Lustful Ladies, Volume 1 (3 page)

Martha arched her bum up and slid her shorts down and off. I gasped when her damp, ginger-furred pussy kissed down onto my sopping mound. Her mouth covered mine again, our boobs joined at the fired-up tips, arms wrapped around one another, pussies melding together. She pumped her hips and her cunt into mine, and I groaned with all of my heart into her mouth.

Martha positioned her pussy just perfect for maximum wet-heated friction against my pussy, thrusting at just the right, sensuous, lip-rubbing and clit-tripping speed. She had so much to teach me, and I was so anxious to learn. I grabbed onto her tight, clenching butt cheeks and she ground her pussy into mine even faster and harder. I undulated up against her, adding to the awesome erotic pressure of our passionate sexes coming together.

Martha pulled her tongue out of my mouth and cried in my face, “Oh, baby. I’m going to come.”

The bed rocked, our bodies bouncing, pussies pounding together. I gurgled, “Me, too.”

My lover’s nude body stiffened in my arms, then shuddered. I felt her hot juices flooding my pussy even more. Then I felt nothing but sheer bliss, gripping Martha’s spasming butt cheeks and shuddering and gushing with my own wild orgasm. We melted together, body and soul.

* * *

I quickly matured from the baby-steps of girl-girl curiosity to very adult, full-fledged lesbianism. Martha
mothered
me every chance she got, and I
babied
her back with equal intensity.

Purple Prose

Lillian Russert awoke to a splitting headache and a ringing telephone. She rolled over and snatched up the candlestick from the nightstand, unhooked the earpiece and squawked into the mouthpiece, “Yeah?”

Her greeting almost backed up on her, along with the contents of her stomach. She’d tied one on so tight the night before she beat like a drum. It was the Roaring Twenties, after all.

Lillian swallowed hard, then opened up her eyes and ran a hand through her dishevelled brown hair. “I mean—yes?” she croaked.

“Lillian Russert? You sound like hell. It’s Brisbane. Get your little tush down here pronto. Got a story assignment for you.”

Click.

“You didn’t have to hang up so loud,” Lillian groaned.

She recradled the earpiece and set the candlestick down, flopped back over onto her back. After the motion sickness passed, a smile spread over the pretty young woman’s fresh face.

A story assignment. She’d been in the Big Apple, throbbing heart of the pulp magazine business, for three months and it’d been slim pickings. She had six story sales on her resume when she’d arrived from the boonies, had made the rounds of all the editorial offices peddling her new yarns, and hadn’t made one single, solitary additional sale. Her money was wearing as thin as her one good dress.

“Mmmm, what was that?”

Lillian’s violet eyes went wide. She jerked her head to the side, and gaped at the woman laid out naked next to her on the bed.

“Hiya, sweetheart. You sure get up early, don’t you?”

The clock on the nightstand opposite showed fifteen minutes after noon. Lillian’s eyes jumped back from the dial to the dame. She was long and sleek, her skin as smooth as ivory, a neatly trimmed swatch of ginger fur between her lithe legs. She had cascading red hair, sultry green eyes and a wet pincushion of a mouth. Her breasts were large and soft, except for the protruding pink tips. She was old enough to be Lillian’s mother.

The woman suddenly grabbed onto the startled girl’s head and mashed her plush lips against Lillian’s. Lillian felt tongue jump into her open mouth, thick and wet and writhing. The woman pulled back, reeling Lillian’s tongue out of her mouth with her teeth. She sucked on the slippery appendage, bobbing her red head quickly back and forth, her red lips sealed tight. Lillian went cross-eyed watching her, trying to remember who she was.

“My, did we ever have ourselves a good time last night,” the woman said. “You were one naughty girl—after a couple of bottles.” She smiled lasciviously. “Mother had to spank you before she could get you into bed.”

That explained the throbbing in Lillian’s head and bum, and the satiated heaviness of the rest of her girlish body.

The woman reached back and snatched a bottle off the nightstand, knocking over the clock. She took a long, deep pull, her pale, slender throat working. Then she emptied the rest of the contents into Lillian’s hanging mouth.

Lillian jerked her head away, gagging and spluttering. Alcohol gushed down her chin and all over her bare chest. Cheap bourbon, she was somewhat relieved to taste. She sure couldn’t afford any better.
 

The woman grabbed onto Lillian’s breasts and slurped madly at the liquor and skin, lapping Lillian’s puffy, cherry-red nipples, swirling her tongue around and around her pebbled areolas. Lillian shivered, her nipples popping anew. The redhead had a wicked thirst, and a wanton appetite. She was licking her way down Lillian’s trembling body for some hair of the pussy to diffuse their hangovers, when the sudden death clang of the alarm clock reawakened Lillian’s jangled senses.

She had a story assignment—a chance to earn some honest-to-goodness writing money. That was the main reason she’d come to Gotham. She couldn’t pass it up now.

Lillian grabbed the woman by the red hair and yanked her tongue out of her bellybutton before it was too late. She grinned sweetly and chimed, “Gotta go!”

* * *

Bill Brisbane was the editor of
High Plains Rider
and seven other pulps at a big Manhattan publishing house. Lillian had briefly met the grizzled ink vet when she’d been dropping off stories in hopes of snaring some work. He grunted when she peeked her head in his office door, picked up a cover painting and flung it at her.

Lillian jumped inside the office and caught the painting, dropped it and scrambled to pick it back up.

“I need a fifteen thousand word novelette that goes with that painting,” Brisbane snarled around the smoking stub of a cigar. “By high noon tomorrow. Get on it!”

Lillian flipped the cardboard-backed painting over, right-side up, and looked at it. The searing five-colour picture portrayed two men on rearing horses firing guns at one another from close range, two women on the backs of the bucking broncs clinging to the broad shoulders of the fighting cowboys, fiery sagebrush all around. “Um, you mean… just make up a story that goes with this?”

“Saddle and ride!” Bill nodded.

Lillian almost tore the painting in half when it caught in the door as she dashed out of the office with her assignment.

This was her big chance to get in good with a big publishing house. At a penny a word. If she could give them what they wanted, she’d get more assignments. This was how Edgar Rice Burroughs had gotten started, after all.

Lillian halted her excited flight halfway down the hallway. Her typewriter—a battered, second-hand Royal portable—was back at her apartment. But she couldn’t write there, not with the lovely redhead still in her bed. She’d need all of her powers of concentration, and no interruptions.

Lillian rushed out to the receptionist.

“Excuse me. Do you have a small office with a typewriter I could use?” She held up the cover painting. “Mr. Brisbane’s given me an assignment that I have to complete right away. Um, he said it was okay.”

The receptionist was a buxom, fleshy blonde, spilling out of a tight, white blouse and taut skirt. She put a pencil to her lush lips, studying Lillian’s young body in the almost see-through blue dress. Her greedy brown eyes focused on the twin points of Lillian’s nipples indenting the thin material of the frock, and her lips flowed over the pink tip of the pencil to briefly suck on it.

“Well… I suppose it’s all right. There’s an empty office down the hall to the left, next to the ladies’ room.”

Lillian didn’t even hang around to say thanks, or see the blonde hike up her skirt behind the high counter and plunge her left hand into her silk panties. She just tucked the painting more securely under her arm and dashed off in the direction indicated.

“Maybe you can write something about me sometime?” the receptionist called after Lillian. She brought her hand back up out of her panties, and slowly licked and sucked her own hot juices off her fingers. Until a group of executives boiled out of the hallway and charged for the elevators, headed for lunch. She gave them a glistening smile.

* * *

Lillian stared at the bold Western cover painting propped up in front of the dilapidated Underwood. The
office
was the size of a broom closet, just as stuffy and dimly-lit, a single overhead bulb dangling down to partially illuminate the four close, drab walls. The sound of flushing toilets came through the wall Lillian was facing.

But she hardly noticed. A good writer—okay, a good hack pulp writer—could write anywhere, under any conditions. Just set the yarn to spinning and the keys to flying. Lillian’s slender fingers trembled, hovering over the typewriter keys, her glazed eyes glaring at the painting: two cowboys on horseback, two ladies behind, guns blazing, horses snorting, scorching sun parching the dun-coloured rangeland.

Lillian’s eyes suddenly lit up like the flaming gun muzzles, the corners of her pert mouth rearing up into a smile. She pounded a sticky key, then cursed. She slammed a piece of paper into the typewriter, rolled, baled, began to type, her fingers flying on the keys at her top speed of eighty words per minute.

And then a loud banging interrupted Lillian almost immediately. The wall in front of her vibrated, rhythmically, something knocking against it. She heard sounds, like voices, above the distracting thumping.

“Damn sodbusters!” Lillian fumed, the wagon roll she’d been on broken. No one could work through all that noise.

She pushed back from the mill and jumped to her feet, tore the door of the closet open and busted into the washroom next door. The last stall down the line contained the racket, one semi-nude woman violently finger-fucking another semi-nude woman.

Lillian’s jaw dropped along with her rage. The two women had their blouses open and their breasts popped out of their bras, their skirts and panties down around their knees. One woman was jammed up against the wall face and fists first, the other woman crowded in behind, arm coiled around the first woman’s neck, fingers jammed in the other woman’s pussy, ramming her from behind fast and furious.

Lillian recognized them as Millicent Fullbright, editor of
Snazzy Stories
and ten other pulps, and her secretary, Ernestine something or other. Millicent was a tall, tanned, raven-haired Amazonian, Ernestine petite and pretty and dark-skinned. Millicent was briskly pumping Ernestine’s black, bushy pussy with her long fingers, the editor’s huge breasts jumping to the frenzied beat of her banging, Ernestine’s bubble butt cheeks gyrating.
 

Lillian tried to retreat, get away from the wicked scene and back into her wild imagination. But Millicent spotted the girl. She pulled her dripping digits out of Ernestine and beckoned.

Lillian grinned sheepishly. “Um, I guess I can lend a hand.” She did want to get in good with all of the company’s editors.

Millicent smiled and plunged her fingers back into Ernestine’s juicy pussy. Ernestine turned her head to look at Lillian, and Millicent seized the opportunity to kiss the young woman on the mouth, flail her tongue against Ernestine’s bright pink lips. Lillian undid the buttons on the front of her dress, let it slide, popped her own small breasts out of her bra and pushed her white panties down to her knees, eager to get into the spirit of things, and then back to work. She was burning daylight, after all.

“We’re just blowing off a little steam during our lunch break,” Millicent told Lillian, admiring her body. “The pressure of deadlines and all.” She shrugged, smiling while plunging her fingers back and forth in Ernestine’s pussy. She spread her legs more and pushed her bum back at Lillian.

Lillian gulped, then got right in behind Millicent. The story would have to wait until these two were polished off. Lillian put a hand on Millicent’s neck and poked out two fingers on her other hand.

“Spank me first! Spank me for being such a cunt-slut!”

Lillian stared into Millicent’s wild dark eyes. Then she smacked one of the woman’s huge, rounded buttocks. Millicent bit her lip and groaned, pounding into Ernestine even harder.
 

Lillian whacked Millicent’s big bum until her palm burned red and the editor’s cheeks flared and trembled with feeling. Ernestine banged on the wall again, her body and breasts bouncing to the brisk beat of Millicent’s churning fingers inside her.

Lillian finally balled her scorched hand into a fist and stuck out two shaking fingers again. She speared them into Millicent’s shaven pussy, shooting inside to the third knuckle. Millicent shuddered and bit into Ernestine’s neck. Lillian pumped the woman’s pussy like the editor was pumping her secretary’s.

The two women rocked with the fingers fucking them. Lillian’s tits jumped, her nipples swollen up hard and jutting, her pussy brimming with moisture, face and body on fire. The heat of the three women at close quarters was intense, the smack of palms onto bum cheeks, the fast-sluicing of fingers in tunnels, loud even above the breathless moaning and groaning, the thumping of Ernestine’s body and fists against the wall.

Ernestine shrieked, shuddering violently. Millicent drove long and deep into the young woman’s pussy, then shivered with wicked orgasm herself. Lillian felt Millicent’s pussy clasp onto her fingers, the woman vibrating in front of her. Then hot, sticky liquid flooded Lillian’s hand up to the wrist. She screamed right along with the pair of coming women, caught up in the meltdown moment.

* * *

Lillian fled the publishing house and checked into a cheap hotel two blocks down the street. There were just too many interruptions with all those lovely office women around. She toted the company typewriter along with her, ‘on loan’ until she completed her assignment. Once she finished the story, and got paid, then she could pay for the hotel room, as well.

She set the typewriter up on a small, rickety table inside the shabby third floor room. Then she pulled up the single bed to sit on, propped the cover painting up against the fly-specked window in front of her. She screwed up her pretty face and her powers of concentration and tried to remember what she’d been about to pound onto paper before she’d been caught in the hot cunt crossfire.