Serpent Letters

Sabelle examined the long buffet table’s sumptuously stacked meats, appetizers, cakes and exotic fruits, all of which waited for the women who would partake of them. Two steps up—the dining hall was slightly sunken, Sabelle stopped next to survey the room’s larger, more impressive feature.

Raised on four slab-like appendages, designed to easily support the bed of the stoutest Wagnerian opera couple and a host of their friends besides—the altar, what certain coven members referred to as the sacrifice table—possessed a more than foot deep flat surface, comprised of solid oak. It housed the central jewel of the night’s coming celebration, Sabelle’s pride and purpose, though at first glance the ignorant outsider would hardly think so.

No, rather, such an outsider would assume some Good Housekeeping suggestion gone strangely Disney-erotic had overtaken her hostess’s good sense. And this was because on the altar/table, arrayed on carved wooden platters, sat a veritable Jell-o platoon of nude women, expertly rendered.

Sabelle stroked a green model, noting how the floss-like strands seeping upwards from the woman’s groin were both delicately threadlike and wavy as kelp. Modestly full labia, sculpted with the skill one expected of a museum quality bust, aroused, while the peek of clit, like an erotic ghost at the end of a keyhole, titillated. As fine as flesh, Sabelle smiled, one empty platter near the end of the table, she stroked the carved edging, one slut needed to fill it.

Sabelle couldn’t recall the harlot’s real name—something mirthless, so probably Christian, and likewise depressing, which the hussy had traded in for a street name as gaudy as the surrounding feast.

The street name—knowing such things to exactitude wasn’t important. But Sabelle was young for a senior witch, barely over a hundred, and hated to forget things. She stroked the center seam of her forehead, the fold that led naturally to her third eye.

Scarletta, wasn’t it, or Star Dreams? Naturally, it started with an S. The serpent letter had power when chosen deliberately. No woman, apprenticed or finally inducted into the coven, was ever taken without designating for her a serpent letter name, the one by which she’d be known within the coven; her witch name.

However, as fortunate as an S chosen name was, as necessary and desirable for initiate or feast martyr, it was deemed equally unlucky to choose a woman as feast martyr who was given an S name at birth. The power of a birth-given S name was simply too strong for one who must succumb and make the ultimate sacrifice for the good of the coven.

The woman freezing in the meat locker wasn’t given an S name at birth, of that Sabelle was certain. What she was—and this Sabelle knew because it was a normal reaction to the drug the whore was under, was reliving the prior night’s events. The drug in the whore’s system produced sharpened memories for several hours, along with an inability to relay them dishonestly, an attribute which made it useful for determining the birth name among, other things.

Betty clanged into Sabelle’s memory and she clapped her hands delightedly. Betty, yes, that was the street girl’s birth name, Sabelle laughed aloud. Just imagine, the domestic crockery goddess, damn.

Ah well, The hussy could lick a platter as clean as Spratt’s fat little wife. Sabelle would need to call a wench or get her vibrator if she thought about the Betty tart’s juicy T’s, tongue-tits-twat, a second longer. The vulgar tease was a lovely distraction, frankly yummy. But Sabelle had work to do.

Her first job; to select a whore for the feast, was assuredly a success. So, she’d been a bit zealous with the drug. Betty, alias Satchelle, ah yes, the space beneath the only wrinkle allowed to grace Sabelle’s ageless porcelain face tingled…that was it, the harlot’s street name—it was embroidered in gold across her halter—the whore, had been a bit too stoned to be vocal when Sabelle brought her back to the coven house for the ritual cake eating, but the hussy’s tongue had worked perfectly well, in other ways.

It hadn’t been a problem.

The drug’s crystallizing ability, which magnified Sabelle’s mind reading capacity, had made it so the whore didn’t need her tongue to speak with at all. The mental query “what did your parents name you” had produced the distinct reply “Betty.” Sabelle had heard it echo, not once, but several times, in the harlot’s head, a high almost questioning lilt. The repetition was odd, but the name was unmistakable.

Sabelle ascended the stairs to the smaller buffet table again. A last critical eye to some ladies fingers caused her to stop with her hands on her hips. The cookies, she decided were lacking—yes, definitely lacking when eyed next to the piles of cakes and sweets surrounding them.

“Wench,” she shouted, and a training witch appeared, nearly as if by magic. The tan-topped-milk-saucer breasts of the small woman were saucily on display above her lacy see-through apron. Meanwhile, beneath, also black, as might be expected, and threaded with pink ribbon, the woman’s coven issue panties gleamed lewdly, displaying, as was also de rigueur, the wearer’s naked crotch.

“Ah, Sabina,” some powdered sugar, now.” Sabelle stamped her foot, allowing her best; most ogre-grotesque frown to spread across her face, though inside she laughed and lusted, watching the curvy, young witch scuttle off.

Later, she told herself, she’d enjoy strapping on the eight inch dildo she pleasured her playmates with for that one. Seating that plump little ass on her lap, coring it over and over again, such fun, she’d make Sabina howl and squeeze her pretty nips for some relief when she sliced her ass on her bucking thighs, plunging her fingers inside the witchlet’s twat.

A rush of quick, naked feet, and Sabina reappeared. The young woman dipped her head, showing off the gleaming hair neatly coiled into a twisted braid. Dropping a curtsy, she offered a jar of powdered sugar.

Any other day and Sabelle would have ordered the slutling witch to kneel beneath her skirts and thoroughly soak he twat, while she repowdered the lackluster cookies.

If she were a good little witch she might let her suck out her clit until she came and then return the favor, laying the young woman on the table. She’d part the cookie’s cookie feline style, up on the table, and on all fours, thrusting in with nose and mouth to milk the witch maid’s third teat dry.

Today, however she was busy, way too busy for silly witchlings, who forgot that while the uniform was designed to keep them humble and remind them of their place, which was below their superior witch sisters, as well as between their legs and thighs whenever said sisters should want them to be there, they were there also to learn everything there was to learn about delivering and overcoming pain, about spells, and about mind control, in short to learn everything there was to learn about the coven.. Their ultimate job was to prove to all their sisters they were worthy of being more than toys.

An apprentice witch’s first lessons was always to anticipate, to read every nuance of a sister witch’s body and face, every aspect of a situation, and thus deduce correctly what was needed even before it was asked for.

To arrive with the needed object in hand, if possible, this was grace. To be ready for the asked for task, showing no alarm, merely an attuned awareness, this was poise, the poise of the senior witch, who always anticipated, and was never shown up by person or circumstance. .

Such finely tuned antennae were the first step in the mind opening that would render each witchling ready for her final induction into the coven. Anything less made the apprentice into nothing more than a maid and a house toy.

“Slut, how am I supposed to apply this?” Sabina blanched.

“Never mind,” said Sabina. She clapped her hand and a senior witch member appeared with the sifter.

Serena was solemn in yards of black. Without a word she strode forward and handed Sabelle the sifter. A fierce slap leveled at Sabina’s cheek followed. Serena’s nails raked the witchling’s cheeks.

“Wait in your room, Sabina, until someone decides on your punishment” Serena’s tones were ice, her scowls ten times blacker than Sabelle’s. Fighting back tears Sabina sped off.

“Mistress of Ceremony, how fares the preparations for our anniversary celebration?” This was said with almost no emotion from Serena, who doubtless knew the answer, but who would have asked the question in just the same funereal tone were there even the slightest chance that she didn’t.

“They are almost done, Mistress of Kitchens, said Sabelle,” sighing as she spoke, albeit carefully and inwardly.

Only the oldest and most fetid of cats, like Serena St. George, used the archaic language.

However, such cats knew things. Their mind power was often legendary. It was best to look humble and think of wide open spaces when talking to cats like Serena. Rumor had it she not only knew what any woman wanted the moment she was clapped for, she also, and with very little effort, could discern a witch’s darkest, and most unwholesome desires, the things that wafted through a witch’s nightmares and were, more often than not, unacknowledged by the very witch who possessed them.

Later she would speak to Sharelle, who acted as governess to the first-years, and see about being allowed to dole out Sabina’s punishment herself.

Serena removed herself like a thundercloud working its way backwards, and Sabelle smiled, floating a last sugar cloud across the cookies. Much more tempting, she decided, biting-good even. Sabelle suited word to deed, grinning. Almost, she decided, as good as real ladies fingers.

Sabelle dusted sugary hands across her apron, arousing the naked lips which puckered, plump and needy, through the open lace of her crotchless panties. The panties were designed for pleasure. A little squat and a call to a wench witch… Hell, her own fingers would do, but no, business first. Quickly now, Sabelle arranged gumdrops on the now properly star-shaped cake, examined the effect then daringly dropped two upon a pair of Jell-o nudes.

Such vulgarity, Mistress Sabelle, putting candy on the Jell-o titties of the altar women, Sabelle squirmed mischievously. On this day of days, with her attainment of a martyr as delectable and satisfactory as the little Betty twat would be, she felt entitled to just a little naughtiness. Sabelle reached up and kissed the mouth of a Jell-O woman lightly, enjoying the faint motion beneath her own. A different mouth, minx-like and rimmed in lime green Jell-O overtook her memory.
Lord, how the Betty twat had laughed at her, Sabelle remembered the moment. It was on the return to the coven house, after she’d drugged her prospect, lured her into the limo, and plied her with sex.

Traditionally, the whore selections were offered a slice of the ritual cake, while it was still a heart. Betty/Satchelle—the bandeau halter she wore, nonchalantly yanked to reveal a line of eye candy sweeter than any gumdrop, had laughed her stoned ass of the whole time she took a slice. It was a view, Sabelle recalled, that on the pussy ache meter registered below the memory of the Betty tart’s following actions, but barely.

Without thinking, Sabelle had found her wet ravine. A lacquered nail circled the descending ridges, beating faster and faster until it skidded slickly into the damp recess inside. More fingers followed the first, the witch’s shapely talons searing the tender walls so that the overall effect was eruptive, cream bubbling around the bottling digits. Pleasure and pain filled Sabelle’s groin, as she freed the dam, and then rebottled it again, reenacting the process until she at last removed the impediment completely, freeing a warmly recuperative, but also thoroughly draining spurt. She groaned.

It was that Jell-o glob, remembering how it had leapt from the girl tart’s fingers right to Sabelle’s own nose, splattering her eye in the process. Unrepentant, the daring hussy had actually followed the glob to Sabelle’s face with a matter of fact push.

It took a single second for Sabelle, who’d stood, wiping lime Jell-O from her eye, to find herself on the ground with her dress open, while the rest of the Jell-O rested between her legs. Using the witch-wiler as a plate wasn’t usual. Eating the cake and the witch were usually separate activities.

Damned, if she hadn’t been surprised by a whore—she, Sabelle, who had not been surprised in almost a century. She licked the remaining sugar off her fingers, unsurprised to note that taste was assisting memory by stimulating more buds than the ones residing on the back of her tongue. Clearly, she was insatiable. Sighing, Sabelle resigned herself to arranging seatings, the last bit of business she must attend to before the coven’s annual feast.

Meanwhile, locked in the freezer, Satchelle/Betty dreamed on.

***

Quite cold for early October—she’d almost cashed her chips in for the night.

Screw Sallie.

She’d make up her take tomorrow, or the next day. Fuck it. She was one of Sal’s best girls, and Sal knew it, no matter what Sallie said on the subject, or how loudly.

No sooner has the thought crossed Satchelle’s mind, when proof loomed heavenly, wearing a button down silk dress and fox furs. The creation emitted expensive perfume, and was high on the list of why Miss Satchelle always brought home the bucks.

Satchelle could smell Janes as easily as Johns, and, unlike some of Sal’s more picky eaters, she actually had a taste for both she didn’t have to fake. Moreover, Satchelle was young and practical enough to achieve some occasional pleasure from her work.

Her frosty knees forgotten, ogling the stranger’s plantation worthy stems, Satchelle’s head was no longer the warmest part of her body. It had only been in the running due to her third cheesiest wig, anyway—the red one. Mom always said keeping the head warm was the most important part of bundling up.

The vision approached.

The cold, while bad for consumer flow, did good things for her nipples, causing the peaks to tighten and push against her halter. Satchelle’s cutesy-pooh halter, mini, mix, which always went down well with the guys who made up the majority of her clientele, suddenly seemed as glitzy-sad as it really was. Women always made her feel slutty. Sexy, yes, but also underdressed. For women, she always wished she’d dressed better. But in Satchelle’s business you went for the bottom line.

Men.

Unless you were one of those high-notch-booty-girls, scoring screws in the penthouse, they liked you coming out of your clothes. A quick price quote usually summed up the level of finessing.

The bitch held out a cigarette.
Satchelle reached into her skirt pocket, surprised to find she’d left a book of matches in it. Flaying already numb fingers, she bent a match she hadn’t even lit yet then took three more tries before she was able, at last, to hold a tiny light up, and offer it to the woman with cold and trembling fingers, only to have the matchbook slide off her palm and onto the sidewalk.

Not willing to lose even such a small commodity, Satchelle bent over to pick it up— fingers reaching for it, just as the woman’s high heeled shoe bore down, smashing the book. Satchelle looked up.

The fleshy fullness of a startlingly red mouth exerted gentle pressure against the tip of the woman’s cigarette, before releasing it. Lush lips spoke.

“They’ve done their duty—”wafted down to where Satchelle crouched, accompanied by a drift of ashes.

“Here,” the woman offered Satchelle a drag. “I think you could use this. It’s very cold.” She smiled a smile as velvety as her voice. “And you’re underdressed.”

“Take it, Warmth starts on the inside.” Black eyes—magnified slightly, like a cat’s in the moonlight—gleamed, while the woman’s brows, which appeared to hold their own silent discourse, remained tense, as full as startled felines themselves.

Words that would have explained how she really didn’t smoke anymore died beneath the woman’s hypnotic gaze before Satchelle could even say them, and she reached for the cigarette without comment, rising to her feet and pulling on it far more fiercely then she’d intended.

Coughing, she returned it to the woman.

The lady in her red button down dress hadn’t moved. Without a word, she accepted back her cigarette, one hand reapplying it to her lips, while the other reached across to casually stroke the younger woman’s shoulder.

“Of course, neither of us is really dressed for the weather.”

The hand was removed before Satchelle could wonder about its intentions, and a lifted nail arose to guide her eyes in the direction of a silver Cadillac, missing a minute ago. “I think we can keep each other a whole lot warmer inside.”

“What you got in there, more furs?” Satchelle eyed the luxurious tails draping the stranger’s neck. No one could pretend they really kept out the wind. But they were nice. The last time Satchelle had seen a real skin like that the woman holding it up outside Chuck’s Finer Cuts and Chops was grossing everyone out with more information than she ever wanted to know about slaughtering and gutting. Of course, that skin wasn’t a good one, which was fortunate, as it had blood splashed on it to make a point. For once, Satchelle was glad to see the cops show up to haul the do-gooder away.

Of course there weren’t any splash happy do-gooders on the corner of Cobb and Second. Maybe the Jane only wore her furs when she went slumming for tail.

Tail attire for tail shopping, Satchelle giggled. She was starting to feel a bit silly.

“That can be arranged if you like. But I really didn’t want to dress you in those sorts of skins.”

“Oh? What did you want me to wear?”

Satchelle giggled. Repartee wasn’t a big job requirement in her line of work. By now, she was usually spread over a back seat or squatting—her mouth, full of about to be jizz-splashed latex.

She felt almost like a date.

“Sabelle.” The woman offered the word, smiling. Satchelle frowned.

“Sable, you mean?”

“No.”

Somehow, during their talk, those knife-like fingers had reached out to threaten the flimsy rayon of her halter. Satchelle usually backed off when guys groped her on the street. You agreed on a price. You played; you paid. No funny stuff before. No funny stuff after. No free feels.

But this babe was slick.

Satchelle worried her forehead, pleating the skin, like she could massage the inner organ from without…Fuck…Sal was calling her.

Satchelle was a decent receptor, though not able to penetrate minds without help. Sal, however, was a very good mind reader, and could receive and send messages at will, besides sensing when danger threatened. Having your twin as your pimp—of course, Sal preferred Madam, as his dick was, in his own terms, a temporary accessory—was sometimes useful.

Mom wasn’t precogniscent; Grandma was the witch. But her choice in names certainly was. Sal had saved her more than once from what Mom called pocket vision. She’d learned alertness on the street after Mom died, but she was still such a Betty. That’s what Sal called her, was calling her, her private family nickname, in her head.

“Betty? Betty?”

Sal’s voice, while not especially masculine, was gruffer than the one he wanted, the one he yearned to achieve once he was able to afford regular estrogen shots, and a voice coach, just to give it some added tone. But the voice in Satchelle’s head was softer, satiny, with none of the husky undertone that Sal hated.

Though she’d advanced it now to include some staccato side-dips, rather like a swimmer forcing out chlorinated water, all of Satchelle’s head worrying hadn’t stilled the clanging Bettys. It was as if Sal had chosen her head to play a round of peek-a-boo, featuring Sal, who had the slightly more bass voice, the voice he dreamed of cutting off at the root (the manroot,) calling out to Sallie, that part of Salvatore Lamaghi destined to emerge after the knife, sporting a voice so soprano-sultry it would render onto him the persona of some ultra-femme, yet somehow still hotly butch, Madame with a steel vagina.

Apparently, within the twilight zone of Satchelle’s brain, that yet to be second self was able to answer Sal’s first self. It was as if…Fuck…
The noise in her head was nearly alarming now, though it only said Betty, over and over. It was obvious to Satchelle that some of those Bettys could not be from Sal. Satin and sandpaper were interweaving in her head, exacerbating the headache she always got when receiving transmissions.

With a start, Satchelle realized the second voice, which sounded so much like a higher pitched echo, as if some scout was trying to confirm what the first one said, had to be the Jane. Clearly, the woman was a reader and transmitter too—a good one, judging from the tailspin Satchelle’s head was in.

Tailspin, right—Satchelle had never gotten this worked up by a trick before. Her head was definitely swirling. Other parts were doing a fair imitation of Jell-O as well.

A saber ascended the small peak of her bosom before barely stroking an erect tip. Full lips grazed Satchelle’s ear, scaring away the questions trying to scratch at her already departing brain.

Why had the woman intercepted Sal’s transmission was one, also why hadn’t she asked anything. It was as if hearing Sal call her Betty was answer enough.

Silly niggling questions that Satchelle was too turned on, too impatient to mind. Christ, it was bad enough turning tricks for a twin, who just happened to be a male wanna-be lesbian, able to infiltrate her head at will, even if he hated to do it, and usually saved the brain raids for emergencies.

Maybe it turned the dame on, knowing what a chick’s name was without having to ask first. Why this would matter at all with a prostitute, Satchelle didn’t ask herself. It was good just getting those two voices to shut up. Two transmitters in her head at the same time were enough, so she felt, to make her spin of the Earth, or puke, either one.
The devil woman in the red dress smiled at her, as if she knew all about the little drama in Satchelle’s head. Aloof, throughout the head jostling ceremony, she’d looked completely unimpressed—a gorgeous, untouchable stone statue.

Well, she was one of the transmitters, Satchelle reminded herself.

Goose flesh that wasn’t the October cold peaked across Satchelle’s arms. Before it could arouse her worries the woman leaned forward, nuzzling Satchelle’s lips with hers. ‘Brain raids for emergencies only,’ which had already blipped blithely across her mind, without imprinting its significance upon her, faded off into her mental abyss without a chance, lost to a kiss.

Satchelle never asked herself what the transmission was Sal was trying to get through to her in the first place, which was, of course, the only really important question.

At last, the woman loosened Satchelle’s mouth. “Not Sable,” She said, “Sabelle.”
“I… am Sabelle. Would you like to wear me?”

“Yes,” said Satchelle, gulping at the tiny word. It could have been a pine cone with the difficulty she had getting it out.

Laughter propelled warm air against the nape of Satchelle’s neck, while October gusts receded to a pointless scrim of ice, capping a well fueled volcano.

“That’s good. Before you wear me, little Betty…and I hope—wear me out…” The woman’ sexy voice wove a spell.

Meanwhile, two things happened at once. A tongue traced Satchelle’s ear lobe and a delicate wrist ducked under the girl’s skirt band. Long fingers found the street girl’s skimpy undies and the dimpled, kiss shaped pucker at the base.

“I think a little champagne before our ride might be nice.”

Dazed into literalness, Satchelle squeaked out, “couldn’t we have it in the limo?”

“I didn’t mean that ride Betty. That is your name right? Betty. Or is it Satchelle.”

“Call me Betty.”

“I hope that’s your real name.” Sabelle smiled. “I like honest relationships, even when they’re short lived. I intend to ask you again after you have your champagne and you warm up a bit.”

Satchelle’s last coherent thought was laced with ironic regret, as Sabelle’s fingers threatened the integrity of her well washed cotton briefs with a final step across her barely encased nether-lips, and delicately made their way out of her skirt.
“I’m not warm?”

***

Going over the month’s take, which Sal did religiously, the first week of the month, always while imagining himself as some hard as nails femme-fatale, saving her Daddy, who didn’t have a clue how smart she was, by brilliantly cooking the books, while Billie Holiday bled warm honey blues from out his CD’s speakers, a silk chinoise robe clinging to the breast molds that perfectly fitted his demi-cup satin brassiere, before water-falling gracefully over mannish thighs, boy briefs, a gaff that kept his too easily aroused member tucked—Accounts Day, was Sal’s perfect moment. Like a born-female-woman’s time of the month, it encapsulated his essential herness, embodying who Sal was supposed to have been, who he would eventually be.

It was a day to be savored with wine, perhaps a little hashish.

He was deep in it when he felt it, the itch at the back of his mind, the red alert that meant switch off the music, nix the femme-fatale mode, activate pimp mode, and fan the troops, mentally speaking, out across the twelve block radius that was her girl’s territory.

It blew chunks, those quick peeks, which allowed him to catch his girls in various stages of whorery—Nellie, bobbing barely contained boobs in the face of some John—Petal, spreading her tired out pussy for one more night’s pummeling—which wasn’t to say that Sal didn’t love pussy, because Sal did.

But watching, while one of his hos get it up her curvy ass, though it might—though it did, in fact, enflame his groin, as well as alert his inner bookkeeper—if Chante didn’t get double for that ass fucking I better damn know the reason why—never failed to sicken his sense of fitness. Peeping was for juiced up little boys and overgrown freaks. Real women didn’t have to peep.

Talents, however, were benefits that didn’t care how tacky you thought they were, or how unfitting. Talents were cards you got at birth, the ones you played. And Sal’s, upsetting or not, were very useful, which was why he’d learned not only to accept his inherited skills, but use them, because his witch-given senses invariably knew when someone wrong was out there, someone who wanted his girl’s gifts for nothing…or worse

Tonight, felt like worse for Sal’s six girls. A quick scan showed five of them with regulars, which left his twin, Satchelle. Salvatore’s gut wrenched. Another quick scan and he had her on his radar, her mind and eyes as serviceable to him as if they were his own.

His twin was on her block, cold, a little pissed, and apparently getting nowhere.

Sal frowned. There were times, rare times, when the tingle happened and nothing wrong occurred. At those times, Salvatore had to believe the guy sensed him and took off before going through whatever he was planning on going through with.
The hash was numbing things around the edges. Months since Sal had dared a hit, months since anything untoward had happened, it figured, the moment he let his guard down the red alert would go off in his head.

Sal watched through Satchelle’s eyes as the Jane appeared, mysterious in her furs and silk, really gorgeous. A creature like that didn’t have to snatch shop the downtown streets.

Sal’s head ached. Everything affecting Satchelle was affecting him. Along with the hash Sal felt the inhalation from the Jane’s cigarette, and knew long before Satchelle it was drugged.

Fuck, Sal had meant to watch quietly. For some sex-pig reason, and who should have been able to see around that better than he…dumb wanna be snatch… Sal kicked himself…he’d assumed the Jane could not really be dangerous. So, he’d kept his presence in the back of Satch’s mind quiet, not sure yet whether his twin needed to know he was there.

Sal had to warn her. Before he could utter his twin’s nickname, the name she used on the streets, because wearing out ho pussy didn’t get guys off nearly as much as thinking they knew something about the sweet girl underneath—and no, not one of them ever got it, that the Satchelle on Satch’s shirt was the real name, and Betty the nick—before he could speak into his twin’s mind, the witch, she had to be a witch, Sallie realized, spoke first.

What is the name your parents gave you?

The rollercoaster in Sal’s brain dipped. What sort of fucking question was that?

The answer was immediate. An important one, it had to be, because witches did not screw around. Witches went for the bone.

And if it was that important, Sal decided, the bitch didn’t need to know the answer, because Sal was a witch too, a witch with a frigging boner, lots of practice, plus tons more familiarity than this bitch with his twin’s mental landscape.

He could hide from the bitch, make sure she never knew she was playing in a mind box for two, and make sure his twin didn’t hear her dumb ass question.

“Betty, “said Sal. “Betty” echoed in Satch’s head.

It was like the bitch was mocking him, a Betty for a Betty. He’d blocked the woman’s question from Satchelle. But somehow the transmission that would alert Satch—it would have to be an order, Sal decided, because Satch, god bless her, never sensed danger— never made it through.

He tried to say it, “Drop the bitch. Get out of there, Betty.” But hashish and something stronger, much, much stronger, was sinking grappling hooks into his brain, freezing his mental tongue.

The room whirled. Sal found the bed, more by accident then design, and fainted dead asleep.

***

Asleep and dreaming, he was still in his twin’s mind.

Sal moaned in the husky bass-alto he so despised, while Sabelle’s beautifully groomed crotch lit up his inner screen. Dazzlingly tan haunches, butter-whipped in their softness, grazed the cheek of the woman blessed with access to that sanctum.

Sal’s hand stroked the piece of him he swore he didn’t want or need, but which was still his only gateway to release.

Mouth full of pussy, hands groped ass. Her tongue probed first one hole and then another, as Satchelle manipulated her trick, pleased it, partied the pants off it. Though, technically Sabelle’s crotch-free scanties were revealed within two seconds of hitting the limo’s leather interior.

Sweat-slick, unaware of cock, except as building pressure—of anything, but musky clit, Sal watched Satchelle’s fingers skate terrain smoother than the most pristine of winter lakes. Any whispers of danger, mutters of involuntary transmission, or invasion of privacy, were drowned in the thrill of finding the miraculous chink in the rink.

Afterwards, Sabelle took the lead, forking tongue and fingers into Satchelle’s ass and pussy. Donning her favorite dildo, she thrust deeply into each of the whore’s holes.

A different sort of involuntary transmission, less wanted than his cock, or his gender…Sal came in jetting spurts…And, meanwhile, deep inside the freezer…Satchelle slept on, while Sabelle reviewed last year’s feast. She recalled the fun, too much fun not to share.

It never hurt to prepare the feast martyr with a little pre-party instruction, a little visual of what she should expect.

With no effort Sabelle hooked her mind into that of the whore, kept alive by the drug, in the freezer.

Instilling fear was such an aphrodisiac.

Sabelle laughed.

Sal’s penis caught fire and spent itself again, this time in terror and warped guilt. He watched Sabelle, her glorious ass in the air, part the woman’s legs to partake of her juices. Sabelle with horns and tail and teeth became a diner cracking crab legs, sucking with all the relish of raven dining on snail. The woman’s blood grew thick, coagulated, until she was nothing but Jell-O. And somehow Sal knew, his mind—undiscovered by the red dressed witch, was locked inside his twin, who was locked inside a freezer, seeing last year’s plump, delicious—so Sabelle, that was the witch’s name, lasciviously assured his twin—sacrifice; the vision relayed by the sadistic Sabelle.

The plump, pretty woman was past all help. That was the revelation. And Satchelle was next. She had eaten the ritual cake, been lulled, like so many women before her by the cartoonish, banquet-scape—imaging it as no more than gay women tweaking themselves with a vast, edible spread of boob- butt-pudenda, all so they could thumb their collective nose at Martha Stewart. The whores never saw the lurid beneath the banal.

Drugged and immobile, Satchelle witnessed her soon to be end, while frenzied nerve cells pumped useless adrenaline through her.

Blue balls, decided Sal, were a warm, fuzzy feeling by comparison.

He understood the coven’s logic. Whores symbolized lust minus the narcotic of affection; pure puerile power.

Sabelle darted past a jiggle of equally jewel-toned femme-recumbents, a mercurial flame in red leather and the glow of ceremonial pride. Her duties as mistress of the event were evident in the statues, one for every whore eaten in the decades since the coven’s inception.

Soon, she would draw the ritual first taste. Betty girl, she thought. And Sal heard her.

Your bones will turn flaccid. My sisters and I will suck you dry, but you will be immortalized in Jell-O. I’ll vibrate to your memory every year. I promise.

Sabelle smirked.

Good thing she’d verified the name and the sex. A woman born with an S name, never mind a man, could destroy the coven. Once, a witch was fooled by a beautiful transexual, the coven desiccated, leaving only the two most powerful to begin again.

Salvatore awoke.

At last he understood the witch—she who’d caught him trying on pink tights—his eyes bathed in tears, when the nylon wouldn’t stretch past his knees, on the day the truth sprung from his lips.

“I hate it.” He’d said.

“Perhaps so;” the witch, who was his Grandma, had spoken slowly. “But you will need it yet a while. It is your job, Salvatore, to watch over your sister. For that reason I named you. Your sister is such a…” She’d smiled then, as she rattled off the family nick name, “Betty.”

He could thank God for Grandma’s wisdom now, thank heaven he hadn’t snipped…yet, be grateful that Satchelle always thought of herself as Betty, always answered to it, and never even felt it was a lie…thank Grandma too, that he knew how to enter Satchelle’s mind, the resultant power doubling their individual Ss’s, conjoining his undiluted, suddenly fortunate gender to hers.

“Betty.”

Sabelle whispered into the freezer. “We’re ready for dessert.”

Next year: boobs, thought Sal.

This year—ride me bitch.

© 2009 Kit Oxrider

When little Kit announced her intention to write at ten years of age, she couldn’t know then about the allure of genre writing, that erotica waited in the wings of her future, tempting, alluringly easy in appearance, but a surprising, and never-ending education in fact, much like its inspiration. A fan of the erotic muse now, for many years, Kit continues to offer up her erotic attempts to Aphrodite, to the senses, and anyone who cares to look. Petunias, prunes, and prisms of all sorts are always welcome at