On his forty-second birthday, the Bishop of Hunwich woke with an extraordinary hard-on. The night had been curiously warm, especially for April, and while he’d slept, his tossing and turning had twisted the sheets, leaving him exposed in his stripy pajamas. As you might imagine, it was tough to miss what lay between his legs: the bulge of a lifetime, a bulge like never before.
This wouldn’t have been so shocking if lust had been part of his struggle, but since he was confirmed at the age of twelve, he’d rarely been tempted by sex. After all, he’d been raised by a father who had knocked the sin out of him, with a ruler, a rod, and the palm of his hand. The bishop had learned to bury his lusts in a dark, inner tomb. But here he was, at the age of forty-two, harder than ever before—so hard that reading from Revelations failed to quell the beast. He was deeply ashamed, yet even unveiling himself and staring at his rigid sex didn’t shame him enough to save him. In fact, the act of staring made him so stiff and glistening that he thought he might ejaculate, right there, right then.
Truth was, the bishop had been having a difficult year. Just two years before, when he gained the title of bishop, he’d been so fervent about his religion that it felt like his only passion. Yet since then, he had lost many loved ones, and his pride had sunken into loneliness. His best friend had died of heart failure, his mother had simply disappeared, his mentor took an overdose, and his beagle—his beloved Sammy—had been killed by a drunk driver. His brother still lived in Ireland, but wasn’t easy to contact and was so busy being happy that the bishop felt sadder just thinking about him. And since losing his loved ones, try as he might, he’d found it hard to have faith of any kind. Sometimes, he wondered if God was punishing him. When he looked back on the past ten years, he was ashamed to see that he’d been guilty of ceaseless conceitedness. He’d been proud. He could see it now. And pride was the worst sin of all.
Yet here he was, on Good Friday, with a whole new sin arising: lust most profound. Were these temptations punishments, too? Or tests of a kind? Did heaven bring him this hardness to teach him to be meek?
If so, it was certainly working.
In any case, he was a holy man whose seed, he reasoned, should never be spilled, so a cold shower proved the only answer. And, for a while, it did fix the whole affair. Yet when the maid, Josephine, a large and lovely woman from South Korea, arrived?at the breakfast table and placed half a grapefruit on a white plate in front of him, he found himself appreciating the beauty of her dark eyes, not to mention her plump derrière. Beneath her black dress, Josephine’s breasts swelled, and where the fabric met her chest was the cleft between her bosoms—a cleft that made the bishop think of the deep ravines and caverns where he might roughly ravage her, fucking those delectable breasts. Oh, to feel the slippery film that would form as he fucked them! Oh, to feel those nipples sliding against his hands! Oh, to watch his sex as he rubbed it so briskly, watching it grow gargantuan while he took his pleasure!
Beneath the breakfast table, the bishop was hard as a rock. Another cold shower, it seemed, was the only fix.
It was the same throughout the day, during his bishop’s duties. In both his round-table meetings, he grew hard beneath the table as he imagined sliding his cock into the mouths of each clergyman who spoke against gay love with a destructive certainty. The bishop was meant to be against gay marriage, not to mention gay ordination, but in this state of hardness, how could he criticize sexuality at all? Actually, he could fuck a man right now. Yes, he mused. Anyone would do. Sex made you vulnerable. That much was clear. And how did people cope with this constant longing? It made you feel naked, terrified, alone.
Once again, only the coldest cold could quell his desire—a handful of water from the lavatory itself, dispensed with a groan that fell to tears. He buried his face in his hands as his cock grew limp beneath him and sobbed quietly into his fingers. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered, “are you telling me to leave the church? Am I no longer worthy?” But no sooner had he asked this painful question that he found himself hard once again, his sex gleaming with excitement. The more he stared down, the more he saw himself grow, and the hornier he felt. To watch his cock growing beneath his waiting hands was captivating. Once again, he administered cold water. Once again, he questioned his faith.
Seeing that it was Good Friday, the bishop had to give a?special mass at the cathedral. He always found the sermon?quite exhausting. Fortunately, today, there was time for a nap beforehand. So, after a couple more hours of dastardly erections, the bishop drove his Volvo down a tree-lined road and parked beneath a budding magnolia. There, he released the lever beneath his seat. After undoing the top button of his shirt and setting the alarm on his phone, he closed his eyes and slept.
In his dream, he found himself lying in a field of?heavily scented white lilies. Slowly, he sat up and saw a woman approaching from the other side of the field. She was dressed in a white headscarf and an ankle-length smock, and it didn’t take the bishop long to guess that this was the Holy Mother herself. He crossed himself, lowering his eyes, ashamed to see the stiffness?of his cock, but, as Mother Mary sank to her knees, she raised his face with one hand. The bishop beheld her beautiful face—brown eyes filled with a depth of compassion and a smile so gentle that?it made him want to weep. She felt so familiar to him, as if he’d seen her a million times. It was easy for him to lower his eyes and whisper, “Beloved Mother, forgive me.”
“You must let go of shame,” she told him, her voice so soft and sublime. “Faith is simple. Faith is joy.” And with that, she reached for his straining hard-on and began to gently rub it. The bishop glanced down to see manicured nails (who knew the Holy Mother wore transparent gloss?), and the sight of her massaging him with such tenderness was so achingly hot that it was all he could do to stop himself from coming. “Enjoy what you’ve been given,” whispered the Holy Mother. “You don’t need to be a man of the cloth to spread compassion’s seed.”
As soon as she’d finished speaking, the bishop awoke and, finding his trousers unzipped and his hard cock in hand, jolted with surprise. He was glisteningly stiff—so close to coming—and the memory of those holy hands rubbing his sizeable hard-on?was almost (oh, almost!) too much to bear. Dear God, how hard he was! Dear God, just one touch would make him shoot to high heaven! Perspiring with the stress of it, he reached for his pocket Bible and read from Revelations about fire and death. This quelled his erection. Finally, flushed by his confusing dream, which, he decided, was nothing but sacrilege—a sacrilege that proved he wasn’t truly a man of God—he drove himself to the cathedral and prepared himself for mass.
St. Mary’s Cathedral was a 13th century vision: a super-high- vaulted ceiling hanging way above the polished pews and huge, stained-glass windows depicting the saints who raised their eyes heavenwards. The bishop gave his sermon and was so enraptured that he forgot his cock. However, just as he was at his most vehement, a woman appeared at the back of the cathedral. There was nothing remarkable about her, save for the fact that the bishop felt keenly aware of her—so much so that he stumbled over his words, trying not to stare as she walked down the aisle. She was a vision in a long, blue dress and a headscarf rather like the one that his dreamed-of Mother Mary had worn. Yet unlike the other worshippers in the cathedral, who ducked their heads in solemn prayer, this woman kept staring right at the bishop. As she came closer, he felt himself stiffening. But the truth only hit him once he could see her face. With her large brown eyes and look of heavenly compassion, she was almost identical to the Madonna from his dream. In fact, there was just one difference: This woman’s eyes, though deep with the same heavenly kindness, were also alight with pure desire.
Lost, the bishop continued his clumsy sermon, trying not to stare at the woman in blue. But it was no use. As the woman took a seat in the front pew, he imagined her falling to her knees and taking his sex in her hands and mouth. She’d suckle him hard, rubbing and licking, hands as busy as her eager lips, and when?he climaxed in this vision, he felt it vividly—his hips bucking in pleasure as he came so plentifully that her mouth overflowed, his come seeping from the corners of her lips.
When he emerged from this daydream, he found himself lost to silence as the congregation nervously coughed and flicked the pages of prayer books. Dear God! He was shivering and sweating all at once! Still, he cleared his throat and lumbered on with his sermon, in spite of his erection being so insistent that it remained, hidden beneath his cassock, while the new Madonna sat right at the front, her gaze still set on his. Fortunately, she didn’t choose to take communion. She just sat and watched.
It isn’t Her, he told himself. It’s an actress, a trickster. Ignore her.
And for a while, he did.
But when, at last, as he gave his final blessing, and saw her rise and walk from the cathedral, the blue gown clutching at her softly curved buttocks, he felt an intense emptiness as she walked toward the doors.
The bishop spent the next twenty-four hours in a lust-filled stupor. He continued with his duties, trying hard not to ogle his maid’s voluptuous breasts or imagine the new “Madonna” who’d stirred him so. The dream, however, came again and again, waking him with an urgent stiffy that took all his nerve to quell with icy water. Surely, this dream was a supreme sacrilege! Proof that he was the worst of sinners! And whoever that “Madonna” was in the cathedral, she was either an illusion or a succubus—or maybe even a mix of both.
A day later, on Saturday evening, the bishop was walking through the park, reciting prayers to keep himself from stiffening, when he stopped, suddenly, filled with a sense of spreading peace. It was as if the dead were surrounding him—his best friend, his mother, and even his beloved beagle—urging him to resign. He almost heard his mother whisper, “Accept yourself, my son.”
And, in a heartbeat, he realized she was right. Yes, he should resign! He could start afresh! This would surely fix his despicable erections! After all, it was guilt that made him hard like this, and without the guilt, he’d be free. If?he resigned as bishop, he told himself, he might actually live a celibate life, receiving communion rather than giving it, because he’d be at peace. He’d put his home on the market and take off for Ireland to stay with his brother until he knew what to do. Of course, this meant that he’d surely never see the brown-eyed “Madonna” again, but she was surely a fake anyway. A fraud. The Devil’s trick.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced around. The park was quiet this evening, with hardly a soul in sight. As the sun set beyond the skyline, the bishop felt a sudden tug at his sleeve. He turned and found himself staring into a pair of deep brown eyes, filled with soft, compassionate desire. He jumped with surprise and instantly lowered his stare.
Here she was. The “Madonna” from the cathedral. Not in a headscarf this time, but in the same blue gown, with her chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail. And her countenance was so pure that she couldn’t possibly be a succubus.
In an instant, the bishop fell to his knees, crossing himself, whispering prayers, not daring to meet her gaze. He glanced down at her bare feet with their unpainted toenails, until, in a moment, her gown fell from her body, pooling around her ankles. Amazed, the bishop forgot himself and looked up at her body. She was gloriously naked, with a dark triangle of pubic hair and two breasts so swollen and perfectly round that the bishop’s poor sex throbbed. He could only gaze at her thirstily, adoring her shapely breasts with their hard, pink nipples and her slender thighs. She reached around to undo her ponytail and shook out her long, chestnut locks before sinking to her knees opposite him, giving a gentle smile.?“Who are you?” gasped the bishop. “You can’t be the
Blessed Mother, yet it’s as if you’re surrounding me. As if I’m deep inside of you. As if you swallow me up.”
The Madonna gave him a look of wry compassion and whispered, “Swallow, hmm? As the bishop said to the actress.”
Now, hold on a minute, thought the bishop. Does the Virgin Mary actually pun? But before he could think on this too long, she grasped him by the shoulders and pressed her mouth on his, and her kiss was so hot and merciful, and she smelt of jasmine and summer heat—so much so that he ached to be inside her. Without breaking their kiss, she planted his hand on her breast, and he felt her nipple hardening, felt the tautness of her flesh, and he wanted so badly to fuck her that he grew afraid. Pulling back, he tried to whisper prayers of purity, knowing that screwing a woman who even looked like the Holy Mother would surely land anyone in hell. But, in response, the Madonna grasped his arms, pushed them behind him and bound his wrists with the ribbon she’d pulled from her hair.
“Sometimes,” she whispered with a sideways smile, “you must save the ones who don’t want to be saved.” And with that, she sat astride him, kissed his eager mouth, and pulled herself right onto his hard, desperate cock.
Oh, she was perfectly wet and tight and slick as she bucked her hips, forcing her pussy around his sex again and again and again. And with every thrust, he gave a little cry, especially when her breasts beat softly into his face, and she panted with longing and fucked faster and faster, kissing his mouth, clasping his jaw in her hands. And the past two days of neediness had made the bishop so stiff that the pleasure of this fucking—of being taken— was so intense that when he came, and heard her coming, too (her cry of “Oh, dear God!” lacked any hint of irony), he filled her ceaselessly, over and over. And even as his cock released gloriously inside her, he could have sworn that he felt his spirit. It throbbed all bright and wet and gold, stronger than ever before.
After, he was so incredibly tired that, when she unbound him and laid him on his side, and spooned around him on the grass, whispering, “Never doubt that this was an act of love,” he really couldn’t tell if he was dreaming.
Next morning, the bishop awoke alone in the park, his left side aching from the hardness of the lawn. The morning was aglow, the sunrise burning softly, and though he flushed to find his zipper undone, he also felt curiously alive. It was as if this morning was the first of all mornings, and the birds in the park sang the first?of all songs. Soon, his head was filling with other kinds of music, like Miles Davis and Édith Piaf and Louis Armstrong, to name just a few. Such tunes would stay with him in the fine, green land of Ireland, where he’d find exquisite lovers and an ever-loving home, and would learn that sex was never a sin, unless it isn’t wanted, unless it isn’t true. And even though he knew that, in the park that night, he had made love to a Lady, he now thinks she must have been a God-sent performer. Not that this belittles the gift that he’d been given.
An actress and a miracle. His faith.
Trace Petrucco pushed long bangs away from his forehead in the hot Southern California sun. While watching the men’s singles tennis match, he decided that transferring to a small, conservative Christian college was a rotten idea for two reasons. First off, players were forbidden to discard their shirts on the courts for fear of tempting any ladies in attendance. Trace was sure that collegiate girls could view a male torso without becoming harlots and heading straight to Hell. And secondly, “stalking” the school’s tennis star was frowned upon at Christ the Redeemer College, especially when the stalker was another male.
As an example, Trace eyed Coach Stevens conferring with the president’s advisor, who was jabbing her finger at the bleachers in Trace’s direction. He’d been caught hanging out courtside yet again after several warnings. One more could get him kicked out. Before Virginia “Miss Ginny” Thomason could march over to shoo Trace off the court, he slunk down behind the bleachers and snuck off down a grassy knoll to the gymnasium. He could not face another council with the administration, and dreaded his parents being informed for the fourth and possibly last time that he was stalking tennis captain Jeremy King. After all, he wasn’t really stalking the tennis player. He was just following him around wherever he went. Everyone noticed, though. Trace was hard to mistake, with his distinctive hair and different colored eyes.
During the first few weeks of October, Jeremy’s teammates ridiculed their captain regarding the “long-haired girl with the mismatched blue and brown eyes,” who shadowed him like an obsessed puppy dog. When hotshot tennis player Georgie Chisholm found out from his girlfriend that the “long-haired girl with the mismatched blue and brown eyes” wasn’t a female at all, but a sophomore transfer student from Bellingham, Washington, who lived in an all-male dormitory, the shit not only hit the fan, but the entire university as well. Trace was shunned by fearful, repressed classmates, and questioned by his resident advisor before being pawned off to more official higher-ups, like Miss Ginny. And all because he spoke the truth.
We have been receiving disturbing reports from several students about you. Please explain what you are doing following Jeremy King, he was asked.
Looking at him, he would answer.
Looking at him? Why?
Because I’m in love with him.
According to Miss Ginny, that was not the correct answer to give at a religious institution founded by traditionalists on the bedrock of high moral standards.
Once through the double doors of the gym, and into the hallway that smelled of Pine Sol and feet, Trace passed a basketball game playing in the main court. He was accompanied by squeaking sneakers and frustrated hollers before making his way to the men’s locker room for air conditioning and cool water from the tap. After drying his face with a scratchy brown paper towel, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Two multi-hued eyes stared back at him, framed by delicate eyelashes and curtains of blond hair that fell down his back. The mirror did not expose the steely resolve beneath the girlish features or the hardness he had learned to cultivate, nor did it reflect the hardness that currently packed his tennis shorts (the same brand and style that Jeremy King preferred on the courts, naturally). A crooked grin lit his face when the trunks displayed an erection building to the right, long and lean like his tanned legs.
Jeremy, he thought, I wish you could see this, what I’ve made for you. Mere seconds later, two disembodied voices carried through the locker room toward Trace, the deep voice of one leaving no doubt as to who was approaching—Jeremy King. In a flash, Trace knelt down and checked that there were no pairs of feet occupying any of the toilets. The bathroom was empty. Slipping into the farthest stall, Trace locked himself in, sat down on the thankfully clean seat, and peered out through the narrow crack of the door […]
Read the rest of the story by getting your copy of Huddle: Sex with Sporty Queers…
–At Go Deeper Press
The Con Series: You Can Play It Safe When You’re Dead
Please don’t read this unless you are open to noir erotica, with con artist twins:
Dressed in her black wedding dress with matching veil, Stelle paced among the gravestones behind the church, smoking a last cigarette. Even though she’d soon be walking down the aisle, approaching Hugh Mortis, her debonair groom, she didn’t feel ready to con him.
Mind you, until today, what Stelle did or didn’t want had mostly been irrelevant. She wasn’t a real person, had always felt fake, as if she were floating above her body, surveying her flesh with indifference. Yes, Stelle Marlowe was a clever secret, born into a con-artist family. Like sleight of hand, she was all illusion. Only Dahlia, her twin sister, had a birth certificate. Only Dahlia had been registered as alive.
Stelle was a trick. The first and last.
And this morning, she’d decided to be real.
She’d awoken at six, as usual. It was as if an alarm went off in her head, every morning at this very time. Her father used to say this was because of her thief’s instincts: When you bed someone in order to fleece them, waking early to make a swift getaway is never a bad idea. But that wasn’t it. After all, Stelle was usually the shadow who stole while the sex was happening. It was Dahlia who got the sex, brazen as she was.
Dahlia was sleeping next to her in the same hotel bed. It took Stelle a moment to remember that her father, their last remaining parent, had died three days ago. Her eyes watered, as they did each time she recalled her dad’s passing. She wanted to cuddle Dahlia for comfort, for peace. But over the last week, something strange had been happening. Something frightening and sublime.
Over the past few days, Dahlia had started to turn Stelle on. Just seeing her sister undress in their hotel room, or even embracing her to wish her luck, made Stelle’s pussy burn. Last night, just before bed, they’d embraced, and Stelle felt Dahlia’s nipple pressing on hers from beneath the layer of her T-shirt. After, Stelle had locked herself in the bathroom and made herself come like crazy, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She’d never climaxed like this. In fact, she usually found it hard to come at all. And here she was, full of feeling and longing, smoldering like never before.
Now, in bed, Dahlia had her back to Stelle—her beautiful, tanned back, with the mole on her shoulder blade. (According to Dad, when Mum was alive, she’d threatened several times to have Dahlia’s mole removed so that Dahlia and Stelle were identical when naked. “The whole point of having a double,” Mum had said, “is that the world can’t tell the difference—moles and all.”) Stelle ran a soft fingertip down Dahlia’s tanned spine and over her mole, hearing her sister’s breathing change. Then she snuggled up close, letting a hand fall idly over Dahlia’s stomach. Dahlia stirred as Stelle spooned her. She ran her palm up the front of Dahlia’s satin nightie, tracing the swell of her breast and the hardness of her nipple. As usual, Dahlia didn’t push her off, and Stelle found herself wet between her legs, because, as she was beginning to learn, the few men she’d slept with were nothing compared to groping her sister and pretending it was a sleep-filled mistake.
She pressed her lips to the back of her sister’s nape. Just there, Dahlia smelt exactly of Dahlia, in spite of the fact that they shared creams and lotions. On Stelle, this body cream smelled dry, like expensive champagne. On her sister, it was floral, like jasmine in the heat.
See, the greatest irony was this: Stelle and Dahlia got on perfectly, and, to the untrained eye, were hard to tell apart. Yet they were also entirely unalike, right down to their scent. Stelle’s skin was oily, while Dahlia’s was dry. Dahlia loved sweet pastries for breakfast, while Stelle could only face toast. Stelle loved romance, while Dahlia loved murder mysteries. Stelle was all about dark red lipstick, yet Dahlia was a pastel girl, all pink and metallic plum.
And here, with Dahlia’s right-hand breast in her palm, shielded only by a slender layer of satin, Stelle felt that their breasts were different, too. Though Dahlia’s skin was tight, her breasts were soft and malleable, while Stelle’s were hard and high. Oh, how good Dahlia’s felt—oh, how wrong, so wrong. What if their dad could look down and disapprove? The frisson shot deep into her sex. Well, fuck it! She’d been raised as a thief. As her father had so often said, rules were for breaking.
Stelle kept on groping her sister’s breast, more hungrily now, savoring the swell of it, the surprising weight in her hand. God, Stelle could have rutted Dahlia right there, slipping her knee between her sister’s and fucking the backs of her thighs. If only they could use separate beds, the temptation wouldn’t be here—but they couldn’t. They weren’t twins—not really. They were only one woman—a woman who was never seen in public with an identical woman—a twin woman—because that would risk the secret. And the secret was everything.
Christ. Stelle was so damn horny, and they still had an hour before the alarm.
What if she could touch herself while she groped her sister? The thought made her pussy throb with need. Instead, she continued to stroke Dahlia’s hardening nipple—and the breast that surrounded it, so soft and warm—before stroking down her belly and the smooth slope of her thigh. Dahlia purred sleepily at that and grasped Stelle’s hand, pressing it onto her flesh. Astonished, Stelle wanted to whisper Dahlia’s name, just in case she was actually awake, but soon Dahlia’s sleepy sighs seemed to prove otherwise.
Dahlia was sleeping. And Stelle was assaulting her.
And what terrified Stelle most of all was how alive she felt, just now. Even after the funeral. No, especially after the funeral. But to rut her sister in secret? Stelle was beginning to hate “secret”! Sure, she had to play by the rules if they didn’t want to get caught, but “secret” meant silent. Her father had died silently and Stelle had lived silently. And she didn’t want to be silent any more.
Maybe that’s why, as Stelle lay there, longing to slide Dahlia’s strap down her shoulder and play-bite the freckles beneath, she decided it was time. Time to take her sister up on her long-term offer—an offer their father had suggested that she make. “You girls should swap skins,” he used to say.
Funny how, when someone dies, you can suddenly realize they were right.
Now, in bed, Stelle whispered, “Today we’ll swap.” But saying it aloud made her tremble. This morning, she’d be a bride, of sorts. And maybe, after the ceremony, her groom would fuck her.
But, no. She wouldn’t go through with it. How could she? She played the ghoul, not the rising star. Besides, this wasn’t a low-stakes con. Hugh was, in her father’s words, “the cleverest double-dealer” he’d ever met. He carried a shotgun, and more to the point, he used it. Hugh had anyone who was valuable to him followed, and he happily poured money into such stalking. Plus, when he was double-crossed, Hugh had been known to murder. What’s more, he’d booked this hotel room for his bride. In monetary terms, this was Hugh’s bed they were sleeping in. The stakes were high. Too high for a change in roles.
Yet, four hours later, here was Stelle, hanging around behind the church, pulling back her wedding veil and lighting a cigarette. Her hand shook as she held the lighter. She felt so alive it almost hurt, and though it was scary, it was better than deadness. “So this is it,” she told herself. “You’ve found the limelight. Now use it.”
Stelle and Dahlia had been born into a family of British con artists—or grifters, as they were more properly known. Together, they lived in a grifting community just outside of London. But the reason that Stelle had no birth certificate, and was therefore
a perfect, criminal ghoul, was thanks to an elderly grifter named Ruby McFee. Ruby wore hoop earrings and tight leather clothes, in spite of being seventy-two. She had keen eyesight, a steady hand, and was brilliant at “the dip”—yes, Ruby dipped the pockets of every patronizing sod who tried to take advantage. More importantly, she was a psychic, predicting people’s fortunes in fumes that rose from burning incense or a smoldering match. A useful skill for a grifter, and one her friends counted on. So, on New Year’s Eve, back in 1992, Ruby predicted that Stelle’s mother would finally fall pregnant after three years of trying. “Mark my words,” Ruby had said, her keen eyes scanning the smoldering match in front of her. And then, she’d winked at Stelle’s astounded mother before ditching the match and lighting another. “Identical twins,” she’d said, as she lit a new cigarette. “Useful, wouldn’t you say?”
Sure enough, ten months later, Stelle and Dahlia were born in their home, aided by a midwife whose husband was a grifter, and though Dahlia was given a birth certificate, Stelle was hidden away, her future as Dahlia’s double already decided. Of course, neither of them really remembered their mother. She’d died when they were six, shot by a vengeful mark. And Stelle had turned into a brilliant shadow, a wily impersonator, a lock picker, a plotter, but had never really learned to feel easy in her skin.
“’Tisn’t right,” Dad had said, a couple of years ago now, sipping his morning coffee, as he leaned against the kitchen workshop, cigarette in hand. Stelle, who wasn’t often alone with her father, checked over her shoulder for Dahlia. But her sister must have gone upstairs to shower. “See?” said Dad, bobbing a finger. “Even now, you’re wantin’ to follow her.” He shook his head. “You always play the shadow. It’s time for you to stand in Dahlia’s limelight for a change.”
Flushing, Stelle parroted her father’s own catchphrase: “We weren’t born into ‘right,’ so why live by it?”
That made Dad give a sideways laugh that exposed the gaps where his front teeth should have been. In his eyes, she saw a glint of pride. “You witty one,” he said, quieter now, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. “Listen. When you walk down the street alone, do you feel like Stelle, or d’you feel like your sister?”
Stelle bit her lip. How did you tell your father that you always felt like your sister’s shadow, especially since the two of them could never be seen together? When anyone looked at her, they saw her sister. She, Stelle, didn’t exist, after all. Her father responded to her silence by squeezing her shoulder. “Don’t go thinking you can’t be in the spotlight, love. You look like your sister, but you’re different—” He tapped his temple lightly. “Up here. Not better nor worse. Just you.”
“I know,” Stelle said. But she didn’t. Not really.
He crouched down in front of her, holding her by the elbows. “Swap with your sister now and then. We’ll work it out. Just say the word.”
“What if Dahlia doesn’t want to swap?”
Dad gave a dismissive snort. “She loves changing plans. You know what she’s like.” And he was right. Dahlia thrived on extra adrenaline. “Besides,” said Dad, “she’ll do anything for you.” Then, growing serious, he caught her open hand and kissed her palm. “Like I will,” he said.
Looking back at these moments, as she walked round the front of the church, Stelle felt her dead father’s presence. The air was still, as if the past were trapped in it. You’re late for your wedding, pretty girl, said her father’s voice. So Stelle straightened her black silk skirts, neatened her boned bodice, and pulled down her black, net veil. It isn’t even a real priest, she told herself. Just a friend of Dad’s with lock-picking skills.
But even as she entered the church and gazed at the grey- haired groom who awaited her, she considered how her sister had worn this same dress. Thrice, to be exact. For three different scams. The satin had cupped her sister’s flesh, pressed against those nipples, caressed those soft-skinned thighs as Stelle herself had done this very morning. And just thinking about her sister’s warmth made Stelle wet again.
This morning, once they’d woken, she and her sister had showered together. It wasn’t usual for them to do so, but Dahlia had insisted. After all, Stelle had never been around Hugh Mortis, and though Dahlia was all too keen to swap roles, she liked that hers was usually the “important” one. So while Stelle stood mere inches from Dahlia’s soapy body, her sister’s breasts shining beneath the suds, Stelle pretended to listen. Dahlia parroted off her list, with a little, girlish smile: Hugh likes this, Hugh likes that. Stelle noticed the twinkle Dahlia had when speaking of Hugh. Stelle’s sister always got close to the marks she seduced, and she’d mope for days after they’d finished a con. But she also conceded that her attachment to marks helped make the cons run smoothly. “When I look into their eyes and tell them they’re gorgeous,” she’d say, “they believe me because, for me, they are. But I don’t forget what they do to people’s lives. If I did, where would I be?”
And Stelle admired her sister’s attitude—the way Dahlia got hurt again and again by romancing these men, then letting them go, all for the sake of their art.
Dahlia rattled on about what Hugh was like, but what was far more interesting was what he wanted from Dahlia. “Hugh’s obsessed with coming on my tits,” she said, cupping her sudsy breasts and pressing them upwards, globing them delightfully in a way that made Stelle want to moan. “He begs me to let him,” said Dahlia. “But, ugh, how gross.”
“You don’t want that?” asked Stelle, who, if she were a man, would gladly come all over her sister’s tits, particularly right now, as Dahlia lathered them up, rubbing them together, all silky and slicked. Dahlia screwed up her face. “If a man’s going to come with me, he’s going to come in a condom. That’s how I like it. Neat, safe, clean.”
Stelle smiled. Dahlia, the flirtatious seductress who never had a problem sleeping with a mark, might as well be known as Dahlia the Prude. If their dad heard about this sexual prudishness, he’d have called her “Princess D.”
Their dad. Stelle’s dad. It was easy to forget that he’d gone. He’d been in the ground less than a week, and at some point, she knew the loss of him would hit. But she and Dahlia weren’t even confronting it yet. The ache was too fresh, too deep.
Dahlia started to hum “Firework.” She was obviously enchanted with their change of plan—Stelle marrying Hugh while she, Dahlia, worked as the shadow. Her eyes were certainly bright with the thought of this swap—exactly the reaction their Dad had predicted. But as Dahlia raised her arm to shave her armpit, Stelle was watching her from the corner of her eye, thinking about her in cruder ways. Stelle still wanted Dahlia. Still wanted to touch her, to screw her. All she wanted was to throw herself on her sister, kissing her mouth open, rubbing her skin on her sister’s, feeling those hard nipples pressed against her own. Pussy to pussy, Stelle would lose control, grinding impossibly on Dahlia’s thigh—and when she came, she’d come wildly.
That would be a novelty—coming with a lover. After all, in real life, she only climaxed when alone.
Eventually, when Dahlia climbed out of the shower, Stelle insisted on staying. There, she took the hotel soap that Dahlia had used and rubbed its tiny length against her trimmed pussy, harder and harder against her clit. She was so turned on that she might have come instantly if she didn’t find it hard to climax standing up. So she sat her ass on the side of the bath, pressing her back against the cool tiles, and fucked her soaked sex with the tiny bar of soap. Spreading her legs, she used the flat side, and as she rubbed faster, she felt the climax rising—Dahlia’s pussy had been on this, this soap, this soap on her pussy, this soap…. And suddenly, she was coming with a throaty moan that Dahlia surely heard from the bedroom. Stelle’s climax was powerful, and she stayed high for
a good, long time. Once she came back to reality, she fell right forward, grabbing the shower curtain and gasping for air. “Dear God,” she whispered, “that was good.”
So she began to wonder.
After all, if she could be turned on by fucking her sister’s soap, how would it be when she fucked the cock her sister had fucked? Hugh Mortis’ cock. What if she had to fuck that? The length of it had slid into her sister’s pussy, and pumped and pumped, over and over. “He’s all about the sex,” Dahlia had warned, as she’d lathered up her wet hair. She’d explained that he’d want to fuck her straight after the ceremony—and seeing as it was a tiny wedding, with only Hugh’s brother as a witness, Hugh had plans to drag her straight to the car to fuck her there and then, right outside the church.
At the thought of Hugh’s cock—or rather, the cock that had screwed her sister—Stelle felt a whirl of excitement. Her head, her feet, her belly seemed to fill with vibration. And her cunt? It felt like a tiny wire had been planted inside it, the energy pulsing through every cell.
She was frightened. She couldn’t mourn. She all but sizzled with lust.
And she’d never felt so alive.
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Three Pink Boxes
By Lana Fox
The morning Melinda found a pink box on her doorstep, inscribed with the name of a lingerie store, a silky black ribbon tied round the center, she guessed it was a gift from Mr. Carr. When she was typing at her desk, he’d stand behind her, his stare so powerful she felt it beneath her clothes. But Jesus, he was her boss! Plus he was freshly divorced from a blonde with the eyes and manners of a saint. Sure, when Melinda had done well, she felt excited by his pleasure, and yes, there were times when she longed for him to grab her, slam her against the filing cabinet and rip off her blouse…but you didn’t have sex with your boss – it just wasn’t right. The very thought shamed her.
“What piece of shit thinks your underwear’s his business?” said her housemate Wendy, as Melinda placed the box on the worktop. Towel-drying her hair, Wendy smelled of warm baths. “Well, open it! Let’s see the damage.”
“I think it’s from Mr. Carr,” said Melinda, lifting off the lid.
“Your boss?” gasped Wendy. “Now that’s deranged.”
Melinda paused staring down at the lingerie – a classic black camisole trimmed with Parisian lace, nestled in creamy tissue. With matching briefs in the same exquisite silk, it was the kind of underwear she’d always longed to own. “It’s actually my size,” she said, checking the label.
“The sleaze. You should bloody well report him.”
Melinda bit her lip. She secretly had a crush on her boss, which was strange because all he ever did was tell her off. And why the heck, when he was angry, did she like it so much that it even turned her on?
“But sod it,” said Wendy. “Play innocent with him. That way, you can keep it. It could have come from anyone!”
Melinda raised the camisole, amazed at its lightness. It was different to the white lycra she usually wore. She’d never owned anything so fine, so sheer. As she admired it, she remembered how much she loved lingerie. It made her feel…excited. Not to mention the idea that Mr. Carr had picked this out from a high-class, London boutique, running it through his sturdy hands, picturing her in it. “I suppose there’s no harm,” she said, carrying the box to her bedroom, and by the time she’d put it on, it was too late to change her mind. She felt exquisite with that silk against her skin, brushing her breasts, clinging to her sex; and when she’d put her skirt and blouse over the top, and had stepped into her stilettos, there was no going back.
“What’s it like?” asked Wendy, as Melinda emerged from her room.
Melinda flushed, gave a shrug, and strode from the house.
* * *
Mr. Carr seemed so angry that day that Melinda decided the lingerie wasn’t from him. Twice, he returned a contract saying she hadn’t laid it out right, when she’d done exactly as he’d said. Alone at reception, he leaned across her, his hands on the desk, his blue eyes ferocious. “Why do you think we pay you?” he asked, leaning in closer. “I gave you the instructions. Now follow them, Miss Davenport.”
Aroused, Melinda crossed her legs and wriggled in her seat, aware of the slippery feel of the silk against her slit. Her boss felt so close, so utterly demanding. At forty, he was ten years older than her – which always made her long to do what he asked, in spite of the fact she so often got things wrong. Christ, how would he tell her off this time? Would he grab her shoulders? Shout right into her face? Or maybe wrench apart her knees and force himself on her? At this last idea, she felt her breathing quicken, felt his glare travel down her body… Melinda had only ever been with super-shy boys – like Tony who closed the blinds and checked the locks before they screwed, and Derek who wore his shirts buttoned to the throat.
“I’ll correct them, Mr. Carr,” she said. “It won’t take me a sec.”
“Good,” he said. “We want to look like lawyers, not monkeys.” He reached his fingers towards her silk blouse, as if about to unbutton it, then leaned over and whispered, “Are you wearing them, Melinda?”
She touched her hair and said nothing, expecting him to snap.
He cleared his throat. “I’m s-sorry. I should go.” With that, he turned from her and Melinda felt terrible. She’d never heard him sound so vulnerable before. To try and make up for it, she reprinted the contract, checking every word.
* * *
Throughout the day, Melinda noticed the lingerie was having an effect. When she crossed her legs, she felt the slither of silk, and her breasts, which were usually restricted by a bra, felt live and sensitive beneath the camisole. When she entered Mr. Carr’s office to say she was going to lunch, she thought she might die if he didn’t tell her off. Even the atmosphere made her breathless: the bookshelves lining the walls, the dark colored legal tomes, the faint smell of coffee, his broad oak desk… Please, she thought, as he set down his pen. Say I’m not to go. She’d have done anything just to wait there in his office. How strange! Surely she shouldn’t actually want to be berated – you should aim to please people, right? Not get them all upset. Resolved, she told him, “I won’t be long.”
Mr. Carr looked up through sad, worn eyes. “Yes, lunch,” he said. “Of course. Take an hour if you like.”
Sitting on her usual park bench with a sandwich, Melinda tried to work through her confusion. In truth, she rather liked it when Mr. Carr was barking orders, towering over her, telling her what to do; but today, she’d seen his softer side. The thought made her drop by the deli on her way home to buy some wafer-thin chocolate – the kind that costs an arm and a leg. This she delivered with his three o’clock coffee, and a folder of invoices she’d printed. She served the dark chocolate on a small, white saucer, and he blinked at it, strangely, without looking up from his desk. “What’s this?” He sounded curious, as he prodded the chocolate with his finger. “Melinda, this is luxurious. Are you sure you want to share it?”
“It’s Venezuelan, sir. The best. And it’s all for you.” Trying to stay bold, she took a deep breath and added, “Don’t they say chocolate’s the food of love?”
He gave her the beginnings of a smile.
She perched on the edge of his desk, her knees close to his. She could feel the lingerie against her flesh, tingling as if alive. “Mr. Carr,” she said, softly. “I’m wearing your gift. I’ve never had anything so beautiful.”
His eyes flashed. “You’re wearing it?”
“Oh,” he said, on a breath, as if he’d finally shed a weight. He stared down her body. “Melinda, I know it’s wrong, but all I can think of is you. If you guessed…how I need…or…the things I want to…” He loosened his tie, watching her chest, her mouth. If he’d just reach inside her blouse, force his lips onto hers – push her back onto the desk and hitch up her skirt before filling her roughly, and telling her she was his. Oh Christ, the thought of his cock pressing into her, while she was still wearing the silky briefs! The thought of him filling her, over and over, her body slamming with the force of every thrust, and the glossy underwear, so delicate, so fine, against that bone-hard cock of his…. She reached to undo the top button of her blouse, and he rose to his feet, grabbing her wrist. “This isn’t right,” he gasped. “We shouldn’t…” But he still pulled her towards him, opening his mouth on hers. Before she knew it, his hand was inside her skirt, sliding up her thigh, and she felt his fingertips touching her through the silk, making her twice as slippery, seeking out her clit. She had to take hold of the desk to steady herself, and again, he was kissing and touching her, his mouth so perfectly wild. They sank together seamlessly, his hands running over her breasts. She’d never been touched intuitively like this – he seemed to understand her wants as clearly as his own.
There was the sound of knocking. The two of them sprang apart, Melinda straightening her blouse, Mr. Carr neatening his brown-grey hair. He cleared his throat, gesturing for Melinda to sit in front of his desk. “Come in,” he called, and in walked Tamara from Accounts. Through her cat-like glasses, she inspected Mr. Carr, then glanced down at Melinda. “Um…sir, I’ve got those figures.” She passed him the files.
For Melinda, the magical confidence she’d felt had long gone. Her face was burning, as she mumbled her excuses, and left without the slightest goodbye.
* * *
The following day, over breakfast with Wendy, Melinda said she’d avoided Mr. Carr since the lingerie incident. She didn’t mention the kiss and the groping, which seemed private and embarrassing. “He’s probably worried sick,” said Wendy. “Thinks you’ll report him or something.” She shoved the spoon into her cornflakes. “Serves him right. The pushy git.”
Melinda stared at her untouched toast. Was it possible her housemate was still hurting after her messy break-up? Wendy’s old boyfriend, Harry, had been frighteningly dependent, telling her he couldn’t live without her, then sulking when she wanted to spend time with her friends. Not only had this sapped them of their passion, but it made Wendy feel more like his mother than his flame. Harry wept when she dumped him, grabbing her arm and begging, and Wendy, who believed she’d been a bitch to leave, still hadn’t forgiven herself.
“Mr. Carr’s just very direct,” Melinda explained. “I’m sure he wouldn’t push.”
“Yeah, right,” moaned Wendy. “He’ll probably start buying you even kinkier undies.” Just as Melinda was picturing what form this brazen apparel might take, there was a shuffling noise from outside the front door. “Either we’ve got mice again,” said Wendy, “or some freak just left a thong.”
In a moment, Melinda was at the door, pulling it open and…yes! There was another pink box on the step! She brought it in, closing the door with her hip and the two girls gathered round as Melinda pulled off the ribbon, followed by the lid. This time, he’d bought her a plain balconette bra in wine-red satin, with tiny, matching briefs and a black garter belt. Also, at the base of the box, was a rolled up pair of stockings – finer than any Melinda had worn. On a white card, the message read, “I’m sorry about yesterday. Wear these to the office with a pair of high heels.”
On the way to work, the train’s vibrations coupled with the clingy briefs proved so arousing that Melinda felt dizzy. The fabric pressed against her sex with every little movement, and when she crossed her legs, her stockings glided over each other, tempting her to touch herself. She arrived at the office feeling luxurious, but took her seat as usual. By the time Mr. Carr was leaning over her, checking her typing, she’d managed to adopt a cooler demeanor.
“When you’re done,” said Mr. Carr, slamming a file onto her desk, “I need you to photocopy these invoices.” Then he walked away, briskly, shutting himself in his office.
Keen as ever, Melinda was soon at the photocopier, waiting as it spewed out copies of the minutes Mr. Carr had given her. On the wall, a laminated sign told her what to do in the event of a fire, and the very thought of dangerous heat made her dream of Mr. Carr. Her plan was to knock softly on his door and read his face when he looked up from his work. If he smiled, she’d gently flirt. If he glowered, she’d invent a reason for him to scold her. But as she was waiting by the shuddering copier, she felt a breath on her neck, then a hand on her ass, then fingers undoing the bun in her hair before tracing the arc of her spine. She arched back, as Mr. Carr put his lips on her ear, her dark hair falling round her shoulders. “Do you have them on, Melinda?”
“You’d better not be lying.” And she felt his hand beneath her skirt, gliding up her thigh, pausing round the garter-straps, stroking the tops of her stockings. Christ, how different he’d be to her former lovers, who’d fumbled and gasped for permission! Mr. Carr let out a tiny moan and she felt his hard-on against her buttocks, while the machine spat out its final copy and rumbled to a halt. “Oh, Miss Davenport,” he whispered, running his hands over her breasts, cupping them, stroking them so her nipples tingled. “God, I can feel those satiny things I bought you. You shouldn’t be wearing them! I’ll have to punish you.” And with that he spanked her three times in quick succession through her layers of skirt and lingerie. She trembled a little, flushing. She’d never been spanked before. Why did it feel so good? Surely it shouldn’t! After the third strike, he let his hand linger on her buttocks, slowly circling, rubbing her skirt against her briefs.
She reached back, sliding her hand down his hard-on, massaging until he grabbed her hip; and suddenly he was forcing her against the photocopier, hitching up her skirt and spanking her through her briefs. Oh, the perfect sting of those broad hands, as the machine whirred beneath her! She was so wet she could feel her moisture dripping from her, making the silk even slipperier than before. What if someone walked in? What if they were caught? Yet when she thought about it, she realized she didn’t care, and this made her giggle, wondering what had come over her. She found herself thinking, So what if they sack me? I’m having marvelous sex!
“Spank me more,” she whispered.
And he did.
This is how they began, up against the copier, Melinda laid across it, as Mr. Carr took hold of her blouse and ripped it from her. A couple of buttons pinged right off, and she cried out loud, as he wrenched the fabric from her. Then, topless but for her bra, she felt his cock filling her, and found herself growling like a pleasured cat. Over and over he pressed right into her, softly at first, so she had to beg for more; yet every now and then, he’d pull out of her, tell her she was bad, and spank her through the silk. Clutching the copier, she’d find herself agreeing. Yes, she’d been bad! Yes, she should pay! Next thing she knew, he’d be in her again, with his hand up the front of her blouse, fucking her with a slow control until she begged for roughness. While her own fingers tensed against the machine, Mr. Carr massaged her through the cups of her bra, rubbing her breast as he grabbed her ass with his other hand. “You look incredible,” he told her, biting her neck. “You smell…incredible…” As Melinda felt the beginning of the heat deep inside her, he burst into a frenzy, pounding her fiercely, as if he had to give her his every last inch and fill her to the brim. “Oh,” she cried out. “Oh fuck me, sir! Oh Mr. Carr.” And he moaned, falling onto her, making the copier lunge against the wall so that the blinding climax that robbed Melinda of all thought, was accompanied by a cracking sound like something breaking open. By the time she’d come to her senses, Mr. Carr was chuckling, pulling gently out of her cunt, then pointing at a hole in the plaster. “Oops,” he whispered, grinning. “Dear me, we’re reprobates.” He stooped and picked up the missing chunk of wall. “Darling, we’re so bad we’ll demolish the office.”
Melinda straightened her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. “Did we bring the house down?”
* * *
“You look different,” said Wendy the next morning, filing her nails at the breakfast bar. “Got a glow about you.” She raised an eyebrow. “Holy crap. You did it, didn’t you? You went and fucked your boss!”
Melinda flapped the air. “As if.” Then she headed straight for the door and collected the inevitable pink box from the step.
“Not again,” said Wendy.
“This time,” said Melinda, “I’m guessing it’s lace.” As she headed for her bedroom to unwrap her gift, Wendy followed, calling,
“Petal, I’m concerned. What if he’s insane?”
Melinda gave her a knowing look before inspecting the pink lace corset. “I suppose I’m beginning to realize it doesn’t matter what happens at work. However it turns out, I’ll still get punished.”
“Shit,” said Wendy. “How much trouble are you in?”
Melinda held up the corset and smiled.