Chapter 2

Heat of the Night

They’ve driven for many miles across the dark seas of waving corn - the big Buick like a Venetian water-hearse as makes its sedate way along the narrow dusty roads - and eventually pulled up at a big black colonial house in the shade of dense Cyprus trees that undulate like a heartfelt sigh as they alight as go inside to the woman’s private chamber.

It is a big and echoey room, painted in midnight hues and its heavy Victorian furniture is made of a leather that’s stained so deep a brown that it’s almost ebony. And it’s hard to make out the décor in the lamplight, but the deep tan walls are covered in multitudes of walnut-framed Daguerreotypes of old women in stiff dresses, children on nurses’ knees, moustachioed men staring blankly into the photographer’s lens. And, though there’s electric light, the whole room is dull and gloomy, as if a storm cloud sits hovering over the ceiling and blocks any rays of natural light from ever penetrating.

And Lizzie is exhausted and scared half out of her wits, but Tom Junior sleeps soundly, and they lay him down in a crib when they arrive.

“Go take a bath, girl,” the woman says, breaking the silence. “You stink of barnyards.” And Lizzie is ushered into a bathroom that’s easily twice the size of her aunt’s house back home, a coloured maid scooping up her clothes and disappearing with them.

And she can’t believe the luxury of the darkly tiled room with its glittering bottles of scented bath oil and the water that comes already heated from the tap, and the crystal dish that’s filled to overflowing with aromatic French soaps shaped like pastel-coloured seashells. And Lizzie almost forgets what’s happening to her as she lies back in the warm soapy water and inhales all the intoxicating fragrances. But reality’s never far away and she gets quickly out as she feels the water beginning to cool, wrapping her nakedness in the huge white towel that feels softer than her mother’s best linen that lay nurtured between fragrant lavender pouches in her trousseau trunk.

“You done, girl?” the woman’s voice calls, and Lizzie answers in the affirmative as she looks frantically hither and thither for a robe or fresh clothes, but there’s nary a stitch to be had and so she tiptoes through to the dark room in only the towel.

And she can see the other woman clearly now, and though she still wears the hat with the veil she has removed the ebony Astrakhan coat and stands in a black two-piece costume with sheer charcoal stockings, her feet in patent leather shoes with tall rapier-like heels, all the world like Joan Crawford in Grand Hotel.

“There was no robe...” Lizzie begins, feeling vulnerable and exposed in just the towel in the middle of this woman’s parlour, but her Mistress silences her with a bored wave of her hand.

“I know, come here,” she says, not unkindly but brooking no argument. “I want to look at you.”

And a hand covered in glittering jet rings reaches out and gently slips the towel from Lizzie’s body, letting it fall softly to her feet like a snowdrift on the dark stained floor boards and obsidian bearskin rugs.

“Do you know what we do here?” the woman asks as her hand strokes Lizzie’s naked body, starting at her face and working down to her neck, then her breasts, then lower.

And Lizzie shakes her head as the woman continues. “We call this The Farm. We provide... services for rich women who would like to, how shall I put this, take the effort out of child rearing. So we provide the best quality breast milk for ladies who would rather not disfigure their own nipples, semen for those whose husbands want an heir but are no longer capable of siring one. Babies for women in the motion picture industry who would rather not compromise their shapes or take time out of their schedules...”

“Not Tom Junior, you ain’t taking my baby...” Lizzie bursts out but the woman silences her.

“Relax. I will give you the chance to keep your child. Work hard for me and I will pay you well, and, if all goes well, you will have earned enough before he is one year old to repay my investment in you and keep him for yourself. Defy me, however, and you will never see him again...”

But Lizzie interrupts her and never hears the threat. “I won’t defy you, Ma’am. I promise I won’t,” she insists, and Mommy Dearest smiles thinly. Confidently victorious.

“Then come,” she whispers, “sit on the Chesterfield with me and let me sample your milk.”

“I don’t rightly understand...” Lizzie begins, seating herself on the cold leather nevertheless, her pale naked skin goosepimpling as her big breasts rise and fall with her rapid breathing, the nipples constantly erect and slightly moist.

“We’ll milk you twice daily on The Farm from tomorrow,” the woman whispers, her face very close as she begins to expertly massage Lizzie’s breast. “But I want to partake of a little sample first. Have you never been hand-milked before?”

And Lizzie shakes her head, her whole body trembling, but surrenders to it, liking the feel of these firm hands on her hot and pleading tits. Wonders what it would be like to be kissed by her too.

“You’ll like it,” the black widow whispers, lifting a glittering bohemian-crystal glass from a side table and holding it below Lizzie’s huge swollen nipple and squeezing gently, thick creamy liquid immediately squirting into the depths of the receptacle. “We use sterilised bottles at The Farm, of course, engraved with your number, but I prefer crystal when it’s for my own consumption.”

And Lizzie lets out a little a little gasp as her milk splashes into the fine glassware. And maybe there’s just a hint of a groan in there too.

“You like?” the woman asks, a cat-like smile on her thin painted lips, her fingers squeezing again. Harder this time as the sweet milk flows into the glass with a satisfied hiss.

Lizzie nods. “Harder,” she whispers and her Mistress obliges, milk streaming into the intricately cut crystal beehive, the glass slowly filling with Lizzie’s thick white nectar.

“Now to taste,” Mommy Dearest smiles, taking the glass slowly to her dark stained mouth, little white teeth just visible under the plump lips as a little pink cat’s tongue comes out and whets them. Then, like a vampire, she imbibes.

“Am I good?” Lizzie asks anxiously, her body on fire.

The woman nods cautiously. “The best,” she confesses. “In fact, the best ever.”

Lizzie smiles and swallows. Then says. “Would you like to taste me again? You can, you know. You can taste from the nipple if you like...”

There’s a silence for a long moment. And the girl thinks she’s gone too far and curses her libido for alienating her new employer so soon. But then the woman nods slowly and draws her close, and Lizzie can smell her scent and face powder as she feels the woman’s face against her skin, feels her kisses on her hot breast, eager lips suddenly hungry for the nipple, feels her sucking hard, feels the woman’s other hand on her other tit and wants to move it down to her pussy. But doesn’t dare.

Lizzie groans again as the woman suckles hard, the imprint of her lace veil like beardburn on her tender skin. Lizzie’s rich pomegranate nipple is smeared with the dark blackberry lipstick; Lizzie’s other nipple is streaming with white fluid as if she’s been come on again and again, and she groans with pleasure as the woman leaves her breast and hungrily licks up all the spilt milk from her body.

And, oh dear, our little girl so wants to be fucked, but doesn’t know quite how to introduce her Mistress to the idea. Then inspiration strikes.

“You’re getting your nice clothes all dirty,” she says suddenly, all pleased with herself for her ingenuity. “Why don’t you undress?”

“Yes, why don’t I just,” her partner says quietly with a hollow laugh. “And aren’t you the little vixen.” But she stands and slides her tailored jacket to the floor regardless and turns to Lizzie to unhook her tight A-line skirt.

She’s wearing a neat embroidered blouse in white silk with a Haskell jet necklace around her creamy throat, and she slowly unbuttons the shirt and lets it float to the ground, virgin white amongst the bible-blacks of her discarded outer clothing. She’s still in the heels, even more dagger-like now that she’s almost nude, and a black long-line brassiere and matching panty-girdle, jet suspenders holding up her sheer nylons.

“Naked enough for you?” she asks but Lizzie shakes her head. It’s been a long time since Tom fled over the state line and the beast within her is hungry. Ravenously hungry.

The woman smiles. “Don’t think that this will be a habit,” she warns as she reaches for the front fastener on her bra and parts it like a hinged shell, her large and excited tits tumbling out like a cream waterfall. They’re big, but long and heavy, not spherical and melon-shaped like Mabel Desmond’s kissable udders, and they droop a little when free, but Lizzie really likes them. And the big puckered nipples are like dark loganberries, deep purple-black in hue, and there are even a few downy hairs around the areolas.

“Naked enough now?” she asks but still Lizzie shakes her head. Lizzie wants cunt and nothing else will do.

“You’d better be worth this...” the woman threatens as she unfastens her stockings but doesn’t take them down, simply letting them ride down her creamy white thighs and settle there. Then she steps momentarily out of her heels before turning her back on Lizzie and wriggling out of the girdle, her ass small and neat with pert cheeks and a deep cleft.

“Now?” she says, not turning yet, but stepping back into her shoes, one stocking at her thigh, the other round her calf.

But Lizzie doesn’t answer and leans over instead to kiss that cute little butt, inhaling the intoxicating scent of perfume and excited pussy as she takes her Mistress firmly by the hips and turns her round, coming face to face with the most delicious cunt she has ever beheld.

Naked, the older woman is a symphony in creams and ecru, elongated, almost conical breasts with dark rubbery nipples the colour of blackberries, a long tapering midriff, slightly round but firm belly, her legs shapely and beckoning, but her cunt is bold and aggressive like a strip of dark fur, fierce and challenging. And Lizzie just wants to pull her open and eat her there and then but the woman has other ideas.

“I want to suck you again,” she whispers as she pushes Lizzie back down onto the sofa and begins to feed, massaging the girl’s big full tits with skilful hands and then squeezing the dark claret-red teats and making the milk squirt out, hungrily licking where it falls.

Lizzie’s groaning and begging to have her pussy groped, but the woman still holds resolute. “Do it to yourself while I suck you,” she implores. “Rub your big stiff clit for me while I feed, then come as I nibble and bite on your big engorged nipples.”

And Lizzie groans. Nods. Begins to masturbate. Hard. Not just lightly on the clit like she does silently in bed each night, but with a desperate fingers-in rhythm, pushing in and out, hard, into her wet slippery crack. And comes like a schoolgirl, too, within a minute, feels the woman biting on nipples her as she falls into a pit of nothingness, sinks, surfaces, and then sinks again.

***

Lizzie thinks that she must have come three or four times by now, but she’s not counting. What she really wants is to get her tongue into the woman’s cunt and lick her out, suck hard on her big sticky clitoris and make her come too. She knows what pussy tastes like. The ever-obliging Mabel had been quite willing to have her fat and furry snatch eaten, and had proved more than happy to lick Lizzie’s cunt for her in return, the two of them entwined like a serpent eating its own tail in the warm and fragrant hayloft of her mother’s old barn.

And the woman finally seems to be thinking along similar lines but still keeps herself under control. “I don’t normally let anyone touch my glory hole,” she whispers, leaning back on the cool leather, her big nipples like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked, her belly a series of little creases, legs ever so slightly apart, cunt hinting at pleasures to come. “But you’ve worn away my resistance and I need you to make me come.”

“Sure thing,” Lizzie smiles, making to get right down there, but the woman halts her and pushes her back to the sofa, watching her big tits rising and falling, still leaking milk.

“No, not like that,” she chides. “I like it slow and gentle. And no tongues, just fingers.”

Lizzie nods. A little disappointed. But she can do slow. Especially as she’s come a few times already.

The woman’s hands are on her stomach now, stroking in ever descending circles, and Lizzie lies back to enjoy it. Her pussy, like everything else, has grown bigger in the last year, now boasting a nice plump mound and big protruding lips. And, though her soft silky fur is still very blonde in colour it’s grown longer and thicker, curling down onto her buttery thighs and creeping inwards towards her ass crack.

“What a lovely big clitty you’ve got,” the woman exclaims as she starts to stroke Lizzie’s pudenda and spies her hot girl-cock sticking up like a beacon between her slippery wet flanges.

Lizzie nods in agreement, wriggling her horny ass in desperation and the woman almost laughs. “Oh, alright, you can touch me,” she concedes. “But slowly now. We’re not men,” she says with what passes for a grin on her austere features.

And Lizzie nods again and reaches for her, very gently, and traces the contours of her face and neck, before sliding down, very softly, and running her tiny hands under the woman’s big low-hanging breasts, then sliding up and round to play with the rubbery nipples.

The woman lets out something halfway between a gasp and a sigh and their eyes meet for a long moment before they finally kiss. Softly, but full of restrained fire, not like the woman’s hungry suckling at Lizzie’s tits, or the desperate mouth-to-mouth resuscitation kisses of Mabel, but with a mature urgency, the kind of kiss that says I-love-you far more than words can ever say, the kind of kiss that promises complete and total surrender. And gets it.

And now the woman has wet her fingers and started to circle them round and round Lizzie’s big clit, making the girl catch her breath and moan, but she keeps the pace slow and steady, letting the pressure drop every time she feels her lover start to tighten up ready to climax, and so Lizzie runs a cautious hand down her Mistress’ thigh and begins to explore.

Lizzie’s cunt is all out there on display, with heavy protruding labia and an obvious clit, but the older woman’s cooch is more secretive. She’s slim for her years, but her pussy boasts a fat mound and thick pubic hair that’s tough and wiry, like animal fur, but her cunt is like a tight clam with a deep but secretive slit that only hints of the pink delights waiting for Lizzie’s insistent fingers to gently prise open like an oyster and get all wet.

“I’m ready,” the woman whispers, leaning in for another mind-blowing kiss. “Do what you will with me, split me open, stoke my clit, push your fingers deep into my hot dark hole. Make me come and come and come!”

And Lizzie does. Gently, but firmly, she parts her lover’s legs until her pussy is all vulnerable and ready to be touched. Then she traces the invisible contours of her thighs, getting closer and closer, just touching the woman’s unruly bush and no more, the hair electric on her curious fingers.

“My mama had an old Tom cat with fur like this,” she whispers. “I used to just sit a-stroking him in the sun and make him purr.”

“You’re certainly making me purr,” the woman admitted. “Have you stroked lots of pussies before mine?”

Lizzie shook her head and smiled. “Just my own. And my friend Mabel’s. She doesn’t have as much fur as you, but she sure tastes sweet when she comes.”

“All this coarse hair doesn’t bother you?” the woman asked, not so much insecure as curious, as Lizzie’s fingers found her slit and slipped inside.

“No, Ma’am,” Lizzie whispered, up close, the milk from her fecund tits dribbling down the other woman’s ivory skin. “It don’t bother me at all. In fact, it’s making me quite hot.”

“My late husband used to make me shave it all off,” the woman gasped as Lizzie stretched her tight crack open and finally exposed all her inner lips, her big swollen clit like a cashew nut soaked in maple syrup. “He was a photographer before he went into the motion picture business and we produced nude postcards of me and my friends for the troops coming home from the war. Art studies, he used to call them. Though there wasn’t much art in what we were doing...”

“Feel my pussy while you tell me,” Lizzie gasped, her fingers going in deep and then sliding back up, slippery as eels, getting to work on that big lazy clit. “Feel how wet your story’s making me...”

“We started making our own movies in nineteen-twenty,” the woman went on, one hand on Lizzie’s breast, still squeezing milk, the other creeping up her thigh and heading for the honey hole. “At first we’d just strip and show a little tit and ass, but the burlesque houses had live girls who did that and they wanted more. So we did what most States wouldn’t let you do on a live stage. Took off everything. Opened our legs. Touched each other...”

“Like you’re touching me now?”

“Pretty much...”

“And you didn’t like it?”

“No, I liked it fine. I always liked it, strutting my stuff for the camera. Peeling all my pretty girlfriends like fresh peaches and tasting all their sweet cooches, that was heaven. It was only when my husband had the bright idea of bringing in men to fuck us and one didn’t take proper care with me. Left me in the family way and suddenly my beloved didn’t want to have me in his movies any more.”

“What did you do?” Lizzie groaned as the woman’s long pianist’s fingers slid up and down her wetness and began to flick at her hot hard clit.

“Waited till my tits were as full and milky as yours are now. Then I made my own movie, not cheesecake for the burlesque boys, but a real milky-tit movie for the real men. The men with the money to pay for what they wanted to see in a private show with no rules...”

“And do you still make moves?”

The woman smiled her thin smile. “Not for a while,” she said thoughtfully. “But maybe it’s time to think about another one...”

Lizzie smiled and kissed her. Soft at first, like dandelion down in the breeze, but building up to a hot hard embrace as she rubbed hard at her lover’s stiff clit. “I’ll be in your movie for you if that’s what you want. Or just let you suck my big hot tits. But right now I only want you to think about me as I take you to heaven. You ready to go?”

“Oh yes, I’m ready,” the woman groaned. “I was ready in the car when I first tasted your honeysuckle-sweet milk and touched your hot and horny tits in the dark!”

“Then let’s come,” Lizzie whispered, surrendering herself to the pent-up pressure deep within her and feeling both their bodies start to convulse.

“Yes, let’s,” moaned the woman, kissing Lizzie hard, her nail’s raking down the snow-white slope of her back as they both began to scream...