03 – Ghost of Christmas Past

I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He releases my nipple chain and his hands rove back down until he cups my ass again, forcing my legs to part more with each thrust. His hot breath tickles my collar bone followed by a faint bite against the crook of my neck. My eyes close and I arch off the wall, trying to impale myself further on him. I can’t remember the last time he touched me like this. Nor can I remember the last time he drove into me like I was the last woman alive. I bite my lip harder with the effort to keep from moaning. My fingers run through his hair as I cling to him, the pressure of my orgasm threatens to send me into an uncontrollable mess.

The banshee wail of hunger tears through our moment as Helena demands my attention.

I’m ripped back to the devastating reality of our current existence from the memory of a hot and steamy night in my crappy little apartment two years ago. Our precious baby girl shrieks in her crib, unaware her parents are attempting to fornicate in the closet.

We slump in silent defeat. He throbs inside of me and I pulse around him.

God, I don’t want him to put me down. I hold my breath, praying Helena soothes herself back to sleep before he loses interest.

His hands press firm against my ass, and I tighten my grip around his waist.

She wails again, and we have lost all hope for a grand finale.

Magellan helps me to my feet as he gently brushes his fingers along my nipples to release them from the little gold chain.

I gasp and bring my hands up to cover my breasts. He’s close enough his smug grin makes me giggle. Over the next few seconds we contort and twist with grunting and giggling when we spill out of the closet, presentable.

Magellan kisses my temple, then heads out of the room while I scoop up Helena from the crib. He wouldn’t hold me to silence while tending to our children. I settle into the rocking chair and let the little banshee latch on, turning her into a leech with razor-like gums, not saying a word.

When I walk into our bedroom I detour to the bathroom to clean up my breasts from. I pause, looking in the mirror to take a moment to take stock of myself. At first, all I see are large, aching breasts with angry red nipples. Followed by the fading red stretch marks and the pudgy love handles of my body recovering from having an infant. My hips are a hair wider and softer. I’m in no way fat, or ugly. I’m willing to bet my porn money men would find me hotter.

I brush my fingers over the hickey, reminded of Magellan pounding me to remind me how sexy I am. I blow hard breath out of my nose as I let go of my anger. I understand his frustration at not being brought into the loop. However, I’m not beholden to him on decisions regarding Le Salon.

He makes decisions all the time without asking me.

I rub my hand over my face as I internally behave like a child. I miss the fun-loving days of misadventures and no responsibilities. With a frown, I turn to my torn lingerie. What I thought was completely ruined turns out to only be a popped seam, something I can fix. I wriggle out of it and toss it into the hamper on my way back into the bedroom. Without a word, I crawl onto the bed and over Magellan, purposely dropping my weight on him to pin him underneath me. I give him a big cheesy grin and finger wave.

He laughs as his fingers trail along my sides, not reacting to my full weight resting on him. “Ready to be a good girl and say something nice about yourself so we can talk like grown-ups again?”

I’m sorely tempted to bite him in response. While he smiles up at me, the serious anger brewing like a good stew in his eyes causes me to keep my sass in check. “I might be even sexier as a milk momma in porn.”

He blinks as he tries to process whether I’m being naughty or nice. A devilish smirk crosses his face, and his hands slide between us to cup my breasts firmly.

I gasp and writhe on him like a worm on a hook trying to escape the pain. “Mick,” I whine, “I just cleaned them up.”

“And? Maybe I like you dirty.” He smirks as he rolls us over.

I part my legs.

While he nestles between them he doesn’t reward me with his lovely hardening manhood he keeps selfishly tucked in his pajama pants. He leans down and gently kisses against each breast before he props himself on his forearms for the grown-up talk. “Now that I have your undivided attention,” he grins, “Fine, work Christmas,” he grumbles. “It would have been nice if you had talked to me first. Now I have to explain to my mother why you aren’t there. You know how she likes to feed you..”

“I’ll be there on the twenty-sixth. I didn’t promise Harold New Year’s.” I nestle under him and bring my hands up to run my fingers through his hair. When he nuzzles my hand I smile.

“You better, or you’re getting doubly punished when I get home.” He lightly bites the heel of my palm.

“Oh? And how would you doubly punish me?” grinning up at him.

Magellan kisses me tenderly. “I more than want to,” as he grinds against me. “We have already stayed up too late, and I have to head into the office early tomorrow.”

I pout as he rolls off me and turns off the lamp, thrusting us into darkness.

December 25, 1985

Le Salon’s halls are decked out with all the Christmas cheer a girl could ask for. There are men everywhere flirting with half-naked women. Drinks flow, the food is decadent, two of the four salons are open for entertainment. The public salon currently sports three young men and two new strippers from the Oyster for people to interact with. Near the entrance of each room stands a man dressed in leather pants and straps to keep the patrons from getting too naughty with the staff.

I have never hated Harold more than I do as I stand in my lavishly designed salon. My feet hurt, my tits are sore, and the prick I have bent over the pony is too drunk to consent. This leaves me standing here cooing to him in French with an occasional smack on his bare ass with my riding crop.

He’s thoroughly enjoying himself as he slurs and shakes his ass like a dog wagging his tail, “Peas Miss-ress, have me ‘nother!”

When he’s finally escorted from the room, I wipe down the pony. I’m thankful these sessions are only thirty minutes. I look down to check my costume for the next session and part of my costume is damp. “Fuck,” I mutter. A quick glance at the wall-clock and I step into the antechamber of the room. Thankful no one can see me like this, I retrieve the pump from my duffel bag. With an easy motion, I free my breasts from the leather top and remove the gauze taped over my nipples to help stop leakage. The men fawning over me for the past few hours has staved off the feeling of being a fat milking cow. I hum quietly as I pump both breasts and relax as the pain ebbs.

I’m never letting Magellan put his dick in me again.

I store the little pouches of milk in the mini-fridge I made Harold add to my salon. One baby wipe to my breasts later lets me apply new gauze and tape, and pull my top back into place. I preen in the full-length mirror; touching up my lipstick, gently adjusting my face mask, and give my ponytail a quick tug. While I may not feel sexy, I look sexy. When I emerge from my milking station to let the next client into the salon, I am not alone. I’m looking at a ghost. He has broad shoulders nestled in a perfect black Italian-made suit. The scent of Colombian cigars and bourbon fill my nostrils. A mix of excitement and fear washes over me as Big Tony Scapelli has come back from the grave like one of Scrooge’s ghosts. My fingers curl tighter around the riding crop. Every muscle in my body tightens and my stomach churns. I freeze like the Gazelle I am.