Chapter Two

The Twins

 

 

 

The master summoned me to the library just after tea. “Come in, Mary,” he called in response to my shy knock. I could not help but wonder what he wanted with me, merely a downstairs maid, the least of his great household.

“You asked to see me, sir?” I curtseyed as gracefully as I could.

“Yes, Mary.” He did not rise from his armchair by the hearth. “Come here, Mary, and stand before me.”

I did as he bid me, trembling a little, for his voice was cold and severe. He looked me up and down, as I stood there with my eyes on the figured carpet.

“Mary,” he said at last. “Are you happy here?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I exclaimed. “Very happy.”

“Then why do you steal from me?” he asked sternly.

“Steal from you, sir? Nay, I would never do such a thing!” I dared to look at him, and saw a strange light burning in his eyes.

“Cook tells me that you have been rifling the pantry while the house is asleep, stealing the choicest delicacies and hiding them in your room.”

“What, sir? Why would I steal food? The provisions here are far better than I’ve had in any other house, wholesome and plentiful.” Indignant in my innocence, I held his gaze. “To be honest, sir, I believe that Cook is envious of me, though why she should be so I cannot tell. Always she gives me the most unpleasant tasks, and never does she have a kind word for me.”

“Hmm,” he said, stroking his beard. “I almost believe you. You are quite sure, Mary, that you are not telling me falsehoods to save your skin?”

“Of course not, sir! You and the Mistress have been very good to me since I entered your service two months hence. I would never lie to you.”

“Still, Mary, I must punish you. If I do not, Cook will be so grouchy that she will poison us all with lumpy soups and undercooked roasts. I believe you, Mary, but nevertheless you must be punished.”

He reached behind the chair and retrieved a wicked-looking bundle of birch switches. “Turn around, lift your skirts, and take down your drawers,” he said in an odd, strained voice.

“Please, sir, no! T’is not fair!” Tears streamed down my face, but even at my young age, I knew there was no fairness for one such as I. There were the highborn and the low, that was the nature of things, and if one of the high had a fancy to beat one of my standing, it did not matter whether the supposed culprit was guilty or not. Silent and reluctant, I obeyed his instructions. I blushed as I let my linens drop to the floor, baring my hind parts to his scrutiny. Surely this was improper, I thought, hoping wildly that my Mistress would knock on the library door and interrupt this scene. Then I remembered that she was taking tea with her mother in Knightsbridge, and my heart sank.

“Kneel on the edge of the chair,” he commanded. I knew he meant the matching armchair on the other side of the hearth. “Bend over and hold tightly to the back of the chair.”

I disposed myself as he dictated. Looking over my shoulder, I attempted one last appeal. “Please, sir, I beg you, do not birch me. I will do whatever you wish, but do not punish me unjustly.”

“I have no choice, Mary,” he said, almost sadly. “However, if you take your whipping well, I will do something nice for you afterwards.”

I crossed my arms on the back of the chair, and buried my face in them. I waited for the first sharp cut. Something seemed to delay him, though. For several minutes, there was no sound but the crackling from the hearth. A draft swept between my naked thighs, and I shivered a little, from suspense as much as cold.

Finally he spoke, almost in a whisper. “You have a lovely bum, Mary,” he said, then slashed the switches across my bare bottom.

I cried out loud.

“Hush, Mary, hush,” said the Master. “We cannot have you rousing the whole staff. This is a private matter, between you and me.”

I wondered at this, given his insistence that my punishment was required to preserve household peace. Still, ever dutiful and observant, I bit my lip and struggled to obey.

It was indeed painful, but not as bad as I had expected. I could feel each flexible rod lay a stinging track across my skin, sharp and bright like little needles. Afterwards, though, a kind of glow came over me, as if I were warming my poor bottom at a nice fire.

Nevertheless, I could not help but jerk and squirm with each of his strokes. This seemed to inflame him, for he rained blows upon me, faster and harder, the more I moved.

All my nether parts were on fire. They pulsed hot and raw, but I blush to admit that I did not wish him to stop. There was something strangely exciting about the circumstances, my cheeks exposed and open to his gaze, my now-willing adherence to his bizarre instructions. I will be the perfect servant, I thought to myself, a little giddy. I will do what my Master bids, no matter how strange it may seem.

At last he stopped. I could hear him breathing heavily, as if from great exertion. Then I jumped, for I felt his hands stroking my bare arse.

“Good, Mary. You are a very good girl.” He lightly brushed his fingers over the welts that I knew crisscrossed my nakedness. “I believe that you are innocent of any wrong doing, and I apologize for beating you.” Another surprise assaulted my senses; my master had knelt behind me and was tracing my stripes with his rough, wet tongue.

I would be untruthful if I claimed that this was unwelcome to me. For indeed, his mouth on my scored flesh was wonderfully soothing, and more. It set up that aching hungriness that I sometimes feel between my legs, late at night when I am in my bed. Then I turn over on my stomach and push my palms against that secret, furred place, pressing through my nightdress until I find some relief, while Priscilla, the upstairs maid, snores beside me.

It was the same now, but much stronger. I sighed softly, and without realizing what I was doing, pushed my hips back toward my master. He seemed to understand that he had succeeded in exciting my passion.

“Ah, Mary, you enjoy that, don’t you?”

I was silent, blushing with shame.

“Do not worry, my dear, I will not hurt you. I told you that I would do something nice for you, and I shall.”

Before I could protest or reply, he pulled the globes of my buttocks apart, and thrust his tongue deep into my cunny. I thought I would faint with delight. He flicked his tongue rapidly in and out, almost like a serpent—as I thought later. Then he fastened his whole mouth on that dark, moist crevice, lapping and sucking until I lost all control. As I spent myself, he licked greedily, as if my juices were the most delicious of wines. I sank exhausted onto the leather upholstery, my skirts tangled around me. After a moment, the Master raised me up, his hand under my chin. “You are special,” he told me, his voice kind. “You are obedient and good, but you also have a voluptuous spirit.” My cheeks burned and I hung my head. “No, my dear, do not be ashamed. Be grateful, for you will have a better life than your proper and virtuous sisters.”

“Now, there is one more service I require of you. I trust that you will not find it too distasteful.”

I watched, horrified, as he unfastened the buttons on his britches.

“As you can see, administering to your carnal needs has left me quite aroused.” He spoke the truth. His member sprang from his clothing, rigid and flushed with blood. “I must ask your assistance in allaying this unseemly desire, before my dear wife returns from her afternoon jaunt.”

I am sure he read the fear in my eyes. I knew of too many maidservants undone, cast out of doors alone and in shame, bearing their master’s unborn child. “Fear not, sweet Mary,” he said, smiling. “I shall not get you with child, nor will I take your virginity, if you have it still.

“Undo your waist and your corset, so that I may see your breasts.”

I did as he requested, not completely unwilling. I knew that I had pretty titties.

“Lovely,” he murmured, stroking his hand up and down his swelling tool. “Now, back on the chair. I will not pierce your maidenhood, my sweet, but by Heaven, I will spend myself in your tight little arse.”

 

A knock on her office door brought Miranda back to the here and now. She had been lost, uncharacteristically, in the manuscript, a classic piece from the collection of the British Museum. There were no annotations, no commentary, on the photocopied pages. Her laptop, neglected, had turned itself off to save power. She sighed and shook her head as if to clear away the lascivious images.

“Come in,” she called, wondering who it could be. She often worked on Saturdays, precisely because the department was deserted and she could read and write undisturbed.

The grizzled head of Harold Scofield poked through the door. “Hello, Miranda. I am sorry to intrude, but I have someone to whom I would like to introduce you.”

Miranda smiled to herself—her genial thesis advisor always sounded like a grammar textbook. The gray-bearded figure in suspenders bustled in, followed by an attractive young man in dark-framed eyeglasses.

“Miranda, I would like to present Mark Anderson, our new lecturer. Mark will be handling the Dickens course for the summer session. Mark, this is Miranda Cahill, my most promising graduate student.” Miranda blushed, and Dr. Scofield’s eyes twinkled. “Miranda has chosen a rather controversial topic for her thesis, a new interpretation of the corpus of Victorian erotica.”

The newcomer’s polite smile expanded to a grin. “Really. That’s fascinating. Sounds far more—stimulating—than my dissertation on the metaphorical significance of orphans in Dickens and his contemporaries.”

Miranda’s blush deepened as she noted the double entendre. She met his teasing gaze, almost defiantly. “Yes, it is an intriguing topic, and I believe one of considerable literary and social significance, as well.” He had thick, dark hair, slightly tousled. His eyes behind the glasses were velvety brown with glints of gold. In his face, she saw intelligence, energy and humor.

“Miranda has championed an unusual theory, that the explosion of sexually oriented writing during the latter half of the nineteenth century was a reflection of actual practices, rather than a reaction against repressive public morals.” Her advisor appeared to be enjoying the role of agent provocateur. “She believes that the detailed accounts of sexual adventure and aberration published during the era chronicled real experiences, not merely fantasies.”

“Hmm.” Their bespectacled companion looked both amused and interested. “What evidence do you have to support this proposition?”

“Well, to begin with,” said Miranda, automatically adopting an academic tone, “a significant fraction of these writings are first person accounts. And a surprising number are related from a woman’s perspective. If this were primarily a literature of fantasy and titillation, I would expect a male point-of-view to dominate, as it does in modern pornography.” Miranda was encouraged to see that her audience listened attentively and gave due consideration to her points.

“Secondly, these tales are full of real-world details and commentary that would be superfluous and even distracting in fictional erotica. The protagonists discuss social issues such as poverty, child abuse, oppression of the lower classes, things that can only detract from a work intended as escapist fantasy. Even a hack pornographer knows better than to mention the unpleasant or the mundane, illegitimate pregnancies, unpaid bills, rising damp. Yet references to such items are common in the corpus.

“Finally, I find in many of these writings a thoughtfulness that conflicts with the conventions of the pornographic genre. The narrators are engaged in a wide variety of sexual activities, which are described in vivid and provocative detail. At the same time, in many cases, they reflect on their own desires and behaviors, sometimes justifying themselves in the face of the official morality, sometimes castigating themselves for weakness and sinfulness. Either way, there is a psychological depth that would be redundant in fictional erotica.”

“So, what you are saying,” interposed Mark with a grin, “is that a fictional character would simply go ahead and bugger his maid, whereas an individual writing a clandestine diary would spend some time and effort wondering why he wanted to bugger his maid, before he got around to actually doing it?”

“No, no, that’s not it at all!” Miranda, embarrassed and flustered, wondered if the new instructor had been reading her manuscript over her shoulder. Her eyes flashed. “You’re not willing to take me seriously, any more than the submission review committee for the Association for Modern Literature!”

“Now, Miranda,” soothed her advisor. “Mark was just teasing you.”

Looking again at the attractive stranger, Miranda saw that Scofield was telling the truth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Mark held out his hand like a peace offering. “I really am delighted to meet you. I think your theory is unconventional and provocative, but who knows, it might actually be true.” His skin was cool and dry, the pressure of his fingers firm and confident. “Let me take you out for coffee, and you can tell me more about what your research has turned up thus far.” As he released her hand, he brushed his fingers lightly against her palm.

The secret, sensual gesture terrified her. Miranda found herself reacting as she so often did in the presence of a man who desired her. She felt herself tense, contract, her fears and uncertainties condensing into a dense, cold knot under her solar plexus. Her face was stiff and wooden as she tried to smile. “Thank you, but I can’t right now. I have an incredible amount of work to get done.”

“Diligent, industrious Miranda,” her advisor scolded her lightly. “You need to take more time for yourself. It is Saturday, after all.”

“Thanks, but I need to work harder. I need more evidence to support my theory. Deeper study, of a larger number of texts.”

“Please…” Mark began, disappointment plain in his voice. Then he saw clearly that she would not be swayed. “Well, maybe another time.” He smiled so warmly that the icy knot thawed slightly. “I definitely would like to get to know you better, Miranda.”

After they left, Miranda sank back into her chair and put her face in her hands. Her reactions were crazy and inconsistent. On the one hand, she nervously rejected the attentions of an attractive, educated, appealing man like Anderson. And on the other—she could not bring herself to review the events of the previous night, but she was acutely and uncomfortably aware that she had acted outrageously. She had coupled like an animal, unthinking and uncontrolled, with a stranger who had no face. Then she had run away, stealing someone else’s coat to cover her nakedness, not even ashamed.

She had awakened the next morning, forgetful at first. Only as she’d stood in the shower, the hot stream coursing over her body, had she begun to recall the night’s adventures. Her vagina had been tender and sore. The water had made her buttocks sting—looking over her shoulder, she’d found that her skin was marked with the red traces of fingernails. When she’d emerged and seen the trench coat draped over the chair, the full memory had assaulted her.

For a moment, it had been if she were back again in the alcove, blind, sweaty, moaning, impaled upon the exquisite hardness of her unknown companion. She’d sunk down on the bed, her eyes closed, panting, dizzy. Soon, though, she’d pushed the images away, too disturbed to consider their implications. She’d rifled through the pockets of the raincoat, seeking some clue to identify its owner. All she’d found was an enigmatic business card.

It was expensive, textured stock, with crimson text printed on a black background. The Fantasy Factory, it read, in angular modern script, with a telephone number below. That was all. No name, no address. Only the number, with a local city code.

She had packed up the coat and sent it back to the disco by courier, with an anonymous, apologetic note. Hopefully, the coat’s owner would inquire at the club and have the garment returned to him. Or to her. Miranda realized that the garment was equally appropriate for either sex. She found herself wondering about this individual, this stranger with whom her life had obliquely intersected.

She had kept the card.

Miranda tried to return to her reading, but she couldn’t concentrate. She kept hearing Mark Anderson’s voice, affectionate and mocking. At last she gave up, shoveled her books, notes and computer into her backpack, and headed across the river to Beacon Hill. I’ll read some more tonight, she told herself, but right now I need a break.

She decided to drop her heavy bag off at the apartment she and Lucy shared. There was a message from her roommate on the answering machine.

“Hey, Miranda. I just wanted you to know I’m fine, and that you shouldn’t worry about me. I’m here at Ray’s place, and he is taking very good care of me…” Lucy’s voice trailed off into giggles, as if she were being tickled by an unseen companion, then composed itself again. “See you in a few days. By the way, help yourself to anything of mine you want to wear. You looked sensational last night.” There were more giggles. “Bye!” She hung up abruptly.

Miranda felt a bit envious. She wished, sometimes, that she had Lucy’s casual, comfortable attitude toward sex. Still, she was glad that she would have the apartment to herself for a while. She needed some time to sort out her feelings before telling Lucy about her experiences in the disco.

Miranda’s tomcat, Heathcliff, lay curled on her bed, a compact mass of ginger fur. He opened one eye reproachfully as she dumped her backpack on the coverlet, annoyed at being disturbed, but he quickly settled back into purring repose when she scratched him behind his ears. She left him on guard while she went out for a walk.

Miranda felt delightfully free as she strolled down Charles Street, enjoying the afternoon. It was only May, but already the trees were in full leaf, dappling the brick sidewalks with patterns of shadow. Girls passed her in tank tops and shorts, legs and arms bare and already burnished with sun. She felt warm in her long-sleeved pullover and overalls.

She loved this district, with its historic buildings and narrow lanes. Most of the townhouses dated from the middle of the nineteenth century. They offered a delightful jumble of architectural detail—wrought-iron balconies, fanlight transoms, stained glass, mullioned windows, Corinthian columns. Many of the brick-fronted buildings were draped with ivy. Some were traversed by aged trunks as thick as her wrist, twining around doors up to the many-chimneyed roofs. The tall windows offered glimpses of chandeliers, Oriental carpets, Siamese cats, and bookshelves that stretched floor to ceiling.

In Beacon Hill, gas lamps lined all the streets, burning day and night. Her own apartment looked out on a private alley, flanked by ivy-hung brick walls and lit by gas lights. Miranda appreciated the irony of her living in an environment that dated from the same period as her research. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, I had a previous life as a Victorian matron.

Most of Beacon Hill was residential, but Charles Street was lined with shops and cafés. There were many vendors of books and antiquities. Miranda loved to rummage through the crowded, chaotic shops, savoring the atmosphere of the past, although she rarely made a purchase.

She entered one of these places now, a dim, comfortable space half below street level. She had to duck her head as she entered. A silvery bell tinkled to announce her arrival.

The proprietor, an energetic, fussy old man with wire spectacles, knew her by sight. “Hello, hello,” he said as he emerged from a backroom. “Can I help you find anything today?”

Miranda smiled. “No, thank you. I’m just browsing at the moment.”

“Well, if I can be of any assistance, just let me know.”

Miranda wandered happily through the shop. It was much larger than it first appeared, with several rooms stretching backward into the building. The front room, near the street, was crowded with furniture of obsolete categories, armoires, commodes, carved dressing tables surmounted by triple mirrors. There were other rooms with porcelain, jewelry, cutlery, iron fittings, tarnished brass. Finally, Miranda found herself in the book room.

Books were piled everywhere, in boxes, on shelves, in pillars that reached up from the middle of the floor. Although most were in English, Miranda noticed volumes in French, Russian, and Arabic. The room was veiled in dust, but Miranda did not mind. She loved the rich smell of the leather bindings, the tarnished gold embossing, the fragile texture of the old paper.

Rummaging through a box of miscellaneous tomes, she made her find—a leather-bound diary, about the size of a modern paperback book. There was a brass lock, crusted with verdigris, but it was broken. The leather strap that had sealed the diary shut now flapped about ineffectually.

The paper was wonderful, thick and ivory-toned. Miranda rifled through the heavy pages, which turned lazily under her fingers. She found no sign that the diary had ever been used.

Miranda wondered about the age of the volume. She held it to her nose, smelled oiled leather but no mildew. The cover was plain, save for a manufacturer’s imprint too small for her to read in the dim shop.

She wanted it, suddenly, knew that she had to have it no matter what the cost. She made her way back to the front of the shop, where the proprietor sat behind his desk.

“How much are you asking for this?” she asked, trying to sound offhand.

The little man took the diary and turned it over and over in his hands. “A hundred dollars,” he finally said.

Miranda knew she would pay that, if she had to, but something made her object. “A hundred? That’s outrageous! There’s no text, so it has no historical value.”

The shop owner pursed his lips firmly. “It dates from the eighteen-eighties,” he said. “This is a real antique.”

“The lock is broken,” Miranda insisted. “And corroded. I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

The watery blue eyes behind the wire frames looked at her fixedly. She stared back, unfazed. Finally, he shrugged. “All right, fifty dollars. It has been in my collection for years. It’s about time that I got rid of it.”

Miranda felt inordinately pleased with herself as she took her prize back to her apartment.

She put the diary on her bedstand and sat down at her desk, determined to work. She felt somehow uncomfortable returning to the text from A Maid’s Tale, so instead she started reviewing and organizing her notes on other manuscripts. For several hours, she doggedly tried to make progress, but her thoughts were scattered.

Heathcliff sat on the corner of her desk as he often did when was working, his owl-like eyes unblinking as he watched her shuffle papers and scribble notations. Normally he didn’t distract her, but now she found his unrelenting intensity a bit unsettling.

Restless, she prowled around the apartment. Dusk was falling. Her senses felt stretched, amplified. She could hear a dog bark half a block away, smell the garlic being fried by her Vietnamese neighbors upstairs. She threw open the window to the alley and leaned out, breathing the soft, fragrant spring air. Spring fever, she thought, but she knew this was a fever of another kind.

Finally, she gave in, picked up the card she had found in the raincoat, and dialed the number. She held her breath while the line rang once, twice, three times. She was about to put down the receiver, almost with a sense of relief, when the line was picked up.

It was a recorded message, a melodious, controlled female voice. “Welcome to the Fantasy Factory, where you can build adventures from your dreams. We offer an exciting, safe environment where adults can explore, and fulfill, their fantasies.” Miranda listened, learned that Wednesdays were fetish nights, Fridays for couples only, Saturdays and Sundays open to all. She noted the address, in an industrial area on the fringes of the city, then hung up. She was breathing heavily.

Almost as if she were sleepwalking, she drifted into Lucy’s room and opened her closet.

 

* * * *

 

Just after nine p.m., she emerged from a taxi in front of a massive brick building, lit by spotlights at each corner. The rest of the neighborhood appeared to be derelict, abandoned warehouses and chain link fences. American Tool and Die Company, read the huge faded letters just below the roof. Much smaller, in purple neon above the old loading dock, she read, The Fantasy Factory.

The loading dock door was hung with strips of rubber. She made her way through and found herself in a red-lit anteroom. An exquisite Asian woman with hair to her waist sat behind a chrome desk. The woman wore a mask. When she spoke, Miranda heard traces of an accent.

“Welcome to the Fantasy Factory,” she said, “where everything is permitted, and anything is possible. Is this your first visit with us?”

Miranda nodded nervously. The woman handed her a mask, and kissed her on the cheek. “You will enjoy yourself,” she said softly, her lips just inches from Miranda’s ear.

“Why the masks?” asked Miranda.

“Anonymity,” the hostess replied. “Privacy. But that is not all. Donning a mask can free you, to be someone else, or perhaps more truly, to be yourself.”

“Now,” she said, holding aside a velvet curtain, “enter, and enjoy.”

Miranda pulled on the black silk domino and stepped through the archway, at once eager and reluctant.

She found herself in a cavernous space, three or four stories high. The décor was industrial chic. A network of huge steel beams crisscrossed the ceiling, hung from the beams on heavy chains were several massive chandeliers that appeared to be fashioned of old tires. Flickering red bulbs embedded in the rubber lit the scene with a rosy, irregular glow. The far reaches of the room remained in shadow. There was music, something electronic—synthesizers swelled from throbbing lows to ethereal highs.

Miranda took another hesitant step forward. The room was occupied by perhaps a hundred people, women, men, and individuals of indeterminate gender. Some danced, some embraced, some lounged on low couches that lined one wall. Some were clothed, often in elegant evening dress, but many were naked, or effectively so. Miranda watched a lovely woman with long platinum hair glide past, wearing only her mask and a transparent black veil knotted around her neck. A burly man in a leather jockstrap met the blonde in the middle of the floor. Laughing, he flung her over his shoulder and headed for one of the couches.

Miranda felt a little thrill at this interaction. Still, this was only one of the erotic tableaux displayed before her. The light was dim, but even with the shadows she could see the voluptuous form of a woman stretched out on a low table a dozen feet away. She lay on her back, thighs eagerly clasping a giant of a man who was pounding her with his cock. Meanwhile, another, slighter male figure straddled her face, offering his pulsing erection to her hungry mouth. Even as she arched her back to bury one man’s cock more deeply inside her cunt, she dug her fingernails into the other’s buttocks, seeking to swallow more of his flesh.

A wave of vertigo swept over Miranda, as if she teetered on the edge of a precipice. She tried without success to look away, while the three strained toward their climax. As if they were one animal, they bucked and shuddered, groaned and clawed at each other’s limbs. Finally, their frenzy peaked. The two men cried out. The woman arched and opened herself to their ultimate thrusts. For a moment, they lay quiet and exhausted. Semen dribbled from the woman’s slack mouth. Still, Miranda was transfixed. The penetrator knelt between his lady’s legs and kissed her deeply there, triggering moans of delight. Then, unexpectedly, he rose, circled around her, and pressed his mouth to that of his well-fellated comrade. With blunt fingertips, he fondled the other man’s muscular buttocks, clearly marked by the tracks of the woman’s nails.

Miranda was somehow more fascinated than shocked. The trio rearranged itself. The slender man lay atop the woman, his penis firmly planted in her cleft. The heavier man positioned himself behind his slighter companion. Miranda flushed hot with guilt and desire as she watched his thick rod of flesh disappear ever so slowly into the darkness between those smooth cheeks. Despite his mask, she could read ecstasy on the younger man’s face, his mouth slack, his eyes screwed shut, his hands gripping the shoulders of the woman beneath him, plowing her as he was plowed.

“Lovely,” sighed a cultured feminine voice, close to her ear. “Don’t you agree?”

Miranda whirled round, startled and embarrassed. She hadn’t realized that she had companions in her blatant voyeurism.

They were young, close to her own age, and enough alike in stature and demeanor that they could have been siblings. Both had thick brunette hair. His was brushed back from his brow, while she wore hers in a bob with blunt bangs. They were clad in black jumpsuits that highlighted every curve and swelling of their athletic bodies. Prominent nipples capped her small breasts, clearly visible through the clinging fabric. His half-engorged organ was equally obvious.

They were masked, of course. Brown eyes gleamed behind their dominos. It was their mouths, though, that captured Miranda’s attention, their ripe perfect lips inviting, sensuous, bowed in the perpetual promise of a smile.

Miranda ached to kiss those mouths, to trace their luscious curves with the tip of her tongue. She felt the ache in her throat, in her chest, in her painfully taut nipples, in the damp, hungry recesses of her womb. Her palms yearned to glide over those smooth thighs, those flat bellies. She wanted them, both of them, craved them in a visceral way that was totally new to her.

She stifled a moan, and took the hand the woman extended.

“I’m Marla,” the other woman said, her voice melodious and a bit husky. “And this is Marcus.” The young man smiled mysteriously but said nothing. “We were admiring your costume.”

It took Miranda a moment to recall the red velvet jumpsuit that she had chosen from Lucy’s wardrobe. It was defiantly flamboyant, clinging to her body like a sensuous second skin. A gold-colored zipper ran from the scoop neck down to her navel. Matching zippers adorned her wrists and ankles. She knew that the color suited her, contrasted with the hair spilling over her shoulders like a river of jet. She also knew how obvious it was that she was naked underneath the velvet. Not a shy garment, thought Miranda, but perhaps just right for tonight.

Choked with desire, she found it difficult to speak. “Thank you,” she managed, finally. “I like your outfits also.” What an understatement. “Are you twins?”

They gave identical, musical laughs. “Not exactly,” said the one called Marcus. “But we enjoy pretending.”

His voice was vaguely familiar. However, Miranda was too occupied with other concerns to wonder at this.

“Don’t you?” asked Marla, searching Miranda’s face.

The question was serious, and stopped her short. She did not know how to answer. Was she pretending, now? Was she playing at being someone else? Or was this her true self?

Marla still grasped her hand. “Come play with us,” she said sweetly, pulling Miranda toward one of the walls lined with couches.

Miranda felt sudden panic. Much as she desired them, she didn’t believe that she could bring herself to couple publicly like that threesome. Not now, not yet. Marla led her past the sofas and cushions, however, through a curtained doorway into a small, private space. Marcus followed. As they entered, Miranda felt his hands, molding her hips, cupping her buttocks. It was delightful but too brief, a flirtation, a promise.

The translucent drapery fell back into place. The three of them were alone. For a long moment they stood motionless, facing each other. What am I doing? Thought Miranda, wondering at the thud of her heart against her ribs and the swollen heat of her sex.

Then all her awkwardness and uncertainty dropped away. With her right hand, she reached for Marla, her fingers seeking the hard little nubs pushing through the elastic material. With her left, she drew Marcus to her, reveling in the sensation of his tumescence pressed against her thigh. Marla’s breast cupped in one hand, Marcus’ scrotum in the other, Miranda kissed them in turn.

Their mouths were surprisingly different. Marla’s kiss was soft, almost tentative, though she readily opened her ripe lips to the probing of Miranda’s tongue. She tasted faintly of cloves, sharp and sweet.

Marcus kissed with a fury that robbed Miranda of breath. At the touch of her lips, his opened, and he seemed to inhale her, sucking her tongue into his mouth and tangling it with his own. Meanwhile, his arm encircled her hip and pulled her more tightly against him. He ground his bulging crotch against her velvet-clad thigh, setting up sympathetic tremors in her sex.

If Marla’s kiss was a gentle invitation, Marcus’ was a challenge. Once again, a fleeting impression of familiarity rose in Miranda’s consciousness, then slipped away as hands and lips expanded and complicated the three-way caress.

Marla broke away first. Without speaking, she pulled the jumpsuit off her shoulders and wriggled out of it, somehow managing to look charming rather than clumsy.

Marla was slender, but far from boyish. Miranda could not take her eyes from the dusky rose nipples that pertly tipped the girl’s palm-sized breasts. Her skin was golden all over with a light tan. There were no pale patches. Marla’s hips swelled invitingly from a narrow waist, then down to firm, straight thighs. At their meeting point, her neatly trimmed triangle of brunette curls left Miranda feeling weak and confused.

I’ve never been attracted to women before, thought Miranda. What’s happening to me? Then an image from her past flooded her inner vision. High school, Rebecca—the minister’s wild daughter, long blonde locks flying, laughing as she danced at a party, while a younger Miranda watched from a corner, overwhelmed by a craving she could not name. So, thought Miranda, beginning to understand how little she knew her real self.

Marla raised her arms behind her head, stretching luxuriously as she lifted her thick locks away from her neck. Miranda helplessly admired Marla’s elevated and accentuated breasts, the faint, symmetrical trace of her ribs, the slight indentations of taut muscle on either side of her dimpled navel. Then Marla took hold of her own nipples, rolling them between her finger and thumb, so that they lengthened and hardened. Her eyes behind the domino were locked on Miranda’s. “Do you like what you see, darling?” she asked. “Can you see how much I want you?”

She relinquished one of her nipples and brought her palm down to brush ever so lightly over her bush. Electric shivers tingled in Miranda’s sex as she watched and imagined the other woman’s sensations. Now Marla pressed the heel of her hand against her pubis and slid her middle finger in among the curls. Miranda could clearly see its quick, oscillating movements as it teased the woman’s hidden clit. Marla’s eyes were half-closed, her ripe mouth half-open as her breathing grew more ragged.

As Miranda moaned in sympathetic arousal, a hand squeezed her tit through the velvet, and another made lazy swirls across her sex. Hot lips nibbled at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. “Marcus!” she gasped, writhing against the hard body behind her.

“At your service.” His voice was almost a whisper, close to her ear, but Miranda still caught the tone of amusement. She reached behind her, felt his warm, dry, naked skin. While she had been focused on Marla’s performance, Marcus had apparently removed his jumpsuit.

“Do you like my little sister?” He drummed his fingers against her velvet-sheathed pubis in a maddening, thrilling tattoo.

In fact his attentions distracted Miranda from his supposed sibling. He rubbed three fingers firmly back and forth across her mound, intruding ever so slightly into the space between her thighs. Almost automatically, Miranda spread her legs, allowing, inviting greater access.

Being touched through the taut fabric was both exciting and frustrating. It felt dirty and clandestine, as if she stood still while someone groped her private parts on the subway. The velvet transmitted pressure, heat, urgency. It dampened under his fingertips—she knew he couldn’t fail to notice. The deepest touches were foiled by the stretchy barrier, though she thrust herself shamelessly against his knowing hand. She craved the bareness of his flesh on hers.

As if he eavesdropped on her thoughts, Marcus stopped playing with her. Still behind her, he grasped the zipper tongue. “It is not really fair,” he said, “for you to remain dressed when we have disrobed.” One pull, and the jumpsuit sprang open to her navel. Her breasts bobbed as they were freed from confinement. Deftly Marcus caught her left nipple with one hand. The other he plunged down into the hungry wetness of her sex, stretching the fabric now from the inside.

Miranda’s knees weakened at the sudden, delicious penetration. Marcus held her up with one strong arm, pulling her against his chest while he continued to delve into the juicy space between her thighs with his other hand. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be supported, explored, ravished.

She was being drawn ever closer to the edge, her whole body trembling in concert with the throbbing in her cunt. Her masked partner played the instrument of her flesh with a virtuosity that would have astonished her, had she been less muddled by lust. He touched her in a thousand distinct and delightful ways, coaxed her toward climax then backed off, barely in contact. Her arousal smoldered, flared, subsided to burn ever hotter in the next cycle of caresses.

Amid the flood of stimulation, Miranda was startled by a new touch. Soft wetness enveloped her taut and aching nipples. She opened her eyes to see a sleek cap of dark locks. Marla half-knelt, half-crouched before her, licking and sucking at her breasts with sweet abandon. The sight, the realization, as much as the sensation, pushed Miranda past the final barrier. She clutched Marla’s shoulders, crushing the girl to her breasts as Marcus thrust all four fingers deep into her vagina and spread them wide. Sandwiched between the lascivious twins, Miranda lost all control, and for a long instant, self-consciousness, letting her body speak in its own ancient language.

When she was next aware, she was lying nude on a pile of cushions. Marla’s gentle hands brushed her tangled hair from her face. The brown eyes behind the mask held a look of concerned affection. “Are you all right, darling?” the other woman asked.

“Wonderful,” sighed Miranda. “Just a bit overwhelmed by the two of you.” She reached up impulsively, and kissed the ripe lips below the black silk mask. “Thank you.”

“What about me?” Marcus leaned forward, and she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him fiercely. Thank you, she thought, for seeing through my veil, for giving me what I really wanted.

After a long moment she released him. He stroked her breast idly with one hand. With the other he toyed with Marla’s pubic curls. He looked at her, a bit of challenge in his eyes. “You know, we still don’t know your name.”

The question caught Miranda off-guard. A twinge of something, fear, caution, embarrassment, sang through her, holding her silent for a moment. “Randi,” she said finally, grimacing inwardly as she noted the unintentional pun. “You can call me Randi.”

“Randi, we’re more than pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Marcus with a grin. His fingers ventured deeper into the tangle between Marla’s legs. She wriggled in delight and opened her thighs to his expert touch. Miranda swallowed hard at the sight of the girl’s rosy folds, swollen and glistening with the juices of lust. Her own cunt was just as wet. She fought the urge to sink her fingers into those moist depths.

As Marcus continued his probing, Marla pressed her pelvis against him, twisting and moaning. “You see how much you’ve pleased my little sister.” Suddenly he withdrew his hand from Marla’s sex, and held it to Miranda’s lips. She breathed deep, filling her nostrils with Marla’s sharp female scent. It made her dizzy. Without thought, she took Marcus’ fingers in her mouth, sucking and running her tongue over the salty, ocean-flavored skin.

“Ah, you like that.” Marcus smiled and sat back on his heels, giving Miranda a better view of his sister’s luscious body spread-eagled on the cushions. “Why don’t you taste the source? I’m sure that Marla would enjoy that.”

Something tightened inside Miranda’s chest, stopping her short. I’m not ready for that, she thought, and I don’t know what to do. Marcus sensed her discomfort. He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her briefly. “Allow me to give you a demonstration, Randi,” he said, and knelt between his sibling’s welcoming thighs.

Marla had responded enthusiastically to his manual ministrations. She became almost delirious as his tongue began to dance inside her sex, babbling and moaning. “Oh, Marcus, darling, more, more!” She grabbed his head and mashed his mouth into her crotch. “Eat me, baby, oh yes, please, harder…!” Her exhortations trailed off into inarticulate moans as her brother brought her closer and closer to the edge.

Miranda shifted so that she could watch the changing expressions on Marla’s face. The woman’s breath came in gasps. One instant her features would contort in response to some ecstatic pain. The next, a simple grin bowed her lips. Are they really brother and sister? Miranda wondered, excited by the perversity of the thought. If they are, how far do they go?

Without a conscious decision, she began to finger herself, massaging the swollen knot of her clit through the damp mat of black fur that covered her pubis. Soon this was not enough—Marla’s whimpers inflamed her. Miranda raised one knee, spreading her lower lips wide. With her thumb she rocked the hard knob of pleasure back and forth, while she plunged her fingers as deeply as she could into her vagina. Marcus looked up briefly, catching his breath, and smiled at the sight.

Marla’s breathing was harsh and labored. Her body flailed wildly against her sibling’s busy mouth. Miranda was a heartbeat or two behind in the climb to climax, and gaining. All at once, the brunette gave a wail and her whole body convulsed. As she shuddered in the throes of orgasm her eyes flew open, and fixed themselves on Miranda.

Raw lust blazed in those eyes, shocking and pure. Miranda saw, understood, felt her own lust answering. She tumbled into her climax, felt her muscles constricting her fingers as she drove them as deep as she could. No thoughts, no questions, only the unarguable truth of her own carnal nature.

When the last shudders had faded away, Miranda’s eyelids fluttered open. A new tableau confronted her, rekindling the heat between her thighs.

Marcus reclined on the cushions now, more or less in the position previously occupied by his sister. His arms were folded behind his head, his eyes were shut, and a broad smile decorated his lips. Marla knelt gracefully on one side of him. Her slender fingers danced up and down the length of his cock, which rose from his belly, magnificent and proud. The pale skin stretched taut over the swollen member, silky and inviting. In contrast, the bulb was spongy, shiny, almost purple. Marla grasped him with thumb and ring finger, just under the head, then ran her forefinger across the tip, smearing the droplet of moisture that trickled from the eye. Marcus stirred slightly, then relaxed into her hands.

Marla alternated her strokes with a skill that belied her apparent youth. First she would trace with the barest touch the pulsing veins that decorated his massive shaft. Then she would wrap her whole hand around him, squeezing until Marcus groaned aloud. While one hand worked his penis briskly, the other teased the underside of his balls, fingertips brushing lightly over the tender, wrinkled skin. In response, his rod grew still fatter and longer. He was clay in her hands, and she was the master sculptor, molding him into the perfect effigy of lust.

“I thought that Marcus deserved some attention,” Marla commented, without interrupting her ministrations. “After he was so nice to both of us.”

“Let me help,” said Miranda, moving to kneel on the other side of Marcus’ torso. He opened his eyes briefly when he sensed her presence and grinned, then settled back into happy passivity.

“Of course,” purred Marla. She was stroking him more energetically than before, and he was starting to jerk his hips in time with her motions. His rampant organ angled toward his chest. Flushed skin stretched taut, it seemed ready to burst. The knob was wet with pre-cum Miranda eyed it hungrily for a moment. Then she bent and encircled the swollen flesh with her mouth.

“Ooh…” Miranda thrilled at the sound of Marcus’ involuntary response. His skin was exquisitely soft against her lips. The steely hardness underneath was a delicious, exciting contrast. He tasted sharp, musky, a little salty. Acting on instinct, she sucked strongly, pulling more of him into her mouth,

“Yes, that’s just right,” advised Marla. “He loves to be deep-throated. Suck him hard. Take in all you can.” The other woman leaned close. Miranda caught a whiff of her woman-scent and understood that Marla was both voyeur and exhibitionist. “Oh, Randi, that’s so good,” she sighed. “Oh, yes!” Miranda felt a fluttering against her lips and realized that Marla had joined her in her sensual repast.

Try as she would, Miranda could not swallow the full length of Marcus’ cock. Marla turned her attention to the few inches at the root that remained outside the warm wetness of Miranda’s mouth. She licked at the shaft, then grazed the velvety hardness with her teeth. Marcus moaned and trembled. Miranda felt a ripple of tension traveling up through the rigid flesh and backed off, freeing more of him for Marla to devour.

The two women worked together, bringing Marcus ever closer to his peak. Miranda felt Marla’s lips often on her own. Their saliva mingled as they alternated positions, one swallowing the head, the other teasing the root. Though they were focused on their companion and his pleasure, they could not help but touch each other. Each brush of Marla’s nakedness against her own increased Miranda’s fever. Each shudder that shook Marcus’ frame made her hotter and hungrier.

Suddenly Marcus hands were on their shoulders, gently pushing them away from his cock. “You’re both fantastic,” he said, “and I am extremely tempted to give one of you a mouthful of my cum. But that would be selfish, wouldn’t it?” He grinned at them in obvious delight. “Besides, you have such a hot mouth, Randi—I’ve got to find out what it will be like to fuck your wet, horny cunt.”

His crudeness made Miranda weak. She sank back on her heels, watching Marla, who was smoothing a condom down over her sibling’s rigid flesh. He wriggled playfully. “That feels so good,” he sighed.

“But not as good as this,” she said, giving his hardness a squeeze. “Come on, Randi. He’s more than ready for you.”

Miranda needed no further invitation. On her knees, she straddled Marcus’ prone form. Marla, behind her, reached down and pulled Miranda’s labia apart, holding her open. The other woman’s touch brought Miranda to the very edge of orgasm. The sensation of Marcus’ engorged penis sliding into her swollen folds pushed her over.

She heard someone scream, and realized that it was her own voice. Her form convulsed. She fell forward against her partner’s body, jerking lewdly, grinding her cunt against him to call back echoes of her pleasure.

Her first conscious reaction was embarrassment. How selfish, how unsophisticated of her, to climax so quickly. She climbed off Marcus’ penis, blushing and suddenly shy. Then she saw that her twin lovers were both smiling indulgently. They know I am a hopeless, helpless slut, she thought, and they don’t mind. That’s what they were looking for. Still, she felt the urge to apologize.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize…” Marla silenced her with a kiss. When their tongues disengaged, Marla reached into a tote bag on the floor and extracted an object that, even in her state of arousal, made Miranda blush.

It was a strap-on dildo, a thick prong of hard, pink rubber nestled in a leather and elastic harness. Miranda swallowed hard. She had heard that women used such articles to penetrate their female lovers. However, Marla did not don the infernal contraption herself. Instead, she fastened the straps around Marcus’ hips, so that the base of the phallus rested on his pubis, just above his own rampant cock. “You see?” said Marla with a devilish smile, and, horrified and titillated, Miranda did.

“Now we can all have some fun,” said Marla. “Climb on, Randi.”

Miranda’s face burned, but that was nothing compared to the heat between her legs. Without hesitation, she positioned herself over the pink shaft, spread herself wide with her fingers, and sank down until it was buried deep inside. The juices from her recent orgasm were more than sufficient lubrication. The artificially smooth surface of the dong slid over her sensitive inner folds, still quivering from her last climax.

It felt nothing at all like a human cock. Yet it was tremendously exciting, both the sensation and the thought of what she was doing. She had almost total control. By angling her pelvis in one direction or another, she could stimulate regions of her internal anatomy that she had not known existed. Marcus lay mostly passive, but occasionally he would give an involuntary jerk, driving the artificial phallus deeper than she would have believed possible.

She moved slowly and deliberately, willing herself not to hurry after her last, precipitous climax. Marcus watched her as she humped him, eyes smoldering behind his mask. He appeared to be enjoying this as much as she was.

A stir in the air, the sensation of heat behind her—with a sigh of delight, Marla settled herself on her twin’s sheathed penis. Miranda felt the other woman’s warm breath on her neck, heard her whispers. She’s doing it, Miranda thought wildly, almost unbelieving. She’s fucking her own brother. Then sensation overwhelmed her, and Miranda stopped thinking.

“Oh, Randi! We’ve been looking for someone like you for such a long time…” Now there was silence, only groans and exclamations, as Marcus arched his back and thrust hard into both their depths.

They had found their rhythm now, the three of them, riding together toward ecstasy. Miranda felt Marla’s rigid nipples brush against her back. She reached behind her with one hand, seeking the heart of the other woman’s pleasure amidst the wet curls. She felt a surge of triumph as she found it, the slippery little button buried there, and heard Marla’s gasp of pleasure. In answer, Marla reached around and secured Miranda’s nipple between her fingers. As Miranda rubbed Marla’s clit against the hard shaft buried between her legs, Marla answered with a pinch that caused Miranda to cry out.

They were one being, like the triad in the hall outside, thrusting and answering, teasing and tormenting each other, each pulling the others along on the upward climb. The curtained room smelled of sweat and sex. Miranda worked Marla’s clit with one hand, while she squeezed the base of Marcus’ penis with other. Marla’s finger slid provocatively between the wet cheeks of Miranda’s buttocks, a mere suggestion, but enough to send Miranda into a frenzy of fear and desire. Marcus had two fingers inside Miranda, alongside the dildo, stretching her to the edge of pain and over into pleasure. Unable to help herself, she climaxed again, urged on by Marcus’ surging hips and his sister’s sweet wails.

They finally lay together, sticky, sated and exhausted, covering each other’s flesh with languid kisses. Miranda’s mind was working again, and she struggled with conflicting emotions.

“Will you give us your phone number, Randi?” asked Marla softly, tracing the line of Miranda’s shoulder with her tongue. “We would so love to see you again.”

“I—I don’t think so.” Miranda began, feeling selfish and ungrateful, but terrified at the thought of them becoming a part of her life.

“Here, take ours, then.” Marla extracted a card from her bag. Miranda took it without looking at it. “This has my cell phone number. You can call me anytime.”

“And maybe we’ll see you again here at the Fantasy Factory,” said Marcus smoothly, mouthing one of her still-throbbing nipples.

Miranda wriggled in involuntary pleasure, and pushed her mind back into the background. “Perhaps,” she said. Deep down, though, she knew she was lying. If she were to encounter them again, she would be cold and unresponsive. Because now, they were no longer strangers.