Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire

by Morgana Blackrose

  A nervous laugh snuffled around at the back of my nose, and nearly manifested as a spray of snot. I put my hand to my face to hide the stupid snakelike grin which was slithering across it.

  “Um, not that I’m aware of. They don’t do it in the club, anyway. That’d be illegal.”

  I bit my tongue, tried very hard to think of boring and un-sexy things so I wouldn’t guffaw in her face. This had to be some kind of joke, no?

  “What about afterwards? What do you think they lie awake thinking about at night? Don’t you believe they might touch themselves, imagining you being there with them, and showing off just for them?”

  I nodded.

  “Stroking their rigid shafts with thoughts of you spreading your legs, exposing your tender hairy hole to them...wishing they could ram it inside you, spray their sperm all over your face, squeeze it deep into your tight little arse and make you scream with pain and delight, all at once?”

  I felt a deep red flush rise from my neck to my forehead. And yet my body betrayed me again, for my teats toughened even more at her touch, and I could feel that deep, swirling sensation in my crotch which told me that my flesh was ready for action, even if my mind was not quite decided and my spirit was confused.

  I nodded.

  “And does that excite you? Does it make you wet between your legs, and long to feel something rough and hard up there?”

  I nodded again.

  “Good,” she whispered, still tracing occult patterns over my chest. “Would you ever like to please one of those perverts who pay to watch you expose yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” I said, realizing that my nipples were now thrusting through the thin fabric.

  She stepped back and cast sultry eyes up and down me, and slipped a hand inside her blouse. She flicked buttons and opened it down to her waist. Her breasts hung heavily beneath, no bra, nothing. Somehow, I didn’t think this was Mrs. G’s usual Sunday churchgoing outfit. She loosened her neck scarf and let it flop between her tits while she sucked her cheeks, her stare still fixed upon my chest.

  “You filthy-minded little whore,” she sneered, curling her lip at me in real or mock disgust. But I was too far gone now to have my sex drive derailed. “Dirty, dirty slut. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I am,” I squeaked, not knowing what I was saying now, or why.

  “Take your top off.”

  I did, slowly, rolling it up and over my head. I shook my hair free and dropped the shirt at my side. Her hands were inside her blouse, stroking and caressing her breasts as she refused to take her eyes off mine.

  “Perfect,” she purred, and licked her lips. “Now, play with them. Just like you do on stage.”

  I did so, lifting them up and teasing them. Flattening them under my palms, while Mrs. Groenenberg rubbed her nipples. I pulled one up and flicked my tongue over my teat, licking over the bristling pink bud to leave a glistening trail of saliva all across it.

  She leant against the wall and pulled her skirt up to her waist, showing garters and stockings – and swollen, glistening labia peering out from between her thighs. No panties. The bitch was dressed like a showgirl underneath. What the hell was she playing at?

  I stopped.

  “Don’t look so shocked, girl,” she snapped. “This isn’t the first time you’ve seen another woman’s private parts. And it won’t be the last, will it?”

  I shook my head.

  She unzipped the skirt at her hip and dropped it to the floor. Parted her legs and ran her hands along her thighs. Her pubic hair was dark sandy yellow, and more reddish than that which was braided long and tight behind her head.

  “Kiss me. Get on your knees and kiss me, you cheap little whore.” She dragged a hand through my hair and flung away a long tangled tress dismissively, petulantly.

  I got down and put my face between her legs, inhaling her moist desire and fresh sweat. I kissed her labia, gently, tenderly, looking up to check I was doing okay. Her wiry fuzz encroached onto her inner thighs, and was already scented with the tang of her juices. She’d been playing with herself before she turned up at my place, I realized; the dirty old slut, who had the cheek to call me names. I fought back a widening, wicked grin as my fingers parted her soft, moist labia. She growled and shook her hips as I did so.

  “Hmm. Yes. More, more. Lick my cunt like the slut you are.”

  She grabbed my hair and pushed me harder against her. I could taste her excitement as she squirmed and writhed above me, her hands slapping against the wall in an awkward rhythm of forbidden desire.

  “Oh God. Fucking God, yes. Deeper, whore. Yes.”

  I pushed my tongue as far as I could, flicking and probing. I pushed her clitoris out and rubbed that between my fingers. She was oozing and trickling so hard I knew that her orgasm was imminent, and I peeled her lips wider to wiggle my tongue in further, deeper, penetrating her dark hole of desire as I felt her whole body stiffen and tremble, riding the crest of the wave.

  “Fucking Christ, yes,” she screamed, and a gush of warm juice burst over my face. She came again and again in quick succession, almost drowning me with her lust as it bubbled up my nose, in my eyes, and ran off my chin down to the floor as I gasped beneath. She growled and sobbed, pushing, rubbing my face against her, all over her soaking, leaking orifice. When I looked up she had her cross pendant clenched in her teeth, rattling the chain of it as she thrashed her head from side to side.

  When her hips finally stopped bucking and her dribbling rivers had subsided, I knelt back, hoping I’d done a good job. She looked down at me and cupped my glistening cheek in her hand. Ran her fingertip across the smeared wetness and then sucked it dry between puckering lips.

  “Good little whore,” she whispered through a dark and dirty grin. “That was fantastic. I haven’t squirted like that in years.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Groenenberg.”

  “Good. You keep calling me that. Maybe one day, I’ll allow you to call me Mistress.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Groenenberg.”

  She pulled up her skirt and fastened it again.

  “Next time, you can do me from behind, on my hands and knees. Your perfect whore’s tongue in my cunt and your fingers in my anus. What about that?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Groenenberg.”

  She buttoned up her blouse and adjusted things. “I want to explore you too, of course. And if I like what I see, I may take something off next month’s rent.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Groenenberg.”

  “Breathe a word of this to anyone, of course, and I’ll dump you out in the street as quick as blinking, you filthy cunt.” Her palm caught me across the cheek and slapped my head to the side. I nearly cried out, or objected, when I saw the smirk worming its way across her lips. It was all part of a game, I guessed – a game that only she knew the rules to, and which I would learn only by doing the wrong thing and being punished for it.

  And it was only then that I realized what she had meant by her vocal overture at the start: she had already seen me at the Klub, perched somewhere out of sight at the back end of the bar, staring with goggle-eyed lust and envy at my naked swinging curves while clutching a gin in her trembling clammy hand; her thighs squeezed together beneath her skirt as she imagined my face buried there and my copper hair flowing across her lap.

  She gripped my chin and pulled my face back around. “Do you understand, harlot?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Groenenberg.” I blinked and a hot tear dropped out from under my eyelid. She seemed to like that, for she turned and stomped off with a haughty, proud walk, more pronounced than her usual impatient scuffling. Her backside swung under the tight pencil skirt with a great deal more animation than I had ever seen displayed before. And as if she was aware of the fact that I was watching her, a hand slid down the side of her thigh, came up back over her ass, and she gave her whole bottom a knowing little shimmy as she came to a halt at the end of the corridor. The door opened, then closed again, and I continued to knee
l there, blinking, wondering what I’d just let myself in for.

  If she was hoping for this to be a regular thing, would she even allow me my trip to Tokyo? Would I end up blackmailed, a virtual slave to her whims of repressed desire?

  I could only imagine that Mr. Groenenberg didn’t know anything about this. If he was even still around.

  “Perhaps she murdered him,” Honey chuckled over her coffee the next morning. “I’m serious about it, though – I still wouldn’t mind a three-way with her. These bourgeois middle-class types are all the same. Strict and tight-laced, until you spread them out on a bed and shove two fingers up their ass – and then they turn into the biggest sluts on the planet, as if all those years of pent-up frustration just get rolled back at once.”

  I’d decided to share the shock of the previous night with her as we sat in the Café Cream, not far from Rosenfestplatz. In typical Honey style, she had pressed me for the more explicit and intimate details of it all, things I didn’t even like to say out loud in a public place in case we got overheard and mistaken for prostitutes.

  “Well,” I said, “I still think she’s crazy.”

  “I think it’s kind of cool. And if she’s hot for you, babe, then she ain’t crazy. She might even be a dominatrix at heart. If you’re into that, you could be into a real good thing. It’s all about needs, really. Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” I groaned. “It’s all too much. Like I’m walking on eggshells now, in case she throws me out in the street.”

  “And like I said, you silly big bitch, there’s always space at mine.”

  “Thanks so much, Honey. I know that, but I can’t stay at yours forever. Can I?”

  She just looked at me. “Why not?”

  I froze, as it only then occurred to me what she was hinting at. “Well, I-I’d be in your way. All of the time.”

  “And you’d be in my way too, dear. But isn’t that the point? When you find someone you really like, you try to stay with them?”

  I could feel my cheeks starting to burn. “I guess so,” I stammered. “I’d never really thought of it like that. You, and me, that is. I mean – um – sorry, I’m not explaining this well.”

  She reached over and grabbed my now-trembling hand, sandwiching it between hers.

  “Yeah, babe. I know. You were brought up to believe that two women – or even one-and-a-half women – shouldn’t live together like that. Or two men, or whatever. Well, society is gonna have to get its head out of its big fat repressed ass, because there’s a lot more people like me around than you think. And we’re not all gonna stay hiding in cupboards for ever. There’s a lot more to love than boy meets girl, y’know, and no other human being on this planet has the right to tell another who, or how, they should love, since it’s nobody else’s business. And I think you are smart enough to know, Phoenyx: if you care for someone, tell them. The worst way to live is to live with regret, and guilt. That’s no kind of life at all. Even your dirty bloody landlady has told you how she really feels about you, finally – oh, that was no surprise. I saw it in her eyes when I was there, the way she looked at you. And the way her eyes shot evil daggers at me.”

  I had only really been half-listening to Honey’s speech. My pulse was hammering in my neck and in my head, my body racked with strange and alien fears. She dug around inside her shoulder bag and slid an envelope across the table to me.

  “There – your ticket for Tokyo. We leave in ten days’ time. I really want you there with me.”

  “I want to be with you too, Honey.”

  “Then be with me. What’s the worst that can happen? Old Groaningbug kicks you out, and you end up in my bed. Suddenly, no rent worries, and you won’t have to fear getting raped every time you walk outside after sundown. I know you like your own space. You’re trying to make your own way, and that’s fab. I’m not going to push you into anything. But just go with the flow. If it feels right – it probably is all right. That’s what I always say. Guilt is for priests, and criminals.”

  Put like that, I realized how petty and silly my fears were. But there was something deeper behind it all – something about me, my real and true nature, which I was still in the process of finding out about.

  I hoped, deep down, that I was just like Olivia – capable of loving everyone and anyone, and that this wasn’t just some stupid crush that I’d wake up one day and find I had grown out of. I figured that my trip with Honey would either kill or cure my worries over how I felt about her.

  I took the envelope and pressed her hand to my lips.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re so sweet. I’m so glad I have you.”

  “That goes double for me, babe. But, you know – if old Groaningbug gives you a better offer, I won’t be upset.” Her mouth twisted in that wonderful ironic way of hers. “So long as I get to watch, anyway.”

  Honey had things to do and we split after breakfast, leaving me to get on with my own business. She had given me a list of tasks I needed to do with little explanations against each one, and I was slowly but surely working my way through them all. The passport was the biggest thing and that had already been dealt with. I spent a couple of hours in the nearest library that afternoon, looking through Japanese phrase books and copying out the phonetic translations, just so that I could get some kind of grip on the language – as nightmarishly impossible as it looked. I had been good at learning English at school. French bored me, and I had forgotten most of that anyway, and Honey’s first language wasn’t German, meaning that we both got to practice each other’s languages regularly.

  I went back home, hungry and feeling that I’d stuffed as much into my head for one day as was possible. It was time to relax with the radio and my own thoughts and dreams of what lay ahead at the other side of the world.

  I’d no sooner finished feeding myself and put the dinner things in the sink, when a loud knock from the door interrupted some old Abba hit single. It was that familiar, stern knock which I was becoming used to now, and that could mean only one person.

  I dried my hands and worriedly adjusted my hair, making myself look as respectable as I could. I opened the door and it was indeed Mrs. Groenenberg in a dark overcoat, looking at me expectantly.

  “Are you alone?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

  I nodded. “Just me and the cat.”

  I stepped aside obediently to allow her access, and closed the door behind her. She pulled the clips out of her hair and shook it all down, showering me with the fragrance of the same shampoo I used. She locked her hand around my chin and pushed me into the hallway wall, following up with her mouth as she sucked my lips and stole my breath away.

  “My husband suspects I’m doing something I shouldn’t be,” she told me in a whisper. “He probably assumes another man, but he’d die if he knew the truth. And that makes me feel very excited.”

  She stepped back and untied the belt of her overcoat. She pulled it open and slid it off her shoulders, showing a black leather corset and stockings, no bra, and again, no panties. I didn’t have time to gasp. She whipped a riding crop out from her coat and slapped it underneath my chin.

  “Strip off,” she snapped.

  I opened up my bathrobe, dropped it to the floor, and stood there naked, arms at my sides as she stepped back to admire the sight. She cracked the crop across my tits, making me flinch. I almost cried out but I held my lip between my teeth, unwilling to upset or annoy her. That twisted the side of her mouth into a little corkscrew smile. The crop tickled me around the nipples, then traced the line down my belly to my pubes, over my mound and in between my thighs. It slapped against my flesh, then slid up between my ass cheeks.

  “Turn around.”

  I did so, waiting for the crop to land across my bare ass.

  I waited longer, wondering what she was doing, not even daring to look behind me.

  Then I felt the leather lifting up the back of my hair, playing between my shoulder blades, and down my spine.

&n
bsp; “Get on your hands and knees,” she told me. The crop dropped down and slapped me on the hip. I went down and did as I was told. “Now crawl to the bedroom.”

  I started to move off as instructed, slowly, carefully, fearing that I’d scrape my knees.

  “Faster, you lazy cunt!” she snapped, and I flinched as the crop lashed me across the ass, the hard crack that I’d been expecting all this time. I hurried up, scrubbing my knees over the carpet and risking damage from the old nails which stuck up from the threshold of the bedroom where the carpets didn’t quite meet properly. I dragged myself onto the bedroom rug as Groenenberg stomped through the doorway. I risked a glance over my shoulder as she swung towards me.

  “Stay there.”

  I did just that, almost afraid to move now. This was raising the stakes in our game just a little too much for my liking, and I hoped I wouldn’t stray over the new boundaries. She strode past me, shaking her full curvy ass as she went, and dragged the basket chair away from the window.

  She sat on it facing me and opened her legs wide, showing me her mottled pink pussy lips and expectant hole, already glistening and pouting. I had to admit it, she looked good for a woman of her age, and I did have to wonder why she wasn’t still getting as much action from Mr. G as she deserved.

  She raised a leg and planted a black stiletto shoe into my shoulder.

  “Lick my heel,” she commanded.

  I twisted my head and tried to get my tongue around her heel. It was awkward, but I just about managed it. I slid it all the way up and when I glanced upwards, I saw her working her fingers deep inside her pussy, gleaming with her juices. I kept on licking as I heard her fingers slither and slurp inside her.

  “That looks fine,” she whispered. “Now, the other one.”

  She stamped the other heel into me, and I got to work on that too. She was cleverly holding me in place, forcing me to obey while her masturbating hand got more and more frantic. I licked at her harder while she groaned and growled, squeezing her free hand up inside her ass.

  Then she came, shooting warm jets of cum all over my face. Her juices hit my tongue and ran off my chin as I kept going, teasing her fine thin stiletto as though it were a rigid cock.