A small bell suddenly dangled from the tip of Ahenobarbie's left thumb and index finger. As daintily as she held it, it chimed. Then came an echo. Fainter. No, Clark realized. It's another even smaller bell. He'd guessed right. But what he didn't know was that it was the sound of two bells. Two tiny jingles coming to the other curtained door.

The flickering room filled with more light. Two shapes entered. As everyone's eyes adjusted, Clark doubted his really had. The shapes were as amazed to see him as he was to see them. For neither he nor they had expected there to be other boys at this lesbian potluck. But there they were. Two boys. Two naked boys.

Well, as you'll soon hear, they weren't really boys. No more than Clark was. But they were very much naked.

As for Clark, stunned as he was, he was still able to do a brief-yet-detailed inventory scan. Certainly they were more alike than different. Both about the same height. Both white. Both cut. And both even had the tell-tale shaved calves of bike messengers. But there were a few obvious differences. One had also shaved all his head and most of his face, except for a clump of reddish hairs fanning out from his lower lip over his chin--the hipster version of an Amish goatee--and his dick and balls had grown together in a tight little cluster--a lone wild mushroom in a patch of dark red moss. The other was crowned with bleach-white dreads tied in one enormous, awkward knot on the top of his head, and his cock dangled down a good six or seven inches.

It wasn't that the bald one was ugly. He wasn't. He had a nice face, a sweet face. Perhaps that was why Clark barely noticed him. No, all he saw was that the dreadhead, though naked, was still clothed in so much attitude. As if he were the queen of all the City's street-clattering skate-punks. Clark would have laughed out loud if this boy hadn't made his dick burn.

And being naked wasn't the only indignity that this warrior princess had to endure. He and his friend were staggering under the weight of a broad platter of skewers strung with reds, yellows, greens, browns, and purples. And each was followed by what looked like a long string with a little silver bell sewn to the end of it. Clark wasn't quite sure were the other end began. But he had a hunch that made his own balls tingle.

"Pauls," said Ahenobarbie, clearly amused by the reaction of each pair of boys. "Pauls, I'd like you to meet Jody and Clark." Jody shot her a questioning glance. Aheno beamed. She'd surprised even him. She paused for dramatic effect. Then, when she knew she had everyone's attention, she answered Jody's silent question. "Goddess bless bi-curious women and the men who love them."

Jody rolled his eyes. Clark quickly turned his toward Beth and Keri. Both tried to remain in character. Beth kept her eyes on her master for this dinner while Keri turned her head and spoke a wordless message to one or both the Pauls.

"Jody, Clark, these are the Pauls. They really are both named Paul. Coincidence or merely bi-popular? I don't know. But to keep them straight, I've color-coded them. You'll notice one has a white silken string and the other a red one. So we have Paul the White and Paul the Red. I know, I know--Jody, don't even give me that look. I know they're whiter than Wonder Bread. But I was tired. You missed all the fun of getting their butt plugs in. Why, with all their thrashing about, you'd have thought we were branding them. And, Jody, get this. We only used those little black vinyl ones." She left a space between her outstretched index finger and thumb for an object no longer than the average steel-tipped bullet. "No ridges. Nothing."

"They don't say much," Jody finally spoke.

"No. Not anymore."

Clark looked nervously at the Pauls, then at Ahenobarbie.

"Oh, Clark, please. You boys and your fears of angry dykes with knives. Clyde and I just gave the Pauls a little etiquette lesson before you got here."

"I'm hungry," blurted Alice. She slid out her chin and lower lip to assume the position of a pout.

"Ah, the squawk of my little bird."

Ahenobarbie raised her hands and tapped her right fingers against her left palm in the staccato beat of castanets.

For the next half hour, Aheno ceded center-stage to the food. The platters were even larger than they'd first seemed. For as Paul the Red went up one side of the table and Paul the White went up the other, they were able, working from their platters alone, to give each guest, even the musicians, a clean plate with five, six, sometimes seven skewers of grilled vegetables and curried tofu and a generous dollop of peanut sauce.

"You must have been cutting all day," said Clark as he used his fork to pull everything strung along the stick onto his plate. For a man his size, Aheno noted, he was oddly delicate.

"They were," she answered. "And grilling too."

"Where?" asked Jody. He smiled at her as he licked the peanut sauce off his bare skewer.

"Out back," she said at the same time she chewed and laughed. "On the little hibachi you gave me."

"Outside? Naked? In December? Lez, I'm going to start telling everyone you're an unsafe top." Jody smiled again.

Now she smiled back. While their wordless dialogue continued, Aheno said out loud, mainly to calm Clark, "Not outdoors. On the back porch. It got hot enough in there to roast wienies--Mother of all gods, Clark! Put that back in your mouth. Now! It's just tofu."

Shaking her head, Ahenobarbie paused to push her third satay stick through whatever peanut sauce clung to the rim of her plate. She then sucked off a mushroom and a rectangle of grilled red pepper. As she chewed, what to her wicked eyes should appear but the two white bubbles of Paul the Red's rear. "More sauce," she said to them. Ignored, she pricked one with her now-bare stick. Both jumped and Paul almost dropped his platter of plates. "Hey, bell boy." He turned quickly before she could poke him again. "Take those dirty dishes to the kitchen and come back with a fresh bowl of sauce. In fact, take Tweedledum with you too. Just make sure he comes back bearing a bowl."

With a fluttering of fabric and many little candle flames, they left and returned.

"Now, boys," Aheno said to Jody and Clark, "I have the perfect treat for you. Pauls, serve the boys their penis sauce." Paul looked at Paul who looked at Ahenobarbie.

"Eeeuwh," said Alice. Jody laughed, guessing what was to come.

"Well, go ahead. God gave you your dipsticks. Now put them to some good use." Jody held out his satay stick until it was not far from Paul the Red's hanging moss. He nudged Clark to do the same. "Pauls, we're waiting. Dip your dicks in the peanut sauce."

"Eeeuwh," said Alice even louder.

Paul the Red gingerly positioned the bowl of peanut sauce with his right hand and took his cock in his left, pushing it into the warm goo. Except for the head of his dick, he felt very cold. He pulled it out, a large blob of browns, some of which fell lazily back into the bowl as the stem of his mushroom grew and grew. Jody thrust the tip of his satay stick at Paul. He brushed the first cube of tofu against the quivering base of Paul's dick head. Paul and his prick lurched. Slowly, Jody rubbed it up and over the head until cube and stick were smeared in sauce. He pulled it back toward his mouth. He looked only at Paul, smiled, then opened his mouth. The shades of darkest browns that were his moustache, lips, and beard hovered like twilight around the cube. And then night fell. He slid the skewer free while Ahenobarbie politely applauded.

Jody now looked only at Clark. Clark was blushing--a hot, excited blush. But Paul the White stood still, his hands holding his bowl of sauce close to his chest. His dick remained undipped.

Aheno grunted. "Clark, have you ever heard of the ancient Roman equivalent of chips and salsa. They called it stuffed doormouse. Gross, huh? Now don't get that look. I'm not going to make you eat a dead mouse. Well, then again, it is pretty lifeless," and she gestured toward Paul's dangling dick. "Go ahead. Try it. I bet it tastes delicious with the peanut sauce. Slave dude, offer our guest your appetizer!"

But Paul the White didn't budge, not even his dick. "Clyde. Mal," the hostess called out. After the clattering of all her earrings against one another and the clomp, clomp of her boots, Mal was up and holding Paul's left bicep. Joe scooted up and off while Clyde took her sweet time rolling over a giggling Alice. Joe then grabbed hold of Paul's right forearm and gave a very surprised Clark Paul's bowl of sauce.

Clyde finally stood and from somewhere behind or beneath the couch she'd retrieved a whip that looked to Clark like a black leather replica of the handle bar and tassels on one of his childhood Huffy bikes. Clthack. She hit it lightly once against her left hand and grabbed the tassels taut. Then, for a woman a little over five and a half feet tall and a little under three hundred pounds, she gracefully lifted her right leg up behind her and pushed the sole of her foot off the closest coffee table which lurched toward the wall, pushing the other along. Cups, dishes, bottles and glasses rolled around the floor. Yet, for all the noise, none had broken. Now she and her whip stood where the tables had been, right behind Paul's vulnerable backside.

The room grew still waiting. Ffffthwack. The many lashes leapt off his back and made their way home to mama. Mal and Joe let go. Paul loudly exhaled through his nose but didn't move, as if he honestly imagined he were a proud stallion snorting his disdain for the surrounding horseflies rather than swatting them away.

Clark felt his flesh prickle and lift all his hairs up on end. What a stupid sonofabitch! He couldn't have weighed more than Clyde's right arm with the whip thrown in. But he was going to stand there until she gave him no choice but to come to Clark. Now he'd seen absurd displays of male bravado all his life, but this was the oddest. And what was weirdest to Clark was that it made him find Paul the White all the hotter.

Joe and Mal wound their hands around his arms again. Paul turned his head slightly and locked eyes with Beth. Clark took advantage of the fact that Paul was no longer staring above his head to soak up all the details of the slave's face.

He watched Paul's small, black bird-like eyes stare past his impressive beak of nose toward Beth. His chin and cheek bones ran out from it in straight lines. In fact, as Clark stared, he realized that Paul's hair had been pulled back and up to show off all the chiseled angles of his profile. Then, there below his two thin lips, he saw a grunge beauty mark that told him the boy was even vainer than he'd imagined--a thick patch of hairs at the base of the lower lip, a soul patch, dyed an electric shade of blue.

Ffffthwack. Clark snapped out of his reverie. Beth winced. Even Aheno could feel her little slave's despair rippling out through her artificially reddened and ringleted hair. Touched, she reached out her hands to both sides of the recliner to let her pussies know they had nothing to fear. "Ladies, please," she cooed, "the only creature ever made to suffer because of that flogger was the velveteen rabbit that was skinned for it."

Before any guest could get in a laugh, Alice had screamed, "Nooo!!! Not my Velveteena!"

"Girl, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Aheno yelled back. Alice just stared at her, her eyes wet. "Have you finished your wine?" Her little girl shook her head. "Well, you'd better be done by the time I send the Pauls back to the kitchen or no dessert for you." Alice bowed her head into her mug and was silent.

Clyde was growing impatient. She took aim for his already-tender ass. A strong solid stroke. He jerked now. Then another, harder, for good measure. The boy's jaw muscles bulged like croaking frogs. Gritting his teeth, he pulled free of the butches.

Clark quickly understood this was his cue. Bowl in hand, he sat up on the edge of the couch. His dick, relieved to have Clark no longer mashing it against the mattress while he stared at the slave, rolled up too. The polyester pant leg would have wrapped snugly about the thigh, but with his swollen cock thrust in along with it, the fabric was beginning to strain. Of course, to the untrained eye, it would seem Clark was bored beyond belief. For that eye, basing what should be the appropriate response merely on the lore around a dick of such size and the common trajectory of a true boner, would have settled for no less than seeing Clark's prick rip through the fabric and, as it sprung toward his stomach, knock the bowl of sauce right out of his hands. But Clark, and Clark alone, knew he hadn't been this hard in years, and the dark stain mid-thigh was his proof.

He even had a hunch as to why he was wetting his pants so. It was his first time. You see, all his life he'd had hundreds of pricks pointed in his face, but he'd never had one whipped toward him. And he'd never before seen a man act as if Clark were so unworthy to receive it all the while he was inching closer. In fact, Clark had never had a man refuse him his dick before. Of course, they'd always seen King Cock first and then offered up their humble wee-wees--and humble they always were by comparison--for the chance to choke on his.

Paul the White had moved forward another inch and was now close enough for Clark to count the hairs circling his dime-sized nipples. Clark followed single hairs and freckles along his flat chest and over the muscular ridges of his abdomen. An arm swung in the way of his view. He noted the forearm was threaded with ropy veins that would have inspired lust in the coldest of hypodermic needles. Then his eyes picked up an intricate blue pattern around the bones of his wrist. It was a tattoo that by its design and its location looked like a Celtic charm bracelet. The arm moved out of view. Clark was face-to-face with the taut slope of skin stretching from his pucker of a belly button down to the border of his overgrown bush. He smelt the tang of unwashed boy. He took a deep, contented breath. His eyes followed a new vein out of the brush and along the pale shaft to the head of his dick. Not too big, not too little. It would be just right. It was time for the porridge.

Never looking up once--he didn't dare lose his nerve--he gripped the bowl with his left hand and took Paul's cock between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled it away from the thicket it had tried to hide in. The dick didn't shrink away. Clark was relieved. Nor did it rise to the occasion. Oh, well. It's now or never. Clark decided to make the most of this now.

He dunked the thumb, forefinger, and the slave boy's prick in the thick sauce. He swirled them all slowly around the bowl. For a second, he'd have sworn he'd felt a fluttering below the surface of Paul's skin.

He lifted all three up and out. The sauce congealed around the tip of each. Nervous or not, Clark decided that in a room with so many performers he'd give Paul, who he knew, somehow, was no longer looking straight ahead, and Jody, who hovered just beyond his right shoulder, a taste of his showmanship. He let his third finger take the place of the forefinger. As it jutted up, he lowered his lips and in one slow suck cleaned the sauce from it. Then, he lowered the now-wet finger below the boy's dick head, leaving his thumb popping out. He sucked it clean and returned it. Now, there was only Paul's prick left. Thumb and forefinger slid back along the shaft away from Clark's approaching mouth. He wrapped his lips midway down the dick. He let it flop on his tongue. He could only taste the sauce, but he felt the tube of neither-hard-nor-soft flesh--an odd state for a cock, yet perfection in a piece of cooked calamari. I'm such a freak! Putting Thai peanut sauce with calamari. He salivated a little longer. Maybe not.

He tightened the wet grip of his lips and pulled his head back. But before the dick plopped free, he tongued the tip. This time he knew he'd felt the tentacle wriggle.

Clark sat up and smiled at Aheno. By the arc in her eyebrows and the nodding of her head, he could tell even she was impressed. Jody patted him on the back. He looked up and found Paul's eyes boring into him. What they were saying, what Paul was feeling, Clark couldn't tell. But he kept his eyes locked on Clark as he backed up into Mal and Joe's waiting arms.

"How's it taste, dear?" the hostess finally asked. "I made the sauce myself. I hope Paul didn't spoil it with too much salt of his own?" She smiled at her cleverness. "That was fun, wasn't it," she said to all her other guests. "How about some more games?" She was answered with eager clapping, tooting, and pounding.

"I know, I know--I have an idea. One I got from reading 'Savage Love.' Imagine that!" The other devotees of the column snickered that smug snicker of the initiated. "Some twat wrote in about how she called her vulva," and Ahenobarbie let this word slip from her mouth like a second tongue, "she called it something like 'Yoni's pleasure playhouse' or 'Temple Mound of Venus.'" She waited for her guests to finish chuckling. "Okay, okay, I don't really remember, but it was something embarrassingly woo-woo. Anyway, I have an idea. Before I send the boys back to the kitchen, why don't I have each one come on up to the door of the playhouse. The one who renames it best gets to come inside and--play." She continued to shout over the louder laughter of her guests and the silent screams of all her slaves.

"Now there will be some rules. The name must be either wicked or witty or both. There will be demerits for anything attempting to soar to artistic heights as well as for anything that even slightly smells with the euphemism of, say, a summer's eve. A swift lashing if he even mentions a shellfish or any other creature of the sea. And the boy will be painfully disqualified if he uses any of the following old favorites," and she raised her fists even with her breasts and they began to sprout fingers, "like 'vagina,' 'pussy,' 'cunt,' 'some,' 'her sex,' or everyone's playground favorite, 'down there.'

For the next few moments of hooting and howling, Disorientation and his even shyer twin, Dissociation, were able to grab and hold onto Paul the Red.

He'd been able to lose them in the crowded kitchen and dining room all day. But his excitement and curiosity had flagged after the peanut sauce hardened. Now, with all the laughter and music and this contest, he couldn't help but be aware of how exposed he was. He didn't feel totally foolish, despite the butt plug and bell. He was a good sport. Besides it had been kind of fun, sort of, and scary, but he kept getting hard, and Keri just looked so hot. But now, with more people, all this new stuff, he just wasn't so sure. And that had been Disorientation's chance to wrap his fingers lightly around Paul's brain and pull him toward the kitchen. Dissociation, meanwhile, used tiny tugs on the butt plug's string to help his brother.

Then, just as mysteriously, they were gone. Two hot hands held Paul around his right bicep and his left forearm. He looked--it was Clyde and little Joe. Paul warmed as he sensed the room watching only him. He felt the pull of the strong hand on his right and its little echo on his left. They moved him in front of the recliner. Clyde let go and placed her hands against his shoulders and pressed him down onto his knees. At first, he felt only the rough fabric of the throw rug chew into his knees. As he leaned back to rest on his calves and his heels, he sensed every muscle in his ass, especially around his asshole, shift and spread. He didn't realize how hard he'd been gripping until now--now with the hole widening and the plug slip sliding away. Oh, shit. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Shit. He clenched as tight as he could to fight the current's insistent push downstream. He held his breath and squeezed. He felt the recently full space hollow. It was a painful emptying, but he'd become very awake, very aware. Of the warmth inside him. Of the cool air against the crack of his cheeks.

He held tight. Then he breathed. He looked up at his mistress. She looked down, puzzled. She'd been trying all this time to figure out where inside himself he'd gone. But now with her audience back, she was ready to raise her curtain. She spread her legs out toward the arms of the chair. The pink terry cloth began to grow tight and lift. From beneath the pink came black shadows and that smell he knew could only be pussy. Keri never smelled so strong. He subtly moved the focus of his breath to his mouth, trying hard not to gasp, afraid that this might pop out his plug. And then, he thought, humiliation of humiliations, my smelly hole will outrank hers. He stiffened his whole body and took in a few shallow, scentless breaths.

Ffffthwack. He spit out all the air in his mouth. His back stung with alternating strips of cold and burning skin. "Welcome back," smiled Aheno as their eyes met again. "Want to play our little game? Or should I let Clyde tickle you some more?" Paul's eyes were wide yet his face was pinched. It can't be that hard, she thought. Hard. Ah.

"Is someone's plug too small to stay put? You want a bigger one, don't you--don't we all?" He flinched. Finally I've got his attention.

"Rosebud," he blurted.

"You want a sled?" Aheno was sincerely confused.

"No, that's my name for your you-know-what. Rosebud."

It was now Aheno's turn to take in a breath. "A poet," she spat. "I guess it could have been worse. One of those Adrienne Rich fern fronds in a grotto--or some shit like that." She waved him away like a fart. Clyde and Joe bent down, grabbed an arm, tugged him up and pushed him aside. He moved past Paul the White to the unoccupied corner near the curtained door. There, in the shadows, he would spend the following minutes discreetly trying to finger his butt plug deeper.

Clyde had Paul the White on his knees in one push.

"Dick-warmer," Paul said straightaway.

Aheno, in that swift second of the pounce, saw Beth, out of the corner of her eye, smile that little smile of hers, and then Paul, right before her eyes, smile back. She stopped both with a laugh.

"Listen, dinky-dong, my cunt's a little more complex than a Betty Crocker Easy-Bake Oven." His back stiffened. "See if you can't come up with a name for my genitals that leaves your own out. Okay, fishstick?"

"Fur pie."

Aheno laughed again. "You just said that because I brought up the word 'oven.' Gee, Beav, running out of ideas?"

Paul tried to stare her down.

"Oh, did I just use up your next choice? Sorry."

He glared. "Split tail," he spit out with all the ferocious dignity that a naked, kneeling boy with a string and a bell trailing out his ass could muster.

She closed her eyes to render her verdict. It fell out in one word. "Wuss."

He was quick with his motion to appeal. "Hole."

Aheno's eyes were suddenly very, very open. "The albino rastafarian has spoken. Boy, you don't even know what a hole is--yet."

Her leg swung out from the side of the chair until the sole of the pink and fuzzy slipper was aimed at Paul's bony shoulder. He was so startled that she didn't get to kick him. Instead, he fell back on his own.

Fire in the hole! His tailbone dug through the thin strip of muscle and skin and almost made its way out into the rug. He felt every other bone that rested on it teeter too. Until. Until all he could do was swallow a howl. The plug had, in one sharp thrust, burrowed deeper. He shook. The roof of this tunnel felt like it was caving in. He shook more. Next his stomach dropped into it. Then his cock, balls, even his thighs began to slip toward it. Slowly the shaking subsided, leaving everything around the stiff shaft throbbing unsteadily.

Huh? Somehow he was hovering, he thought, above his body. But when he wobbled his eyes left, then right, he saw that Clyde and Joe were lifting him up. Somehow, his legs still knew what to do without his mind. For that too had fallen down the chute of his spine into the hole. A dull burning thickened around it with each stumble and lurch toward a face. A kind face with two quite large, quite frightened blue eyes. Paul? What are you doing here, man?

"I need a gay man," said Ahenobarbie. "No one has a fouler mouth--except a dyke." Clyde gestured grimly with the handle of her whip for the slave boys to go back to the kitchen and for Clark to approach the chair. His heart skittered around its cell.

"Child," Aheno said to Clark alone, "you've watched some porn, right?" Clark nodded. "Good. Come over here."

He felt everyone's eyes pressed up against the burning skin of his face. He tried to sweat, to cough. He was finally able to shudder. He didn't have a name for her playhouse and didn't really want to see IT and certainly didn't want to go inside and "play." But, and here some ancient part of him remembered to exhale and then inhale, he'd promised Jody last night. Jody, his new best friend. But Jody's ex scared Clark shitless. And what would he find down there between her legs. Teeth? A drooling, man-eating alien? Okay, probably not. But what if, when he had his head between her bulky thighs, she decided to press them together and suffocate him? And while he watched his future self flailing in the airless dark under her pink terry cloth robe, his present self listened sadly as the jingling of boy bells grew fainter.

"Clark? Come on down, boy." He stood. What had they said in those films? He was finding he'd forgotten this as easily as he had the synthesized score. He crouched at her feet, his head almost even with hers.

He spoke and his voice stumbled between the octaves just as it had when he'd been a young boy drunk on his own hormones. "Give me your big clit, Mommy Sir." He gulped down more air in hopes it could lower his voice to the appropriate basso for gay male pornospeak. "Yeah." No such luck. He gulped again. "Yeah, let me suck your big cunt."

She groaned while everyone else, except Clark, took turns laughing.

"I think it's time for an experiment," she said. "Give me your hand--your index finger--no, silly, the long, long one." She fumbled about the TV tray to her left side and brought back what looked, to Clark at least, like a latex thimble. She tugged it snuggly about the tip of his finger. "Safety first," she smiled dangerously. "One never knows where you boys are putting your fingers these days." A minstrel coughed. Jody groaned, worried about what his ex was planning to do to his best friend.

"Now, Clark, do you even know where my clit is? Well? Go ahead, stud, touch it." She started to reach for his hand. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reached out toward IT.

"That's my inner thigh." The women laughed. "Close though. Try again, honey."

He opened his eyes and swallowed. He believed he was on his own now since he was certain his patron saint, Jamie Sommers--and here he was very mistaken--could no longer bionically whisper to him what to do. So Clark just pushed his long right index finger past Lezzie's unimpressed lips as far as it would go. He stopped. He moved the finger neither up nor down. He was too surprised. Here he'd been expecting only THE VOID, and he'd found his thin bone of a finger wrapped in the soft, thick fullness of flesh.

"What is this? The Dutch boy and the dyke? You're not plugging a hole, Clark!" She calmed herself by slowly pulling his cold, dry finger out and then patting his head. "But if I ever need someone to help me hold my piss, you're my man."

Clark was bright scarlet. He'd barely heard a word she'd said.

"Jody, show us what a real man can do."

He stretched. Once Clark had collapsed back on the futon, Jody rubbed his palm reassuringly over his friend's still blushing head, and stood. While the mandolin player tuned his instrument and Joe finished laughing at Mal's latest aside, he slowly knelt before the recliner. He put a hand on each of the hostesses' thighs, then smiled, then spoke. Aheno flushed and the room grew warm with her. Clark had barely heard over the ringing in his ears. It sounded like Jody had said something about a fuck tube, hot and wet.

"I think we have winner."

"And do I get a finger cot, ma'am?" Jody rested his head at the edge of her left knee and batted his dark amber eyes at her.

"If you want one, but, then, I know all too well where your little fingers have been." He yanked off his sweatshirt and pitched it back to Clark.

To properly heat and wet this fuck tube, Jody decided to start simple and use the bare bones of Lesbian Love 101--the fingers. One by one they came together to pull back the heavy folds of swelling skin. From her dark opening he was greeted with a heavy gust he hadn't smelled in years. The mightiest mansmell--though he knew he could never tell any man this--was like the bitter smoke of incense compared to this musk, real musk, that straddled his nose and mouth and pressed its full weight down onto both. Keeping every finger in its place, he pulled his head up and spoke again. She laughed, and it echoed out her cunt.

He moved his fingers in on the clit. First came the innocent rubbing. Then he brushed more firmly up against it, making it buck over the finger tip, then ride up to the knotty point of the knuckle. Slowly. All very slowly. No nervous fumbling, no false moves. He was gentle, then brusque. Whenever her clit became used to his touch, he'd remove it, trace around the edges of her fattened lips, waiting for the welcome smell of her watering cunt. He'd quote to her, then, feeling the air warm, ferment, around his nose and mouth, he knew it was time for his tongue to add wetness to wetness, to slobber around the clit, to daze it, to let it harden in the soft folds of his own lips, then to give a swift stroke up the--ohfuckityes--sensitive underside.

Clark blushed again. Not so much for what he thought Jody might be doing. He couldn't really see that well from his place on the futon. It was for what Jody would say each time he lifted his face from the hair-hedged hole where he'd been digging like an anteater feasting on termites. And as that thought echoed around his head, Clark grew embarrassed that he'd only been able to imagine an anteater and termites. But he'd never been "down there" before tonight, he shouted over the echo. Never really thought about IT--never even feared IT. Or so he kept telling the Lesbian Review Board he suspected to be standing, arms folded and scowls in place, in the room's shadowiest corner.

And while Clark's mind chattered to itself, his wise ears waded beyond the white noise until they could hear only Jody's voice. They wanted the words. Words that made that place, that hidden nerve cluster behind Clark's balls and before his asshole, twinge. The shudder rode his spine to the base of his neck, teetered on his shoulders, slid the lengths of his arms and out through the tips of his fingers.

The words. Jody seemed to blurt out whole paragraphs--filled with references to intercourse, dirt, sadism and death. Fucking, feeling the fuck, possession, the fuck, the fucked, the fuck. The ferocity, the graphicness. But Aheno was delighted. Flushed with the perverseness of it all. She was getting off royally to her tranny boy ex reciting vintage Andrea Dworkin while eating her out. And only she and Jody, and Clyde probably, knew just how depraved this all really was. Now this, she thought in her random few seconds of clarity, is performance art!

The words? you ask. What were those exact words? I know--if it were another time, another place. But, nowadays, a poor storyteller like myself must heed the gilded advice of an attorney. Why? For a tale, even a tale as tall as this one, can often be mistaken, in Canada's courts at least, for one that is slanderously and libelously obscene.

What I can tell you is that our not-so-little prince had found himself staring up over the corona around Clyde's head to find Our Lord at His Last Supper and one or two apostles staring right back. Actually, all the apostles seemed aware of the dinner party below; their eyes looked wider; their protests had become all the more posed; it was clear they were torn between witnessing the betrayal or the spectacle below. Clark believed he even caught a glance passed between the Master and His Beloved--a look that was almost envious of a certain dyke on very good terms with her ex.

"Turn the mother out," squealed Alice. Somewhere beyond the musicians' coughing drums and wheezing recorder, she had somehow been able pick out a funky bass line. Alice's head wobbled loosely on her neck. Her shoulders tried to reach up and steady it, afraid it might roll free. Aheno hissed from the depths of her pre-orgasmic trance, "It's thisss. Turn thisss mother... outtt."

The drummer took this as his cue and began to tap faster. Clark grew nervous, not that Aheno was about to come but that the others might start chanting something like "You go, girl!" drowning out Jody's words. And Clark wanted to hear many more words.

But Jody, even though his mouth was wide open, was silent. He was thinking. If only men knew just where he'd learned some of his best moves. Here--in the dark quiet of a cunt. And perhaps tonight he could finally repay one of his teachers for the favor. Thank his ex with a few new tricks he'd learned. Make the most of the tight bristles of his close-cropped hair. After all, it had only taken a few good brushings against the balls of some of San Francisco's toughest daddies to make them thrash about. Now it would be mother's day.

Of course, Jody knew that he would fit his head between the lips of a woman but once in this life. This tale isn't that tall. His chin, however, was a different matter.

Slowly, very slowly, he pulled it up against one fleshy wet lip then down the other side. Tiny, shivering pricks bit into Aheno's skin like the raspy tongue of a very patient beast. Then Jody moved his lips as close to her clit without touching it. It strained to reach his mouth. Aheno felt the small kernel pull her entire body. But Jody kept a breath away. He echoed her funky exhale with his own. Until every curve of every wall that hugged his face began to trickle with a thick, sticky juice. Until her clit beaded up with a heavy dew like a blade of grass before another summer sunrise. Aheno could only push her thighs out, deeper and deeper into the sweat-slick arms of the recliner. She could only wait, expecting the gentle tug of his lips or a teasing bite. But Jody knew all too well that he'd have to play rough if he wanted to score with Lezzie Beddeath.

So, instead, he angled his soaking chin as best he could and scraped it up along the dazed underbelly of the clit. Aheno grabbed his buzzed head and dug her fingers in. All reality dropped away from her, even the weight of her own body. She floated for a second, maybe. Then she belly-flopped back into her body with a thrash that shook her, Jody, and the chair. She bucked and bucked and bucked her hips. She used the whole frame of the chair to lift her cunt, her clit, up against the searing little pin-pricks of his beard. She tried to mash them flat. She tried to embed them deeper. She tried to push, push, push into the pain. The bristling, burning, slobbering, sweet pain.

She came, shaking like the white-hot filament inside an enormous electric bulb.

Eyes closed, she pushed her glasses up her slick nose. She heard the happy plucking, tooting, and pounding of her musicians and the applause of her guests. She opened her eyes and spoke.

"Thank you. Thank you. And thank you, Mr. Man. Does my Jody know how to eat a woman out or what?" Suddenly the musicians stopped playing and began clapping too.

Jody peeled off his sopping T-shirt and wiped it against his face. He lifted his head and noticed The Other King across from The Last Supper, looking down from His Graceland in the black velvet sky. Inspired, Jody gave the T-shirt a few spins above his head that would have made Him proud, and threw it out over the room. It landed flat on the drummer's balding head and graying pony-tail. The room watched as he peeled it off and sniffed it, then happily shoved it down between his legs and behind his little tabor.

The tooting, pounding, and clapping began all over again. Clark tossed Jody his sweatshirt. He pulled it on while trying to stand. A few tugs and it was on and he was up. Then he was down again on the futon high-fiving it with Mal. Aheno took a long plastic water bottle from Keri and drained it. "Well," she belched. "I'm full. I don't know about the rest of you... "

"What!" squealed Alice, sobering quickly. "That's not very mommy! Mommies don't just think about themselves. They take care of everybody and make them feel all better. You're no Mommy." She began to pound her fists on the futon while her feet paddled from behind. "I want a mommy. I want a mommy. I want my mommy."

"You'd better shut up now, Alice, or I'm going to come over there and shut you up."

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

The other butches smirked. They stared like one great unblinking eye. Can't control your own femme, they thought collectively. Telling us daddy play was so passé. That being a bitch with a baby wasn't cliché. No, it's cutting edge now. Yet look how the mightiest butch has fallen.

Aheno felt torn. She needed to make a choice. For while Jody had been wetting her cunt faster than she could, Aheno had pressed the rest of her body into a deep embrace with the naugahyde. She did not want this to end. But, she thought, as cute as a drunken femme might be, a shrieking, drunken femme is another matter. Aheno stayed silent a few seconds longer until she'd fully accepted that she would have to share the spotlight if she were to remain reclining happily ever after.

"Fine, girl. Come on over here and let Mama rock you to sleep."

It took a moment for Alice to realize she'd been spoken to. Her chanting and thrashing stopped. She looked around coyly, then stood up and triumphantly skipped over to Aheno and her recliner. Like a just-opened parachute catching the wind, Alice's nightie flared out as she leapt back onto her mama's lap.

Aheno let out a low growl. That had done it. It was time to take control of her bad little girl. Aheno pulled Alice tightly to her, spun her whole body sideways and scooped her up onto her back. She cradled Alice fiercely in her arms, the muscles in her thick forearms and biceps bubbling at the surface of her skin.

Aheno's right hand let go to pull at the edge of her robe. She freed her breast and cupped as much as she could in her squarish palm. "Suckle," she ordered. Alice looked confused. With those lips, that ever-wiggling tongue, no one, not even Clark, believed she'd forgotten this most ancient of instincts--to eat. Aheno had no patience now. "Suck." She grabbed Alice roughly by the largest cluster of curls at the back of her head. "Suck Mama's tit, you dumb bitch."

Instinct prevailed. Alice gobbled up all the pink nipple as well as much of the breast's surrounding white skin. Aheno flinched. It must have tickled, thought someone. How many times have we told her about covering those teeth of hers, thought another. Slowly, Aheno's curl-clutching right hand softened. Veins and muscles ceased to boil. Instead, they simmered below the skin where it was growing warmer and warmer.

Aheno felt her nipple toughen as the lips grew softer and wetter around it. Alice tugged slowly against the tit. Her tongue washed up against the breast's wide underbelly while her teeth--her infamous overbite actually--grated gently along the nipple's tip. Alice's mouth had become a watery pulse, steady like the tide.

Most of this, of course, went unnoticed by the guests. Joe and Clyde made some whispered asides about this odd pieta. The mother, eyes shut and fluttering, continued to nurse the child. One of the musicians started to pick at his mandolin. Now Clark flinched. Please, not Greensleeves. After a few notes, he realized it wasn't. He sighed and took advantage of what he thought would be a brief lull to finish off his curried tofu satay with vegetables. He wished he had more peanut sauce, but he didn't want to interrupt the hostess. The woman musician, without her recorder, had wandered off to the kitchen or bathroom. So only the drummer joined in with the mandolin player. He tapped out a slow rhythm, hoping he was keeping time with Alice's sucking.

"Clyde." Clyde stopped her stage-whispering and looked directly at Ahenobarbie. "Glove me." Aheno let go of Alice's hair and held up her hand. "Stat." Clyde scooted to the edge of the futon, rolled herself and then her breasts up into a sitting position, and pushed herself off. She shuffled in her socks over to the beat-up metal tray beside the recliner. There, among three large black remotes, used napkins, several ceramic mugs, the bell, wads of finger cots and dental dams, she found a box of gloves. She fished her hand into it and pulled out a latex blob. She peeled one away from the others, crushing the rest into a tight wad that she shoved back into the box. Patiently, she tugged the one glove around down Aheno's hand.

"Lube me." Clyde looked over the tray--not even trial sizes. Aheno sensed the hesitation. She opened her eyes and looked to Clyde. "Behind the chair." Clyde reached down and groped behind the recliner. Her hand stuck to something plastic. She pulled the bottle out. She grunted. Too cheap to buy the good stuff. She hated how this brand always devolved into slimy little strings. She squirted a blob into the palm of her dry hand. Next, she put the bottle down, smeared both palms together and then added the gloved hand to the mixture.

The latex was cool for a moment. Then cooler and slimy. Slowly Clyde's hands warmed, then Aheno's latex one. "More." Clyde began again. Alice's sucking was no longer rhythmic. She'd been listening to Aheno's commands. As soon as Aheno had said "more," Alice had begun to bite at Aheno's breast in anticipation. Wincing happily from her baby's cue, Aheno agreed--it was show time.

She pushed Alice's nightie up with the back of lubed fingers, tracing teasingly along her skin with her blunted nails, until she'd left four silvery snail trails along her stomach that ended at a wall of fabric just below her breasts. She then pulled her hand back, keeping it palm-upward and drew her fingers tightly together until she could feel each one warm against the other. She lowered it down into the valley of Alice's upper thighs. She began to push forward, spreading Alice's legs to either side, until her fingers pressed against the lips of Alice's cunt. Aheno pulled her hand up and down and up against them as they swelled, parting a bit on their own. It was too dim to see but she imagined them reddening as they had done so many times before.

The wine and her libido softly conspired with Aheno to get her to attempt the superhuman and lift Alice by her ass checks alone up to her mouth. There she could chew, they promised, on the meaty folds of her little vegetarian until they were blood raw red and flatten the closest of those unwieldy black hairs under her tongue's wet weight.

Aheno grew still. She thought she heard one hand call to the other--something about the one letting go of the little girl's arm, something about the other letting go of the little girl's lips, something about them both meeting back on the little girl's butt. If she didn't take control fast, there'd be a mutiny. She shouted herself down. Shut the fuck up. Everyone. Now! She had intended from the start to rock her little girl to sleep. And rock her she would.

She continued to tilt her hand downwards, tipping it so her fingertips touched at the drooling edges of an even smaller mouth, waiting to suck her in with one swallow. Aheno gave it the tips of all four fingers. She let them rest at the rim of Alice's vagina. There she would keep her hand a while, cupped to catch any stray drops trickling down the pulsing walls or dribbling from beneath the clit. Perhaps, if she could wait longer than a while, enough would pool there for her to drink, or, at least, to cool her own flushing face. But Alice did not want anybody to wait.

Beneath the peaceful ebb and flow of her other lips, Alice's teeth began to close down on the hardened tip of Aheno's nipple. She bore down and down until her mommy shuddered. The bite was too slow to break the skin, but it was sharp enough for even the nerves in the flat soles of Aheno's feet to feel singed.

What a hungry little girl. Well, let's see if she can eat all that Mama has to feed her. The muscles of Alice's vagina tensed against the sudden push of Aheno's hand. Then they deceptively softened to welcome all four fingers and finally the thumb a knuckle deeper. The slow dance had begun.

Alice shifted. She tried to spread her legs wider in the hopes it would allow her cunt to deep throat the fist to the wrist--now! The hand wouldn't budge. She grated her teeth back and forth over the breast and now-bruised nipple to signal her impatience, her need, her surrender, her willingness. Aheno chuckled from the pit of her stomach. Then she began to breathe into the sting and the suck. She stared down at her nursing femme. Alice's closed eyes had begun to flow with wide black tears. As she watched the mascara and sweat streak her little girl's face, Aheno became aware that her mind's eye had strayed beneath the surface of her own skin. There it followed several salty beads as they stumbled drunkenly down her back before falling into the crack of her ass.

Ahenobarbie's cunt, not to be outdone by a few wine-warmed sweat glands, had to work quickly to recapture her body's whole attention. And that's just what it did once it broadcast, through its unique semaphore of scents, that it had begun to stew in its own juices. Even her mind felt the strong pull downward until it, too, lay trapped, steaming, beneath the thick pink terry cloth and Alice's full ass.

Perhaps it happened now or perhaps later, but at various moments during the slow time of fisting, Clark swore he heard Mal whispering to Jody something about her Pud, a reprint, a third one coming soon, did he have a copy, did he want her to sign it, punctuated by Jody's replies of no shit, no way, shit no, sure.

And, at some time after, maybe much longer after that, Ahenobarbie, growing very hot, curled her fingers in while pushing along the roof of Alice's vagina, kneading for the g-spot--or gush-spot in Alice's case. The lube and cunt juice coaxed the budding fist deeper in its slide. Alice gasped. Her mouth opened to let cool air hit the bruised nipple. Aheno shuddered at the shock of dry, cold air. Then again, for Alice's other mouth had clamped down hard and now sucked on Aheno's wrist.

Alice was filled. So filled she feared to breathe. There was no space left to store air in her lungs. So, for a moment, she ceased to breathe. There was no space left even for her blood to push and shove its way around the circuit of her body. So, for a moment, her blood coursed round and round the faint-pulsing lump deep within. Did it burn or did she?

She pushed against the arm bracing her back. Her head rolled on its neck and peered over the ledge of her shoulders. A breath. She could take one now. But as she exhaled the air, she inhaled more of the fist, wrist, and arm. Her mouth fell open. Pushing its way through the crowd of teeth and clambering over the thick wall of her lower lip came a very insistent "Oh, God!" And after so much effort to arrive, it felt it should introduce itself several more times to all the guests.

Meanwhile, layer upon layer of muscle was wrapping itself around Aheno's hand--a pleasant crushing between the slick coils of a snake. But her tit was so cold.

Alice had begun to breathe evenly again as she grew still around the fullness. Somewhere she heard the dizzy beat of a drum? From her heart? Her cunt? Then it came--a full-body shudder. Mama was showing her pride in her little girl with a slow, slow flick of her wrist.

And though this gift had been well-earned, sadly it had been given too soon. Alice's body had grown weary and confused. Something that wriggled this much was ready to face the outside world on its own.

Once more, the expulsion from paradise began. This time it would be just as theatrical but not as epic--no pissed-off angels, flaming swords, curses--as when that bony girl, you know who, and her dirt-bag boyfriend got eighty-sixed from you know where. But that's another fairy's tale.

No, this time, the serpent just coiled tighter and tighter and tighter. All in time to the pulsing tap-tap of the drum and the louder unnnhs of the little girl. The rhythm was growing more and more urgent within and without. Aheno felt her hand slipping through the coils. They contracted and contracted again. Then all was still. She'd been squeezed out. And there, at the mouth of the underworld, Aheno's so-perfectly-sinister hand, wet and quaking, decided to rest.

Ahenobarbie took a few deep breaths. With Alice collapsed against her breast, she was able to move her other hand gingerly along Alice's back until she could push her glasses up from the end of her nose. Ta Da the musicians played on cue. She chuckled and opened her eyes. Her guests clapped. "Dessert, anyone?"

Read Part 3