The girl in the pretty blue dress looked at the address on the house, then the one on the slip of paper in her hand. She’d been walking up and down streets all day, looking for the right place, and this seemed to be it.
The house was the sort of house she had expected it to be: forboding and ramshackle, set against a gray sky. It stirred up memories of The Addams Family and The Munsters, thick tangles of vinework crawling their way up the walls. It was a cliche, certainly, but a tantalizing sort of cliche nonetheless.
At any rate, she hadn’t come for the house. She’d come for Renoir, and this is where he’d told her to meet him. The house matched him well: his skintight leather chaps, his matching leather jacket and white poet’s shirt, its breast ruffles peeking tauntingly out from the jacket, his overbearing sense of gothic contrasts, the erotic symphony of black and white, hard and soft, hateful and loving. Just thinking of it made her tremble and moan, and she held her knees together self-consciously as, in her mind, her fingers played over the coarse leather of his jacket, her teeth tugging on the cold metal links that decorated it. Her hand slid down her white apron, down to her pale blue skirt, as she envisioned his body hulking over her as she nuzzled into his chest.
But then, she remembered where she was, in public, in broad daylight--or whatever it was this gray halflight passed for--and she regained her composure.
Where "was" he? He had said to meet him here, at two, and already it was ten past.
She looked at the house. It was not, as she had thought at first, desolate and vacant. There was activity going on inside: lights flickering, faint noises. She wondered if this was the right address after all, and so she looked down at the slip of paper she’d stowed into her apron, and compared it again to the plaque by the door. The numbers matched, and she knew that the street matched, but this house was supposed to have been vacant.
Curiouser and curiouser, she thought, making her way discreetly up the landing. The steps teetered on the brink of creaking, but chose not to as she balanced on first one stable side and then another.
On the porch, she stopped and listened, to see if some footfall of steps approaching the door inside would signify that she had been caught. But the only noise that greeted her was the continued muffled sound of industrial music and orgiastic groans.
Cautiously, she peered in the window. Someone moved inside: a young girl, with auburn hair and clever eyes, pale skin and rich lips. She caught her breath and slipped away from the window, then realized that the girl had been her own reflection, caught in a wall mirror against the candlelight.
She laughed a small laugh at her own nervousness and peered back in the window. The room was well equipped in musty Victorian furniture, timeworn but still intricate in detail and color. Perhaps her first impression had been correct: this room looked as if it had not been touched in decades, and so perhaps then the rest of the house was vacant, at that. Perhaps the light and sound was a trick of a lonely, aroused mind.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Silly girl, she chided herself, the voice of her matriarchal sister in her mind. Young girl, too young and proper to be waiting outside a house like this waiting for a man like Renoir. Too young and proper to know a man like Renoir, for goodness sake.
The girl in the mirror winked and turned away from her, disappearing from the edge of the mirror. Alice caught her breath and steadied herself against the sill. What sort of house was this, anyway?
She recovered her senses when she heard a scream coming from the room on the other end of the porch, and, leaving caution behind, she ran to that window. It had sounded like Renoir, though had she thought about it, she’d’ve wondered how a scream could sound like one person or another.
She pressed against the pane, and saw that, like the first room, this too was equipped with Victorian settings, but the webs and the dust had been cleared away. In the middle of the room was Renoir. He was lying face down on the floor, wearing only his leather chaps and his leather jacket. Alice would have feared that he was dead were it not for the intermittent moans that escaped from his motionless figure.
She moved to knock on the pane, to wake him from his stupor, when a figure entered the room. It was a tall woman, and looking at her made Alice grow weak. Alice’s eyes followed up the line of the stiletto heels, glinting in the faint candlelight; up the black lace stockings that covered impossibly long and sleek legs; up the vinyl thong that barely covered a tangle of hair that Alice found herself envisioning, her nose buried in its thick mat as her tongue plied it open; up the black bustier that pushed up succulent and creamy breasts, barely hiding nipples that Alice longed to nibble, pull, bite into; up the raven black hair that dripped like angry rain over her shoulders; up to the stern viper’s face, the serpentine eyes and the venomous lips.
Alice caught herself and pulled back from the window, to a safe distance where she could see and not be seen. Her belly quivered with fear. Her chest tensed as her breathing grew short, and then began to become regular again as the woman stood, motionless, in the doorframe.
She jumped at the unexpected sound a whipcrack. Renoir, too, looked up at the woman who dangled the whip in her fingerless lace glove. She smiled sardonically, then snapped the whip again, stirring the dirt by Renoir’s bare buttock.
He jumped, and so did Alice, holding a hand to her chest in an attempt to stay her heart from beating as the blood coursed through her chest. She could feel her hardened nipple under the heel of her hand, the fabric of her frock too thin to hold it down.
"Come here," the woman said, and Alice moved in obedience before realizing that it was Renoir that the Viper had been talking to. He crawled to her, staying low on the ground so that Alice could barely see the head of his soft cock sliding along the splintering wood.
Her eyes were mesmerized at the sight of it, and her breathing became a mix of fear and arousal. She rubbed her thighs together, feeling the damp fabric moving across her mound.
The Viper cracked the whip again. "Faster! Crawl faster!" The whip grazed his shoulder, glancing off the leather.
He fell to the ground at her feet, kissing her stockinged ankles. She laughed and kicked him over, pinning him to the ground on his back, her heel pushing into his ribs. "You amuse me, plaything," she said. He groaned as she pushed the heel in, the skin bowing to its pressure. "You deign to touch me before I permit you to. You shall learn."
Alice found the pressure unbearable, and slid her hand down to her mound to relieve it, seeking her stiffened clit under the fabric of her skirt. Her breasts, childish as they were, heaved and strained against her blouse; with each breath, her nipples rubbed roughly against the coarse fabric. She leaned against the porch railing and massaged herself, growing faint as pleasure coursed through her.
Suddenly aware of the silence, she opened her eyes to discover that the room in front of her was empty. Where had they gone?
Terrified now, she ran from the porch. The soft wet cotton rubbed against her clit as she moved to the side of the house, looking for signs of life. Her terror was twofold: that Renoir would be hurt because of her negligence, and that she would miss the ecstasy of it happening.
She stopped at the kitchen, seeing signs of life within. She had to stand on her tiptoes to see in, and even then, she could only see the top of the Viper’s head. She was standing over her prey, looking down scoldingly and speaking in harsh tones.
Alice grasped hold of the sill and pulled herself up, digging the tips of her patent leather shoes into the aging whitewash. It crumbled and chipped under the pressure, pieces of wood and paint dribbling onto the rocks below.
Renoir sat in a chair at the kitchen table, his beloved jacket sliced to shreds and crumpled onto the floor by his feet. His eyes were bound by a coarse rope tied tightly around his head.
The Viper straddled his lap, rubbing her breasts against his face as her buttocks, spilling out of the thong, bounced on his thighs. "You like me, plaything? You want to fuck me? Do you want to do that?"
Renoir nodded obediently. "Yes, my Goddess," he whispered.
She pressed his face against her bustier, the bony underwire scraping into his chin. "You want to caress me? You want to suck me? Is that what you what, plaything?"
He moaned and nodded.
Alice caught her breath, feeling the soft wood of the sill giving way under her tightening grip. Her footgrip slipped, and her leg banged unceremoniously against the wall, the wave of pain mingling into a wave of passion that caused her to let out a low, growling moan.
When she looked again into the kitchen, the Viper was tracing a pattern into Renoir’s chest with a French knife, the welt trail welling up in blood and plasma. The blade moved slowly, and Alice could imagine it caressing her own nipples, biting into them, the raw nerves stinging. She longed to relieve the pressure between her legs again, but she dared not remove her eyes from the scene, or her hands from the sill.
She ached with desire, and watched breathlessly as the shining blade cut Renoir’s skin, as if it were her own.
"This means you are mine, plaything. I mark you with ‘my’ mark, lest you forget who owns you." She threw her head back, letting her waterfall of hair drip onto the kitchen table. She raised her heels up to the counter behind Renoir, pressing her thong into his face.
Alice watched the blood sparkling on the French knife as it fell to the ground, the metallic clink echoing in her ears as she traced the image on Renoir’s chest with her eyes, the skin red and raw. Her fingernails bit into the rotting wood; her lip bit into her young lips, until she could taste her own blood mingling with the imagined taste of Renoir’s.
Her eyes fell now to the Viper’s nipples, which had slipped from the bustier and now pointed, stiff and delicious, to the ceiling as she ground her bethonged mound into Renoir’s mouth. She moaned, gripping the table as she fucked herself with his face.
The brittle wood finally gave way, and Alice fell to the ground, yelping as her head hit the baseboards and she slipped from consciousness.
In the dream, she lay on the beach, naked. Waves washed over her, chilling her skin as the sun warmed it. Fingers rushed over her body, and lips, and breasts, and feet, and cocks, as she lay with her eyes closed. She was alone, and she knew that if she opened her eyes, the fingers and lips and breasts and feet and cocks would disappear, so she kept her eyes closed and relaxed into the touches ranging over her body. Her back arched as she felt lips between her legs; her nipples stiffened as she felt fingers pinching them; her breathing quickened as she felt the cock slipping between her feet. She pressed into the sand, became one with the sand, sank into the sand as the sensations brought her higher and higher, closer and closer to climax. The sand parted, and the ocean water eroded away at it as she sank further down, and then the sand began to wash over her as the fingers probed. She felt the breasts pressing against hers. She tasted the beautiful honey that dripped from the mound the hovered over her lips. Her belly ached. She moaned, and sea water filled her mouth. Sand held her arms in place, and her legs, as the sea water cleansed her breasts. Cocks pulsed and thrust in her tunnels, rear and front, large cocks that split her open. But she could not scream out the ecstacy that filled her. The sand had consumed her. She pressed to breathe, but sand filled her lungs as semen filled her twat and her ass. The twats into which she pressed her fingers were thick and solid as the earth weighed over her. The fingers which massaged her feet became as stiff as death. Her clit ached for release, and she yearned to massage it, but she could not move. Her lungs pressed against the increasing weight of the sand. Just as the sand became too heavy to move, just as her mind exp
loded from the pressure of trying, needing, pushing to breathe, she felt her mound explode, bathing the sand in a shower of juices.
Alice sat up abruptly. She looked around, disoriented. She was sitting on the ground by the house. The sun had faded in the sky, and she wondered how long she’d been there. Her blood pounded in her ears. Her hand slipped her skirt up as she probed her mound through the cotton of her panties. She pressed and rubbed with desperation, arching her back up into her hand as she orgasmed in a rush, the pressure that had been building releasing as she screamed a high, shrill scream. She slipped her finger beneath
the fabric, covering it with her juices and then licking it clean, savoring her own aroma as she slipped her finger in again, then tasted it again.
She sat still then, shaking and crying and letting her breath return to normal.
As the world came into focus again, her mind raced back to reality: Renoir!
She leapt to her feet and scrabbled back up the wall, but the room was empty, but for the knife that glistened with the dark red of dried blood.
Her heart skipped a beat and she slipped back down to solid ground. Where were they?
She ran around to the back of the house, and stopped, pulling back to the side again. There were figures on the back staircase.
Alice peeked her head back to look closer. She found herself becoming aroused again as she recognized Renoir, naked now except for the bloody sigil on his chest and the rope blindfold. He sat on the lowest step of the staircase, his arms outstretched to hold the railing.
"Such an obedient little plaything," the Viper was saying, standing over his head. Her heels held his hair to the step, as he lay back under her. She had slipped out of her bustier and thong, and her large shapely breasts hung erotically as she leaned forward, steadying herself on the railing with one hand as she rain a fingernail along Renoir’s stiff cock.
Alice’s hand crept under her apron, unbuttoning her blouse so that it could rub her naked breast. Her nipple was harder than she’d ever felt it, and she moaned in surprise.
She shivered in anticipation as the Viper lowered herself, crouching over Renoir. "Lick me," she commanded, and Renoir obeyed. The Viper gripped the railing with both hands now, her back stiff and erect as she suppressed a groan.
Alice tugged at her nipple, wishing it could be her, not Renoir, licking that succulent place. Her other hand slipped to her skirt again, pressing gently against her mound.
The Viper leaned back then, lifting up from Renoir’s mouth and moving her hips forward. Alice watched as her muscles tensed, her strong hands digging into the railing as her stomach grew taut with the pushing.
Alice tried to look away, but found herself hypnotized, her breathing cautious and short. Her own belly throbbed. The stream was a rich amber as it rolled down Renoir’s chest and dripped off his thighs. Alice’s own bladder began to ache for release as the golden stream continued, the Viper shaking and lost in her own universe of emotion.
The Viper moved her mound, now wet and musky, back to Renoir’s lips. "Lick me again, plaything. Cleanse me of my filth."
Renoir obeyed, his chest heaving and his stiffness throbbing as his tongue dove into her, washing her completely as she shook, releasing a steady cry of "Yes... yes, good plaything, yes, god, yes..."
Alice pinched her nipple hard, letting the pain rush through her body and to her bladder, which she could now feel brimming uncontrollably. She pinched the nipple again, hoping the pain would soothe her need, but it did nothing.
She turned back to the side of the house and slipped her panties off, crouching down. She held her skirt up and massaged her bare clit as she let her bladder empty itself into the soil, imagining as she did so the worms and the ants awash in the amber fluid.
When she was finished, she leaned against the wall, panting and dizzy, staring at the darkened earth between her legs.
A light flickered in the basement window between her legs, and she turned and stooped to look, her skirt billowing around her as her feet sank into the now muddy ground. In the room below, there was a cement slab, six feet long and two feet wide. Over the slab was a chandelier filled with half-burned candles.
As she watched, the Viper led Renoir into the basement and bade him to lay on the cement slab. There she strapped him down, first his wrists and then his ankles, pulling the leather straps so tight that he could not resist the urge to pull against them, but they would not loosen.
She took the candle she had been carrying and lit the chandelier with it, standing on the slab with the tip of her shoe nestled between his thighs as she did so. She smiled an ominous self-satisfied smile and turned to kneel on his chest, her heels poking into his cheeks as she took his cock into her mouth.
Alice watched the flickering flames as the wax began to melt. It ran down the sides of the candles, following the frozen rivers of wax from past burnings. They formed new drips on the ends of the old. Alice moaned as she watched the wax sliding down the candles. Her finger slipped between her lips, lubricating it and tasting the wax that melted on the candles.
The Viper moved again. She straddled Renoir’s hips, slipping his cock into her and making her back erect as she pushed up and down on him, her fingernails digging into his hips and producing welts. The first drips of wax fell from the chandelier and splashed onto Renoir’s chest, and he struggled against the restraints, screaming and moaning from the stinging as the Viper screamed and moaned from the thrusting of his struggles, as it drove him deeper into her.
Alice gasped, letting her finger slip from her lips as her other hand found her other lips, slipping into the tunnel now damp from cum and piss. The heel of her palm ground into her clit as she watched drip after drip, drop after drop, fall and harden on Renoir’s chest.
The Viper rode him harder, drops of candle wax occasionally straying to her breasts. Alice watched those breasts, white wax on white skin, swaying and bouncing in rhythm to the Viper’s thrusts.
The Viper arched back, holding her ankles for support as she thrust. Alice could see Renoir’s cock, sliding in and out of the Viper as wax covered his chest and belly. He continued to struggle against the restraints, but it was to no avail.
Alice groaned, her hand moving faster to match pace with the Viper, imagining her teeth clamped around the beautiful cock, imagining her fingers running along those beautiful breasts, imagining the scent of that beautiful waterfall of raven-black hair.
Despite himself, Renoir screamed out his orgasm. The Viper clamped his waist tighter with her knees, then screamed out her own release. The screams filled Alice’s ears until she could hear nothing else, except for the blood pounding in her skull, and she lost balance and fell backwards, her entire body aching with the incredible release.
She sat up, panting, and looked in the window. Renoir was gone. The Viper was gone. The candles looked as if they had never been lit.
She caught her breath and looked closer. Where were they? Where had they gone?
She stood and looked in the kitchen window. The knife was gone, and the room was covered in dust and cobwebs.
She caught her breath. Had she lost her mind? Had the release that still throbbed inside of her been of her own imaginings?
She bent over and looked in the basement window, and then she felt a hand on her waist.
She stood quickly, and spun around. It was Renoir, dressed as he always was, his leather jacket intact, the frills of his poet’s shirt peeking out between the zipper.
"Renoir!" she shouted.
He smiled widely and pinned her up against the wall. "Hey, Alice. Now it’s your turn."