by A. J. Roman
Silently, she nodded her head once.
The wind rustled the bushes to her left. Alice felt the impulse to turn and look in that direction, but fought against it. She knew, somehow, that looking now would break the spell this haunting voice had cast over her. Instead, with a forced air of nonchalance at the other’s approach, Alice lifted one hand to wipe her damp cheeks. Her tears had stopped, thankfully, but the young woman could only imagine how she must look. Shifting slightly on the hard ground, Alice reached down with her other hand to try to discreetly smooth out her rumpled skirt.
Immediately, the sound of movement in the forest to her left intensified and edged closer.
“Stop.”
Alice froze, one hand on her cheek and the other gripping her skirt. Without looking up, she heard the bushes part beside her. She could imagine a shadowy figure moving across the gravely path towards her, dark eyes flashing.
She thought she could feel a the heat of another body crouched down behind her, and the tiny hairs across the nape of her neck rose as a ghost-like breath kissed her skin. She trembled with a delicious blend of anxiety and anticipation.
The voice spoke again: “You’ll touch only when, and where, I instruct you to touch. Is that clear?”
Alive gave a quick nod and answered demurely, “Yes, I understand.”
There was something intimately familiar about the speaker’s voice, but even after recalling all the odd characters she had met during her first visit to Wonderland, Alice wasn’t able to put a face to the voice. She was wonderfully curious about her unknown companion. All her earlier sadness and defeat had been swept aside by the surprise of the situation. Her primary interest, at the moment, was to coax more conversation from them to better help guess at their identity.
“Do I know you?” she asked sweetly, unable to hold back her curiosity. “You seem well acquainted with me, and speak quite confidently, and yet I must confess I feel I am at a loss. I can’t seem to remember you, although your voice is certainly a familiar sound to my ear.” She paused, hoping for a response.
All she received was goose bumps as a breath of laughter caressed the back of her neck.
Knowing it was childish but unwilling to hold back her displeasure, Alice whined plaintively, “Won’t you tell me your name?”
“You already know it.”
“But I don’t!” she protested with a girlish cry. “Please, tell me.”
“Alice...”
“Such teasing is a bad show of character!” she scolded petulantly, as she felt frustrated tears beginning to sting the corners of her eyes once more. “Do you take pleasure from mocking me?”
She neither expected, nor received an answer to her challenge.
Overhead, leaves rustled lightly in a tall, sentinel tree. As the branches shifted, delicate shadows danced across the forest floor and left fleeting, dappled patterns on her pale skin. Alice imagined for a moment that she heard faint laughter as the breeze shifted in her direction, but it was soft and short-lived; and then there was only silence again.
Out of corner of her eye, however, the young woman caught movement. A pale hand was rising from her lap, towards her face. It caught the wrist of her left hand, which was still cupping her tear-streaked cheek. Although she tried to pull away, the other’s grip was like steel. Helplessly, Alice let her slender hand be guided from her face, and steered downwards. Her open palm glided over the gentle swell of her breasts, the flat stretch of her stomach, and finally came to a rest in her lap.
No. Not quite at a rest, for as soon as the pale hand released hers, it began to pull up her skirts. She watched her legs being bared without offering any help or hindrance, but did make a small noise of protest when her panties were exposed.
“Don’t fuss,” was the whispered chastisement.
Alice’s wrist was captured again and guided between her legs. Her fingertips brushed over her soft mound, uncertainly. The second hand slid slowly across the back of Alice’s, covering each of her fingers with one of its own. When the other’s ring finger pressed down, Alice’s middle finger moved as well, applying a gentle force to her covered opening.
The young woman gasped. And yet, when the pale hand relented its pressure against her private slit, Alice did not yield her own.
Acting without instruction, she spread her legs wider and slid both her ring and index finger along the line of her pussy, from front to back. The sensitive area, despite the protective barrier of her panties, swelled with arousal. Like a dormant flower, her lower lips fluttered to life and slowly began to open.
Her fingertips drifted towards the elastic hem of her underpants, but the voice halted her. In a smooth voice, another suggestion was made.
“Open your blouse.”
Alice complied eagerly. With both her hands free, the young woman made quick work of the buttons, then opened her shirt and let the soft material slide over her shoulders and down her arms. It made no sound as it fell to the ground.
Next, without awaiting direction, Alice reached behind her to unfasten her bra’s closure. She was clumsy with arousal; she fumbled at the small hooks for an eternity, before finally opening both. Her bra was discarded as carelessly as her blouse had been, and then her hands were free to slide over an endless expanse of soft, bare skin.
Under her palms, her nipples hardened. She squeezed her full breasts in her hands, taking pleasure and pride in their weight and firmness. Her thumbs, in unison, rubbed the rosy nipples in a firm, circular motion. The action sent shivers of pleasure to her pussy, and begged repetition.
She arched her back while she fondled herself, enjoying the way her breasts rose and fell with each shallow breath. She was finding it hard to breathe deeply; her fingers drew constant gasps and moans from her lips.
And there was still that unknown presence with her, continuously making her heart hammer with curiosity and suspense. But wait! The voice had fallen silent, she realized. Her hands stilled, the right one dropping into her lap as she strained to listen for any sign of her companion.
She heard nothing.
Frowning, she started to turn and glance over her shoulder as she whispered, “Are you still here?”
Her question was answered by a furtive motion between her legs: a pale, slender finger had just slipped past the elastic hem of her panties and was touching her pussy.
She hadn’t been penetrated yet. The index finger was simply touching her intimate area. Despite the diminutive pressure, Alice’s entire body focused on that tiny point of contact. She could feel the heat of both the stray hand and her own body. Also, a wet eagerness was spreading over her lower lips, and beginning to dampen her soft, trimmed pubic hair. It felt almost tender.
Keenly, she bucked her hips up, willing that unmoving finger to slip between her swollen lips. Her legs opened wider of their own accord, and her opening was slick and welcoming, but the finger made no move to enter.
Impatient and frustrated, Alice’s left hand slid down to join the other. She awkwardly pushed her panties down over her hips with one hand. The garment bunched around her upper thighs, but she wasted no further energy or time on it; it was far enough out of the way to allow her full access to the true object of her focus.
With her legs splayed open and her body already slick with arousal, Alice met no resistance as she pressed her first two fingers against her swollen slit. They slipped inside easily. A sweet sigh escaped her lips as her fingertips brushed against her inner passage. The other hand was still acting as stony sentinel over the top of her pelvic, but her lower pussy was unguarded. She wasted no time slipping a third finger inside, and began to massage her aching need.
Her body trembled with pleasure and stretched wide to allow her to reach deep inside and touch the places that desperately demanded her attention. Her pace had started out gentle and steady, but as her arousal a
nd enjoyment rose, her motions grew rougher and more rushed. She moaned loudly, and jumped when she heard another hoarse voice speak to her.
She had forgotten about her companion.
“Does that feel good?” the soft voice whispered into her left ear, and Alice nodded without speaking. She was panting; the pleasure was stealing the air from her very lips. She didn’t have the breath to spare on a response.
The voice was untroubled by her silent agreement. It spoke from her right side now, and Alice could hear the thick arousal colouring each word. “You have a beautiful body, Alice. A woman’s body. I can tell you like to touch it.” There was a pregnant pause and then the faintest of whispers.
“I want to touch it, too.”
Alice had no time to respond. As soon as the words were spoken, the finger delicately poised on the crest of her slit was joined by a second digit, and both suddenly slid smoothly between the woman’s plump lips and began to deliver a wild assault of attention to her clit. The pleasure was delightfully unbearable. Alice moaned wantonly into the wailing wind, her head thrown back and her eyes squeezed shut as the strange fingertips circled her hooded pearl, flicking against the sensitive skin. Her own fingers were urgently thrusting in and out of her cunt at a desperate pace. Her body’s desires were ravenous and felt nearly insatiable. Alice’s thighs were wet with arousal and her slender body trembled for release. She was so very, very close to climax...
It took just one small twist of that delicate, white hand to catch her clit between its slender fingers and, with a playful pinch, send her over the edge.
Alice fell back with a hoarse cry, her eyes open but blind to anything but flashes of colour and sensation. When she was finally able to blink away the euphoria, she found herself stretched out on her back in the middle of the path, panting hard. She was perspiring and both hands were slick with her sexual secretion. Leaves and twigs had tangled in her hair and clung to her sweat-slick skin. The tree branches above her head bent towards her like reaching hands. Her body was still fully exposed, but Alice was too exhausted and hot to worry about preserving her modesty at the moment.
A soft trace of laughter reached her on the breeze. With her desires now sated, Alice turned her head from one side to the other to finally have a proper look at her companion.
She was alone.
Sitting up, she peered more closely behind her, searching her surroundings for a figure among the bushes and trees. There was no one in sight, though.
A worry began to nibble at her mind, but she brushed it aside. Her body still tingled from another’s hand. Her heart still hammered as she recalled first hearing that strict voice.
“It couldn’t have been my imagination,” she mused aloud.
Getting to her feet, she began to dust off and straighten her clothes. The task was delayed frequently, though. With each unfamiliar sound, she stopped to listen, straining to hear that mysterious voice again. To her deep disappointment, it didn’t call out to her again as she redressed. The young woman was presentable again within minutes, and, without any further distractions, her thoughts returned reluctantly to her earlier dilemma.
She still had no idea which direction to travel in.
Turning in a slow circle, she felt panic and dismay once again beginning to overwhelm her as she stared at her surroundings. Trees, rocks, grass, flowers. Everything looked the same.
“How will I ever find my way home?” she cried aloud, worry heavy in her tone.
The answer came, not from a voice, but from a sudden, loud rustling of leaves. Turning, she saw a parting in the undergrowth that revealed the faint and familiar markings of the path that led out of the woods.
Alice clapped her hands together and her exclamation of joyous relief pierced the air. “Oh, thank you. Thank you!” she called out gratefully to her unseen rescuer.
No response came, but Alice was not affected in the least by the silence. The young woman hurried forward, unconcerned by neither the invisible assist nor the unacknowledged thanks. She had come to expect strange occurrences and poor manners in Wonderland.
In fact, at times she had to admit that they could even be somewhat enjoyable. Her thoughts strayed to her encounter a moment before and a warm flush of pleasure coloured her cheeks.
“Yes, most enjoyable,” she agreed in a well-satisfied voice.
Pushing through the bushes, Alice stepped lightly out onto the proper path. With a delighted smile and confident bounce in her stride, she set out, unaware of the voyeuristic, ghostly grin shining down on her from the shadows of a tree branch above where the Cheshire Cat sat silently.
He had quite enjoyed the spectacle Alice had made of herself moments ago, as she lay sprawled out and spread wide on the forest floor below his perch. Her insistence on calling out to her unseen stranger had only added to his enjoyment. She certainly was a peculiar girl.
Stretching his striped limbs out along the tree branch, the Cat’s bright eyes continued to follow the intriguing and unusual young woman until she reached the end of the path and disappeared from view.
Although the show was over and his body was slowly fading back into the shadows of Wonderland, the Cheshire Cat’s grin did not fade in the slightest as his gaze in the direction that Alice had departed.
Babes in the Wood
Vanessa de Sade
A fierce blizzard is raging as Babes finds herself abandoned in the woods by her father’s new girlfriend. Lost in the darkness, she stumbles upon the enticing cottage of the voluptuous Thrift Store Lady, but all is not as it seems as she strips to bathe in the house’s warm and scented interior, especially when a virile young buck called Wolfgang appears on the scene...
“But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,
For with his nails he’ll dig them up again...”
John Webster, The White Devil
As moonlit foxes stand like ice sculptures and sleepy badgers leave criss-cross tracks upon the virgin snow, Babes sits by the frost-kissed window of her little bungalow making paper chains, waiting for her father to return. And even now, in her mind, she hears the corn-flour crunch of his heavy woodsman’s boots trudging briskly through the hard-packed white, sees his steamy breath condensing around his head like a snorting stallion in the frosty night air, waits fondly to hear him lift the latch and announce that he is returned for the evening.
But instead she hears the sound of an alien engine labouring up the track to their little house, sees a flurry of snowflakes like a swirling whirlwind of ghost-leaves caught in yellow headlamps, then the unmistakable sound of voices and footsteps approaching as a car door slams. But, when the kitchen door flies open with a scattering of snow and night air, she sees not the familiar red Land Rover but an old blue and white camper van idling in their clearing, sees her father hefting a heavy canvas bag from the back, and then opening the driver’s door to a tall bee-hived woman of uncertain years, her gaunt Snow Queen’s face waxen-white except for two spots of carelessly applied pink blusher on her frigid cheeks.
“Oh, hello, Babes, love, didn’t think you’d still be up,” her father stammers, looking guilty, and she can smell the liquor on his breath, sweet dark treacle stout and hot spicy rum, see the red lipstick stains on his collar like cranberry sauce on a starched white napkin. “I’d like you to meet Hildemara. She’s going to stay with us for a while...”
“Charmed, I’m sure...” the thin woman interrupts, breezing in behind him and seeming to suck up all the warmth from the little two-bar electric fire that sits inadequately in the grate. And she is so tall, much taller than Babes, her spiky glass heels digging into their threadbare carpet like acid, the large taupe-coloured hairpiece almost touching the ceiling as she divests herself of her chrome-yellow fake leopard-skin coat and stands before them in a tiny black skirt and cropped halter top, her tight belly button like a watchful third eye.
<
br /> “And the bedroom is where, Fritz?” she asks, a gleam of promise in her ice-blue peepers that makes Babes want to retch, but the fervent father points quickly in the right direction, his eager feet heedlessly trampling all Babes’ carefully made paper decorations as his unsteady bulk upsets the Christmas tree in a haze of pine scents and floating glitter, displaced baubles swaying like fragile glass pendulums in his wake.
***
Her father’s women friends are usually as ephemeral as the early frost on a sunny morning, and Babes wakes to a watery winter light and, humming, starts to prepare her traditional valedictory breakfast pancakes, sweetening them with her own special blend of muscovado sugar, cinnamon and a dash of rum, their heady aroma quickly caressing the entire fabric of the little house and creeping under the bedroom door with stealthy fingers. But this grey morning it is the skeletal stilt-walker figure of Hildemara that emerges from that chamber and glides over to the kitchen table on legs like Baba Yaga, clearly naked beneath the carelessly-buttoned Antarctica-blue silk shirt that she wears, erect nipples like lead pellets plainly visible beneath the flowing flimsy material.
“Your father is under my spell,” she says by way of explanation, helping herself to last night’s cold coffee, and Babes somehow knows that this is no figure of speech. “You’ll find he wont respond to warm things any more...”
And, though the sun indeed rises and sets seven times more and the Solstice grows ever nearer, Hildemara remains in their home and the father begins to keep to his room in daylight, his eyes haunted and his now sallow skin cold to the touch, as if an ice splinter truly has embedded itself inside his foolish heart.
He’ll tire of her soon, or she of him, Babes tells herself determinedly each dawn as she looks out across the frost-kissed clearing and sees Hildemara’s sapphire-blue camper van still sitting in silent vigil, but each night she hears the unmistakable sounds of love making from her father’s room, and, often, during the short dark days leading up to Christmastide, she fancies that she can even discern the two of them whispering about her as she gets about her daily tasks.