Ink- 1920s style  

rm_Drishya 38F
146 posts
8/21/2005 3:32 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Ink- 1920s style

Leslie Gourd was poor, and couldn't afford stockings. It was a balmy city night, the lights were lit and the jazz joints were swinging, and her black sheath dress showed the backs of her naked knees, but she would not be a star until she had those stocking lines gashing downwards from her thighs to her ankles from under her dress, solid black lines to declare "You may grab and squeeze my leggy flesh but my soft skin? Oh, what a secret!" She had to have those lines. So the evening found her in a newspaper printing place. She was looking for the ink.

Harvard van Jorgen had found that ink. He, being also poor, was sitting on a clean bit of confoundedly complicated machinery with his white shirt off, his tie having been dipped in the black ink already. It was drying around his neck and against his goose bumped chest, so that should it become stiff, it would already be tied in a lovely windsor knot, and it was just a matter of manuevering the shirt in under it. He saw Leslie before she saw him. Embarrassed, he hid.

It felt silly to be looking around the dark, deserted old warehouse so that no one could see her cheating, but the jubilant music bouncing down the street to strain in through the windows spurred her on. Oh, the girls would be jealous to see her legs so proper, so elegant. She climbed up some steps and found a basin of fresh ink, still and black in it's tub. Her heels were high enough to allow her to prop a leg up on a flat yard of pipe leading out one part of the big print machine and in another, and lack of balance led to her legs being somewhat splayed as well as scissored. The length of her naked thigh and a patch of lilac underwear made themselves as noticeable as a billboard to Harvard.

The beauty of Leslie's face, the movement of her bobbed hair, the whiteness of her skin were forgotten; Harvard felt as if he might weld to the back of the desk he hid under, or at least weld to his own leg. His rush of desire was painful, and his common sense was overruled. He must dance with this girl, who was dipping a little half-chewed pencil in that helpful ink. It became only a question of when, of how not to frighten her.

The cool ink itched in a pleasurable, final way in its path up Leslie's thigh, and she admired the instant class of it in the harsh moonlight stabbing inward from the window. She pulled her leg downward, gave it a reviving shake, and lifted the other one up, her tongue peeking out of her red mouth with eagerness and satisfaction. Then she heard a noise. She froze, but the "ahem" was gentlemanly enough not to send her into a fit of screaming. Indeed, if it were a janitor of some sort, then it would be her that was in the wrong, and therefore a bit silly to commence screaming. And it was rather a funny sight than a frightening one that crawled out from under the desk. The man had no shirt, but a very black tie, and his fit of body was lovely, slim muscle and trim waist. His hair was pale, as were his eyes, and Leslie could feel mortification creeping in, until she realized that the blackness of the tie had left a black tie outline on his chiseled chest. However, who was she to laugh, with a line and a half on her legs.

He offered to help, as they were in the same boat, and each would keep the secret. He offered his name, and she offered hers. They were outlaws together now, stealing oil and lying about their financial status together. They smiled shyly.

And oh, but he smelled like cigars of honeyed tobacco, of black tea and orange, and how his muscle didn't give to her scrubbing fingers as she mopped at the ink outline with her hanky. She looked upon his down-turned neck, breathing so hard that she was sure her breast would reach right out and nudge him in invitation, as he drew a teasingly delicate line slowly up the back of her firm leg.

And oh, the musk and the lily scent of her, the maddening way her small, perky breasts brushed at his upper earlobe. His hand was on the small of her back to steady himself, his fingers crying in exultation at the smoothness of her sheathe, while his other hand trembled yet kept mostly steady the pencil that left that garish line on her skin, her skin, which he fingers did indulge themselves with.

Then she made the mistake of shifting her delicate weight, to battle the heat of the moment. When the flesh under Harvard's hand tensed, she stood up abruptly. Leslie smiled as guiltily as her distracted mind would let her, ready for the light scolding of perhaps having messed up the line from moving. Instead, Harvard's pale eyes glittering, he flung the pencil away over his shoulder and took to a rough, manic handling of her dress and it's contents. Leslie awoke somehow to it, mimicking her favorite film stars, eyes wide and mouth slack and face too available. Harvard's kiss came down upon her neck with a will that extracted a small cry from her, and the pretty sounds did not stop from that point on.

Harvard was less than mindful of her dress, and he had managed to get it tight around her waist. Pale pink nipples showed, and Harvard smashed his mouth there immediately, sucking all of her breasts in and causing her to thrash. A metal table pressed with a shocking coolness into the backs of her legs, while the wool material, working thigh muscles and overly discernable organ of unyielding stiffness that was the front of below-Harvard's-waist beckoned with sinful clarity. Leslie threw her head back, fighting her instinct to fight off his advances with every moment a reward for her patience, and then her body decided it really wanted her leg around his lovely waist. The leg obeyed the order, pressing her mostly back so that the table took most of her weight.

The flash of thigh rising in his periphery vision caused a bucking to start up in Harvard's thighs, and the deprived pleasure from the bucking had it continue. The pleasure was not nearly so deprived to Leslie, who opened her mouth in a big O and bucked back, reaching a conclusion she had never trusted so strongly to be on it's way. Wave after wave of pleasure rushed through her, and the pretty noises followed, tangled with the lowing sounds that Harvard made. Although he couldn't understand it, he knew that Leslie wanted him not to change what he was doing yet, so he swallowed his frustration and bucked harder. Metal was clanking on the floor, it's dry scent and the heavy odor of ink drowned in the smell of Leslie and her sodden panties, which were being shredded by friction with the fiber of Harvard's suddenly constricting woolen trousers. Leslie had let go with one hand of Harvard's neck, and grabbed at her own breasts violently, her hips working at their shared friction faster than a cog on a train pumps. He watched with slowly tunneling vision as her grinding changed abruptly from fast to painfully hard and much slower, a high moan escaping from Leslie as her body pulsed and convulsed and throbbed in pleasure, down to her fingertips. The dots from her vision hadn't even cleared when the toughness of bare wool was replaced by stone-smoothness of skin, and was quickly followed by a sharp pain. Leslie jumped away instinctively from the pain, but Harvard commanded her hips with his hand and unflinchingly dug deeply into her molten center. The moan from Leslie was of pain now, but a grateful pain, and she threw her arms around his neck once more, this time setting her teeth against his shoulders to weather the discomfort. Harvard hadn't the capacity for sympathy, and when she pulled away a little again, he drove in until there was no farther to go.

His hips thrust mechanically to a wild rhythmless abandon, obscene pleasure soaking in from every stolen inch of Leslie's walls. Leslie herself was back to bouncing against him, stopping to work against him like she had before at intervals when pleasure made ready to steal her soul again. Harvard was panting though it all, Leslie's twisting, writhing acceptance of his needs, her clawing, her moving away when he shoved too roughly, too deeply. In a sweeping rush of impatience he let her hips go for a moment to pull her one grounded leg up and land her on her back on the cool table. On top of her in a flash, Harvard hadn't a single barrier, and bellowed his joy and love right into her moaning mouth. Leslie's body absorbed the pain of Harvards deep-diving abandon, her muscles clenching to meet the rapidity of his internal assaults until their own frenzy sent Leslie screaming right over the edge toward dot-vision land again. The when the soft, wet walls around Harvard's organ began to pull and suck on him so fast, and so insistently, his own finish came tearing out of him and pouring into her, along with his seed, his secrets, his hopes, his fears, and every bit of tension he had felt in the last eleven weeks.

There was silence at last.

Leslie giggled weakly, anxious to be in a more compromising position, while half of her body wanted to wrap around him and never let go. Harvard realized he had just had his way with this lovely young woman, and scrambled off of her as it she had been a panicked rabbit instead. After a moment of shuffling and hurried grunts and sighs, they were reasonably dressed. The sweat had cleansed their bodies of inked airs, but Harvard was more than happy to reapply for Leslie, and even did her the honor of staying on task this time, despite the picture presented of her wrinkled dress pulling up her lovely thighs as she bent over that misused table. Hair smoothed and ink dry and in place, they set out together into the night.

Truth be told, Harvard did a lousy job inking Leslie's legs, and the girls made unkind reference to it, but only because they were jealous of her lovely beau.


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