Working Girls, Released in E-book Format and Print

Starting at: $13.95

In Print

edited by SA Clements with stories by Crystal Barela, Anah Crow, CB Potts, Stella Sandberg, Tracy Shellito, Elizabeth St. John, and Rakelle Valencia

Hot, sweaty, hard-working women. Girls who do a man's job. That's what Working Girls is all about. Six stories by some of the best lesbian romance and erotica authors out there feature cowgirls and farmer's daughter, steel workers and coal miners, who work hard and play hard, loving each other with everything they have in them.

Rakelle Valencia's horse whisperer finds out she's not as old as she thinks she is in Age and Experience. Rusted Hearts, by Anah Crow, has a girl losing her car, but gaining a lot more at the salvage yard. An uptown girl meets her match in a laborer when she goes home again in Steel-Toed Boots and the Uptown Girl, by Tracy Shellito.

The farmer's daughter teaches a wanderer that appearances don't matter as much as she thinks in the Biker and the Farmer's Daughter, by Stella Sandberg. Elizabeth St. John presents a coal miner and her working class girl, trying to get by in Black Cap. A bullrider finds out that a cowboy savior might be her salvation in the Double O Rodeo by Crystal Barela. Finally, in Jump, by CB Potts, a contractor and a cop find out that they might need a little comfort, from each other. Hot and fierce, the women of Working Girls will make blue-collars sexy again!

Where the Girls Are

Cover art for Where the Girls Are: Urban Lesbian Erotica, has been approved. The anthology is due to be in print for July 1st 2009 and can pre-ordered at Amazon.com.

For those of you wondering what kind of sumptuous writing will be included, my story, In the Dressing Room is to be featured. Hot, hot, hot!

Other amazing stories along side mine are:

The Critic by Charlotte Dare
Urban Fairytale by A.D.R. Forte
Grey Ice by Evecho
Old London Town by Jacqueline Applebee
Not in Kansas Anymore by Cari Z
Electricity by Evan Mora
In the Dressing Room by Crystal Barela
Don't Fuck With Country Girls by Kathleen Bradean
My First Play Party by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Come to My Window by Andrea Dale
You're the Boss by Stella Sandberg
Just One Night by Dalia Craig
The City Pony by Roxy Katt
Afraid of Jumping by Nan Andrews
A is for Apple by Jessica Lennox
Rush Hour by Lisabet Sarai
A Window to the City by Victoria Oldham
On Display by Sophie Mouette
Hot Child in the City by Sommer Marsden

THE RED TENT

THE RED TENT
mf, voyeurism, masterbation

Copyright ©2008 by Crystal Barela

This was not my usual Saturday evening entertainment. Staring at a half naked woman, but the noise muffled by the red tent’s canvas walls had been too intriguing for me to ignore.

It was not spoken of in my company, but I was old enough to know what went on in the red tent. Everyone knew. My father, should he find out I had taken this one little peek, would have beat me until I had little chance of performing. What was worse, he would have locked me in the trailer and the freedom I enjoyed as a trusted daughter of Roberto Fontinini, master trapeze artist for Spineli’s Famous Big Top Circus, would have ended. I was a grown woman of nineteen, certainly old enough to know about what went on behind the privacy of walls.

Our show that night had been brilliant. Every cut away a graceful turn, every catch appearing effortless. I was all at once exhausted and ecstatic from souring high above the crowd. I had wings. In fact, I was known as the angel of the big top. My costume was the color of innocence, cream with opal sequins raining over my bosom and down my arms like water. My cape was rich ivory velvet. The costume mistress had done an amazing job fashioning feathers and beads in the shape of dainty wings over my shoulders and back. My father had gone so far as to begin dyeing my hair a heavenly blonde at the age of six, when the golden luster had begun to fade to brown.

Exhilaration coursed through my veins as I passed the empty bleachers. The familiar path led me past the scent of wet straw and animal. The shouts of brutish men ordering obedience. The only reason I passed the red tent at all, was that it was set away from the others. Meant to be private, and my father insisted that as the prize act of the big top we must have our trailer away from the others as well. We were not beside the red tent; we were around a copse of trees past it. One hardly had to go more than a few minutes out of their way to walk close enough to hear the beguiling throaty laughter of Madam and the shake of Tiny’s tambourine.

On other occasions I had been tempted to linger on my passing by. When low moans and slapping skin had made my step falter. Once, only once mind you, I had pressed my ear to that canvas and heard…well, I had heard sex. The panting and groaning had made my body tingle. Then, I had run home. Under my sheets, in the semi-privacy of a curtain hung between my parents sleeping area and my thin mattress I had touched myself there. Between my legs.

Now, it just so happened, my step put me in line with the seam of canvas that had a tear. The opening was about four inches long and stretched two inches wide by the tension of the poles holding up the tent. Bits of frayed fabric shot to and fro. It was not my fault that the sewing mistress had fallen behind on her mending.

In that moment, that exact moment, Madam, was bent over backward at the waist, her long red hair dusting the ground. She stood at the center of the tent, on a round platform and she was not still, no. Her hips danced in a rhythm that had her voluptuous breasts roll back toward her neck. The large mounds swayed in such a way that my breath caught. There was no music but the beat of our hearts and I could hear the thump clearly.

What was I to do? Leave?

There was more than one man in the tent with her. A tall man in a hat, with a cigarette dangling from his lips was tapping his loafered foot in time with the shake of Tiny’s tambourine.

Tiny was Madam’s husband and not tiny at all. He was a towering black man, his thick body roped with muscle. Rumor had it; he got his nickname, from breaking those that disrespected his woman, into tiny little pieces. I’d believe it. With his head shaved clean of hair and the large golden ring through his nose he looked as though he could tear someone limb from limb. He looked strange manning the shaking bells.

There were two other men. One was short with a portly build and wore red suspenders. His hands were in his pockets when he rocked back on his heels. Touching himself. The other, his pal. I say this because of the way he would alternately clap and then slap Suspenders on the back, was hooting for more skin.

From the state of Madam’s dress I could tell she was near the end of her performance. Not because I had seen it before! No, because there wasn’t much more in the way of garments to remove.

Madam’s nails were long and painted gypsy red. She tickled them up from below her navel and in-between the valley of her breasts. Her eyes opened, green as a cat’s, and met mine through the crack in the canvas. One finger bent and seemed to beckon me. Curling in a gesture of invitation.

Heat sufficed my entire body and centered in that region that only, Joey, the lion tamer’s son, had been petting. Not that I had let him tame me yet. No more than a gentle nuzzle of his strong fingers had been allowed to tap my nethers. Father would have been most displeased if he found out about our kisses, even though everyone thought of Joey as my sweetheart.

The dancer rose slowly, uncurling her body, her abdomen flexing in the light of the lanterns. The scent of heated oil and sweat hovered in the air as her hips began to undulate. Like the curl of her finger, her hips encouraged me to remove my leotard. To join her in exhibition.

Madam wore a skirt made of colorful scarves and the circle of fabric hung well below her waist. So low in truth, I could see the curly reddish hair of her bush poking above the waistline. One of her slender arms was above her head, and the other held aloft, her fingers on the tail of one of the scarves. She began to pull them randomly, the gauzy bits of color fluttering around her and falling to the ground like a rainbow revealing a pot of gold. My breath gasped with each gesture until all that was left was the leather belt the fabric had been stuffed beneath. Her golden curly hairs were damp and glistening.

The men’s faces were flushed with desire as I knew mine must be.

It is not my fault that Madam began the slow caress of her breasts. With each tug of her nipples by her painted nails my feet grew more firmly into the ground. My breath was rushed. I found my hand mirrored hers, slipping beneath the fabric of my leotard to find my own small areoles.

Madam’s tongue wet her lips and then she leaned forward.

I’m telling you it was not my fault!

She cupped one of her large breasts and lifted the succulent flesh so she could place her tongue to her own hard nipple. Her bewitching eyes seemed to look straight at me as she flicked the turgid flesh with her tongue. Each wet swipe felt as though she were licking my own hard nubbins!

So focused was I on her tongue’s amusements and my response to them, that I did not notice that the two shorter men had left the tent, or that Tiny was now stuffing a bill into the leather purse slung on the belt around his waist. With a nod of his head to Madam, he left the red tent.

Tiny would remain in shouting distance. I must remain silent.

Madam and the man in the hat were alone.

The man removed his jacket and tossed it onto the faded Oriental carpet that padded the ground. Pillows were piled high in one corner. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves revealing muscled forearms while Madam took a provocative stance in front of the pillows.

“What do you like?” Madam asked the man and he told her to get on her knees.

I had not seen that before. I mean, I had never looked through the hole in the tent!

Madam took a pillow covered in orange fabric and trimmed with beads and placed it on the ground. From where I stood I could see the swing of her breasts as she took a position on the floor on her knees, her round rear high in the air.

The man had taken off his slacks and briefs. Now he stood in his trouser socks held up with sock suspenders, the white shirt and the hat. I would have giggled, but his manhood was hard and long, taking my breath away. How would that veined flesh feel? He was big. So much bigger than the lion tamer’s son.

Madam supported herself with one hand and reached beneath herself. She ran her fingers through her thatch of hair, in-between her moist thighs. I knew she must be wet in her center.

I was.

Just one finger, I told myself. I pulled my arms free of my costume’s delicate sleeves and pushed my shoulders out of the neck of my leotard before moving the sequined fabric to my waist. I slid a hand along my quivering belly and under my costume.

Madam’s fingers tugged her nether curls and I did the same. My lower body was wet and slippery. I wiggled my finger inside me.

The man held his hardness up to the back entrance of Madam’s hole. He pressed forward and I watched Madam’s fingers curl into the oriental carpet padding the floor. Her teeth sunk into her full lower lip. The man pulled his long hardness from her. The sound was as wet and slick as my fingers.

Just two fingers, I told myself as the man began to ram his manhood into Madam repeatedly. His fingers dug into her hips and she moaned. She pled with him to “fuck her harder!”

I circled that hard bit of flesh between my thighs and began to pant. Small little squeals were popping from between my lips, I couldn’t help it! Madam kept saying that word.

Fuck.

That naughty, beautiful word.

I said it. My insides tightened.

Again. And Again.

“What did you say?” Came Joey’s shocked voice from behind me.

Slowly, I turned. I should have been embarrassed. I should have tried to cover my naked breasts or stopped my hand from moving inside me. I did blush. I did, but more from excitement than embarrassment.

“Fuck?” I said.

I didn’t mean for the word to be an invitation, but the lion tamer’s son stood with the moonlight behind him and pulled out his manhood. He began to run his fingers along the turgid length, and I dipped inside my tight hole at his rhythm. I turned back to the tent to see the man’s hat tumble from his head. His black hair fell across his brow as he pumped his piston into Madam.

Now, Madam’s fingers were working at the entrance between them.

Her breasts swung in my direction, calling for me to taste them.

My thumb circled faster.

Joey stepped closer. I could feel the heat of his body and hear the slick sound of his hand on his hardness.

My fingers jabbed faster.

Madam moaned. Wet suction echoed in the tent.

My eyes nearly crossed. It was as if I were staring at them through the sight of a canon.

There was a groan near my ear. Then bang. Hot wet jism sprayed my face for the first time.

And skid across Madam’s back. Stuck in her hair.

I licked my lips. They tasted salty sweet.

My body convulsed as I let go of my trapeze and flew. Souring high above the crowd. Above the big top. And amongst the stars.

Madam could see my satisfied face through the hole in the red tent. Our eyes locked.

This wasn’t my fault! I quickly pulled up my leotard. Why was there this hole in the tent? And now, now the lion tamer’s son knew!

It was my secret.

Joey said my name and reached a hand toward me, but I brushed it away and told him not to tell my father.

I rounded the corner of the tent and Madam stood in the flap of the doorway. She was alone. A cigarette was in her hand and her long red hair hung wild around her naked breasts. She still wore her belt and the scent of the man.

“Miss Fontinini,” she said tilting her head to me. “Would you like to come inside?”

Madam held back the curtain of the red tent. I could see the tossed pillows and the round platform at the center where she had performed. The orange pillow where she had knelt as the man fucked her was bunched on the floor, golden in the lamplight.

Inviting.

“Father is expecting me,” I said.

She reached a long arm toward me, a square of bright red fabric in her hand. With a gentle nudge she wiped my brow and cheek, removing Joey’s spendings from my face. I didn’t mean to lean into her hand, but she smelled of cheap perfume and the man’s sweat.

“Miss Fontinini,” Madam whispered, her lips close enough for me to taste her breath.

I opened my eyes, not knowing I had closed them.

“Your father is expecting you,” she said. Madam took my hand and opened it palm up. She curled my fingers around the red fabric, her eyes on mine.

I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay suspended in her gaze. I wanted to watch her dance more. Fuck more.

Yes, I said, and turned away. My father was expecting me. I am the angel of the big top. I always come straight home after every performance.

Straight home.

Two Doors Down

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela

Day 1

On the first night of Hanukkah I arrived home from work to find an ivory envelope had been slipped through my mail drop. There was no postage or return address. Just the words Happy Hanukkah written in black ink with great flourish. Inside had been a single slip of paper, folded perfectly in half, also ivory with black writing. The note penned had read a friendly welcome to the neighborhood. No signature, but from a woman I would guess from the penmanship.

I stepped into the rather bleak interior of my apartment and removed my coat, scarf and gloves. It was a great apartment with all sorts of vintage charm, including bad insulation, I thought, rubbing my arms. I am one of those women who is always cold; huddling under a sweater in eighty degree weather. Turn of the century fixtures were on the cupboards and glass doorknobs throughout. My favorite detail was the beautiful warm woodwork around the door jambs and floors. But still sadly without furniture, save for the mattress in the bedroom. I had moved to Portland only last week and would collect furniture in time.

My first friend. I walked over to the fridge and stuck the note beneath a magnet. I opened the kitchen cupboard and took down my menorah. It had been my great-grandmother’s and was heavy, made of brass. I took my Hanukkah candles from the drawer and whispered the familiar prayers beneath my breath as I lit the first candle.

Day 2

My return from work greeted me with another envelope labeled Happy Hanukkah perched precariously in my mail slot. I smiled and turned in a half circle on the welcome mat outside my door as if to catch the deliverer of the missive, but there was no one, only the scent of snow in the air. I stood on the porch and opened the envelope.

I do not love, for I have yet to know
The golden glow of skin so sweet
Of hair as rich as chocolate warm
Always worn up upon
Glasses perched upon a dainty nose
I wonder if she likes my prose?

I turned the paper over. No name, no address, no number. I brought the paper to my lips. There was a scent. Something feminine and familiar tugged at a memory, but…The wind picked up and I shivered and turned to slip the key in the door lock.

Yet to know. I thought as I walked over to the fridge and placed the note on top of the other beneath the magnet. Yet to know…

Day 3

Two doors down, I yearn to touch
Slip a finger beneath that proper collar
To see the veil of hair unfold
And frame the cheeks of one made bold

There was a girl down the hall; a tall, striking girl with long black hair and pale skin. The first time I had seen her I had admired her boots as I came up the stairs behind her. Black patent leather with four inch heels. I’d wondered at her ability to climb so quickly after a day of walking in them. They had been tight, meeting the hem of her black pencil skirt at her knee. In truth, I had noticed more than her boots. Her derriere had been round, her hips full.

She had not paused or looked at me or even seemed to notice my hot stare. But walked past my door, hips a sway, to her door and closed it with final click.

Day 4

It came to my mind the following evening that there were two doors down the other direction of my apartment. An old man lived there with a bad comb over and a habit of peeking out his curtains whenever I walked past his door. This seemed a bad sign, but I could hardly think of him, with his plumber’s crack and ode’ de mothball preference for cologne, writing poetry in such a feminine hand.

Maybe two doors, literally down, I thought and slowed as I walked past the first floor apartments. I had not seen who the tenants were two floors beneath me. From the brightly colored plastic slide on the patch of grass out front and the yellow dump truck on its side I assumed they were a family. Not likely the authors of a love letter.

Eager for more poetry, I picked up my pace on the way up the stairs and arrived breathless at my door. I was not disappointed.

Kisses true and kisses fall
Upon thy lips and bodies call
Rub this oil upon your skin
And think of love you will let in
A clue you seek, a clue I give
Do you want to truly live?

This envelope included a small bottle. I tugged at the cap and with a slight pop the gentle scent of earthy sweet oil surrounded me and centered in my lower body. She had worn this scent.

My door lock sticks, so I have to tug the door shut to get the key to turn the lock. She had waited patiently while I struggled with the knob, while I moved in close to let her pass. Even with the extra space it seemed as though our bodies nearly touched. This scent had lingered with me for a heartbeat, then two. I had shaken my head of my thoughts, but now they returned to tempt my imagination’s fancy.

Day 5

The next morning I was locking my door when she stepped out to do the same. Her breasts were full and round and so perfect beneath her thin white blouse. She wore a black bra that outlined their tempting shape.

She wished me good morning and a welcome to the building, laughter in her succulent voice. I blushed, dragging my eyes to her face. Our eyes locked for the first time. Hers green and sharp and lit with humor. Lips as plump as the before mentioned breasts were made wet by a saucy tongue.

My response came out as a squeak. Not sexy. Not inviting. But like a timid school girl. I dropped my keys and cursed beneath my breath as I bent to pick them up. She did the same and our fingers touched. Her nails were longer than mine, glossy with bright red polish. Her blouse gaped as she bent and I could see tattoos and cleavage.

She stood and wished me a pleasant day. I fumbled a response. Then down the stairs she went. The click clack of her heels on the hardwood floor found the heartbeat in my sex. In time they pounded until she was gone.

All day I thought of her laughter and eyes and hips with a nervous heart. When I arrived home that night my mail was scattered across the hardwood floor. I knelt to rifle threw the pile in search of another letter.

There wasn’t one. No letter.

My throat closed and my eyes smarted. No words to linger over as I passed my evening. Damn my lusting eyes for ogling her! It was silly really. I didn’t know her. I hadn’t touched her. I shouldn’t miss her words.

Day 6

I thought myself a stalker as I walked past my door and stopped in front of hers. Knocking seemed like a good idea, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Only bold with the stares not action. I should offer to buy her coffee in way of apology. I really was not such a letch.

The curtains were drawn, but in the window sat one of those electric menorahs’, seven lights shining neon orange.

I took that as a mitzvah. A good omen, as my grandmother would have said. My heart picked up a beat as I told myself to calmly walk to my door and turn the key slowly in the lock. Relief nearly made me faint as I picked up the letter from the floor.

Passion’s need will overflow
As two hearts’ desire continues to grow
Thoughts at night are sticky sweet
For me know below my sheets
Two more nights of yearning need
And then our thoughts will be freed

Two more nights and then what? I walked into the kitchen and put this letter with the others. The freezer portion of the fridge was covered. It warmed my insides to see them there, hopeful promise on each sheet of paper.

Day 7

No words we speak to show our need
To know the heat and inner fire
Why fight this growing desire
Take the time to touch and tease

The covers were kicked from the bed and I lay nude except for my socks. A girl’s got to keep warm. My admirer’s letters lay about me on the bed. The latest note’s words a catalyst to bringing up the heat. My hand slipped across my stomach and dipped between my thighs.
My fingertip circle my hole. Behind my eyelids I saw her lips, wet and parted. Wet with my desire. I moaned.

A finger slid between my nether lips and then two, my thumb flicking my hard bud of desire.

A nipple twist.

My heels dug in.

A shudder rocked my body.

I was panting.

Then lick your artful fingers clean

A trembling hand did her bidding.

Day 8

The day at the office was going buy ridiculously slow. There was never much excitement in an accounting office, but at least there was always something to do. Except today. Except on the last night of Hanukkah.

What was she planning? My thighs were wet with anticipation and I crossed my legs to give myself some small bit of relief and stared sightlessly at the computer monitor. Maybe I could hope on a porn site? I giggled and felt heat suffuse my cheeks.

My colleagues were giving me strange looks. Two had asked if I were ill. They said I looked flushed. Yes, I wanted to say. From head to toe and tonight—Tonight I would be—I glanced around nervously as if they could read my dirty thoughts. Tonight I would be fucked. At least those were my plans. I planned to be bold in more than stares this evening.

The train ride home took forever and the six blocks to the apartment complex seemed like miles. I rushed up the stairs and would have taken them two at a time if I weren’t so short. Outside my door sat a box. I could see the little treasure from the landing. I walked forward slowly, Suddenly wanting to stop and savor. This would be the first night. The first taste of what my neighbor had to offer.

On my doormat was a box five inches square, wrapped in white paper. The now familiar curvy handwriting read Hanukkah greetings.

My heart trembling along with my fingers, I carefully unwrapped the package, careful not to damage the paper. A note was folded on top of the white tissue inside.

Want to Play?

Underneath the tissue lay the perfect Hanukkah gift. The box held a dreidel. Not the simple child’s wooden toy, but a beautiful glass art piece. Bits of glass in different sizes had been melded together to create a piece of art that sparkled in the setting sunlight. But that was not was made this game perfect.

The traditional symbols had been replaced with very naughty images. I held it up above my head to the light to get a better look. Embedded in the glass, on each side of the dreidel, were photo tiles depicting various sex acts. Instead of Nun, there were two women embraced in lavascious kiss. Gimel had been replaced by a tongue sampling a woman’s honey pot. A hand lost in a wet quim was Hei’s replacement. And a lady giving it to her woman with a strap-on was Shin.

Hearing a scuffle behind me, I turned to see my other neighbor smooth his comb-over across his scalp. He stood watching me. For a moment, I had a terrible doubt, that it was he who wrote the letters. That all my fantasies, and all my desires, were just a product of being more than a year without a partner.

I didn’t open my door. I smiled nervously and quickly walked in the opposite direction before doubt made me change my mind. This was it. I walked two doors down. I didn’t knock. I just opened her door. There was the scent of her in the air. My throat went dry and my lower body to liquid.

“Hello neighbor,” she called from somewhere in the apartment.

I hardly paid notice to the beautiful period furnishings. It was in trance, captivated by my desire.
I walked toward the sound of her voice and found myself in the doorway of her bedroom.
She stood at the foot of the bed framed by ornately carved posts on each side of the bed. The ivory bed covers were the perfect foil for painted in beautiful colorful tattoos. A silver ring winked from her navel and a large rubber cock rose proud from her bush.

Any normal person would have run. A girl with a bit of sense would not have lifted her hand to the button at her throat only to be told to not move.

She approached with a deliberate sway to her hips and took the dreidel from the box which I held in front of me in presentation stance. We are here to play, are we not? She asked and she bent to toss the dreidel. It spun across the floor, colored specs hitting the walls like a disco ball. It twirled frantically, seeming not to tire in its spinning. Just as suddenly it began to wobble and fall on its side.

Not on a new lover’s embrace, but on the picture with the strap on. I lifted a hand to my throat to slip the buttons from the holes of my collar but she told me to stop. I did.

My neighbor told me to turn around. I did. She came up behind me and encircled my waist with her tattooed arm. Her had slid into the my center and she massaged the fabric into my crotch. I bit my lower lip. She didn’t linger but slid the length of my skirt and took hold of the hem. She tugged the fabric to my waist.

I was wearing nylons and wondered for a moment why not stockings? Something sexy and—She pressed her dildo against me from behind.

I closed my eyes and gasped for sanity.

She pressed me forward with her cock, nudging my aching behind through the delicate fabric, until my knees hit the arm of the living room couch. She told me to leave my nylons on when I made to remove them. She kicked my legs further apart with her booted foot.

She caressed my behind through the nylons, teasing the sensitive flesh to follow her hand and seek its warmth. Her fingers followed the crack of my ass and grabbed the fabric in her fist, the waistband cutting into my stomach for a moment before the fabric ripped. Her fingers slid beneath and pet my bare skin. I gasped. Her hand between my wet thighs.

“My sweet little neighbor,” she said, sliding a finger in. My knees buckled and I took hold of the couch arm. She drug my juices back along my rear and then slid her rubber dick through the whole in the nylons. Greased by my juices, she found my hole and slowly entered, stretching my insides wide. Her weight pressed into me, hard nipples kissing my shoulder blades, tongue licking my ear.

I bucked my hips and she laughed, lying still and hot on my back.

“Did you like your Hanukkah presents?” she whispered.

“What does it feel like?”

She yanked the bun at the back of my head and I winced. “Answer me.”

I said yes and she began a maddening rhythm, slow, steady. She unbuttoned my shirt collar and her fingers massaged my small breasts through the lace of my bra, nipples hard as her rubber dick.

“Tell me neighbor,” she said. “Do you sob because you want me to stop, or because you want me to fuck you faster?”

Not waiting for my answer, she forced the cock in deep, and deeper still. She began to pound my pussy and twist my nipples. She told me to come and I did, my hot juices running down my legs and dripping from her strap-on.

There was no symbol on the dreidel for sucking her cock, but she said it needed to be cleaned. I dropped to my knees and she told me to look at her. I lifted my eyes and peered up from behind my glasses. She took the remaining pins from my hair and the waves fell around my shoulders. I drew my tongue from the tip of the veined rubber to the base of the shaft. My nostrils twitched. She was as wet as I. I drew her hardness into my mouth. The slightly sweet taste of the rubber and the syrupy tang of me ignited my senses; made me hunger for more. For the scent so cloying behind the phallus, to swim in my veins. Her nectar to dance with every one of my taste buds.
I licked my juices from every inch.

She helped me stand and remove my jacket before leading me back into the bedroom. I spun the dreidel again and this time it landed on the embrace.

“I’ve been watching you,” she whispered. And at last I wondered her name. Who was this girl whose lips I would kiss? But I forgot to ask as their softness touched mine.

Her tongue played and her teeth nipped.

And I sighed and I moaned.

I forgot to breathe. Forgot everything except the need to taste the many varieties of her silky skin.

I licked lips and neck, bitter sweet with talc and promise. That spot beneath the swell of her breast thick with salt. She giggled when I tongued her navel and demanded I remove her boots. I ran the zipper down the inside of each calf, bathing the bare flesh revealed to me, before tugging them free and tossing them to the floor. I knelt between her long shapely legs, in my prim button down shirt and grey pencil skirt. There was nothing between me and her sexy center.

This was my favorite part. The brush of the soft curls on my cheeks as I made myself familiar with her. My nose circled her clit. Hard and silky. Her hands took hold of my head and my nostrils clogged with her scent. The need to breathe through my mouth had me blowing on her tender skin. She trembled. I slipped of my tongue between the folds of her nether lips. Rich and creamy. Wonderfully mine. She writhed beneath me as I found her spot. I circled and sucked. Licked and sampled her clit until she screamed:

“Happy Hanukkah!”

Day 9

One eye lid opened to focus on the round swell of her beautiful breast. I smiled and opened the other. How long could we lay before realty intruded?

“Sated at last we slept a tremble
safe and warm upon the other
We awoke unsure what words to say
But only knew there would be more to follow.”

“Do you know the literal translation of Hanukkah?” She asked, curling her body around me.

“To dedicate,” I whispered, resting my head against her heart.

In The Dressing Room

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela

It had been two years since I had seen Danielle in person, and not from a billboard in Time Square. One day she had left me, with nothing but a hastily written note. A month had passed with no word from her when my copy of Vogue had arrived in the mail. Her succulent lips had smiled up at me from the glossy cover.

My life’s passion shifted and I became consumed with fashion. Danielle’s departure had renewed my commitment to my studies and nothing else mattered.

“Fifteen minutes girls!” The stage manager, shouted from stage right. Vivian could have been a model herself with her perfectly coifed blonde hair and smooth skin. The clipboard in her hand took the brunt of her tension with angry scribbles before she set her pencil behind her ear.

Today Danielle and I would meet again. I was her dresser, working the Versace show for school credit.

The rich textures and colors of the beautiful clothes hanging on the racks surrounding me were like an aphrodisiac. My blood was hot in my veins and picking up speed as the models shimmied into the latest looks Donatella had to offer. It would be an intense half hour.

I glanced at my watch. Late as always. There were ten minutes until curtain and Danielle had yet to arrive. My impatience was beginning to match Vivian’s.

To ease my tension I inspected my rack again. Polaroid’s of the designer’s styles were clipped to the hangers and the looks were hung in sequential order of Danielle’s appearances. Corresponding shoes were laid out in a neat row at my feet, and I had already taken a razor to their soles to give Danielle more traction on the runway. Jewelry was laid out on the table by the runway entrance, carefully guarded by Vivian’s assistant, a beautiful black gay boy with ebony skin and a penchant for glitter eye shadow.

Backstage was crowded with models in various stages of undress with the harried dressers chasing after them. Some models were completely clothed from head to toe, their make-up the perfect mask of beauty. High heeled shoes in place adding to their statuesque length of limb. The red-haired model at the rack to the left of mine paced nervously, twisting her manicured hands. I recognized her from other shows, a Nicole Kidman look-a-like and always nervous.

To the right, a striking brunette stood in nothing but trousers and smoked a cigarette. The seam down the front of the slacks was pressed to a hard crease and broke at her ankle in a flattering bend of fabric. I could see the barest quarter inch of heel beneath the hemmed cuff. Her dresser stood anxiously, clutching a poppy colored top to her chest. Whenever she offered the blouse, her model would tell her to fuck off, and then take another drag of her cigarette.

There was no smoking backstage. With all of this fabric and tight quarters this place was a severe fire hazard. That didn’t stop the models from lighting up. They lived on nicotine. I would not want to be the one to try and stop them.

Others were nude, their thin bodies twisting into the current Versace fashions; some with smiles and others with snarls. All with a sense of urgency.

“At last, she makes an entrance!” Vivian said with a disgusted shake of her head. “Think we can hold up the show for you?”

Vivian met my eyes as Danielle’s long limbs carried her across the room. They told me I’d better move my ass.

Danielle’s steps faltered. “Layla,” she whispered. A black leather jacket hung limply from her fingers. I took the soft leather and threw it under the rack. My hands went to the buttons at the top of Danielle’s shirt and I slipped them from their holes, knuckles brushing breast and stomach while she stepped out of her skirt.

I would remain calm. Professional.

I didn’t say a word, just hooked my thumbs in the strings of her thong and pulled the thin lace down her slim hips and thighs. I knelt to remove her shoes, breathing in the familiar odor of her pussy, and saw a startling new bare mound. Maintain composure.

My fingers hardly shook at all as I made quick work of her shoe buckles as she clutched my head for support.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” she said.

I stood and pulled the chartreuse top from the rack. It was lighter than air and fell around Danielle’s torso with a flutter. The deep cowl neck gave me a healthy glimpse of breast and the halter left nearly all of her back bare. I handed her the bone colored slacks threaded with gold and helped her secure the waistband at her hip.

“Five minutes, ladies!”

Danielle dashed off to the make-up tables, and I followed, strappy gold sandals in hand. The make-up artist swept over her face, blotting shine and heightening color while I sat at my ex-lover’s feet, buckling the narrow straps of her heels over instep and arch.

The stage manager shouted and Danielle shot off her seat nearly knocking me on my ass. She caught my hand with an apology and helped me to my feet. She would be the first on the runway to launch the line.

The music picked up a catwalk rhythm, the sound like a heartbeat in the dressing room.

I urged her center stage. Near the curtain entrance, Danielle crouched down so I could secure her necklace while she slipped the large gold loops through her earlobes.

She turned to face me and smoothed the fabric over her slim hips.

“Perfect,” I breathed. My throat closed up. This wasn’t going to work.

Danielle smiled down at me.

My heart beat in time with the music.

The stage manager held up ten fingers, folding one down at a time.

Danielle bent and brushed her lips against mine. “For luck.”

It was the barest of whispers.

For a moment I was transported back to the curb outside our old studio apartment in the Village. Before I had taken off for class and she made the rounds at the modeling agencies we would kiss and say…I shook my head and stepped into the background as the curtain was pulled back.

Flashbulbs salted my vision enveloping Danielle in a halo of light.

Danielle was straight and proud; her strides carrying her down the stretch of stage like she was a part of the runway. She was one with her environment. Sleek. Not like the figure model I fell in love with, but a confident face known around the world.

The next model followed and I hurried back to my rack. There were less than five minutes between changes. I took the red summer dress in my hands and fingered the thin fabric. It was as smooth as Danielle’s skin. The skirt was layers of sheer silk chiffon. When worn, the fabric would dance around her thighs, teasing the audience with the silhouette of the long legs underneath.

Danielle burst through the curtain. She hurried toward me yanking the top over her head as she went. The halter fell to the floor and I held the dress over my head for Danielle to dive into. We cursed as the layers of fabric caught in the neckline.

“My shoes,” Danielle urged, pushing me to my knees. Her pants fell on my arms while I worked the buckles free.

“Sling backs, thank God!” she whispered, kicking the slacks to the side.

I held the shoes out for her and she slipped her feet in with a twist of her ankle.

“How’s my face?” Danielle asked when I stood. She pursed her lips and closed her gold and rust dusted lids. The fake lashes were so long they left shadows on her cheeks. The make-up artist hadn’t needed to add much to her flawless skin or plump lips.

I took a tube of lipstick from my apron pocket, the same shade as her dress.

“Wait,” she said. She pushed me into the rack, the clothes a cushion between me and the wall as she kissed me hard. Lust rode my veins as the sweet taste of tongue and lip raped my senses. My knees went weak. I let her. I let her kiss me. I nearly hated her for it.

“Danielle!” was shouted from stage right.

She pulled back, took the tube from my hands and applied the lipstick in two quick strokes before running across the stage.

My heart was beating overtime. I picked up the outfit from the floor and stuffed it under the rack so others wouldn’t trip on it. Was I going to let her do this to me?

“I can’t believe she kissed you!” One of my classmates exclaimed from behind me. She was a short girl who tried to make up for her petite stature with platform heels and very tall dark hair. “She didn’t even ask if you were into girls!” Platform Girl said and threw a dress over her model’s head. The white fabric settled around the chocolate skinned calves. She pulled the belt tight at the model’s waist. The contrast of skin and fabric was stunning.

“They had a thing,” one of the other dressers called out from across the aisle. “A couple of years ago.” I couldn’t see who it was from behind her clothing rack.

A thing? Our love was now more an object than an emotion. I didn’t have time to respond because Danielle was back, shimmying her hips so the dress was a puddle at her feet.

The next outfit was an evening ensemble. Black linen tuxedo slacks. Instead of the usual shiny tuxedo seam, Versace had inserted a nude stripe of fabric than ran from hip to ankle. A sheer white ruffled front shirt with dramatic French cuffs would finish the look.

“Why did you leave?” I asked, keeping my voice level and holding the slacks for her to step into.

Danielle placed her hands on my shoulders, her small boy breasts at lip level. Her nipples were hard and butted my cheek when she twisted her hips so that I could pull the pants up her legs. My hands went to the clasp at her waist and her hand pressed my palm against her mound through the fine fabric.

“I had a flight to Milan at four in the morning,” she said. Danielle tucked the tails of her thin voile shirt into her slacks, leaving the front buttons undone. A long vee of creamy skin was exposed.

“A flight to─? Oh, for fucks sake!” I slipped my fingers beneath the teeth of the zipper, cupping the smooth damp skin of her pussy. Her clit pulsed against my palm. In time with the music. In time with my heart.

She met my eyes. They dared me.

I slipped a finger in. Bit my lip. Held my breath. Twirled.

Her smile faltered. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you I was leaving.”

“Danielle!” Vivian called from center stage.

I pulled my hand free and she stepped into her black loafers, zipping her slacks as she ran toward Vivian’s voice.

Platform Girl’s eyes were wide, but they widened even further when I brought my fingers to my mouth for a taste of Danielle. Familiar. Heavy and rich like crème brulee’. God, I’d missed her. My body ached with it.

I hung up the dress. Danielle had close to ten minutes for the next change. It was the finale, and she was to wear a formal gown. It took a little more getting into. The models’ stage order was reversed, leaving Danielle to finish off the show.

Donatella had gone all out with this dress, black feathers being the prominent covering. They had been painstakingly sewn into the nude mesh of the bodice and torso of the garment. Long black feathers fanned out over the hips. The greens and blues would be picked up in the stage lights. There was also a headpiece with this ensemble. I took it from the box and fell into the wall as weight tumbled into my back.

The clothes billowed around us and Danielle pressed into me, pussy against my ass. Her hands slipped around my waist and unbuttoned my Levis with a flick of her wrist and a drag of zipper. My heart was racing and I could barely breathe, fabric against my face, around my head. Danielle’s breath hot on my neck.

Eyes shut tight, colorful flecks danced on my lids, in time with her fingers in my pussy. I tried to ask her to stop, tell her to dress, but instead I moaned, my hips flying with her fingers to the beat of the music.

My body turned inward, heat flushing my face and limbs as I came in a nearly painful gasp. She zipped my fly.

Danielle stepped away from me and laughed, the sexy timbre sliding along my spine. I straightened; the headpiece had been crushed between me and the wall. I cursed and she laughed again as I worked at fixing the feathers and sequins.

“We’ll finish this after,” she said, pulling the dress around her. Danielle took the headpiece from me and secured it in her hair while my trembling fingers managed to do the dozens of hooks that stretched from ass to shoulder blade. I buckled her shoes, running on auto pilot, and Danielle was gone in a swirl of taffeta.

“You guys should really get a room,” Platform girl said.

“Oh, I plan on it.”

Words Like Yours...

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela
Have you heard the world is flat? Mine was until Rachel. Until she heard me.

I sat alone at the crowded bar, drowning my secret desires in shots of tequila and Rachel’s voice.
Rachel.

In this bar, on this stool, a year ago today, I’d heard Rachel sing for the first time. Hand-cut hearts taped to the doorways vibrated to the timbre of her deep contralto. That Valentine’s Day changed my life.

My attraction to Rachel wasn’t brought on by her boy-cut do, or her creamy pale skin. It wasn’t her full thick body, all hips and thigh. It was the smoky booze that poured from her throat – smooth mellow jazz mixed with raw passion and rough words like uncut diamonds. Hearing her voice was like taking a shower in sex, hot come caressing my skin from head to toe.

This bar had been my home every Saturday night since.

In the pre-dawn of each Sunday morning, night slips into day with me scribbling words onto scraps of paper. Rachel, a fever in my system; an ache between my legs.

When I finish, I write the lyrics onto red sheets of paper and slide them into envelopes the same color.

Rachel lives twenty minutes from my apartment. Red curtains in her windows hug a red painted door. Red like the missives I slide under her door while she sleeps.

Sometimes I wait. I sit in my car, smoking my Marlboros, my eyes heavy and tired. Her porch light flickers as I imagine her beneath her sheets, the cool white cotton skimming her body.

Another shot burns my throat.

Did she read my little notes? Does she know that it’s me?

I’ve never spoken to Rachel, just watched from my corner of the bar. My heated eyes caressing her skin in ways my fingers envied.

A year had passed since that first night, and hand cut hearts were taped to the doorways again. Rachel wore red for the occasion, her curves hugged by deep burgundy velvet. Tight velvet.

With each high note she hit, her breasts trembled, nearly spilling from the bodice. “Another shot, Teddy?”

I looked up at Rob and nodded. He had tended bar at La Vida since before Rachel’s band started performing.

“You gonna talk to her?” he asked setting the booze in front of me.

I shook my head. Maybe if I had a couple more drinks I’d get up the nerve.

I knocked the tequila back, shaking my head at the burn.

“You gonna talk to me?” he teased. It was Saturday night, and Rob knew where my thoughts lie. Against Rachel.

“Hey y’all!” Rachel called. “This one’s for my valentine. You know who you are.” She adjusted the mike, bringing her ruby red lips close, and sang.

When you gonna open the door?

I sobered.

It’s cold outside.

My words! Rachel was singing my lyrics, the same ones I snuck under her door.

My heart’s been empty and sore, since I saw you under the lights.

My words were rubbing themselves on her tongue, licking her lips before nibbling my ear. They were traveling on the perspiration that dotted her skin, sliding along her body, before evaporating out to the audience. I was all over her. Fucking her with my poetry, and being fucked by her song.

We’d close those red curtains and fall in love in our own sweet time.

Her green eyes were shut tight, and mine closed in response. My heart found her rhythm beneath my breasts. The bar disappeared and we were alone in my mind. Voice and words married beneath the beer lights. My heart swelled and my pussy moistened.

Rachel was singing to my soul.

My eyes opened as Rachel thanked her band for tonight’s performance.

Fans weaved between the tables and crowded around her. A blonde put a hand on her forearm, leaning in close enough to feel Rachel’s breath on her cheek. Rachel took her lip gloss from her bag, and ran it over her pout, nodding at what the woman was saying to her.

I shifted on my stool, my eyes darting away. Rob wiped down the bar.

People called out to Rachel as they left, pieces of their conversations fluttering behind them.
A man pulled her into his arms, hugging her. His hands skimmed her ass.

Did you feel that?

Rachel aimed a kiss at his cheek; he turned his head meeting her lips.

The drummer stepped forward, glaring at the man. He apologized, and backed away with a nervous laugh.

I wonder if she tastes as good as she sounds?

The bar cleared and Rachel’s band packed up their equipment.

“You okay?” Rob asked, waving a hand in front of my face. Okay? My world was no longer off-key, but in tune or the first time.

I waited. As always, the last one to leave the bar. I watched her laugh and joke with the band from under my newsboy cap; eyes gritty from the smoke and the fourteen hour days my obsession had created. No, it wasn’t obsession. It was adoration. Love.

Rob cleared my tab and I zipped my biker jacket to my throat. With a wave, I walked out the door to the parking lot. The band’s laughter followed me out.

Leaning up against the rusty door of my beater, I lit a cigarette. I’d get one more glance of Rachel when the band loaded up the van.

A few minutes later they walked out of the bar, the drummer’s arm around Rachel’s shoulders. The two of them had an easy way about each other that made me grit my teeth.

Instead of walking to the van, Rachel sauntered towards me, leaving little white puffs of frigid air in her wake. She stopped a few feet away. I had never been this close.

I narrowed my eyes, breathing her in. Musk, incense, cigarettes, booze, sweat…she smelled like I imagined a gypsy would.

“You stalkin’ me?”
I loved her rich masculine voice.

Stalking? It’s not like I followed her home and sat outside her window. I just stopped by once a week. Sundays. In the morning.

“No, I….” I was stuttering like a fucking junior high kid.

Rachel held out her hand, a familiar red envelope in her palm. My throat went dry. She was guessing. She couldn’t know. I licked my lips nervously.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Teddy.”

“Like the bear?”

I nodded and she laughed, her smoky drawl dancing along my skin. She handed me the envelope and I swallowed hard.

“Read it to me,” she purred. I wanted to. I really did. But the lyrics were meant for her voice; her rusty, pussy-wetting sound. I pulled out the red slip of paper. My handwriting blurred.

“Perfect,” I told her, meeting her eyes for the first time. They had a cat-like shape. She had used eye-liner to turn them up at the corners, gold glitter shimmering on her cheekbones. “You were perfect.”

A smile curled, her glossy lips. My lips were dry, in need of Chapstick.

“Do you mind?” Rachel asked, snatching my cigarettes from my pocket. She took one between her lips and I lifted an unsteady hand to give her a light. She leaned against the car with me, thigh touching thigh.

“How long you been singing?” I asked.

“Since I was born.” She smiled and wrapped an arm over my shoulders. My cunt began to pulse.
“How long you been writing?”

The van pulled in front of us.

“Everything cool?” the drummer asked, an eyebrow climbing towards his buzz cut.

“Hot, my man,” she drawled and squeezed my shoulder.

The band waved out the windows as they drove out of the lot. We were alone.

“You’ve been coming to La Vida for what…a year?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you whisper me some of those sweet words you wrote?” She stood in front of me, and pressed her hips into mine.

I should have a few cool lines. I’m a writer. My mind was blank.

“Words like yours ... ” Rachel leaned into me, breasts meeting my own. Her breath was warm on my lips. “... would’ve had me on my back months ago.”

I didn’t know what to say. What to do. I felt asthmatic.

A car door slammed. Rob revved his engine and honked his horn as he drove by.
Rachel nibbled her way along my jaw, her hand dragging down my jacket’s zipper. Her lips hovered over my ear in the chilly air.

“Or did you want me on my knees?” She dropped to the ground and I protested. The pavement, the gravel. She had my fly down. Her short cropped hair sparked red in the moonlight, her skin pale as ivory.

“Rachel, I…” I gasped, as she tugged the elastic of my panties aside. My bush steamed in the cold air.

She yanked my jeans down, and my ass hit cold metal. I yelped and laughed nervously, my hips thrust away from the door. Rachel pressed me into the frigid steel. Her hands were firm on my thighs, widening my stance as much as she could with my jeans around my knees.

“Say my name again.” Her hot breath was on my clit. Her eyes held mine. I said Rachel’s name. Her tongue began to lick. Over and over her name was on my lips, her tongue playing with my swollen nubbin.

Cozying up to my hot cunt like she did the microphone, Rachel ate as passionately as she sung my words. Her tongue pulled sounds from me I had never heard before.

Making music.

I moaned.

Making love.

My knees went weak.

“Open the door,” Rachel said. I turned and grabbed the back door’s handle. It swung open with a squeak and she pressed me into the cheap vinyl, riding me into the car. Her hand was in between my thighs, dancing with my clit.

I struggled with my t-shirt, catching it around my neck.

A crescendo was building. Rachel leaned into my back. Her breasts fell from her red dress and pressed into my shoulder blades. One hand was on my tits, the other strumming my clit with the steady beat of a bass guitar. She bit my neck, mumbled my name.

Wanna dance?

My hips began to move, fucking her hand into the vinyl.
Wanna sing?

Moans poured from my throat, fogging the windows.

Come with me, baby.

My shouts echoed in the tight interior of the car and I shuddered as her fingers finished a duet with my pussy.

She crawled off me and into the front seats. “I knew you had a voice.”

Rachel had given me one.

I kicked off my jeans. She shimmied her dress down her body. My pussy began throb. No panties. Clean shaven perfection.

“Move to the center.” Rachel dropped the seats so they were flat, framing me on the back seat.

“Spread your legs over the seats.” I arranged myself with my ass hanging off the back seat, knees curling over the front two. The gear shift was inches from my wet pussy, the bulbous head rising from my cunt like a giant cock.

Rachel knelt over us…me and my gear shift. She rubbed her pussy against the cracked vinyl head and I swear I could feel it. She jostled and wiggled, tweaking her breasts. Her moans were like her singing, hot and sticky. She slid down its length, rocking her pelvis against the hard metal.

The paper pine tree swayed in the rearview mirror.

My fingers were in my hot hole. Words began to fall from my mouth. My lyrics in an untidy pile between us. Her movements became wild. My voice trembled.

She was beautiful. Her body glowing, breasts bouncing, thighs clenching. Rachel was my perfect secret love.

I shouted her name.

Our eyes connected and she came, her voice crawling over my skin and between my legs, slipping into me like poetry.

My muse.

My valentine.

My Rachel.

Sex Storm (Working Title)

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela

The left wiper squeaked with every pass across the cracked windshield of my pick-up truck. Each swipe over the smooth glass caused my innards to cringe. Two feet of vinyl separated me from my girl, Carla.

It had been her idea to go to the strip club, not mine. Why was she so pissed I enjoyed watching naked chicks shake their asses? My dick was hard, just like Carla liked it. I shifted in the seat, wanting nothing more than for my woman to stop with this jealousy bullshit and suck my cock.

“Stop the truck.”

I gripped the wheel tighter. That little fantasy wasn’t going to happen. My eyes darted from the barely visible highway to Carla, her pale cheeks flushed with anger. Her beautiful bow lips were tightened into an angry line. Curly red hair sprung around her head in an angry halo. A bolt of lightening lit the sky and set the corkscrews aflame.

I wanted to put my hand in the fire. “Baby, I—”

“Stop the fucking truck!”

I slammed on the brakes and the truck fishtailed, my cowboy hat flying. Carla screamed grasping the door handle, as I grabbed hold of the steering wheel. The truck weaved back and fourth half a dozen times before it slid across the pavement into a crooked stop along the shoulder, horns honking around us.

“Asshole!” Carla’s breasts heaved, barely kept from view by the plunging white v-neck tank she wore. If you asked me, I was the one who should be jealous. Her jean skirt was practically a belt it was so short, showing off her long toned legs and her favorite red cowboy boots.

She flung the door open and jumped down to the pavement and immediately started cursing the rain.

What the fuck did she expect? They were in a monsoon.

In the review mirror I could see Carla had her thumb out.

Of all the—I picked up my hat and jumped out of the cab. Thunder shook the earth, followed by another flash of lightening. Carla was soaked through. Her already indecent tank top now made pornographic by the pounding rain. Dark nipples were clearly visible through the wet fabric. My dick twitched.

I grabbed her hitching hand and pulled her against me, bringing that thumb to the hardness beneath my fly.

“Pervert!” she screamed. But I saw the desire in her eyes in the passing car lights before she tried to shake from my grip. She was tall; the same height as me in her cowboy boots. Farm raising had made her strong. With difficulty I drug her behind the truck and pressed her against the cold rusty steel with my hips.

“Listen to me!” I shouted and she turned her head away. I grabbed her chin and forced her face foreword. Her hair was matted to her head. Mascara was now in wet tracks down her cheeks. Rain pounded down in a torrent, and in a flash of passing headlights I could see the pinking of Carla’s cleavage. God, she was hot.

“Nothing to say?” She whispered and her tongue took a slow ride around her lips. Carla swiveled her hips against mine, daring me. My eyes shot up and down the highway and I hesitated.

“Pussy,” she hissed.

“Bitch.”

I tugged her skirt to her waist.

She laughed.

Tore her thong.

My fingers slid between sopping wet folds of pussy.

My balls ached.

“I hate you!”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

She humped my hand as I worked open my fly. I’d give her those few moments before I fucked her. Let her ride my fingers.

Zipper down and cock out, I shoved her into the cab and grabbed her wet hair. I pushed her face into the wet cab seat. Carla’s round ass waved in the air as she tried to get away. I forced her legs apart and found my home between her thighs. My huge hard-on, slid through her ass crack, skidding to a stop at the entrance to her juicy hole. Thunder shook the truck and I plunged forward, hitting the back of her womb. She cried out and reached for the steering wheel. I took a hold of her shoulder in one hand and yanked her hair in the other. I forced her pussy onto my cock. Used her wet cunt to stroke my dick. I jammed her against me. Made her fuck me.

I was cold everywhere but where I bodies connected. The rain came down harder.

Carla wiggled a hand beneath her. I could feel her fingertips tugging her clit. I was too selfish. Too mad to help her get off. This was about my cock in her pussy. The velvet heat of her tunnel massaging my dick.

She was now pressing her ass back against me. I let go of her shoulder and slipped my hands around to fondle her breasts. Carla’s nipples were hard from the rain and the pussy pounding I was giving her. I pinched her nips and her cunt squeezed my dick. I tugged again, milking her tits so her pussy would milk my dick. With each snap of my finger her insides squeezed my cock.
Carla screamed my name and her body shook like a fish on the end of the line as she came. She fell limp against the seat and I squeezed her hips, jacking my prick until it went off, jets of come coating her insides.

“Those girls were hot, weren’t they?” Carla whispered satisfaction in every word.

For a moment, anger flared again, but I held it in check and pulled my dick from her pussy. Carla turned over, legs spread, rain pelting her bare thighs. I watched her hand slide over the skirt bunched at her waist and through the smooth skin of her pussy. She shifted on the seat so that the rain would hit her cunt lips and closed her eyes.

“Not as hot as you.”

She smiled. That was just what she wanted to hear.

The Virgin Birth

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela

A pain in my stomach woke me. The ache was sharp, deep and low in my belly. I held myself with my forearms and curled my knees up tight against me. Joe lay beside me, her face soft and peaceful in the shadow of the moonlight. A smile nearly turned my lips as I thought of her love, when another pain tore through my abdomen causing me to squeeze my eyes tight blackening out my lover’s face.

I rolled from bed and hobbled over to the front doorway, clutching my twisting innards.
Another slice of pain stabbed my stomach as I opened the door and fell to my knees in the dirt outside. My evening meal was tossed from my insides. Again I heaved, and set my hands on the ground, holding my face from the earth and tried to catch my breath. What had I eaten?

“Mary.”

I fell backward onto my rear at the sound of my name, searching the darkness. We lived miles from our nearest neighbor and I could see Joe lying in our bed sound in sleep.

“Greetings, Mary.”

There was no one, but the deep male voice echoing in my head. I got to my knees, and with a trembling hand wiped my mouth with the edge of my shift.

“Who speaks?” I found myself whispering even though the voice was loud and round in my brain.

“Show no fear, Mary of Nazareth.”

Easy for the voice to say.

“I am an angel of the Lord and have come to tell you the Lord looks upon you in favor.”

I shook my head rapidly, to remove the voice.

“You will bare a child, a boy child, whom you will call Jesus.”

“I am a virgin and will not lye with a man.”

“You will bare a child.” It was an order, not a request.

“What do you mean?”

“God has chosen you to be the mother of the Lord and in nine months time, you will give birth to the son of the Most High.”

“Please, who are you?” Another pain ripped my insides and I fell to the ground, clutching my churning guts.

“It is done!”

And the voice was gone; his last words an echo in my head. They pounded like someone had taken a rock and beat it against my skull. I retched again in the sand and lost consciousness.

***

Joe’s voice crying my name woke me before dawn. The usually confident alto was panicked, and although I assured her not to worry, there were tears on her face when I lifted my heavy lids.
She asked what had happened as she helped me sit up. I stood on shaky legs; her strong carpenter’s arms lifted me to my feet.

As Joe rapped her arm around my shoulder and led me inside, I explained to her that I had been ill, but I was well now.

Last night had been a dream I thought as she set me on the bed. Joe filled a bowl with water and brought it to me. I smiled up at her as she asked more questions, and explained them all away. I convinced myself my words were true. There was no pain in my stomach to reignite the fading memory. The words spoken to me in the black of the night seemed like a dream. Perhaps were a dream. Must have been a dream.

***

The early morning light of the rising sun caught in Joe’s brown hair, revealing the golds and reds that hid in the strands. She was bent over the table she had finished constructing yesterday. The steady crisp of sanding filled the chilled morning air. Joe had a talent with wood. Her calloused hands had kept us fed these past four years.

Four years we had traveled these sands. Partners. Friends. Lovers.

“Are you well then, Mary?” she asked, not looking up from her work.

The bitter taste of bile still coated my mouth. “Not so much,” I said. I rest my hand on my quaking stomach.

Joe looked up, her cheeks and nose held the sun from yesterday’s walk into town. She stood a frown on her face. “You do not take ill.”

That was true. It was a rare day when I was sick. It was also rare that my flow was late. I did not know if Joe had noticed but two months had passed since my time and I feared that my sickness had nothing to do with being ill.

The very thought was not possible.

“I am with child.”

Joe’s lips twitched. “You tease me, Mary.”

I shook my head. “I would not joke of this.”

Expressions raced across Joe’s face as she crossed over to me. Disbelief, joy, confusion, anger.

“When?” She was the same height as me and her blue eyes drilled into mine.

“Ten weeks have past.”

“Who is he.”

“There has been no one. Only you.”

“That is not possible,” she said and took my shoulders. I had to agree. A man was involved in the making of a child. “Was it David?”

My shoulders relaxed beneath her palms. “No.” At least she was not accusing me of infidelity. She was afraid I had been forced. David’s farm was half a day’s ride from here, and he had a fondness for me that I did not return. He was aggressive in showing his affection that went beyond words. Two weeks ago, Joe had gone into town to purchase supplies and had come back to find me barricaded inside the house, David trying to force his way into our home.

“I can not explain it Joseah,” I said. Indeed. My hand came to rest on my flat stomach. Perhaps my late flow and sickness had nothing to do with giving birth to a child. Perhaps I was sick in some other fashion.

“Joseah,” I said, taking her wrists and bringing them to her sides. “Please come to the house.”

***

That night we lay just inches from each other but Joe was miles away in thought. She did not touch me and for that I could not blame her. This went on for weeks. A silent confused partnership. I could not remember a moment in our friendship that it had been thus; a time
when we did not talk ourselves to sleep at night.

Five months passed. I stood bathing. I ran the rag along my body. Over my now fuller breasts and over the swelling roundness of my belly. I did not think I looked pregnant yet, but as though I had overeaten at a few suppers. Joe’s eyes were watching my hands and I felt a need to move them slower. To linger over my abulation so that the water would follow the curves of my figure and ignite Joe’s hunger for me. I ached with longing of months of abstinence and hopped that at last Joe would soon come around to knowing I was faithful and true to her. I only wanted her.
My eyelids drifted shut and I said her name.

The sound of the door shutting behind Joe was my answer.

***

The sun was setting when I found Joe outside her shed. Again she was sanding diligently, but using water as she worked to curve the length of wood. Her robe was soaked through and the curls around her forehead wet from her efforts. One curved length of wood lay completed on the ground.

I asked her if she had received a new commission. She shook her head no, and continued her work.

It was then that I noticed an elongated box. The foot and head were two ornately carved with flowers and singing birds. The sides were smooth, except for the lip of the box that was scalloped.

This was a rocker. For the baby. My stomach dropped and I felt the baby turn my insides in response.

I clutched my abdomen in surprise. I must have cried out because Joe was at my side.

“What is it?”

“The baby!”

“The baby what?”

“He moved!”

I placed her larger hand on my stomach and again the baby threw a foot forward to kick Joe in the palm. Not even the orange of the sun setting behind could hide the color that drained from her face.

“We really are pregnant.” Even after hours of laboring over a rocker for the unborn child, Joe had not been convinced that I was carrying our baby. And with that kick first kick we both knew it was true.

***

That night we lay in bed. I was nude, my hand lying upon my belly and Joe was beside me. I could practically hear her thinking.

“You said ‘he’ moved.”

It was a bit strange to think that we, two women, would be bringing a boy child into the world.

Logic would dictate that we have a girl. But if the voice was truthful, the babe would be a boy. I could hear the amusement in Joe’s voice. Before I could change my mind I took hold of her hand and rest beneath mine over our child. I told her of the voice in the darkness.

“So you have let go your wits then?”

Laughter exploded from me in response and I hugged the babe beneath my skin, happy that Joe found humor in the situation. Glad that my joy translated into a flurry of movement inside.

“What if I am crazy?”

“And this is just a bit of weight gain and indigestion?”

What if he weren’t real? And I was touched in the head?

Joe sat up and leaned in close over my belly and placed a sweet kiss on the soft swell.

“Welcome,” she said. And with that simple gesture months of uncertainty and doubt washed away. We were again Mary and Josiah.

A thousand kisses rained over my belly as if Joe’s love would protect us. Keep me and the baby safe. Lips and tongue warmed my breasts with open mouth kisses before her lips found succor in mine.

Wet heat enveloped my body. My hands ached with wanting to feel every muscle, touch every centimeter of skin, but her smooth tongued mouth said, “slow love, careful love.”

Joe was my oxygen. My every breath fed to me by her soft lips. The palm of her hand pet my stomach in slow circles, then followed the soft trail of blond hair that led to my center. And there while she suckled my tits like a babe herself, her fingers tangled in the hairs of my womanhood. She pulled and tugged the soft curls, milking my insides for juices.

Like an oasis in the desert, my thighs parted for her to swim in. First her hand dove and splashed between my lips. Her thumb lingering on my throbbing hard nubbin, but her lips jealous of not getting to play, replaced her thumb and drank of my bounty. Licked and nuzzled, sucked and dallied. My hips rose from our bed, and her face drove me down again. Tongue wide and flat lapping my hole.

Wet my wetness. Her nose nudged my singing pearl over and over again.

It was as if Joe wanted to climb inside my womb and be with our baby. As if nine months were a lifetime and today she must find her way inside to lie safe with him. As if being apart were no longer an option.

The pressure built and all I could see was Joe. The red of hair in the firelight. Her brown eyes warm and alive as she looked up my body. Her toned buttocks rocking the foot of the bed while she pleasured me. The smell of summer sand cooling beneath the stars. The coppery taste of blood on my lip where I bit too hard. The scratch of the bed sheet on my backside as I rose to her touch again and again. My secret noises colored the air as I pleaded with her to take me to her. To bring me home.

Home and the dark became light. The voice that spoke me on that night spoke again: “Jesus will be born in love.”

Light filled my vision and I could see nothing but the sun, round and huge filling our house as my body vibrated in pleasure. In the distance I cold hear Joe’s voice cry out my name like a prayer.
We fell to the mattress as if from a great height, Joe’s head pillowed on our unborn child.

“We will call him Jesus,” Joe said.

I knew she knew. I wasn’t crazy. It was my turn to weep.

Precious Pearls

Copyright © 2008 by Crystal Barela

The three things my mistress Juliette loved above all others were my dirty knees, my best behavior and her precious pearls. That night she had insisted upon all three.

It had been my first visit to Mother, a Goth club in the meat packing district where the dress code was black except on special nights like this one. Absence of color was the theme, which was why I found myself wrapped in cellophane and little else. It was winter, but even so, condensation was beginning to build on the inside of my fragile costume.

The taxi driver kept trying to catch my eyes in the rearview mirror, but I kept mine lowered. Any “flirtation” not approved of by my mistress would inspire corporal punishment later.

Juliette sat beside me, my hand in hers.

Before she opened the car door she said, “Do as you’re told at all times.”

As if I would do anything else. The diamond studded riding crop in her other hand was the perfect deterrent.

Mother was not what I expected. The man, who greeted us at the entrance and took our cover fee in his left hand and stamped our hands with skull and crossbones on the right, had filed down his eye teeth to look like vampire fangs. The pale pancake framing his dark goatee and butting the black eyeliner on his lids, added to the illusion.

The club was an odd place for a lady like my Juliette to be. Not old money, like she was born with or the society ladies like she had tea with. Mother was just about as far from Central Park West as we could get.

The simple black velvet curtain in front of us opened into a foyer of black and white tile, similar in shape and size to the tiles in the condo uptown. Unlike our floor, these were covered in hundreds of footprints and spilt drinks. House music was pumping through the doorway on the other side of the room in a beat that made my feet itchy and my stomach quake.

The crowd was diverse only in hair and skin color, the dress code filling the space with black and transparent clothing.

“On your knees, Kitten.”

That’s me, I’m Kitten. Sometimes, if I am good, I am Cat. Kittens are naughty, they spill their milk and track it across the floor. They scratch the furniture and miss the litter box. I had only been in training with Juliette for two months.

I dropped on all fours and Juliette slipped a leash of pearls around my neck. This single strand was eight feet in length, not including the collar. I know because it was my job to polish the pearls after use. Sometimes lick them clean. A sexual rosary to my Goddess.

The room was lined with antique furniture, Goth in look, with rich velvet cushions, and gold filigree accents. French impressionistic portraits of men and women in period costumes lined the walls in heavy thick frames. The walls were papered in black and wine colored stripes. Mother was blown up and overdone.

Juliette stood near six feet in her stocking feet, so in her five inch platforms she towered over most people in the club. Her black corset was tightened so that her waist measured a perfect twenty-four inches around, not a millimeter more or less. I had sucked her in inch by inch, tightening the laces until her spine was a straight like a ruler.

A razor had been applied to her beautiful legs, by my practiced hand, removing every hair so that her skin was smooth as supple as the rich fabrics she wore. Juliette preferred a nude seamed stocking, and they skimmed her legs in a swath of silk.

“Elegance, is civility, dear kitten,” she has said on numerous occasions.

Nevertheless, here I crawled at her side, my knees and palms becoming sticky from tonight’s party mis-haps, in no way elegant. Beside me she stood in contrast; a statuesque Victorian ideal, golden blond hair pulled up off her shoulders in a perfect chignon. Diamonds winking from her ears, and make-up applied with flattering sweeps of a brush in pinks and lavenders.

“Darling, Juliette!” This from a tall beautiful black man near Juliette in height, only his silver top hat making him taller. His eyelids sparkled in the dim light, his full thick lips like plums. Between his brows, the number eight in white glitter. He kissed my mistress on one cheek then the next.

“Thank heavens you came!”

“Not yet darling,” Juliette replied and their heads bent together. They erupted in laughter.

Annoyed, I looked away. I seemed to remember a rather lengthy application of tongue to pussy earlier this evening. Just before leaving, my mistress had come in a series of staccato yips inciting the neighbor’s poodle to join her in duet.

The tug of the leash squeezed my wind pipe. “Head up, kitten.”

“She’s perfect, Juliette,” the man said, crouching down to eye level. “I’m Damon and I can’t wait to be better acquainted, Kitten.” He held his hand out to me, and I nuzzled his palm with my cheek as I had been taught. I caught a whiff of something exotic…leather and linseed oil.

“I knew she would be just great for the show. Is it to be held in here?” she asked. The pirouetted in a slow circle as if looking for a stage.

A passer-by ran a cool hand along my bare ass, sending a wave of heat to my pussy. I jumped hissing, looking for the stranger, and felt the leash tighten around my throat in a sharp reprimand.

“Ignore them, Kitten.”

“No, there are two other rooms in the club,” Damon said, taking Juliette’s elbow. “Much bigger than the old space.”

My mistress followed after him, and I stayed the required three feet behind her. No more, no less.

The sway of her ass was a sight to behold. Juliette’s back view was definitely my favorite. My cheeks and hands had caressed, and my lips had licked and nipped, but I was not allowed to gain
entrance.

Anal play was reserved for her pet. She liked to bend me over the footboard of her mahogany bed and grab hold of my ass cheeks, spreading them wide for target practice. Juliette would ply me with oil, whip me with vengeance and stick me with butt plugs. But her favorite toy was her
precious pearls.

Distracted by my thoughts, I was nearly trampled when we entered the room with the house music. Lights were flashing, catching half naked dancers in the sudden glare. Tits and asses were like sculpture, frozen for a second before the lights flickered, taking in a different part of the gyrating bodies.

The music was deafening, and I shied toward my mistress afraid that my fingers would be stepped on. Her manicured hand dropped to my head, petting my dark hair.

“Stand, Kitten.”

Damon led us down a steep narrow staircase with purple walls. There was barely room for the width of his shoulders and I was glad that Juliette had allowed me to walk. I had not mastered stairs on my hands and knees. I caught sight of my palms, black with dirt and had to force myself not to wipe them on something.

“Kneel.”

The floor at the bottom of the stairs was covered in shiny black astro-turf. I clasped my hands behind my back and kept my head high, my breasts and chin at attention.

We were in a long narrow room, purple like the stairwell. In front of us was a red velvet rope that my mistress’s friend moved so that we could enter. At one end was a small bar, but this space had obviously been made as a lounge and performance area. A tiny stage, only differentiated by the seats encircling the space and the white padded square that had been built into the floor, sat at the center of the room.

“Juliette, we are so pleased you will be entertaining this evening,” said a woman dressed entirely in red patent leather from neck to ankle. Obviously, she was a rule breaker amongst this monochromatic crowd. She was slim and willowy with nearly no breasts and long blonde hair hanging past her shoulders. “It’s been close to a year since you last honored us.”

“No, it is I who am honored,” Juliette said, running a finger down the side of my jaw and clasping my chin and turning my face up for inspection. “I am thrilled to introduce you to my new protégé, Kitten.”

“May I?” Mindy asked, and Juliette nodded.

Mindy bent at the waist, bringing her pale face down to mine, her eyes blurring into one with her closeness. She caressed my cheek with her own, her lips touching mine with cinnamon spice and a wet tongue. I gasped, my mouth parting and my eyes widening with her gentle touch.

“A virgin,” Mindy said, straightening. She licked her lips and stared down at me with limpid blue eyes, lashes caked in thick black mascara. “Can’t wait to try her out.”

My confusion heightened. A virgin I was not.

I had not been told that there would be a performance, or that we would be a part of the act, but from the conversations I had overheard that seemed to be the case. I dropped to my hands and Juliette led me across the hard floor, my knees protesting at the hardness. The smooth tile upstairs had been more to my liking. She led me in-between the chairs and couches to the white square. She put me at its center.

“Sit, Kitten.”

My ass found my calves and I widened my knees. Juliette took hold of a curtain I hadn’t noticed before. It was attached to a pole framing the perimeter of the square, and she pulled it around us so that we were enclosed in a fabric cocoon.

Juliette crouched down behind me, her silk clad knees squeezing my shoulders, her breasts flush with my back. My pussy tightened. With her breath at my ear, she slid her hands down over the saran wrap binding my breasts, stomach and hips, and pulled the plastic membrane up. Her fingers tested my silken cleft, pinching my clit between her thumb and forefinger. She milked the little nubbin, drawing juice from my center and onto her fingers. My mistress brought her fingertips to my lips and painted them with my sticky desire.

“Do not lick your lips,” she whispered. “They will shine under the lights.”

Juliette stood and walked in front of me. She was sure to catch my eyes before licking my wetness from her fingers, making my tongue salivate. I wanted to lick my nectar from my lips.

“Now sit and do as you’re told.” Juliette kissed me on the forehead, then removed the leash from around my neck, and left me behind the curtain.

From behind the fabric I could hear muffled voices. I could tell that the room was filling with people and I wondered what was in store. My mistress had never involved others in our sessions, but I was not shy.

My knees were beginning to ache and I was afraid that my calves were falling asleep when the lights went out. Whispering voices surrounded me from every direction. Cat-calls echoed from near the door and bar, making me nervous. What had Juliette gotten me in to? What sadistic pleasure would we gain from this night?

Mindy spoke from the left side of the sqare. “Thank you my naughty friends for joining us at my club on this very special evening.”

More yelling.

“You are the select few willing to put yourselves on public display, and play with our little kitten,” she said from the right side of the curtain. “I promise you, this pussy is well worth the wait!” This was said from behind me. Mindy was circling my enclosure, strange aquatic music filling the air. “I present to you Mistress Juliette and her aching pussy!”

The curtain flew around the square and it took all the training I had not flinch or look away as Juliette took a spot in front of me and the spotlight stuck us. Her ass was my focal point and keeping me from seeing our audience.

The crowd cheered.

Juliette was striking; her long legs and full breasts a banquet for the eyes. Her riding crop in hand.

“My pussy has never been on stage before.”

This was met by more applause. Juliette walked behind me and my eyes came to rest on the couple in front of me. A redhead in a clear plastic bra and white cowboy hat with the number four painted on the front sat with her partner in silver chaps. His cock rose from his lap like the
Chrysler building, tagged with the number five and covered in silver paint and the redhead’s
silver glitter finger nails.

“But if you want to play with my virgin kitty,”

The knot of hair at the back of my head was yanked from behind and I fell backward, my head between my mistress’ widened legs. Juliette fluttered her fingers, which I knew was a cue to rise. Slowly, I pulled myself up, my abs tightening until my nose was bumping her manicured bush. My pulse raced. The familiar smell made my nostrils tremble.

Juliette took hold of the front of her black panties and pushed the lace to the side of her pussy lips. “All you have to know are three words. Lick, suck and fuck!” She swiveled her hips, the curly blonde hair of her bush nudging my lips.

“Lick, Kitten!” She said, her riding crop slapping my ass in a rapid beat.

My tongue shot out of my mouth like a little piston, jabbing her clit like a punching bag.
The movement of the riding crop slowed, easing into sensual circles around my ass. I widened my tongue so that I catch the width of her pussy, dragging my tongue from her asshole to the line of her muff, and back. The crowd approved of this technique.

“Suck!”

My lips latched onto her hard little clit and she moaned, the audience seeming to moan with her. She pulled away, attached her precious pearls to my collar and walked away from where I knelt.
Then turned to face me, and gestured that I drop on all fours.

“Eight! Fuck!”

Behind me there was movement and large hands took hold of my hips. Instinctively I struggled, but the leash tightened, stilling my movements. The person nudged my legs apart and pushed his well lubed dick into my pussy from behind. His huge prick filled my slick channel as his hands forced me to sit back on his thick prong. The pearls pulled at my throat and I was still, meeting
Juliette’s eyes.

The man groaned and I recognized the deep vibration as Damon.

“Fuck.”

The crowd was quiet, except for the moans and sounds of wet orifices being filled. I used my thighs to pull myself up and began to move on his thick length, his dick hitting every nerve.

“Four,” Juliette called out.

The woman in the cowboy hat came forward and stood in front of us as I fucked Damon. The redhead lifted her tiny plastic skirt.

“Lick!”

My tongue swam in her wet pussy, clean shaven, a bar through her clit. I felt Damon pulse, his dick growing, his come shot into my cunt, and ran down my legs. He got up from beneath me and I lay back on the padded square, the red-head falling on her knees above my head, her cowboy hat shadowing her face.

Cowgirl smelt of licorice and candy, not at all like my lady who was like dark rich truffles. She moaned in long sensuous waves, her body undulating over my face, her hands cupping and tweaking her nipples.

I blinked rapidly as come flew out over the stage, her partner having spent his load at the sight of the two of us on the floor. Cowgirl rubbed the hot jism over her breasts and stomach, sliding her hand to her crotch to tutor me in her likings. Within moments I had her spot and she came in a great wave, her quads tightening around my shoulders.

“Kitten.” My Mistress helped Cowgirl off of me and she took a seat on the couch next to her man, kissing him passionately.

“Kneel,” she ordered.

I returned to my first position and Juliette took hold of the plastic wrap just above my breasts. She had a pair of scissors in hand and she slid the metal blades against my skin, slicing through the plastic, in smooth, precise cuts. The audience held their breath and gasped in unison when my breasts swung free.

Released from their confinement, my breasts seem to have grown in size, nipples hard and needy. Juliette cut across my abdomen, all the way to the smooth skin of my clean shaven mound.

My mistress pushed my shoulder, so I dropped on all fours. She unhooked my leash and began to walk around me in a slow circle. The white of the crowd’s perverted eyes meeting mine in the half light. Everywhere I turned were the hungry stares of strangers.

With a dramatic pause my mistress waited, heightening the tension. With a catch in her voice she started calling out numbers at random.

“Six!”

“Twenty!”

“Nine!”

One after another they approached me.

All of them came on me, in me, or near me that evening.

Short, fat, young, old, black, white, straight, gay.

I had become their catalyst, there forbidden pleasure to be fucked and prodded. A willing participant in a game thought up by my Juliette.

An orgy of flesh and desire accompanied by the moans of the participants, and the confident call of my mistress.

“Seventeen!”

“Twenty-six!”

“One!”

When we had finished, they lay about us in a pleasantly exhausted pile, chairs and sofas kissing bare ass and wet pussy. Juliette stopped behind me and knelt at my rear. She held up her precious pearls in the light and laughed, a sound like the tinkle of crystal chiming.

Juliette began to pop one pearl at a time into my receptive ass, the crowd counting with every pearl inserted. My insides felt heavy and full, like stones gathered at the bottom of a fishbowl. Four feet of pearls hung from my ass like a tail when she was done, resting in the light clasp of her palm.

“Who would like to walk my pet?” she asked.

They took turns, leading me in-between chairs, and every time a pearl slipped from between my tight rosebud, my clit would vibrate like my favorite toy. I was on the edge, holding on by will
power alone.

Juliette had not given me permission to come.

My mistress led me back over to the white cushion at the center of the room and had me lie down on my back. She knelt between my legs and took a firm grasp on the pearls and pulled. Her precious pearls flew from my ass in a serious of pops, like kernels in a bag of popcorn.

“Come!” she commanded.

My hot juices flew from my pussy, shooting across the space between us in a wet spray, hitting Juliette in the face. She laughed, her tongue stealing out to swipe her pout as our audience cheered and applauded.

It was in the early hours of morning and I was sitting on the lip of Juliette’s claw foot tub while she was gently washing my dirty scraped up knees. My reward for being a good kitty was a thorough scrubbing, by my Mistress’s hand. She left no spot unwashed, reclaiming her well behaved pussycat as her own.

After, I crawled into the curve of Juliette’s arms, my body snuggling into a ball, and my mistres ran her hand from my head to the curve of my ass, stroking my sensitive skin with her knowing fingers.

“Good girl, Cat.”

My heart trembled in my chest.

“Don’t forget to wash my pearls in the morning.”

Juliette’s precious pearls were very dirty.