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memories of my ghost sista

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memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: historic

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

08 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

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Buddha, crimson, ghost, historic, Japan, Lady Leiko, masturbation, Mistress Fuyu, Nagasaki, Onna bugeisha, sculptress, story, succubus

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

In a large room of an artist’s studio, somewhere lost within one of the many suburbs of Kyoto, a boy watched an older woman, red paint up to her elbows, in the act of crimsoning a succubus.

The studio looked out on the courtyard which the building itself was built around. The sun, at that moment overhead, blazed down upon the mossy wet vines that clung to the brick work, sending their red reflections glowing into all the sombre nooks of the work room.

The succubus, rudely cut from lecher’s wood, rested at ease upon her tail, her curled-ram horns pressed against the wall, her legs obscenely sprawled open. The sculptress sat before her creation on a low stool, hard at work. The silent boy sat nearby, gazing fondly at both.

On the table in front of the open window stood a row of Oni, rough mountain demons, modeled from river-bed clay. Beside that project were piles of washi parchment covered with drawings in the woman’s own hand, done in blues and reds. By the door a figure of Inari, the trickster fox god of rice, sake and prosperity, sat upon its haunches, a sacred minashigo key hanging from its mouth.

The woman was dressed in simple browns, she had a round, dark face and straight black hair. From the globs of scarlet-red paint spread out at her feet she carefully, with only her fingertips as tools, crimsoned the succubus into life. The effect was less of a statue being given a second skin with an ox-tail brush; rather, it was as if life was slowly seeping through the cold dark hues of the wood through the miraculous use of the succubus’ own menstrual blood. From her thighs on down she appeared to have spurted and spouted sticky rivulets that coated her goat-legs; while, from her navel upwards, the artist’s red-soaked fingerprints could be seen upon the naked wood, fondling each intrinsically carved breast, the thick neck, the bulbous lips.

Once in a while the woman would say the boy’s name, “Shijo;” but it had less to do with starting a conversation and more in a childish, sing-song voice, as if his name were precious to her and she simply enjoyed saying it for the sake of hearing the syllables roll off her tongue. Whenever she did say it, though, the boy would look up from whatever he was doing and smile to himself. He was use to her moods, had seen all of them in the last two years. She was having a mood right at that moment. He could tell. The studio was utterly silent, a perfect hush enhanced by the heat of a noonday sun beating down. Presently the woman rose, crossed to the window, her arms sticky with paint and looked out into the heat.

From where she stood she could see the sparse flowers edging the neglected pathway, the building opposite her with its broken windows, the scandalmongering vines climbing up the tiled roof that cut the violet-blue of a July sky into fragments.

In the center of the courtyard was an ancient, dry fountain; some tall red sayuri lilies grew there, the pure cherry of their hearts bright as the paint the woman had been applying to the succubus reclining wantonly behind her.

The boy stood and walked to stand behind the woman, to see what had caught her attention. The sculptress rested her elbows on the sill, it was so hot that she felt it burning through the paint that was quickly drying on her hands. She had the air of one routinely use to being by herself, the unquestioned calm that arose from a life of long silences. Her face was reserved, even sombre; her lips, well shaped but pale, were resolutely set; there was a fine curve of strength to her chin. She had wide, black brows, smooth dark skin, nebulous mahogany eyes. Her throat was full, she had the sort of muscles sculptors called beautiful.

After a time of gazing at the sun-burned garden she turned back into the room. Standing in the center of the studio, with her teeth worrying her red middle finger, she looked questioningly at the half-crimson succubus. The boy smiled, waiting patiently to see what she finally would say. Some times it would take her hours to form a single comment, but they were observations he always found endlessly interesting. Instead, with a sigh, she took a curiously wrought key from her belt, swung it about in her fingers and left the room.

The building was built without connecting corridors or passages. Each room opened onto another, the upper ones were reached by short wooden staircase built against one of the outer walls. There were many apartments on the second floor, each one boasting imperial designs from at least fifty to sixty years ago. As with all the windows on the first floor, the ones on the second were set facing the old courtyard.

Many queer and exquisite objects could be seen in those long deserted rooms; carved chests full of Korean silver; paintings from China full of erotic terror; furniture made by long-forgotten hands. In one chamber hung several gold-silk tapestries depicting the Eight Devils of Kimon, all done in shades of ruddy brown. As she walked lightly from one room to the next her footsteps caused little clouds of dust to billow up, marking her slow passage.

Passing these things without a glance the woman unlocked a door on whose rusty hinges it took all her strength simply to turn. It was a store-room, one lit only by one low window looking down upon the street. Like everything else in the building, it too was full of dust as well as a sallow, moldy odor. About the floor lay many bound-chests, untouched and before one of these the woman knelt, fiddling with the lock.

The smell of rust filled her nose as the lid swung open. The chest contained a number of cut gemstones. She selected two of more or less equal size, each a crystal pink in hue. Then, after locking the old door behind her, she silently made her way back from where she had come, returning to her studio. When she saw the hollow eye-sockets of the succubus, she placed what looked like living liquid fire into the wooden skull. Watching her statue’s eyes sparkle she finally relaxed, standing for a long while contemplating her handiwork. Finally she washed her hands and arms, putting away her orphic paints.

By then the sun had changed position as it crept across the room, casting hot brindled shadows, cast from the dappled vines hanging from the window eaves over the river-clay Oni, dazzling the colors in Inari’s psychedelic robe.

For the second time that day the woman left the room, venturing into the hall, opening the door that exited upon the street. She shaded her eyes, gazed across the July dazzle, the shadow of her slack, slim figure was cast into the square of hot sunlight issuing from across the hallway and through the open door.

It had been almost two years since the Siege of Kyoto. The section where her studio stood had been devastated. Now, newer suburbs were being built, but that left her neighborhood’s ruins neglected. It was hard for her to imagine a city as vast as Kyoto containing ghost towns, but wasn’t that what this was? She looked at the barren market-place, surrounded by abandoned buildings. Everything was falling into decay. Beyond those shells she could spy the squat roof of the local Shinto shrine jutting upwards across the scarlet sky. Brown grass grew between broken cobbles. There was not a soul in sight.

Under the rusted iron bell that hung against the door beam to her building hung a basket. Her mysterious patron had been by it seemed. She fished out of it bread, a flask of plum sake, some old vegetables wrapped in a linen cloth. The sculptress took these with her and closed the door upon the outer world.

Carrying her loot back in her arms, she crossed the hallway and came out into the opposite end of the courtyard. The tall red sayuri lilies seemed to be nodding their heads to her, as if the two of them were in on a secret no one else knew. Entering by a door next to the fountain the woman found herself in her workshop once more.

Setting her load down on a corner of her work table, the woman proceeded to prepare her meal. Above the wide tiled hearth hung a metal chain and attached to that was an iron pot. She lit a fire under the pot, filled it with water, then put the vegetables in. Then she took down a heavily bound book from off a shelf. Bending over it, huddled on a stool, she began to read.

It was a book filled with drawings — strange, horrible, erotic artwork — as well as curious stories that had been written in a black-blue scrawl. As the woman read she uncrossed her legs and her face grew hot. She flushed while resting her cheek on one hand, turning pages with the other. The heavy volume felt cumbrous on her knees. Not once did she look up but with parted lips pored over the midnight-blue drawings.

Outside the vines curled against the sun-kissed brick, the empty sky looked down upon the dry fountain, it burned the dead grass, the tall red sayuri lilies. The sun sank on the other side of the building, still the woman read on. The flames leaped on the hearth, the vegetables seethed in the pot unheeded.

All alone the woman leaned back on one elbow looking at the drawings. She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her kimono, revealing the cotton thong of a man’s fundoshi that she was in the habit of wearing. She ran one long fingertip along the front of her cunt and moaned. She looked up at the window and then back at the book, an anthology called “Kinoe no Komatsu / Languishing for Love”. She let her knees fall open wider and pulled the crotch of her fundoshi to one side as she turned the page. The glorious mound of her pubic hair was already wet and sticky. She plunged two-fingers inside her girl-lips and began to grind, leaving a wet cum-smear on the stool’s seat.

The woman groaned. There it was, the famous print known as “Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” a prime example of the “aesthetic of the grotesque” in the erotic age of Hokusai. The body of a woman, head thrown back in either carnal abandonment, or drowned and swaying this way and that in the inky green water, allowing Tako no Kami, the octopus god, access to her cunt. It was a curious new form of 8-tentacle “kun’niringusu,” as the Kyoto poets once called the ancient art of clit licking. Her fingers plunged in-and-out of her soaked pussy.

“I’m going to cum–”

The woman’s eyes were screwed tight, her mind lost in the approaching orgasm. She was finger fucking herself so red-hot and hard that her tiny breasts under her kimono were shaking. She knew exactly how that fisherman’s wife felt; she’d fuck a devil-god if the opportunity presented itself. That need to be filled up with something otherworldly, that need to cum all over something impossibly hard.

“O! O! O!”

She was making soundless noises now, feeling the wave over take her. She slipped a third finger into her cunt as she brought herself to the brink. Closer — harder — closer — faster — clo–

With that, without warning, a heavy clang from her old rusted doorbell broke the spell. The woman dropped the book, sprang to her feet, gazing in horror and bewilderment, one hand still buried between her legs as the long awaited orgasm … faded away.

Again the bell sounded.

She picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, licked her fingers, feeling ambivalent.

For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, breaking her quiet once and for all.

The woman frowned while readjusting her clothes, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead, fingered her clit through the fabric of her fundoshi, then went, with cautious steps, across the courtyard once more, back through the dark hall and up to the door. For a second she hesitated — was it really worth it? — then drew back the bolt and threw open the door to world outside.

A woman stood waiting for her.

She was younger than the sculptress, but not greatly, gorgeously attired, a lady no doubt from the emperor’s inner court. A concubine? No, a warrior, even though her carefully pleated and folded dress was stunning. Her coiffure was just as stylized, with not a hair out of place.

“You cannot want me,” the sculptress finally said, surveying the stranger for a couple of moments. “And there is no one else here. Sayonara.”

“If you are Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko,” the splendidly-dressed stranger answered, “then I certainly do want you.”

“Want me?” The sculptress opened the door a little wider. “I am Fuyu Tsukiko, but I do not know you.”

“Perhaps,” the other answered. “But I have questions that only you can answer. I am Lady Leiko of Nagasaki.”

“Leiko of Nagasaki!” repeated Fuyu softly. Then, as if she had come to a conclusion, she stood aside, motioning for the lady to enter. When she had passed into the hallway she carefully bolted the door, then turned to her with a grave expression.

“Will you follow me, my lady?” she said, walking before Leiko to her studio.

The sun had left the room by that time, but the air was still bathed in a reddish warmth. There was a sense of great heat that lay trapped in the ancient bricks and grass.

Fuyu Tsukiko offered a seat to her guest, who accepted in silence.

“You must wait until the supper is prepared,” she said. With that she placed herself on the stool by the pot, stirring its contents with an iron spoon, openly studying the woman.

The material of Leiko’s semitransparent kimono did nothing much to hide her curves, although most were hidden by layers of silk. Her beauty mesmerized Fuyu until she forgot for a moment what she was suppose to do.

Leiko, for her part, returned Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko’s steady gaze.

“You have heard of me?” she said suddenly.

“Yes,” was the instant answer.

“Then you know what I am here for?”

“Perhaps,” said Mistress Fuyu, frowning.

Leiko turned and stared at the half-crimson succubus with great interest, even, Fuyu mused, a little fear.

“My mother is the Lady Miyuki of Nagasaki,” Leiko finally answered in a manner one might have called arrogant. “The Emperor made me a warrior, an Onna bugeisha, when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Nagasaki life, of castle life, of my mother. So I have taken to the road.”

Mistress Fuyu lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

“The road to where?” the sculptress asked.

Leiko made a large gesture with her hands.

“To wherever the road leads.”

“As an Onna bugeisha?” asked Mistress Fuyu.

Leiko tossed her fine head.

“As a former Onna bugeisha. Now I have other ambitions.”

Mistress Fuyu smiled, moving about, setting the food ready. She placed the little clay Oni on the window-sill; flung, without any ado, her drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor.

A queer silence fell on the room. The host did not seem to encourage comment. The atmosphere was not conducive to talk. Fuyu opened a cabinet in the wall, took out an elegant cloth that she laid smoothly on the rough table. Then she set on it earthenware dishes, honey in a clay jar, flushed pears cut thin, rice cakes in a plaited basket, steamed cabbage, radishes fragrantly pickled, the bottle of plum sake.

“Does anyone else live here with you?” Leiko asked at one point.

“I live by myself. I have no desire for company. I take pleasure in my work alone. Sometimes people come to buy my art, usually one of my sculptures for their shrines, but of late very few.”

“You are a good artisan, then?” asked Miyuki. “Who taught you?”

“Old Mistress Yoi, born in Higashimurayama village, taught in Edo. When she died she left me this building.”

Again the room sank into silence. Shadows crept about.

Leiko ate everything put in front of her. Fuyu, on the other hand, seated next to the window, rested her chin on her palm, stared out at the bright and fading orange sky, then at the broken windows, then at the sayuri lilies waving about the dry fountain. She ate very little. After a while the lady asked, almost shamelessly, for some of the sake. The sculptress rose and brought a sake cup to her.

“Why have you come here?” Fuyu inquired, placing the bottle before Leiko.

Leiko laughed easily.

“I am married,” she said, as an explanation, lifting her cup to her lips. At that Mistress Fuyu frowned.

“There are a lot of married people in this world.”

Leiko surveyed the mysterious swirling liqueur through half-closed eyes.

“It is about my husband, O my host; that is why I am here.”

Fuyu Tsukiko leaned back in her chair.

“Yes, I have known your husband.”

“Really? Please, tell me about him,” Leiko of Nagasaki requested. “I have come here for that story.”

Fuyu smiled slightly.

“But why would I know anything more about him than his own wife?”

Leiko flushed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But never mind, go on, what do you know? Tell me.”

Fuyu’s smile deepened.

“He was the only son of the Lady of Kobayashi, he hid himself at the cloister of the Red Brotherhood in Kyoto to avoid having to marry you.”

“I see you know that,” said Leiko. “What else?”

“Since you wish for me to tell you about your own life, listen to what I have to say, my lady.”

Fuyu spoke with an uninterested tone, staring the entire time out of the window.

“He desired, I think, to become one of the Order of the Red Brotherhood. But when he was fifteen his elder brother died, thus he became your mother-in-law’s only heir. Many families wished to align themselves with her, but in the end they agreed for him to marry you.”

“Without my wish or consent,” Leiko added, refilling her sake cup.

Fuyu simply shrugged.

“The feelings seem to be mutual. Your husband, who wished most passionately, I am told, to become a priest, fell ill with grief. In his despair he confided his misery to a local miko, a temple maiden, who lived in his neighborhood.”

Leiko’s eyes flickered, hardened behind their long lashes.

“Your husband was to be heir to a great fortune,” said Fuyu, “but it was through this miko that he became introduced to the Brothers. In his fear of marriage he promised them all his inheritance if they would save him from his mother’s iron will. So the priests, tempted by greed, spread the rumor that he had died. There was even a fake funeral and he was kept secret in the city’s cloister, dressed as an initiate. All this was put into writing, documented by the priests, so that there would be no doubt when the boy returned from the dead, as it were, looking for his inheritance once his mother had died.”

“Yes. I was glad to hear that he had died, at least at the time,” said Leiko. “For by that time I loved another and there is no honor in behavior like that, husband or no.”

“He lived for a year among the priests,” Fuyu Tsukiko went on. “But his life became bitter. He wanted to escape, I believe, yet he could not make himself known to his mother for then it would become known that not only had he lied about this death but that he had promised the priests everything.”

“Go on.”

“Is there more?”

“You know there is.”

“So, as life became more and more horrible for your husband he found a way to send a letter to his widow.”

“Yes. I have it here.” Leiko touched her breast. “He told me all about his dishonesty, begged forgiveness,” she laughed. “He asked me to come rescue him.”

Fuyu crossed her long hands upon the table. There was still red paint under her nails.

“But you … but you did not rescue him, though. You did not even answer his letter.”

“No, I did not rescue him. His mother had taken another husband, she now had a new son to inherit everything.” Leiko lowered her eyes moodily, “I was occupied, in love with a … dairy fairy. Plus, he had lied, my little foolish husband: to Buddha, to me, to the world. ‘It will be poetic justice,’ I thought. ‘For him to suffer as I once suffered’.”

“He waited for months for your answer,” stated Mistress Fuyu flatly. “Finally he fled from the cloister to here, to this very building. Again he wrote to his wife and again she did not answer. That was two years ago.”

“Did the priests make no attempts to search for him?” asked Leiko.

“By that time they knew that the boy was heir to nothing. They were afraid that the tale might reach the ears of the shogun and there might be … repercussions. But did it matter? Around that time the usurper, Tokugawa, lay Kyoto under siege and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about.”

“Indeed. Had it not been that I was required to help mount a defense of the city I might gotten here sooner,” explained Leiko. “But I was occupied with fighting.”

“The cloister was destroyed, the brothers murdered or fled into exile,” continued Fuyu. “The boy lived here, learning many crafts from Old Mistress Yoi. She had no apprentices but the two of us.”

Leiko leaned back in her chair.

“That much I have learned. That the old woman, dying, left her place to you. What did she leave to my husband?”

Fuyu gave her a long, unblinking stare and then turned back to the window.

“It is not strange that you are here, now? You, Leiko of Nagasaki, after all this time, inquiring about your husband.”

“A woman must know how she is loaded down with other people’s responsibilities. As it turns out only you and I know that he had an existence of any sort after he faked his death. He might be a fool but he is still my husband.”

Dusk — hot, blood-red — had fallen on the chamber. The half-crimsoned succubus gleamed dully, the wet lips of her cunt spread vulgarly before the two women. Lady Leiko of Nagasaki felt a little chill pass through her, despite the heat, a little sullen chill, but she waited to see what the older woman had to say.

The sculptress rested her smooth pale face on her palm, her mahogany eyes were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the shadow of her lips moved when she spoke.

“Shijo died two years ago,” she said. “His grave is in the garden, next to the fountain, where those red sayuri lilies grow.”

a star to steer her by

22 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Illustration and art, story

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art, cosmonaut, historic, lesbians, masturbation, rocket, science fiction, Soviet Union, story, zero-gravity

Jun 22, 2012

“All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.”
–John Masefield, “Sea-Fever” (1902)

I.
“Did they explain why?”

“Come to bed.”

“Did they say anything at all? A hint?”

“It’s exactly what you think.”

“O … fucking hell. And you’re going?”

“Yes.”

“When? How much time do we have?”

“Hours … minutes … they’re coming for me right now.”

“What?! ‘Minutes’? You don’t say ‘Come to bed’ when you only have fifteen fucking minutes left!”

“I thought you might want … a quickie.”

“Are you joking about this? You’re getting taken away from me and you think that the only thing on my mind is fucking? I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“I know. When they told me I knew I was either going to laugh or cry. I want you to remember me laughing.”

Then she awoke, drifting above an October night sky full of other people’s passions, frustrated once more.

Lubusha had been floating, making little gasps in her REM sleep, releasing quivering bubbles of sweat that oozed from her pores and broke free, pearls free-hanging in zero-gravity, filling the cramped capsule with the fragrance of dread, regret and girl-cum. She had found that she could masturbate, in theory, while still dressed up in her bulky flight suit, but it was torturous affair; getting her fingers to shuffle, clumsily, down between the three protective layers that she wore, finding the zipper to the inner liquid cooling garment, designed, like everything else on this rocket, for men, and, by pulling the slit wide open at the crotch, she could just barely feel the cool, recycled air lapping gently at her perspiring cunt.

Framed in the small window set in the side of the capsule Australia slowly swam into focus below her. There wasn’t a close-circuit video in her craft, everything was linked up by radios; a realization that at first made her bemused her, then happy at the thought that no one would be watching her, but now it was just boring. Her only audience was the curved surface of the Earth and it wasn’t exactly as if the planet was going to stand up and cheer every time she pressed her round, curvaceous ass against the window. How many of those who were gazing up into the heavens right at that moment suspected that Major Lubusha Zhdanov, decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, had been entertaining herself for the last 42-hours with clit pounding, hip grinding, finger fucking orgasm after orgasm? Probably no one, not even her. That was a shame, letting all that fun go to waste. She loved being watched, showing off as her dripping, furry girl-lips clasped onto whatever huge plunging dildo she was using at the time. Without an audience cosmonaut pornography just wasn’t the same.

She fingered the O-2 hose that ran from her unzipped suit into a processor nearby; lay upon her back in the acceleration chair, closing her eyes as she heard, once again, her calling out her name. She loved that husky, Siberian accent, making all her vowels sounds like Billie Holiday crooning the blues. Reaching inside her suit Lubusha began to stroke her nipples, coaxing them, erectile tissue bloated with blood, to rise as bidden, hidden as they were, just then, under thick, thermal-mylar fabric. She slid her free hand down the slope of her stomach, imagining that it was her hand that was caressing Lubusha’s downy, moist mound. Between the lips of the zipper on her liquid cooling layer her hand played back and forth, rubbing calloused fingertips against her throbbing clit.

II.
“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid? It’s not about that, about fear. I had a feeling it would happen like this. A premonition of the future.”

“…”

“I have to go, you know. You understand that?”

“I understand you are going.”

“It’s my duty.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“And what is my duty? You make it sound like you’re the only one making a sacrifice here.”

“Your duty? Your duty is to let me go.”

She had always said that a woman who possessed three things could do anything she wanted in this world: a deep throat, a deep ass and a deep cunt. Lubusha had them all and more; she parted her legs wider strapped into the aluminum-framed seat. That night before her mission, she had stood by the edge of their bed, unbuttoning Lubusha’s trousers, removing her panties, looking at her lover’s naked body with lust in her brown eyes. Now Lubusha’s mind imagined Madame Comrade reaching to caress first one and then the other of her breasts. They had gone to Copenhagen that last summer, smoking hashish and bought a 16 inch strap-on dildo, smuggling it back behind the Iron Curtain in a diplomatic pouch. For a whole year Lubusha could make her lover grin simply by bringing that monster rubber cock to her lips. With eyes closed she licked her fingers, began to glide her fingers across her cunt, letting them graze her clit ever so slightly, teasing herself back into dream. She dipped first two, then three fingers inside, feeling her cum and sweat and despair begin to trickle down her thighs to her ass.

“Are you afraid?”

“It’s my duty.”

“And what is my duty?”

Indeed, what was her duty? With one finger knuckle-deep in the slick groove of her girl-lips, Lubusha brought her other hand down from her nipples to stroke the little, pouting, engorged O of her ass. Pressing one finger and a thumb into her musky orifice, her breathing caught. She let out another cry, forced herself to stop.

Something rattled on the outside of her capsule; cosmic dust? the after-glow of her last orgasm still ringing in her ears? She did not know.

Earlier that morning Lubusha had used the rubber-end of a wrench to sate her hunger for a good, hard fuck; trailing it down between her copious breasts, teasing each jutting nipple, making a slow journey, parting her Red Sea, to her pulsing, protruding clit.

She spread her legs wider, the soles of her naked feet touching the capsule’s roof, then brought her legs down in front of herself, grabbing her ankles. Holding her self upright she arched her back, trying to bring her head forward, to raise her hips just enough to see if her tongue could touch, if she could make a zero-gravity circuit with her own clit. Like Uroborus, the ancient serpent eating its own tail. Muscles screamed. Tendons pulled. She could almost bury her own nose in her own pubes. The pace of her breathing quickened and grew shallow. She felt her own pelvis spasm and grunted and pushed forward just a little more.

Using her hands to guide her ass cheeks forward, Lubusha groaned into her own crevice. With a violent turn of her hand she thrust herself to the limits of her flexibility; found that she could now get her face good and cummy. She moaned as she came closer to climax, to that hard ‘K’ sound. In six minutes the vector of her orbit would take the craft right over the daylight side of the Earth. Soon — soon — soon! Her cramped abdominal muscles begged for release. Her cunt begged for release. Her soul, her name, her ego, everything that was Lubusha Zhdanov cried out to become part of something bigger, the way the moon forever longs to return to the earth from which it was born.

She filled the whole capsule with cum-fuck cries, little gasps, crying out her name to rescue her.

“Comrade Pilot!”

Mission Control’s deep male voice cut in through the capsule’s speakers.

“Comrade, you will be passing over the East China Sea on my mark at T-minus one minute and counting.”

Lubusha didn’t know whether she had accidentally left her com-link on or not. But what did it matter? No one could steer her where she needed to go. The first tremor of her orgasm rocked her spine, jolting her already flooded cunt still harder, her gushing juices shaped themselves into jewel-like globs that drifted about, spreading out like a rainbow between her legs. And as she came the capsule swung around and the blazing light of the universe filled every inch of her chamber like a question she could not answer.

“Will you remember me?”

“Of course.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I will choose to remember.”

“And if you die?”

“I’m not going to die.”

“That’s not even bravery you’re using. That’s … I don’t know. We’ve lost sixteen cosmonauts in the last two years. And you tell me that my duty is to let you become number seventeen?”

“Of course not, because I’m not going to die.”

“Yeah, right, whatever. Fine then, until we meet again.”

“Yes … until we meet again, Madame Comrade” … She … Mine … my darling Vetlya.

fire storm

08 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

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Tags

demon, fire storm, historic, Japan, kami, lesbians, Onihime, romance, story, Tokyo, war, WWII

A Note From the Author:

In this story I use the name “Onihime” as a sort of personification of Death, set toward the end of World War II. While the Japanese term Onihime does, literally, translate as “Demon Princess,” the idea that she has some sort of connection with yuri-lesbians is purely my idea. “Yuri” is a term for stories involving love between women in Japanese literature, focusing either on the erotic, the spiritual, or the emotional aspects of girl-girl relationships.

* * *

Outra noite de verão.
Na cidade morta, tristeza;
não lavado pela tempestade.

One more summer night.
In the dead city, sorrow;
unwashed by the storm.

March 10, 1945

Her lover was dying; Mai sat alone with her. Nothing could exceed the desolation of her surroundings on that early summer night. Her beloved Kimiko, a young woman who would soon be taken from her, coughed in her troubled, thin sleep. Mai sat in the dark on the third-floor of a wood-and-paper boarding-house. It was so quiet, even the cicadas had abandoned their song. It was a claustrophobic night. The other boarders had fled the building the day before; all the servants except the cook had been dismissed, joining the endless stream of refugees trying to flee to the country, to the mountains, to anywhere. The landlady was also missing as well; as if she had left on a brief holiday earlier that morning, a journey that spiraled horribly out of control.

The glassless window was open to let in the thick, stagnant air; no sound sprung up from the rows of long, narrow backyards below in the dark. The streets were deadened; all light extinguished. The whole city held its breath; their ears poised, waiting for that unmistakable drone coming out from the deep, dark sea — the heartbeat of those long-range B-29 Super Fortresses — sent, as if from another world, to burn all of Tokyo to ruin.

Mai sat in the dark, plunged in the deepest grief that could come to a young soul, for in all other suffering we can still hold onto a sliver of desire, however brief; except for this, this one grief. Mai gazed dully at the unconscious form of the woman who had been her best friend, her extraordinary companion, her soul mate during five long years of joy; two souls so full of life, so optimistic for the future, now and forever twisted by such a terrible destiny.

Like the Imperial empire itself, it was a wasting disease that had consumed her Kimiko; the girl’s face was literally shriveled; her night gown hung loosely upon two breasts which had never known deformity, a body no longer muscular from cum and orgasms and a life as a factory girl. Dully Mai wondered why the body that she had loved so much, that had brought her so much desire, had been changed forever; why Kimiko’s beauty, too, had gone somewhere else. She had loved her glorious cunt, her magnificent ass, her splendid breasts, as if they were a part of herself; loved Kimiko’s wild-fuck magnetism. Now the body lay limp under the quilt. For a moment something convulsed within Mai. Everything in the world had abandoned her.

She leaned over her lover, listening. Kimiko was in there still, somewhere. The ill-shapen breasts rose and fell, almost imperceptible, true, but they still rose and fell. Where does the soul go from its sodden clay form when one is no longer alive but not yet dead? Was it still conscious in there? Was it simply unable to communicate through such decaying corpus? Did the soul struggle to be heard? Did Kimiko see Mai’s agony? She called her lover’s name, she shook those thin shoulders, suddenly crazed to rip the body open, part the breasts and ribs, the wild urge to find the soul of her soul mate, yet even in that tortured moment she knew that such violence would undo everything.

Violence. Violence would be here soon.

The dying woman took no notice of her. Mai ripped open Kimiko’s gown, pressed her cheek to her breast, felt the long nipple smothered against her cheek. She had once joked that nipple was the only food she ever needed.

“No,” Kimiko had laughed, looking up from between Mai’s wide open thighs, her nose and chin and lips all sticky in the dark. “A girl can’t live on cum alone, but I think we’re seeing if we can try.”

Indeed, they had tried, over and over and over; every night on that little tatami mat while Europe burned on the other side of the world.

How could the connection between lovers be so strong if one of them was not alive at the other end? Kimiko had to be in there; her other, her best part. But the faintly beating heart did not speed up under her lips, even when she took the unresponsive nipple into her mouth and began to suck. With a sob she rose to her feet, went to the window. She feared some psychotic act on her part. She feared her own grief. She feared just how much damage she could do if she lost control just now.

She couldn’t see the charred grass in the backyards from where she stood. Something sinister, like the dread of the approaching raiders, clung to the city. An inky shadow. She returned swiftly to the bedside, wondering if she had remained away a long twilit hour or a couple of minutes, if her beloved Kimiko was dead. Had Onihime, the demon princess that lived in the shadow-world and fed upon the passions of all yuri girls, found their room yet? Mai clasped her hands against her own wildly beating heart, watching with panic-stricken eyes at the graven face which was becoming less defined as the night closed in around them.

Fearfully, she put her ear to Kimiko’s lips; she still breathed. She made a motion to kiss her, then threw herself back in a quiver of agony, they were not the lips she had known, she would never have those lips ever again. Mai’s vision became blurred, closing her eyes, waited for the pain to lessen. When she opened them Kimiko’s face had disappeared; the heat waves from the city silenced even the starlight. Night was here.

She sat there in the hot heavy night, pressing her hand hard against the other’s ebbing heart, waiting for Onihime. Suddenly a queer idea possessed her. Why did she have to wait for Onihime at all? Why was She lollygagging and taking Her leisure to get to them? The heart sounded like the kind of music that was always played in Kabuki theater when the heroine was about to die on stage. Mai had always thought that sort of thing was ridiculous. And it was; every attempt to portray Death in human form always is.

Far out at sea she thought she heard something, only for a moment. A drone of engines, the insect hum of war machines. For a moment the sweat stood on her face; she knitted her brows angrily together and pressed her palm against that wondrous heart, as if to keep guard over. Then the pent-up air burst from her lungs. Damn her, Onihime-kami, where was She?

That noise, that hum, it did not repeat itself. What a curious experience: to be sitting alone in a doomed building, one she knew that everyone else had stolen out from, waiting for an invisible, resolute enemy, with whom the Imperial will could no longer wrestle against. Mai wondered at the demon princess’ frivolousness at such a time and, turning her head slightly, she cried out in horror. Something was creeping into the window-sill. Two round, moon-like eyes glared menacingly back at her just above the black void of the window. Mai’s limbs trembled, she struggled to her feet, looked away but her own eyes dragged themselves back to the window against her will.

She realized that it was not anger that possessed her; she was horribly frightened. Is it possible? she thought. Kimiko used to call me heroic; but then with her it was impossible to fear anything. She glanced apprehensively about; the eyes were gone. A trick, she wondered, a trick of my nerves. Then she wondered if she could be able to see Her when She came; wondered how far off She was now. Not very far, it felt. She had heard about the power of the dead to drive away all mortal courage, had scoffed at that, having no morbid horror of the dead herself. You could always tell when the dead were touching you; that sudden chill, the goosebumps, the way the hair on your scalp felt electrically charged. But this was a different sort of terror. To wait, wait, wait, perhaps for the rest of her life, perhaps only until the midnight, while those awful, unhurried war machines stole ever nearer.

Where was the unconquerable love that had held her all these years with such a strong, loving embrace? How could her darling Kimiko abandon her at her greatest need? Suddenly, far down in the building, on the first floor perhaps, came a sound; a wary, muffled sound, as if someone were creeping up the old, wooden stairs, someone fearful of being heard. The whole still night felt wet, a wave of death-sweat had broken over the city.

Then came another footstep. A pause. Then another.

Mai knew that it was Onihime who was coming to her through the silent deserted boarding-house. The demon princess of girl-love was toiling up the stairs painfully, as if She were old, tired, exhausted with the knowledge of the howling fire-storm that would consume not only all of Tokyo that night but all the gay little girls whose love kept Her well-fed and happy. She reached the first landing, crept down the hall to the next stairs, then crawled slowly up as before. Light as Her footfalls were, they were squarely planted, unfaltering; slow, slow and they never halted.

Automatically Mai pressed her hand upon Kimiko’s breast, trying to find that precious heart; its beats were almost too feeble to locate. That beat would cease altogether in moments, just when the demon princess who made those creaking footfall noises would enter the room and stand before the bed.

Not a sound came from the outside world, save the song of the gremlins in the armaments, the wasp-buzz of engines, the yawning of bomb bay doors swinging open. Even the cicadas had begun to sing this song; but inside the quiet building the footfalls were becoming louder, until thigh-high leather kick-boots were pounding up the stairs, echoing across the world.

Mai had counted the steps — ten, eleven, twelve — as they moved with slow precision, noting their hollow reverberation that sounded like the blood pumping in her veins. How many steps left before She reached the door? The noise turned the corner of the hallway; it advanced, slowly, down the hall; it paused before her door, a whirlwind of fire, a diabolic presence nothing could stop.

The floor was trembling as knuckles knocked upon the frame of the wooden, sliding door. Windows and glass all up and down the city street shattered. Thousands and thousands of small fragments of splinters flew in every direction. Mai felt glass slivers penetrate her thighs. She could feel the blood steaming out into the hot night from her wounds; tears beginning to roll down her legs.

Black smoke filled the skies of Tokyo.

The knocking became more demanding; the very walls vibrated. The sounds of terrifying, deafening explosions rolled across the cityscape. A stabbing pain filled Mai’s skull. Blood was flowing everywhere, her ears bleeding furiously. Deaf. The shock of the sudden pain and stillness scared Mai more than the creature standing in the open doorway to their room. A girl only a few years older than Mai herself, with piercing black pits for eyes, was breathing rapidly. She parted the folds on her kimono and Mai could see she wore nothing underneath it. Her hair was so black it seemed to suck all the light from the corridor outside. Her breasts were nicely shaped, identical, in fact, to Kimiko’s, back when they had been in their prime. Her lips moved but Mai could not understand the words. She realized that the other had shamelessly buried one hand between her legs, her fingers moving at a slow, leisurely pace. Tender. The girl closed her nothingness eyes for a second while her lips moved wordlessly.

Onihime purred as her hand moved faster. Though Mai couldn’t see her exploring her own wet, cum-sticky folds, the demon princess seemed well-versed enough in pleasure; but with an unquestionable hunger that Mai had never seen before, not even in Kimiko.

Onihime whimpered as she gently twisted her clit and all tenderness that desire can bring evaporated into the incendiary, petrol-fueled air. The girl fiercely pinched her nipples, screaming with joy as her hand began to furiously finger-fuck herself — deep — deep — impossibly deep. The hum of falling bombs were all around them. The demon princess’ wrist gleamed with her own cum, a netherworld glow, what God’s tears would look like, if only such a thing as a God existed.

Mai’s voice was on the verge of screaming as the burning air was sucked out of the room. She sounded like she was about to cry or sob; an inhuman sound only the devils and lovers of demons can make. The city was aflame, flailing about, writhing in agony, screaming piteously for help, but beyond all mortal assistance. The wall of flame rolled over everything; there was a horrific beauty to this last orgasm as the two women screamed, caught in the aftershocks. With a last, wild, spontaneous cry Mai flung herself across her beloved Kimiko as the walls came tumbling down.

the night witches [2]

13 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the night witches [2]

Tags

cunnilingus, Die Nachthexen, historic, lesbians, Marina Raskova, Night Witch, pilots, Soviet air force, Soviet Union, story, war, WWII

Author’s Note:

My spiritual mother, Colonel Marina Raskova, founder of 588th Night Bomber Regiment — what the Germans in WW2 called “Das Nachthexen,” the “Night Witches” — once asked me, “what is the purpose of prose if not poetry?” She delighted in French Avant-garde theater, Dada art, surrealistic poetry, and so do I. If stream of consciousness bores you, dear reader, you might want to read elsewhere. It is true that erotic war literature can be problematic, I understand, especially for people who live comfortably enough where they will never have to face such moral dilemmas. My mother never had that luxury in 1941 as the Nazis were invading the Soviet Union: Operation Barbarossa. This story is dedicated to all of us who learned how to survive.

* * *

“I want you to pose naked for me.”

“What, Sargent Rudenov?”

“Comrade Aleksandra, did you not just knock on my door and enter?”

The younger pilot blinked in the well lit room that served as Sargent Yevgeniya Rudenov’s, flight squadron leader for the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, personal quarters.

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov.”

“Comrade Aleksandra, did you not just ask me if you would be flying in tonight’s sortie?”

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov.”

“And when I said no, did you not say ‘what can I do to fly tonight’?”

“I’m sorry, Sargent Comrade. Did you just say–”

“Yes. That I want you to pose naked for me.”

Aleksandra looked at the decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, Order of the Red Banner and Order of the Red Star sitting before her, trying to make some sense of the offer.

War had stripped Rudenov of her girlish charms, leaving her with a curious, rugged sensuality that everyone – women and men – in the regiment noticed. They say in Russia that there are only two types of females: girls and elderly babushkas. Where does one find the link between caterpillar and butterfly? Who has ever witnessed such a transformation in a world that holds motherhood so cheap? “In what mysterious pupa,” one traveler asked, “do Russian women prepare for the next stage of their lives?” The answer is easy: war. War burns away all the virginal blushing embarrassments, the banal madonna-whore complex, the artificial accouterments of a bourgeois society, leaving behind only queer middle-age women who know how to survive.

“Comrade Aleksandra, you have been in camp over a month. We have lost twenty-four pilots and navigators during that time. Girls just like you who came into this very room saying they would do anything to get the chance to drop bombs on the Germans. And now here you are, their sister, obviously, standing before me saying you’ll do anything to get the chance to fly in a Polikarpov,” Yevgeniya smiled at the obvious confusion and discomfort this was creating in the younger girl. “You tell me that you would do anything?”

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov.”

“Well then, you can convince me about that by posing naked for me, right now, yes? So you choose, the night is young, the plane do not leave for another three hours. Come day break, where would you like to be?”

Yevgeniya stood up from her desk, walked over to a small cabinet and removed a large, chrome camera. Aleksandra looked nervously at the older woman, she reminded her of a nun she once had at school. She could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. It was a cold night. Somewhere outside a crow, the messenger from the other world, cawed in the dark.

“I’m sorry dear, I hate to rush you. Perhaps you’d like to think about this back in your barracks?” She started to door as if ushering the younger woman out.

“No! Please, Sargent Rudenov.”

Yevgeniya looked at Aleksandra as if surprised she had spoken.

“Are you sure I can’t just–” But here the younger girl was at a loss as to what she could offer. It was either posing for photos or being grounded for who knew how long. “Who would see these photos if I agreed?” The girl stammered, looking at the ground, blushing violently. “I’ve never been naked before … anyone one else.”

Closing the wooden door to her quarters and pulling the latch, Yevgeniya looked the young pilot up and down. She smiled at the girl’s nervous plight. “How did you ever make it through eighteen years of life and never once have the urge to let other people see you for what you are?”

“Sargent Rudenov?” Aleksandra asked, drawing a deep breath.

“My dear girl. I have a dozen other pilots also wanting to fly tonight with far fewer hang-ups than you seem to possess. The pictures will be shown to very few, but please understand I will demand that you are to be naked. You will be posing in extremely … titillating ways for me.”

“But you’re a woman!” Aleksandra blurted, then bit her lip before she said anything else moronic. Yevgeniya’s omnivorous appetites weren’t exactly state secrets.

“Yes, Comrade Aleksandra, I am.”

Yevgeniya smiled as she returned to her desk with her camera. Aleksandra’s head was a whirl of emotions, her legs felt as if the would give way under her. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run back to her barracks and throw herself into the arms of her bunk mate, Alyona, who took such good care of her. It was cold in the small room and the girl rubbed her arms.

“I’m sorry it’s a bit chilly in here, Ukrainian summers are never warm — drink?” she didn’t wait for the girl to answer but poured her a shot of vodka, which she took gratefully. She immediately drained half, then coughed before putting the glass down on the table. Aleksandra watched as Yevgeniya took the camera up and felt sick with nerves at the reality of what she was about to do. She drank down the shot her commanding officer refilled her glass with.

“Nervous?” the older woman smiled at Aleksandra as she nodded. “Well don’t be. You’re a very lucky pilot. One day I’ll tell you what I had to do to win this.” She pointed to her Order of the Red Star. “And you are so very pretty, I love your uniform, it shows off your charms so well. Have you ever been an artist’s model? My mother had a friend in Paris, Rene Vivian, who looked just like you.”

Aleksandra shook her head, looked down at her dress, then heard the camera click as she smoothed it over her hips and blushed again. In reality it was the same standard uniform all the women were issued. But, she had to admit, at least it was a dress. On the first day of training Aleksandra, as well as all the other recruits, had been ushered into a large storeroom, where, piled on the floor in separate heaps, were bundles of enormous boots, rough woolen vests, standard male underwear – nothing to suggest that the 588th Night Bomber Regiment was an all-female unit. In other piles were ugly male tunics, wool trousers, overcoats. Aleksandra walked past the lieutenant who had brought them to the room and picked up two boots at random. They were mammoth. Later that day the sound of hysterical laughter could be heard all over the building as the recruits attempted to fashion themselves uniforms. Woolen vests dangled down below the knee, trousers were hitched up almost to the chin, and greatcoats — the pride of the Soviet armed forces — spilled across the floor behind them like monstrous veils for some unholy wedding ceremony.

It was nearly a month later that a package from Moscow brought the girls their dresses – drab, ugly things, true – but at least they were dresses and they could be made to fit. Aleksandra glanced nervously down at the low neckline that she suddenly felt now showed off far too much of her ample cleavage. Small metal buttons ran down the front to her waist.

Click.

“Yes, I think we can keep the boots on, they’ll show your legs nicely, it’s a shame there isn’t a single stocking left in the entire Union. War makes beggars of us all.”

Yevgeniya seemed to be thinking for a moment. Aleksandra stood waiting, shivering from cold, nerves, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do next.

“No, lets just play with what you’re wearing. You really are so pretty, I love your breasts.”

Aleksandra blushed again despite the chill of the room. Alyona would say the same thing, but that’s what bunk mates were suppose to say, was it not? Late at night, once the candles were doused and the barracks were dark and quiet save for the occasional moan and snore and stifled low-down dirty groan during those long summer night. Her arms came up to cover her chest.

Click.

“What panties are you wearing? Lift your skirt, show me.” The camera came up to Yevgeniya’s eye again. Aleksandra froze.

“Show you my …?”

“Lift your skirt, soldier. I will not send a woman into the air who refuses to follow instructions, she will kill herself and her navigator so do as you’re told – that is a direct order!”

Aleksandra jumped, as if she had been slapped, pulled up her skirt, gathering it quickly around her hips.

“Slowly, Comrade, slowly.”

Click, click, click.

Aleksandra felt foggy, stupefied, feeble-minded. Holding up her skirt while a commanding officer took photos of her pathetic, government-issued panties. She glanced down, looked at her unshaven legs, her feet in their ugly black boots. May that stray Nazi artillery shell everyone jokes about find its way over to this tent right now, she thought.

Click, click.

“Pull you’re panties higher up your hips for me, Comrade –” She lifted her skirt a little more with her free hand, then pulled her white cotton higher up her hips, making a W where the fabric cut across her girl-lips.

“Hmm, much better.”

She had Aleksandra lift her foot onto the wooden table, holding her skirt out to the side, asked her to smile, all the while the girl, still blushing, still embarrassed, did everything she was told to do.

“Turn around, yes – now, bend forward, lift your skirt high, higher, push your ass out, yes, like that.”

Aleksandra sighed, there was still that girlish need to cry inside her. What was it that Lady Macbeth desired to be so that she could commit the acts that made “her kind blush at”? Ah yes, “unsexed.” But if one is not born a woman, one is made a woman, why blush at all? If femininity is indeed an artifice, why not embrace Eros as deeply as we embrace Pathos? She let her skirt fall, reached for her glass. Yevgeniya poured her more vodka. Smiled at the young pilot’s inner-struggle.

“Comrade, listen to me. You’re in a bad situation. You want to fly but your pride stops you doing something so simple that it’s even recorded in the Bible as the first trick Lilith taught Eve before God made Adam and broke the two girls up. Fighting this only making it worse. You could at least try to enjoy it.”

“But–” Aleksandra stammered, drunkenly looking into the shot glass as if it contained secret answers. “What do you mean ‘Lilith and Eve’?”

“Listen, let’s make this easier for you shall we? You are going to pose for some naughty photos for me, if you want to fly there is no way out, you have to learn to take orders. If you don’t want to pack your bag tonight and go back to your Worker in Moscow or whoever it is who pays your bills, parasite. Now, I want you to take off your top before we go any further – now, soldier!”

Aleksandra felt a tear slide down her cheek, fumbled with the tiny metal buttons of her dress shirt, then glanced up at her commanding officer, only to pull the shirt wide, revealing her bra, a luxury for the women. Finally she pulled each cup down to free her breasts. The moment they were exposed, her nipples immediately puckered and hardened in the cold air, making her embarrassment obvious.

“Push your tits out, flygirl, be proud of what you have, Comrade Aleksandra.”

Doing what she was told, Aleksandra flushed, partly from the vodka and partly as she felt her exposed skin studied by lecherous eyes. She then drew in a surprised breath as Yevgeniya reached out, softly stroke each nipple, feeling the weight of each breast before drawing her blunt fingernails over the crimped skin of her aureoles, tugging softly, drawing on each nipple. When Alyona did this, that was fine, she was her bunk mate. But this? Aleksandra fought to stop herself covering her chest.

“My dear, you are beautiful.”

Aleksandra watched as she brought the camera in for a close-up of each.

Click, click, click.

The girl simply stood there in the cold with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, swaying slightly.

“Ooo.”

“Hohhot.”

Yevgeniya bent down towards her left breast and Aleksandra felt the wet warmth of her mouth close around her so terribly erect skin.

She couldn’t help it. Aleksandra glanced down, watched as the older woman did the same to the other nipple, entranced, unable to move as tiny earthquakes traveled through her. She was gasping as Yevgeniya rose in front of her, didn’t resist as she bent forward, kissed the girl softly on the lips.

“Now, you will do as you’re told, won’t you, Comrade dear? Please, turn around, bend over.”

Aleksandra did as she was told. The vodka must have gone to her head. She turned, her breasts, swinging free, felt swollen, the nipples cold, hard, as her squadron leader’s spit dried upon them.

“Bend over more, dear.”

She did, put her hands down on the wooden table to support herself. She felt her skirt being pulled up over her back, didn’t resist as her panties were drawn down around her knees. She felt flushed and drunk as the camera clicked behind her. Yevgeniya took her free hand, brought it Aleksandra’s to her ass.

“I want you to hold the cheeks of your bottom apart, Comrade.”

Aleksandra glanced around at her.

“What? please — don’t make me –”

“Please, what?” Her commanding officer arched an eyebrow, smiled at the younger girl.

“Please, Sargent. Don’t ask me to – ah! piz’da!”

Yevgeniya’s hand had come down sharply on her naked, fleshy ass, sending a jolt stinging through her.

“I’ll spank you again, flygirl, if you keep being naughty.”

Aleksandra made a face and put her hands back on her ass.

“Now be a good girl, pull your cheeks apart.”

Aleksandra rubbed her warm bottom, reluctantly pulling her cheeks apart, instantly feeling how her anus was exposed to the cool air, as well as how wet her pussy was suddenly getting.

“Hmm, I love blonde hair, it’s almost as if you were shaved; so naked, so exposed.”

Aleksandra did feel exposed, as well as the older woman’s hand slide between her legs to touch her pubic hair.

“Ah, Comrade, you naughty girl. Hold your cunt open for me, push out your bum, more, yes, now keep your legs straight.”

Aleksandra did as she was told, heard the camera click, inches away. It would have been more comfortable, some part of her drunken brain thought, if she could let her panties drop to the floor, take off her boots, they made her feel tomboyish, almost as she had been surprised while sitting on the loo. She started as Yevgeniya’s free hand caressed the inside of her thighs, closed her eyes, bit her lip, still holding her ass cheeks apart as the other hand moved closer to her pussy, all the while she pushed her bum out further and further, inviting the camera to record all.

One slim finger gently pushed past the wet resistance of her vagina. She felt it enter her slowly, inch by inch, stifled a small groan of pleasure. “O, Alyona love,” the younger woman barely whispered. If Yevgeniya noticed she said nothing as her finger slipped in further, then finally again several times before it was joined by a second.

“You have a lovely wet cunt, Comrade. Keep your lips spread for me.”

Aleksandra tried to do as she asked, even though her legs were beginning to spasm, but then had to bring her left hand down to the table to support herself. She yipped as she was rewarded with a hard slap to her ass. The fingers returned to fill her, the feeling of being finger fucked hard consumed her. Yevgeniya’s free hand was tickling her exposed anus. She flinched at the first touch then pushed back to welcome the intrusion, but suddenly everything stopped.

“Why is it, Comrade?” Yevgeniya asked, looking up at Aleksandra, the shadow of her labia in the lantern light throwing shapes across her wild upturned face. “That when I ask you to show me your cunt you blush and act like an English Capitalist’s bordering school daughter, but the moment I lay a finger in your ass you are a pup in heat? Is this the secret to unsexing you?”

“No — it’s just–”

“You want me to fuck your ass with my finger don’t you?” It was neither a question nor a command. It was simply a statement of truth. The pressure of Yevgeniya’s finger returned as her other hand continued to play with the young pilot’s hot aching pussy. “Don’t you Comrade darling?” she insisted, a throaty whisper. “‘That I may pour my spirits in your ass; and chastise you with the vulgar valor of my tongue to all that impedes me from this golden hind’ — Would you like to feel my finger in your ass?” She slowly withdrew the fingers from Aleksandra’s pussy, then trailed the girl-juices over to her gaping anus. Aleksandra let out an involuntary moan. Yevgeniya’s hand came around to the others’ face and she forced her pussy-sticky fingers into the open mouth, smiling as Aleksandra greedily sucked on them.

“Comrade Aleksandra, would you like me to fuck your mouth as well? Now tell me why you want me to put my finger into your ass but not to see your delicious curly-q of a cunt.”

The fingers returned to her pussy, Yevgeniya’s thumb began to rub, to tease against her anus while her other fingers rubbed against her clitoris. “Tell me Comrade!” Her other hand came down in a stinging slap on her gaping ass.

Slap!

“Oi vey! Yes, Sargent Rudenov –” Aleksandra yipped. She felt her left breast fondled, then the nipple was pinched, cruelly, followed by several hard slaps

“Please — do what you want with me –” Aleksandra didn’t care anymore. If this was how wars were won, then she had found a role that consumed her. She was grateful she wasn’t going to die ignorant that such pleasures existed. Why do they not teach these things in school?

“Tell me what you want.”

“To fly a Polikarpov –”

“To fly a Polikarpov? What would you do to get a chance like that? Something like this?” At that, while the three fingers from Yevgeniya’s hand continued to slip in and out of her cunt, she felt an extra finger from the older woman’s other hand slide into her anus.

“Yes!” the girl managed to gasp out.

“Then ask me to put it in your ass, flygirl.”

“Please, Sargent Rudenov! Ma’am, put your fingers in my ass!”

“No. Not on your first flight, little nestling, but,” — and here the fingers pushed but did not slip in — “for tonight I’ll put two fingers in for you.”

Aleksandra groaned, almost collapsed but caught herself, straightened her legs, pushing her splayed-open ass out higher. Yevgeniya was a cruel mistress when she wanted, bore down with her weight, smiling as the young pilot finally screamed out, her orgasm ripping like wild-fire through her, phosphorescence in the dark, finally collapsed onto the table. The squadron leader for the 588th Night Bomber Regiment removed her fingers from Aleksandra’s canvities, while the girl gazed foggily around, dimly wondering why the world was still spinning from her tail dive.

“Comrade Aleksandra, na kaleni, shalava.”

Aleksandra felt her hair being pulled, forced to her knees. Yevgeniya dragged her across to her chair, sat down, pulled up her own military issue skirt. Aleksandra watched in a daze as the older woman dragged her forward, forcing her face into her own wet pussy. There was a cruel side to Yevgeniya, as anyone who must send soldiers out to die in the hundreds every month. She grew tired of Aleksandra licking softly at first but then became excited as the girl began lapping at her with enthusiasm.

She turned over, pushing out her chunky, muscular ass. “Lick my cunt, my bum, flygirl, do it properly.”

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov,” Aleksandra mumbled, looking up, wearing a fur mustache.

Sometime later, far later, Aleksandra banked her Polikarpov biplane toward the west, sweeping over the sleeping purple and silver countryside, and put her fingers into her mouth. That was a good taste. A very good taste. But this would be even better. Guided by her navigator, using her stopwatch and map, Aleksandra approached the target at a height of just over three thousand feet, then, on cue, cut her engines, gliding like a witch through the dark. The wind rushed through the struts, she concentrated on her instruments, keeping on the compass mark, her navigator whispering through the com-link instructions. The navigator finally thrust her arm over the edge of the open cockpit, dropped two parachute flares into the slipstream. They they spun away, ignited, suspended from their little parachutes, casting a savage glorious blue light over the alien landscape. They were right over the target.

To be a war pilot, to feel this fantastic sense of achievement, that was worth everything. The girl could clearly see the buildings in the cold dark night. The Germans hadn’t heard the plane coming because of their gliding approach, but now the searchlights came on, the sirens, the black flashes of flak starting to probe the sky for them. Aleksandra didn’t want to spoil her aim so she simply flew straight through the puffing cloud ‘plosion until she was right over the target. The Po-2 bucked in the gusts from some of the artillery shells, but kept on. Then Aleksandra yanked the release wire and dived away from the searchlights, pulling upward as the whole world below her blossomed into bloom.

the night witches [1]

12 Sunday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, story

≈ Comments Off on the night witches [1]

Tags

588th Night Bomber Regiment, Die Nachthexen, Dragomira, historic, Lily Litvyak, Marina Raskova, Night Witch, Soviet air force, Soviet Union, story, WWII

Author’s Note:

My spiritual mother, Colonel Marina Raskova, founder of 588th Night Bomber Regiment — what the Germans in WW2 called “Die Nachthexen,” the “Night Witches” — once asked me, “what is the purpose of prose if not poetry?” She delighted in French Avant-garde theater, Dada art, surrealistic poetry, and so do I. If stream of consciousness bores you, dear reader, you might want to read elsewhere. My mother was the lover of the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca, and from that union I was born. Federico was shot by fascists for being a queer poet on August 19, 1936. Marina perished in a fiery plane crash on January 4, 1943. I am now an orphan and dedicate this story to the queer poets and women warriors the world over. Paz, mãe e pai.

* * *

PROLOGUE:

[a dream, half wild: the breasts of tiresias]

“So here we are once more among the smell of petrol and menstrual cramps and sulfur and shit. We’ve found our ardent country, our ardent country girls. Comrades, girls, my girl, we have a stage, a theater of war. The Ukrainian Steppes are ablaze. To our dismay, on Saturday June 21, 1941, our pilots fell out of the sky like rain, men on fire and so the Panzer tanks rolled on. White tigers. They say theater no longer holds any greatness and so little truth in virtue but I have also found a stage, Lily. Stalin ordered us thirteen hundred into the air and thanks to Comrade Raskova, my very own Yes Ma’am, No Ma’am, Lick Your Clit, Ma’am, we have killed the tedious nights before the war. Don’t you think that we’ll die like all other men die, Lily?”

“Except we’re not dying, Anahit dear. You’re just talking about the sin, but you never mention the saviors. We’re still flying in the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, you know. When the hour is struck it will be women who will be raining down, lit matches, hair ablaze. I have been at war like all other men, one night while flying over the western front, gazing up into the pulsating stars in heaven, a thousand rockets rose from the trenches to greet me. I heard the shells’ voices but no explosions.”

“Yes, I’ve flown over the flashes of enemy guns, too. Their angles are all on fire. And at each billowing orange bloom the stars were darkening in the sky, one by one. I think this is how constellations die.”

“Do you really think constellations can die that easily?”

“I never thought girls could die that easily.”

A shadow passed over them.

The two girls stopped, squinted into the empty, dry sky.

A biplane, its engine rhythmically puttering, crossed overhead. The pilot, her hair trailing behind her in the slipstream as she glided along for a landing, dipped and curved into the lap of a gentle valley, flashing brilliant in the light.

The scene in the valley of Engels was a striking one. Low ranges of gently sloping hills, green by the mill, widened out and here, secluded, their factories had not yet been bombed to ruin, their villages not yet razed, the whole world above the tree-line not yet set on fire with phosphorescent fuses that sucked the oxygen out of everyone’s lungs. The Regiment’s training base, spread out over a dead lee-level of swamp and twice-trampled grassland, was enclosed by high-barbed walls, irregular ovals of wire and mesh, torch-light and spot-fire and burning pits of crude with large clumps of trees in the center, witch’s oak, a multiplicity of large hangars; small, mostly queer-shaped buildings all scattered, peck-a-hen, about.

There were a few idle wide roadways, mud spills and loose pages, with smaller avenues intersecting, hairy-like legs and larger fur-down open spaces, bordered by tarp and tarpaulin tents, at either end of the oval.

On a bulletin board in front of one of the hangers stood a placard, tacked with thumb-prints that read like the signatures of clouds, at which several young women in baggy khaki flight-suits, wearing aviator skull-caps and those glorious chunky goggles, all pinked lip, were gazing, remarking and fingering otherwise. There was no pandemonium that this placard had to tell, war apparently, for all its sleepless moons and daily bling and night sallow blindness, had dulled the senses of the pilots and mechanics and navigators. What was written was as follows (officer stamped twice): ‘They’re putting out the stars with shellfire — qui vive at 7 pm. tonight. Specific orders will be issued to each at that time.’

The words ‘Members of 586th Fighter Regiment – will be on the’ having been crossed out by some waggette, adding the very conversation Lily and Anahit had been talking about. Curious.

“I suppose this is coming from that bigmouth megaphone at supreme headquarter or whatever they’re calling that lonely bull paddock two miles away from here, who will no doubt be driven in a Party car to stare at our planes, check off names on a clip board and have something interesting to say, smelling of brute and vodka,” remarked the short athletic girl, throwing an arm casually over the shoulder of her smaller companion, tweaking her nipple that, even in heavy elevation gear, threatened to expose itself to the cool Barbarossa morning. “Do you think this means that we’re going up in those crazy old biplanes they’ve foisted on us?”

“What, just because all the male pilots have refused to fly in them? They have refused to give up their shiny Yakovlev Yakety Yaks, no doubt. Then that will be a fine reason to make us take their ancestral relics up for a spin or two,” replied the smaller girl, a sprightly youngster, dark-eyed, curly-headed, round-faced.

“Well, all the world is a stage, they say, especially when you’re burning up over Leningrad at 30,000 feet in your very own popcorn popper. I say, any landing in which I am once more among you huddled groundlings is a finger-fucking good landing, eh, Anahit?”

“What?”

“Were you thinking about playing with your pussy just now?” chided Lily, jokingly.

“Er …”

“Mention the words ‘finger fuck’ and you are so cute in your embarrassment.”

The two strolled off together as others, also in bulky flight suits, gathered about to read, sigh, then turn away to their own private musings.

“I wonder if they’ll ever build us a bigger stage one day.”

“What, big enough for your pussy?” laughed Lily Litvyak, the athletic nestling. “‘All the world is a pussy’ – no, it doesn’t have the same ring in Russian now, does it?”

“Shush, you foul girl,” Anahit Abandian furrowed her brow. “No. But if war is a story, all we have to write is our own wry action scene and who does not love when the tone of a story turns from pathos to ironic burlesque? and with reasonable use of the improbable we can turn any actress into an, er, what did you call me yesterday? Ah yes, a ‘big ol’ hairy bush pilot,’ since we’re all to be going round soon, we all go round and around, and suffer the enemy’s squeals and the blare and rupture of eardrums at 30,000 feet, and I ask you, dear, the moment you mount the stage and pull that wire and drop your bombs, haven’t you ever thought for a second that this stage is spread out before us not just mankind to witness our feats of daring-do, but for the whole universe to see?”

“All that monologuing just to complain about having to fly in a Polikarpov Po-2?”

“Po-2, Sewing Machine, Popcorn Popper – why do the Germans call them popcorn poppers?”

“Because they can hear us popping away over head even during a December wind storm.”

Anahit nodded. Lily pinched her girlfriend’s forearm, having grown tired of the nipple. The air was cold and damp, the mist thickening by the minute.

“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go up to that bigmouth megaphone and say, no, mister colonel, you won’t make me fly in one of these old junk heaps. I will fly as I please, hup hup. You pilots have been doing what you want long enough. After all I too want to go and fight the enemy, hup one hup two.”

But Litvyak was thinking, scanning the ghostly fields and hedgerows. Finally she announced decidedly: “You know what, dear heart, after being a soldier I want to be an artist. Yes. Perfectly perfectly. I also want to be a doctor and a psychiatrist. I want to make Europe and America trot and tremble before me.”

The other shook her head dubiously, for a second her expression held something slightly predatory, a delicious look in a creature so small, but it melted away almost as suddenly as it appeared and she replied, “Yeah? Well, I want to be a philosopher chemist mathematician princess firefighter. Give me a plan and a plane that I can drop bombs from and I’ll bomb the Nazis for you, Madam Artist, Comrade Klitt.”

Litvyak, of course, disclaimed any need for a design, an idea or a plan, since engines of chaos need only but a direction to let loose their bloodhounds of hell, and Anahit felt that her girlfriend was putting on airs (the downside of a liberal Soviet education), as usual. When they parted Lily watched Anahit walk away, delighting in the sight of her massive, round girlie bum wiggling under her high altitude uniform.

* * *

A half hour later, Lily stood under the shower, contemplating the type of soap needed to wash grief right out of her hair and what a terrible metaphor it was. If grief really was so easily washed away it wouldn’t be grief. Dominika’s and Galochka’s plane had been caught in the German searchlights only two days ago, Galochka was carried from the plane, a bloody lump soaking her seat, Dominika, burned, her whole arm broken when she brought the old crop duster down in the dark.

Her hand massaged her sore muscles, stopping at her belly, enjoying the feeling of her hip bone against under hot water, then slipping down to her bushy honey-milk bush. Bush pilot, indeed. She took the shower head and directed the water across her nipples, moving it closer to her skin. After a whole night of constant vibrations from the airplane’s Shvetsov M-11 air-cooled, five cylinder, radial engine between her open thighs, the hot water felt like a hand, or, perhaps, a three foot long tongue.

As she moved the Joie de vivre down, with her legs spread, Lily directed the spray to her pink tippled-tip clit, moving the shower head up and down, exciting constantly excited nerves. A finger slipped into her wet gap, airy void. She finger fucked herself furiously, as if no one would ever touched her again for years and years, as if she was about to perish in flames. She moaned, glad there wasn’t anyone else in the barrack’s shower room, just this once. She lay against the cold wall when her legs started shaking into orgasm, the gift of the gods, a feeling like screaming, like burning, like twisting naked in the air, falling from her plane’s canopy, turning over and over in lust, the heat in her cunt exploding. She finally gushed, spreading her girl-cum over each of her fingers, the palm of her hand.

The water splattered hot in the shower, turning cold then hot again, pressure washing away any proof of her solitary exercise.

* * *

Later, when dinner was over, Lily Litvyak found her way to where the squadron commander was checking off the different machines, assigning each killer machine the various pilots and navigators. All this on a yellow pad, in one of the hangars, with no one else near. Lily passed her squadron leader, Yevgeniya Rudenov, who nodded. In Hangar Four were two Polikarpovs, all in trim order. The Colonel stared at one of them, grumbling to himself.

“What will I do?” he mused, half aloud, through his Wilhelm II mustache. “I forgot that Dominika’s arm was all shattered into little bits and the like and poor Galochka with that great big hole in the top of her curly head. Sending girls up into the air, chyort voz’mi! What was Uncle Josef thinking?”

“Begging your pardon, Comrade Colonel!” A short, athletic young girl with hair like sunlight through silk on a Sunday afternoon was beside him, standing respectfully at attention in her bulky uniform. There was always something slightly unsettling for the older man knowing that under these khaki, bulky, unisex uniforms the female pilots were naked save for their government-issued panties – black-market bras being the only way most of these girls could acquire them, what with the selling of cotton for breast control being prohibited just now for the glory of the war effort. “Why not let me take Galochka’s place? Give me a chance!”

So commanding — so deferential — Lily’s attitude, her curt Moscow manner, her firm flat shoes, the obvious feminine shape under her uniform, her dirty vanilla panties, her — Colonel Dragomira blinked for a second, said nothing, simply stared at the girl.

“But – but, lysyi didko, you’re too young, too inexperienced, too – too -”

“Comarade Colonel, please, go and ask Dominika! You know what her judgment is. If I am to have a navigator, let Dominika go with me.”

“Dash your bally impertinence, you young skip and ruggamuffin!” Dragomira had once seen a rather droll British comedy, ‘All Riot on the Western Front’, where the marvelous Donald Calthrop went around saying that exact line, in fact, it was his only line. The Colonel had memorized it by heart and hoped that one day there would come a time he could use it, even though he and Lily did not understand a lick of the English language themselves. He smiled to himself and asked, “What do you know about Polikarpovs, anyway?”

In five minutes of seductive engine-talk, expertly fingering various parts of the green pleasure machine, Lily had convinced her superior. Furthermore, by ingenious manipulation of certain bolts with a wrench, a pair of tweezers and a gob of greasy spittle, she readjusted a valve in the petrol tank which she had heard Dominika grumbling about before her last flight. This she did with such deft speediness that the Colonel nodded his approval, standing so close to the young pilot, adding: “Where did you pick up so much mechanical knowledge, Comrade Litvyak?”

“At the Nova Slobodskaya Flying Club, in Moscow.”

“Well now, go and see our poor Dominika. If she is not well enough to go with you, er, have you anyone else in mind?”

* * *

Half an hour later Lily Litvyak stood by the cot of a gray-faced girl who lay groaning discontentedly. At sight of the young Moscow pilot she tried to raise herself up to a sitting position, revealing her whole right arm still bound up in splints. Lily noted that the pain of moving made sweat stand out on her forehead.

“Lily dear, my comrade is! I welcome so much you.”

Dominika was a native from Tajikistan. There was a lot about her Russian that could be desired and sometimes it took Lily a few moments to simply decipher what it was her friend was talking about. When Lily briefly explained why she was there, what the Colonel had told her, Dominika fell back, gave a horrific groan and said: “Thank you, comrade!” Here she chuckled. “No use to you now, I would like to go, I want to go! But I am no use to myself, not at all! But you be sure to bring my baby back safe now, you hear? my Polikarpov — Ah! What a great baby my Polikarpov is!”

Lily smiled and gave her friend a kiss on the forehead, the only spot on her entire body that was not giving the Tajikistan girl pain, promising to do her best.

An hour later Lily, accompanied by her new navigator, Tamryn Zolotov, stood before Colonel Dragomira in his pigeonhole-sized office, while a stream of flightsuit-clad young women filed in one by one. Dragomira waved them all to their chairs, then turned to Lily.

“I saw Comrade Dominika myself,” he said grimly. “She wanted to go but it will be a week before she can use that arm. I spoke to Major Bershanskaya about you. She was reluctant, but owing to the inexperience of so many of you Moscow pilots, she stressed that you two must be careful, dare I say, cautious even. Can you bring the plane back, Comrade Zolotov, if anything happens to Comrade Litvyak?”

“Yes, sir, I think so. I’ve often flown before, alone.”

“Under fire by sausage eaters?”

“We shall soon find out, Comrade Colonel.”

Dragomira gave them both one long look, then turned away to address the other pilots and navigators with a soft, “here go hell come,” under his breath.

* * *

Shortly after a bugle call the following order was posted on the bulletin board in front of the hanger for all concerned parties to see.

“Members of 588th Night Bomber Regiment will carry out the following order at 10 a.m., 12 midnight, 2 a.m. At each time three machines, each carrying eight 25 pound bombs, will bomb respectively Charlie Foxtrot and Charlie Lima India Tango. Each member of the squadrons assigned will be ready at Hangars No. 4, No. 7, No. 9 at times noted. That is all.”

Each aviator, with her navigator, had been privately notified by the Colonel in person. These night raids were mostly for the purpose of keeping the Nazis nervous after a hard day of getting shot at, anything to lower their morale even lower than it was. Usually the points selected were the shell-torn fields outside of villages where the Nazis had been sent for a brief period of rest before advancing into cannon fire once more. Then the witches would come. The Night Witches, Die Nachthexen, around the time the exhausted men were just beginning to lie down in their billets, dreaming of home or whatever it was Nazis thought about. Then the bombs would begin to fall, tents would explode into fragments, men crawling about in the dark on their hands and knees, a whole night’s rest lost to general turmoil, fire and death.

When Lily and Tamryn clambered into their waiting Polikarpov — bombs already stowed, wheeled out in front of their hangar — everything was quiet. The other women moved about, ghosts now, shadows of women facing an inky unknown. A few minutes later the first of the night raiders climbed up into the swirling darkness, the only noise being the wind and the whirring putt-putt-putt of their engines. Watching for the signal of the leader of the squadron, they all banked sharp and headed to the front.

Over the ruined farmland, star-shelled from continual artillery fire, their infantry could be seen below. There were women soldiers down there too – tank teams, snipers, explosive experts – Stalin was using everything in his power to push back Hitler and his drive toward Moscow. Following their flight leader, the Night Witches kept at a sufficient altitude, hugging the darkness, avoiding glints of light, dodging occasional search lamps, all without speaking a single word.

“You’ve been out here before, Litvyak?” Zolotov spoke at last. “How much further are we going?”

“We’ll be there in two minutes. Hold on, I’m going lower. Get ready our bombs.”

“Rodger Dodger, girl friend.”

Below lay blackness, broken at one point only by a few dots of orange light that marked where German troops sat, smoking in the dark, their lit cigarettes custom homing signals on which these women were to let loose their bombs.

“Now!” whispered Lily to her navigator. Others were at work as well. The enemy tents below, already in half ruin, began to detonate with sharp explosions, lurid flashings, an inhuman uproar of human cries. It was evident that the raiders had struck the right spot.

Just then a blinding gleam of spotlight flashed aslant into Lily’s eyes. Pulling hard on the throttle, she darted the plane aside suddenly, giving her whole attention to the machine. The Polikarpov zigzagged, dodged, spun, while the scene below was soon illuminated by the flashing roar of hostile artillery. A shell blossomed with a deafening explosion so close to their plane that it was evident that the artillery had sighted them during Litvyak’s last lower loop. Pulling back on the throttle, the old biplane began to climb into the upper atmosphere, little whiffs of cumulus clouds lessening the danger of further shells.

“Did we make it?” Lily yelled over the roar of the wind.

Receiving no answer, she glanced behind her. To her dismay Tamryn’s slender figure lay drooping again the side of her cockpit, her head knocking this and that in the slipstream. She tried to crane her neck even further back, reach her navigator, and in doing so heard something pop in her back and immediately her muscles began to scream.

Tears running down her face in pain, Lily scanned the sky. The two other Polikarpovs had vanished in the darkness, undoubtedly bearing for a higher strata and safety in their flight back to their Engels aerodrome. Meantime German spotlights were stabbing through the inky night. The swift reports of anti-aircraft fire could still be heard in a most dreamlike manner. Tamryn groaned, trying to raise her head. There was blood everywhere.

[to be continued]

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