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Trespassers Will Be Violated by Paul Moore,  lesbian bdsm

 

Satan's Sisters by Paul Moore

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Pink Flamingo version, copyright (c) 2000, all rights reserved

Sam is studying me. The pink tip of her tongue wets her lips, not furtively, the way it would if she were nervous. It’s more of a sensual thing. She is looking at me the way she should be looking at her bowl of sherbet. There should have been a warning posted on the door­: “Trespassers will be violated.”

       Sam asks: “Does she have any weapons?”

       “I haven’t asked,” says Tabitha. They are still talking about me as though I’m not there.              

       Sam nods in my direction. “Take off your jacket.”

       It’s a small thing she’s asking for, but I don’t like taking orders. I peel off my jacket and throw it at Sam’s face. The barrel of the shotgun rises a little, and I fear for a second that Tabitha thinks I’m using the jacket to distract them while I charge for the door. Sam is calmer. She snags my jacket out of the air one handed and smiles gently. My temper has amused her.

       Sam goes through my pockets and finds the keys to my Harley. I should have left them in the ignition, in case I had to haul ass, but I took them out from habit.

       “A motorcycle?” Sam sees the logo stamped on the key.

       “Out back,” I shrug. I want to be on that bike in the worst way, but I’m being cool. The Sisters of Satan show no fear.

       “How interesting!” says Sam. “Now the shirt.”

       I hesitate. My tee shirt is size extra large, and hangs to my knees like a dress. I’m not afraid to let them see my tits, but there is something else I would rather not reveal.

       “Did you hear me?” there is a warning in Sam’s voice.

       I shuck the shirt.

       “There is something in her pants,” Tabitha cautions.

       Sam doesn’t get to it right away. She is checking out my boobs. They aren’t big, but they are real perky. She approves. Then her eyes move down to the bulge.

       “That’s not a gun, is it?” It’s a rhetorical question. She recognizes the shape.

       “No.” I’m not volunteering anything.

       “Let’s see it.”

       I glare back at her. I knew it would come to this when she entered the room. It takes one to know one, and my radar works fine. Would they shoot me for refusing to strip? Am I ready to find out?

       With a sigh, I kick off my boots and drop the trousers.

       Strike one.

       Okay, I’ve got a dick. It’s not real, of course, but it looks as real as latex can. I started wearing it to advertise my butchness; any femme that saw me would know my scene was fucking. Trouble was, I fell in love with the damn thing. Now I wear it even when I’m not cruising. You might say I’m always packing.

       “She does have a concealed weapon,” Sam jokes.

       I blush scarlet. “Can I dress now?”

     “Take off your socks,” says Sam. “You look ridiculous.”

       Strike two

       I sit on the floor to take them off. When I am naked, Sam crosses the room in two strides and kicks my clothes into the corner, out of my reach. Then she hauls me to my feet by my braid.

       She’s much taller than I am, exuding a rawboned strength that’s scary. She’s dressed too, and I’m buck naked, except for the jockstrap harness my dick is poking out of. It occurs to me that I could use her for a shield somehow. Tabitha won’t fire with Sam so close to me. Sam knows it too, of course. The shotgun has become a bluff I won’t call. Sam has proven herself braver than I.          

       Strike three.

       Sam looks deep into my eyes. Hers are cold and amused—blue ice. I have to pee.

       “Open your mouth.” Her forearms are bare and muscular, covered with white down. Her nails are unpainted and trimmed close. They are strong hands.

       She makes a show of looking inside my mouth. I let her count my fillings with a finger that seems more interested in my rather full lower lip. She’s daring me to bite. I’m thinking about it. Watching my mental struggle is turning her on. Maybe I’m a coward for not taking off one of her fingers and spitting it in her face. Maybe I’m waiting for what’s next.

       A full orifice examination, that’s the polite euphemism down at the cop shop. She grins at my compliance and gives my braid another little twist to rub my nose in it. She’s got my number—damn her!  The sweat is dripping down my armpits and my leather jock is damp. We can both smell my heat. She’s going to get rough and force me to like it.

       And I will like being forced.

       She slips a thumb into my mouth, holding my jaw, depressing my tongue. I close my mouth around it and suck. Why pretend? I’ll party, even do a little rough stuff, if that’s her scene. If I can charm Satan’s Sisters, I can win Sam over too.

       In the morning, I’m thinking, Sam will make breakfast for three, and the shotgun will be back in Grandpa’s gun cabinet. All I need to do is practice a little diplomacy and turn on the sex.

       One hand releases my jaw and strokes down my throat, encircling it briefly as though measuring me for a collar. The other hand slides down my back and into my crack and cups my cheeks. She leans forward to sniff my hair and whisper in my ear.

       “Bend over.”

       I know the posture she wants. I drape myself over the bed and spread my legs. Her hands snake around me to twist my nipples. I feel her snatch grinding away against my butt. Abandoning my breasts, her fingers trail across my ribs and down my flanks. She’s assessing me like horseflesh, checking my muscle tone, the texture of my skin. Later she may get around to seeing how I respond to the crop.

       I stiffen when she eases the jock strap over my hips, as though I anticipate pain from the operation. The weight of my dick is suddenly gone, symbolically amputated. I didn’t really feel naked until now.

       “You won’t mind if I borrow this for awhile,” Sam purrs. She steps into it and adjusts the straps to fit her hips. I’m the one who came souvenir hunting. She’s the one with the trophy.

       Then I feel her hands again, stroking up and down my slit, opening the seam and finding it slick inside. She trails a finger up the crack of my ass, making me shiver. Now and then, a finger dips into one hole or the other, teasing me. She’s good. If I didn’t want it before; I want it now.

       “Nice ass,” says Sam.

       I’m facing the wall, ashamed. “Thank you,” I mutter sarcastically.

       She rewards my lip with a hearty smack on the ass. I yelp and start to straighten up, but her hand falls on the back of my neck and pushes my face against the bed while she studies the rising handprint. Apparently the result pleases her, because she decorates the other cheek too.

       Then she finds better work for her hands. I’d swoon if she didn’t have one arm cradling my hips, her fingers dancing feather soft against my clit. Her other hand is in my cunt, two fingers, three. I moan and ball the bedspread in my fists.

       “You’re easy,” she mocks.

       I know a bit of fear is a turn on. I’ve seen the worried looks on the faces of sweet little tricks when they see the size of my dick. I’ve seen it change to dismay when they find out where I plan to put it. I savor the moment when their heat rises under my cunning touch, until their eyes close and they whisper assent. A little pain makes the pleasure sweeter, and they cum hard while I feed it to them deep and slow.

            But I always felt it was better to give than receive. Now I’m the one bent over, and Sam is the one prying my lips apart to fuck me with my own dick. I’m too far gone to care. My breath is wheezing through my nose, and I’m chirping every time she slams home.

It’s over. I’m sprawled on the bed like a homicide victim inside a chalk outline. I slowly open my eyes to see Tabitha. She has the shotgun across her lap, and she is finishing her sherbet. No doubt she enjoyed the show. I wonder if I can make it past her to the door before she drops the bowl and aims the gun, or if it’s even necessary to try. It’s academic anyway. I’m too wasted to move.

       Sam comes out of the bathroom. She has washed her hands and combed her hair. She’s a proper lady again.

       “If you don’t want to turn her over to the police,” says Tabitha. “Then you have to choose between letting her loose and shooting her.”

       “Just give me a minute to grab my stuff,” I mumble from the bed. “I’ll be gone in a flash.”

       “I wouldn’t dream of letting a felon loose on an unsuspecting world,” says Sam. I’m not alarmed. I’m sure that she is giving me a line of bull just to see me squirm. Tabby raises the shotgun. She is actually going along with this gag.

       “You have overlooked a third choice,” says Sam. “We can keep her.”

       I start to move, alarmed by the sudden thought that there are worse things in life than a shotgun lobotomy, but Sam lands on my chest hard enough to drive all of the air out of my lungs. I never see the hypo that she jabs into my ass, and I’m out in less time than it takes to tell.

       When I wake up, I’m lying on a concrete floor. I’m thirsty beyond belief. It’s not just cotton mouth from the drugs; I’m dehydrated. I have dim memories of Sam reappearing with a fresh dose every time I started to show signs of life. My ass feels like a pincushion.

       I look around. I’m in a coal bin that has been converted into a laundry. Plywood covers the old coal chute. Across the room, a washing machine is chugging merrily away. There is a pile of stored junk in the corner, steamer trunks, scrap lumber, rusty bed springs from an old cot.

       I’m still naked. There is a heavy chain padlocked around my waist. The other end of the chain is locked around a post that supports the beam holding up the center of the house. I’ve been lying on the chain long enough to leave red depressions in my waist. The floor is warm, but it has leached that heat from my body, leaving me chilled and aching. I struggle to a sitting position and find that there is enough slack in the chain to let me slide it up and down the post. I can sit, stand, or pace in circles. I can’t reach the laundry faucets to get water, or anything that might help me escape. I can reach the floor drain that the washing machine empties into, and I blush while I empty my bladder down the same hole.

       It only takes me a minute to explore the limits of my captivity, but I make a few more laps around the post anyway. The exercise seems to clear the brain fog a little and panic is making me restless. I spend some time jerking on the chain with both hands, just to make sure that Sam hasn’t overlooked a weak link. I examine the locks, and decide that they would yield quickly to the proper tool. I grin to myself when I consider the wisdom of asking Sam for a hacksaw when I see her again.

       It’s a steel jack post that I am chained to. I could saw away at it with the chain for a year and do no more than polish it. I might wear out the chain eventually, but not before it was noticed and replaced.

       It’s a safe bet that Sam hasn’t decided to hold me for ransom. I sit on the floor and hug myself, stroking my shoulders to generate heat. If hypothermia could kill me down here, I would be dead already, but the chill is enough to leave me miserable and remind me that I’m not wearing a stitch.

       Focus, dammit!                    

       Problem: I have been kidnapped by two lonely looneybirds. Motive: Sex, I suppose, but Sam has already proven to be full of surprises. Maybe she needs an organ donor, or a human sacrifice for coven next week. If her intentions were honorable, she could have simply invited me to stay. She already knows that I’m a sure thing in the bedroom. Motive? I shiver.

       Most likely scenario: Rescue isn’t coming. No one knows I’m here. Sam is smart, and she isn’t going to leave me any openings that she sees first. She knows how the law treats kidnappers, so I don’t see much hope of persuading her to let me go. The chain around my waist is a declaration. A line has been crossed. We are playing for keeps now. I escape or end up in a shallow, unmarked grave. The only question is whether or not I can stay alive long enough to find a chink in the wall.