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Brigit Pt. 01

By: oggbashan



***********************************************************

This is NOT a new story. It was posted on Literotica by oggbashan in June 2004. It has an amended title and no other changes.

Copyright oggbashan June 2004

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

**********************************************************

BRIGIT

I was driving to my cold lonely house on a February night. My windscreen wipers were working hard clearing the sleet. My headlights didn't show enough of the twisting road so I was driving slowly.

I saw a shape standing beside the road. I slowed to a crawl as I came near. This was far from any houses. Anyone out here must be lost or in difficulty. I stopped beside the swathed shape, rolled down the car window and asked.

"Are you OK? Can I help?"

A woman's voice answered me.

"Yes. You can help. Can I get in?"

There was a special tone to her voice. Whoever she was, even as a draped shape, she was making me feel things I hadn't experienced for years.

"Be my guest," I said automatically, opening the passenger door.

As she got in I saw that she was wrapped in a sodden cloak hooding her head.

"There's a car blanket on the back seat if you want something dry around you."

"Thank you, Raymond," she said. She didn't take the blanket.

"You know me?" I was really surprised. I still had twenty miles to go to my house.

"Yes, Raymond. I know a lot about you. Thank you for inviting me into your car. That makes it easier."

"Easier? Why?"

I was puzzled. Her words seemed to have more meaning than the superficial.

"Yes. I could not enter without your permission. You went further. You made me your guest. That word is important."

I hadn't thought of it like that. I suppose I had accepted some sort of responsibility for her by picking her up but she seemed to imply much more.

"Who are you?" I asked. "How can I help you?"

"I am Brigit. I need your help, not for me, but for one of my namesakes."

"And what does the other Brigit need? I can take you where you want to go, but what does she want?"

I thought I'd humour her. She seemed strange, not deranged, but very different.

"You don't know who Brigit is, do you?" she asked. "You ought to know. You have visited Ireland."

"I have heard of Saint Brigid or St Bride..."

"I'm no saint!" she laughed. "Those saints are pale imitations of the real Brigit. They are good enough women but good. I'm not 'good'. I just am."

"So who is this Brigit I should know?"

She threw back the hood of her cloak. Her beauty dazzled me. Her red-gold curls waved around a perfect face. I had never seen a perfect face before. I shielded my eyes with my hand. I shrank away from her.

Her laugh sounded in my ear.

"You should have asked 'What is Brigit?'. I might have admitted. I am the triple goddess Brigit of Ireland. This is one of my more attractive manifestations. You invited me in as your guest, so here I am."

I tried to speak. Was I dreaming? Was I delirious? One didn't pick up Goddesses by the roadside in the twenty-first century, did you?

"You did, Raymond." Brigid answered my thought. 

'O shit!' I thought. 'She can read my mind.'.

"Yes, Raymond. I can. Don't worry. I'm an earth goddess. I know what men are like. Nothing you can think could ever shock me. I came to you for help that you can give. For that help I will reward you."

'O shit' I thought again 'A goddess's reward can be fatal or at best dangerous'.

"Don't worry, Raymond. I won't harm you. I am your guest and guests have obligations, just as hosts do. Now, can we go to your house, please? You need a stiff drink."

She was right. I did. A good Irish Whiskey.

"That's the idea. Now drive!" she ordered.

I drove. I made it in one piece despite her presence beside me. I dared not look at her. I'd never look away and would crash.

I pulled in front of my isolated house and opened the car door for Brigit. I took her arm and led her to the front door. She seemed small beside me but her presence was massive. I knew that she was far more of a woman, or goddess if that is what she was, than I could cope with. I unlocked and opened the front door. The hall lights came on as the sensor detected the door opening. I sensed Brigit hesitate.

"Are you coming in?" I asked.

"I need to be invited in," she said quietly, "and preferably carried over your threshold."

"OK." I said. "Brigit, will you deign to enter my house?" 

She nodded. I gathered her up in my arms. She was a lightweight but a heavy responsibility. I felt awe as I carried her inside, pushing the door shut behind me.

"Now you are in my house. Would you like a drink? An Irish Whiskey? I need one."

"Yes please, Raymond."

I carried her through to the living room, nudging the switch with my elbow. I didn't want to put her down but I couldn't get the drinks with her cradled in my arms. I lowered her to the settee. It hurt to let go of her. I poured two generous measures of whiskey and returned to sit beside her. I raised my glass and said:

"To the only goddess I've ever met. May she always get what she wants."

She smiled as I sank the whiskey in one gulp. I needed it. The face was that of the unattainable woman, the ideal of one's dreams. The smile was like a bolt of lightning -- fascinating but dangerous if close. I was really afraid of Brigit. Why? I didn't believe in goddesses. Or I hadn't believed in goddesses. Brigit changed my mind. I believed her and in some sense I worshipped her. But I was too close. Goddesses should be remote, not sitting beside you on a shabby settee.

"You still aren't sure I'm a goddess, are you Raymond?"

How could I answer? She knew my thoughts. She raised her hand and the laid fire burst into flame.

"Could a woman do that?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"I'll stop teasing you, Raymond. I'll change into a more comfortable shape. More comfortable for you, that is."

As I watched she changed into my wife, not as she was just before she was killed in a water-skiing accident, but as she was shortly after we married. Yet I could tell that Brigit wasn't my wife. Brigit had introduced some small changes. Her appearance was close to my wife but could be a sister, if Mary had had a sister. 

Brigit was right. I couldn't have stood her perfection much longer without turning into a babbling idiot. She shed her cloak, revealing a dark blue dress girdled with a golden belt. Her dress was high necked and floor length yet it revealed the curves beneath. If my wife had dressed like that we would have never got to the function she had dressed for. Brigit was still desirable but it was a desire within my ability to control. She held out her glass for a refill. I filled mine as well. This time I savoured the whiskey.

I dared to ask the questions I needed answered.

"Why me? What do you want me to do?"

"You? Because you are who you are and I can give you a reward without hurting you. What do I want? I want you to visit the other Brigit and help her."

"How?"

"You'll know what she needs when you meet her. What she doesn't need is another man who would exploit her. She needs a friend who will ask nothing from her."

"And I'm to be that friend?"

"Yes. You could help her without wanting payment. She has nothing to give that you would want. You couldn't take what she has to offer, could you?"

That was a sore place. Since my wife died I had been impotent. Nothing and no one could arouse me. No, I was wrong. Brigit had aroused me.

"But I'm a goddess. I have that effect. The other Brigit won't have that power."

She was answering my thoughts again. This was uncanny. Was I dreaming?

"No, Raymond. I'm not a dream. I'm real. You know that. You have carried me in your arms."

Brigit leant towards me and kissed me on the forehead. I would have flinched but she gave me a mother's kiss. I felt the love, care and protection that my mother would have given me. It calmed my mind like a long skilled massage or a serene piece of music.

"See? I can heal you. I don't intend to hurt you, Raymond. I need to use you because... Never mind, just accept because."

I nodded. I had a certainty that whatever Brigit wanted me to do would be necessary and I would benefit from it. Her kiss had been a sign that she would do as she said.

I slept on the couch. The Goddess Brigit slept (if Goddesses do sleep) in my bed I'd newly made for her. I awoke from a night on that couch feeling years younger. Brigit joined me for breakfast. Over our coffee cups she came to the point.

"Raymond, I want you to go to this address," She handed me a piece of paper -- heavenly missive, it wasn't. This was written on one of my post-it notes.

"And...?"

"Just tell the woman who answers the door that Brigit sent you. She'll be surprised but she'll invite you in. You'll know what to do."

"I will?"

"Yes. Because of who you are, Raymond, you'll know."

So it was. Brigit (the goddess that is) walked out of my door half an hour later. By ten o'clock I was knocking on the other Brigit's door. She had a council flat in a run-down area that was gradually being razed for new housing. Other flats nearby were boarded up. Feeling like an idiot I knocked on the door. It opened a bare crack.

"Who is it?" A whisper, too frightened to speak loud.

"Brigit sent me," I said.

"What?"

"Brigit sent me," I repeated.

"How? Who?" The whisper was louder.

"Brigit sent me. You prayed to her so she sent me."

The door shut before opening fully to reveal a thin woman in her twenties in a torn and stained dressing gown.

"I don't understand," she said. "But you had better come in if Brigit sent you. I'd hoped..." Her voice trailed off expressing despair and loss of hope more eloquently than she could have put into words.

I stepped into the flat. A stench of wet nappy and damp hit my nose. 

Brigit shut the door behind me. I followed her into the small kitchen. A baby sat in a high chair silently watching us enter. There was no animation in its face, just a smaller version of Brigit's hopelessness. I pressed a light switch. Nothing happened.

"I can't offer you anything," Brigit said. "I don't have anything."

I looked around. She spoke the truth. There was no food nor any sign there had been any. The work surfaces were bare. The open shelving held a couple of saucepans but no food. Everything was spotlessly clean but shabby. 

"What do you eat?" I asked.

"Eat? Nothing. I haven't eaten for two days. The baby had our last food yesterday evening. Now I have nothing. No food, no money, nothing."

Brigit sank on to the only chair in the kitchen sobbing. I moved towards her, intending to put my arms around her. She flinched away like an animal that has been hurt too often.

"I can see why Brigit sent me," I said more to myself than the woman before me. "I'll be back in half an hour. Stay here, please."

"Stay? That's all I can do," Brigit replied faintly. "I haven't the strength to run away. I wanted to... but where could I go?"

I left the flat and drove my car to the nearest supermarket. I rang one of my golf friends, a retired general practitioner, and asked advice about food for the starving. His advice helped me choose as I walked round the supermarket with my mobile phone to my ear. He agreed to meet me by Brigit's flat. He did but I had hard work persuading Brigit to admit him.

Within an hour we had some food into the baby and Brigit, small quantities, but that was all they could take. My friend had examined both of them thoroughly. Lack of food was all that was wrong physically. Mentally? He diagnosed Brigit with reactive depression, a reaction to an impossible situation that she couldn't change. But I could.

Slowly over the next few hours we drew the details from her. She had been widowed when her husband was hit by a drunk driver who didn't stop and had never been traced. Her husband had been on his way home from the first day at work in four years. His benefit hadn't been stopped when he died and Brigit's benefit had been reduced to repay the overpayment that she had used to pay for her husband's funeral. She could have claimed money to pay for the funeral but she hadn't and now it was too late.

The authorities assessed her 'need' but then cut one third off for the overpayment. Then other 'authorities' assumed she had her full payment and demanded their pound of flesh for rent, heat, light and so on. Their deductions were more than she was actually paid so each week was a larger debt with no money in her hand. It was nonsense but she couldn't fight it without money for telephone calls and stamps for letters.

As I listened I became more and more angry, not with her, but with 'the system'. She had tried to meet every unreasonable demand. She had kept herself, her child and her flat clean and tidy until 'the system' broke her.

My first task had been easily solved. There was food in the flat and in them. There was no electricity. With my mobile phone and a knowledge of important people in the town I raised a furore in a couple of hours. By the afternoon the electricity was restored and the outstanding account written off. A housing officer and a benefits officer were on their way to meet me. 

I was prepared to blast my way through opposition. There was none. Both official women came with bulky folders of paperwork showing how much they had tried to help Brigit. They had failed because they too were victims of the system that demanded proofs that neither they nor Brigit could provide and would not accept their word for the reality. They had willingness and dedication but they showed incipient signs of the depression that Brigit had writ large.

The housing officer beckoned me out into the hall.

"Mr Johnson. I should be telling you this but... Did you know that Brigit was raped last month?"

"No," I said dully. "Who did it?"

"Her husband's brother. She asked him for help. He laughed at her for 'choosing the wrong man', threw her on the bed and ripped her clothes off her before..."

"What's happened to him?"

"Nothing. Brigit is in no state to give evidence at a trial. His lawyer would crucify her. She withdrew the complaint. The police had to find her some clothes. He had torn everything she was wearing and she hasn't any spares. She'd sold all she had for food."

"Can't anybody do anything?"

"We have tried hard. We got charities to give her clothes but she had to sell those again. What she needs is money and they'll give her anything but that because they think the Government should ensure she has enough money. Some of the charities won't touch her now because she has sold the clothes they gave her. They think she has spent on it drink. It's not true but there are some unpleasant people spreading lies about her. They think she's like her brother. He drinks and fights and is a bad lot. Her husband was a good man but had poor health until recently. The job gave them just one day of hope. His death broke Brigit's heart and destroyed her. Even now you are involved she dare not hope. Do you know she thinks you are the answer to her prayer to a heathen goddess?"

"Yes. It will be my duty to make sure that her prayer is answered."

"How DID you become involved?"

"Someone told me about Brigit so I came."

"It is well that you did. Another day or two and she and her baby would have been dead. There would have been a public outcry and much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Perhaps even a public enquiry to conclude that everyone did their best but..."

"Everyone will do their best. I'll make sure they do."

"Mr. Johnson... May I call you Raymond?"

I nodded.

"Please be gentle on the little people like us. We have to abide by the rules all the time. We try to bend them and we do care but we have no more influence than Brigit. If the paperwork isn't right we will be fired no matter how good our motives."

"I'll try to remember but this makes me angry, really angry."

"It does that to all of us, but we can't change anything. You could if you wanted to."

It was then I knew what the goddess Brigit wanted from me. Not just help for her namesake and her baby, but for all those like her.

The next few months I was busy. I was a nuisance to all my friends and my contacts. At the end of it the local authorities rules and procedures had been totally revised and integrated with those for the health service and the benefits agency. One piece of information such as a copy of a birth certificate signed on the back by one of the 'little people' who actually met those like Brigit face to face sufficed for all the agencies. A claim for benefits would trigger all the agencies' resources and the reality of the claimant's need would be known accurately. One unintended side effect was that fraud was reduced substantially. Those in need were better off and the authorities were doing better with slightly less money. Everyone was winning.

The needy Brigit was no longer desperate. The money she was getting enabled her to live and afford a very few extras. Her 'debts' had been written off. She was rebuilding her life slowly. It helped that her brother had been jailed on remand waiting trial for an old rape traced to him by his DNA. She didn't need me any more. She was grateful but gratitude is no basis for a continuing relationship. I knew she was scared stiff of me, not because I was a physical or sexual threat to her, but because of my power in the community. She'd never met anyone like me. She was frightened of 'them' the authorities. I bullied 'them' at a high level. Once she burst into tears when she heard me telling the Mayor to do something physically impossible. She thought the Mayor's minions would evict her as revenge. I explained that the Mayor and I had been to the same public school and we had shared a set. I might have been talking Chinese for all she understood.

One evening I was driving back to my house thinking that the results of my efforts had been worthwhile when I saw Brigit, the goddess Brigit, standing beside the road in the rain. I stopped I felt a sense of deja-vu.

"Be my guest," I said automatically, opening the passenger door.

"Thank you, Raymond," Brigit said as she got in. This time she was already in the likeness of my wife's non-existent sister and wearing the same dress. I noticed that neither her dress nor her hair showed signs of the persistent rain.

"I'd almost forgotten about you," I said.

"I intended that you should," she said. "Pleased with yourself?"

"Yes," I replied, "and no. I have only changed things in this town. I don't have the contacts to go further. That is frustrating."

"Don't worry, Raymond. A report is already on its way to Whitehall. Being more effective, reducing fraud and saving money always goes down well with politicians. I just wish they could actually do it more often. This time they will. No one will thank you. That bother you?"

"No. I know what I've done. That is reward enough."

"Is it, Raymond?"

I didn't answer as I negotiated the entrance to my drive. When I'd parked the car I'd forgotten Brigit's question. I held out my arms to carry her across the threshold. She snuggled up to me, arousing me for the first time since I'd last seen her.

As I lowered her to the settee she said:

"You didn't answer my question, Raymond."

"What question?"

"The one I asked as we arrived. Never mind. Answer this one. Would you have worked so hard if Brigit's flat had been filthy?"

I thought hard. What should I say? Would it have affected me? I had to be honest with myself. This Brigit could read my thoughts. I imagined the flat as it could have been...


Brigit Pt. 02



***********************************************************

This is NOT a new story. It was posted on Literotica by oggbashan in June 2004. It has an amended title and no other changes.

Copyright oggbashan June 2004

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

**********************************************************

BRIGIT TOO

Introduction to Part Two.

I had met Brigit the goddess. She had used me subtly to change the lives of many oppressed and neglected women in our community. I had a sense of real achievement, that I had been doing good. Brigit showed me how she had manipulated me to do what she wanted done. My pride in my achievement was destroyed and I felt ashamed. Then she rewarded me as only an earth goddess could. She restored my manhood and gave me as much sexual pleasure as I could stand.

...I didn't know what was reality and what was illusion. I didn't even know what Brigit the goddess looked like. She had controlled my every contact with her. At present she seemed to be human and enjoying herself. My thoughts were wiped away as she brought me to a shattering ecstasy...

I was back sitting at the kitchen table with Brigit standing behind me. My coffee was still too hot to drink. How did she do that? I didn't know. Being ridden by Brigit was worth more than the answers to a few unanswerable questions.

"That's the spirit, Raymond. Don't ask and I won't have to lie."

I kept forgetting that she could read my thoughts. How could I contact her when I needed her? She answered that.

"Just think of me when you are in the right position, Raymond. I'll come to you."

"The right position?"

"Worshipping me. If you have your head buried between the thighs of a woman I'll be close to you."

"Wouldn't that be awkward for the woman?" I joked. "If you appeared when I'm busy eating her you might scare her out of her wits. I might get crushed between her legs if she panicked."

Brigit's arms wrapped over my chest. Her breasts pressed against my back. I enjoyed that.

"Don't worry, Raymond. I'll hear you and come when it is convenient. You never know. I might take the woman's place if you are in urgent need. I could make sure that she wouldn't notice the switch. You know I can make you experience anything I want. I can do things easier with any woman because I am a woman's goddess. I had to be invited by you but now you have, I can do anything to you. I won't hurt you."

"How do I know that?"

"You don't. You have to trust me. You have so far. Now I have to leave. Others need me. I'll be back. Oh, and Raymond..."

"Yes?"

"If you really want to contact me you can just think yourself into the position. Just imagine licking a woman's pussy -- I'll be there."

"Thank you. It might be awkward finding a co-operative woman when I need you."

"I don't think you'll have to wait long for the right woman."

Brigit's arms and breasts were gone. I turned round. So was she. I was alone in the kitchen with a still hot cup of coffee. I sipped it. Then I noticed that there was a second cup of coffee on the table. Why?

The doorbell rang. I went to the front door wondering. I didn't have many callers this far from the village. I opened the door to see a woman I'd never met.

"Yes?"

"Raymond? Your name is Raymond, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Brigit sent me. She said you would have a cup of coffee for me."

I opened the door wide and let the woman in.

DEIRDRE

"Welcome to my home..."

I paused for her to introduce herself. She did. I was uncomfortably aware of the instantaneous reaction between my legs that wouldn't have happened yesterday.

"I'm Deirdre," she said. "Brigit sent me."

"Be my guest, Deirdre. The coffee is in the kitchen."

I showed Deirdre through to the kitchen and pointed to Brigit's unused cup of coffee still steaming.

"How did you know to have coffee ready?" she asked, as she picked up the cup.

"Brigit left it."

"Brigit left it?"

"Yes. She's just left."

Deirdre nearly dropped the cup. Her hands were shaking as she put it down on the table. She had turned pale.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

"I think so, Raymond. Are we talking about the same Brigit?"

"I don't know. I am talking about Brigit the Irish earth goddess. Which Brigit do you mean, Deirdre?"

"The Goddess." She whispered. "She was here?"

"Yes. She made that coffee, both cups..." 

I sipped mine. It was good coffee.

"...she made that one for you."

Deirdre looked as if she was going to faint. Her hand shook as she reached for the cup.

"Go on," I said. "Drink it. It's yours."

"She's never given me anything before. I don't understand..."

"What don't you understand, Deirdre?"

"How I deserve this?"

"Deserve what? It's only a cup of coffee. Brigit made it but she used my coffee. I can easily make another."

Deirdre made an effort and picked up the coffee. She sipped it and sighed with relief.

"It's just coffee." She said.

"What did you expect? Poison? Have you offended Brigit? Even if you had I don't think she does that sort of thing."

"No, I haven't offended Brigit, at least I don't think so. It is difficult to be sure how not to offend a goddess."

"How about moving to the living room, getting more comfortable, and then perhaps you and I can talk about Brigit. She sent you to me for a reason."

"OK."

Deirdre stood up. I took my first real look at her. She was tall and slim with shoulder length dark brown hair. She was wearing a fawn skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse. Her heavy skirt was nearly ankle length and flared as she walked. She was younger than me and much fitter. She looked as if she could have walked easily from the village to my house. I could imagine her striding the hills as if she owned them, perhaps with a couple of dogs racing around her controlled by the slightest use of her voice. Now her face had regained its normal colour she looked as if she enjoyed an outdoor life.

I could see her assessing me as well. I shrank inside knowing that she saw how flabby and unfit I was, the typical middle-aged man gone to seed. Even after Brigit's ministrations I had a long way to go to become remotely healthy. If we were in public together, Deirdre and I would be seen as an unlikely couple with little in common.

She took an armchair and perched on the edge. I slumped into the settee facing her with our feet almost touching. Brigit had been more exhausting than my limited resources could endure.

"How?" we both said together.

"After you," I said.

"How did you know to let me in?" Deirdre asked.

"Simple. Brigit told me to expect a woman soon and she left the cup of coffee. How did you know when to come?"

"Brigit came to me in a dream last night. She told me to come here and to say what I did. I thought you wouldn't know what I was talking about. I was scared stiff but I came."

"And now here you are, drinking coffee made by Brigit. That's not too scary is it?"

"I'm not sure. I've never had coffee made by a goddess before. I didn't expect this."

"So what did you expect, Deirdre?"

"I don't know. I was desperate; ready to grasp at any straw so I followed a dream that brought me to your door. When you invited me in and said the coffee was ready I just followed through. Now I'm at a loss."

"When lost it is best to start back at the beginning. Why were you desperate, so desperate that you would come to a stranger's house because of a dream?"

Deirdre's story took a long time to tell. She had driven from the next county. Before she was far into the telling she had to go out to her car to bring in the file of documents. 

She had been the leader of a group fighting the proposal to turn a nearly empty roadstone quarry into a refuse tip. The quarry owners had promised to return the land to agriculture with a small country park and would still like to. Deirdre was a cousin of the quarry's owner but didn't have a financial interest. The quarry's roadstone had been extracted by conveyor belt to a private lay-by on the nearest major road but the refuse would come through the villages.

The County Council saw a shortfall in refuse disposal sites in twenty years' time and wanted to use their compulsory purchase powers to buy the empty quarry so that it could be filled with rubbish, not in twenty years, but now because it would be cheaper than the current sites.

The locals were horrified. They saw that their promised small park and their landscape would vanish, their villages would be shaken to pieces by a constant stream of refuse trucks and their water supply polluted including their precious trout stream. There had been protests, and now a public enquiry was nearly at its end and the result was almost fixed. The council would get its way. 

Deirdre and her committee had fought as hard as they could but she and they knew they were losing. They just didn't have the resources available to the council.

As Deirdre explained all this to me, my brain was whirring. My contacts didn't extend that far, not into the next county, but why didn't we have the same problem with refuse disposal. I knew what sites we had. They were nowhere near the size of that proposed yet should last a long time. What was different?

I made lunch for both of us and then asked Deirdre to give me an hour to make a few phone calls. She said that she would like to walk the hills behind my house. I lent her a large-scale map. 

I rang some of my friends on the council, my council, and asked a few questions. They seemed very well informed about the quarry proposal. I made a few appointments for the next day to find out more.

Deirdre returned slightly flushed. When she showed me how far she had walked I wasn't surprised. She had walked further in one hour than I could have managed in three.

I couldn't promise her anything. I told her that I was making enquiries and had some possible ideas but I needed more time. I asked her to come back in three days time. She seemed disappointed that I hadn't been more specific but resigned to the lack of progress.

My next day was frantically busy. Apart from the appointments I had made I had to do some fast research on government sites. By the end of the day I knew where the flaw was in Deirdre's county council's argument. They had drastically underestimated recycling and were far behind on existing targets with no hope of meeting the new targets for next year and subsequent years. If they met the targets they wouldn't need the quarry.

The second day I pulled strings to get a group of recycling experts together. That cost me favours and money. I had committed myself to spending at least ten thousand pounds, serious money even for me. I hoped it was worth it. Brigit's voice in my head told me 'of course it is -- trust me'. 

When Deirdre returned I startled her by asking about Brigit.

"Why did you seek Brigit's help?"

"The proposed park would include a wood that was sacred to her. The quarry left it alone and undisturbed. The Council would grub it up to put the offices on. I went to her wood and prayed to her. Then I had the dream. Why?"

"I didn't think Brigit was interested in woods, only people and usually women. Would any women be particularly affected by the refuse tip?"

"I don't know. Let me think... Oh yes. There's a girls' boarding school just down the road. It's been there about one hundred years."

"How might they be affected?"

"The refuse trucks would pass the school... Oh, and the access road would cut away the whole of some scrubland at the edge of their playing fields. The fields would be clearly visible from the new road."

"Anything special about the scrubland?"

Deirdre blushed slightly.

"I'm told it's where girls from the school meet boys from the village..."

"That sounds like Brigit's interest. Much more than a sacred wood. A bit of scrubland where girls can meet boys is much more in her line. How old are these girls?"

"That part of the school is a finishing college. I think they are all over eighteen."

"Better and better. Definitely interesting to Brigit."

"This is all very well, Raymond, but beside the point. What am I going to do about the public enquiry? It's nearly over and we're still losing."

I was mean. I made Deirdre wait until I had made her some coffee. I sat down next to her on the settee. Brigit's improvement to my anatomy was very obvious. Deirdre looked at it tenting my trousers and I was sure I saw a faint smile.

"The public enquiry has been extended by a week," I said bluntly.

Deirdre nearly dropped her coffee.

"How? I didn't know that. When did it happen?"

"Yesterday. There is some new evidence to be considered and new witnesses to be heard. The inspector had been told by the minister that he must deal with the new facts."

"How did you do that?"

"It wasn't easy and it was expensive. Your council is way behind on its recycling initiatives. They will get a blasting from the government this week and even get an adverse mention in Prime Minister's Question Time."

"You didn't..."

"No. I didn't arrange that. One of my contacts had a word in Whitehall. They needed someone to blame this week and your council fits the bill beautifully. That was serendipity. All the rest was hard work. We have a very good team of experts who will ruin the whole basis of your council's need for the quarry. After a public expression of disapproval from Westminster and the new evidence the inspector should throw their case out or else he'll be looking for a new job as well. Did you know he is married to the daughter of one of the refuse contractors?"

"He isn't!"

"He is. She was a widow so it wasn't so obvious but he should never have been appointed for that enquiry. If he decides in favour of the council he'll be fired -- that is in confidence. If he doesn't he might be divorced unless he can claim that he had no choice. I aim to ensure that he will have no choice."

"I didn't know about him, Raymond. How did you find out?"

"I asked the right people."

Deirdre kissed me. I kissed her back and then withdrew.

"Hang on, Deirdre. We haven't won yet."

She shut me up by kissing me again. This time I didn't pull away.

It went as I'd planned. The enquiry ended with the council crawling away with its metaphorical tail between its legs. I joined Deirdre at the celebrations in the village hall. Most there had no idea who I was but I was presented with a glass of champagne anyway. Deirdre made me promise to be at home to her on the following Saturday. I was.

On Saturday Deirdre walked back into my house looking happier than I had ever seen her. She was wearing the same jacket and skirt but she looked more beautiful than she had done when I had invited her in to drink Brigit's cup of coffee. Over yet another cup of coffee Deirdre smiled at me. I could feel my instant response. 'Thank you, Brigit,' I thought.

"I can feel Brigit's presence here," Deirdre announced. "She's been here more than once, hasn't she?"

"Yes."

"In the flesh?"

I blushed. Deirdre's eyes opened wide. She stared at me as if she'd seen a ghost. She put her empty cup down on the table beside her and fainted. I caught her as she toppled forward. Her dead weight pushed me back to the settee. I was holding a live desirable woman who was completely unconscious.

I tried to roll her off. Brigit's voice hissed in my brain.

"Don't be stupid, Raymond! You've got a woman in your arms. Don't waste the opportunity."

I hauled Deirdre up from her knees to my lap, settled her head against my shoulder and held her. She stirred.

"Brigit?" she murmured. I squeezed Deirdre gently. She opened her eyes and looked warily at me.

"How?" she whispered, snuggling closer to me. I'd been expecting her to leap off me.

"You fainted and fell against me," I said apologetically.

"And landed like this?" Deirdre's eyebrow raised.

"Well, no. This was Brigit's idea."

Deirdre's face paled again. I hugged her. She was a nice armful. Apart from Brigit she was the only armful I'd held in years.

"She spoke to you?"

"Not exactly spoke. I hear her in my head when she wants to talk."

"I don't understand. I've been praying to Brigit and she's never spoken to me that clearly."

"Maybe you didn't ask her in the right way?"

"And how is that?"

"She told me..." I blushed bright red.

"Ah. I sense a mystery. You don't want to tell me, Raymond. It's embarrassing. I'm not surprised. Brigit does embarrass men. But surely you can tell a woman who is snuggled into your arms..."

"Why did you faint?"

It was a desperate attempt to change the subject. Brigit had promised a co-operative woman and Deirdre had been at my house within minutes. Now Deirdre and I had won a battle together. Could I 'worship' Brigit with a woman I barely knew? Why had Deirdre been sent? What did Brigit want from both of us? I knew enough about Brigit to know what I didn't know. My brain was whirling frantically, trying to get away from the thought of burying my head between Deirdre's thighs. Her thighs seemed very attractive even though I'd never seen them. I was very aware as her legs moved slightly on my lap. 

Deirdre seemed to feel my distress and moved her legs more, raising her skirt to her knees. My eyes dropped down to the dark tunnel made by her skirt.

"I fainted because..."

I hardly heard what Deirdre was saying. With an effort I lifted my eyes up her body only to see that her jacket had fallen open and her white blouse was straining at its buttons. She noticed that too. She stopped speaking and her lips covered mine. She kissed me. I kissed her back. She shed her jacket, pushed me back against the settee and straddled me. I looked up at her despairingly before her lips came down again and her dark brown hair caressed both sides of my face.

My arms clasped around her, pulling her against me. I was too aware of her legs around me as her tongue fought mine. How could I be doing this with a woman I had meet so infrequently? Brigit answered my thought:

'Because I wanted both of you, Raymond. Now get on with it and stop fighting me.'

I gave up. I slid my face down and kissed Deirdre's neck. I moved lower still, nuzzling her still covered breasts as I moved. She arched her back and moved up, lifting her skirt to allow her legs to spread further apart. Finally I was where Brigit wanted me to be, between Deirdre's thighs. I moved up into the warm darkness under her skirt and my lips made contact with Deirdre's naked pussy. As I extended my tongue my brain cried out to Brigit whether in protest or ecstasy I don't know. Brigit was there instantly, calming my fears, setting aside all my misgivings about such intimate contact with a stranger, and filling me with love.

Brigit showed me exactly how to arouse Deirdre, directing my tongue to the right places at the right time, with just enough pressure. I could feel Deirdre writhing above me and she was yelling and screaming for more. If my house hadn't been so far from a neighbour the police would have been called. It sounded as if someone was murdering Deirdre. I was concentrating hard on giving Deirdre as much pleasure as I could when Brigit said conversationally:

'She is noisy, isn't she? I'll show you a trick that will shut her up.'

Suddenly I felt Deirdre's mouth around my prick. Her screaming stopped dead and her lips sucked greedily. I didn't understand how she could be sucking me when her head was above me. I just accepted the gift but now I was in trouble. I knew Brigit wanted me to arouse Deirdre to several climaxes yet now I was being aroused as well. It would take more will power than I had to resist Deirdre's mouth long enough. I begged Brigit for help. She laughed at me.




Brigit Pt.03



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This is NOT a new story. It was posted on Literotica by oggbashan in July 2004. It has an amended title and no other changes.

Copyright oggbashan June 2004

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

**********************************************************

Brigit's Babies.

Part One is 'Brigit'; Part Two is 'Brigit Too'.

Introduction to Part Three.

I had met Brigit the Irish earth goddess. She had used me subtly first to change the lives of many oppressed and neglected women in our community and then with Deirdre to stop a refuse tip despoiling the countryside. She had rewarded me both times and had brought Deirdre to me. Now we both worshipped Brigit frequently. 'Worshipping Brigit' can best be done with a man's tongue between a woman's legs. Brigit and Deirdre had made me suffer by teasing me about my inability to satisfy either of them. I had no hope of ever satisfying Brigit: no man could however fit and strong. When Brigit introduced me to Deirdre I was far from fit. A year later, after intensive training from both of them, I was a new man sometimes capable of satisfying Deirdre -- for a few hours.

BRIGIT'S BABIES

I was sitting at my desk actually working at my own business. What I do is irrelevant to my account of my interaction with Brigit the goddess and now Deirdre. They seem to think I do nothing but sort out community problems for them. I do have to earn money and I'm quite good at it. That is just as well. Sorting out the refuse tip problem cost me ten thousand pounds. Brigit told me it would be worth it. It was. It brought me Deirdre and now we had been married for... three months and two days. 

Please don't think I'm a slow worker. It hadn't taken me nine months to set a wedding date. They both insisted that I had to be fit enough to satisfy Deirdre on our honeymoon and they have high standards. It took six months to get me fit enough. Then I had to wait another three months while they arranged the formal wedding Deirdre wanted. Brigit was her only bridesmaid. How Brigit managed that I don't know. I'm not sure what my friend the Bishop would have said if he knew that a pagan goddess was standing before him in his cathedral. Perhaps he would have thought it a great joke. He does have a good sense of humour but I don't think I'll risk telling him.

There was a tentative knock on my door. I looked up. Alice, my secretary, doesn't knock. She knows when to come in and when not to. She must have approved the visitor.

"Come in." I said loudly.

Alice opened the door and showed in Trevor, one of the office juniors, carrying two insulated cups, one in each hand.

"Good morning, Trevor," I said. I was puzzled but Alice didn't let things happen without a reason.

"I was asked to bring you a cup of coffee, Mr Johnson," Trevor said nervously.

"Thank you, Trevor. Can you put it down on the desk, please?"

This was odd. Alice made my coffee in the office china mugs. These looked like take-away coffee. And why two?

"Who asked you, Trevor?"

"She said to tell you that Brigit sent them. Does that mean anything to you, sir?"

"It does, Trevor. But why two cups?"

"She said that one was for me and I was to take it with me."

"She asked for you?"

"Yes, Mr Johnson. She came to reception and asked for me by name. When I went down she told me to bring them to you. I told your secretary and she told me to knock. I hope I did right, sir."

"Yes, Trevor. You did exactly right. Take a seat and let's see what this coffee is like."

Trevor sat down nervously. I'm not an ogre to my staff but I do have a large office. This was probably only the second or third time I'd spoken to Trevor. I could understand how he felt. I was the big boss and he had apparently disturbed me with something trivial. I lifted the lid off my cup. The coffee looked and smelled normal. I tasted it. It was just coffee.

"What was this lady like, Trevor?"

"I don't really know, sir. I was concentrating on what she said. When James came up to find me he said that she looked fantastic but I didn't really notice."

"Try your coffee, Trevor."

He sipped and made a slight face.

"Anything wrong?"

"It has an odd effect. Almost like... perhaps like tasting a good single malt for the first time."

"Did she make sure you had a particular cup for you, and one for me?"

"Yes sir. She showed me. This one has 'T' written on the side. Yours has 'RJ'."

I turned my cup round. He was right. So Brigit wanted him to have that particular coffee and he didn't notice what she looked like. Why not? She wanted me to see him. Why? I drank my coffee. Trevor tasted his again. This time he took a good swallow. I knew he was drinking coffee with Brigit's breast milk in it. I envied him.

"Trevor?"

"Yes, Mr Johnson?"

"I shouldn't ask this, but do you have a girlfriend?"

"Yes, sir. I thought everyone knew. She's your secretary, Alice."

Aha! I thought. I wonder if she's listening in. I looked at the intercom. She was.

"Is that a problem?" I asked Trevor.

"That isn't the problem..."

"But there is a problem and Alice being my secretary isn't part of it. Have I got it right?"

I thought at Brigit. 'Help! I don't know what to do and she's listening in. This could get messy.'

Brigit answered immediately. 'Let him answer'.

He said: "We want to get married but we can't."

"And why is that?" I said as casually as I could.

"Because she would lose her job and I can't afford to support both of us."

"What makes her think that she'd lose her job?"

"That's what she's been told."

"I see. Trevor. I haven't told her that. Do you think she's lying and there might be some other reason she might not want to marry you?" 

If that doesn't make Alice good and mad, nothing will, I thought.

"She wouldn't lie. She doesn't!"

That was a strong declaration from Trevor.

"OK. Then there is a problem I don't know about. Shall we ask Alice in and sort it out?"

"Please, Mr Johnson. It's been worrying us for months. I thought, and she thought, it was you who would make her lose her job."

Stupid pair! I thought to myself. They haven't even looked at the reality of employment legislation. There is no way I could fire anyone for getting married. I pressed the intercom button twice. Once to switch it off, the second time to switch it on again.

"Alice?"

"Yes, Mr Johnson." 

She was being formal. She usually called me Raymond. She must be really furious.

"Could you come in for a minute, please?"

"Yes, Mr Johnson."

The door was opened immediately. Alice stormed in like an avenging fury.

"Take a seat please, Alice," I said calmly.

She flung herself down so hard the chair protested.

"I have been talking to Trevor about you two."

Alice nearly jumped out of her seat towards me. I held up my hand. She had barely enough control to subside back.

"Listen to me just for a little. There is no way that you would lose your job if you married Trevor, or anyone you chose. Even if I wanted to fire you for that, and I DON'T, the law wouldn't let me. Is that clear?"

"But..." Alice was still furious. She turned on Trevor as if I wasn't there.

"How dare you discuss me with someone else!"

She might have said more if I hadn't interrupted.

"Alice!" I shouted. I never shouted at her. The shock worked. She shut up.

"You two really believed that Alice would lose her job? Who told you that? You, Alice, should know me better than that."

They looked at each other. Trevor answered.

"Brian Jones." He said.

Brian Jones? The assistant personnel manager? No wonder they believed him but why would he say such a thing? I looked at Alice, not as my secretary but as a woman. Far too young for me but I could see that she would be very desirable to someone of Trevor's age, or Brian's.

"OK. I hear what you say..." 

I hate those words. It seems to say 'but I don't believe a word' but I couldn't accept an unfounded accusation without looking into it further.

"...and I will find out what is going on. But you two have no reason to worry about Alice, or Trevor, losing your jobs because of marriage or for any other reason that I know about. You have my word and I am the owner of this company. Is that clear?"

Alice leapt towards me. For a moment I expected the claws and all attack she had been ready to give me when she rushed in. This 'attack' ended in a smacking kiss and a hug. Trevor looked shocked. He was shocked when she turned on him. She jumped on him as if she was going to rape him here and now. 

I stood up as she swarmed all over him.

"I'll be back in quarter of an hour. Sort yourselves out."

I don't think they heard me but when I returned Alice was back at her desk looking slightly flushed.

"Can you make an appointment for Mr Brian Jones to see me sometime this afternoon please, Alice?"

"Yes, Raymond. You only have two other appointments this afternoon. I'll let you know when he can come."

"Thank you Alice."

"Thank you, Raymond." 

Up to then she had been her normal self if slightly more reserved. That 'thank you' was more emphasised.

"Can I congratulate you on your engagement?" I risked.

"Yes! Thank you!" Alice kissed me again. Deirdre will be getting ideas if this goes on. I savoured the kiss for a few seconds before saying:

"It wasn't really me, it was Brigit."

"Who IS Brigit?" Alice asked.

"I think you should ask my wife when she's next here. I don't think you would believe me."

I left it at that. I didn't want to explain to a newly engaged woman that her fiancé had been drinking a goddess's breast milk. It might upset her.

Later that afternoon I tackled Alan Jones with the intercom firmly off and disconnected. He admitted that he had been a suitor for Alice and had been rejected. He had told them... It doesn't matter now. He resigned with a good reference and a flea in his ear. He'd been stupid but apart from that his work had been good. I found out later that he had even apologised to Trevor and Alice. They accepted his apology probably because they were so involved in planning their wedding that he didn't matter any more. He got another job in the next town.

Next time Brigit appeared I asked her why she had become involved with Trevor and Alice. Her answer was simple.

"Those two were blaming you for something that wasn't your doing and I have a soft spot for young people in love."

She left it at that. Deirdre did try to explain to Alice who Brigit is. Now Alice thinks my wife is slightly deranged. I'm glad I didn't try.

Deirdre and I had been finding unusual places to worship Brigit. At first it had been part of my fitness training. Deirdre would suggest worshipping Brigit at the top of the next hill. That would often be enough to keep me going the extra hundred yards. I'd collapse in a panting heap and Deirdre would bury my face between her legs. Her warm pussy revived me time after time. Even the thought of her nakedness under the full skirt climbing the hill ahead of me gave me more incentive. Now I could keep up with Deirdre on the hills she switched to demanding worship at the most inconvenient times such as just before I was due to give a speech and had just arrived in the car park. We would climb into the back seat, I would crouch on the floor and my tongue would be busy as fast as I could knowing that seconds counted.

I spent many evenings under Deirdre's skirt while she watched television or sewed. I would try to distract her. Her endurance was almost inhuman at times and I suspected Brigit's interference. Often I was exhausted before Deirdre was aroused yet other times she was screaming blue murder after half a minute. It kept me on edge. I think that is what both Brigit and Deirdre wanted.

One evening Deirdre patted the settee beside her when I was already on my knees ready for another bout of worship.

"Raymond," she said. "We need to talk."

That sounded ominous. I sat beside her. She swung round and climbed on to me, kneeling up so that my face was at the level of her breasts. I looked up at her. She smiled at me and pulled me hard into her cleavage. I gulped for air when she released me.

"Notice anything different?" She asked.

"No. Can I try again?"

She smothered me again. I was really desperate from lack of breath when she relaxed her grip.

"No." I said. "They are still wonderful."

"Raymond, I'm pregnant."

"Wow! That's fantastic! But how was I expected to tell from your breasts?"

"They look different."

"Deirdre," I explained patiently, "you didn't give me a chance to LOOK at them. I was looking at your face and then you smothered and blinded me with your breasts."

"Oh. Sorry. Have a look now. Notice the change?"

"Yes." I kissed each breast tenderly several times.

"Shall we tell Brigit?" Deirdre asked.

"No need," came Brigit's voice from the doorway. "I've brought you a weak cup of my special coffee. Very milky. For both of you."

Brigit's sudden appearances could be disconcerting not just for Deirdre, but for me as well. Several times I had been worshipping Deirdre when she changed into Brigit and back again. The feel and taste was different but both demanded my full attention. Deirdre didn't object. Whenever Brigit took over she made sure that I fully satisfied Deirdre by prolonging my endurance if necessary. I didn't object. Either of them, or both -- how could I tell when Brigit was changing things around -- would be swallowing my erection which was impossible when my head was busy in her/their pussy/pussies from underneath. It just gets too complicated to explain when Brigit gets frisky.

We might not object but it could be unsettling.

The three of us sat on the battered settee. I need to replace it soon. It had seen too much action with the three of us. I had one arm round each woman's shoulder and each of my hands cupped a luscious breast. That's what they wanted. They fed the coffee to me.

"Congratulations to you two," Brigit said. "I knew you had it in you. I've known for a week or two but I thought you would rather find out the normal way. What did you think of your doctor, Deirdre?"

"Him!" Deirdre's contempt was vicious. "He said that I'm 'an elderly prima gravida' and I'd need to be in hospital for the birth."

"Did he say anything about your fitness?"

"No. He just looked at my date of birth and pronounced." 

Deirdre spat out the word 'pronounced' as if it was an unpleasant taste.

I squeezed her breast gently. Her hand covered mine and squeezed back.

Brigit announced. "You are not going to give birth in hospital if I have my way. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Deirdre and I chorused.

"Good. Know any midwives, Raymond?"

"Eh?" I was distracted. Two handfuls of tit do that to me.

"Midwives, Raymond?" Brigit repeated.

"Give me a few seconds, please. You two are too much for me to handle and think."

"And just think where your hands are," teased Deirdre.

I tried to pull my hands away from their breasts. Their hands stopped me and we tussled. I lost. I ended face down on Brigit's lap with Deirdre sitting on my back slapping my backside hard enough to show she could do much more. Thanks to Deirdre I am much fitter than I was when I first met Brigit. I still think Brigit cheats from time to time. Now I ought to be able to win tussles with Deirdre yet sometimes she overpowers me easily. I cannot win against Deirdre and Brigit.

Brigit's skirt vanished. My head sank between her naked legs. She settled herself comfortably as I began to worship her. I was being as assiduous as I could be in arousing her sex when my trousers vanished like Brigit's skirt. Deirdre's hand found my erection and stroked it gently before Brigit's magic buried it in Deirdre's pussy. Brigit's hands pulled me hard against her as I reached a climax.

I was still gasping like a landed fish as Brigit put all three of us back on the settee fully dressed.

"Midwives, Raymond?" Brigit repeated.

"How can I think about midwives? You two don't let me think..."

"Would more coffee help?" Brigit asked. She held out a refilled cup to me. I grabbed it and drank.

"Midwives?" I said. "I think I know one or two. Why?"

"Then go to them and talk about the prevalence of hospital births, please."

Brigit didn't have to add the 'please'. I knew she didn't ask me to do things lightly.

"I will, Brigit. What do you want me to do?"

"Ask them. You'll find out."

Brigit disappeared. I'm still not used to that. Deirdre dragged me off to bed for more sex. Brigit's presence has that effect on Deirdre. OK, she affects me that way as well...

The next morning I asked Alice to make appointments for me to see the two midwives I had found in my address book. Alice arranged for them to see come to see me together immediately after they had been to a meeting at the local maternity unit. When they arrived Alice brought in a tea tray. There were three cups, one of my normal blend and the other two cups were specialist teas. Alice is good at that sort of thing.

Helen and Joyce were experienced midwives with more than thirty years experience in the community. They had been surprised at the invitation to talk to me. Alice had told them that I wanted to talk about the prevalence of hospital births. They talked, at length and passionately.

They were worried. Far too many women were being forced to give birth in hospital when they didn't need to go there. Home births were rare. One of the reasons was that the specialist equipment to monitor the mothers and babies was only in the hospitals. Portable equipment was available but midwives were not allowed to have it because of the cost. A few thousand pounds would provide half a dozen midwives with basic monitoring equipment but that few thousand pounds needed support from the doctors who were not willing to reduce the throughput at the maternity hospital. Their funding depended on statistics of births at the hospital. Every home birth reduced funding for maternity services.

Most women wanted at least the option of home birth but were denied the choice. There would always be some who needed the specialist care provided by the maternity unit, but the majority of women didn't. Home births were cheaper, less stressful for mother and baby, and more satisfying for the whole family.

I hadn't realised just how rare home births were. After Helen and Joyce left I thought about all the births I had known about recently. Except one, the mother was an active member of the National Childbirth Trust, all had been in hospital. I telephoned that mother and asked how she had done it. The telephone handset might have melted in my hand from the expletives she used about the local medical hierarchy. She had fought from the time she knew she was pregnant and had only won a home birth through sheer bloody-mindedness. Even at the last antenatal visit the doctor had tried to prevent her from a home birth by claiming that her blood pressure was too high. She had been able to quote 'normal' figures for women at eight and a half months and had accused him of lying. By the time she ended her tirade she was glad he hadn't taken another pressure test. It would have been higher then.

I rang one of the consultants at the hospital, not a maternity expert, and asked if I could discuss hospital funding with him. He was reluctant but agreed if we met at the golf club's nineteenth hole this afternoon.

When we met he was very secretive. We had to find a quiet corner of the clubhouse before he would say anything. What he told me confirmed what I had suspected. Funding could be made available for home births only by cutting back at the maternity unit. The unit was barely viable as it was. If funds were cut it would have to close and mothers would face a thirty mile drive to the next unit. The maternity unit could survive if separate funds were available for home births but the system didn't provide a measure for that. If there was political pressure for choice...




Brigitte



The girl in the mirror showed the nervousness she felt inside. Her eyes shone dark from sockets that were deepened by the stark light from above. Her skin seemed moulded out of pale dough. She sucked the pulpous flesh of her lower lip in to bite it. The elevator hummed. It vibrated through the thin leather soles of her shoes Soft metallic music hung in the air. It seemed suspended by invisible spider webs.

Why was she here? What made her do this? Why hadn't she turned right at the exit of the restaurant where she worked to go home, as she always did? Home to feed the fat cat. To sit down and watch the end of a Cheers' rerun she had seen at least three times? Then take a lukewarm shower, run her hands over her lonely body. Find the damp dark bush on her mound, slip in a finger, two. 

She had turned left. She had walked the three wet streets that separated the restaurant from the posh and very, very expensive hotel. She had never been inside it before, although this was her city where she had lived all her life. 

After minutes of hesitation she had walked through the brass and glass revolving doors. She knew she must look shabby in her rain soaked coat and dripping hair. But she had decided not to follow the door full circle and back out again. She had decided to walk across the shining marble floor to the night reception. She had asked the pimple faced receptionist the suite number of miss Angelique Jonckers. And then she had walked over to the elevator.

The cotton candy muzak drifted on air-conditioned wings around her head. She shivered inside her wet coat. Then she watched as the metal doors sighed open. The dark hallway yawned in her face. Hundreds of feet of deep dark red rug stretched under rows of dimmed spotlights.

She stood and stared. Then her finger stabbed the zero floor button and the doors closed again. A metal, female voice sang "Going down" in two languages. The tiny tug at her calves told her the elevator started its return to earth – deep, wet indifferent earth. Lonely earth. She ran a pale hand over her face and whispered "Merde."

She knew it was plain cowardice. Fear it was. The same fear that had imprisoned her since she was a child, a teenager in cruel high school, a student in even colder college. They were the years she taught herself to be a nobody. Oh, there had been friends, even lovers. But hardly ever the ones she wanted. And hardly ever the emotions she craved.

What did I crave? Did I even dare to know? I knew what I abhorred, and who I hated. Oh, sure I did, as it was easy: they were the same ones I envied. They were the towering studs with their crude bodies, cruder minds. And their tall blonde girlfriends. They sneered at me, ignoring me. They not even took the trouble to make fun of me.

Were they right? Of course they were. And if they were not, I devoted my life to making them be right. I crawled and shied away. I polished my meekest smile into perfection. I brooded and envied. I cried, silently and in private.

There had been the scrawny, freckled girl when I was twelve. The girl who had taught me how to play my body. She had taught me the miracle of lovemaking. She gave me this shattering feeling that had enslaved me at once. But the girl had left soon and without a word. She left me behind with a craving I could not fulfil. No one cared to share it with me. 

Oh, in some circles I was popular. But what's in a word? For the pimpled nerds I was popular. For the shy closet gays I solved a problem. I was the only girl they dared approach. I was the only girl they could muster enough courage for to ask out on a clumsy date. 

And there were the overweight, sweaty girls, of course. 

But now she was a woman. She was a woman who had taught herself she loved women. A woman who stood in the elevator of the poshest hotel of Quebec. Invited by the most breath-taking woman she had ever met. 

How could she believe the woman had been sincere, back at the restaurant? How could she find the courage to meet her again? Why would she once more open herself up to be hurt, ridiculed, humiliated?

Why on earth had she done what the little, perfumed piece of paper told her to? The paper she'd found with her tip? Why had she walked three long streets wearing nothing but a raincoat? Why had she slipped into a toilet stall after work to get out of her uniform, her bra, her panties even? And the most astounding why: why did she feel tiny drops of her juices run down the inside of her thighs? Why did her extended nipples get so achingly hard as they chafed on the coarse lining of her coat, all the way to the hotel? 

The elevator doors slid open once again as she reached the ground floor. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the reception area. The damn music made her want to scream, but of course she didn't. What she did was curse yet again under her breath. What she did was walk into the vast open space, ignoring the pimpled nerd at the reception desk. But what she also did, was stop right in front of the revolving doors that led to the street. Beyond the reflection of her body she saw the deep dark wetness of a Quebecois night. Streets gleamed with dripping lights. There was the heavy drone of traffic. She heard a far away police siren.

And she knew.

She knew that if she would step into the well of those revolving doors now and walk out into the rain, she would kill herself. Not in the spectacular sense of heroic suicide. Just in the smothering, anonymous sense of giving up the last remnants of a life that ought to be hers. She would kill herself in the cowardly sense of letting her life slide slowly and definitely out of her hands.

The pale woman waiting for her upstairs might ridicule her, even humiliate her. She and the perfect African model friends that were with her at the restaurant might point at her shabby appearance when she showed up. They might double up with laughter. But that would not be the real humiliation, would it? The real humiliation, the definite one, would be her leaving now, without even trying. 

Leave now, she said to herself, and you'll never be able to look at yourself again.

A tear formed in the corner of an eye. Then it rolled down her cheek. Not able to move a muscle she stood there. She looked into the dark night beyond her reflection. Then, slowly, she turned on her heels. She walked back into the cool marble space. She felt her teeth grind under the pressure of hard jaw muscles. But she kept walking – watched curiously by the reception boy.

The elevator chimed its optimistic chime. The doors opened before her. She stepped in. She touched the top button yet again and pushed herself in a corner.

"Going up!" sang the sickening female robot's voice in both languages. She felt the slight pull at her calves.

She prayed. She murmured long forgotten little girl's words. "Avé Marie, plein de grace…" She prayed to hold on to her newfound courage. She prayed to ignore the screaming fear behind her eyes. Most of all she prayed to be wrong for once in her life.

The dark hallway stretched out before her. She had made it out of the elevator. Now she felt her feet sink into the rug. Suite 2301, she remembered. Penthouse, sans doute. Posh penthouse, sans doute. Intimidating penthouse, sans aucun doute. The sign was in brass, of course. There was no bell. Then again, the door was ajar. From within she heard music. It was jazzy, voluptuous music. A hoarse female voice was singing. She knocked. 

No reaction, so she knocked again. The merest hint of relief washed over her. Maybe the woman wasn't in. Maybe she now had a good reason to leave? Was it a last legitimate opportunity to cop out? She closed her eyes. Then she pushed the door open and sneaked inside. The hall was big, with doors all around. There was a mirror. A huge bunch of roses stood in a vase on a slender table. The door in front of her was open too. Her heart throbbed against her ribs. She walked through it. 

A huge television set flickered without sound. An empty champagne bottle and glasses lay in front of it. There were pieces of clothing. A green leather jacket. A blood red dress. Stockings. Heeled shoes with loose spaghetti straps. They formed a colourful trail leading to the right. Her eyes followed it. Then her head froze.

Stretched head down on the leather of a huge couch lay one of the African models that had been at the restaurant. Her right, endless leg was raised over the backside. The other dangled to the floor. Her perfect ass rose high up into the air. And right behind her was the woman who had invited her here. Angique she had called herself. 

She shone pale as the full moon against the darkest night of her lover. She knelt between the smooth shining thighs. Her lower body was pressed against the crotch. One pale hand pushed a leg aside. The fingers of the other hand made fast piston like movements into what must be the black girl's ass hole. But the centre of movements was a large, incredibly fat black shining dildo. It had been strapped to a leather harness around the white girl's hips. With it she was pumping the Negro girl's vagina so fast that her white, high breasts danced on her chest. The dildo became a blur of darkness. 

From the pale girl's mouth poured a stream of incredible obscenities. But each one of them was uttered with the softest, loveliest sweetness. She was moaning and panting as she delivered them. It was almost as though she were praying a litany of depraved lust. Sometimes she bent forward. She kissed her black lover's satin skin and whispered into her ear. 

The African girl had her eyes closed. Her mouth was open. From deep inside her throat came panting moans. Sometimes they rose to gurgling screams. Her left arm disappeared under her body. It twitched and moved, and betrayed how fast her fingers were rubbing her clit. Her lower body jerked and spasmed. It humped against the fingers in her ass and the cruel black monster that was fucking her.

Both women were deeply engrossed in their activities. They were unaware of anything happening around them. Let alone the entering of a silent, rain soaked Quebecois girl. Brigitte could not take her eyes off of them. She just stared and stared. She slowly ate her lower lip. A deep blush crept from her throat into her face.

Both girls seemed to come almost at the same time. They gasped throaty moans. Their sounds turned into animal growls and long, desperate sighs. Then the white girl Angique collapsed. She spread like a pale blanket over her trembling black lover. They lay together panting. Tiny shivers rippled along the length of their bodies.

Brigitte stood and watched. An intense feeling overwhelmed her. It covered her like a dark, hot cloud. It closed in her vision. The whole world seemed to shrink and turn into a keyhole. It tunnelled her view to the incredible couple before her.

She trembled as much as the girls. Tiny electric currents ran from all her sensitive spots. They gathered and retracted to her crotch. Her mind was numb. Her brain was unable to send even the simplest impulses to her passive limbs.

After what seemed like hours, the girl Angique opened her eyes. A green flash settled on the visitor at once. A slow, mischievous smile split her face. "Brigitte, ma belle putain," she said. "Enfin elle est arrivée."

She rose to her knees. The obscene monster leaked between her thighs. "Deshabille-toi, saloppe. Go strip." She delivered the shocking line with the sweetest timbre and a friendly smile. Brigitte at first didn't even realise she was being spoken to. She stood motionless. She just stared.

The woman Angique slid off the couch. She walked the two steps to the frozen girl. The black dildo swayed in front of her. Her hand rose. Then she slapped it hard into Brigitte's face. It left a pink trace on her cheek. "Dépêche-toi, mon dieu!" she cried out. "Don't make me beg for it!" 

More than the words it was the slap that tore Brigitte from her state of frozen immobility. Her hands flew up. First to protect her face, then to undo the buttons of her coat. It sank to the floor. She stood totally naked except for her shoes.

Angique's face cleared. A wide grin washed over it. She reached forward and took one extended nipple between finger and thumb. She twisted it hard. Then she pulled the girl towards her by the stretched morsel of flesh. It made her wince. But she did not resist. She fell against the pale woman. The hard leather monster rode up her belly. It was trapped between them. It felt wet and cold.

Angique's soft lips engulfed Brigitte's. Her hands pulled at the dark blond hair. Then she penetrated her mouth with a stiffened tongue. Their nipples touched. Four breasts rubbed and circled. The tongue was everywhere. It found the deepest niches of Brigitte's wet cave. It sent tingling waves through her body. Her own tongue responded. Soon both open mouths were locked in a dance of fat pink writhing eels.

Brigitte felt her body go weak. Her knees went limp in the pale woman's grip. Her mind turned blank. Then it filled up with shapeless, rolling forms. It felt like a fuzzy basket squirming with clawless kittens.

She was touched from behind. A blanket of slick, hot skin slid over her. She was totally wrapped in writhing flesh. She felt her own body melt into the two women who sandwiched her. Black and pale hands roamed her naked body. They cupped her tits, her trembling ass. They touched the tender insides of her thighs, the leaking fullness of her cunt. 

A tongue licked her throat. Another tongue ran through the curving labyrinth of her ear. It slipped in and gave her a wave of goose bumps. All she felt was chaos, sweet soft chaos. She heard the sopping, slithering sounds of sex – the moaning from stuffed throats. She did not know if they were hers or someone else's. All she smelled was the heady mixture of women in heat and expensive perfumes. All she tasted was frothing saliva mixed with lipstick. 

Soon all she thought was nothing. In a haze she felt her feet leave the floor. Strong arms lifted her up and carried her. The mouths never left her. She kept her eyes closed. She felt herself fall onto a bouncing, soft silk surface – a bed no doubt, a mattress. And she opened her eyes to look into a flushed face. It was framed in black hair. The dark painted mouth shaped words. She had difficulty to understand them. "Welcome, my little pet," the mouth seemed to say. "Bonjour, ma belle. I am so glad you decided to come."

She tried to concentrate on what was said. She felt her legs being separated. A wet tongue ran the length of her slit. She had to arch her back. She had to allow a deep moan to leave her mouth. Curly hair tickled the insides of her thighs. It made her tremble without control. Then her path of vision darkened. 

A hairless cunt descended on her face. It engulfed her eyes and nose. It slid down to her mouth and left a trace of hot juices. Her ears were almost closed by the thighs riding her. She only got a few words from what was said. Some of them seemed to come from the pale woman. Others were of a richer, deeper timbre. They no doubt came from her dark friend, who was starting to slowly fuck her cunt with an expert tongue.

The words were obscene. They were carelessly spoken. And they were all about her. They talked about her body parts as if she were an object, a thing of fleeting interest. But she did not care. She could not care. She was only aware of the incredible things happening to her. She dashed her tongue into the sweet wet slit on top of her. Then she started to fuck back against the tongue that moved inside her own cunt. Long, supple fingers kneaded her tits. They pulled at her screaming nipples. She raised her body off the bed and arched it into a bow of passion.

She came sooner than she'd expected. And she came harder than she remembered ever to have done. She screamed into the wet soft, swollen cunt that rode her. It contracted in response and sprayed hot juices all over her face and into her mouth.

For a while they lay in a panting heap. Then the pale woman climbed off her. A moment later a piece of clothing landed on her body. She looked and saw it was her raincoat.

"Habille-toi," Angique said. She stood in the doorway, sipping champagne from a long stemmed glass. 

"You have been a good pet. Now leave."

Brigitte sat up on her trembling elbows. She stared from the girl to the coat. Then she tried to get up. She stood and wrapped the still damp coat around her sweating limbs. Her knees hardly supported her as she walked to the door and accepted her shoes from the smiling woman. She slipped into them, then stood straight again. She hesitated what to do next. 

Angique stepped aside to make room for her. She performed a slight, mocking bow. When Brigitte was at the door, halfway into the corridor, she called her back.

Still naked and shining with sweat, she grabbed Brigitte's face and kissed her deeply. 

"Au revoir, ma belle putain," she said. She laughed a tiny crystal laugh.



Brigitte and My Sister, Anja



Note: These are excerpts from a journal I keep and if they seem non sequitor it is because I'm not ready to reveal everything that occurred between my sister and me. I would also like to thank those who took the time to pass on their comments to my earlier submission (Moving My Sister). These are all true incidents which occurred at various stages of my life starting rather early. Some of them are out of order but it would take too much time to rewrite them in proper sequence. Enjoy.

*

Brigitte: It was during this period that I had my "on now and off again" relationship with Brigitte. She was my best friend's sister and lived in a city about 300 miles away. My family knew I was seeing her but only my sister was privy to the intimate details of our relationship. She was part Armenian Jew and part Scandinavian, a very pretty girl who, as I found out, shared my predilection for oral sex. When we started dating it was evident that she was not very experienced having had only one short and unsatisfactory relationship and though she was not a virgin, she shyly admitted to never having tried fellatio. Once her curiosity was piqued, I didn't have to try very hard to persuade her; she seemed eager for the new experience and I was only too wiling to oblige her. One evening during some heavy petting, she whispered that she was ready and wanted me in her mouth. 

"Tor, I'm ready ... I really want to do it!" she was breathing heavily while fumbling with the buckle of my belt and was actually blushing when she said this. 

At first she was hesitant, holding my throbbing member in her hand while tentatively exploring the tip with her serpentine tongue. I ran my fingers through her thick, Auburn hair and pulled her gently down towards the glistening dome-shaped head, eager for her to pleasure me. And as a drop of clear, sticky fluid seeped from the Cyclops-like eye, she used her fingers to spread it over the helmet of my cock but was still hesitant to use her mouth -

"Suck it, Brigitte; just try it ... if you don't like it we'll stop."

This seemed to allay her fears and looking straight into my eyes she gingerly parted her lips, allowing the head to slowly slip in to her mouth. She sucked me in almost halfway and when I hit the back of her throat, she gagged a bit and moved back to the top, sucking the head in and out in rapid succession. She then took me out of her mouth and licked the head a few times:

"Mmmm ... nice. You taste nice ..." she said before sucking me back in while caressing the shaft with her fingers. 

I just watched not wanting to rush her. Gradually she got used to the taste and texture and went about her novel chore with predatory fervor. What she lacked in skill, she made up with instinctive enthusiasm. However, I had to caution her a few times about her teeth:

"Watch your teeth, baby, not so hard ..."

"Sorry ..." she'd look up and mumble around my throbbing cock. 

Seeing her bob up and down with her hair cascading wildly about her was a treat and it didn't take too long before I exploded, shooting my ejaculate down her constricting throat while mumbling deliriously:

"I'm cumming ... suck the head, harder ... harder ... suck it, drink it, drink it all ... ohhhhh ..." 

She swallowed most of the thick, opalescent fluid but some leaked around my pulsing stem, dribbling down the sides of her mouth. She continued to gently suck on my softening cock until I was completely dry and I knew then that she was hooked. She looked up at me with a satisfied smile and asked: 

"That was fantastic ... can we do it again?" 

"Not now, baby, give me some time to recover ..." 

It seemed that she could never get enough and in a very short time, transcended her stature as a novice becoming one of the more orally prolific women I've known. It wasn't unusual for Brigitte to suck me off me three times a day while fingering herself to several orgasms. 

Brigitte & my sister: There was one particular incident which remains rooted in my memory, an incident which involved Brigitte and my sister, Anja. It seems appropriate to add that from an objective and unbiased perspective they shared a lot in common; aside from their good looks, they were both athletes with gregarious personalities and both exuded a smoldering sensuality. Brigitte looked like an ersatz Catherine Etta Jones while my sister was more the classic ethnic beauty; tall and dusky with smoldering almond eyes and a pouting mouth. They were both young and in their prime and I had often fantasized of a ménage à trois with them. Now, knowing my sister, I knew that this wasn't even a remote possibility but it was something I often thought about especially when they were together. 

Anja and I had gone to visit Brigitte, who lived with her parents in a small apartment and it so happened that her older sister Sandra was there visiting from Ebbo. I had dated Sandra briefly before I left for the US but it did not lead to anything serious and we joked about the fact that I was now dating her younger sister -- "settling for seconds" was how she laughingly put it. Sandra was happily married and a mother of two little boys. While we were chatting, Brigitte walked up and under the pretext of needing help to move a bookcase, led me away to her bedroom. Anja looked at us suspiciously but did not say anything. 

Once inside, Brigitte closed the door and without much preamble kissed me passionately while fumbling with the zipper of my trousers. Then dropping to her knees she adroitly released my hardening penis pushing me against the door and swooping in, she stuffed my cock into her mouth and began sucking for all she was worth. 

"Ohhh ... mmhhh ..." was all I could muster. 

Incredulously, while this was happening, I could hear the clattering of dishes from the kitchen where her mother, Sandra and Anja were preparing for tea. The apartment was a converted section of an old house with doors that had gaping spaces in them and I was certain that they could hear the unmistakable moans and slurping sounds of our virulent though indiscreet passion. 

"Shhh ... Brigitte, quiet ... Ohhh ..."

But Brigitte seemed undeterred as she continued with her licentious task taking the firm, rubbery sausage deep into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the sensitive head, trying to melt it like she would a hard candy or Tootsie Roll. She continued to moan, slurping loudly while she serviced me. 

I leaned back and closing my eyes permitted the familiar images of my sister to float through my mind blurring the boundary between fantasy and reality where misty holograms of our faces and bodies were woven loosely together in a surreal tapestry. Images of my sister sharing my cock with Brigitte, taking turns sucking on its sensitive head brought me quickly to the edge but just then there was a knock on the door.

"Tea is served ..." It was my sister. 

Brigitte and I froze instantly. Remarkably, she kept me in her mouth, continuing to gently rub my rigid stem with her tongue. 

"We're coming ... give us a minute ..." I said my voice strained and unable to resist the obvious play on words. There was a drawn out silence where all I could hear was the beating of my heart accompanied by the soft, wet sounds of Brigitte's indefatigable tongue. And then:

"Okay, but don't be long ... it'll get cold." She sounded irritated and terse; not like her at all. I didn't hear her footsteps and knew that she was still there, just outside the door.

When I looked down, Brigitte smiled and resumed her task, stroking my shaft with her fingers while she suctioned me with her lips. Now that the fear of discovery had passed, the thought that my sister was with us only intensified my excitement. It was too much for me and I felt the waves of pleasure emanating from my groin, shooting towards the tip of my penis and in that final lust-filled instant of reckoning I called out to her, a strangled wretched gasp, willing her to bridge the quantum of time and space to merge with us in this cryptic ballet while I pumped my viscous secretions down Brigitte's eager throat. 

"Anja ..." I whispered as I doubled over, my voice soft and hoarse, "Anja ... suck me, baby sister, ohh ... please, don't stop ... drink it ... suck me dry." 

The climax was incomparably intense and as she coaxed the last, reluctant drops out of me I leaned back against the door, completely spent. Brigitte looked up with a strange, knowing glint in her eyes and while I tried to regain a modicum of composure she gave my rapidly shrinking penis a playful kiss then standing up hugged me and looking like the cat that had just gobbled the canary, she waltzed out to join the others in the kitchen. I half expected her to run into my sister but Anja must have left while we were finishing up, breaching the nexus of our tableau vivant. 

To this day I'm not certain if Brigitte had heard my muffled cry and had gained an insight to my troubling need but shortly after this incident, on several occasions she questioned me about Anja; whether I thought she was sexy or beautiful etc. to which I always answered:

"What's the matter with you? Yeah, she's pretty but she's my sister ... I don't look at her like that!" 

Many years later, my sister confessed that she had remained by the door and heard Brigitte's amorous administrations and was jealous beyond comprehension. She had gone into the bathroom to compose herself and found that her panties were soaked. But that is all she would divulge at that time. 

No one ever knew about my obsession with my younger sister with the possible exception of my sister herself and even then I'm not sure whether she fully comprehended the extent to which I desired her. We were a close knit family and everyone assumed that our relationship was just that; a brother and sister who shared a strong filial bond. But unlike most brothers, I had experienced my sister sexually and both of us were cognizant of the intensely libidinous affect she had on me. 

The Incident: as was customary, the girls in our village got married at a rather young age and my family wanted my sister to get married. For me, it was a confusing period -- I too wanted her to be happy but there was a part of me that wanted her for myself. Some might consider this irrational but at that time, nothing made more sense. During the past months we had grown closer, almost inseparable and though I was involved with Brigitte, I was about to terminate that relationship. 

On the night before my birthday something changed for my sister which led to an encounter I have yet to fully comprehend because she had been reluctant to revive our incestuous relationship. I was leaving the next day to visit Brigitte; she had missed her period and was distraught, convinced that I had gotten her pregnant and I felt that the least I could do was to be by her side when she visited the doctor. My sister had offered to accompany me but I had turned her down:

"It's best I go alone and take care of the mess."

That sultry night in June, my sister decided to turn in earlier than she normally did and as she walked by the couch I was laying on, she stopped:

"Are you coming to bed soon?" she quizzed. 

There was something in her tone and the manner in which she looked at me that was different but being preoccupied, I thought nothing of it. I was in the middle of an interesting book by Robert Ludlum and wanted to finish it so I wouldn't have to carry it with me the next day. 

"You go on; I'll be there soon ..."

But as she walked away I couldn't help but notice her slender legs and the sensual curve of her callipygian ass and felt the familiar stirring of my cock. It is extraordinary that just the sight of her thighs could get me excited. 

For several reasons, my sister and I chose to share a bedroom. The old house has only two bathrooms and the guest room was occupied by our brother and his wife. I could have slept on the large couch in the living room but it was uncomfortable at best and since Anja and I often talked late into the night no one considered us sharing a bedroom to be strange. We had always been close so this was assumed to be the obvious option. 

The room was adjacent to the Master Bedroom (which my parents shared) and had the beds drawn together, conveniently juxtaposed. In retrospect, considering the circumstances of our relationship and the attraction we felt for each other, sharing a bedroom might not have been the wisest thing to do. But the excitement of being close to her shunted any rational thought and within the stealth of nightfall I was always filled with titillating anticipation. 

Invariably during the night my sister would kick back the sheets unaware that her rumpled camisole exposed more than her modesty would have ordinarily permitted; the moonlit image of her shimmering dishabille providing a constant stimulus for my already heightened libido. She was strikingly beautiful and while she slept the gilded hieroglyphics painted by masquerading silhouettes would dance tantalizingly over her body, hiding the object of my desire within the crevasse of her thighs leaving their wanton interpretations to the sole discretion of this stealthy purveyor. And from the vantage of my shadowy sanctuary I'd study her languid body, furtively wondering what she would taste and feel like - the old cliché "her looking good enough to eat" held a literal connotation for me. 

Most of my fantasies revolved around my pleasuring her; to arouse her to the point where she was free from parochial dogma while submitting to her molting sexuality. I knew that she was physically attracted to me; like Yin and Yang, the male and female forces which complement each other, I could sense it and felt her intrinsic field like that of a strong magnet on its polar opposite but there was an underlying need (on my part) to have her acknowledge our singularly intense relationship. 

There were many nights when caught in the suffocating heat of passion, I would lean over her with my face inches from her panties, teetering on the precipice of uncertainty, torn between doubt and desire, intoxicated by the scent of her sex and made giddy by my carnal need to posses her ... to return to a time when our innocent exploration had culminated in incestuous coitus. Until one particular night while she slept with her legs splayed, I was overcome by the concupiscent urge to taste her and without thought of any consequence; I impulsively licked her cunt through the flimsy material of her panties. 

Time slowed and the moment seemed to stretch forever as my tongue ran the liquid length of her thinly veiled slit finally caressing the pleasure node perched at her apex. I licked again, this time more forcefully flattening my tongue and felt her body shudder involuntarily, accompanied by a sleepy, whispered moan and then I felt her hand on the back of my head, her fingers tangled in the dense layers of my hair. 

"Ummm ... Tor?" she muttered sleepily, her eyes still shut.

"It's nothing ... go back to sleep ..." my heart pounding in my head.

I remained still above her, my mind racing with a million excuses, none of which offered any plausible rationale; only the unassailable realization that I was trapped. But after a few moments, she mumbled unintelligibly as her fingers relaxed and then I felt the gentle brush of her thigh against my jaw as she rolled over and away from me. I heard the bed creak as I lay back and with the faint, piquant taste of her lingering on my tongue, returned to my prurient proclivity stroking myself with renewed fervor. Then, my senses laced by her somatic flavors, I climaxed violently spewing ropes of cum into her camisole and onto the bed sheets. Several overzealous spurts landed on her thigh and I wanted to wipe them clean but instead, I drifted slowly away and fell asleep haunted by dreams of the many women who had pleasured me in her place. We never discussed the incident but I do know that the next morning she washed her camisole by hand and did not leave it in the hamper.

These overt sexual games were reserved for the night where under the protective blanket of darkness, we would often lie "spooned" together, her back to me with my turgid erection pressed against the cleft of her bottom. She usually wore shorts or a diaphanous negligee which would invariably climb up her thighs exposing her scant panties. I am certain she felt my priapic hardness throbbing against her but she did not move away nor did she protest the nocturnal frottage as I rocked imperceptibly back and forth, rubbing my cock against her panty-covered crack until my body would tense up and I would cum against her. On many occasions, as I lay pressed to her back, breathing heavily in the aftermath of this Freudian game, there was an obvious, musky redolence of sex which would have been impossible to miss and I knew she sensed it. But she always pretended to be asleep. 

In the mornings, the sunlight streaming through the lace curtains brought with it a different set of filial dynamics. In hindsight, it is unbelievable that we acted like nothing unusual had occurred as we went about our daily routines. She would be withdrawn and introspective for a while but like a moth to a flame, she would reenter our Cyprian play reigniting our sordid passion. 

We never discussed or acknowledged the sexual interplay or the attraction we felt but rather chose to segregate it within the confines of a parallel reality. I would often find her panties in the hamper hidden under other clothes, the rear stained and crusted with my sperm, the crotch warm and moist with her juices. The thought that she was creaming while I was dry-humping her was almost too much for me. I would hold it to my face and inhale the heady fragrance of her sex. The effect was always immediate and predictable; I would release my straining cock and wrapping the soft, satiny undergarment around its bloated head I would stroke myself and urged on by thoughts of her seeping, liquid cunt I would ejaculate, shooting ropes of viscous cum into her moist panties; our juices mingling in defiance to a forbidden union. As I wiped my cock clean, I wondered what my Mom or Runa (the laundry woman who came over once a week) would think when washing my sister's panties!

I've digressed - well, back to the time this occurred: A few hours later, having finished the book, I eased myself into bed trying not to wake her up. As I lay down I heard the soft rustle of sheets and felt the shiver of my bed and the next thing I knew, my sister had moved over and was hugging me tightly, burying her face in my neck. She pressed her body fiercely to mine so that I could feel her nipples, erect and hard through her exiguous t-shirt and as her breasts squashed against my chest, I felt the pounding of her heart. The urgency of her embrace was a powerful aphrodisiac and my cock reacted instantly, becoming hard. The blood pounded in my head and I remember running my hands down her sides, over the skimpy, blue shorts and cupping her ass as I pulled her up against me. 

"Why did you take so long? I was waiting for you ... I'm sorry I fell asleep!" she was whispering into my ear "I wanted to give you your birthday present before you left."

Without thinking, I undid the drawstring of my pajama trousers and it fell away when I forced myself between her legs. I was now lying on top of her, naked from the waist down, my rigid stem pressed firmly against her crotch. 

"Oh, God ... mmm ..." she stifled a moan and pushed back with her hips while her arms held me to her. She was gnawing on her lower lip, her eyes scrunched tight and as we adjusted our bodies, the old wooden bed creaked loudly: 

"It may not be able to take our weight, Tor ..." she whispered. 

But I was beyond caring. I was driven by the pent-up desire for my sister, my mind consumed by streaming, lascivious thoughts and the steamy images of our early sexual encounters. I remembered the time, many, many years ago, pulling down her bloomers (underpants) and fucking her. Her icy-hot breath against my ear; the high pitched moans and the urgency of her hips grinding back against me; she was lost in torrid passion as I ploughed into her. And, the many times I had masturbated to those memories during the long, cold, winter nights. Now here she was; mine again ... 




Brigitte Arrives



Airports live their own reality.  

If you'd fly from JFK to De Gaulle you might never know you flew from New York to Paris. Airplanes may take you through the skies for hours and hours. But after you leave a gate at Changi Airport, Singapore and enter a gate at Schiphol Amsterdam, you might as well think you'd travelled full circle.

Sure, the accents differ. The food may differ. Coffee at El Prat, Barcelona is dramatically better than the brew they call coffee at Heathrow, London. But there is so much more the same. There are the corridors, the international ads along the walls. There are the same companies renting cars, the same people hurrying along with the same rolling suitcases. In the shops one finds the same perfume. They sell the same toys and chocolate, the same watches and jewellery. Even the air at all airports smells the same. It is carefully conditioned. But it always carries a whiff of kerosene.

Malpensa, the airport of Milan, wasn't different. 

Brigitte weaved her way through throngs of people. She wondered what had happened to famous Italian fashion and design. The only bodies she found wearing anything fashionable were the mannequins in a row of vitrines. 

All the rest wore dull worldwide business suits, stewardess's uniforms and Japanese tourists' outfits. And of course there were the unavoidable backpacking teenagers in their international garb of T's, jeans and sneakers.

Brigitte didn't care. 

She stopped in the middle of the big arrivals hall and breathed deeply. Kerosene and all, this was the air of freedom. It filled her lungs. It flushed her arteries. It made the ends of her nerves tingle. She wondered if the smile had ever left her face since she boarded at Jean Lesage, Quebec. She was sure it hadn't. She only met smiling people. And she knew they were the mirrors of her own beaming happiness.

Quitting her job at the restaurant had not been difficult. They even assured her they would love to take her back if she decided to return. Of course she knew they wouldn't. But it was great stuff to hear. It had boosted her morale no end. Maybe they were so nice because she already beamed her new smile at them. And maybe she already had this way of standing straighter, talking lighter. She had made a decision and that alone was enough to change her to the core. Oh yes!

There were lots of kisses. There was even a nice good-bye dinner. Of course everyone wanted to know what she was going to do. She made a careful point of being vague. Italy, yes. Milan. And an incredible offer too. That was all.

She could almost taste the envy.

The conveyor belt took ages to deliver her pretty red suitcase. She didn't mind, nothing mattered. It arrived at last. She loaded it on a cart, together with her beauty case and her hand luggage. She wheeled them through customs. As she passed a reflecting window she looked aside. The tall, beautiful woman amazed her. The one with the tight swaying butt.

A chauffeur would be waiting for her. Not a driver, but a chauffeur. Mais oui, comme il faut. It was bye-bye fast food now. It was adieu cheap no good, ugly off the rack blouses and raincoats. The big doors slid open to a new world. 

The first thing she saw was her name. It was printed neatly on a white piece of cardboard. And it was held up by the hands of a hunk. That was the only description that came to her mind. He was tall and wide and very fit. He was dressed in the best-tailored suit she had ever seen. His eyes were a soft variety of the steel in his jaws. His hair stood like a stiff, short rug on his round, hard skull. And his smile lighted up as soon as it met hers.

She didn't know why she blushed when he shook her hand. He told her he was here to pick her up. He should take her to Villa d'Este, where her Mistress would be waiting. 

He took over her cart. They walked through the bustling traffic into the parking lot. There he loaded her stuff into the trunk of a huge black, shining Mercedes.

She slid into the posh leather seat next to the driver's. He at once started the engine. The whispering machine rolled out of the shadows into the glaring Italian spring. 

He watched her from aside. His eyes traced her silhouette from top to bottom. Then he leaned forward and opened the dashboard locker in front of her. He handed a pair of sunglasses to her. They were lovely and fit marvellously. He took a pair for himself out of the pocket of his jacket.

He asked in his strong German accent if she had had a good flight. She answered with a smile. All had been wonderful. His eyes returned to the road. He told her that Mistress was expecting her. She really looked forward to her arrival. Which made Brigitte smile once more.

Malpensa lies to the north west of Milan and right in the direction of the alpine lakes. Lago Maggiore is the biggest of them. They had no trouble avoiding dense city-traffic. Soon the car hummed over empty, wide autostradas. It floated as if on air.

Then the tall German told her to strip naked. At first she didn't know if she had understood what he said. He grabbed her bare knee and repeated what he had said. He apologized. Then he added that he had his instructions.

His warm dry hand was as much of a shock to her as the content of his command. "S-strip…you mean take off my clothes?" she said lamely. "Now?"

He grabbed her blouse. It tore at her shoulder, making two buttons fly. 

"Now!" he confirmed.

She looked from his face to the torn, new blouse. Then she looked back at him. He had closed up behind his shades. His jaws pushed hard bulges into his cheeks. 

After a long and aching minute her fingers started undoing the rest of the buttons. She slid out of the silk blouse she had bought at one of the most expensive shops in Quebec. Now it was torn at the seams. She lifted her ass off the slick leather chair and unzipped her black linen skirt. She shoved it down. It sagged around her ankles.

A myriad of hot needle-pins bristled her skin. Her hands slid behind her back to open her bra. Her nipples met the cool kiss of conditioned air. She paused with closed eyes and savoured the sensation of the leather seat against the bare skin of her thighs. Then she heard him growl: "Panties." Again she lifted her hips. Her fingers hooked inside the hem. She slid the soft lace down her trembling legs.

She had hoped to show Mistress that she knew how to dress. She wore expensive, sheer stockings. They were strapped to a lovely black lace garter-belt. Never had it dawned on her that a German hunk might make her give away the surprise so prematurely. She looked down on them. She admired the way the black straps framed her carefully trimmed pussy. She knew he did so too. And to her dismay that knowledge aroused her.

She started to undo a garter. His big hand stopped her. It radiated a glow into her skin, right next to her exposed vagina. "No," he said. She let her hands fall idle next to her thighs.

He then bade her to give him her blouse, bra and skirt. He lowered his window and threw them out. Brigitte uttered a cry. Her hand flew to her mouth. Through the back window she saw the textile fly away. The blouse stuck to an oleander bush.

She turned back. Her shoulders sagged. A slow tear ran from under her glasses.

Up to now Brigitte had been mostly busy feeling shocked. It made her forget how open the car was. She might as well have been in a shop's window. It made her feel the heat of her blushing. And she was certain that his hand would pull her arms down if she would try and hide her breasts. She silently blessed the sunglasses. They at least gave her a semblance of privacy.

Happily enough traffic was light. Two young guys in an open sports car almost popped their eyes and craned their necks when they drove by. But most drivers drove too fast to get the action. 

That changed after the car left the motorway. 

The chauffeur took a lovely winding road into the foothills. They had to slowly creep through numerous small villages. And there she became the topic of the day with old ladies in black dresses and little boys on bicycles. My God, she thought, the embarrassment. But that wasn't all. Real shame was added when she felt how the whole thing aroused her. It made her exposed nipples swell into hard pebbles. A slow fire crept up from between her naked thighs

Not a word was spoken after she had done his bidding. He did not touch her. Nor did he even look at her. But, oh damn, she really must be the slut Angique took her for. Why else was she peeping out of the corners of her eyes to know if she excited him at all? She just had to see if the tight crotch in his classy Italian trousers betrayed him. But no, there was unusual to be seen. 

Brigitte wondered at her slight disappointment. 

Then a mischievous thought entered her overheated mind. She lifted her hands to cup her tits. She sighed softly. She also started circling her nipples and pushed them out. She licked her fingers and rubbed the saliva on the hard nubs. She rolled them and stretched them between her fingertips. And all the while she stole sideways glances to fathom his reactions. Which were none.

Brigitte moaned now. She did it as much for secretly stolen pleasure as for sheer frustration. She kept working on her left tit. She kneaded it and teased the nipple. Her right hand shifted down to her slightly spread thighs. A finger entered her slit. She rubbed the length of it with increasing ease. The flesh was soaking wet.

Brigitte found her clit and gasped. She closed her eyes. Then she threw back her head. My God, she was so aroused. She totally forgot where she was. Her world shrank into a glowing needlepoint's head. She danced on it as the proverbial angels.

A flash of blind, white pain shot through her existence. His hand had slapped her left breast hard. It left dark red prints on the skin.

"Stop it!" he growled. "Not allowed."

She felt herself torn back from the brink of paradise. Her eyes blinked. They released the single tear that the sudden pain had produced. Then she hugged her hurt breast with both hands. She shivered all over her body.

"Sorry," she said. And she was helplessly enraged of using the word.

The Villa must be near now. The road got narrower. It wound up into the higher hills. They had driven along the shores of the Lago with its beautiful vista's and abundance of spring flowers. She had asked the chauffeur if she could open a crack of her window to smell the air. It had taken her a long time to gather enough courage. When the question came out, it sounded like a little girl's. Which added to her rage.

All of her new found bliss of freedom had vanished in the last hour. The smile had gone first, of course. Then her proud stance had crumbled. And so did the clear ring of her voice. "Bien de nous retrouver, Brigitte," she mumbled sarcastically to herself. She sagged in her chair. All was back to normal.

Then the road took a turn to the left. 

A few hundred feet up the mountain she saw the roofs of what must be a large house with additions. The walls themselves were invisible. They were hidden by the dense Mediterranean flora. She also saw the edge of a terrace. It was a promontory that rested on elegant arches and columns.

"Villa d'Este," her driver grunted. 

They lost the view after the next turn. Then they arrived at a huge wrought iron gate. It gave way to a lovely shaded drive. She heard the pebbles crunch under the tires. Then her breath stuck. The Villa itself swung into view.

It had been built on the ruins of a medieval farmhouse in the first tender years of the last century. Its design followed the scandalously modern curves of art nouveau. Walls, plinths, roofs and windows had been shaped into a sinuous orgy of organic masonry. There was pink granite, sandstone, marble and glass. There also was wrought iron, hardwood and slate. But most of all, there was elegance. The whole building was a bold statement. It defied all masculine conventions of its time. It oozed femininity in its curved, lustful grace. It was open to nature. It lay open to the vast Italian skies. And it was part of the hills it jutted from.

Brigitte sat frozen as she watched Villa d'Este. 

Her eyes drank in the sheer sensuality of it all. Long after the driver had opened her door, she blinked and moved out of the car. Her foot sank into the pebbles of the driveway. The balmy spring breeze hugged her naked form. A million invisible feathers caressed her. 

The air was a sweet mixture of herbs and flowery essences. It was laced with the wonderful scent of pine-trees. And of course there were the incessant strings of cicadas. 

To her amazement she did not give a damn about her nudity. Traces of her hard won pride seemed to trickle back into her system. She stretched her limbs and straightened her back. She glanced a defying look at the chauffeur. He totally ignored her. Her heels sank into the layer of pebbles as she walked towards the house. It slightly ruined the sway of her hips.

An elderly woman came out of the building. She was short and stubby. She wore a black dress with tiny white flowers. It must be the uniform of elderly ladies in every Italian village. She never acknowledged the naked girl. She just walked over to the car and picked up Brigitte's luggage. When she returned, she carried the suitcase and the rest. She beckoned Brigitte with a shake of her head to follow her inside. 

The hall was cool. It made her goose bumps rise. Now it dawned on her that the lady had not at all been surprised to see her arrive naked. She said nothing about it. She not even hinted if she'd noticed. It must be routine around here, she thought and smiled.

The Italian woman told her to stay put and wait. At least, that is what she understood from her gestures and the few words that came close enough to her French.

She stood and waited. She smiled ruefully. Waiting, ah yes, a waitress's speciality.

***

There was no clock, there was no ticking. There was no measuring of time. Only a shard of sunlight travelled up the wall. But there was the beating of her heart. It cut the time into piecemeal morsels, just large enough to swallow.

If Brigitte knew anything, it was how to wait. How to find a thousand colors in the dullest gray. How to put her brain on hold and watch the grass grow.

She must have stood there for an hour. Her eyes had travelled all the curves and inlets of the Jugendstil ornaments. They crawled and twisted on the wall in front of her. It wasn't difficult for her to become an explorer. She trekked through a wilderness of elegant vines and leaves and flowers. She was a small naked girl in an adventurous labyrinth of green and black. 

She lost herself in a world of high winds and whispering heartbeats.

At first there had been the excitement of finally arriving. There was the arousal of new impressions and the sheer beauty of the place. But that feeling seeped out of her. Time went on and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not even sounds came to her, other than the distant chirrups of a million crickets. The car had left right after she went inside. It took its rumble down the hill. Its sound drowned in the overall buzz of the background. The old woman never returned.

Any other might have got curious. She might have started a private exploration around the house, or even inside it. Brigitte was curious, of course. But she had been told to stay put, so she did. Little stirrings inside her might tease her. But she knew she could not go against the order. She knew it was part of what she was here for. 

To obey.

Flashes of her flight and her drive to this Villa projected themselves on the inside of her mind. She mused on the peculiar actions, or better: non-actions of the chauffeur. He must be gay, she decided. Or otherwise the powers of this woman Angique must be really awesome. She had almost thrown herself at him. He never took the bait. Even his bodily reactions seemed under control. 

Amazing.

To think these thoughts and stand naked in the cool breeze made her nipples contract. She cupped her breasts. Their cold, marble quality ran shivers down her spine.

After half an hour her awareness sank below the level of full consciousness. Her eyes just stared. They pulled the world out of focus. Her heartbeat lowered to a slow, lazy whisper. 

Her thoughts came to a standstill.

Then the door crashed open. The sudden transfer from total silence into screaming action made her heart skip two, three beats. A black creature jumped her. A bloody-minded fury it was, all clad in black leather. Even its head had been tightly wrapped.

The creature grabbed her hair with blood-tipped claws. It pulled her inside. It dragged her across the sill. She felt squirts of white-hot adrenaline dash through her body. Her throat squeezed closed. She was speechless although her mouth sprang wide open.

The creature dragged her along. 

It made catlike strides on towering heels. They were like hooves. Brigitte was pulled through an impressive stone hall and down a corkscrew stairwell. The creature didn't care if her victim was hurt by the cold hard edges.

Deep down in the bowels of the house the cat pulled a torch off the wall. Then it led the way through a long, vaulted corridor, adorned with fearsome gargoyles and chiselled monsters. A huge, iron studded door stood ajar. The black harpy pushed it open. They descended another set of stairs. It led them into a circular, incredibly large, high vaulted hall. It seemed to have been cut out of the Italian bedrock.

Torches burned all around them. 

They breathed life into the shadows and played with another multitude of sculpted monsters. Naked human and animals' bodies were intertwined in sensual and obscene intercourse. In front of them iron bars rose out of the stone. They were at least twelve feet high and met at the centre to form a vast circular cage. The bars almost seemed to move with the torches' light. Their shadows centred on a big slab of marble. It rose about half a foot out of the darker granite floor.

A girl lay spread-eagled on the exact middle of that slab. She was naked except for a curious costume of finely mazed leather straps. She had been tied down with short chains. They ran from her ankles and wrists to dull shining iron bolts in the marble.

The girl did not move. Nor did she make a sound.

The black hooded creature turned around. Now Brigitte saw that its full, pale breasts swayed free. The crotch of the suit was open as well. It displayed a smoothly shaven cunt and pubic mound. The nipples were clamped with a delicate chain dangling in between. There was a tiny drop of blood. It seeped from between the silver jaws of a clamp.

Brigitte stood panting. Her breasts heaved as much as the woman's. The pressure of her blood started to sink slowly. The buzzing left her ears. Then the woman grabbed her hair again. She pulled her towards the cage. She pushed her naked body against it and handcuffed Brigitte's wrists to the bars. They were about two feet above and to either side of her head. 

Brigitte now stood tightly against the cold iron. She felt it almost cut into her flesh. Her feet were kicked wide. Then her ankles were tied to the bars, much like her wrists were.

"Watch!" the black cat woman growled. 

She lapped a slow pink tongue all along the iron bar, right next to Brigitte's face. Then she strode off. The torches' golden light dripped like liquid off her shining curves. She took a few high, rolling steps to the right and opened a heavy door. It was made of iron bars, just like the cage itself. Inside, she returned to Brigitte and faced her. She stretched her arms and planted her gloved palms on Brigitte's. Then she pushed herself forward. Her clamped tits drilled themselves into Brigitte's flattened chest. 




Brigitte Arrives



The long, sinuous tongue slid out of the mask's opening. It ran all over Brigitte's face, feeling hot like boiling lava. Brigitte closed her eyes. She felt the slithering snake pass over her eyeballs. Then it traced her cheek and pushed itself between her lips.

As soon as the woman started kissing, Brigitte knew who she was. And she knew that she had known all along.

"Mistress," she groaned. And her legs started to tremble without control.

The woman chuckled and pushed herself off the bars.

"Watch!" she purred again. 

She prowled to the supine girl at the centre of the cave. Her shoulders were pulled up into a high arch. Her hoofed feet made feline strides. A leather crop sprang to her hand. She started caressing the body on the marble with its tip.

The girl's skin twitched in reaction to the touch. A soft moan filled the hall. It sounded tiny and forlorn in the huge space.

"Mmmmm, sweet little pet," the cat woman's voice answered. "You are awake at last. Awake, after your shocking performance last night. Aaaaah, Brigitte, ma belle…she is such a greedy slut. You should have seen her. How she came. How she screamed and shook when the lewd dwarf licked her open cunt. How she let her throat be filled with my good friends' sperm and juices. Her face and tits were sprayed with it. I thought she'd never stop."

A new moan sounded. 

It was louder now but not less desperate. The woman cut it off by making the crop land on the inside of a spread thigh. It cracked in the echoing hall like an explosion. Two more cracks followed. They mingled with loud howls from the girl. 

Heart breaking sobs followed their echoes.

The woman turned and watched Brigitte. She chuckled. Brigitte was stunned by the sudden violence and the obvious glee. Then the woman spoke again. A tinge of disappointment crept into her voice.

"Yes, she was amazing. But first she made a fool of me, last night, you know. She thought she could refuse me my pleasure. I gave her Björn, my wonderful dwarf. He made her come gloriously. But she was selfish, weren't you, little whore?"

And again the crop came down. It crashed onto bare cheeks and left lines of darkest crimson.

"Soooo selfish," the woman crooned. "The lil slut wanted all the pleasure for herself. She refused to share it with my friends. Bad egoistic creature." 

She sank to her knees. Then she bent over the girl's whipped flesh. She slowly started tracing the welds with her tongue. It made the girl moan louder.

"Selfish, yes. But also sweet, mmmmmm, so incredibly sweet she is."

The tongue lapped in easy strokes. It went all over the shivering thighs. It followed the leather bound hills of her buttocks. Then it disappeared inside the crack. And it dwelled on the tightly closed little hole at the centre.

The licking went on for minutes. The girl's gasps came faster. And each gasp ended with a whimpering moan.

Then the woman stopped. She crawled to the wrists and ankles of the girl. She opened the rings connected to the short chains and dragged the girl up against her. She softly kissed the lolling head, then dragged her over to Brigitte. There she propped her up. She pushed the limp body against the bound woman.

"Mmmmmm, sweet Kristie. Meet Brigitte. She just arrived from Canadaaah. She came all the way to see you suffer. Say: bonjour, Brigitte, because she speaks French, you know. That is, when she isn't moaning with pleasure. She is a whore too, you know. Une méchante salope, n'est-ce pas, Brigitte?"

Brigitte stared in the face of what must normally be a pretty girl, a really sweet blonde doll. But right now all kinds of emotions contorted it. Saliva ran from the weak, open lips. Tears and snot dripped from the nose and cheeks. She must have bitten her lips cruelly. Blood seeped from little cracks. Her neck seemed unable to keep her head upright.

Soft groans struggled to pass the swollen tongue. The lips tried to form words. Maybe she said "Bonjour, Brigitte". 

Maybe she just uttered her misery.

The black cat-woman dragged Kristie back to the altar. Brigitte had begun to think of the marble slab as a place of offerings. The woman laid the girl down. Then she pulled at a lever that was set into the floor. Chains dropped from the distant ceiling.

She attached them to the wrists of Kristie. Then she pulled the limp girl up until she hung from them. Her feet were inches from the ground.

The woman stood eye-level now with Kristie's round, sweet tits. She rolled the nipples and pinched them both. Then she took the crop and started slapping them softly. She built up an increasing rhythm.

"She likes this, doesn't she?" she asked, over and over again. "Watch them rise and swell, Brigitte. They must ache by now. They are like little marbles that crown her soft full tits. They beg for a sucking mouth, don't they, Kristie?"

The dangling girl moaned. She gave no answer. The woman tweaked one nipple hard. Now the girl squealed.

"Answer, slut!" the woman yelled.

"Yes, Mistress," she groaned.

The woman once more abused the tender flesh.

"Yes what?"

The words of the desperate girl were hardly a whisper.

"Please, suck them, Mistress."

The woman unzipped the tight hood on her head. In one sweep she tore it off. Her black hair danced around her pale face. It framed dark set eyes and a dark red mouth. Brigitte gasped when she recognized the woman she had met in Quebec. The woman who had made such incredible love to her and had invited her here. 

Angique grabbed the blonde girl at the small of her back. She pulled her closer. Then she engulfed the right nipple with her hungry lips.

After also suckling the other, Angique stood back. She cupped Kristie's head with incredible tenderness and said:

"My darling sweet little slut, please forgive me. Today is a day of blood and iron. Last night must have infected me. It might have been the full moon. It might have been my poisoned soul. But I rose this morning, and the taste of blood and iron lingered in my throat. It infected my veins."

A sudden new anger seemed to grip her. 

She grabbed the chain and ran her tongue along the metal. From where she stood, Brigitte could see a shiver touch her skin.

Then the woman Angique suddenly turned back to her prey. She clawed at the girl's face and held it in a strong grip. 

"The taste of iron obsesses me, Kristie. And the taste of blood drives me crazy. Will you let me taste your blood?"

The hall fell silent. 

All breathing seemed to stop. The three bodies seemed an arrangement of stone statues.

Then Kristie screamed.

"Oooooooooh, Angique. You know I love you. Why do you do this to me?"

The last word echoed. Before it had died away, the black woman had sunk to her knees. She sobbed. She held on to the dangling legs and buried her face into them.

Even in her state of shock, this sudden change of emotions took Brigitte by surprise. Who the fuck was this woman? So cruel, so tender. So wild, so sweet. So strong one moment, so utterly vulnerable the next.

And how to explain the way this made her feel herself? How could she feel at once abhorred by the blunt cruelty and so blatantly attracted to it?

Here she was. 

She had travelled half the world and not even been welcomed. She had waited for an hour. Then she had been bound to this cold, indifferent iron. It cut into her skin. She had been forced to watch a sweet girl suffer. In front of her this mad woman had raced from cruel wildness to sobbing distress. And Brigitte was enthralled, totally enthralled. Her nipples stood out between the bars. 

Her cunt must be running.

"Please! Let me hold you, Mistress. Oh, please don't cry because of me."

Kristie's voice was like a child's. And like a child she begged for love and forgiveness.

Angique rose. Her emerald eyes sparkled with tears. In her hand was an object. It caught the torches' light. A needle it was, a large needle. She stuck it right through the base of Kristie's left nipple.

The scream rang around the stone circle. Then it returned to start again. It was a carrousel of pain.

Brigitte zoomed in on the raped nub of flesh. With unusual clarity she saw where the metal had penetrated. A narrow trickle of blood seeped out.

She realised that it was not only Kristie she heard screaming. Angique screamed as well. The woman tore the needle free and took half the girl's tit into her mouth. 

She sucked on it ferociously.



Brigitte, Bound



Brigitte had been in a relationship with a man she described as selfish. Selfish in bed she said, more interested in getting himself off than her. She expressed interest in one day getting together with her former lover, whom she described as unselfish and giving. Shortly thereafter, the former lover called her, and they decided to get together that very night.

She now lay across her kitchen table, a pillow underneath her for comfort, her arms tied tightly to the legs of the table. Her ankles were tied back to her thighs, and her knees were spread wide, tied out to the sides of the table as well. There was one more rope across her neck, looped once, and tied across the table so she couldn't raise her head at all. Trying to do so, she would lightly choke herself until she relaxed again. He decided to tie her elbows out as well, to take any slack out of the system. She was taut, completely immobile, and on the verge of coming.

Under the flickering candles that lit the suite, her skin glowed like a sunset. He turned the heat up to keep her warm, as there was no plan to hurry. 

How she got to be in this helpless position is no short story; a small wager was lost, the loser was to be enslaved for a day; 24 hours. After some urging, she dropped her pants and shirt, and hopped up on the table as told. He reminded her that as agreed, any hesitation would cost an extra hour of slavery, payable at any time. So now she owed him an extra hour.

She was wearing a bra and panties as she was laced tight to the table. He had slipped a humming, cock shaped vibrator into her panties, pressed against her clit. This was incredibly sexy to her, and she felt she was getting the better end of the arrangement so far. He took his time snugging up various ropes, as the buzzing continued incessantly against her moistening pussy.

Whenever she appeared to be enjoying herself a bit too much, he would rudely turn it off until she settled down. Then turn it on once again, a little higher each time, starting the cycle anew.

He decided that a blindfolded slave would be quite sexy, and wandered off to root in drawers in search of something suitable, leaving her there to hum. When he returned, her squirming torso belied the pleasure she took in being stimulated so helplessly. And again, he rudely turned it off, causing a whimper and a pout. Her head was gently lifted to enable the blindfolding, and laid down again on a small pillow. The neck rope was readjusted to suit this. She was now completely blind, stretched, immobile, and horny as hell. He flicked the switch in her panties to 'low', and stood back to watch. 

He informed her that one clothespin would be pinched on her body for every passing minute before her inevitable orgasm. The low setting would likely draw this process out several minutes. At his whim, he would adjust the speed higher or lower.

To start things off with a bang, he cut her bra off, tearing it away, and snapped two clothespins on her nipples. She yelped and pulled at the bonds. The table creaked.

He quietly powered up his video camera, passing the lens over her golden, squirming form, zooming in on the sweat now beading across her brow, and on her heaving breasts. The camera was then set on a tripod so he could play with more freedom. But every now and then he used the camera to capture more close-ups; her trembling lips, the clothespins, the taut ropes.

By watching her closely, and turning down the vibrator when necessary, he was able to string out her sweet torment for over twenty minutes. With each clothespin placed on her skin, he whispered words of love into her ear.

Two lines of clothespins weaved down her torso, from her nipples, across her breasts and down her ribs, back up her tummy and around her navel. She was shaking and whimpering, but not pleading for it to stop. She loved a challenge.

But enough was enough. He cut her panties and ripped them off, leaving her naked. He quickly removed the twenty or more clothepins from her body, causing her to howl in pain, and relief. Then he set the little beast to 'high' and worked it across her clit, then pressed it deep inside, back and forth.

She immediately came like a rocket, arching as high as she could, choking herself with her bonds. He clambered onto the table, plunging his aching cock as deep inside her as possible and ramming into her with fervour.

Her hard orgasm was like nothing she'd ever felt, and she sobbed freely as it swept through her again and again. His cock filled her completely, and her poor clit seemed to be shooting sparks throughout her body.

The sharp urgency of her orgasm slowly changed into a rushing wave, like a fast flowing river. Her head pounded and she couldn't breathe. Realizing it was the restraint squeezing her neck, she relaxed and lay back into her pillow. The blood rushed back to her brain, and a tingling heat flowed through her limbs. She felt his hard cock thumping deep inside her, lifting her hips and filling her with heat.

Just then he pulled out with a groan and streams of semen shot across her tummy and chest. It looped across her neck, and over her lips, across her tongue. He rubbed it's wet warmth across her tender stomach, soothed her with it. The puddle at the base of her neck was slurped up, and he kissed her deeply to share it's taste. He then licked the come from her face and in turn from her breasts, delivering it each time into her mouth, to her eager tongue, like feeding a hungry little bird.

With over 23 hours left in the arrangement, he rose and pondered the next challenge. Perhaps it was time to go out; something in public would be fun.