Sluts & Slots
Tallulah Glessner stands at the threshold of her father's office, two days later, her platinum bob catching the weak light filtering through grime-coated windows.
Tony, led by his pecker, still thinking Tallulah is the pancake to his plans, and he's a cinematic Sheik, strolls past slot machines.
"Lu, babes, you're looking hot. And I have the saucy filling you crave."
Tallulah isn't the girl who let her body be shagged by a hot sausage at the charity gala.
She doesn't answer immediately. She examines her manicured nails—buffed to a practical shine, short enough to test slots—then produces a silver cigarette holder from her beaded clutch.
"Kitty," she says, not turning, "close the door."
The heavy warehouse door groans shut behind her, sealing them in one arm bandits.
Kitty Petrov moves into view, her plum silk dress rustling like something alive, her dark eyes shifting from warm to glacial as she takes in Tony's state.
Maeve Kelly follows, smaller, her crimson waitress uniform replaced by a simple cotton day dress, her practical bun already loosening with the warehouse humidity.
She keeps her right hand buried in her pocket—where the matches live, where her brother's letters live, where her leverage now grows in her belly.
"I asked to lead," Tallulah says, finally meeting Tony's eyes.
She steps closer, her T-strap Mary Janes clicking against concrete, her dropped-waist dress—emerald silk crepe, opera pearls knotted at her hip—swinging with each deliberate stride.
Tony's laugh cracks against the iron walls.
"You lead? The slot machine princess who melts for a smooth line and a Cuban? —"
She drops her dress from her shoulders.
Tony is a goner; she's braless.
Perky tits, pebbled nipples, bouncy, creamy flesh, soft as a sponge cake fresh out of an oven.
"My lead," she repeats, cupping her boobs, lifting them, then pushing them wide, and finally shaping her pair to create plush cleavage heaven.
Tallulah circles him slowly, languid, pushing her buds into his frame.
Her fingers fondle his ball pouch through his pants.
"Uh-Uhh! Your show, honey-cake, but I doubt you'll beat my effort, plundering your slash as you leaned over the rooftop balustrade."
She lets her emerald silk fall away in panels from her hips.
Tony expected tap-pants or a crotchless garter.
"Sheez!"
His eyes lock on a harness of leather and brass—holding a polished ebony phallus that catches the warehouse light like a threat.
Tony's composure cracks in micro-moments: the flare of his nostrils, the jerk of his wayward hands.
"You're not serious," he says.
"On your stomach," Tallulah commands.
Kitty points to an old divan.
Tony's pants and boxers tangle around his ankles and shoes.
As good as bound.
His arse wriggles, vulnerable.
Maeve produces a jar from her pocket—rendered fat from the bakery, Kitty's contribution, scentless and warmed by her palm.
Tallulah gives the young woman the wink.
Maeve dips her finger in the jar.
Her digit, glossy, smeared and raised.
Her finger finds Tony's rim without preamble, pressing against the tight muscle with steady pressure.
Tony's breath catches, a sharp inhale that echoes against the rows of slot machines.
Maeve doesn't rush. She applies the same patience she learned working here: repairing jammed reels, adjusting springs, for understanding when force yields to persistence.
"Oof! Fuck! Lu—" he starts.
"You raccoon, it's Maeve! You'll get me soon."
The matchstick girl pushes deeper, her finger sliding past the resistant ring of muscle, and his words dissolve into something guttural, involuntary.
"Oof! Uh! Ahh!"
Kitty and Lu are impressed. Maeve works him open with methodical precision, one finger, then two, stretching the muscle with the same attention she'd give to calibrating a slot machine's payout ratio.
Tony's face presses against the worn divan, his breath coming in harsh bursts.
Three women watch his body respond—against his upbringing, against his pride, the involuntary relaxation of tissue trained by her pressure, her rhythm, her control.
"Maeve, enough, roll the coyote over."
"Kitty," Tallulah adds, and the other woman understands immediately, moving to position herself at Tony's head, her plum silk dress hiked with practical efficiency to reveal dark stockings, garters, the pale flesh of her thighs above.
"Open," Kitty commands, and when Tony doesn't respond immediately, Maeve's small hands are there, gripping his jaw, applying pressure until his mouth yields.
Kitty lowers herself onto his face with the same deliberate grace she uses descending stairs, her weight settling across his mouth and nose, her dark eyes finding Tallulah's with pure, planned approval.
Tony's muffled protest vibrates against Kitty's flesh, but she adjusts her position with feline precision, grinding down until his tongue—reflexive, desperate for air—finds her slit.
Tallulah watches his body arch, the panic of suffocation driving him to lick, to lap, to serve the woman crushing him while she prepares to penetrate him with the toy.
She coats the stiff phallus in rendered fat, the leather harness settling against her hips—she's practised this in private, imagined this moment, prepared her body for the mechanics of fem-dominance.
She positions herself between his thrashing thighs, one hand spreading his cheeks, the other guiding the phallus to his prepared entrance.
The push is slow, relentless, the resistance of his body yielding inch by inch to her steady pressure.
Pegged as the rattlesnake deserved.
"Oof! Fuck! Ohh! Ahh! Ahh!"
Tony's screams are swallowed by Kitty's flesh, his body bucking against the restraints as Tallulah sinks deeper, filling him with the full length of polished unit, until the leather harness presses against his skin, until she is fully seated inside him, until the architecture of his humiliation is complete.
His butthole stuffed and sealed like a slot machine over-jammed with coins.
Tallulah pulls back and thrusts forward, the slap of leather against flesh loud in the warehouse silence.
The toy jags and jars, dragging his rilled flesh, scooping sensation out then inwards.
Tony's body convulses, his hands clawing at the small tears in the divan fabric, his face still buried in Kitty's quim while his ass takes every inch of Tallulah's controlled strength.
She thrusts again, finding the angle that makes him needier, that high involuntary sound of a body overwhelmed.
Kitty's breath is coming faster now, her dark eyes half-lidded as she rides his face, using his tongue; while Tallulah uses his ass, the two women working in a rising crescendo.
Maeve watches from the corner, her wide blue eyes taking in every detail—the stretch of Tony's rim around the strap-on, the way his thighs shake with each thrust, the darkening flush of Kitty's cheeks as she approaches her peak.
"You're going to feel this tomorrow," Tallulah tells him, her hips finding a rhythm now, the mechanics of fucking as natural as dancing the Charleston once the initial awkwardness passes.
"You're going to feel this every time you sit down. Every time you think about rigging another game."
Kitty's orgasm builds visibly—the tightening of her thighs, the quickening of her breath, the way her fingers dig into Tony's slicked-back hair for leverage.
She cums with a sharp cry, her body shuddering above him, her fluids drenching his face, his mouth, his chin.
Like a burst fire hydrant, she sprays and sprays.
She rises slowly, revealing his face glistening with her spending, his eyes wild, his lips swollen from service.
"Matchstick," Kitty gasps, fast, and Maeve steps forward.
The exchange is neat; near-stage choreographed.
Maeve straddles Tony's face with less grace than Kitty, her cotton dress hiked to her waist.
She's not wearing stockings—she never does, can't afford the runs—and her pale thighs tremble as she lowers herself onto his mouth.
No panties; they would get ruined in this dip and drench.
"Lick," she commands, her voice steadier than she feels, and Tony's trapped tongue obeys, his tip finding her with the desperation of a man seeking distraction from the relentless pounding of his ass.
Tallulah adjusts her angle, watching Maeve's face transform—surprise, then pleasure, then something fiercer as she finds her rhythm against Tony's mouth.
The girl is pregnant, Tallulah remembers, a bouncer; in the lock-up for a few years; the dudes brat growing in her belly while she grinds against the face of the man who employed him. The symmetry is almost beautiful.
Maeve's orgasm comes suddenly, unexpectedly, her body arching backward with a cry that echoes against iron.
Kitty taught her how to find her gush.
She spurts—Tallulah sees the clear fluid ejaculated from her puffy fanny, drowning Tony's face, his hair, pooling in the hollow of his throat.
The mobster's son gags, gurgles, gargles her fem-liquor.
Maeve keeps grinding, riding the additional smaller sprinkles and tinkles, her petite hands braced on his chest for balance while more girly jus flows, until Tony is soaked with her, until he is pooled in her release.
"No more loaded dice in The Crimson," Tallulah commands, pulling out slowly, the pop sound of withdrawal loud in the warehouse, the phallus glistening with evidence of his submission.
Tony gasps, his face shining with Maeve's spending, his ass gaping slightly where she filled him. "No more—"
"Tallulah is Boss," she continues, positioning herself anew, the phallus ready to re-strike, pressing forward to his raw, loosened entrance.
"You're the Boss," he whines, and she pushes in again, not gentle, not merciful, filling him to the hilt while Maeve finally rises, her dress soaked at the hem, her face flushed with triumph and shame in equal measure.
"And you'll wed Maeve," Tallulah finishes, thrusting with each word, punctuating the sentence with her hips.
"You'll give her brat a name. You'll make her respectable, Tony Blue, or I'll tell your father exactly how you bent over for a woman's cock."
"I'll wed her," he screams, the words torn from him, his body convulsing around the phallus, around the truth of his submission. "I'll wed her, anything—"
Tallulah feels it—the moment he breaks, the spasm of his prostate against the toy that never loses stiffness.
Tony involuntarily spills his seed. No pleasurable release. Just an end.
Tallulah releases the strap-on buckle. Sit naked nearby. Legs open. Labia glistening. Smoking a cigarette.
"Get dressed," Kitty instructs Tony.
The trembling dude has his buttons done up by Maeve.
Tallulah waves the strap-on in his face.
"You respect our matchstick, or by heaven you'll pay."
Kitty snaps her fingers; Judge Smoller, in her pay, appears.
And a cute photographer she calls Larry and sometimes Harry.
Tallulah produces the rings.
The wedding is: civil, respectable and fast.
"Kiss your bride, no more Mr Phoney," says Kitty.
"Maeve," says Tallulah, "Suck him hard; you can consummate the marriage in the office."
Kitty and Tallulah play slots while a reformed Tony fills Maeve's slot.