "Steffi, we're blood kin!" Stressing the fire and damnation of incest, naturally, while skirting the lesbian angle warily and with a certain cunning. And that did it, the ancient and sacrosanct incest taboo - banishment and exile for Princess Jillian and retinue; long live democracy and apple pie and those wholesome Hogarth sisters. . .

End of saga. Not with a bang but a whimper. Well, something like that. Not with a climax but a cliche?

Oh sure, the thing dragged on a few weeks before Steffi let it die completely. But I remained adamant - no more fantasies - and at last she gave up. Better yet, her adolescent body was maturing in a hurry at the time and she soon began showing an interest in boys. A normal healthy prognosis, I figured, and that judgment turned out to be quite accurate. The kid blossomed into a beauty and eventually married her high school boy friend, a good-looking youngster named Georgie Moore. They were living with Dad in the old Northvale house these days, a contented young couple, from what I gathered. So those childish games of ours had left no permanent scar on my little sister's psyche, a fact for which I was always grateful. No, the only holdover from that era was the Jillian name; I did hang on to that and started using it regularly after leaving town.

As for myself, well, things didn't work out too badly. I put in some time at college and then met Cleve. Cleve Rossiter, a very nice guy who fell in love with me. Maybe I fell in love with him, too, although I did have some doubts after we moved to Garnock and settled down in humdrum marital bliss. The same sort of doubts that plagued my exneighbor Pam Kendall, and we hit it off together before coming to the inevitable parting of the ways. So this afternoon's "revelation" in the motel mirror shouldn't have been so shocking after all, considering how far back I could trace its origins. It had just struck me pretty hard, that was all, and mainly because of the circumstances. I had never known a woman like Ingeborg and my lesbian self must have responded to her. Anyway, it was too soon to make any plans or predictions concerning the future. Or the far future, rather. Oh shit, I certainly had plans for next week! Ingeborg had definitely promised. . .

The time passed with maddening slowness. A week, a long and seemingly interminable week - and still no call from her. I jumped whenever the phone rang. And by the middle of the second week, I just about gave her up. What a calamity! I tried to adjust to it, of course, but didn't do very well. To make matters worse, my husband got an emergency business assignment that took him to the West Coast, a trip that would last at least a week. So I was alone in the house, alone and eager for some clandestine fun - and still there was no one to have it with. I cursed Ingeborg over and over again, visualizing her in all kinds of orgiastic situations, a naked whore surrounded by naked lesbian clients, all of them enjoying life, all of them living - while I simply withered and died.

Then, miraculously, I picked the phone up one afternoon and almost collapsed in sheer ecstasy. Just the sound of her voice turned me limp, her voice and what it signified - the possibility of being able to see her soon. After an eternity of waiting, that alone was enough to make me gasp for breath.

The party in Chicago had stretched beyond its original estimate and expectations, Ingeborg told me, and she had been asked to stay on for the duration. Right to the bitter end, naturally, but who could tell when that might come? Since it had evolved into a day-by-day proposition, she couldn't even call me and set a new date for our rendezvous. She had debated calling me anyway, just to ease my mind and say that I hadn't been stood up. That was last week, after the festivities refused to quit, but then the need for discretion - because of my husband - had made her think twice and limit herself to one phone call. This one, thank heaven. The party was on its last legs; did I still want her to stop off at Garnock? If not, well, she would understand. Just one of those things. No hard feelings. But if I could forgive her lateness and still wanted a little fun to- morrow. . .

At that point, I would have forgiven her anything. My only interest was to get the bus schedule straightened out between us so that I could pick her up. I must have sounded pretty anxious, too, since she dropped her apologetic attitude immediately. I even detected a chuckling note of amusement in her tone when we finally ended our conversation. Or was that just me, perhaps? The lilt of my own exhilarated heart?

6

Darkness was descending as I tooled the car out of the driveway and took a street toward the center of town. Toward the bus station! Our appointment was for the night instead of the afternoon this time, allowing Ingeborg a few extra hours to make a graceful exit from her fast-fading Chicago stint. Aside from the added wait, I didn't mind that at all, what with Cleve away and no one to account to. Nor did I have any qualms about finding a motel room, either, since there were always plenty of vacancies in those places along the many roads that branched off the turnpike. And although I couldn't complain about our previous meeting, a starry night was certainly more romantic than a sunny afternoon.

Other than an excusable touch of impatience, I felt pretty darn good. I looked good, too, with my face made up to perfection and my hair meticulously coiffured. One damn fine-looking blonde! Even if I had to say so myself. Or maybe somebody else would be saying it for me soon. One good blonde deserves another? Ha-ha. Oh hell, I could scarcely contain my exuberance, all afire with anticipation and acting like a schoolgirl in love. I should have been wearing an evening gown and a great big orchid corsage, perhaps, just right for the junior prom.

Actually, my garb was rather casual - deliberately so, in view of the circumstances - after all, I was merely driving downtown to pick up a friend at the bus station. A friend who would be rumpled from the long ride and somewhat the worse for wear herself. But I had chosen my casual best just the same, and underneath it my tingling body found certain solace in the luxury of my most delicate and expensive lingerie. Appropriate to the occasion, hopefully; our own private junior prom - or reasonable facsimile? - with the quaintly classic overtones of a stag smoker. No orchids, of course, just a girlish gambol among the daisies. . .

I got to the bus station a bit early and had to go around the block a couple of times, but at last she was there in front of the main entrance, a sight to soothe my jumpy nerves. She slid onto the seat and slammed the door swiftly and no one was the wiser. I gunned the motor and headed away from the business district, aiming for the less populated countryside before we could even say hello properly. Except for a murmur of greeting, Ingeborg remained quiet, her eyes shut, and I took the opportunity to sneak a sidelong peek at her every now and then. She seemed so big and strong, so solidly built - capable as a man and far more beautiful! - oh yes, I would definitely be getting my money's worth tonight.

Hmm. I hadn't thought of it that way before. My money's worth. And yet this big blond sexpot was a whore - no two ways about it - and that is what brought us together. Money. For services rendered. Well, why not? It didn't make any difference, not for this one joyous night, anyhow. As a matter of fact, it was rather convenient, such recognition of status, it kept everything simple. Lesbian or not, a woman couldn't fall in love with a whore.

Or could she?

But that didn't make much difference either, considering the brevity of the affair, and maybe falling in love for a few hours would add a certain enchantment to our night. A spark and sprinkle of non-commercial chemistry to bring out the latent flavor of our commercial embrace. Something to accent the tang! Accent. Like a dash of sodium glutamate on steak, exciting the taste buds to enhance the flavor. . .

Not that I needed my taste buds excited. Or any other part of me, for that matter, including all the better known erogenous zones and another half-dozen or so that must have been peculiar to my awakening lesbian nature. I felt hot all over. I had an urge to reach over and pat my companion. To stroke her thigh, perhaps. Or even to loop an arm around her shoulder and pull that big sexy body closer. Like high school kids going steady.

But we were mature women out for a fling, not high school kids on the way to the junior prom. Besides, I had to keep my mind on running the car. Both hands on the wheel was safer. And I could open up and get there all the sooner. Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. Or else risk a ticket for drunken driving - and cold sober, too!

It wasn't easy, though. Ingeborg was leaning back lazily, her hair tousled in the breeze from the partially rolled-down window, her eyelids still drooping. Her breathing was noticeable now, the great breasts rising proudly with every intake of air. Breasts designed for caresses. Big beautiful tits! And the long suntanned legs, yellow-gold in the light from the dashboard, the skirt rucked up well above mid-thigh to catch a bit of that breeze. As though she too had something hot up there, a hot cunt that needed cooling off. Unless the high hem was just a show for my benefit? Successful, if so - revealing enough bare flesh to keep my eyeballs clicking away from the windshield entirely too often. Those sleek-muscled limbs were pure poetry.

The urge to touch her struck again, irresistible now. Tentatively, almost fearfully, I let my hand fall on the gleaming surface of one thigh. The skin was soft under my fingertips, much too soft to be stretched so tautly over all that rippling power. A paradox of a woman, this whore of mine, a veritable tower of strength and yet in some ways even more feminine than myself. Sitting alongside her like this made me feel almost boyish. And boyishly aggressive too, with my hand inching upward unchallenged, kneading the softness that seemed to grow even softer up inside the skirt.

Then, on the crest of a sigh, "Oooh, honey! Jillian?"

"Oh. You're awake."

"Uh-huh. Creepy little fingers. . .

"Sorry about that. Overanxious, I guess." My hand returned to the steering wheel, fingertips itchy but no longer imprudent, just as boylike in their abashed retreat in the face of so much sophisticated female authority. My mouth was strangely dry, too, a sign of something I didn't care to investigate. At least not here in the car. "Okay, go back to sleep. I'll be good."

"Not on my account, baby."

"Huh?"

"Goodness is a drag. Just be your own sweet self. You want to cop a little feel of my cunt? Frig me, maybe? Don't be bashful, lover, I've been fingerfucked by one-armed drivers before. Just try not to crack us up though, huh? I can't stand the sight of blood, especially my own."

"Oh. . . "

"Hey, you're supposed to laugh."

"No doubt. Or grab for your cunt?" I had to giggle then, aware of how quickly she managed to put me at ease. "But I'm serious about your sleeping; why not take a nap? We've got miles to go yet and I know you must be tired."

"I'm tired, sure enough. Uh . . . we're going to a motel, right? Will I be able to stay and sleep there? Afterward, I mean. You know. Tomorrow morning. And maybe part of the afternoon, too. I don't have to make any bus schedule this time."

"I'll rent a cabin for tonight and all day tomorrow, that should do it. You can sleep to your heart's content."

"Jillian, you're a doll. And a very beautiful doll too; don't think I haven't noticed. I love your hair like that."

I glowed rapturously, knocked breathless by the impact of the unexpected compliment. Sure, the woman was a professional. Flattering the client was standard procedure, practically, but the pretty words were still nice to hear. And not so phony either, I had a hunch - more like a freely offered gift of glittering jewels! - oh no, the time spent on my hairdo and makeup definitely hadn't gone to waste this lovely night. I only hoped she would take notice of my hand-stitched lingerie, too, when the moment came. Unless I got impatient and started tearing my clothes off in a hurry again. Me and my impetuous personality. . .

Tonight wouldn't be like that, though. It couldn't. Not when a simple compliment brought a blush to my cheeks. Sex still had its importance, sure, but there was something more between us now. I could sense it. On my side, if not hers - but why quibble, why try to make mountains out of molehills? Wasn't this my night to fall in love? Temporarily, of course. With a sunrise deadline, just like Dracula flopping back into a lonely coffin at daybreak, hollow-eyed and gaunt and blissfully worn out from all that bloody nightlife! Well, no, not exactly - hardly a felicitous concept in the light of recent information: my beloved couldn't stand the sight of blood, remember?

I laughed aloud, letting my overstimulated imagination race away with me. My foot was already slacking off on the gas pedal. For this one glorious night of love, the idea of a chintzy motel cabin had suddenly lost its charm. One of those puny rooms for a woman of Ingeborg's mountainous proportions? It was like asking a Valkyrie to paddle a birch canoe. How could she properly display her prowess in a three-quarter size bed? Or her physical endowments either, a phenomenon of nature all by themselves.

Even my own comparative molehills would feel the pinch of such confinement tonight. And think of all the love inside me, the stored-up lesbian love that I planned to lavish upon my great big gorgeous whore-goddess during these next unprecedent and deliciously unpredictable hours. Hours until dawn. Precious hours!

"Hey, you're slowing down. We turning off already? Seems like it took a lot longer last time. I was just about to fall asleep again, too."

"Go ahead. Sleep. Unless you'd rather hear my news."

"News?"

"Hot off the press. Jillian loves Ingeborg. And they're going to spend the night together in a nice big bed in a nice big room in a nice big house. No shitty little motel cabin, you hear?"

"I hear, I hear. But is it safe? Kid, after what you told me about the gossip in this town. . . "

"It's dark enough to be safe now. I'll stick to the side streets on the way through town, too. And my garage driveway curves right around to the back of the house, so we'll just smuggle you in like a secret atomic weapon."

"Yeah? So how do we smuggle me out again?" 

"Don't worry, I'll think of something. Piece by piece, maybe. One tit at a time. Saving the cunt for last, naturally."

"Oh, naturally. Only I've got a fat ass that might give you some trouble. Too big and heavy to take out with the laundry. How you gonna handle that?"

"Easy. It's split down the middle, isn't it?"

"Beats me. I haven't checked lately. Tell you what, lover, maybe I'll let you nose around and find out tonight."

"Thanks a lot. You want me to bring a flashlight?"

Ingeborg slapped her bare thigh and burst into laughter. I giggled and slapped her thigh, too - gently though, more like a love pat. And then we both settled down quietly as I got off the highway and began threading homeward through a maze of dark streets, timing our progress so that the car wouldn't have to come to a complete standstill at any intersection. A masterful bit of driving. And for such a good cause!

7

My excitement was still mounting as I finally swung onto the gravel driveway. Once inside the house, though, I felt somewhat awkward about how to begin. It wasn't the same as in a rented motel room - the woman was now a guest in my home and we couldn't just run upstairs and jump into bed. I had become a hostess all of a sudden, and in a situation of my own making.

"Ingeborg, are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

She grinned. "Well, if that's a genuine offer. . . " 

"Hush! And stop looking so sexy. Or I'm liable to forget I even asked. Come on, we'll have a quick bite in the kitchen. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches and coffee, okay?"

"Fine with me. Want some help?"

"I'll manage. Just relax and consider yourself a guest."

"Thanks. But I'd better not get too relaxed. I might fall asleep right here." As I started my chore, she sat down at the breakfast table wearily. "That damned Chicago deal sure took a lot out of me." 

"Didn't you get some sleep on the bus?"

"Not much. It was pretty crowded. Daylight, too, so I just dozed a little. Oh well, maybe the coffee will fix me up. I only hope you won't be disappointed tonight."

"Poor darling. You sound so exhausted. But you can sleep all day tomorrow, won't that be nice?" 

"Heavenly. Jillian, the way I feel right now I could sleep for a week. At least. That party kept me so busy - "

"Hey, wait. Do you mean that?"

"Huh?"

"About sleeping for a week. Or resting, anyway. If you're serious, why not stay here? Unless you have to get right back to New York maybe."

"I - I'm in no hurry. How about your husband though?"

"That's no problem. He'll be away for a while. Besides, he calls me pretty regularly, so I always know when he's due home. No, the only problem would be the neighbors and such; you'd have to remain indoors all the time."

"Hmm. Interesting. Ideal for a rest."

"I wouldn't be able to pay you, of course. But if you'd like to stay and be my guest. . ."

"Money is the least of my worries at this point. The extra week in Chicago made me rich, practically. If I decide to accept your kind invitation, you won't even have to pay me for tonight - then I'd really be your guest, huh?"

"Oh, that wouldn't be fair, Ingeborg. You did stop here in Garnock just to see me, otherwise you might have taken a train or one of those big express buses. So I owe you for - "

"Forget it, lover, I don't want your money. No obligations either way, let's just be friends, shall we?"

"No obligations. Does that mean . . . uh. . . " 

"Silly girl. Don't get so upset, I'll take good care of that hot pussy of yours. That's what friends are for. We'll take care of each other, okay?"

"Okay. But I'm still going to pay you for tonight."

"Jillian, quit harping on it, will you? After those old bags at the party - two weeks of nothing but dried-up old dykes! - just seeing you is a pleasure. I'm a hooker, sure, but when it comes to kicks I like my cunt young and beautiful, same as anyone else. I can't even think of you as a client anymore, that's how I feel now. So don't spoil it by talking about money. I'm going to be just as stubborn as you are about that."

I was utterly dumbstruck. The inside of my head fizzed and swirled as if a champagne bottle had popped its cork and bubbled over somewhere between my ears. Pink champagne, no doubt, adding to the color in my cheeks; oh shit, I must have been blushing like a bashful virgin under the mistletoe. Or like a young and beautiful cunt? Imagine. If anyone had ever told me I'd get a thrill out of being called a cunt. . .

"Honey, how's that coffee doing?"

"Huh? Oh. Coffee ..." My pink trance faded. Enough to end my state of incoherence at least. "Coming right up, toasted sandwiches and hot coffee."

"Great. Pretty waitress, too. Is this the kind of service I'll be getting if I decide to stick around?"

"I - I thought you had already decided."

"Umm, well, I'm thinking about it. Don't rush me. Let's just play it by ear, huh? Maybe you'll change your mind by tomorrow."

"Eat. " I sat down alongside her. "Let me know if it's all right. Just don't judge my cooking by a sandwich, though. I'm a good cook, believe it or not. I'll feed you well."

"I believe it, I believe it. Mmm, delicious. A hell of a lot better than those bus-stop restaurants - although that's not saying much, I guess. I'm so glad to be off that lousy bus. . . "

"It's all my fault, too. I'm sorry. You were only riding it because of me."

"Hey, you got a guilt complex or something? It wasn't that bad, just dull mostly. Not nearly as exciting as last time. Maybe I was expecting too much, you know?"

"Last time? I don't understand."

"From here to Chicago. At night. After I left you."

"Oh. What happened?"

"I just had a little fun on the bus; that was all. With a young kid. Not such a big thing, really, but it did make the ride seem lots shorter."

"So tell me about it. A young kid? Sounds pretty wicked. How young? Unless you'd rather not say, of course."

"Okay, okay. You want the whole story? Yeah. I guess you do. It's kind of cute, anyway. Worth telling ..." She fell silent and chewed her sandwich slowly, absorbed in her own thoughts for the moment, apparently recollecting the incident in detail. And for that same moment, grudgingly, I almost resented her mind drifting so far away from me. I wanted to possess her, all of her, not just some doled out portion. Jealousy, imagine, and wasn't I lucky to have even this much? Her body was right here at my table, the womanly body I had dreamed of these past weeks - right here in the flesh! - what more could a poor sex-starved suburban housewife wish for?

"Hmm. You know something, Jillian? I didn't mention a word of this in Chicago. And those old biddies at the party would have licked their lips over it, too. Funny. . . "

She was mine, all mine now, her mind as well as her body. As much of her as I could ever hope to possess. Here. Filling my kitchen with that special magic of hers, a pervasive aura of sensuality, so earthy, so openly erotic in spirit, and yet somehow dark and mysterious. I had to touch her. She had conferred the role of confidante upon me - no small honor! - and now I had to make contact with her body as well as her mind. Both were important, surely, why not combine them? An endearment then, a fond caress, palpable evidence of my gratitude. And at the same time seeking something beyond, a transcendence of sorts, the kind of rapport between women that only lesbians might achieve. Mental and physical. Friendliest of lovers, loveliest of friends - a romantic platitude perhaps, but what could be more perfect? So let me accept my role and play it to the hilt, her confidante in other matters also, those unspoken confidences of the flesh; oh shit, let me wallow in lesbian lust and be Ingeborg's cun£-confidante!

No sooner said than done. Or begun, at any rate, and somewhat auspiciously too. I was no longer hesitant about our guest-and-hostess relationship, no longer too shy to put forth that all-imperative first feeler. My hand found her knee under the table. It drew only a single spontaneous reaction - her eyelids flickering in surprise. Then she smirked and uncrossed her limbs lazily, a calm but certainly accommodating gesture - while that one surprised flicker was immediately covered up and camouflaged by a prolonged flutter of eyelashes. Almost coy, in a way, hardly in keeping with her air of sophistication. But fine for me, though, and I was glad now we had settled for sandwiches instead of something more elegant. All that maneuvering of legs and eyes was like an invitation, practically, and I could take advantage of it and still manage my sandwich without embarrassment. Talk about one-armed drivers. . .

Ingeborg smacked her lips sensuously. "Mighty good, honey. Let's see now, where the hell did that damned kid get on? Must have been two or three stops out of Garnock; it was real dark by then, I remember. Ah well, it doesn't matter. Anyway, this kid got on and - "

"Hey, just to keep me straight, what kind of kid? Boy or girl? Or doesn't that matter either?"

"Oh. Girl, of course. And it matters plenty. Wouldn't be any story to tell, otherwise. Boys don't mean a thing to me, the little bastards just grow up and become men. And I swore off those big bastards years ago - one marriage, one divorce, that's all it took to convince me. I'm no switch hitter. Shit! I even got my maiden name back, my own identity, the one and only Ingeborg Dietz. Whether it's for business or pleasure, I'm strictly lez, no fooling around on the other side of the street. I thought you knew that."

"I do now." Beneath the table my fingers became aware, too, tingling anew to the touch of smooth thigh-flesh. Finding an undiscovered excitement in the Ladies Only limitation, invisible but more emphatic than a sign on a powder-room door. And infinitely more intimate somehow, right here in my own kitchen.

"Actually, I don't fool around with little girls either, not unless they throw themselves at me like this kid did. The bus wasn't crowded and I was sitting all the way to the rear, almost - you know the last adjustable seats? - nothing behind me but that long hard one in back, empty. And the guy across the aisle was stretched out and snoring, drunk probably, taking up space for two. And in comes this youngster and plunks herself down next to me. I was half-asleep myself, and pretty annoyed about it too, I mean how come she couldn't sit somewhere up front? But then the bus started rolling and the lights went out and I just closed my eyes again. . . "

"What did she look like?" My hand had struck an ephemeral barrier, thin and fragile and too weak to resist the strength of a stiffened finger burrowing up from below. The elastic gave with a little wriggling assistance from both of us, and once inside her panties I dabbed around the silky cunt-wetness easily, intensifying our hot slithery sensation with each added fingertip. "How old was she? Maybe it's my imagination, but they seem to develop faster these days. I've seen high school girls with tits bigger than mine bouncing all over the place."

"Not this one. Grade school is more like it, no tits to speak of, just a skinny little brat with great big eyes. Kind of cute, though. I didn't even notice at first, not until the lights went on again at the next rest-stop, and by that time we were buddies already. Very cozy. Only here's the joker in the deck - get this! - neither of us had spoken a word to the other. And that's how we rode the rest of the way, too, not even a whisper. Like strangers, right to the last stop, how about that?"

"And you say you got cozy? I - I don't see how. . . "

"The kid had it all figured out. She'd curl up on her side and just lean in my direction whenever the bus swayed. The first couple of times I thought it was just accidental, but she always seemed to wind up with her face against my tits. Not right down into them, just cuddling against the nearest slope a little, you know? Here. Only I didn't have this dress on, I bought it in Chicago - going the other way I was wearing that sleeveless thing, remember? With a light sweater on top to keep out the chill, though, an old cardigan that I always take along on trains and buses. It buttons down the front, no trouble at all to open up with just a casual twist of the wrist, and pretty soon I loosened it just to see what would happen. Well, it happened, sure enough, and I never got the darn thing buttoned again. The kid got a taste of bare skin and went bananas."

"But - but you still had the dress on. A bra too, didn't you?" Intrigued by the story, I had slowed the activity of my fingers to a gentle squirming motion that inched deeper only because of the insistent flesh-suction of her soft cunt. "You couldn't have taken much off right there on the bus."

"You're so right, baby. I pack a tight bra that stays on come hell or high water, and the poor chick couldn't get her lips on a nipple no matter what. It was agony for me, too, but then I began to enjoy teasing her like that, keeping her from getting a real suck of the big tit she was so anxious for. Every time she poked her nose inside my bra, I'd just take a deep breath and lock her out."

"Oooh, you were mean. . . "

"Not really, just having fun. She caught on after a while and stayed up on the slope. Tried to nuzzle around under my arms then, but I wouldn't let her, not in my sweaty condition. I noticed the way she kept sniffing though, kind of curious, just hunting for another patch of bare skin to open up. That was just before we hit our first rest-stop together, so I decided to skip the lunch counter and take some extra time in the ladies' room to make myself smell nice and sweet again. Incidentally, that was how we built up this thing about not talking to each other - the kid tried to follow me from the bus, but I wanted to get to the john alone and had to brush her off to do it. She got the idea, all right, and avoided me at every stop after that, and it was like a game between us, a secret thing that no one else could even suspect. In the dark nobody heard a whisper out of us, and when the lights were on we didn't even look at each other. Can you understand that, Jillian?"

"Uh-huh. I've played some secret games myself."

"Yeah. It figures. Haven't we all? Anyway, I washed up good in the john and doused myself with perfume and just draped the cardigan around my shoulders. And when we got under way again the little devil took one sniff and stopped sulking over that brush-off I'd given her. I lifted my arm and she just followed her nose right up under it, up into the armpit. That did it. She struck a home there and I had no reason to lock her out. We were both happy. I never had my armpit licked like that in all my life. And I never saw anyone so eager to do it. Lick and suck and go wild there, just a kid! What a kick for an old-timer like me; who would ever believe it? We switched seats at each rest-stop after that, of course - just automatically - and every change got her steamed up all over again. Me too, I guess it was a pretty steamy bus ride."

"Sounds like it. Precocious little brat. But was that all you had her do, just lick your underarms?"

I felt a bit let down somehow, the bizarre tale had simply petered out after all that suspense. Not much of an ending. Nor did it seem quite so bizarre now either, not even the secret-game silence; weren't we involved in something similar ourselves this very minute? Under the table. My hand in her cunt. Just as silent and just as secret in its own way, completely ignored in our conversation. Aside from the one cooperative wriggle that got me past the crotch of her panties, neither of us had acknowledged that anything was even going on down there.

"Uh-huh. Honey, I was tempted, believe me. The kid was dying to do more, too, I could tell. But the guy across the aisle might have spotted us, especially if we started moving around, you know? Or else I would have had her head between my legs right off the bat, a real long-distance suck. . .

"You - you think she'd have done it?"

"Sure, whatever I wanted, anything and everything - and then begged for more, probably - that's how hot the little monkey was. Hot enough to follow me into one of those rest-stop toilets, if I'd let her. I thought about that, too, how nice it would be to take her to the john and watch that cute little face of hers cozy up with my big hairy twat. Right there with the lights so bright. Make her suck me off. Stick her tongue up my ass, maybe. Only it was just too risky; what if somebody caught us? A child like that - oh shit, they'd throw the book at me!"

A calculated risk, I figured, and for such a prize wouldn't it be a risk worth taking? Sucked by a little girl, imagine; oh, if ever I had a chance like that! But I knew better than to say so, of course, it would have sounded pretty phony coming from someone like me. Even a bit insulting. Anyway, the idea itself was like a provocative sequel to the story and I felt less let down now, even though it had never really happened. From my viewpoint the whole thing could have been fictitious; reality was here at my fingertips, right here under the table! Where - by tacit agreement, apparently - the sly fingers of my disembodied hand continued their straightforward manipulations smugly and with a certain anonymous impunity, browsing, stroking, sampling, savoring those yummy-hot delicacies that my lips had once nibbled and would be nibbling again. Exotic delicacies, imported from faraway New York. . .

Cunt. For real, too. Right here in my kitchen.

8

Underneath the table, those poor panties of hers were taking quite a beating, stretched all out of shape now. Things weren't so tight anymore. Still nice and soft and snug, though. And slippery, of course, always a good sign, the best barometer of a woman's erotic excitement - a sex-lubricated cunt. Lesbian cunt, in this instance, only I didn't have to keep reminding myself of that fact; here in my own house I was already losing the last vestiges of my guilt. Learning to accept the illicit with an air of innocence. Not like Ingeborg's frank earthiness, however, just a kind of slimy innocence that could ease my mind and still preserve the special thrill. Like the way I felt about that kid on the bus. The way the kid herself must have felt. Wickedness is more fun when it's wicked. . .

"You've filled my tummy, Jillian - what I need now is a bath. Or a quick shower, if you'd rather. Although it would do me good to lie in the tub and soak awhile."

"Whatever you say. A bath, by all means, and you can soak for as long as you care to. That will give me a chance to get organized around the place, a little preparation for your visit. Just don't fall asleep in the tub, though."

"Hmm. Maybe I ought to have some more coffee then." She patted my hand above the table, still ignoring the one below. "Want to pour me another cup?"

Her touch came as a shock, almost electrical somehow, a contact that seemed to open a whole circuit of current. It streaked up my arm and down the other and practically crackled in the moisture of her cunt. Could she ignore that? Impossible. And yet the moment passed without further incident, and at last I had to rise from the table to reheat the coffee, breaking the circuit and bidding a fondly reluctant farewell to that soft nest down there.

My legs were weak and I crossed the kitchen floor with a sway and a stagger. I could still feel the crazy tingling sensation in my wet fingers. Like the pricking of a thousand pins and needles, all centered at the end of my limply dangling arm. Stabbing me with points of pleasure, no pain...

"Jillian, vou look pretty shaky. Excited, huh?"

"Well. .'. "

"I'll bet you're as wet as I am."

"Wet?" '

"Come here. Let's see."

"What - what do you want?"

"No, don't sit down, just stand there and show me. Pull up your skirt, honey, let's have a look."

I thought she was going to touch me. And if 1 hadn't been wet, that alone was enough to start the juices flowing. But no, she just sat there and gestured impatiently.

"Come on. Show me."

The demand was just too embarrassing. But then, almost irrelevantly, I remembered putting on my best lingerie for her, dainty and hand-stitched and very impressive. Black. Perhaps the stain wouldn't be noticeable. If there was a stain at all. Anyway, wet or dry, wasn't this a chance to put my pretty panties on display? The embarrassment only made it more exciting, and I just yanked up my skirt and stood there.

She gestured again and I raised it higher, all the way to my waist. I didn't dare glance down, though, not quite brave enough to check for myself, watching her face only and willing to abide by whatever judgment I saw in those penetrating blue eyes.

"Darling, I love your panties. Beautiful."

Just how or when it began I never knew. It must have been before she made a move toward me, certainly, because I was already writhing and squirming by then. And her movement wasn't enough to cause anything like that, either; she simply leaned over and reached out her hand and touched me. My panties. Right at the crotch. Well-aimed but still just a touch, no more, hardly enough to bring on such a violent reaction. And it was violent, all right, an orgasm that hit with the violence of an earthquake. Only it didn't just hit, it actually gripped and held on through a long series of shock-waves. It seemed to make a lot of noise, too, only that turned out to be the moans and groans erupting from my constricted throat.

Anyway, regardless of the mechanics of it, I just stood there and had one whopper of a climax. So huge and overwhelming that it became a struggle to force myself to function even after the last wave receded. And then I could only slump into my chair and pant for breath, my head hanging, ashamed and exhausted and yet strangely conscious of a creeping contentment. . .

My head cleared a little when Ingeborg got up the fetch the coffee pot. It was another struggle, but I managed to rise and slip away behind her back. Once out of the kitchen, my sense of duty returned and I took her suitcase along on the way upstairs, a good hostess again and more grateful than ever for such a guest. My swift and sneaky exit might have been rude, but I was sure now that she had deliberately created the opportunity in order to avoid any further embarrassment.

After a quick wash, I went to work with restored energy and got the place tidied up a bit, both bedroom and bathroom. There wasn't much mess, really, no more than I ordinarily accumulated and lived with between regular visits from my cleaning woman. But this was no ordinary guest I was entertaining, oh no, I wanted to hang on to Ingeborg and make her feel at home here - and if that included catering to her quirks a little, so be it. I recalled even the minor details of our afternoon in the motel cabin, the folding of the bedspread, the way she had put my clothes in the closet along with her own - the obsession with neatness! Minor indeed, but a definite aspect of her personality. And at this stage of the game - tenuous until she decided about prolonging her stay beyond tomorrow - I couldn't afford to miss a trick. Especially something like "compulsive" cleanliness.

I started the water gushing in the tub and then called her from the staircase landing. She came up shortly, all smiles and obviously pleased with the layout and comparative luxury of the house, a city-dweller impressed by anything larger than an efficiency apartment. After showing her around, I got back to work again for a while, doing a rush job on the downstairs rooms and letting her relax and bathe with some degree of privacy. I made one important phone call, too, canceling out my cleaning woman well in advance of her next scheduled appointment - just in case! - a dire necessity these days, considering the scarcity of halfway decent and dependable household help. Even so, fat and greasy Mrs. Bontempo sounded pretty sullen over the wire, no doubt indignant that any young Garnock housewife would have the audacity to risk incurring her displeasure by such a change. All of which bothered me nary a whit tonight, shit no! Up your fat and greasy ass, Mrs. Bontempo! Nothing could spoil my lovely mood.

With that urgent obligation disposed of, I went back up to see how my guest was getting along. Eager to be of service, if and when she needed me. It hadn't been all that long, but what could I lose by tapping on the door to let her know of my availability? And to hint at my impatience, naturally. Even with my unique flair for the imprudent, I felt lucky tonight, I just couldn't go wrong, I could knock on any door at any time and find only Shangri-la. . .

I found it, sure enough, but my timing turned out to be somewhat debatable. No knocking was required; the bedroom door had been left ajar, and Ingeborg was standing just inside the open doorway to the bathroom. My timing was perfect, then - or perfectly awful! - depending on what she did with that towel! She appeared to be drying herself with it at the moment. Or perhaps it was there to shield her body from my prying eyes; had I committed a blunder by coming in too soon? After all, on a night like this even the most frank and free-spirited of women had a right to prepare privately and be seen only as a finished product. Not this way, naked, just out of the tub!

Then, unconcerned with such niceties, the towel moved and just went about its business matter-of-factly, leaving me relieved but overawed. The golden creature all but filled the doorway, a picture of delightfully rippling muscles unmarred by a single skin-blemish or an ounce of superfluous flesh. Huge as she was, all the separate working parts of her body had kept pace with its growth, resulting in a magnificently proportioned unity that seemed even greater than the sum of its components. A miracle of womanhood! Jutting breasts of smoothly superb conformation. Legs like powerful pillars, supple enough to give the impression of speed and stamina - and yet graceful beyond athletic endeavor, sleek and graceful with the ripeness of feminine maturity.

But after my one lingering survey, it was the triangular patch of hair that held me fascinated. The hair at the juncture of those gloriously molded twin thighs. Cunt-hair. Cunt! I couldn't help but recognize the effect it was having on me. Ah yes, I would suck that cunt tonight. Soon. And not because I wanted to be nice to my guest and reap some similar sweet benefit in return, not because we were already pledged to "take care of each other" in this newly budding relationship of ours, not for any more valid reason than this: I want to. I want to suck her cunt. I want to fill my mouth with Ingeborg. . .

"Honey? You've got a wild look in your eye."

I couldn't speak my mind. At least not exactly. "It's a look of gratitude. Because I'm so glad you're here."

"Glad, sure. But grateful?"

"Uh-huh."

"Aw. You're putting me on."

"Don't say that. How can I prove it to you?"

"Well now. . . "

"Ingeborg?"

"Come here. Close."

"Oh."

"A grateful kiss maybe?"

I was close enough. Right in front of her. Still gazing down, though, unable to meet her eyes. Still looking at that same place, the hair, the cunt-hair, the flash of pink cunt, the cunt that I expected to suck tonight. Looking at her cunt and seeing the floor too, the hard white tile bathroom floor, hard and cold and hospital white - no place for love! - seeing the loathsome vision of myself down there with the bathtub one side and the toilet bowl on the other. No place for love! Did she really want me to? Here?

If only she would speak out and say so! If only I could look up at her face and read the grim truth there. If only my vacillating mind could find some demand to succumb to, how simple it would all be then. No decisions and few doubts, just another fact of life to learn and understand, as factual as the birds and the bees and the flowers - a sex-goddess who ruled by divine right. How easy to heed and obey such a one!

But no, I had to do it myself, I had to humiliate myself or take the consequences. A worse humiliation, an admission of failure to prove my gratitude. The best you can do is lose. And what about tomorrow, would I still be losing? Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, wasn't there a lot more to lose that way? Oh shit, maybe I should have told the truth in the first place, I wouldn't have to prove anything then.

The soggy towel plopped to the floor between us, a pad to soften my resistance along with the hard tile. My heart throbbed, asking strange questions and giving stranger answers and making no sense out of the blinding realization that I felt good kneeling in front of her like this. No sense whatsoever. Except that it did put me in a position to fulfill that old desire of mine. It all began with cunt - even the troublemaker, that wild look in my eye - and now at last I could stop wanting and start doing. . .

"Be real grateful, Jillian, show me, show me."

That seemed like a reasonable request, but I already had something else on my mind. The gratitude thing stemmed from a fib; now there was this need to be truthful with myself. I was sucking Ingeborg's cunt only because I wanted to! Although I did feel grateful after a while when she started rocking back and forth and sliding it over my face. Against my mouth. Swinging it up and down - cunt - right on my tongue. It was a new thrill that got me hot in a new way, hot enough to make me forget everything else and just enjoy the ride. So why shouldn't I feel grateful? It was even a tonic to my ears, just loud enough to drown out the noise of that goddam towel squishing under my knees. And I didn't even notice the tub or the toilet any more; oh, I had so much to be grateful for!

9

She slept. Naked. Sighing gently in her slumber as one arm fell across the deep cushion of her breasts, my Ingeborg slept without a care in the world. As though she knew I was there, hovering over her like a guardian angel. Her nostrils twitched daintily, reacting to the perfumed air that rose from the bronzed skin of her own body. The skin was sleek and remarkably smooth, a patina of perfection that was part natural and part intensive care, the result of years of treatment with expensive unguents and' ointment. Fingernails and toenails glistened scarlet in the dim light. Golden hair tumbled in silky profusion, a few locks falling fan wise across the pillow as she turned now and then, not restless exactly, just incapable of stagnation even in repose, a creature alive with sensuality. . .

I too was a sensual creature now. These past days and nights with Ingeborg had made me so. My own sensuality was coupled with something else, though, an old feeling that seemed strangely new and unfamiliar to me. I had only recently recognized the novelty of it. The thing had begun slowly, so slowly that it was upon me in its present strength before I had even gained an awareness of its existence.

Jillian Hogarth Rossiter is a woman in love.

It was new. It was different. All my life I had been in love, of course, but only with one person. Myself. Now I was in love with someone else. Which, for me, was quite a twist - and difficult to cope with, more difficult than anything I had ever known. I felt lost in this sea of madness, swimming desperately in a gasping effort to keep my head above the engulfing waters.

Love had achieved reality, a game no longer. How could it have happened so swiftly? These past days and nights had merged one into the next, destroying any sense of time. Days and nights with Ingeborg - how long altogether, a week? A week. Even seeing it in retrospect, the sense of time still escaped me; the separate scenes formed no pattern, no gradual progression, no continuous movement to the chart of growth of my emotional turmoil. I could remember it only as bits and pieces. Fragments. Sharply etched in my mind, but still just fragments. . .

I was puttering around in the kitchen. Ingeborg was in the living room, evidently in one of her lazy moods. I could hear the television set going, but she would probably fall asleep on the sofa watching it. If she hadn't dropped off already. Or so I thought - until the sound of her voice reached me:

"Jillian, is there any coffee made?"

I checked the stove. "There's a little from before. Stale, more than likely. I'll make a fresh pot, okay?"

"Fine. I'd love some."

The job was routine, allowing my mind freedom to drift. As usual, sex headed my list of topics for contemplation. Oh shit, sex was the list. I was feeling pretty horny and had only been cleaning the kitchen in hopes of working off excess steam. The need for a bit of intimate action had me jumpy; I decided to do something about it. Maybe that mood of hers wasn't so lazy after all, not if she wanted coffee. Maybe she would be willing to pay a little attention to me. Provided I could manage to persuade her, of course, never a certainty but always a possibility.

An idea flashed, bringing a giggle of anticipation. With the burner on under the coffee pot, I sneaked upstairs quietly. I was wearing a housedress and flat sandals, hardly an outfit to make me look like a temptress. Or feel like one, either. I got stripped in a hurry, underthings too.

Naked, I slipped my feet into high-heeled shoes. Then I found a tiny apron and tied it around my waist. That was all. Just the shoes and the apron, nothing else, the kind of costume popular with the readers of girlie magazines. I redid my hair and added a touch of makeup and returned to the kitchen, again sneaking down in complete silence. I felt sexy, even more so now. And wouldn't Ingeborg appreciate having her coffee served this way?

I waited impatiently until it was ready. Then, with the loaded tray firmly gripped in both hands, I padded out of the kitchen and into the living room. "I brought you some coffee, darling."

"Uh-huh." She was watching the TV screen and didn't turn her head. "Thanks, honey. Just set it down, will you?"

That would have spoiled the effect. I wanted her to see me dressed - or rather, undressed - like this. With my bare breasts visible above the tray and my bare bottom in view whenever I turned around. My beautiful tits and my beautiful ass, on display for my beautiful lesbian lover.

"Wouldn't you like a little service?"

"Huh? Oh. . . "

I had her undivided attention now. "Coffee, ma'am?" The tray tilted precariously as I performed a mock curtsy.

"That's service, sure enough. Hmm. What brings this on? As if I didn't know."

"Don't ask foolish questions." Bending low, I set the tray down on the coffee table. Presenting myself at the most tempting angle, naturally. "Drink while it's hot."

"It'll keep."

"Hmm?"

"To hell with the coffee. C'mere, baby."

My flesh tingled. She was going to take me. My crazy costume had served its purpose. In another minute she would tear the little apron off and give me what I craved. . .

"No, not like that."

"No?"

"This way. Come on."

It was something I hadn't expected. After all, I was the one who needed help - and this, what she was asking, wasn't going to ease my frustration much. Only she wasn't asking, not with her strong arm already looped around the back of my neck, oh no, it was now a demand. And what could I do but obey?

My obedience seemed to please her, but the firm pressure never relented. Then, somehow, I found my own excitement rising up and boiling over as her hot cunt-lips opened wide around the entering wedge of my face. I sucked greedily, frantically, and felt only a heightening of the thrill when she grabbed my hair, a great handful of it, and hauled me even closer, jamming herself into my frantic sucking at the same time.

With the contact at its ultimate depth, she relaxed her grip and simply wrapped her thighs around my neck to keep me right there in place. I loved the sensation. Those thighs, so thick and soft and cushiony one instant, so powerfully rigid the next. Her muscles turned steel-hard and butter-soft alternately, undergoing each change as her passion came on in undulating spasmodic waves. There was a strength in her that became almost unfeminine at times, more like a jungle beast than a woman, a beast matching my greed with a voracious hunger of her own - and I had the feeling of being devoured by her cunt.

Then, distantly, "Jillian. . . "

"Hmm?"

"Swing around. Show me that bare ass of yours."

"Ummm. . . "

"Yeah, yeah, that's the way. Nice plump ass. Pretty saucy, serving my coffee with your ass sticking out like that."

Her hand caressed my buttocks, fingers darting and tickling here and there. I wriggled closer to get more of the delightful treatment, still quite conscious of my own duties though, always concentrating on my mouthful of flesh and never breaking the rhythm of my lapping tongue. Even when one finger seemed on the verge of becoming painfully intimate, I went on paying my full measure of tribute to her cunt. How I loved that cunt of hers!

"Such a plump little ass. And what's this? Hmm, such a cute little asshole. . . "

I moaned. She was fooling around between the cheeks, down inside the crack, and now that fingertip was going even deeper, nudging its way right into me. It hurt. I moaned again but not in pain, only in the deliciously fearful suspense of knowing exactly what was going to happen back there. The fingers squirmed around and around, loosening me up and sinking into my loosened flesh all in the same motion.

"Oh yes, an ass like that ought to get fucked!"

It happened, all right. More than I had bargained for, too, more than I had conceived possible. It was as if her whole hand had shot into me suddenly; I exploded in an incredibly colossal climax and just barely managed to stifle my shriek of ecstasy in the furry clutch of her climaxing cunt.

"Hey, I just thought of something. Have you decided how you're going to smuggle me out of the house yet?"

"Sure. Piece by piece, remember."

"Jillian, I'm serious."

"Oh. Must you be?"

"Well. . . "

"Aren't you happy here?"

"Very. But it can't last forever. Still, I guess you're right, we can worry about the details later. Hmm. Some detail. My big fat ass."

"Oh, we've already solved that problem. I did say it was split down the middle, right?"

"Yeah. But how would you know? I thought you were going to nose around down there and find out."

"Hush. I'm nosing around right here at the moment. Don't you want your pretty cunt taken care of?"

Ingeborg didn't answer. Nor was the apparent tension in her body a favorable omen. I had nibbled her ears and sucked her nipples and licked my way down her belly, all to get her hot and lose myself between her legs. But she refused to let me burrow into the pink-lipped slit now, stiffening in dissent, and I had to be content with placing a wreath of kisses outside it instead, upon it and around it and underneath it in the fragrant hollows of the thighs. Just kissing, never sucking; such frustration!

Was she doing it for a reason? That reason? I investigated tentatively, trailing my lips over one hip and becoming immediately aware that my guess had been correct. Her body was already moving into a slow spiral. All those hints, then, were gathering into one unmistakable meaning; I could see the furrow of her behind, the dark furrow calling out to me obscenely. Did I want to please her that much?

My temples pounded, matching the queasy quake in the pit of my stomach. I browsed a little, staving off the inevitable and luxuriating in the remarkable softness of the twin domes, the soft buttock flesh stirring under my kiss. From up above a mutter sounded, indistinct but obviously impatient, and I parted my lips to take a mouthful and munch upon it lingeringly.

Again the mutter, less garbled now, "Lick it. Lick my ass. Give me your tongue. Lick my asshole. . .

I obeyed. My tongue dipped into the crack, lapping the length of it slowly as my head bobbed. The cheeks of her ass went wide to accept the gliding cheeks of my face. The tip of my tongue made an extra dip at the center of each glide, probing the tiny puckered hole momentarily.

"Oooh . . . good. . . "

She was writhing in pleasure, and that in turn flowed over upon me, a contagion of pleasure, making my task infinitely less odious. Serving her seemed only right and natural now, a facet of my personality that she had awakened and nurtured to a degree utterly beyond my control. It was beyond my comprehension, too, as I realized that her impatience was now equal to my own. I thrust my face in deeper and narrowed the arc of my bobbing caress, ending it at last with one dip that became a poking plunge of my tongue.

Once there I even experimented a bit, changing to a circular motion inside the tight tunnel, quite fascinated by its power to stretch and shrink with such slippery ease. And at the same time, of course, I was terribly conscious of the lewdness of my act - an added source of excitement somehow - conscious of fucking her, fucking the ass of my lesbian lover with rapacious thrusts and plunges of my hot lesbian tongue. . . .

My new pajamas were red, bright red. A black sash, caught in the back by a single stitch, looped around my waist to make the long top-piece hug my hips snugly. The collar too was black; it stood up stiff and straight around my neck, hooked in front in the military manner. A single ornament relieved the stark restraint of the garment, a golden eagle perched over my heart, an eagle embroidered in all its gleaming glory.

The motif was Russian. Not the modern-day Communist kind, but old czarist Russian harking back to the days of gaiety and laughter and romance, a far cry from the contemporary Soviet preoccupation with guns and bombs. I gave myself a final onceover in the bathroom mirror. Not bad. Quite cute, in fact. I hoped fervently that my darling Ingeborg would think so, too.

She did, obviously, much to my relief. Stepping from the bathroom into the bedroom, I was greeted by a long low whistle, truly a most enthusiastic reception. It was praise indeed - sufficient praise to compensate for the trouble I'd gone through, spending time away from my love just to prowl the downtown shopping section of Garnock. All because she had happened to express a casual desire to see me with a little-boy look. . .

"Jillian, you're terrific in that outfit." Her smile of appreciation made the whole thing worthwhile. "Just like one of those dashing Russian horsemen - you know, the Cossacks. Ready to defend your ladylove against any insult to her honor."

My ladylove was reclining on the big bed turned on her stomach, her head resting in her cupped hands, her elbows forming a structural support, angled and curved at the same moment. Her loose negligee, a gift from me, was scarcely adequate covering for the lush figure; it clung to each golden-tan rondure of her hips, lining the domed perfection of her backside.

"You like the pajamas? I'm glad. I spent hours finding a pair that might suit you."

"Really? But why?"

"Well. You know. The phone call. . . "

"Oh. That. You're trying to impress me, hmm? Is it really so important to you? One more week?"

I shrugged, unable to say anything more on the subject. My husband had called from California to tell me he would be gone for another week at least, possibly longer. I had begged Ingeborg to stay on then, using every available argument, every persuasive means at my disposal; what could I say now that hadn't already been said? She hadn't made up her mind yet, so I figured my chances of keeping her around were still pretty fair. Betwixt and between, anyway, not great but slightly better than slim. Provided I remained alert and didn't pull some unforgivable boner.

"Jillian? No answer?"

"No answer. I'd only be repeating myself."

"Good girl. Don't worry, one way or the other I'll be coming to a decision soon. But thinking about it is almost like business, you know? And who needs business in the bedroom? Not that kind of business, certainly."

"Hmm. What kind would you like?"

"I thought you'd never ask. This kind ..." She rolled over seductively, twisting her body into a supine position. With the angled elbows gone, her head fell back and dangled off the edge of the bed, her wheat-blond shock of hair tumbled halfway to the floor. "If you know what I mean. . . "

My lips found her throat and pressed endearments into the perfumed expanse of it, switching tactics now and then to graze upon her delicate ears. "This kind?"

"Umm, darling, you do know. My sweet little boy-girl."

The new pajamas were a success; now I could only try to make my courtship equally successful. It meant so much to me! Still kissing with calculated artistry, I let my fingers stray haphazardly through the thick yellow hair. It was silky to the touch and yet the strands were stronger than wire, like tentacles in which I was slowly but irrevocably becoming enmeshed. Or had I already lost my soul beyond hope of redemption?

No matter. Only my lovemaking was important now, only my ability to influence her decision and crown this entreaty with triumph. I freed myself from the bonds of her hair to succumb willingly to a less subtle bondage down below, forgetting my tactful technique momentarily in the sudden excitement of her soft cunt. Until the sharp edge of her voice penetrated my daze:

"Gently, gently. Nice and slow. No hurry, baby, no hurry at all, suck nice and slow and enjoy me. Uh-huh. That's better. And take a little lick of my ass once in a while, too. You do like my great big ass, don't you?"

"Mmm . . . big beautiful ass. . . "

"Oooh!"

She was helping me, pulling her bent legs up to give my head burrowing room. I loved it. Her asshole. And then her cunt once again, loving that too - and knowing also that I would spend the rest of this night alternating between them. Except, perhaps, for a few minutes right in the middle - the newly discovered little ridge of flesh that separated one from the other, so deliciously smooth to my tongue! - oh yes, I had learned to love that too. ...

No pattern, no logical progression, just bits and pieces - all adding up to something bigger than I could cope with. It didn't even bother me that our affair was out of balance, heavily weighted on one side. One-sided in its physical aspects, too, since I no longer asked anything of Ingeborg but the privilege of making her happy. I had fallen in love with her; why shouldn't I play the indulgent wooer and cater to the tastes of my wooed one? If my worship of her beautiful body was so pleasing to her, should I be selfish and worry about mine?

Hmm. Even that - my own body - seemed of small consideration now. Its only purpose was to serve. And that same service had become my only pleasure, naturally - it was as though my tongue had grown more sensitive than my clitoris. Was it any wonder then that I thought of ending my marriage and devoting the remaining years of my life to this rapturous lesbian enslavement? Let me kowtow meekly and submit to her demands, one-sided or otherwise; what more could I wish for? If my only pleasure lay in serving Ingeborg, then my only pain would be the pain of losing her.

A frightening thought! I might even lose her tomorrow. This big beautiful sleeping beauty stretched out so contentedly alongside me might be spending her last night on my bed; could I survive such a loss and go on living?

It was a ticklish situation. Ingeborg stood there dressed and ready to leave; the taxi had already been called to pick her up and take her into town. This could be the last I might ever see of my visiting lover.

Then again it might not. Her departure was imminent but not quite that definite, especially since she wasn't even taking her suitcase along. The bag was still open, still only half packed, and it represented a ray of hope for me. Not that I appeared very hopeful in this time of crisis; oh shit, I hadn't cracked a smile since the idea first came up.

'Don't look so sad, Jillian. And please try to understand, won't you? I feel like a prisoner here. I've been cooped up inside the house too long. My brain just isn't functioning, rigor mortis is setting in. I've got to get out and clear my head and think things over before coming to a decision.'

"Okay. But do I have to be cheerful about it?' 'Poor baby. . . '

"You'll phone me from town, right?"

"Uh-huh. If I decide to leave, you can finish packing my bag and drive to the bus station to see me off. And if I'm staying, well, you'll just have to sneak me back in again. Either way, though, we'd better make sure one of your snoopy neighbors isn't keeping tabs on you."

"To hell with the neighbors. I don't give a damn - "

"Hush now, you know better than that. When the taxi gets here, for instance, I don't think you ought to come out with me."

"Oh. I - I suppose that would be safer."

"Much safer. So if you want to say goodbye. . . "

Even if our good-bye turned out to be only temporary, the thought itself was pretty scary. Still she was just being sensible about it and any further hesitation on my part would have been foolish. I dropped to my knees and ducked under her skirt as she chuckled and spread her legs for me. It felt strange like that - all those clothes! - after a week of nudity. The cab was due any minute, too, so I had to do it through her panties.

The fabric was thin, though, and I nuzzled into the softness eagerly as a few hairs poked through to my lips. I breathed her scent, the perfumed cunt-odor, and began kissing the dampened crotch, kissing and nibbling and wedging my face in as close as possible. Finding a certain depth of intimacy and seeking more as her body started to rock and writhe and thrust itself into my mouth. The woman-smell was overwhelming now, rising from the moist heat of her responding flesh but remained trapped under the skirt with me. I got dizzy and just as excited as if my lips were chewing on naked cunt instead of cunty-wet panties. Dizzy and excited enough to wonder if we might even be sharing a sexual climax soon, saying good-bye on a truly climactic note.

No such luck!

The honk of the taxi horn sounded like a brass band fanfare at peak volume. I muttered an uninhibited oath that Ingeborg echoed wholeheartedly as she stepped back and adjusted her rumpled clothing. Then, leaving me on my knees, she was out the door and out of the house and quite possibly out of my life. At that point I wasn't woebegone, though, despite my sense of loss and even more immediate sense of frustration. Almost optimistic, in fact. How could a hot good-bye like that be permanent?

Afterward, I didn't wash my face. The scent was too precious to give up - the taste, also - and I just licked my lips and sniffed myself and was stimulated by the very lewdness of it. Oh, such a pig I had become! I regretted those panties now, wishing only for another chance to wallow in my piggy-trough, the soft flesh of Ingeborg's cunt. And her ass too, oh yes, how I missed that scent and taste now.

The day waned and I missed her more with every passing hour. I even began to worry that my phone might not ring at all; what if she had caught a bus without bothering about her suitcase? She was supposed to call me one way or the other, of course, but if the possibility of getting involved in another painful farewell scene was too much for her, well. . .

Then, toward evening, the telephone pealed and showered its blessing on me. She had been to a movie and was calling from a booth in a downtown drugstore. Pretty callous of her, I figured - a movie, imagine! - but the sound of that voice was enough to make me forget my irritation.

"Ingeborg, which drugstore? I'll pick you up."

"No. I'm still confused, you know? I thought sitting in a dark theater would help clear my mind, but it just didn't work. I guess you'll have to convince me, that's all."

"Convince you? Glad to, darling, but that's something I can do better right here at home."

"Oh. Sexy bitch. . . "

"Takes one to know one."

"Don't get fresh, Jillian. It's not very convincing. Uh, did you miss me while I was gone?"

"I missed you, I missed every bit of you. Your beautiful face and your beautiful body. . . "

"You missed my cunt, baby, isn't that right?"

The word sounded terribly wicked over the wire, but I recognized its special impact and took the cue. "Your cunt, yes, I missed your beautiful cunt. If you were only here I'd show you how much, too. I'd show you and I'd show you and - "

"Yeah? What would you do?"

"Kiss it. Kiss your cunt. Kiss, kiss, kiss."

"Tongue, too?"

"Oh, lots of tongue. All the tongue I've got."

"A real cuntlapper, huh?"

"What - whatever you want."

"Don't be so fucking prissy! What's the matter, are you afraid to admit you're a cuntlapper?"

"Ingeborg ..." Then, shuddering, "Admit it? Darling, I'm proud of it, I'm proud to be your cuntlapper. Now won't you please give me your cunt to lap?"

"Hmm, that's the way to talk. Cuntlapper. But that's not all, is it? Aren't you an ass-licker, too? Now if you were to ask me for some ass to lick. . . "

"I'm licking my lips right now, just thinking about your beautiful ass. I'll be the best ass-licker you've ever had. I'll make you come just sucking your asshole."

"Oooh, such a horny bitch!"

"Well, that's better than being prissy. I'm a horny bitch, a horny fucking lesbian bitch and I'll fuck you with my face, that's what I'll do. I'm burning up for you. And getting hotter. Won't you even give me a taste of your pretty tits? I love those big tits of yours, darling. And your ass. And your cunt. And if I have to get down on my knees and kiss your feet and beg you to stay. . . "

"Jillian, hold it! No more on the phone, I'm getting limp just listening to you. I guess you'll have to convince me in person, okay? I'll stay one more night, anyway, just to see if you can make it worth my while to stay longer. I'm looking for excitement, honey, can you promise me that?"

"Damn right. Excitement and plenty of it. Now just let me come by and pick you up. . . "

"No, I'll take a cab, it's safer. You just get all prettied up for me, huh? Remember, you have to please me tonight. I want you to look beautiful when you beg. And you sure might have to do a lot of begging, baby. Bye now. See you in a while."

I was pretty shaky after that. But I took a quick shower and calmed down somewhat, and then got "all prettied up" to receive and entertain my guest. Makeup, especially - with enough eye shadow to make me look like a sexy slut. And the long black dressing gown that she liked so much, the satin one that caressed my skin sensuously with every step, every motion. By the time she arrived I was hotter than ever. And so eager to please her!

The moment she came through the door, I sank to my knees in front of her. She smiled, nodded in approval, and then bent down and kissed me on the lips. But the smile turned to a frown when I sought to duck under her skirt for a more intimate greeting, anxious to take up where we had left off.

"No, dear, not now. I'm kind of messy after walking around town and sitting through that movie. Let me bathe first."

"Hmph! You and your cleanliness compulsion. That phone call got me too hot to wait. I'm dying to kiss your cunt right this minute. If it's a little messy, who cares?"

"Me and my compulsion. Maybe I ought to try to break myself of that, huh? Good idea ..." She rucked her skirt up and pulled her panties off quickly. Then, with a lazy elegance now, she lifted one leg and rested her foot upon the rung of a chair. "Here, you sexy bitch, here's what you're dying for. You do want to suck my cunt, isn't that so?"

"I do, I do, I want your cunt."

"Okay, come and get it!"

I wriggled closer and caught a whiff of the scent, a mixture of perfume and woman and maybe some perspiration, a smell that wasn't at all repulsive to me. Just plain cunty. Besides, what could be repulsive about a goddess? Glad to be there, I practically dove through the silky tendrils of hair and smeared my face around inside the fleshy female sex-pot, a gesture of devotion that couldn't have been mistaken or misinterpreted.

Nor did she mistake it. "I guess my cunt could be filthy and you'd still love it. Cuntlapper! You're a sexy bitch, sure enough, you really go for that, eh?"

"Love it. . . mmm. . . "

"You ought to be ashamed. You love sucking the dirty cunt of a dirty old whore, you slut. Shameless slut! Oh yes, maybe I'll stay awhile and find out just how much you love. . . "

Her voice went on like that, but I was too busy to strain my ears and listen closely. And too excited to care, of course, except that I felt something weird happening and realized that her crude tirade was actually adding to my excitement. The fact that my goddess was a whore just made it that much more thrilling, somehow; oh, such a deliciously arrogant whore! Even her pose affected me, the arrogance of it, one foot on the floor, the other up and off to the side, the heel of her shoe hooked over the chair-rung - her legs wide open to the thrust of my tilted face, the thick thighs bringing everything to a focus at the tufted split undercurve of her belly - so vulgar and yet so impossibly voluptuous. . .

"Cuntlapper! Oh, I love your cuntlapping mouth!"

11

Something nudged me intrusively. I heard the sound of my own voice, a muted moan of exasperation, as my eyelids came unstuck and flickered open. All around me there was only darkness. . .

"Jillian."

"Hmm?"

"Wake up."

"Uh-huh. What's the matter?"

"Don't ask questions. Love me."

How strange! Half awake and half asleep. Love me. Just like that. And I was already moving to serve her. Without knowing if it was real or just a dream. Without even caring. Except for the sudden recognition of the ache in my body - real enough! - a reminder of how well I had served her last night. Tonight? No more than a few short hours ago, surely.

Not that such a reminder was necessary; how could I forget? Even now the vision still seemed vivid in my mind and I saw myself kneeling before my big beautiful blond whore, my goddess of vice and dark depravity. Kneeling in service. How long though, I simply couldn't remember; who could keep track of time? It was much easier to recall only my feelings, the shame of my deliberate self-subjugation, all the more shameful because of its ever-increasing erotic pleasure, an endless stream of ecstasy.

It must have gone on a long time, anyway - and without much change in position, judging by the abrasions left by the carpet biting into my knees. No wonder my legs were stiff and sore, no wonder the back of my neck ached! Muscles weren't meant to be treated like that, not for so long without a rest period.

Ah yes, the rest period. Sleep. Exhausted, I had crawled into bed and fallen into dreamless slumber - the only rest period I had coming - and even that was over now. I should have been complaining, no doubt, instead of obeying her inconsiderate command with such apparent enthusiasm. Only the enthusiasm was quite real, of course, even if my poor bone-weary body did have cause for complaint. This was more important than sleep.

Her big breasts were soft under my face. I sucked a nipple into my mouth and glowed to the touch of her fingers stroking my head lazily, a commendation practically. The flesh of her belly was smooth and sleek under my traveling palm. She uttered a little murmur of impatience and my lips complied immediately, trailing my hand and nibbling down to the first silky fringe of cunt hair, a familiar fluff that had become very dear to me. Even in the darkness I could appreciate its sun-drenched golden warmth.

The woman-scent struck my nostrils, redolent of sex and sin and all manner of delicious debauchery. Intoxicated by its appeal, I slid down from beneath the bedsheet and came up from below, working my torso between her legs. Until the source of my intoxication was right in front of my nose. Even then I dallied momentarily, delaying my entry into her cunt just long enough to duck lower and make a deep and lingering sweep of the crack of her ass with my tongue. And then at last I was there, right there, nuzzling my way through the sweet puffy lips to seek out and orient myself to the slowly blossoming clit-bud before it foundered and vanished in the freshly oozing succulence.

"Darling. . ."

"Hmm?"

"Like that. Uh-huh, now you've got it. Oh, you're so good tonight. You really do want to please me."

"Ummm. . . "

"I guess I'll just have to stick around awhile and enjoy that cuntlapping mouth of yours, you know? Only we'll need more excitement than just this, naturally. Something extra, maybe. Hey, remember when you wore that apron and served me coffee in the living room? Well, that's how I want you all this week. Naked, though, no apron - the kind of service I'm thinking of wouldn't come from a housemaid, exactly. Oh no, I'd be expecting more from you, a hell of a lot more. Strict obedience, for one thing, I mean that's just what would keep me happy enough to stay the whole week. And then we'd both be happy, wouldn't we? You'll love it, Jillian, you'll love doing whatever I tell you to and you'll love..."

On and on it went, that voice drumming in my ears, and I shook and shuddered and took refuge in her cunt, something I could understand without wracking my feverish brain. Something I could cling to until her voice ran down. Oh sure, I understood the words all right, but did she really mean what she was saying about making some sort of slave out of me?

The subject soon came up again. We were having a drink in the living room, both naked as usual, when she mentioned it quite casually. As if anyone could be "casual" about slavery! Especially in this particular sense. . .

"Ingeborg, I wait on you hand and foot as it is, what more do you need? I fetch and carry and do the cooking and cleaning. If you had stockings and underwear to wash out, I'd do that too - and gladly. Isn't that enough to keep you - "

"You're missing the point. That's not even maid service - you're just being a good hostess, that's all. And there's nothing very sexy about it, either, it's just not a fun thing. Where's the excitement I'm looking for? Where's that something extra? Honey, you're a marvelous hostess and I love you for it, but if we're going to talk about freaky sex, well, you'd better listen to the voice of experience."

"Freaky sex, imagine! Okay, I'm listening."

"Don't knock it. Freaky sex happens to be my line. If I ever get around to writing a book - "

"The definitive work, I'm sure."

"Goddam right. But let's not get sidetracked, baby, I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. Let's see now, where were we? Yeah. You're a good maid and a good hostess - and good in bed, too, just to keep the record straight. Which would be fine, ordinarily, but this is a holiday for me - all play and no work - and I've got my own peculiar kicks to satisfy. So if I could just think of you as a good slave. . . "

'Oh. I didn't realize how much it meant to you. Hmm. I - I suppose it's no more than fair, in a way. Since it's your holiday."

"Just ditch your drink, kid. Jillian? Come on, put your glass on the table. That's right. Now get down on your knees and we'll talk about it. Hurry up! Oh shit, do I have to tell you again? Just kneel down right here in front of me, that's a good girl, yes, that's much better, you pretty thing. Only we really wouldn't solve anything by talking, would we? Let's not waste time, then - you just bend down and kiss my feet and then maybe we'll understand each other, huh? My feet. Kiss, kiss. Didn't you hear me? Come on, lover, do it now! Kiss my feet. Now!"

Somehow, for the life of me, I simply couldn't remember how or when I had slumped to my knees. But I was there on the floor, believe it or not, kneeling right in front of my suddenly imperious sex-goddess - and it was too late to weasel out, too late to retreat, too late to do anything but yield to that sharp voice and the even sharper urgency of my own emotion. I bowed low and pressed my lips to one expectantly poised foot, a firm and resolute kiss upon the instep, just above the supple arch. . .

"Good girl. Good slave girl! Now we know. Hmm, I've been walking around a lot, my feet are a bit dusty, aren't they? Take care of that for me - and for yourself, too - lick them clean, darling, lick the dust off so that you suck my toes into your mouth and really enjoy it. Oh, I do hate dirty feet. I'm lucky to have a slave, huh?"

My head throbbed. I used my tongue to lap the dust from her bare feet and wondered if this wasn't some form of madness. I was obsessed by the woman herself, no doubt - an understandable response of my long-dormant lesbian libido to this experienced lesbian enchantress - but could such an obsession go as far as this? It hardly seemed possible. And yet my tongue was rushing to get the skin clean so that I could use it purely for enjoyment. My mouth and lips and tongue. To suck the pretty painted toes and lick the soft soles and feel just as lucky to be a slave as my goddess was to have one; and if that could only be called madness, well. . .

"Hey, I'm going to like this. You too, I'll bet. But I ought to be carrying some kind of whip - even a little riding crop would do - a symbol of my authority, you know? Think you could find something like that lying around the house, Jillian?"

"I - I'll look. A riding crop maybe, yes, I'm sure there's a leather crop somewhere." Even as I mumbled the words, an apprehensive shudder was rippling through me. A whip? Authority over what, my poor tender ass? I trembled, no longer firm or resolute about anything, including the kisses my lips were still lavishing upon her feet. And yet, unaccountably, I felt duty bound to answer her ungrudgingly and to the best of my ability. "I've seen a cane around, too, a little whippy cane that was a prize from one of those carnival gambling booth at the county fair. If it hasn't been thrown out. . ."

"Anything like that. Look around as soon as you can. If you're a good slave, I probably won't have to use it. But I want one anyway, just in case, okay?" That eased my mind a bit and now I bent to my task with intense concentration. Only it wasn't a task anymore; the dust was gone and I stretched my mouth around one long slender foot and all but swallowed it. I almost wished my lips could widen enough to do both feet at the same time. To be a more perfect slave to my goddess. A madness indeed - but so deliciously thrilling!

"Hey, what's your hurry? I haven't had my bath yet."

She was lying in bed, sipping a cool drink. I licked a pink nipple with the tip of my tongue. Her body squirmed suggestively in spite of the protest, and I trailed my kisses downward in an attempt to nurture the burgeoning excitement. Her arm moved quickly, setting up a defense down there and I could only kiss the back of her hand. Dabbing hopefully between the fingers, my tongue sought to make contact with her cunt, but she just tightened her palm over it protectively and kept me out.

"Don't, honey. I must smell awful."

"Compulsive cleanliness again, huh? I thought you were going to break yourself of that."

"Well. . . "

I sniffed audibly, giggling. "Okay, so you smell awful. Now finish your drink, won't you, please? Because I'm going to keep kissing you until - "

"You'd better not. Hmm. Don't you believe me? Here then, I'll show you ..." She arched her middle up off the bed. "Look at me, look right here at my hand. See what it's doing?" Her fingers were dipping inside the folds of cunt-flesh brusquely.

"Now you'll know why you should have waited, you greedy bitch!"

Then, right under my horrified gaze, she brought her slimy hand out and smeared it over my face. I groaned but couldn't manage to pull away; the coarse gesture stupefied me and suddenly it was too late; she was poking her fingers into my mouth and I could do nothing but submit. I felt a dragging sensation in my loins and began to lick the obscene hand and suck those insolently prying fingers with an almost fervid acceptance of their right to be there. And when they nipped my tongue and held it firmly and hauled my head down between her thighs, I could only whimper and obey and let my face become one with her cunt.

"No more compulsion, see? I don't have to be clean for a slave anyway, do I? Of course not. And now I'm sure that you are my slave. Who but a slave would suck like that?"

I sucked her. I sucked her and loved it and recognized a compulsion of my own now, the compulsive self-abasement that had driven me to this new and unbelievable depth of degradation. So I was a slave to myself, then - as much as to my big wonderful goddess - but either way, wasn't it a lovely kind of slavery?

12

"So you finally found it, eh? About time. No, you stupid girl, don't just hand it over like that! Get down on your knees and kiss my feet first and then present it to me. And take off that robe, too - I want you naked."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Wriggling out of the robe hastily, I kissed both bare feet and then lifted my hands toward her, cradling the riding crop in my upturned palms. "Is - is this all right?"

"Better. But still not perfect." Ingeborg took the crop and examined it critically. "Hmm. A little stiff. I'll have to go easy on you." She flicked it with an abrupt motion.

"Ouch!"

"That's so you'll know what it's like, Jillian. Maybe it'll help make your service perfect. The way you just kissed my feet, for instance - that wasn't very convincing. Do it with passion, do it with feeling - make love to my feet, understand? I want more than a couple of quick kisses."

I bowed my head and began kissing ardently. "Please forgive me, darling, I'll know better next time."

"Lick the soles."

"Oh yes, I love your beautiful feet. I'll lick the soles and suck the pretty toes. . . "

"All right. You've got the idea. Now look at me. Just look up here and show me your tongue. That's right. Stick it out and show me what a slave you are."

She was caressing me with the riding crop, running it over my breasts lightly. The erotic effect became all but unbearable as my nipples swelled and quivered to the strange touch; how could such a gentle caress come from an instument that signified only discipline and violence? The anticipation itself was enough to stir me and I almost wished she would flick the thing again and let my now-prepared senses make a more accurate judgment of the hot sting of the leather. Only she just kept using it to play around with my swollen tits. And meanwhile, of course, I was displaying my eager tongue obediently.

"Oh yes, you sexy bitch, you're really going to learn how to serve me and please me and keep me happy. Lick your lips now, I like seeing your lips nice and shiny - mmm, the fun I'll have with that tongue and those lips ..."

She whirled suddenly, turning her back and coming to a halt in a proudly lascivious pose. "I want a little of that fun right now, you hear? Kiss my ass! And when I say kiss it, well, by this time you should know what that means."

There was no need to tell me that. I had already learned how to interpret such a command. Kissing meant loving - with my lips and tongue and mouth - pouring my love out right there to make her beautiful buttocks writhe with pleasure. If I could do it for her feet, why not her ass?

"Good, good. Do the little crease at the top of my thighs, too, that's always sensitive. Oooh, I'm getting hot! All the way now, lover - right up my asshole - let me feel that sexy tongue wriggling inside my ass. Uh-huh. Deeper! Come on, slave, you can get in deeper than that."

"Hmmm?"

"Fine. Now tilt your face up a little. Yeah. Like that. I'm going to rest my weight on it. And you hold me! Don't you dare let me fall, understand?"

"Ummm. . . "

"But keep that tongue moving. Fuck me with it. In and out. Do a good job on my asshole and maybe I'll give you my cunt. You'd like that, huh? You're hot to suck my cunt?"

"Mmm. . . "

"Yeah. You're hot to suck anything I've got for you. Oh yes, you'll be a great slave one of these days, just a little more training is all it'll take. Okay, we've had enough of this. You've proved yourself when it comes to licking an ass. A damn fine ass-licker, I must admit. Now move around here and stand up in front of me. I want to see your cunt. Quickly! Or maybe you want a crack of this leather to boost you along, huh?"

Scrambling to my feet, I reached the required position and then hung my head like a timorous child. The tip of the riding crop grazed my belly slowly and dipped between my thighs. I felt my cheeks grow warm, a blush to end all blushes, no doubt; oh, the sensation was so utterly embarrassing!

"Spread your legs, baby. Uh-huh. You're hot, all right. Good. Now you can do a real job on me. I want my cunt sucked." She sat down on the bed and then slumped backward, tossing her thighs wide apart. "Come on. For the next half hour or so, I don't want to hear a sound out of you. Except the sound of your tongue lapping my cunt. So get busy and suck - and suck good, you hear? - because I'm still keeping this little whip handy and I won't hesitate to use it on that tender ass of yours."

Ingeborg had become deliberately careless about her personal grooming habits, the compulsion for cleanliness now a thing of the past. It upset me a little, but I didn't dare complain; after all, hadn't I brought it on myself?

For that matter, though, I had no complaints to make about anything she did or didn't do - it was enough just to have her here in my house. Here in my bed. In my mouth. . .

Licking up her thighs in a preliminary caress* I had detected a certain overly ripe odor but had continued on undeterred. Should a little sweat and slime deter a slave from duty? And once inside her cunt, of course, I could no longer tell, too aroused to judge scents and tastes, too aroused to divorce my senses from the total sensuality of wallowing where the fume and the flesh became all one and the same. 1 was beyond caring about the unbathed condition of this body that received my worshipful love.

A mist engulfed me, thick with erotic lust. My face plunged deep and remained submerged, aided deliciously by the big heavy legs that wrapped themselves around my head. I made no effort to escape even when suffocation appeared imminent. A goddess could do no wrong! Nor did I pull out of her after the clenched thighs relented, still in thrall to my own strange need for subservience. I went on giving her pleasure and finding mine in the gift.

She hooked her heels over my back to hang suspended and smear herself against my chin and cheeks, a kind of pelvic bump-and-grind that served up great hairy mouthfuls for me to gorge upon. When I managed to draw a breath of air, the fetid smell intoxicated me in its heady envelopment; I inhaled the stench of lust and sweat and unwashed cunt and responded as though my lungs were filling with the most seductive of perfumes. And the taste was always the same, a cause for immediate joy and eternal gratitude - lucky Jillian! - oh shit, how many women in this world have ever tasted a goddess?

Her hands clutched at my shoulders, the pointed fingernails biting into my skin with exquisitely painful pressure. The bare heels pounded my back in an erratic rhythm. It was a definite indication of desire; she was nearing it, the peak of her passion, the ultimate spasm that would in turn become part of mine. (Ah yes, that was inevitable now, my own satisfaction welling up out of hers; it worked like magic!) I gobbled frantically and cast technique aside in a final all-out endeavor to reach the phase of mutual ecstasy, to consume and be consumed - isn't that what it's all about? - and was soon rewarded by the convulsive shudder of her flesh, a signal first and then the orgasm itself as the convulsion presevered. Right after that my own climax came on with a wallop and I succumbed to the dark velvet shroud of oblivion. . .

"Hey! You falling asleep on me?"

"Hmm?"

"Wake up, Jillian. I still need you."

"Oh? I - I don't understand. Didn't you. . . "

"Shit! Haven't you learned how to suck a cunt yet? You're supposed to let me down easy. Keep on licking for a while. Gently, very gently - slow and easy, you know? Instead you got all wrapped up in your own fun and forgot about me. What kind of slave would do that, huh? You sure couldn't have cared much."

"I'm sorry. Uh, like this?"

"Yeah. That's it, plenty of soft tongue swishing around down there - like you were swabbing me clean, that's the idea - any halfway decent cuntlapper ought to know exactly how it's done."

"Mmmm. . . "

"Better, much better. Stay with it, though."

I stayed with it, sure enough, crushed by her reprimand and determined to apologize in the only way possible, a silent eloquence that seldom failed. It wasn't a simple chore, either, considering my state of exhaustion. But her criticism was well warranted, no doubt, she had caught me napping - literally! - and what could I do but atone for my sin?

She chuckled after a while. "I'll bet I smell absolutely divine, Jillian. Don't you just love it down there between my legs?"

"Mmm . . . love it. . . "

"Really? Oh, you're just saying that. But what the hell, I won't deny you a little more pleasure. Seems a shame to quit, now that you've swabbed me out so nice and clean. Be my guest. Start all over again if you'd like - go ahead, don't be bashful. I'm all yours, darling."

I regretted my forced enthusiasm now and couldn't help but recognize a certain sardonic undertone in her offer. Nor was it an offer either, for that matter, at least not the kind that could be accepted or rejected at my own discretion. Other than the abject humiliation of crawfishing and practically calling myself a liar, she had left me with darn little choice. I had to begin sucking again - or else! And I had only my own foolish pride to blame, of course, a fact that made my plight even more miserable.

Anyway, she was no longer criticizing that slipshod performance of mine, and that in itself gave me a new lease on life. Perhaps even fresh energy, too. Especially since I could use it in the pursuit of-my own purposes and not just to make apologies with a swabbing tongue. Somehow, miraculously, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and took up the challenge with renewed verve, the vim and vigor of a vitamin-fed young girl. And with all that same old unswerving devotion, naturally, the devotion of a slave to her glorious goddess.

I felt it crystalize the instant my mind got the full significance of that last remark of hers: I'm all yours, darling. Maybe she hadn't meant to be sarcastic at all, maybe she was just compensating for the rather waspish manner of her earlier reproof. A token of her all-absolving affection, perhaps? I could only find out by taking her suggestion and beginning all over again, leaving the point of climax to await my return.

She had made no demands. And yet I was conscious of my own need to fulfill them - the unspoken demands - and I soon found myself kissing her feet. Lingering there, and then upon her legs as my kisses forged upward. When I rolled her over and started nibbling up into the delectable curve of her buttocks, she chuckled again but moved quite fluidly in response to my hands. Once more I lingered, covering every inch of the rounded softness before my lips became irrevocably intrigued by the in-between crack.

I probed the darkly lewd gully and fixed upon the little puckered place at last, prying it open with the tip of my tongue. She remained quiet, motionless - not even a wriggle! - emphasizing the fact that I was doing all this of my own free will. Or so it seemed to me. No, my goddess didn't have to ask me or tell me or nudge me, I was already slavishly obsessed with the need to please her. I stuck my tongue in and pulled it back into my mouth to get it nice and wet and begin the movement anew, repeating it over and over again, the in-and-out spread of lubrication from my moist mouth to her moistening flesh. Fucking her asshole with my tongue, of course, but doing it with more depth of purpose than I had in the past. Until everything became slick and slippery and at last I jammed my tongue all the way into the body of my beloved and joined myself to her as if the seal of mouth and flesh had united us forever. . .

Forever, ah yes, and I could have stayed there cherishing the precious moment, but time ran out and a hint of tiredness set in and there was still another unspoken demand to fulfill. Only when I dropped my head and slipped under her belly to twist around and nuzzle back up into that point of climax did Ingeborg finally end her silence. And not with a chuckle, either.

"Darling, you do love me! Suck . . . suck . . . suck my cunt!"

13

Pretty much by accident, I stumbled across the other weapon, the one that had come from last year's county fair. It was slim and supple, partly wrapped in cord with a tassel at the end, more like a small buggy-whip than a cane. My husband had spent nearly ten dollars trying to demonstrate his manly skill and win me a set of sterling silver flat-ware, only to wind up with this silly little gadget as a consolation prize. At least I thought it was silly and had teased him unmercifully all the way home afterward. Now, though, it didn't look so silly in Ingeborg's hands. Quite the contrary! And she seemed particularly pleased by my find, a grin lighting up her face as she made a thorough appraisal.

"It's a whippy little thing, sure enough. Nice and soft at the tip, too - see how flexible? That makes it safe to use instead of just admire, safe even on a tender young ass like yours. Much better than that thick riding crop. Actually, the tasseled end is about right for a cunt-whip, you might say, provided it's handled by someone with - "

"Cunt-whip? Oh, you're putting me on."

"You never heard of a cunt-whip, Jillian? Or a tit-whip either, I'll bet. There's even a whip designed for the soles of the feet, believe it or not. But whips like those aren't for amateurs - as a matter of fact, any whip can be dangerous unless it's handled by someone with a little know-how."

"Hmm. Now you've got me curious. Do you . . . uh . . . well, in your profession - "

"Oh shit, I'm an old-timer at the game. I've tried just about everything. That includes getting my own ass beaten, too, in case you're interested. Only in my younger days, though, before I became such an expert."

"But - but doesn't it hurt?"

"Sometimes. What the hell, it's suppose to! Otherwise there wouldn't be any thrill at all. And take it from me, baby, there's sure a thrill in this sort of thing. Real kicks, you know? I've got some clients who pay plenty for a little discipline-type treatment from me, a little punishment, very intimate and personal. I'm one of the best in the field, too. My expertise is always in demand. Right now there must be a dozen dames in and around New York ringing my answering service and wondering why I don't call back."

"I can imagine. It sounds so freaky, though. But then you did say freaky sex was your - "

"It's my specialty. And like I said, don't knock it. Only this kind isn't so freaky, really - according to statistics and such, it's pretty normal. There's a fine line of distinction between pleasure and pain ..." Her voice faded pensively. Then, with a sly smile, a smirk almost, "Come on, didn't you notice that yourself? When I poked you with the riding crop?"

"Well. . . that wasn't very painful."

"Maybe not. But it was sure scary, huh? Exciting enough so that you did want something like that to happen after a while, right? Just to see what it would feel like? Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe you don't remember any such reaction."

I shrugged mutely, caught off-guard by her shrewd and admittedly accurate observation, unable to meet the penetrating stare of her eyes. Twinkling eyes, I glimpsed just before lowering my gaze, and that made it all the more embarrassing. She was laughing at me, well aware of those weird moments I had gone through. Aware of what I was going through now. Doubly aware, certainly, if the heat in my cheeks was producing its rosy red hue.

"Jillian?"

Once again, nothing but a shrug. And a sneaky sidelong glance in the direction of the riding crop, always in plain sight here in the bedroom. A fixture practically, seldom used but never forgotten; how could I let such a dumb thing betray me? And it wasn't even important anymore except for that past betrayal, not nearly so prominent as its successor still swishing around in Ingeborg's hand like a carefully balanced fencing foil. Odd that such jaunty tassels could appear so ominous. . .

"Yeah. I get the message. You just buzzed my answering service, kid, I'm returning your call. Time to turn a trick now - and free, too, you lucky little bitch! Oh well, I'm just a whore with a heart of gold, so come on and take advantage of my good nature. You know you'll never rest easy until the last drop of curiosity is squeezed out and satisfied. Let's go! Hoist your bare ass up there on the bed and give me some swinging room."

"You - you won't hurt me?"

"Only if you don't hurry."

"But - "

"No buts. Except that naked butt of yours. And don't worry, this is just an experiment, nothing more."

The pun hadn't escaped me. Gallows humor? But her attitude was soothing now - just an experiment - and I really was a lucky little bitch, wasn't I? Oh shit, even if it did hurt, I was about to have my ass whipped by a genuine sex-goddess. An expert, too, very much in demand among the sophisticated lesbian ladies of New York. How many other little bitches had that kind of luck?

I scrambled up into place, trembling in anticipation as she positioned me on all fours. Over my shoulder, I took one last look back to plead for mercy, frightened truly and yet saying yes, yes, yes with my eyes. Another betrayal of sorts, ah yes, 1 had already fallen victim to the scary excitement and could feel my crotch tingle and bubble and all but suffocate in the deliciously oppressive atmosphere of sex. Freaky sex, of course, what other kind was there for a lucky little bitch like me?

The whip began meeting my ass gently and in a slow and steady rhythm, too mild even to stir enough air for a swishing sound in its descent. Compared to my inner turmoil, the physical sensation was vague and indefinable, scarcely more than a tickle and twitch of my flesh. And a less furtive trickle of cunt seepage, too, although that was still only tangible evidence of my emotional state. Too tangible, dammit, running down my thighs like tears from a crying cunt - and as yet I didn't have a darn thing to cry about!

The gentle contact of the whip had lost none of its gentleness, even though it seemed to be reaching me more often. Making a little noise even; or was that just my overwrought imagination? No, I could hear it cutting the air now, more like-a sigh than a swish, but still loud and clear enough to proclaim the dawn of a new era. Except that the era was still the same, of course - and I realized that the speed and intensity of the whip-strokes had increased too gradually for my well-insulated oblivious ass to perceive. Only my ear had picked up the change; otherwise I might still be pondering my dewy drainage problem and wondering when the whipping was going to begin. . .

"You okay, honey?"

"Umm, never better."

"I'm hitting you pretty hard, you know."

"I know."

"Good girl. You like Ingeborg's artistic touch, eh?"

"Love it. The way you sneaked up on me. . . "

"I love your plump ass. Plump and pink now. And wiggling around, too, did you know that?"

"Huh?"

"Enjoy, enjoy. It's still just an experiment."

I wished she hadn't said that. About the experiment. Because I took stock and learned that my ass was wiggling - more up and down than around, though, a very sexy wiggle! - and it hardly seemed fair to label this surprising phenomenon as part of an experiment. It just wasn't that cut-and-dried, not to me at least, and no known experimental procedure was going to account for such an unexpected development. My ass was responding to the rhythm of the whip, lurching up to welcome every down-stroke like a delirious martyr - fucking itself on the pain, actually, and straining in an effort to make the operation even more painful.

The noise of the whip got louder. It hurt now, no doubt about it, she was really swinging hard and hurting me, but it only seemed to intensify the sex-thrill somehow, a kind of pleasure spiced with pain now. Shifting and squirming and jerking, my body moved with a will of its own, swathed in a sheet of flame that came to a hot blistering focus inside my cunt. Or was it my ass? I couldn't tell, I just didn't know what was happening back there. My mind was aflame, too; who could figure it out?

A voice reached my ear, whimpering and wailing, a woman's voice; vaguely I recognized it as my own. It was another entity, a distant extension of myself, quite apart from the thing that was me, the whipped ass, me. Fascinated, beguiled by its inconsistencies, I tuned in and listened. A sob of sheer agony rose to a shriek of sheer ecstasy; how could a sound contradict itself like that? It was too much for my poor befuddled brain. . .

I must have been on the verge of orgasm when it ended. The whipping, not the sex, oh shit, that was just beginning! She pulled my bent legs out from under me and then rolled my body over to receive her. I lay supine and watched her clamber up on the bed to straddle my head and squat. I saw her great golden buttocks and between them, darkly, the line of cleavage - but only for an instant; a century? - and then her crotch mashed down upon my face with a wet slap. I was lost then, but not too lost to know exactly what to do. If ever I felt like a slave, that moment was it. My own flesh might be on fire, but a slave could only obey when called upon - a slave could only suck like a slave!

She gave me her ass first. I jabbed my pointed tongue right up into it; she shivered a little and squirmed down heavily, almost fiercely. My nose was blocked, but I managed to get one nostril free and breathe in the scent of her, smothering in a slow swoon of sensuality. Then the nostril clogged again and the threat of asphyxiation became a reality. I found myself wanting it to happen, sucking instead of struggling, and heard an alarm bell ring inside my skull, a clamor that couldn't be ignored. The death-wish? Had I become that much of a masochist?

But the oppression relented and I caught a breath of air and was blissfully transported once again as her big body began rocking back and forth. Not her upper torso, just moving from the waist down, her ass, engulfing me in the gliding fleshy furrow, smearing the hot slime of her passion over my skin. Grinding her weight down upon me. Until the time of culmination drew close - all those familiar signs! - and she stopped suddenly and cupped my face deep in her dilating vulva. I sucked and tongued madly, eager for the peak spasm but just as anxious to maintain and prolong this fever-pitch of pure erotic tension.

Then, unexpectedly, I felt her hand at the crux of my thighs. Not the fingers, only the palm - patting my cunt affectionately. It could hardly have been called a sexy gesture. But it was enough, more than enough, just that tiny touch and I exploded in a stupendous climax and might have fainted but for the slavish sense of obligation that kept me awake and alert and open-mouthed to her explosion and all its entailed duties.

After this, my love for Ingeborg was always tainted a little, tinged with fear. The whip awed me. I could never quite forget that terrifying "death-wish" notion. Oh shit, I had sufficient knowledge of psychiatry and such to realize that we were treading on dangerous ground. Worse yet, there appeared to be no letup as she kept broadening the limits of her power over me. Her expertise included tyranny too, apparently, and she was seldom at a loss for some new caprice of cruelty to remind me of my demented status. It was often too much, too far beyond the bounds of sanity, and I soon became a nervous wreck.

Consequently the second phone call from my husband came almost as a relief. The week wasn't over yet, but he had concluded his business assignment with success and would be home shortly. And might be in line for a promotion, too, so kill the fatted calf and make ready for the return of the conquering hero.

At that point I felt like falling in love with Cleve all over again. Anyway, saying good-bye to Ingeborg no longer meant the end of the world for me. For obvious reasons!

14

With my lesbian fling over, I settled down to being a good wife again, even phoning and apologizing to the sweaty old cleaning woman to get the house in perfect order once more. I was good in bed with Cleve, too, faking it sometimes but at least making an honest effort to satisfy him and atone for my faithlessness. Oh sure, I knew the lesbian thing would pop up to plague me sooner or later, but meanwhile it was nice to live normally and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Peace and quiet - shit! - I should have known better. Who could keep a secret in a town like Garnock? My sins had already found me out. No, it wasn't Emma Glough (pronounced Gluff) - nee Garnock - our local dictator of society, but the trouble that struck was almost that tragic. It came quite unexpectedly, too, just when I was beginning to look upon the Ingeborg episode as a kind of dream, a nightmarish dream at times, but definitely gone and forgotten.

I was downstairs when the call came, about to go up and bathe in a leisurely mid-afternoon manner. The water had been turned on and the tub must have been half-full by then, so I was tempted to ignore the ring of the phone. But a jangling telephone has a certain authoritarian character, and I shrugged off my vacillation and answered it impatiently.

It was Faith Orbison, a neighbor who lived across the way just a few houses down the road. In the reigning manor of the neighborhood, virtually, since her husband ranked pretty high in the mill, higher than anybody except the Garnocks and their in-laws. He outranked mine, certainly, so I had to be respectful despite the need for brevity. Only she kept nattering without coming to the point, and at last I couldn't do much but to tell her about the bathtub and beg to be excused.

She laughed sympathetically, but still didn't let me go. There was something on her mind, she said, and it was too important to discuss over the wire anyway, so how about getting together? The sooner the better. Right away, if possible. Why didn't I go ahead with my bath and then wait for her? She could be over shortly, the time was convenient - just leave the front door open in case she arrived too soon. . .

Conscious of the water in the tub, I agreed hurriedly and raced upstairs, just beating the deadline. There was a drain to siphon off the overflow, of course, but I had poured in a goodly dollop of bubble-bath stuff and found a mountain of white foam piling up, practically on the verge of an avalanche.

No harm done, though. I undressed and climbed in and got lazy again, just hoping my visitor would be equally lazy about getting here. Not that I wasn't curious, admittedly, but her reason for wanting to talk to me didn't seem like such a mystery. Business, no doubt, business at the mill. The success of Cleve's last trip had put him in line for a promotion, we figured, and Faith must have gotten wind of it coming through. And like any status-oriented executive wife, she wanted to be the bearer of good tidings, especially since we were such close neighbors - close in the sense of distance at least, and friendly enough aside from that.

There was another possibility too, although less likely than the mill thing. The Orbison's had a daughter, an only child, a shy little doll named Lulie - Louella, actually - who seemed to relate to me better than to her middle-aged parents. The kid was fourteen years old and quite introverted, a "loner" at school and pretty reticent at home. She opened up with me, though, and came by often to sit and chat, almost worshipful in her attitude and always showing as appreciative awareness of my comparative youth and beauty - comparative in relation to her own mother, if no one else. A boost for my ego, naturally, and I was glad to let her hang around. As a matter of fact, the kid was one of the few people I had to fend off with an advance "do not disturb" phone call after Ingeborg decided to stay.

Anyway Faith Orbison knew of her daughter's regard for me and encouraged it, pretty much, too busy with her own self-centered existence to worry about raising a child. So it seemed at least vaguely possible now that something had gone wrong and she was coming to me for advice. Maybe the youngster had gotten herself into some kind of scrape at school and refused to discuss it. I hoped not. Nor did I really expect anything like that; oh shit, it was probably my husband's promotion, good news, not bad. And yet, somehow, lying there in that lovely tubful of bubbles, I felt a premonition of trouble and couldn't get relaxed.

Trouble?

Hah! Disaster was more like it. Only it had nothing to do with little Lulie. It was more concerned with Cleve and his promotion, in truth, although that wasn't the main issue either. . .

I had dallied too long in the tub and had to rush when the noise of the downstairs door announced the arrival of my visitor. My terrycloth robe was handy and seemed like the best bet, thick and voluminous enough to dry and conceal my body at the same time, all the way down to my bare feet almost. It had no belt or buttons and was loose in front - just an after-bath garment, hardly the attire for entertaining guests - but I could hear her coming up the stairs and didn't have much choice. Besides, the robe was big enough to overlap and stay put with just a little help from my hand.

As it turned out, a suit of armor probably wouldn't have helped. But that terry robe was sure the wrong thing to be wearing; it made me feel so goddam vulnerable. I sat there clutching it to my bosom on the vanity bench while Faith Orbison lounged back on her chair and told me she knew about the big blonde who had been here. And about my secret relationship with Pam Kendall, too - part of the dim dark past, but a convincing trump card nonetheless. I didn't even bother to ask how she had found out, it just didn't matter. What did matter was the leer on her face when she dropped the final bombshell. No mincing of words, either, that was how secure she must have been, and how confident of my cooperation. . .

Blackmail!

No, she didn't think it was a dirty word, just practical. And certainly appropriate under the circumstances; what other word could sum up the situation so perfectly? Was it necessary to go into detail about what would happen if her friend Emma Glough caught wind of the strange goings-on in the Rossiter house?

By this time, of course, the payoff was out in the open, too, although she appeared somewhat less brazen about that. Except for the leer on her face, oh, that sexy leer! I hung my head, unable to look at her anymore, dropping my eyes to the floor and wondering why no tears were staining the carpet; so much misery and still no tears? It must have been the disgust I felt that kept me from giving the pompous old bitch the satisfaction of seeing her victim break down and cry.

I felt no sexual desire for her, none whatsoever. I never had. Faith Orbison was the mother of my little friend Lulie and the wife of a Garnock Mills senior executive; other than that I saw her only as a neighbor. She was a big bulky creature, almost fat in places, with a pink complexion that made her look like an overgrown baby. Ludicrous, in a way, except for glinting jet-black eyes and a billow of lustrous blue-black hair that took the curse off the pudgy pinkness. Not ugly, exactly, just not my type. I had never even thought of her in a lesbian context before and couldn't quite turn my mind to it now. Sex with Faith? The idea was just as ludicrous as that babyish look of hers.

Although she was a far cry from ludicrous at the moment, sitting there with that sex-charged leer of triumph on her face. Only she wasn't sitting anymore; I could hear her crossing the floor. My gaze was still downcast, head hanging listlessly - an ostrich refusing to rejoin the world - when her pump-shod feet entered my limited field of vision. Pumps? In the middle of the afternoon? All dressed up and nowhere to go. Nowhere but here! Maybe the bitch wasn't so confident after all, putting on her Sunday best just to come and blackmail poor little me. . .

The brainstorm stiffened my backbone. I leaped up abruptly and stepped away as the vanity bench tumbled over with a thumping clatter. I still couldn't face her, though, and just swung around in a "cold shoulder" gesture that snubbed her and showed my rigid displeasure. That was where I made my mistake; from behind me, she reached over and poked both hands into the neckline of the robe and then spread her arms and pulled. Off balance, I struggled to remain erect and avoid falling into her embrace, a successful struggle but scarcely worth the effort. I won the battle but lost the war as my protective garment flew open in front and surrendered as she stripped it down my back and off my arms in a single swift motion. Talk about vulnerable! One minute I was completely covered, the next minute stark naked.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the angled mirror of the vanity table and had to turn away. The sight was too humiliating - one of us naked, the other dressed - and yet I couldn't deny the spark of excitement coming to life within my flesh. Brought on by the humiliation itself, no doubt. I snuffed it out quickly and didn't look in that direction again. Besides, I had other problems, perhaps even more urgent.

Faith had encircled my waist and I could feel her tits nudging into my shoulder-blades. Her free hand was sliding down my spine, giving me a prickly sensation as the fine hairs were stirred by the touch. Her lips made contact, too, nuzzling the side of my neck and then playing hot-breathed games around my ear. I stood there paralyzed, blushing, more than likely, hating everything that was happening and yet becoming reconciled to it slowly.

Both her hands were busy now, one cupping and kneading my buttocks as the other inched up to tease and tickle the undersides of my breasts. Then, in back, the squeezing ended and her fingers dipped low and in, tapping gently to seek a weakness between my tightly clenched thighs. I tightened them more firmly, of course, aware of her design; let her sneak one finger through and the whole hand would be tunneling under my crotch and coming up to take full possession of my cunt.

Much as I fretted over that possibility, however, the hand in front was demanding my attention, too. I looked down and saw my tit change shape as she molded it this way and that. Her thumb slid over the nipple, jolting me, turning me limp, and I had to grit my teeth and strain mightily to keep my thighs locked against that incessant prying and probing back there. Then the other nipple got the same treatment and I watched, fascinated, as she made them both pop up and almost burst, two pink buds blossoming out of swollen white hills. So pretty! I couldn't help but appreciate what she was doing, even though I hated her for doing it. And I was even a little disappointed when that same hand left the lovely things and stroked downward. Cuntward. But without enough pressure to force its way in, luckily, so again the tension of my legs was a solid barrier.

She started toying with my hair, though, her fingertips entwining among my cunt-curls playfully. A shudder came over me, again that unbearable mixture of humiliation and excitement; I could sense the limpness coming on, my thighs going lax, the end of my resistance inexorable. . .

Oh shit, why fight it? With that blackmail threat hanging over my head, she could have used violence to achieve her aim. This slow and gentle seduction was actually something to be grateful for; why not get the messy business over and done with? The woman knew her way around apparently, a lesbian of some experience, not just a curiosity-seeker. And since she seemed so hot for my cunt, why not relax and let her have a mouthful? That would make her equally guilty in old Emma's eyes and thus end the threat of blackmail. And I would still be intact afterward - angry maybe, but unharmed except for my ego. Logic demanded a letdown of my defenses.

Faith took advantage immediately and my cunt was full of fingers all of a sudden. Everything went blank except that hot sensation down there, a thousand fluttering fingers pushing me toward the brink of unwanted ecstasy, I could only sag back against her body, spreading my legs and just letting it happen.

"Getting hot now, huh?" Her whisper singed my ear. "Maybe I don't even have to blackmail you, right?"

"Oh . . . please. . . "

"Please what? You want it?"

"Yes . . . please. . . "

"Ask me nicely, baby. What would you like?"

"You know : . . suck me, suck me, suck my cunt. . . "

I heard her laugh harshly. Then her hands were gone as she stepped back abruptly, and I had nothing but empty air to lean against. I groaned and crumpled to the floor, intent only on plunging my own hands into my seething cunt to finish the job in the fastest way possible. But that wasn't allowed me either, and I felt the toe of her shoe prodding for attention insistently. I looked up to find that she had righted the vanity bench and seated herself upon it, her skirt rucked high on her thighs, her panties already stripped off. Or maybe she hadn't worn any, maybe she was that sure of me. I never knew. It didn't really matter anyway as she grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me close.

"Suck your cunt? No, you little dyke, you suck mine!"

She hoisted me right up between her fat thighs and jammed my face into the big black hairy bush of her cunt, grinding herself into my mouth with an overwhelming ferocity. I hated her. I hated myself for feeling excited. And I hated her all the more for that very reason. But I went on sucking her cunt, trapped in the steamy pit of flesh that reeked of lust and degradation, too far gone to resist. Her body twisted once and I rolled my eyes upward to see her peering into the mirror. Watching the two lesbians - one naked, one dressed, just like before. Only now the naked one was on her knees.

15

The television set was on, but I had just been sitting and brooding when the kid came for an afternoon visit. The blackmail threat still had me plenty worried, the pressure hadn't let up in the slightest. Faith Orbison might be a lesbian herself, but when I tried to pursue that line of thought in order to get free, she simply laughed in my face. If I made such an accusation, who would believe it? Not her good friend Emma Glough, certainly. And by the same token, Faith could easily plant enough seeds of gossip about me to reach the sanctimonious old boss-lady without any personal involvement at all. As an old-timer in Garnock, she pulled a lot of weight and had enough connections to ruin my reputation if it became necessary. Especially since she would only be telling the truth about me, telling the truth and making it stick.

It didn't take her long to convince me. Much as I hated to admit it, the unscrupulous bitch had me over a barrel - all the more so now that Cleve had definitely been promised his promotion. I was in her power, sure enough, and had learned to dread the ring of the telephone. We had been together twice since that first ugly scene, and I was getting painfully familiar with the taste of her cunt. Worse yet, she was already looking for new ways to add to my degradation. Like last time, a grim warning of what the future might bring. Ugh! I could still see that loathsome baby-pink fat ass coming down upon my face. . .

Anyway, feeling like that about her, I wasn't exactly in the mood to be hospitable to her daughter. But it didn't seem fair to make the poor sweet kid suffer for her mother's bitchiness, so I invited her in. I had no desire for conversation, though, so I left the TV on and we both watched, sitting side by side on the big sofa.

Lulie looked cute as ever in shorts and sandals and a comic emblazoned T-shirt that hardly concealed the nubs of her little breasts. She had her mother's hair, jet-black and wavy, but on her it was infinitely prettier. Eyes too, black but much softer, almost worshipful when they turned in my direction. Alongside such a darling child, I was rather dowdy in my wrinkled housedress, but her obvious admiration made me feel quite beautiful. I soon came out of my sour mood.

Grateful for that, I reached over and stroked the nape of her neck affectionately. She glanced at me with that shy smile of hers and then swung back toward the television screen. Such signs of affection weren't at all unusual between us; I had often touched her in a similar manner, a kind of benevolent gesture, nothing more, just mute evidence of our special bond of friendship. And that was how I felt now, friendly, not sexy. Until I realized that she was trembling. Or was it merely a stir of restlessness?

I couldn't judge. Either way, though, why should it strike me so significant? Why had I even noticed?

Why?

The answer flashed in my mind with blinding clarity. Often as I had done it before, this was my first such contact with the kid since Ingeborg's visit. Our first physical contact. She had been here since then, but I just hadn't touched her. Not because of any particular reason, of course - the impulse simply hadn't arisen. Impulse or opportunity or whatever. Nor was the reason anything more than casual now either; we just happened to be sitting side by side when I felt affectionate. Only it wasn't the same kind of affection any more; oh shit, what a time to think of that story about the night bus! Ingeborg and the young girl. . .

Lulie's eyes were still glued to the TV set. I continued my gentle stroking, the smooth skin silken to my fingertips. Her scent drifted to me, all natural, no perfume out of a bottle, fresh as a just-picked wildflower. I leaned closer just to draw in a less rarefied breath of it, wondering if she could hear the noise of my inhalation. To my ear it sounded like the wind sweeping through a clump of trees. But she gave no such indication, remaining quite motionless throughout. Except for that tremor at the back of her neck - imaginary perhaps, but an irresistible lure now, something I had to investigate more carefully. More intimately. With my lips, not my fingers. . .

"Oooh!"

Her gasp seemed somewhat belated, coming long after I had nuzzled under her tumble of hair and replaced my fingers with my lips. And I detected a genuine ripple of response, enough to make me go right on kissing that dainty neck curve. Enough to make me thirst for even more. Oh, so much more!

No. Not really. Not this sweet child. This was no stranger on a dark bus. All I wanted was one kiss, one sweet mouth-to-mouth kiss from my darling little neighbor, and even if she threw herself at me I would stop right there and be satisfied. Well, not satisfied, but sensible at least. One kiss. Just one. It had to be soon, though, because she was already moving her neck away and turning her head toward me. One kiss? Just one? Of course. What could be the harm in that?

With both hands, I cupped her chin and tilted her lovely face up. The dark eyes went wide, the eyes of little bird, stunned, hypnotized; seeing her like that gave me strength of purpose. And I struck like a serpent, darting in and fastening my mouth to the quivering pink lips.

For a split-second there was no reaction, as though she was still under that hypnotic spell. Then the tip of my tongue probed between her lips and a groan sounded, signaling the end of the spell. A groan of pleasure, surely, and I waited for her tongue to cross mine and complete our kiss. I lowered one hand to her waist, pausing for an instant at her underdeveloped bosom, aware of a sudden wriggle of her body as my palm passed tiny points of sensitivity.

She went rigid and then melted against me. Still no return kiss, however, and I began sucking at her mouth to emphasize my demand. Even when she stiffened again and made a feeble but definite effort to get away, I held tight and increased the suction of my lips like an obstinate and unquenchable vacuum. I recognized her reluctance but had gone too far to quit now. Even if it required all the leverage of my grown-up size and weight and muscle, I had to make the kid succumb. Only after achieving the stage of a mutually agreeable kiss - just one! - could we manage to end the embrace without embarrassment? In a way, I almost regretted getting myself into this predicament. It sure as hell wasn't sexy anymore. But once begun, that one goal loomed larger than ever and I refused to give up without a fight.

Oh shit, it was a fight, all right!

I had misjudged the kid's sense of outrage. All of a sudden she galvanized into action and screamed hysterically, ripping her mouth away from the kiss. She bit and scratched and let loose with another shriek loud enough to curdle the blood of a vampire. Only the second scream wasn't hysterical, just plain angry, the protest of a very indignant little girl. And that in turn got me hopping mad. Especially since it contained some language suitable only for much older girls. Language directed at me, naturally, and I went into a rage of my own. A tyke like that? How dare she! Here in my own house, too.

A two-handed clutch of her shoulders gave me something to work with. I shook her furiously, just jolting her back and forth until her head tossed limply and the last shred of resistance drained out. Then I hauled her in close and kissed her again, an erotic kiss this time with an erotically calculated purpose. With a touch of evil; oh, was I evil! I wanted revenge now, I wanted to get back at her mother, I wanted to square accounts with that laughing bitch and her repulsive mess of crotch-meat; even as I took possession of her daughter's lips I could still feel that big paunchy ass sitting on my face, shaming me, crushing me, grinding me into a pulp purely for her own sadistic pleasure. And I was just bitchy enough to turn this kid into a perverted little lesbian whose conversion and service would allow me the last laugh. .. .

Conversion first. Lulie was no longer resisting, but she still didn't seem very happy about it. Tears were streaming down her cheeks when I ended the kiss. Her tongue hadn't come through for me, but that was okay now - I had set my sights higher and was looking toward a new and more distant goal. Anyway, I did sense a certain subtle response from her, unwilling but still undeniable, and I just pushed her over on the sofa. She yielded easily, almost gratefully, and I figured the poor mixed-up kid was glad to be put into a position that made any overt protest virtually impossible. Stretched out like that, she had lost the right to decide for herself now, a loss that probably soothed her stricken conscience.

I stroked her thigh a little and then slid my hand up the underside, slipping inside her shorts to reach her ass. She didn't help much, but the softness of the sofa cushions gave me room to squirm in. And there would be no bother about panties, I was happy to learn; she hadn't bothered to put any on and had saved me the bother of taking them off. I stroked and squeezed her round little ass-cheeks, looking down at her face. Her eyes were half shut, feigning indifference, but after a while she moaned and arched her torso to adjust to the palm of my hand. It was hardly an arch, just a lightening of her weight down there, giving me more crawl space between shorts and buttocks. Loosening up to accommodate the curve of my fingers, too. I made a mental notation about that: her ass, especially the crack, was one of her more susceptible areas, certainly an erogenous zone to be explored and examined later. At leisure. But the moaning and arching belied that indifferent expression on her pretty face now and once again I pressed my parted lips to hers.

Success! She kissed me back this time. Her tongue was unskilled, utterly devoid of lesbian cunning, but its enthusiasm more than made up for its lack of experience. That would come later, too - putting all that youthful energy to good use - such a darling little pointy tongue! Ah yes, with a little pointy-tongue training. . .

But even in its present state of ignorance, there was no cause for complaint on my part. With that cute little tongue of hers, Lulie had just signed herself over to me. The preliminaries were ended and she was mine. I stood up and left her to switch off the intrusive TV monster, safe in the knowledge that she would be awaiting my return. And so she was, impatient now, far from that earlier indifference.

I tugged the T-shirt up just high enough to get her titties - scarcely a tight squeeze - and then licked the nipples to a positive firmness. Meanwhile I moved one hand down to cup her crotch outside the shorts and stroked her cunt, stoking whatever whatever fires might have faded during my moment away. Her entire body started writhing, and it seemed evident now that this was her very first encounter with the raw and powerful pleasure of sex, a phenomenon unfathomable even to whores and philosophers. The kid had lost contact with everything but sensation, a sensation provided by me and me alone, a sensation she would associate with me for years at least, if not forever. Today - her first - let it be good!

She was already on the verge and I wasted no more time getting there. I peeled the shorts off and gave her my tongue, not even taking a few extra minutes to admire her cute little pussy. But I did lick all around it before entering, of course, so the soft fuzz and softer lips didn't remain exactly unfamiliar. All in all, an exquisite mouthful, less than ripe but still quite luscious.

I found the near-buried clitoris and it needed only a flick or two of my tongue to get her climax rolling. She pitched and tossed and held on to my head for dear life, sobbing and groaning and then trying desperately to pull back at the last moment, struggling to avoid this unnameable thing that was beyond her comprehension. I stayed with her to the end though, swallowing her ecstasy and wishing it could do something to fertilize mine. Or at least irrigate it a little. There was no orgasm for me, nor did I expect one - but just the same my nerves were in no condition to cope with another crying spell. And that was exactly what happened.

The kid's body went limp after her final contortion, and then she simply burst into tears. I sat up and patted her soothingly but got nowhere; she pulled away with a contemptuous glare and continued crying. After a while, still sniveling, she started putting her shorts back on. She seemed to be in no great hurry, though, and I realized that there was something almost seductive in her actions. Unconsciously, she was making a sexy production out of it, trying to impress me. And it was unconscious, sure enough, because she actually sounded quite bitter when the tears ebbed and allowed her to talk.

"I - I'm going to tell my mother on you!" Then obviously aware of how childish her threat must have been, she changed her tune a little. "Jillian, why did you do it to me? You know you were just awful. . . "

"Was it really so awful? Hmm. I could have sworn you were enjoying yourself just a minute ago. You're a very passionate little girl, my dear."

"Don't - don't say things like that. And I'm going to tell my parents, really I am."

"No, you won't. Because then they wouldn't let you come visit me anymore. And you do want to come back, don't you? Of course you do. You're all upset now because it's so new, but tomorrow you'll remember how good it felt. And you'll realize how much you love me and you'll want to - "

"No! Never! I hate you!"

"Think about it awhile, honeybunch. You'll see." Lulie shook her head, sputtering incoherently, and then raced out of the house. Through the window I saw her pause and glance back as though she expected me to come charging through the door to beg her to return. I remained calm, amazingly so, puzzling over my own emotions, reviewing my motive and finding it somewhat weak. Oh shit, revenge wasn't that important, was it? Maybe I had only been looking for some fresh young lesbian meat. . . .

16

Three days afterward, the kid was ringing my doorbell again, all dressed up this time. She even had a little lipstick on, a touch of pink that made her prettier than ever. All for me, of course, and wasn't I proud! I didn't show it though, just standing there in the doorway with a haughty attitude.

"Jillian, aren't you even going to ask me in?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Please? I - I want to apologize for . . . " The expression on her face was one of pure anguish. "You know. The nasty things I said. The way I behaved."

"Okay. Come on in." Once inside, I remained outwardly cool even though my heart was hammering. "So you decided that you really don't hate me, eh?"

"I - I love you."

"Oh?"

She hung her head. Then her face came up slowly, shyly, and our eyes met and locked for a moment, mine stern and hers wistful. But I couldn't maintain the pretense; she seemed so small and pathetic, little more than a child and a great deal less than a woman. Besides, just her presence here was proof enough of my victory. I reached out and hugged her, throwing my arms around the pliant little body and crushing it to my bosom. Her responsive quiver of excitement was all I needed to dispel any last vestige of guilt; who cared about morality at a time like this? My little slave was ready and eager. Oh yes, I was already visualizing her that way, my little slave. . .

"Hmm. Maybe you do love me. But how much?"

"What - what do you mean?"

"Enough to do whatever I tell you to?"

"Yes. Of course."

"I'm serious now. I'll demand instant obedience from you, do you understand?"

"I do. And I promise to obey you."

"Why?" .

"Why? I - I'm not sure what you - "

"Lulie, why are you making such a promise?"

"Oh. Because I love you. Because I don't want to lose you as a friend. What more can I say?"

"One thing more. The truth. You don't really want me as a friend. And you don't love me, either. No, darling, there's only one reason why you're even here right now, why you decided to come back. You just love the way I sucked your cunt. Isn't that so?"

"Jillian!"

"Don't pull that prissy shit with me, baby. I asked you a simple question, give me a simple answer. Did you or didn't you love the way I sucked your cunt?"

"Well ... of course I did. I do. Sure."

"You do what?"

"You know. What you said. I loved it."

"Hmph! You still sound prissy."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I loved the way you sucked my cunt. Is that what you wanted me to say?"

I swung around, ignoring her little whine. "Let's go upstairs. Come on. Or maybe you've got some stupid objection to that?"

"N-no. . . "

"Huh?"

"No objection. I'm coming, I'm coming."

She followed me up the staircase and I waggled my backside seductively to give her some inspiration. I was dressed for it, too, in something a lot better than an old housedress. Lounging pajamas. Satin. Oh yes, I too was prepared for our afternoon get-together. I had worn them yesterday. And would have worn them again tomorrow if the kid hadn't showed up. They flared in some places but clung nicely in others, and I could almost feel her hot gaze on my lewdly flaunted ass.

Inside the bedroom, I shut the door and spoke sharply. "Now let's have that apology again. On your knees this time. Make me believe it."

"I - I already told you. And you said okay. You're just being mean to me, Jillian. Like downstairs. Are you still mad?"

I slapped her. Hard. Right across the face. No, I wasn't mad, just anxious to get her training started. She would need a lot, quite likely, what with that whine still in her voice. I'd just have to slap it out of her.

But her reaction startled me. Once was enough, apparently. She stared, wide-eyed, and then the tears welled up and began flowing down her cheeks.

I stood there in a lofty pose, towering as she sank to her knees before me.

"I'm really sorry, I am, I am. I apologize. . . "

She went on desperately, but I wasn't listening, just enjoying the lovely thrill of watching her grovel at my feet. Even the sensation of the slap had been pleasurable, and I could see a whole new avenue of enjoyment opening up for me to explore. She had her arms wrapped around my legs now, still gushing apologetic tears and words. I felt like a queen, proud and regal, a queen with absolute power over my fawning little subject.

"All right, I accept your apology. Now get undressed. I want you naked, Lulie. Without a stitch. Hurry!"

No further urging was necessary. My sharp tone prodded her into immediate action. She kicked off her shoes and stood up, peeling off her clothes as if she had to get it over with before her courage failed her.

"Mmm, nice. Let me look at you."

Blushing, she hung her head. The dark eyes were averted from my approving scrutiny; she appeared terribly shy and distraught, and yet I detected a certain coy coquettishness in her. She knew what was coming. Or at least thought she knew. Hah! The poor kid had a lot to learn. And so did I, in a way-learning how to play Ingeborg's part - maybe we could both learn together!

"Not like that, Lulie. Stand straight. Show me how beautiful you are. Don't you want to be beautiful for me?"

She got my message. Lifting her arms overhead, she posed like a ballet dancer. Then, as though she had read my mind, she rose on tiptoe and revolved slowly.

It was a charming sight, the reed-slim little creature displaying her nudity like that just to please me. As if my slightest wish was now law to her, the kind of law she might not understand but could never bring herself to disobey. Putty in my hands. A puppet - and guess who held the strings. Lucky me! "Good girl. You can relax now. Sit on the bed."

I put on a bit of an exhibition myself, shedding the satin lounging pajamas almost lazily, an unwitting striptease, as it were. What the hell, the kid had never seen me naked; why not make the most of this precious moment? By the time I got the top off she was breathing heavily, her small hands clenching and unclenching in nervous response to my slow unveiling.

"Oh! Jillian, you're the one who's beautiful."

"But you haven't seen all of me yet."

"I - I've seen enough to - "

"These?" I cupped my breasts from underneath, putting the nipples into prominence. "You like my tits?"

"Beautiful. . . "

"Beautiful enough to kiss?" Without giving her a chance to mull it over, I moved next to the bed and pulled her head close. "Do it for me, honey. I get a kick out of having my tits kissed. You want to? It turns me on."

"I want to. I - I don't know how though."

"Learn, then. Learn how - for me."

"I'll try. Yes. Let me. . . "

I tightened the circle of my arms, cutting off any further words from her. Or the need for any. Then, after a long and highly rewarding moment, "See? You do know how."

"Ummm. . . "

"And don't worry about doing it wrong. I'll teach you. Would you like that, darling? Would you like me to teach you?"

No answer came. Only the tiny sounds that signified acquiescence. She may have nodded her head, but I couldn't tell for sure. It was already bobbing up and down as her soft wet lips sucked on my nipple. But that was all the answer I needed.

"Little doll. There's so much I can teach you." I stroked the nape of her neck, a favorite spot of mine. "So much that you can learn from me."

"Mmm. . . "

I stepped back, leaving her gasping, her face flushed and her lips swollen and shiny, the pink lipstick smeared now. Again I made a production out of undressing, casual enough but too prolonged to be anything but deliberately sexy.

"Oh, I do love you, Jillian. You're so beautiful. And you know so much, too. The way you . . . uh . . . " Then, shyly, "You know. What we talked about downstairs. The way you make love."

"The way I sucked your cunt? Don't be bashful."

"Uh-huh. Cunt. My cunt. The way you sucked it. I never felt like that in my whole life."

Out of the pajama pants at last, I glided back to the bed and waved my hand in an inviting but peremptory gesture. Her head began bobbing at my breasts again. I ran my fingers through the dark hair. It was a caress that soon became an insistent pressure.

"I'm glad we both agree, you sweet thing. There's so much I can teach you. But it will take some effort on your part, though, and a lot of time, too. So you'll have to make some sacrifices, understand? I may not even get around to sucking your cunt today. Not if you're going to learn to suck mine."

The insistence of my caress could no longer go unheeded. For a final instant I felt the warm cheeks against my tits, the lingering touch of her wet little tongue trailing from one nipple to the other. And then, whimpering in her throat, the kid succumbed to my pressure and slid lower. At the same time I sank down upon the bed and spread my legs to receive her.

Somewhere in the vicinity of my belly-button, she seemed to get a bit hesitant. I let her stay there awhile, relenting a little, backtracking so that we could rest on that plateau before jumping to the next. It was nice. I enjoyed her lips. But there were nicer things to come, of course. Much nicer. I had no intention of allowing my little fish off the hook.

My fingers dug into her hair again. "Lulie?"

"Umm. . . "

"Time for your lesson."

"Hmm?"

"It's a wonderful lesson. You'll love it. Remember how I made you feel? Don't you want to make me feel like that? Here!"

"Oh!"

"Don't hold back, don't dawdle. Don't stop and think about it, just do it, do what I tell you. Give me your mouth, your pretty mouth, get down there and suck my cunt. Now! Ah yes, that's my good girl. . . "

The deed was done. Or begun, anyway - but the instructional end was over for the moment. I didn't feel much like talking any more, tutoring or otherwise. Besides, it seemed to come natural to her, a blessing I couldn't help but appreciate. Oh sure, later on, well, there were still some tips I could give her. That young mouth was hot and moist and hungry and doing just fine, but it lacked the finesse that comes with experience. But with all that youthful enthusiasm going for her, it wouldn't take long. In fact, with just a word of guidance now and then, my little Lulie-girl would soon be a superb cuntlapper. Or so my cunt kept telling me. What was she doing down there, blowing my clitoris up like a balloon? It sure felt like that. A balloon about to pop!

The next time she rang my bell, I almost didn't let her into the house because of the possible danger. The cleaning woman had stayed later than usual and was still there. She was working upstairs, though, so it really didn't matter that much. Anyway, while it was still on my mind, this seemed like a good time to make a better arrangement with Lulie about her visits. I wanted her over as often as possible, naturally, but only when she didn't have to tell her mother where she was going. Then too, after today's mixup, I figured it would be safer all around to have her telephone first to give me a little advance notice. Or maybe even call me every day, whether she was coming over or not. So I had a lot to say to her and couldn't see much reason to postpone it.

We went back to the kitchen. Mrs. Bontempo had already finished there and I could hear her moving around upstairs, so I didn't object when the kid parked herself on the floor and leaned against my legs. She listened intently, grasping the situation quickly as I explained in a whisper. It didn't take much time at all and the racket up above was still going on when our talk ended; somehow the idea of sex right then and there was irresistible. Faint as it was, the possibility that we might get caught in the act made it even more exciting.

Lulie pushed my skirt up, covering my thighs with kisses on the way. My skin felt damp and shivery. She finally managed to get the skirt high and out of the way in front, and it no longer impeded the progress of her lips. But my panties did, very much so - obviously a barrier she hadn't anticipated - and her muffled whimper of frustration struck my ears.

I felt her hands reaching up to take a grip on the offending garment. If I let her go on like that, she would have it off in another minute. But the risk was too great; once she got that hot little mouth of hers on my bare cunt, I might lose my head and forget to keep checking on the upstairs activity. This was the wrong place and the wrong time.

"Darling, no. Better not."

"Hmm?"

"Don't do that."

"Please? Just lift up and - "

"I said no. Leave my panties on."

That was all. But my whisper was fierce enough to put its message across. Still, I hadn't told her to stop completely; nor was there any reason to, I decided. And she evidently had no intention of doing so, not after getting that far - close enough to sniff at least, if not to taste.

I sat quietly for a while, letting the eager youngster make love to me in a kind of harmless fashion. The panties were only a partial block, and it took her only a few minutes to work the crotch over, getting the impeding bit of fabric bunched to a ropy thickness on one side.

It became mildly uncomfortable, but I didn't mind. Such a small price to pay for so exciting an adventure. Doing it with someone else in the house, imagine! Pretty soon I was leaning back and slumping low in the chair and sighing softly. But at no time did I lose track of the precarious circumstances, not even when I had to struggle to keep from shrieking aloud. I could feel that greedy little mouth actually munching on my flesh - and that tongue, oh, that darling little tongue! If ever I had a wild climax, that was it. Wild but silent. And with a grin on her cute face, the happy little cuntlapper was out of the house and gone before fat Mrs. Bontempo got her sweat-glands shut off for the day. I felt just fine then. Somehow the danger had heightened the thrill beyond belief. Although it did make me wonder if that wasn't the result of some masochistic twist in my nature.

But why worry about it? Actually I was feeling good most of the time now, truly appreciative of my new toy. The kid was coming along beautifully, as responsive to me as a wind-up doll that I could turn off and push this way or that; oh, the delicious games we would soon be playing!

And as for her mother, well, I wasn't so bitterly resentful anymore. Faith Orbison made certain demands on me, but she was staying within limitation that were at least acceptable. My initial judgement was wrong apparently; she wanted only to use me, not degrade me. As long as I sucked her cunt and licked her ass, she seemed quite satisfied. No devious angles. No originality. And none of Ingeborg's genuinely sadistic impulses - for which I was duly grateful - oh yes, I had plenty to feel good about.

17

One week later, I didn't feel so good. I had a headache to begin with, but that was nothing to complain about. Except that it led to the other thing, somehow, almost like some sort of cue. Only it soon became obvious that Mrs. Bontempo didn't need any cue to speak up and get it off her chest; she would have gotten around to it anyway.

It was her regular cleaning day. I let her in and had a cup of coffee with her as usual, discussing what might or might not need special attention this week. Then I mentioned my headache and said I was planning to go right back to bed; would she please work downstairs for the next few hours?

"Headache, huh? Sorry to hear it."

"Oh, it's just getting to be that time of the month. An achy feeling all over, you know. A little more sleep - "

"What you need is a good massage, honey. Did I ever tell you I used to do that for a living?"

"Why, uh . . . no, I've never heard you - "

"Well, it's true. I used to give massages. I'm good at it, too, I could make you feel better in no time."

Her bold pitch stunned me. And I became aware of her eyes on my breasts now, greedy eyes that made me check to see if my robe was properly fastened. The morning sun lit up the kitchen, but there was something almost nightmarish about the moment. A lesbian pass from my cleaning woman? Had the whole world gone crazy or was it just me?

Mrs. Bontempo was a huge woman, fat in every sense of the word, fat and sweaty and with a kind of greasy look. Her hair was a nondescript brown and she always wore too much makeup; it looked pathetic on her, actually, the vividly painted face on that great fleshy hulk of a body. But she did her work and had never gotten out of line before; our only differences of opinion had centered around making some change or other in the schedule. So this sudden interest on her part came as a complete shock.

Suppressing a shudder, I declined the massage but was no longer surprised when she pursued the issue. Which soon led to the reason for her boldness, of course - and that was when I really stopped feeling good. According to her story, Mrs. Bontempo had done me a favor recently. She had heard some gossip about me and was quick to put it to a stop. I didn't believe a word of it - not after that "massage" opening - it seemed only too obvious that her story was a veiled threat of blackmail. Especially when she refused to name names or provide any details about where she had run across such gossip. She knew, though, and that was cause for panic; if any gossip was going to be spread, this fat slob of a woman would be the instigator!

At that point I would have welcomed a plea for money, some phony hard-luck tale to wheedle some equally phony sympathy out of me - along with a few dollars to shut her mouth. Hush money. But no, Mrs. Bontempo's idea of blackmail ran parallel to that of Faith Orbison, evidently, and I was just too flabbergasted to know how to cope with the situation. No way out. What could I do but shrug and surrender?

I let Mrs. Bontempo lead me upstairs; the best place for a massage treatment was my own bed, she said. Still wearing the robe, I lay down and waited, hiding my fear and my anger but shivering like a leaf in a storm and feeling just as helpless.

She sat on the edge of the bed, licking her lips. "I want to help you, honey, I really do. Okay?"

"Okay. Help me."

Her hands drew the folds of my robe apart slowly. I was naked underneath it. She stared at my body, her eyes bright and beady, her nostrils flaring as her breath quickened. And there was no longer any pretense of a massage then.

"Even if that gossip is true ..." She shook her head. "You should have come to me. I know how to take care of a pretty girl like you. The best of care." Her palms cupped my breasts. "Mmm, such nice tits. Not hurting you, am I?"

"No. That doesn't hurt." I gritted my teeth, wishing she would hurry and get it over with.

She fondled me like that for a while and then lowered her head. Her thick tongue poked out and began swabbing, a strangely rough tongue that brought swift reaction from my nipples. Despite my revulsion, the physical act itself was enough to bring a very noticeable physical response. And then her lips closed and tightened over one already swollen peak, sucking, sucking - oh shit, I thought she was going to suck it inside out!

My fear had fled, and there wasn't much anger left inside me either. Much as I hated myself for it, I was getting that old familiar feeling. Her mouth had both my tits about to burst with hot lust, and my thighs parted almost of their own volition when one hand slithered in that direction. I moaned down there; the sound came from my throat, but it was my prodded clitoris that did the moaning. Those goddam fingers. . .

Then, suddenly, while my tits languished, she dove low and clamped her suction-pump of a mouth on my cunt. I got the full benefit of that strange roughness of her tongue upon the most sensitive part of me, a rasping motion that made my clit sting, the kind of pain that couldn't be separated from pleasure. I didn't even hate my fat blackmailer anymore, succumbing completely to that hot sucking mouth and hot stabbing tongue. My orgasm was already in the making, roiling the pit of my belly and rippling outward through the rest of my body, setting every nerve and every cell into active vibration. I felt myself gush when the climax hit its summit, almost a urination feeling, in a way - and for a sharply etched instant I remembered who was doing this to me and actually found myself wishing for that to happen; oh, if only I could have let loose and pissed into the dirty blackmailing bitch's mouth!

But I didn't, naturally, and was glad afterward. Let there be peace and harmony between us. Mrs. Bontempo was of that mind also, apparently; surprisingly enough, she really did give me a massage then, and quite a professional job. It wasn't until she mentioned it that I recalled ever having a headache. And when she left me to go downstairs and begin the housework, I just lay there drowsily and dozed off.

Lesbian sex filled my daytime world, practically. I had grown accustomed to it, too, and now a day that went by without some hot tussle or other was like a day wasted. Somehow, though, I managed to keep an even keel and treat the whole thing as merely a passing episode in my life. As long as I had so much, well, it just didn't seem so important.

Then for three days in a row I had nothing; both Faith and her daughter went out of town to visit relatives. I got pretty edgy after a while, and when the kid telephoned at last - just back, and could she come over? - I was sure as hell ready for her. Even more so, by the time I actually had her in my bedroom

I flung off my robe, leaving myself naked. Naked and hot and dying for that cuntlapping little mouth. "Hurry up! Must you keep me waiting?" I fell upon the bed, taking pleasure in the fact that I could issue orders and not worry about being disobeyed. Oh yes, the kid's training had progressed marvelously; I had a delightful little slave girl to fulfill my needs.

Anyway, my attitude must have aroused her. My commanding tone or my nude body or my sudden eagerness - whatever it was, she went wild. In a matter of seconds her clothing was off and she was displaying her recently acquired prowess. Her hands and lips coursed over my flesh madly as I abandoned myself to her.

She nibbled. Foraged. Burrowed. Until the moment came when I could wait no longer, the white-hot moment I had already waited too long for. Clutching her by the hair, I jammed her face into my open cunt and simply used her like that, rubbing myself to a climax as though it was an itch down there that had to be scratched. No time for technique and such, no time for the special tongue artistry I had been teaching her, no time for anything but the big thrill, this. . .

Ah, such a thrill it was! Lulie was my toy, my plaything, my little doll to do with as I willed. At that particular instant I felt as if I owned her. Body and soul. She was young and sweet and pretty - and all mine! Such a thrill!

Immediately afterward though, as we lay resting after our spasmodic embrace was over, she spoke up shyly about certain reservations that must have been on her mind. She was embarrassed about it, of course, but that didn't stop her.

"Jillian . . . uh - do you like me? Really?"

"You know I do, darling."

"Well, uh, do you think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're beautiful."

"Then why don't you ever - uh - well, you know what I mean, don't you? What I'm trying to say?"

"Frankly, no. What are you trying to say?"

"Well ..." She made a face. "You never do things to me anymore. I'm always the one who does it to you."

"Hmph! You're complaining, eh? Would you rather not do it to me? Maybe you're tired of coming over here. . . "

"Jillian, please, you know I didn't mean that. But when we first started, you used to . . . well, remember?"

"I sucked your cunt."

"Uh-huh. My cunt. And I loved it. I love sucking yours, too, but sometimes I just wish. . .

"All right, darling. I understand. After this, I'll remember to do it once in a while. Only you'll have to remind me. And I may not even listen if you act prissy and stumble over your words. In fact, it won't happen unless you beg for it."

"Oh. Do you want me to beg now? I will if - "

"Shit! Not now. Some time when it's your own idea. When you want it badly enough to speak up and say so, that's when."

"But - but I do want it. My cunt needs you. Won't you please suck my cunt, Jillian? See how I'm begging you?"

"Beg some more."

"Sure. I'm begging for your mouth on my cunt. Your beautiful mouth, the way it sucks and sucks. . . "

I stroked her as she went on pleading. My fingertips tingled from the sensation of her smooth young skin. She looked beautiful lying there next to me - and edible, certainly - and the desire to make love to her was overwhelming. But I didn't give in to it, oh no, I had already told her that it might happen in the future but not now. At this point, begging was just another part of her training. Let her learn. Let her learn to say cunt in the same way that she learned to suck it. Besides, it was better to keep her off balance like this; wasn't that one of the known techniques of slave-training?

"Well done, Lulie. Beg me like that the next time and I promise you'll get results."

"Oh. . . "

"But I've heard enough talk for now. And since you've been away for three days, my cunt is ready again. And that's the important thing between us, isn't it? My cunt?"

A sob broke from her lips. And then her cute face was where it belonged, right between my thighs, her open mouth searching and finding what it was looking for. I felt powerful, strong, too strong to lie still, too powerful for passivity. And anyway, there was something else pretty important between us, my ass, my beautiful ass, and I twisted out from under her kissing lips and reared up and sank down again as she scrambled to comply with my forceful nudge. Brusquely I settled upon her now-upturned face and was pleased to find those hot lips still kissing.

A muffled noise reached my ears. She was gasping for air and I rocked my split buttocks back and forth, raising up just a little to let the poor suffocating kid catch her breath. Her hands reached up impatiently to pull me down again; oh shit, I had trained her well, this little ass-licker of mine!

18

"So you don't want one of my nice massages today, huh?"

"No. No, thank you. No massage."

"You're feeling okay, is that it? No headache?"

"I'm just fine today, Mrs. Bontempo."

"Funny. I should think you'd be all tensed up and nervous, the way you've been playing around lately. The chances you've been taking. . . "

"Chances? What - what do you mean?"

"You know fucking well what I mean. Chances."

"How - how dare you! How dare you talk to me like that!"

"I think maybe you ought to have a massage. It'll help relieve your nervous tension. And any woman who plays cunt-games with a little girl is bound to be tense and nervous. You could go to jail for that - if somebody squealed and you got caught, I mean. It wouldn't be me, of course. I like cunt-games too much myself. I sympathize with you. And like I said before, I'm even annoyed when I hear that kind of gossip. But how you could possibly feel good with stuff like that going on . . . well. . . "

The kitchen floor was teetering under my feet. Once again my sins had found me out, but this time the fat was really in the fire. My vicious cleaning woman must have been keeping tabs on me. Sneaking around when she wasn't expected, no doubt. Anyway, she had spotted enough to put two and two together and come up with an answer. A painfully accurate answer, and I could see my no longer snug little world collapsing over my head.

But at least I could postpone the collapse awhile. "I guess you're right about being tensed up, Mrs. Bontempo. I do have a bit of a headache."

"Yeah. I figured maybe you would."

"Uh, shall we go upstairs?"

"You want me to help you, huh?"

"Yes, please. Would you?"

"I don't know. I've kind of lost the urge now. But let's go up anyway and relax a little. I'm really not in the mood to start working yet."

I wondered just what kind of mood she was in. Climbing the stairs, I felt like a condemned prisoner on the way to the execution chamber. With my executioner right behind me. Watching my ass sway with those beady eyes of hers, more than likely, even though I tried my best to walk erect and avoid putting on a show. But I knew she could see the side-to-side swivel of my hips just the same, a movement impossible to conceal. For that matter, walking erect didn't seem so important by the time we reached the landing; I could already sense a certain excitement generating inside my body. I remembered the last massage only too well. Or the prelude to it, rather.

Oh shit, if rape is inevitable, why not relax and enjoy it?

Hah! If only I could have! But we were no sooner inside the bedroom when I realized that relaxation was a luxury beyond my means today. Mrs. Bontempo had power now. . .

"No, don't lie down. Get rid of that robe. I want to see you naked. Yeah. What a body! Leave the slippers on, though, they're kind of pretty. Walk around - let me look at you."

My disgust was tinged with fear, and I did as she commanded, making my performance deliberately provocative in an effort to end the humiliation by arousing her to action. I felt pretty sexy myself, admittedly, sashaying around stark naked except for the furry mules on my feet.

"Yeah, that's the way."

"Uh-huh. But don't you want to - "

"Listen, honey, and listen close. I don't want to have to say this again. You're stuck with me today; it's like I own you, see? Now I don't want to hurt you, so just behave yourself and remember that I'm bigger and stronger than you are. So it's up to you, baby, follow my orders and we can have fun together. Otherwise, well, you'll see how rough I can make it on you. Understand?"

"I - I understand."

"Then what the fuck are you stopping for? Walk around, just like I told you. Put that pretty body on parade for me. I'll let you know when to quit."

I paraded. Meanwhile she removed her dress. But that was all, I noted with a sigh of relief, just the outer garment came off and she was left in a slip and underneath that some sort of girdle. Or a corset, perhaps; I couldn't really tell. Her bulging breasts were half visible above the neckline of the slip, a repulsive and yet somehow fascinating sight. She sat down on the edge of the bed and watched me continue my promenade.

Then, abruptly, "Now crawl!"

Horror froze me. The command brought fresh clarity to my fevered mind. I shook my head. What was she trying to do, make a performing puppy out of me?

"Didn't you hear me? I said crawl. Do it!"

"No . . . please. . . "

But she was already up and moving toward me, her fat face a mask of sheer menace. Her hand shot out and caught my hair. She twisted savagely, driving me down until my knees struck the floor. My protest ended and I slumped forward on all fours. Anything to get it over with. I felt so tired all of a sudden. But even then I was already aware that crawling was no longer the issue. What she wanted from me was quite obvious now.

"See how rough I can make it on you?" She was bending my head back with one hand and rucking up her slip with the other. Then, inching backward and dragging me along by the hair, she reached the edge of the bed and sat down again. "There! Any woman who fools around with little girls ought to be a pretty good cuntlapper, I'd say. How about it, are you a good cuntlapper?"

I knew better than to give her a wrong answer. "Yes. I'm a very good cuntlapper."

The slip was out of the way. And the length of the corset made it only a minor obstacle. There were no panties either; nothing but an enormous hairy cunt staring me in the face, wet, glistening, heavy-lipped; I had never seen anything so ugly. Only I didn't have to look, of course, and I simply shut my eyes and thrust my face into the mushy mess.

It became a lot mushier in a minute, opening wide to engulf my nose and mouth, smothering me as she squirmed on the bed and rubbed it over my face, jutting up and all but swallowing me in that huge maw. And all but drowning me, too, deluging me with the juices it was drooling.

"Yeah. Suck it. Suck my cunt!"

I obeyed. I sucked and slurped and did everything humanly possible to please the cunt that was wrapped around me. Only I wasn't human anymore, just an animal. A thing. An object for that big clitoris to mash against. Until at last she shuddered and wheezed and climaxed on my face.

It was over. She had fallen backward and was gasping and heaving for breath, evidently finished with my services. I rose and raced to the bathroom, stumbling blindly in my misery and heading for the toilet to throw up. Much as my stomach churned, though, nothing came up. More amazing still, I realized that the sensation inside my body was one of sexual excitement, not sickness. I bathed my face thoroughly, cleansing it with soap first and ending with a cold water splash to clear my head and calm me down. Only it didn't work, exactly, and I was almost pleased to find those beady eyes open and ogling me greedily upon my return to the bedroom.

"It's about time you got back. We're not through yet. I might even keep you busy all morning, you beautiful cuntlapper."

I had it out with my husband that same night. Even if my body actually enjoyed sex with the likes of Mrs. Bontempo, I knew my position was just too precarious. So I made up a story about boredom and such and begged Cleve to give up his job at the mill and move out of Garnock with me. And I finally reached the desperation point where I told him it was impossible for me to stay here and keep my sanity. I was going whether he did or not. And if that meant divorce, well, so be it. No compromise!

Our talk must have been long overdue, it seemed. Cleve confessed that he loved Garnock and the mill and was probably more married to his job than he Was to me. More than that, Emma Glough's niece - no beauty, but one of the Garnock clan - would become an old maid if some smart young executive didn't grab her off. And as a single man, he would have a pretty good chance to do that all-important bit of grabbing. Mercenary, perhaps, but who was I to cast stones? It just came as a shock and then a relief to me to find that my husband wasn't opposed to a divorce. Especially when he was being so generous about money. I wanted no alimony, no ties with him, but he offered to pay for a quick and quiet out-of-state legal action plus a little financial help afterward until I landed a job somewhere and got on my feet again. Thus salving his conscience, no doubt, and also making sure that the break would be accomplished without any terrible scandal for old Emma to look down her nose at. But again, who was I to gripe?

I went off for a quickie divorce - no questions asked! - and then headed for New York. Oh shit, even if jobs were scarce, I could always look up Ingeborg and become a lesbian whore.

19

So I left Garnock behind me forever, Garnock Mills and the Garnocks and Emma Glough and Faith Orbison and my ultimate nemesis, fat Mrs. Bontempo. And, sadly, little Lulie - my only regret about shaking the dust of that place off my heels.

Jobs in New York, as it turned out, were far more plentiful than places to live. The housing situation was desperate. I stayed in a hotel until I finally found a suitable apartment. Suitable but expensive - only I didn't have much choice by then. Anyway, located at last, I phoned home - my old home, Northvale - to tell my sister what had happened. Only she had more to tell me.

It was quite a shock. During the time between Garnock and this phone call from New York, no one knew how to reach me. Dad had died and the funeral was already over. We had to get together and talk, Steffi said, but it would be more convenient for her to make the trip to New York than the other way around. So we left it like that and she arrived a few days later.

Steffi wasn't a kid anymore, of course, but she was still my little sister, my beautiful little sister, and I loved her dearly. She had sounded pretty upset over the phone, but I had assumed that to be because of the death and funeral without me around to lend a hand. Or to take charge, rather, since that was what my role would have been. Now, however, I learned the real reason; she really had something to get upset about.

Just before his death, Dad had told her the truth about us. We weren't blood sisters at all, just both adopted by the same couple, Dad and Mumsie Hogarth. Because of their advanced age, they had perpetrated the little fraud to give us a better sense of security as we grew up, and the county orphanage people had cooperated quite willingly. And only on his deathbed did dear old Dad decide to clear his conscience and spill the beans. No wonder poor Steffi was so upset!

After she told me about it, we both had a good cry. She fell into my arms and we comforted each other. And when the tears ended, we progressed to a little petting and fondling, enough to get us both mildly excited. Until she peered up at me with a twinkle replacing the tears in those pale blue eyes of hers.

"Jillian? Like they say, it's an ill wind. . . "

"Hush. No more of that. At least not now. You've got a lot more to tell me yet. About you and Georgie - did Dad leave the house to you? Are you going to go on living there?"

That brought up a brand-new aspect. Steffi was no longer happy as Georgie's wife; she wanted a divorce. Imitating me, perhaps, and I scoffed at the idea. But she had already reached her decision and I couldn't sway her. Especially since there would soon be quite a lot of money available, enough to give her that kind of independence. Dad had left a very simple will, simple but legal: in essence, "Divvy it all up between Jill and Steffi, any way they choose." And while the Hogarths had never been wealthy, there was still a sizable nest egg in the bank and a fairly heavy insurance policy to be cashed in. Also the house and property, free and clear of any mortgage. Oh shit, all of a sudden I was rich! I wouldn't have to go tear-assing around for a job just to pay the rent.

"Jillian, about the money, we can split it if you don't want me around after my divorce. But I'd rather live here and let you take care of everything. You know so much more about handling money than I do. I can't even keep a little checkbook straight."

Such a plaintive plea! My heart went out to her. How could I deny my darling little "sister" anything after a speech like that? Untroubled by the incest taboo, we went to bed together and made beautiful love. The gentle kind of love that lesbian sweethearts make - no violence, no kinky notions. I found it absolutely charming, both Steffi and the kind of love we made.

During the night, though, I came half-awake and practically lived a piece of my life over again. Just like that night so long ago - Steffi was down there licking my feet! She seemed content to remain there this time and after a while I just closed my eyes and went back to sleep. In the morning I even thought I had imagined the weird incident.

Over coffee, we made love with our eyes and then she plunked herself down on my lap. I kissed her sweet lips, reveling in the way her body yielded and her arms went around my neck. My fingers caressed her hair as I explored her mouth with my tongue. Pretty soon she slid one hand down from my neck and inside the housecoat I was wearing. She heard me moan and then slipped off my lap to the floor. Kissing my feet again, and it sure as hell wasn't my imagination this time!

"Steffi, don't. You're my lover, not my slave."

"I - I am Princess Jillian's slave."

"Huh? Oh, that was years ago. It was just a game. And you were my little sister then, my real sister."

"I know. I still am."

"You - you're what?"

"I'm your real sister. We're blood kin. I made up that story about Dad and the orphanage people. So if you want to get mad and hit me, go ahead. I love you. I love my princess. . . "

She was kissing my feet again. My sister. My incestuous lesbian sister. Oh shit, I was angry! But my anger didn't last, of course, since I was so happy to learn that we were really and truly sisters. Anyway, we had already broken the taboo and there was no way of remedying that. To me it seemed as final as a ruptured hymen. And meanwhile, well, I had a slave at my feet, a slave to groom and train and mold into whatever I cared to make of her. Better yet, I knew how now. . .

"You're right, my dear. A princess needs a slave."

"Mmm?"

"I'll expect service out of you, though. The best. And you can start improving right now, too. Don't just kiss my feet, lick them. Lick the soles, suck my toes - I'm your Princess Jillian and every part of my body should be precious to you."

She moaned rapturously. I jammed my foot into her mouth and stifled the sound. Then I leaned back lazily and watched her carry out my command. Fine. I didn't have to give any more orders at the moment. She was worshipping my feet nicely now, both feet, rubbing the soles against her cheeks. Licking, tonguing, sucking. And making tiny whimpering noises in her throat. Such happy noises!

"Enough, little slave. Look up at me."

"Huh? Princess?"

I opened the housecoat. "Kiss me here. Now! Not like last night, though. You were my lover then, now you're my slave!"

Her face plunged between my thighs. I lifted my legs and wrapped them around her head, squirming and thrusting against her mouth at the same time. But I was conscious of the training problem too, making judgments of how much natural skill she had and how much she might have to pick up the hard way.

Not that I had much to complain about. My little sister-slave was already a more than adequate cuntlapper. With that open mouth mashed against my yawning flesh, I had to bite my lips to keep from shrieking aloud.

But I suppressed the outcry successfully. I even kept my breathing to a slow minimum so that I could hear the noises Steffi was making. I could actually hear the rhythmic sound of her tongue lapping at me. Licking my cunt. My clit. I let her go on like that for a long time. Then, quite deliberately, I reached down with one hand and made a little nudging gesture against her bobbing head, just sharp enough to emphasize my command.

"Look up at me."

"Hmm?"

"Must I tell you twice? Stop kissing and look at me!"

No longer locked in, but still loosely circled by my bare legs, she turned her face upward. Her smeared cheeks were shiny with moisture, the love-dew from my cunt. She looked young and beautiful, a lovely slave girl indeed. Lucky me!

"Do you like it, Steffi? What we're doing?"

"Oh! Yessss. . . "

"Then you want to go on with it, right? You want to play the game some more?"

"Uh-huh. Whenever you say, Your Majesty."

"Forget the title for now. I'm not sure I like that one. I'll have to give it some thought first. But about the game - after this, we won't ever discuss it like that, not as a game, understand? Even if it is a game, it's got to be real to us. Otherwise there won't be much fun in playing it."

"Oh. I see what you mean."

"Do you, slave? Good. Now get your mouth back to work on my cunt again. Uh-huh. Show me what a good slave you can be. Ah yes, like that. Please me. Make your princess happy. That's what a slave is for. Oooh! Little cuntlapper. . . "

Little cuntlapper, my own sister Steffi - how exciting! I would soon have her licking my ass, too. Oh yes, I had a lot of hoops to make this kid jump through. And there was enough money to keep that my sole occupation. Imagine, nothing to do but live luxuriously and train my slave. Oh sure, we might get bored after a while. We might even run out of money, eventually. But for either ailment, well, I could always look up big blond Ingeborg. Nobody got bored when that one was around. And if money ever became a problem, maybe Steffi and I would both become lesbian whores. . . .



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