The Toy Shoppe - A Midwinter’s Tale
By Cordelia Speedicut


The letter seemed like a lifesaver. It was from my great-uncle Cyril, and it was the real thing, complete with ornate calligraphy (fancy handwriting for those of you who haven’t got any snail-mail recently). He was Grandma’s brother, and a bit of a black sheep, truth to tell. He was always turning up in odd places with goofy schemes. The family considered him loopy, but they liked him well enough, preferably far away. I’d only met him a few times, but I thought he was cool, if a bit eccentric. Now it seemed that he had recently bought a toy shop, in Victoria of all places; and did I want to come help with the Christmas rush?

Boy, did I ever – anything to get out of the little Kansas town I’d grown up in. It was a snowy mid-November and I’d been working as a waitress at that crummy coffee shop on Commercial Street for over four months. Ever since I graduated, in fact. It had been years since the last time I’d seen Uncle Cyril, so the letter was absolutely out of the blue. It was my ticket out into the wide world. Literally – there was bus and ferry fare tucked into the big envelope.

I was on a Greyhound bound for the Pacific Northwest in no time, with my lap full of maps. Having never been out of the county, even two days on the road didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. By lunchtime on the third day I was getting off of a real ship, suitcase in hand, to explore a genuine foreign city. It was a sunny day (I hadn’t seen any snow since I’d hit the coast), and warm enough that I didn’t even need my coat. God, there were even a few flowers blooming. Uncle’s shop, he’d written, was just off Shanghai Alley, near Chinatown. It had sounded perfectly quaint in the letter, but I got several strange looks when I asked for directions.

Soon I found myself on a quiet street lined with old brick buildings, near the docks. There were few stores, and fewer people. Lost, I approached a woman leaning on a lamppost to ask for directions. On the basis of her pose and her clothing - which consisted of fishnet stockings, a tube top and a wide belt that doubled as her skirt - I suspected that she was what, back home, they would have called a ‘lady of the night’ (Not that I was aware that we actually had any, of course.) And, given the hour, this woman was technically working the day shift.

Whatever, she looked friendly enough, and so I her asked if she knew whether “Ye Olde Toy Shoppe” was nearby. After looking my sensible Midwest wardrobe up and down, she smiled and answered, “Just around that corner – halfway up the street on your left. Hope they’ve got what you’re after.”

I continued on, regretting my choice in travelling clothes. Blue check pinafores and saddle-top shoes didn’t seem to blend in around here. Luckily, back in Seattle I had combed out my pigtails, but still.

The street in question was even quieter than the last – there was no one around at all, now. When a bus came booming around the corner, it nearly scared the life out of me. I was so rattled that the next thing I knew, I was up the road staring down a barely noticeable narrow gap between two brick buildings – Shanghai Alley. Peering into the gloom, I wondered why on earth anybody would put a toy shop, or anything else, down there. Still, I’d been three days getting this far, so I plunged onward.

The alley was really just a footpath; so narrow I could touch both grimy walls at once. After a ways, it widened slightly. There were now tiny shops on both sides, and it was very clear I wasn’t in Kansas any more. Take the tattoo shop to my right, for example. On a stool in the doorway sat the young proprietor. He was reading a book and, shirt off, was advertising his wares: he was covered with dragons and ships and pirates and maidens. Actually, I decided, unless he was amazingly flexible he was advertising for his competitor. (Like when you chose a hair-dresser - you shouldn’t pick the one that looks the best, because you’ll be wanting the gal she used.)

At any rate, this guy was well decorated. Extremely well, actually. What I’d taken for colourful trousers - weren’t. He reminded me of a circus sideshow I’d seen as a little girl. Except that guy had worn shorts, whereas at close range it was clear that this one did not. While I had never actually seen a penis before, I was fairly certain that they did not ordinarily have green scales and bright red eyes. I was shocked, but even so the thought struck me that that must have really, really hurt.

The man glanced up from his book, eye contact was made, and he solemnly winked. I blushed to my toes, and dropped my eyes downward – which only brought his lap back into view. The trouser snake, which was draped across his left thigh, trembled slightly and gently lifted its head as though it, too, planned to give me a wink. Mortified, I tore my eyes away and looked back up. He was already reading his book again, and whistling something that sounded very much like 'Follow the Yellow Brick Road'. Right - time to move on. I wished yet again that I had not worn gingham.

With one last peek at his growing green willie, I turned away. It’s kind of funny, I thought. The first penis I’ve ever seen, and it’s probably the most decorated I maybe ever will see.

Across the way was a full-service hemp shop. Not only coarse brown clothing hung in the window, but the stuff my guidance councillors used to call ‘paraphernalia’, and, to my surprise, the dried herb itself. There were more people around by now, not just the illustrated tattoo guy, but also other folks. Well, they weren’t just folks, exactly. There was an old man on a red unicycle, and some Rasta twins, all bound for the head shop. Plus a head-banging rocker type coming out of a hole-in-the-wall used record store, and some cute navy boys in full shore-leave sailor suits.

I continued on, past a sword-and-sorcery shop, which was kind of interesting. My hometown has three gun stores, but nowhere to buy a throwing axe. Inside, the clerk was dressed like Xena – in spite of being a guy. Next along was a magic shop, with a notice in the window ominously stating: ‘Only Open Dusk to Dawn’. Then the alley turned and narrowed again, so much so I had to press myself sideways against the wall to let a guy get past me. He had an eye-patch and a scar on his cheek, and he looked like a pirate, complete with a big red sash around his waist. He only needed a parrot.

I kept moving - just ahead a painted door and window were let into the brickwork. This being the last shop along the alley, I stepped inside. No Uncle Cyril here, either. It was a Chinese herbal shop, in what looked like a converted opium den (not to say I’d ever seen one). The place was all cluttered up with creepy dried things in glass jars, and clay pots sealed with wax and string, and – Jesus, I thought, is that a stuffed alligator hanging from the ceiling?

The signs on the walls were all in Chinese lettering, and I expected a hundred-year-old oriental guy behind the counter, too. There wasn’t. Instead, there was a pretty young girl, about the same age as me – but she was Chinese. I asked my question.

“Ye Olde Toy Shoppe?” The girl’s English accent seemed to enunciate the silent extra letters. “Oh, yes. It is in a passageway on your left, at the far end of the courtyard.”

So I doubled back, planning to sneak another peek at that tattooed guy’s cock on the way past. No luck with that, on account of there was now a pretty blond girl sitting astride his lap, with her back to his colourful chest and her hands on his knees. She was wearing a tight white bodysuit with a fancy lace collar.

Except, when I got closer, she leaned right back and put an arm behind tattoo-guy’s head – and then I could see from her taut nipples and her belly button that I had been wrong about the bodysuit. The lace collar and cuffs were simply painted on her shockingly pale flesh. Even her areolas only showed as faint smudges on her white breasts.

She was squirming around in a way that suggested serious hanky-panky was going on underneath her. The two of them obviously didn’t care who knew about it, either. I joined the sailors to watch in slack-jawed silence. When she noticed me, she looked startled, then tilted her head onto her shoulder and stared at me like she was sizing me up. Geez - I couldn’t imagine why these people thought I stood out. Finally she relaxed and smiled, and slowly lifted her bottom. This served to expose her bald mound and, gradually, the fat green serpent that had been hidden inside of her. It was much bigger than when I had seen it last.

I was clearly in a seriously weird place. These people were doing it right out in the street – well, out in the alley, anyway. Resuming my quest, I turned away and hustled past the mesmerized sailors (OK, I shuffled off after I had taken in a proper eyeful). Only a little further along, in a dark alcove, I saw a sign. A sandwich board, actually, which read: “Ye Olde Toy Shoppe - this way”. Underneath, a painted hand pointed down a low-arched side passage. Not far in, this pathway abruptly dropped down a flight of stone stairs. There was an eerie reddish glow coming from below. Great. Just great, I thought.

Again, I forced my feet to carry me forward. At the bottom was a brick-walled hall, more a grotto, really, which held exactly one store – a toy store. At last! The cave-like room was warmly lit by a myriad of red and green lights that surrounded the shop’s long, low front window. Like in a Dickens story, the window had those little diamond panes, only with fake snow painted on. I peeked inside.

In some ways, it looked a lot like the Christmas display in the front window of Bill’s Department Store, back home. There were sprigs of plastic holly, billowing drifts of cotton batting snow and a toy train. There were even the little elves hauling ribbon-wrapped presents, although these ones looked suspiciously like painted plaster garden gnomes wearing toques.

On the other hand - where shall I start? You will of course have guessed what kind of toys were in the little wheelbarrows, but it was news to me. Even with the goings-on I had just seen, I still had this fixed idea in my head from when I’d first read dear old Great-Uncle Cyril’s letter – you know, a Santa’s workshop sort of thing. “Gawd!” I blurted. There were piles of stuff, and I didn’t even know what some of it was, but I was blushing on the strength of what I did recognize.

In the middle was a display of phallic objects – dildos, that is – all laid out symmetrically in a big arrowhead pattern: little ones in the middle, then bigger and bigger to the sides, like those Air Force pictures you see of a jet with all its missiles spread on the ground on either side. Some were flesh coloured, both pink and black; others were green or red or icy crystal or silver (to go with the Christmas theme). The biggest ones definitely looked like rockets.

Over to one side was a collection of less sleek variations on the same theme. These objects were still basically dick-like, but they all seemed to sport attachments, or protruding knobs and fingers. They stood propped on their bases, a tiny Stonehenge of twaddlers, surrounded by billows of cotton snow. Framing them were short strings of fat, colourful beads, each string with a big ring on one end. They looked innocent enough, but the company they kept suggested otherwise.

On the other side, an ‘elf’ with a rake stood amongst a mound of colourful lotions and lubricants. Nearby, some boxes were labelled ‘Erector Set’ and others ‘Jessica Rabbit’ – but the pictures on the fronts weren’t near what I expected. Also there was a selection of ‘Barbie’ dolls. Except – they were called ‘Lili’ dolls, nearly the same but distinctly Germanic, and wearing tiny black corsets and fishnet stockings. There were also some life-sized mannequins alongside showing off adult versions of the same thing, plus other clothes made mostly of leather, vinyl, and/or feathers.

And then there was the train that chugged around it all. The locomotive was black, all right, but … it too was shaped like a penis. It circled around and around, and each time it disappeared into a tunnel that was a plaster hill shaped like two spread thighs and … “Gawd!” I repeated.

In one corner watching over everything sat an inflatable girl, wearing only a candy-striped toque and scarf. She was anatomically correct and I suspected she wasn’t just for use in the pool. Curled in her lap was a fluffy tiger-striped kitten, which startled me by stretching and yawning.

A little bell tinkled over the door when I stepped inside. At the back of the shop, a girl stood waiting behind the counter. She looked about my age, and she was shockingly beautiful. I mean, I literally gasped. This girl had the face of an angel, for a start, with big, shining eyes. She was tall and broad shouldered, and she had curves - more Marilyn than Rita, as my dad had said once about a woman at the mall. (I’d had to ask him what he was talking about, and after looking around to make sure my mother was out of sight, he’d told me that those were the names of pin-up girls, back in the olden days – sort of like those desktops for guys, now. He had meant soft, and voluptuous – although the latter was not a word he ever used in front of me.)

On the other hand, I could tell this girl had muscles, too. Not like she lifted weights, just that she was solid – like those Olympic swimmers on TV. She was lit from behind, and it made her pale skin glow. In contrast, her spiky short-cut hair was glossy black, and her full lips were painted a deep red. She was wearing a red bustiere, tight green hot pants, and black boots that laced up above her knees - all presumably to go with the elf/gnome theme.

And, most particularly, when she came around from behind the counter I saw that she had great folded wings tattooed up her back, across her shoulders and down the backs of her arms. Raven black on her pale skin, they were extraordinary - so detailed that I felt as though I could reach out and touch feathers.

The whole effect was just a little unsettling. A few of the girls back in my old high school had done the Goth thing, but by comparison this girl, even without the attitude, made them look like Anne of Green Gables.

Or Dorothy. “Whoa! Did ya bring Toto?” she exclaimed, and then, without further greeting, she laughed heartily and swept me into her arms. I received a huge hug, like we were long lost friends, and then a kiss full on the mouth. Finally she gave me a chance to catch my breath, and while holding me at arms length she did the introductions. “You’ll be Jane, and I’m Joy. Cyril said you’d be here any day now.”

She parked me on an old sofa that sat against the back wall, and then popped out of sight down a back hall. “Your uncle told me all about you,” she called out. “He thought you’d be great for this place.”

Huh?

“You were always his favourite relative.” Emerging back in view, she added, “Isn’t that nice? Here - you must be parched!” She bounced down on the couch beside me and thrust a bottle into my hand. “Drink up!”

Dazzled, I did as I was told. It was water – cool and cleansing. Joy was right. I was thirsty. As I tipped back the bottle, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven.

“I’ve been working here for a couple of weeks now, keeping this place going until you got here. What do you think?” Joy swept a feather-decorated arm around to indicate the shop.

Actually, I had barely noticed anything else besides Joy. Now I focussed on the rest of my surroundings and realized that I was in a space that more resembled a living room than a store. There were shelves of goods, for sure, with more stuff like what I’d seen in the window; plus there was an old fashioned till on the counter. But there was also a second couch like the one I sat on, and some comfy chairs.  They were all covered with plush throws, and set out around a big rag rug. A coffee table in the middle held a pot of just that, plus some books and magazines. A wooden fan spun lazily overhead. The room had a cozy, lived-in look.

“Cyril couldn’t be here, so he asked me to welcome you to his home – your new home. There’s a suite upstairs and a little kitchen just through there,” Joy said, nodding to the back hall. “Groovy, eh?”

It was nice (although ‘groovy' was not a word I had ever expected to hear in the real world). “Uh, yes,” I agreed, while trying to decide which question to ask first. I went with something easy: “Do you work here?”

“Sure – well, more a sort of faithful customer, like. I’ve just been helping out until you got here.”

I felt a sudden pang at the thought of this lovely creature going away. “Are you leaving, then?”

“Nope, not yet – got to get you settled in, first.” Her smiled widened. “You’re probably beat. Like a massage? I’m pretty good at it.”  

Well, I wasn’t a bit tired anymore, but I was achy. Overwhelmed at the pace of developments, I nodded agreement. “Yes, please.”

“Lay down right here. I’ll get some oil, while you get out of that …” - there was a tiny pause, while Joy apparently suppressed another wise-crack – “dress.” She stood and rummaged through a nearby selection of massage oils.

Meanwhile I began to unbutton my pinafore. In the space of two minutes, I thought, this stranger has me taking my clothes off. What next? I soon found out.

Holding an amber bottle triumphantly, Joy turned and grinned. “Best you take off that bra for this, and I think the panties can go, too. You definitely won’t need the shoes and knee socks, either.”

My first response was to cringe, just a tiny bit. I’d never even stripped in the locker room back at school, if I could avoid it. Somehow, though, it seemed perfectly reasonable here, and slowly I began to remove the rest of my sensible cotton defences. Off came the bra, and my breasts sprang out free and high, my nipples tightening in the breeze from the fan. My skin was so sensitive I could feel the warm air caress me, everywhere.

This was getting easier. Shoes and socks went next, and good riddance. Suddenly they were nothing but a barrier to sensation. When I had shed them, I rubbed the smooth tingling skin on my shins and wriggled my toes on the thick rug in pleasure. Much better!

As I exposed myself, I admired my body. I found myself revelling in its mechanical perfection in a way I never, ever had before. I had always envied the skinny girls, but now my full breasts and hips revealed themselves to be appealingly rubenesque. Damn, I look pretty good! I swung my thick long hair to flow over my shoulders and saw it wasn’t just brown, but a sultry auburn. And those annoying freckles – I examined my face in the nearby mirror. Yup. Still there. But I’d never realized just how sexy that dusting of colour across the bridge of my nose looked.

I was definitely light-headed, now. “What was in that drink you gave me?”

“Just bubbles, I think – it was Perrier. Nice tits.”

Instead of bristling at this crude, guy-type compliment, I simply nodded, acknowledging my dues. And, rather than hunching out of my underpants, as I normally did, I stood and drew down the top with my thumbs. Wiggling my hips, I slid the scrunched cotton down to my ankles, then straightened and tossed them away with a toe. It was an erotic display, if I do say so (in spite of my utilitarian drawers), and I did it without a second thought. Not only that, but when I had stripped to the skin, I honest–to-God stretched, languorously, while rubbing the fine down that decorated my mound. I may have been a virgin, but in the wee small hours of the night I had occasionally polished the pearl (as my brother called it), and so I recognized the tingling buzz building between my legs. I wouldn’t have been caught dead doing anything like this a week ago. Now, though, it just felt natural.

Joy’s tongue appeared, to moisten her ruby lips with a flicker. “OK – face down.”

Still uncertain what had come over me, I lay down as instructed. I heard a slight rustling, and then I felt the drizzle of warm oil on my back. It started at the nape of my neck, and spiralled down my shoulders in a fine thread, before crossing the small of my back and performing a loop on my bum. Then it traced a line along my butt crack and continued relentlessly down the back of my left thigh all the way to my heel, before finally breaking contact long enough to cross to my right foot and lay a path back up my other thigh.

It finished with a liquid exclamation point on my tailbone, and it was the most erotic thing I had ever felt in my life.

“Relax,” murmured Joy, which was easy for her to say, maybe, because that’s when I felt her bare bum as she straddled my thighs. Her skin was smooth and hot. Not only that she felt about twenty degrees warmer than me, but sexy/hot - the image of Joy sitting naked over my back flashed in my head. Not that it matters, I suppose (outside of Kansas), but for the record I’d never before thought of other girls in a sexual way. Now my own skin tingled all over; and my pussy, which was already buzzing thanks to her oiling my back, was beginning to seriously twitch.

And then she touched me – I mean, besides her bum cheeks on my legs - as she started to work the scented oil into my shoulders. It was strange – the first contact of her long, strong fingers was electric, but soothing too. Her touch constantly varied from the faintest of butterfly strokes to deep kneading, without any predictable pattern. It was delightful. I sighed, and really did relax, almost floating, although I wasn’t remotely sleepy.

The massage continued down the same path as the oil had before. The sensations were so intense that my whole being seemed focused on my back. I thought I had a handle on it, but by the time she had reached my backside, I started to squirm. And, when Joy’s hands traced the form of my left cheek along its junction with my thigh, I lost it. I began to come like I never had before.

It should have left me drained, but instead I felt energized. Joy carried on as though nothing had happened, skooching her bum down my legs as she continued the massage. Down one leg she went, and across, and I came again when she did my right foot. Go figure - maybe it was in anticipation of her trip back up that leg. In any case, I came yet again, big time, when she reached my right cheek.

Before I had quite returned to planet earth, she delivered a firm whack to said cheek, and hopped off my legs.

“Erk!” was my elegant response, and I squirmed around until I could see her.

She was standing close beside the couch, hands on her hips and now wearing only her red bustiere. The hand span space between her thighs was precisely at my eye level, and so I found myself looking squarely at the neatly trimmed patch of kinky black fur decorating the top of her mound.
Below which, I got my first proper look at another woman's ‘treasure’ (as my mother had referred to it on the one occasion that region was ever discussed). Joy reached down and spread those fleshy red lips, which exposed another cute little set of orchid petal lips inside the first ones. I caught a flash of silver in there, and saw she had a row of little rings along the edge. She began running two fingers beside the rings, then moved to the top of her notch, up to her pink nubbin, and tugged on that for a bit.  

Oddly, I still wasn’t the least bit embarrassed – but I decided I ought to be, so I redirected my gaze, first down. She was truly amazing. Her legs were long and perfect; on her left ankle, where most girls might display a rose, Joy sported a tiny skull and crossbones tattoo. Another Goth thing, I thought. Then I scanned up, past her pussy to her tight belly above. Yet another silver ring sparkled on the rim of her bellybutton.  When she saw I was watching, she stretched and unhooked the bustiere, exposing her breasts at last.  Proud and firm, they owed nothing by way of support to her costume - on the contrary it must have kept them squashed.  She rubbed them together as though reviving the circulation after their confinement. Her nipples tightened with the attention.

“My turn,” she announced.

She knelt down, right in front of me, and up-ended the little bottle on herself. I got a glimpse of the label: ‘Jade’s Good Tasting Massage Oils’. The stuff drizzled onto the front of her neck so that it flowed down her chest and cascaded off those luscious breasts. I was fascinated, and aroused in spite of myself. When she leaned forward and started rubbing me with them, spreading the scented oil around, I had to admit the feel of Joy's tits pressed into mine was rather pleasant. OK, actually it was exquisite, and I began to help her out. We had to wrestle some so we didn't miss anyplace, sliding and squashing ourselves together.

Still holding her tightly, I took the bottle and started to put some oil her back. I soon found myself marvelling at those magnificent wings. The tattoo flowed across her beautiful hard body like it was a part of her. Running my hands over it, I could feel her powerful muscles ripple under the soft skin.

Pretty soon we were slick with oil and gleaming all over, our four hands roving everywhere as the buzz began to build.

Then, abruptly, Joy disentangled herself and got me to sit in a big wicker chair. Lifting one leg up over each of the chair's big arms, she opened my legs wide apart, then leaned in and planted a big smooch on those lips. This was definitely something new for me (I told you I hadn’t got out much) and I wasn’t near ready for what happened when she sort of tickled at my clit with her tongue. It was like an electric current had touched me. I blinked and gasped … and clapped my hands down to press Joy’s face against me.

After a deal of terrific nuzzling and licking, she tucked a finger into me, and wriggled it about. I could tell it was real juicy in there – by that time my cunnie was positively drooling down my legs. Suddenly the next orgasm hit me and I felt my pussy grip her finger tightly inside me. Then without my meaning to do it, I humped forward, and it was like my snapping pussy was eating her finger up to the knuckle.

After the rush passed, Joy looked up and gave me a wicked grin. She went back to munching my nethers, and this time every time I came close to bliss she backed off. I got so close I could taste it – never mind I’d already come, a whole bunch of times – but it turned out she knew a thing or two about extending pleasure. She was able to sense my level of excitement, and before I approached the point of no return she would shift her focus or slow her motions until I was off the boil. Even as she licked and nibbled, she entered me again, first with one cunning finger, and then two, and always she seemed to know where best to stimulate me.  

Each time she brought me to the brink, and then held back, I nearly screamed. It seemed to go on forever, and then – oh my god! - she began to push her fingers deeper. By this time my poor cunnie was fairly slavering for her touch. Before I knew it, she folded her fingers together and kept on pushing. Slowly, she was able to thrust her hand completely inside my virginal pussy. It was impossible, and I should have been shocked, but I was also well gone. I recall I pushed back to meet her, and I know I shrieked with relief as my body went on automatic (yet again), my cunt muscles clamping rhythmically on her pumping forearm.

I was just catching my breath between orgasmic peaks when the bell over the door tinkled, and I looked up to see a prim old lady who resembled my grandma. She was carrying a wicker basket. Busted!

Joy followed my glance and said, “Margaret, how are you?”

“Hello, my dear, I’m just fine, thank you.” The old girl gave us a grandmotherly smile and added, “Don’t get up – I just need to pick up a few things. I’ll put them down on my account.”

To me, Joy said, “Margaret runs a riding academy, upstairs. One of our best customers.”

I managed to gasp, “Horses, upstairs?” I think I can be excused for not thinking all that clearly.

Joy gave Margaret a quizzical look, and simply said, “This is Jane.”

Margaret nodded as if that explained everything. “Pleased to meet you, sweetie. Cyril has told me so much about you. Pop up and visit us, sometime.” With that she wandered off with her basket to do some shopping.

Joy picked up where she had left off, leaning up to lick my tummy while pinching my clit with the crook of her elbow. I’ll say that again – with her whole forearm inside me, she bent her bicep so as to catch my throbbing clit inside the fold of her elbow. And she wiggled her fingers deep in my belly. I came twice more, loudly, before she extracted her arm from inside me with a rude shlurp.

I slumped back against the cushions, while I came to my senses, and tried to take in what had just happened. Margaret had gone, unnoticed, sometime during our wrestling match. Joy, I saw, had lain back opposite me and had inserted her big toe between my pussy lips – which to my surprise were in no way stretched. I held her toe in a firm but friendly cunt-lock.

She grinned at me and asked, “Now are you relaxed?”

“God, yes! That was amazing!” I continued to let my mind wander, reviewing everything that had happened this afternoon. I still couldn’t believe it, and yet here I was, undisturbed by it all. Finally something occurred to me. “Joy – where’s uncle Cyril?”

“Oh, he’s dead,” she said dreamily.

“WHAT?!”

“His heart gave out, two weeks back, the randy old devil. Quite painless, he said. We had a long talk about it. He was an interesting old gaffer. Pity you missed him, really. He spoke highly of you.”

“'We had a long talk about it’?” I gave my beautiful companion a hard look. She had her arms lightly crossed under those magnificent breasts, and the wings inked along them looked different than they had when I’d first seen them – like they were ruffled.

  I shivered, and then asked, “Who are you?”

Joy continued as though I had not spoken. “He said to say hi.”

“Is he in heaven?”

“Nah!”

“Hell then?” – a whisper.

“'Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.’ Sorry! I love that line. No, there are just other planes than this one - some better, some worse. He’s moved on, that’s all. Had good karma, though. Probably came back as a house cat.”

We both turned to look at the striped kitten, which was now preparing to pounce on an unsuspecting gnome.

“Not that one, though. Honest.”

 My mind boggled. “So you’re, like, the angel of death?”

“Well, I guess you could say I was your Angel of Death – yeah.” She gave me a little smile.

“I’m going to die, too?”

“Everybody’s gonna die, lover. But, no - not exactly. You're already are dead. Don’t ya remember that bus?”

I did – but only up to the squeal of breaks. If anything came after that, my brain had apparently refused to register the squishy bits. “But … I feel fine.” I held my very real hand in front of my face. This was ridiculous. We had just fucked. Technically – and here I looked down to where my pussy held tight to her caressing digit – we still were. “Give me a break”.

“Whoa! Denial and bargaining. Anyway, you should be feeling way better than fine! Lucky thing that bus didn’t stop, and there was no one else around.” Joy (a. k. a. TAOD) gave a wink. “It’s kind of hard to explain – the science of theology hasn’t evolved much on this plane. The thing is, revivals aren’t my department, but re-animation I can do. See - you’re dead as a dodo, no question. But I’ve kept your body going to hold your spirit.”

“You mean I’m un-dead?”

Nah – you’re most sincerely dead. Ha! Sorry. More kind of like, oh, a zombie, I guess.”

Joy saw my look of dazed horror and continued, “Bad analogy, maybe. Anyway, don’t worry, you don’t need to eat brains, or drink blood. You don’t really need to eat, at all. ‘Course, water will keep your fluids up - lubrication, and all,” – she smirked at this – “and no reason not to eat chocolate – you won’t be gaining any weight, now. If you do eat, bran muffins would be a good idea.” Raising an eyebrow, she added, “Keeps you regular.” She paused to give time for this to sink in (which none of it did, as yet), and then said, “So – ya wanna go for a swim?”

I blinked at this complete switch over to a topic that seemed somewhat less important to my future, or possible lack of one.

“Only, there’s a little pool up on the roof. Just a big hot tub, really, with a cedar deck all ‘round it. Real private. See, Cyril owns the whole building - or rather you do, now. You were in his will, and nobody but you and me know that you’re, um, vitally challenged. If you stay here, no one is likely to find out.”

“What happens if I go somewhere else? Do I turn to dust, or something?”

“Nah – but in this neighbourhood, no one will care that you’re body is at room temperature, and that you never, ever get any older.”

“But – why? I mean, why was I recycled, or whatever?”

“It’s Christmas?”

“It’s November. So, why?”

“OK. The thing is, well, you probably heard about how I like to take the odd holiday. And it’s nice to spend time playing with people I know. So, all over the world, I’ve made friends like you.”

I was pretty sure this wasn’t what they meant by ‘making friends’, but I just said, “So you can’t have live friends?”

“Sure – I’ll introduce you to one or two today. But those relationships don’t … last, if you follow me.”

Well, I did follow her, mainly because she had unplugged her toe and set off down the back hall. At the end a stairwell led up to a large landing. This held another set of stairs down to the street, plus a large door painted in red lacquer.

“That’s Margaret and her girls’ knock shop,” said Joy. She led me back into the stairwell, and this time we entered a normal hallway. She continued to name my tenants. “301’s Carl, he’s the tattoo shop guy, and 302’s Marie. Pale lady – runs the occult shop. You might see her tonight. I’ve never seen her drink … wine. Ha, Ha.”

“Right - I think I saw her, um, sitting with Carl, down in the alley.”

“Oh? She’s an early riser today. Course there’s no direct sun down there. What? Don’t give me that look – I said you weren’t a vampire. I didn’t say there was no such thing. I wonder what she made of you?”

“Er - why?”

“She could tell you were dead. You’ve got no aura, see.” Before I could ask what that meant, Joy breezed off down the hall and led me through the last door. “And this is your place.”

I followed her inside and temporarily forgot my necrotic status. My new home was awesome - a huge open loft, with an upper gallery and a spiral staircase leading to the roof above. The place was full of comfortable (and expensive looking) furniture. The tall windows nearest me overlooked the garden terrace roof of the lower building right across the alley. On the other side of  an eight-foot gap I could see an iron railing holding back a profusion of shrubs and flowers. This greenery surrounded a small cedar deck, and in the middle of the deck a good-looking naked couple were humping like dogs.

They were both facing me, and the girl, whose head was thrown back, actually waved. I waved back as Joy came up beside me and put her arm around my waist. Only then did it occur to me that we, too, were starkers – and glistening with oil. We’d left our clothes scattered downstairs (and the shop unlocked).

I was stimulated by the sight of our lusty neighbours, but also intrigued. “I didn’t know people could do it that way.”

“God! Didn’t they teach you anything at school?”

Fat chance. I had a sudden image of a sex-ed class, something that, legend had it, was taught somewhere in America (probably California). I pictured the couple I was now watching going at it on top of Mister Hardrack’s desk – him pumping, her squealing, and papers and pencil flying left and right - while old man Hardy’s saying, “People, make a note of what Miss Juno says when she comes. I want you to write a haiku about it, later.”  I giggled out loud, as the image in my head played on: “And don’t forget to get your permission slips back for next week’s field trip to Miss Margaret’s Leaping Academy.”  I ended my daydream with a loud snort, and then looked over at my new friend out of the corner of my eye.

Joy, who was waving with me, had turned and was giving me a raised-eyebrow look. When she saw my embarrassment (not at being buck-naked, you’ll note) she abruptly leaned over and stuck her tongue in my ear. “They must have taken the afternoon off – usually they only fuck over their lunch hour. Which reminds me – I’m famished.” She marched over to the kitchen.

I blinked. Was this more of Joy’s twisted humour? “Death – famine – what’s next, war and, watsizname, pestilence?”

“Chill out,” came Joy’s voice, her head in the refrigerator. “I work alone. Want some milk?”

“Um – yeah, milk sounds good.” It did, too. I was near to drooling when I smelled the big, sticky cinnamon bun she extracted from a breadbox. Like she’d warned me, it wasn’t stomach-growling hunger, just a craving for that sweet comforting taste.

She took a gooey bite, sugary crumbs tumbling down her lovely chest, and then tossed the thing across to me while she poured milk into some big wine glasses.

After the sticky buns and milk, well of course we had to lick the crumbs off each other. I came big-time when Joy chased a mote with her pointy tongue around and around my clit (that was her story, anyhow). And, after that we definitely needed a shower. This involved a lot of further groping accompanied by some loofa action. After a grand finale, in which we were skittering around on the tiles under a pounding stream of water, Joy suggested we go topside to dry off in the sunshine.

We proceeded up the spiral staircase to the pillow-strewn rooftop and spent the rest of the afternoon lounging naked in the sun. Joy’s idea of privacy wasn’t quite the same as mine – there was an old brick office building overlooking us, just as we overlooked the next building to the south. Now it was my turn to occasionally wave at the various folks leaning out above us, as we proceeded to more leisurely explore and stimulate one another's bodies. (Apparently, 'private' was a relative concept for Joy.)

Never mind coming to grips with the fact that I was dead, I couldn't even get over the idea that I was making out with a woman. Of course Joy was much more than a woman, but her plumbing seemed to be the same. I was definitely learning what it was to give pleasure, as well as receive it.  

A leisurely warm-up developed into a long, satisfying romp, which took us pretty much a full lap around the cedar-decked rooftop – including in and out of the heated pool. The spectacle of our bodacious bodies writhing around - particularly Joy with her great black wings - must have provided some stimulation to the audience above. (I don’t know what they made of all the time we spent at the bottom of the pool). I sure found it stimulating, anyway. This being dead thing might not suck, after all.

During the subsequent break, Joy said, “I’ve got something to pass the time until the boys come along.” That we were expecting company was news to me. “It’s one of the benefits of owning a toy store, ” Leaning behind a planter, she lifted out a most remarkable toy indeed. “Behold the BFC 9000.”

It was like one of the torpedoes in the shop window - a humongous, flesh-coloured model of an erect cock. Easily three feet long, it was longer and thicker than my arm. Using my first officially sighted example as my benchmark - that of Carl the tattooed man (from which I mentally removed the snake tattoo, and Marie’s pale pussy) - I reckoned that the BFC was much larger than life but otherwise accurate.

Joy flourished it like a sword, flexing it slightly over her head to demonstrate its stiff, rubbery construction. On closer inspection, I saw that it had a head on each end – a double dong. I was transfixed at the sight, and at the thought that I soon would be. Transfixed, that is.

"Check it out - each end is different," she said, and she confirmed her intentions by having me lie back on a stack of cushions, my bottom higher than my head.  Then she opened my knees and set one end to my cunnie.  Producing a fresh bottle of oil from under one of the pillows, she drizzled the liquid onto the top-most head of the shaft so that a warm stream ran all the way down it and over me, while at the same time pressing down with the thing. Once she had lodged the tip inside me, she began to twist and push it. As it sank in I was squirming something to see - sometimes clutching at the toy, sometimes the cushions under my head. At one point she hauled it all the way out of me, and showed me the thing, her thumb marking a point on its length, like a dipstick. I caught hold of it and helped her stuff it back inside me, to the sound of applause from several secretaries.  
 
Joy twisted it a bit and slid it in deeper than ever, until finally she decided it was time for the next phase. Releasing her grip, she shifted her position, while I eagerly took over cranking the thing. Then I stopped and opened my eyes, and looked over my belly to see how things stood.  Well, it stood pretty tall. It seemed to be waving around in the air a mile. Joy adjusted herself so she was sitting astride my thighs, and I had a brief notion of how boys must feel, to see a substantial cock rear from your crotch to line up with a waiting cunnie.

As I watched Joy drove herself onto her end of the thing, and the impression vanished. I couldn’t feel it sliding into her pretty pussy, but the impact forced it another inch or so into mine. That I felt, somewhere up behind my rib cage, which didn’t seem possible but felt really, really good!  She had swallowed a good bit on the one go, herself, and soon we found a new rhythm. Lying back, she held on tight to the thing's middle until her hands met mine - and then we linked arms and began to buck our hips together and back. As we worked, more and more of the part that stood between us disappeared from sight until, locked in alignment by that hidden dowel, we were hungrily grinding and slithering our cunt lips together.

The explosion that followed beat all the rest – I think mostly because we came at the same time. It was like it fed back and forth, or something.

Afterward, still linked by that big rubber wang, we lay sated in each other’s arms, eyes closed - in my case soaking in the afternoon sun, rather like a lizard on a rock.

After a while I opened an eye and drank in the sight my new lover. “You asleep?”

“Death never sleeps,” was her murmured reply.

“Could have fooled me.”

 “You don’t need to sleep, either, but it’s still nice to lay back and think of nothing once in a while.”

No sleep? What else didn’t I know? “Just what am I? And I don’t want to hear ‘zombie’ again!”

Joy obliged. “I have another friend,” – I knew very well what kind she meant – “who calls herself ‘re-anime’ – uses it on her business cards, the cheeky thing. Nobody has any idea what it means, and they’re too embarrassed to ask.”

I lay my head on a firm breast, closed my eyes to the peanut gallery above, and tried to think of nothing. Not as easy as it sounds - I’d had an eventful day. I lay quiet for a while, and then felt a feather brush my cheek. My eyes snapped back open … and there in Joy’s hand was a seagull feather.

“Gotcha!”

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