Underworlds: Tales of Paranormal Lust - Various

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me and her bounteous breasts hang down like ripe and tantalising fruit. Her hands move with sureness and strength, and now my hole puts up no more resistance. Not even when her fingers make way for that unwomanly member and it pushes into me, as the footsoldiers of an army stand aside for the triumphal entry of their general into the conquered city.

      ‘Oh,’ she says in awe. ‘That feels wonderful!’

      I expect her to ravish me cruelly, but she does not lose control. Her conquest of my ass is thorough and measured. She leaves no inch unplundered, yet she is merciful. Though beads of sweat spring out upon her breastbone, she keeps kneading my cock in her strong fingers, forcing me to own my pleasure. Her hand and her cock move in unison, until a groan is wrenched from my chest: a groan so deep that a roof-joist overhead cracks. I grab my knees with my hands and spread wider for her. Her face blurs over mine. I am losing the will to deny her. I am forgetting to hate. I want her cock inside me, deeper and deeper. I want her hands mastering my cock, forcing me to the bright and glorious moment of surrender.

      That is when I come, spurting my quicksilver seed the whole length of my torso, roaring my release. The metallic liquid runs across my ribs and belly, evaporating in the desert air almost instantly. By the time I catch my breath there is nothing left. Only my ass carries on clenching rhythmically around her shaft.

      Bilqis licks her lips. ‘Most impressive,’ she says huskily. Her face is flushed and her eyes bright, and I realise that she has not yet reached her own climax, even as she adds, ‘But I fear that a woman’s body is more to my taste.’

      For a moment I misconstrue her meaning. ‘Shall I change you back, mistress?’

      ‘I mean, a woman’s body beneath mine. Change, djinni.’

      My eyes widen. ‘Impossible!’ I rasp.

      ‘Nonsense. If you can get that big, brawny body down inside a lamp, you can change its shape in lesser ways. Do it.’

      So I do. Burning with shame, I do. I become female, my bones and flesh flowing into new shapes; my waist narrowing, my hips flaring, breasts swelling to cushiony softness upon my chest. My cock vanishes. I lie before her as the most beautiful of djinniyahs, the colour of sky. Sensation chases over my whole body, every inch of my new skin thrilling with strangeness. My heart is pounding. No one has ever done this to me. No one has ever made me feel like this.

      And all the time she stays balls-deep in my ass.

      ‘Oh,’ says she. ‘Yes.’ To my amazement, that cock of hers – which I had already thought so hard and big – swells even further inside me. She stoops with a groan to mouth at my breasts; I discover that they are exquisitely sensitive. I have no length of my own any more, but she manages to get her hand into my open sex, caressing its slipperiness even as she starts to ram me deep and fast.

      I realise quite suddenly that that part of me is teardrop-shaped – just like a lamp; with a deep well of oil and a burning flame at the tip.

      My mistress rubs it, and I come at her command.

      Katie

      Angela Caperton

       Katie bit Lionel’s shoulder through the tweed jacket, his hand under her petticoat, on her thigh, igniting new sensations. Mary never told her about the tiny bubbles that filled her blood and muscles wherever he touched her. She pressed her hips against his, the proud bulge that filled so sweetly the hollow created by her lifted leg. He kissed her, urgent, his ardour more palpable than any cool kiss to the hand. Three days. It had only been three days, but Katie knew he was the one. They burned, they lined up so nicely. She freed his cock with knowing fingers, smeared the pearl of his desire over the head and guided him into her. An explosion of pleasure surged through her. This was life, this glorious acceptance of ecstasy and need.

       This was all she had ever wanted.

       This was what she had lived for.

      * * *

      Jenny fought to still her breath when she first met Dr William Loomis. Words formed on her lips, though they did not arise from her own will.

      ‘It is my honour to meet you, doctor. I hope to repay your attentions with my ardour.’

      Katie’s voice. How strange to hear the spirit speak in a lighted room with no prayers, no music, no faith to summon her. Jenny braced herself for whatever might follow the uncommon manifestation.

      Dr Loomis took Jenny’s hand, his fingers firm and warm. She thought at first he meant to kiss it, but instead he found her pulse and measured her with his touch.

      ‘Your heart is beating very fast, Miss Sullivan,’ he said.

      Again, it was not Jenny who answered him, but Katie’s teasing tone. ‘I am eager to show you all that I can do.’

      Dr Loomis exchanged a significant look with Uncle Hughie. ‘I suppose, if you do not object to remaining awhile, Morton, we can run a test or two.’

      ‘Here?’ Uncle Hughie indicated the doctor’s drawing room, warmly lit by gas lamps and the filtered sunlight of afternoon.

      ‘Of course not. In the examining room.’

      ‘For a full materialisation, a cabinet is best.’

      ‘We won’t attempt anything so grand today, Morton, but, if Miss Sullivan has something to show me, I would hardly be a gentleman if I refused.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, doctor.’ Jenny’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. Her words rushed out with truth and an invitation to believe. ‘It wasn’t me that offered. It was Katie.’

      ‘Indeed?’ Dr Loomis pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Heat bloomed between them like wax under a seal. ‘I do not believe you are feverish. You truly mean it was your spirit girl who spoke to me just now?’

      ‘It was my spirit guide, doctor. No other, and, although I wish to cooperate with you in every way, I am not nearly so bold as Katie. You need to know that.’ She wondered if he had heard any of the scandalous stories. More than once, Katie had planted harlot’s kisses on someone in the séance circle. A few times she had even dared worse.

      Mr Hugh Morton – Uncle Hughie, as many in the spiritualist church called him – had arranged this meeting. Hugh Morton was leader of the church, president of the Psychical Research League, a friend of young Dr William Loomis and a major contributor to the downtown paupers’ clinic where Dr Loomis volunteered. ‘If Dr Loomis vouches for your abilities, Jenny,’ Uncle Hughie had entreated, ‘we can convert a multitude of needy souls to the church.’

      ‘But what if I can’t?’ she had asked, disappointed in herself as she pulled at her lace collar. ‘It will not be the same in his cold chamber, the way it is in someone’s parlour or the church. What if Katie will not come?’

      But now, as Dr Loomis led her from the drawing room and into his examining room, Jenny felt Katie’s legs inside her own, the press of Katie’s breasts behind the stays of her corset, Katie’s rose-scented breath in her nostrils.

      Katie would come. Jenny had no doubt of that now. But please God, make her behave.

      ‘Shall I disrobe?’ Again Jenny’s mouth formed the sounds, but Katie’s voice controlled them. Jenny wished that they were Katie’s cheeks burning hot with shame, not her own.

      ‘No need this time, my dear,’ Dr Loomis said. ‘This won’t be a controlled test. Not a test at all, really. Sit there.’ He pointed to a chair like a barber’s seat that could be made to recline. She settled into it, gathering her skirts modestly. Uncle Hughie stood against the plain wall while Dr Loomis stood beside Jenny. He looked into her eyes, and continued to hold her hand.

      The doctor rose above her, like a handsome young god, strong-jawed with a trim moustache and steel-coloured eyes behind black-rimmed spectacles that did not diminish his virile aura one little bit. She

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