Priestesses

By Francis W. Porretto

Helen and Martine run unusual establishments: "sex shops," one in Los Angeles and one in New York, that never ask payment for their wares. They aren't in business to sell "novelties." They aren't there to make a profit. Their mission, as priestesses of erotic desire, is to spread erotic knowledge among those who need it...and really, isn't that all of us?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis W. Porretto
• Release date: Jun 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452350585

Francis W. Porretto

Francis W. Porretto was born in 1952. Things went steadily downhill from there.Fran is an engineer and fictioneer who lives on the east end of Long Island, New York. He's short, bald, homely, has bad acne and crooked teeth. His neighbors hold him personally responsible for the decline in local property values. His life is graced by one wife, two stepdaughters, two dogs, four cats, too many power tools to list, and an old ranch house furnished in Early Mesozoic style. His 13,000 volume (and growing) personal library is considered a major threat to the stability of the North American tectonic plate.Publishing industry professionals describe Fran's novels as "Unpublishable. Horrible, but unpublishable all the same." (They don't think much of his short stories, either.) He's thought of trying bribery, but isn't sure he can afford the $3.95.Fran's novels "Chosen One," "On Broken Wings," "Shadow Of A Sword," "The Sledgehammer Concerto," "Which Art In Hope," "Freedom's Scion," "Freedom's Fury," and "Priestesses" are also available as paperbacks, through Amazon. Check the specific pages for those books for details.Wallow in his insane ranting on politics, culture, and faith at "Liberty's Torch:" http://www.libertystorch.info/And of course, write to him, on whatever subject tickles your fancy, at [e-mail]

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Francis W. Porretto

Priestesses

A Different Kind of Erotica

Novels by Francis W. Porretto:

The Realm of Essences Series:

Chosen One

On Broken Wings

Shadow Of A Sword

Polymath

Statesman

The Spooner Federation Saga:

Which Art In Hope

Freedom’s Scion

Freedom’s Fury

The Futanari Series:

The Athene Academy Collection

Innocents

Experiences

The Wise and the Mad

In Vino

The Aeolian Fantasies:

The Warm Lands

Other novels:

The Sledgehammer Concerto

Priestesses

Love In The Time Of Cinema

Antiquities

The Discovery Phase

Copyright (C) 2010 by Francis W. Porretto

A publication of F.A.C.E. Press

Cover art by Donna Casey (http://DigitalDonna.Com)

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without the express written permission of the author, except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. The persons and events described here are entirely imaginary. They are not intended to suggest or imply anything whatsoever about actual persons or events.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All locations and institutions are employed fictitiously.

Contact: [e-mail]

To Beth

To lovers everywhere

And, as always,

To the greater glory of God

"Anyone who is observant, who discovers the person they have always dreamed of, knows that sexual energy comes into play before sex even takes place. The greatest pleasure isn’t sex, but the passion with which it is practiced. When the passion is intense, then sex joins in to complete the dance, but it is never the principal aim."

— Paulo Coelho —

"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious."

— Jack Kerouac, On the Road —

====

Foreword

If some of what follows appears familiar, please be aware that several segments of this publication have appeared elsewhere as independent stories. Some of those stories have been slightly altered for their employment here. I beg your indulgence; after having written so much, and for so long, about these women, it seemed right and necessary to give them the coherent narrative they deserve. Thus, I’ve created an episodic novel from those tales, and a handful of new ones, that unite them thematically.

Some years ago, I encountered a short fantasy, co-authored by Harlan Ellison and Robert Sheckley, titled I See A Man Sitting On A Chair, And The Chair Is Biting His Leg. As you might expect from those two writers, it was funny and original, but for me the most valuable element in it was an apparently offhand encounter between its antihero Joe and a desire implantation salesman. The salesman tells Joe that the most challenging of all human things is to sustain desire. Desires die of fulfillment and have to be replaced by new, different desires.

It had the resonance of an important truth. It rang especially strongly when I surveyed the people I know and their personal trials, most especially their sexual trials.

I’m a religious man, a Roman Catholic. (What, you didn’t think Catholics are allowed to be interested in sex? Get serious.) I believe that God gives us what we need, whether or not we recognize it, at every moment of our lives. I pondered the desire problem from that angle for quite a while. How would God equip Man to face that one? For we are limited beings in every sense. We can’t simply tell ourselves to yearn for opera (echh), or okra (ick), or being buried neck-deep in gravel (eeek!). Our proper desires arise from our nature; when we depart from them in an uncritical quest for sheer novelty, we inevitably wind up unhappier than before.

No, what God would provide is a route (back) toward wholesome desire: the sort of desire compatible with our natures, the fulfillment of which would sustain our lives and improve our understanding thereof.

But what if that sustenance took the form of specialists: persons whose special commission was to teach us how to locate and orient on our proper desires, including our sexual desires?

What if, indeed!

====

Summoned

Martine Arnault hesitated at the door of Naughty But Nice, unsure what she would confront within. Helen had said only to come quickly, a summons that had filled the younger woman with fear. Over the years the two had been on opposite coasts, their communications had always been carefree. Helen had never before given a sign that any aspect of her life, or of the calling they shared, was less than the best.

But Martine had never seen a CLOSED sign hung on the shop door at high noon, either.

She fished her key out of her purse, unlocked the door, and nudged it open. The showroom was deserted; the lights had been dimmed. No light shone through the beaded curtain to the mirrored inner gallery, where most of Helen’s real work was done. She threaded her way through the aisles of goods, pushed through the curtain, and paused. The gallery was as dark and silent as the showroom. The door at the rear that led to Helen’s private apartment was closed, but light glimmered above the sill.

Martine went to the door and knocked diffidently.

Come in, dear. Helen’s reply was muted.

The proprietress of Naughty But Nice lay in her bed, propped in a sitting position against two large pillows. Her journal lay open in her lap, with a fountain pen lodged in its crease. A single lamp burned at her bedside. Her cat Astarte, who’d always been near at hand whenever Martine had been present, was nowhere to be seen.

For as long as Martine had known her, Helen had never shown any sign of age or infirmity. Though she carried herself with a mature poise that made it plain that she was no dewy ingenue, neither her face nor her body had ever displayed the slightest concession to the passage of time. Neither had she ever developed even the mildest, most easily endured disease.

No longer. She’s not well.

Even if it hadn’t been apparent from the slackness in the muscles of Helen’s face and shoulders, Martine would have known by the absence of vitality from her eyes.

She knelt by Helen’s bedside and took her mentor’s hand.

How...long?

Helen shook her head. We’re not given to know that, dear. Probably not terribly long, though. Do you have a while to spend with me?

Of course!

Good. She indicated the book with her eyes. I find I can’t summon the energy to write any further, and there are a few incidents I neglected to record. Would you be so kind, if I were to narrate them to you?

The tears Martine had repressed up to then broke free.

Helen...

I know, dear. I’ve been there, too. A ghost of a grin. Not here, of course. Why don’t you fix us each a cup of tea, and we’ll begin?

She’s in a hurry.

Martine swiped at her eyes, nodded, and scampered for the kitchenette.

====

Part One:

Helen

Scenes In A Marriage

I’m out of ideas, Helen. Anita Martinez sighed her despair. He practically refuses to look at me.

Helen stood and smoothed her leather miniskirt carefully, pressing out the smallest wrinkles with her fingertips. That day her entire outfit was leather, from her own shop. She was meticulous about its care.

I can’t fathom it, dear. You’re a very pretty girl. There wasn’t any problem when you were first married, was there?

No, although the sex never came close to what I’d always dreamed of, especially with Paul.

For some it’s a mistake to wait for the wedding night. Helen refilled her teacup and folded her arms. She looked sideways at Anita in a fashion that was coquetry personified.

She’s devastating. Perfect bust, slender waist, gorgeous hips and legs. She dresses to show it, too. And at her age! Why can’t a perfectly healthy twenty-six year old woman have a decent sex life if Helen can manage that?

Among the most jarring aspects of Anita’s transition from the futureless aridity of her youth in Chiapas to the exuberant opulence of Los Angeles had been the discovery that the fabled sexuality of her new home was far more concerned with appearances than with performance. She’d expected the young American businessman who’d courted her, won her heart, and pledged himself to her before God to want to make love at every opportunity. Far from merely viewing sex as a duty toward her husband and a critical cement for their marriage, from adolescence she’d looked forward to it with an eagerness for which her confessor had called her a whore of Babylon.

Don’t you want to talk about it?

Oh, I’m sorry, Helen. I let my mind wander a moment, that’s all.

The shopowner’s mouth curved slowly into a smile.

You were thinking about me, weren’t you?

Anita sat back a little at that. Well, yes.

It’s all right, dear. I consider myself a walking advertisement for my shop, and to be effective I have to look as good as possible. But you don’t have any idea what kind of effort goes into looking like this. Perhaps you should be grateful.

Anita giggled. Helen, I know you’re a lot older than I am, but men look at you, not at me. Even Paul prefers to look at you, which is why I never brought him here a second time.

Helen’s smile grew slightly mysterious. And you’d like to have that working for you, wouldn’t you?

Well, naturally!

The shopowner glanced over at her counter, where Astarte, her large, sleek black cat, reposed in seeming indifference. The cat raised its head from the counter and returned its owner’s gaze. It seemed to nod.

Most girls today haven’t the patience or the discipline for what I do, Helen said. I suppose I could show you, but I’d doubt that you’d be willing to follow the program."

Anita examined the shopowner’s face for a long silent moment.

I know a challenge when I hear one.

Helen, would you show me, please?

Helen looked her full in the eyes. She rose, went to the shop door, locked it, and flipped the sign to Closed. She strode toward the beaded curtain that led to the back of the shop, high heels clicking against the quarrystone tiles, and hooked a finger at Anita, beckoning her to follow.

#

I had no idea you had a tub back here!

That’s one of the advantages of doing business out of one’s residence, dear. Helen slowly sponged Anita’s back. All the comforts of home. And if I get bored with business, or it turns suddenly slow, I can come back here and play a while.

Anita smiled up at her. You’ve got the healthiest attitude toward business I’ve ever heard of.

You haven’t heard many, then. Helen put the sponge down and stood up. Come on, time to dry and dress.

Anita rose from the tub and accepted a thick bath towel. When she had dried, she reached for her underclothing, but Helen stopped her.

A new day is dawning, so let’s have it dawn clean. Just come with me.

Anita followed Helen to a large dressing room. The walls were lined with mirrors. Several sported discreet knobs, indicating that closets were concealed behind them.

The mirrors made Anita momentarily uncomfortable about her nudity.

Helen, those aren’t two-way, are they?

The older woman chuckled. Not at all, dear. They’re just ordinary mirrors to see yourself in.

Why did you need so many?

I like a mirrored room. When I dress in here, I feel like the star of some fabulous show. Some of my better-heeled clients love it just as much.

Helen went to one of the closets and pulled out a satin-lined leather corset with a built-in bra.

Ever worn one of these before?

Uh, no. Don’t they hurt?

Not once you’re used to them. I’m wearing one now.

Anita’s eyes dropped momentarily to Helen’s waistline, and the older woman chuckled.

Most of it is diet and exercise, dear, but a good corset gives an invaluable finish to even the best figures, as you’ll soon find out. Come here.

Anita obeyed, raising her arms to let Helen slide the corset down over her torso. The cups moved naturally into place over her breasts. The bottom edge of the garment came to just above her pubic bone.

Keep your arms in the air. The older woman turned her around gently and began to take in the laces.

As the embrace of the corset tightened by gentle degrees, Anita watched her figure change in the mirror before her. Helen was right. Anita was well-toned and weighed no more than she should, but the corset was bringing out her attractions in ways more dramatic than unaided nature had managed.

Let as much air out of your lungs as you can, dear.

Anita complied, and Helen performed a last tugging at the laces, taking in Anita’s waist as far as it would go. She quickly tied off, moved to the side, and waited as the young woman studied herself.

It feels...strange. She turned from her newly exotic reflection to look at her friend. It feels good!

Not too tight?

Well, I can’t take a really deep breath, but it seems to be all right. She turned back to her image in the mirror. Are these really okay to wear?

Helen smiled. I wear one twenty-three hours a day, dear. Once you’re accustomed, you’ll never want to be without one. But we’re not finished yet.

Anita basked in her reflection and the curiously pleasant sense of constraint from the corset while Helen selected more items from the closet.

Now these might take more getting used to.

First the shopowner drew silk stockings onto the young woman’s legs and fastened them to garters that hung from the corset. Next came a pair of marvelous boots. They were extraordinarily sleek and supple, bore five inch stiletto heels, and ran all the way up her thighs to the bottom of her pelvis. When Helen zipped them and buckled them at the top, her legs enjoyed the same pleasantly sensuous constriction as her torso, along their whole length.

Next came a high, soft leather choker that buckled closed at the back. Its gently snug grip on her neck sent plumes of warmth down her spine as she moved. It made her want to arch and stretch like a cat.

Finally, Helen drew long leather gloves onto her arms. They reached all the way over her biceps to just below her armpits, and were as snug on her arms as the boots were on her legs. Those, too, buckled closed at the top.

Anita was lost amid the new sensations. All the items were at least moderately constrictive. Yet their constraints were not unpleasant but powerfully the reverse. The corset had taken four inches off her waist, and had pushed her breasts up and forward in a most provocative way. The choker gently prompted her to hold her neck straight. The boots trimmed her thighs and calves, and compelled her to stand with all her assets displayed to best advantage. Even the gloves improved her appearance, smoothing and concealing the tiny pockets of sag that every human arm has.

And this is how you do it?

Helen nodded. All my adult life, dear. I haven’t been without a corset since I was sixteen. How does it feel?

I...I can’t imagine ever taking it off.

She studied her reflection carefully. Only her head and shoulders, her derriere and her mons remained exposed. All else was sheathed in soft, lustrous leather. In an ordinary skirt and blouse, she exposed far more skin than this. Yet the garments had eroticized her more powerfully than ever before in her experience.

So strange, to be so completely clothed, yet be and feel so...naked. She shivered and ran her gloved hands along her corseted contours.

Helen smiled gently. It’s a lovely ensemble, isn’t it? I’d say it was made for you. Consider it yours. A gift.

Helen, no! I couldn’t possibly.

Certainly you can, dear. Think of them as starters. You’ll be back as a paying customer. We’ve only scratched the surface here. Believe me, there’s lots of fun ahead. Oh, one final piece.

She held out a skimpy leather G-string.

Tonight, when Paul gets home, this is the only thing he gets to take off. Don’t let him remove any of the rest. I guarantee you, you’ll love the results.

Anita giggled and took the G-string.

#

Anita strode home with a gait that seemed too slow and sedate for the joy that bubbled within her. Her new clothes were almost