This is an idea that came out of nowhere, really. It’s built on a few fond memories of riding my motorcycle (oh, those were the days!) into the country, and a few work experiences with bits of trivial knowledge thrown in for good measure, although there’s no direct match of events.
But mostly, this story is written for the woman from whom my pseudonym comes... one who has nurtured me and my creativity, accepted and supported my sexuality, who has been steadfast through my instabilities and crises, and who has never wavered in her love and affection. Sara, you have my eternal love and affection, and my wishes and prayers that your journey onward from here is as beautiful and good as the soul eternity now welcomes.
This story is intended for adults. If you are under the age of 18 or if you find stories containing graphic sex and sexual themes offensive, go elsewhere.
©2004 by Sara H—All rights reserved. Posting elsewhere only by explicit permission of the author.
Feast
by Sara H
Chapter One
The sun was already behind the trees when Brenda made it to the top of Dobbins Hill, and darkness was coming quickly. She stopped and sat on her Honda as it churned between her thighs quietly, hugging herself to push away the cold for a moment before she headed down into the next valley.
It wouldn’t be too much longer, and she’d be at Aunt Martha’s, drinking down a hot cup of coffee, trying to get out of telling her mom’s sister all the family gossip. She’d be polite, but she was really tired, and the long conversations that were bound to happen could wait until morning.
It had been some years since she’d seen her aunt, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. Martha had been a bit of as “wild child” in her youth, and Brenda’s mom didn’t talk about her much, and when she did, she never failed to refer to her sister as “a heathen thing.” But Brenda remembered the flowing dresses and billowy blouses that Martha had worn, and how she’d looked like the exact representation of what Brenda imagined when she thought of the word “hippy”.
Earth Mother. Flower Child.
Anyway, she couldn’t pass though West Virginia without stopping in. And besides, she felt kinship beyond being Martha’s niece. Both were rebels in their own way, and both sat on the uncomfortable edge of being family outcasts.
She pressed the shift lever into gear and headed down into the darker shades of the valley. As she did, she felt the air growing cooler, and could smell the end of summer coming. That’s what she loved about riding her bike... it was more like being in the passing scenery than just watching it from behind the glass of a windshield.
After another forty-five minutes, she saw the white and red mailbox and the gravel road her aunt had described when Brenda called to ask if she could stop by. That narrow, worn road would lead to Martha’s little, worn house in the hills. She turned off the highway and carefully navigated the motorcycle over the winding, rocky road—more of a rutted path, really. The trees seemed to form an arch over her, almost reaching down to touch her. The cool air added to the effect, making her shiver as she rode.
Finally, she saw the small farmhouse, lights shining through yellow shades, the porch light on, just as Aunt Martha had promised. She pulled up next to a battered pickup truck that looked to have been white before time and weather had taken their toll. With some amusement, she noticed that the emblem was missing from the front—there were a couple of small holes in the hood where it had once been. She could have taken a huge black stamp with the words “OLD FARM TRUCK” and used in on the doors and hood... like the twilight scenery, it was as typical as it was beautiful. Generic rust.
She stepped up onto the porch, and was about to knock, but the door pulled open before she could even lift her hand.
“Brenda!” said Aunt Martha, smiling widely as she showed herself. “I was beginning to get worried you were lost! I’m so glad you’re here!” she said, pushing open the screen door and waving away the moths hovering there.
“Hi, Aunt Martha,” said Brenda. She realized that she almost felt coy, like the little girl she’d been when she’d first met her older relative so many years ago.
“Come on in, girl,” said Martha, still beaming. “I know you’re cold after riding. I used to have a ‘cycle myself, before I figured I was pushing the odds towards having a wreck.”
“Cold and tired,” she answered, smiling back and feeling much more at ease. Even though she knew her aunt had a reputation, she didn’t know much else, and she never knew what reactions her own peculiar passions would bring. Discovering Aunt Martha was once into motorcycles wasn’t surprising, but it was a relief just the same.
Brenda stepped through the door as Aunt Martha took her arm, expecting the musty odor of old paper and old houses. Instead, she was greeted with Jasmine incense and the heady aroma of baking bread. The intensity of it made her swoon, and she felt her balance waver a bit.
As they got into the living room, Aunt Martha turned, took a step back, looked over the tops of her glasses and said, “Well, let me see what my sister raised up.” Giving her niece a quick once or twice over, she pronounced, “My, you’ve turned into quite a lovely young lady!”
Brenda blushed. “Maybe you’d better use your glasses, Aunt Martha...”
“Nonsense. And you’re old enough now to dispense with formalities I never liked in the first place. Just call me Martha. If you don’t, I’ll start calling you Niece Brenda.”
“Okay... Martha,” said Brenda, smirking. Martha was just as unconventional as she’d remembered.
“Much better. Now come on in and tell me all about everything that’s going on. I have some hot coffee ready for you, and I won’t take no for an answer!”
Brenda rolled her eyes as she followed Martha to the kitchen, grateful for the coffee, and dreading the gossip.
Chapter Two
For Simone Aubrey, tonight was payback night, and payback was always a bitch. Or in this case, a bitch in heat. Years of work were about to come to fruition, although in truth, it wasn’t about revenge so much anymore. Since discovering such a thing was possible, she’d wanted tonight more for her own enjoyment than to get even for something so far in the past. It was that past event, after all, that had led a winding path to both her dream and her attainment of it.
Sure, she still remembered being disgraced and harassed out of the poor, rural county when her sexual preferences became known... still remembered the pastor’s wife spitting on her when no one was watching. And she remembered how Cindy Johnson, Simone’s first and only lover up to that time, had killed herself thanks to the good people of Rogers Falls and their “compassionate” helping of shame and ridicule. She knew that Cindy alone was responsible for her choice to end her own life, although when it had happened, Simone was devastated.
Over time, life away from the cloistered atmosphere of the Appalachian valley she called home had given her new direction and new appetites. She was still a “lay-yez-be-in wummun”, but had since become more militant in her views. And she’d discovered a hunger for directing things to match her own vision of how they should be.
This hunger mixed with her interest in psychology, which had been a direct result of dealing with Cindy’s death. Added to her interest in science, research and revenge, it had all formed into something new, deep inside of her... it was impossible to tell where one aspect ended and another began.
Simone was as insane as she was brilliant.
She listened to the sixty-cycle hum of the psychoactive circuits as The Behemoth warmed up. It would be several more minutes before it was ready to discharge its payload into the cool night. She was nervous... although the power drain was negligible, the Polyspectral Transducers created an unintended by-product in the form of an asynchronous electromagnetic wave, one that needed constant monitoring. She’d forced the turbines offline at the local power plant once already.
During a test, as the wave spread out, it had begun to travel along high voltage power lines, and the synchronizers that controlled the generators at the power plant interpreted the wave as a malfunction and tripped the built-in safeties. If it happened again, it was almost certain that an investigation would follow, with the inevitable outcome of the authorities finding her remote facility.
She passed the time trying to think up a name for the thing—Asynchronous Polyspectral Brainwave and Thought Pattern Modification Transducer just didn’t have much of a ring to it. She’d always called it “The Behemoth”, and sometimes “The Antichrist” when she was frustrated with her progress, but both seemed a little heavy-handed for what the thing actually did.
She tried to think up catchy acronyms to pass the time. LESBIAN—Looped Electronic Sapphic Behavior Indoctrination And Naturalization unit... SAPPHO—Sophisticated Asynchronous Polyspectral Perverse Homosexual Originator device... HILLARY—Hyper-Indoctrination to Lesbian Love—Are we Ready Yet box... but nothing seemed to really hit the mark.
Someday she’d think of something.
In the meantime, the indicators were now showing green across the board. It was time to play with the locals. Or have the locals start to play with each other.
Or both.
Donna McMasters looked at the indicators on the large map that covered the wall in the Power Distribution room. For the second time in three weeks, the tiny lights that showed each substation were turning amber. She sighed and rolled her eyes, wondering what the hell was causing it. “Damn it, here we go again,” she muttered. If the cascading problem continued, the generators at the Rogers Falls Power Station would try to adjust and shut down again.
Already there’d been questions about load and capacity, and the local government had come down hard. They’d been able to get the power back on by buying power from other regions, but getting the turbines back on line took hours and cost outrageous amounts of money due to the emergency crews that had to be called in to handle the restart.
As always, the problem was moving across the board a few lights at a time. It was about to reach the distribution office itself, and she wondered if she’d see anything.
She didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The dimmed incandescent lights of the large room flared and then adjusted. The effect was strange, and created a kind of sickening change in perspective as if room were getting longer and taller... as if it had been pulled outward like taffy. She felt dizzy and sick for a moment, and then it was gone. She looked around and swallowed, getting a sense of normalcy again.
She glanced upward at the display wall again, and did a double-take. The indicators were all green. She pulled up a display on her monitor and studied it for a moment. There was still something going on, but the system had been able to compensate this time, and nothing was going to happen. Still, someone needed to figure out what was going on.
She reached over to the alarm button, but pulled her hand back. If she woke people up for a false alarm, she’d get skewered by the General Manager. And if something bad was happening, she wouldn’t be leaving the station for days, and would be lucky to get any sleep at all. And while she might have had some duty to report deviations in the system, the lights had turned green again.
She hesitated for another moment, but a sense of peace about the situation—about everything, really—crept through her mind. She could feel it growing... a kind of faith that everything was going to be fine. It wasn’t specific, but rather a kind of gentle assurance that all was right with the world. She laughed a bit at the mystical feeling of it. Night work, alone on watch, could do these things.
She’d been alone ever since the cutbacks of ‘02, and her co-worker had been replaced with a little box with a big red button on top that she had to push every thirty minutes to assure those in charge that someone was watching the system. If she didn’t press it, Security would show up to find out what was wrong. She’d written out the laid-off worker’s name, Andi, on a sticky-note and taped it to the side of the box. Now, everyone called the thing “Andi”.
As for Donna, she knew that the routine wasn’t about monitoring her safety or well-being. It was about keeping the lights on. She didn’t mind, really—it was typical of most corporations, and if nothing else, power companies were corporations. “Never mind the girl with the heart-attack on the floor, what about the grid?”
It didn’t matter. She liked the time alone. The time with no one else around. The isolation. The desert of night.
Besides, every few hours Francine would come by, which was just enough to break up the monotony. Francine, the night guard who was just a tad overweight, with wide hips and breasts that stretched her uniform shirt tight. God, that had to be uncomfortable.
Amazing breasts. Donna smiled and let out a small, sweet laugh. She wondered if they had the classic shape, or were more conical, like her own. She licked her lips without realizing it. She wondered if they were more or less sensitive.
She reached up and ran a finger around her own nipple and shivered as it hardened and sent a familiar tendril of pleasure into her brain. It was stronger than usual. God, it had been so long. “Francine is probably lonely, too,” came the voice in her mind.
She might have thought it strange to have such a thought, but after all, it was the voice she’d always heard when she was thinking. It was her own voice, her own... desire.
She shifted her weight in her chair and sighed as the movement of her thighs showed her that her vagina was thinking right along with her, leaking out the essence of her unexpected—and unexpectedly welcome—need.
Worried for a moment that she might actually be getting her pants wet, she reached down to check. As her hand touched her crotch it sent a blast of pleasure through her, and she began to rub herself right through her clothes, an unintended consequence of her caution. Guilt and pleasure combined inside and erupted from her lungs in a long, soft moan.
She began to writhe, the display board forgotten, as the swell of lust and thoughts of Francine danced a rite of seduction in her head. Her eyes closed and her hands, moving in ways far more instinctive than reasoned, pleasured her as she had never been pleasured before.
She didn’t hear the door as it opened, nor did she see the pair of eyes that watched her and then closed, opening again, now shining with the same lust that was shining in hers.
She jumped and nearly screamed as a pair of hands touched her knees, eyes springing wide open. Francine! She was caught!
Color rose to Donna’s cheeks in embarrassment, until she had the courage to look directly into the face of the woman who’d caught her in the act of self-pleasure. A face that was on a head that was on the shoulders of a woman kneeling in front of her, watching with undisguised lust.
The tongue moved. The lips whispered. “Donna... god, Donna... let me...”
No more words were needed. Donna pulled Francine upward and along her body, gasping as the guard’s huge breasts crushed her own, kissing her deeply, tongues suddenly dancing to a tune older than history. The scent of their arousal mixed and filled the air, invading her senses as she gave in to her lust.
And while there was the tiniest part of Donna that knew that before tonight, lust of this nature and strength would have been shocking at best, it no longer mattered. It was here now, and it was a part of her, and she was a part of it.
And she knew that Francine was feeling exactly the same thing.
Mary was late for “Poker With The Girls”, as Edward called it, even though it was only Hearts. She’d had to pull over for a moment from being dizzy. It had worried her, but it had gone away almost as fast as it had come. Still, she’d sat by the side of the road, thinking about her friends and how nice it was that they’d become so close.
How nice it would be if they could become closer, somehow.
As she walked to the front door, she noticed that the front room, where they normally sat playing cards, was empty. She walked in and listened for some sound to guide her. It wasn’t unusual for them to find something else to do if any of them were late, so when she heard noises from the basement, she smiled and headed for the door at the back end of the house.
As she turned the corner to head down the steps, she stopped again. There was the strangest sound coming from below, like a swarm of angry bees. She called out, “Ver? Stacy? Deb?”
There was no answer. She started down the steps, more curious than frightened. When she finally got to where she could see past the partial wall and underneath the remaining soffit, her jaw dropped in shock at the scene laid out before her.
Or rather, at the women laid out before her.
They were arranged in a loose circle, nude, making love. No, not making love, exactly. They were... fucking. The word ran through her head, coating her thoughts like slick, evil honey. Fuck-king. Fuuuuucking.
Vibrators moved up and down the length of hot, wet slits as her friends writhed on the carpeted floor, the sound almost drowning out the moans as their bodies bucked in response to the obscene pleasuring.
As her eyes glued themselves to the orgy in front of her, she wondered where the vibrators had come from. Purses? Did Ver have a collection? But before she could be distracted by her curiosity, it no longer mattered—any sense of logic and reason was melting away in the blistering heat.
Something about the scene before her fell into place like a piece of a puzzle whose existence had never even been guessed. It was what had been missing in her life up to this moment, with Edward, with her friends, in the world. It was beautiful beyond anything she could have imagined.
Women fucking women. And then, desire slipped like a sliver of smooth glass covered in oil into the deepest recesses of her mind. She wanted... needed... to fuck them and be fucked. It called to her like a siren from deep inside her core, from the most basic part of her nature.
Like the Voice of God.
She moaned and tore herself out of her clothes and walked over to Ver, and kissed her shoulder. Ver turned over, saw her, and pulled her into a kiss filled with more passion and lust than Mary had ever known. She moaned her response directly into the lungs of her new-found lover. And then, the vibrators quieted, were set aside, and as Stacy made room, Mary slid down Ver’s body licking and tonguing the hot, sensitive flesh, until her nose and mouth were filled with the scent of Ver’s hot, wet pussy.
She felt Stacy’s tongue tease her thighs and she threw her legs wide, even as her own tongue plunged into Ver and then up, teasing the hard, blistery clit offered her, licking... and swirling... suckling... nibbling...
And as all four women pushed each other closer and closer to their inevitable consummation, their shared climax of wanton abandon and bliss, there was no other world, and no other place to be.
Mary had found treasure, buried in her best friend’s cunt.
Chapter Three
Brenda felt herself rise through the layers of sleep, as if coming up through the blankets that protected her from the chilly night air of the mountains. By the time she thought to wonder where she was, she remembered. She and Martha had talked late into the night, as expected, sipping coffee laced with some unnamed liqueur from the area.
Like so many things, the reality of conversing with Martha was not nearly as oppressive as Brenda had imagined. In fact, just the opposite was true. Martha had a gift for listening—really listening—and it had almost been intimidating. For the first time, someone actually was absorbing all her words. Most people she knew only listened until they thought they knew what she was saying, followed by fidgeting with impatience as they waited to say something else.
But Martha would listen, and each time Brenda finished, her words would hang in the air, as if Martha was savoring their very essence, relishing each vibration, each manipulation of lips, tongue, and breath... like a lover...
Brenda shivered as the thought occurred to her in such an odd way, but didn’t retreat. It was too appropriate a choice of words to dismiss.
As she thought back, she tried to remember all she had said, but it was all a jumble, now that she had slept. It didn’t really matter. After just a small amount of time with her aunt, Brenda realized there was nothing that she couldn’t say, no story she shouldn’t tell.
For some people, like her overly-protective mother, it was uncomfortable. But Brenda loved the chance to be completely open, and she loved Martha for giving her that chance.
The aroma of fresh, brewing coffee and bacon mixed with the crisp air and warm sun of the morning, and she pulled herself out of bed, drawn to the kitchen like a moth to a flame.
When she got to a kitchen, she plopped down in the nearest chair and looked over at Martha, who was standing at the counter, in the bright morning sun. The bright, golden light created something almost artistic—an odd cross between Norman Rockwell and Vermeer, as she stirred something very slowly, deep in thought.
Brenda was struck by the sensuous movement, like a soft caress. She imagined the flavor of whatever Martha was creating being pulled out of dormancy, brought to life by the Martha’s talent and skill.
She sniffed the air, and under the coffee and bacon, she could smell the herbs and spices that had become part of the fabric of the walls, the wood... an aroma that existed despite anything else that happened in this kitchen. As she watched the wooden spoon go around and around, she could see why kitchens were universally popular gathering places. They were casual, open, and yet were a place where primal nature could meet refined grace, creating an explosion of the senses, irresistible as they were pleasurable.
Almost as an afterthought, Brenda realized she was getting turned on. Wet. The strangeness of her arousal didn’t stop it, but made it stronger as her eyes focused on the slightly moving hips of her aunt, moving back and forth, like a subtle, native fertility dance.
“Sleep well, Bren?” asked Martha, without turning around.
The voice was like heady wine on Brenda’s ears... musical, heavy, earthy. She realized with more acceptance than shock that she wanted Martha. Wanted to make love to her. Wanted to hear her screams of pleasure.
She wanted to taste Martha’s flesh.
“Brenda?” asked Martha, turning around.
“Y-yes,” answered Brenda. “Very well.”
“Good. I’m making up some pancakes, if you want them,” she said.
Brenda stood up and walked over to the counter as Martha turned back to her chore. She pressed into her aunt from the side and rear and took in a sharp breath as their bodies, separated only by two layers of thin cloth, touched.
“Perfect,” said Martha, pronouncing her judgment on the creamy, beige batter.
“Yesss, perfect,” echoed Brenda, breathing in the scent and heat of the woman beside her.
Martha turned to her niece, and looked into her eyes. “Brenda... you are so... beautiful,” she whispered. She raised a trembling hand to brush back her hair. “I... I want you... I’ve stood here all morning trying to stop these feelings...”
“There’s no need, Martha. We’re kindred spirits. We’ve found each other,” breathed Brenda, pulling Martha to herself and sliding her body against the forty-eight-year-old woman.
“But we can’t... I mean... I can’t... it’s not...”
Her words were cut off by the touch of Brenda’s lips to her own, and by the beating of her own heart as she succumbed to the wanton desire coursing through her veins.
As their hands slowly pulled the clothes from each other in a ritual that felt almost sacred, who they were disappeared, the mists of history burning away like morning fog.
There was only Brenda, Martha, and the heat of the morning sun as it blazed between them.