The Sweetest Revenge

Story 6 of Seven Deadly Sins

For sinners and saviours, both sweet and indiscreet

Sometimes it can be so difficult to say no. It can be so much more gratifying to sate an urge than to deny it. And it can be so pleasurable to say yes to excess. Often, it is the most common excesses – Lust, Greed, Gluttony, Envy, Sloth, Pride and Wrath – that are the hardest to resist. And it is the unsolicited state of being human that makes each and every one of us so susceptible. As such, these excesses have become known as the Seven Deadly Sins.

As a devout chorister of kink, I was overjoyed to be able to explore these themes with seven salacious writers who are as prodigious as they are prodigal. The author within these pages had no shame in confronting the Seven Deadly Sins and twisting them into the most gloriously carnal tales of temptation and desire – each sin brought beautifully to life by the illustrations of John LaChatte.

We invite you to nestle between these pages and to transgress most sensually and unrepentantly! The Seven Deadly Sins have never been so sexy!

-Kojo Black

The Candy Box by Kojo Black

Sun Strokes by Kojo Black

Immoral Views by Various Authors

Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless

Naked Delirium by Various Authors

Making Him Wait by Kay Jaybee

Seven Deadly Sins by Various Authors

Strummed by Various Authors

Made for Hire by Various Authors

In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade

First published by Sweetmeats Press 2012

Copyright © Sweetmeats Press 2012
Illustrations © John LaChatte 2012
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-1-909181-10-6

Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.

www.sweetmeatspress.com

As soon as she heard the roar of the engine, Abigail's heart rate increased. She could recognise it at quite some distance now, and as it drew closer to her office building, she could feel the vibrations beneath her feet.

Grabbing a handful of documents from the pile on her desk, Abigail headed over to the photocopier which stood by the window. That way, she could pretend she was duplicating paperwork, when in fact she was looking out of the window at the motorcycle and its rider.

And there she was. Mackenzie, in all her leather-clad glory, thundering into the car park. Her beautiful red hair flowed from beneath the helmet, her hair settling to a stop as the motorcycle did. The Khaki Green Mean Machine, as Abigail had nicknamed it, was as stunning as ever. Between them, rider and bike made a very attractive picture. One Abigail could quite happily look at all day long.

She realised she hadn't actually made any attempt to photocopy anything yet, so she hastily shoved one of the pieces of paper under the lid, keyed in the command for thirty copies and pressed the green button. Then she was free to gaze out of the window for a good long while before anyone suspected anything.

Not that it was any big secret, anyway. The entire office knew of Abigail's crush on the motorcycle courier, and she was often teased about it. The only reason she wasn't being ribbed right there and then was because nobody else was tuned into the motorcycle's engine noise frequency like she was — they wouldn't have realised Mackenzie was here unless they looked out of the window. Glancing behind her, Abigail saw that everyone was engrossed in what they were doing, so she could perv out of the window, completely undisturbed and without mockery.

Turning back, she saw that Mackenzie had now put the Ducati Monster on its stand and flung one long leg over it. She tugged off her heavy duty leather gloves, lay them on the seat and proceeded to undo her helmet. Abigail held her breath. This bit was always her favourite. The way the younger woman managed to still look gorgeous when removing a motorcycle helmet was incredible. Her long red hair cascaded free, and after a couple of quick finger-combs, it looked immaculate. For the hundredth time, Abigail wondered what her secret was. She was sure if she went on a motorcycle without tying her hair back, it would look like a rat's nest by the time she arrived anywhere.

Clipping the helmet's chin-strap back together, the courier then hung it from one of the handlebars, pulled the keys from the ignition and moved to the box attached to the back of the bike. She unlocked it, retrieved two small parcels and shut and locked the lid before retrieving the keys and walking towards the front door of the building. She wore sensible, rather than fashionable, boots and leathers and they lent her walk a strange gait. Abigail didn't care. She was so infatuated with the woman that it would take more than that to put her off.

She watched as Mackenzie made her way into the building and was eventually lost from sight. Switching her attention to her fake photocopying, she saw that the dated machine was still chugging its way through the original thirty copies she'd requested. She grinned. At this rate, it'd still be going by the time the courier exited the building and got back on her bike. If there was someone at Reception, then of course the process of having a parcel signed for was speedy. Usually, that's what happened. But occasionally if there was some super-sensitive reason no one else could handle the delivery, the member of staff it was for would have to come and sign for it themselves. That, of course, meant it could take much longer, depending on whereabouts they were in the building and how long it would take them to get to the front desk.

Abigail herself could be at Reception in under a minute from her desk, and would gladly be, if her presence was requested by the goddess Mackenzie. All she would have to do was click her fingers and Abigail would come running. And not just for a parcel. For whatever reason she damn well felt like giving.

She sighed. The woman had her completely and utterly under the thumb, and she had absolutely no idea. Abigail was sure Mackenzie didn't even know she existed. It was a shame, really. Aside from fancying the pants — or leathers, in this case — off her, they had a lot in common. They were both lesbians, for one. She had no idea how she knew Mackenzie was a lesbian; she just did. Or perhaps her constant wishful thinking had made her believe it was true.

They also both shared a love of motorcycles. Okay, so it was only the appearance of Mackenzie and her bike a couple of months ago that had sparked Abigail's sudden interest, but her obsession was such that every time she heard the roar of an engine — particularly a Ducati — she felt wetness trickle from her pussy. She was like Pavlov's dog, only with motorcycles.

Abigail shrugged. All right, so maybe they only had two things in common — however tenuous — three, if you counted the fact they were both female, but she didn't care. The woman was hot, and one day Abigail was going to work up the courage to speak to her. And saying ‘hello' and ‘thank you' in relation to receiving a parcel did not count.

Movement from the corner of her eye alerted Abigail to the fact that Mackenzie was leaving the building. She sauntered back across the tarmac towards the Ducati, her gaze fixed firmly on it. She clearly had no idea that anyone was watching her, because as she drew closer to the bike, she smiled. By the time she reached the vehicle and stroked a hand across its matt green petrol tank cover, she was grinning from ear to ear.

It was infectious. The more Mackenzie beamed at the Khaki Green Mean Machine, the more Abigail smiled at the scene unfolding in front of her. The courier either wasn't in a particular rush to get to her next drop off, or didn't care, because after stroking the main body of the bike, she ran her hand along the leather seat and across the storage box. She crouched, squeezing each tyre in turn — as though checking them for air — and stood up again, hands on hips.

Unfortunately, she now had her back to the offices, so Abigail could no longer see her facial expression, but it didn't matter too much. From this angle, she could see the jut of Mackenzie's ass in the tight leather trousers and her mouth went dry. During Mackenzie's deliveries, Abigail'd perved on her more times than she could remember in the past couple of months, but the reaction she garnered didn't lessen. If anything, the more she saw the hot biker chick, the more she wanted her.

She'd even started dreaming about her. The filthiest, kinkiest, most erotic dreams, some of which forced her awake with the raging horn and made her reach immediately down her pyjama bottoms to relieve the tension. Others were even more intense, and on a handful of occasions, Abigail had actually climaxed in her sleep. The first time it happened, she could scarcely believe it, thinking that she'd merely cum in her dream and it had been so vivid that she thought she'd really done it. But as her cunt continued to quiver with the aftershocks of orgasm, she was forced to accept that she was now having a more active sex life in her sleep than she was in her waking life.

The hot courier chick was to blame for her overactive sex drive and pornographic dreams, and as the woman in question finished looking at her bike — which was clearly her pride and joy — pulled on her gloves and helmet, and started the engine, Abigail decided that the ‘one day' she'd elected to speak to Mackenzie would be one day
soon.
The only way she'd get that damn woman out of her system would be to ask her out. If she said no, she'd know for sure she had no chance and get over it. But if she said yes...

The possibilities — erotic and otherwise — were endless and, as Mackenzie roared away on her Ducati Monster, Abigail couldn't help but think about just how
much
she'd like to explore each and every one of those possibilities with her. Repeatedly.

Abigail dreamt of Mackenzie again that night. It was hardly surprising, given the way she'd gotten her going that day, roaring up on the motorbike and caressing it like a lover, before jutting that cute ass in her direction. The courier had thrown plentiful fuel on Abigail's fantasy fire and now her dreams were reflecting her inflamed state.

She woke suddenly, bathed in sweat and with an ache and wetness between her legs that wouldn't allow her to forget what she'd been dreaming about.

“For fuck's sake,” she murmured, rolling onto her back and flopping onto the pillows with more force than was necessary. “She won't even leave me alone when I'm asleep!”

She aimed her irritation at Mackenzie, even though she knew it was unfounded. It was easier than admitting to herself that she was harbouring a growing obsession — it had gone way beyond attraction by now — for someone she didn't know. They hadn't even met, really, beyond Abigail accepting a parcel and the usual pleasantries that went with such a menial task. The only reason she even knew Mackenzie's name is because it had been on the paperwork she'd scrawled her signature on when signing for the package.

And now here she was, dreaming about the woman for the umpteenth time and sticking her hand down her pyjama bottoms to try and relieve the residual tension. She'd tried ignoring it, time and time again, but it was impossible for her to sleep with that throb between her legs. She just couldn't do it.

She opened her legs for better access, spreading her index and middle fingers and sliding them down her labia, before rubbing up and down on the rapidly swelling flesh. The squelch of pussy juices was audible from beneath the covers, and she dipped a fingertip in to see just how wet she was. She gasped. Wet wasn't a strong enough word. Sopping, perhaps, or saturated. Regardless of terminology, Abigail's body had had an incredibly powerful reaction to what she'd been up to in her dreams and was demanding that she dealt with it.

Unwilling — or unable — to refuse, she pressed a finger to her clit. It was sensitive, needy, and she knew that it wouldn't take much to make her cum. The dream had obviously been her foreplay, and now her hungry cunt was ready for the main event. She pulled the swollen bundle of nerve endings between finger and thumb and rolled it, gently at first. Then she punctuated each roll with a pinch. Roll, pinch. Roll, pinch. She knew if she carried on like that, she'd be climaxing within a minute or so. Normally, if she woke in the middle of the night, she was eager to get back to sleep as soon as possible, otherwise she'd be grumpy in the morning. But for some reason, on this occasion she was happy to draw out her orgasm, knowing it would result in a more powerful reaction in the long run.

Stopping her torment on her clit, Abigail pushed two fingers inside her pussy, then drew them back out, before sucking them into her mouth. She moaned blissfully, closing her eyes. The taste of pussy had always gotten her hot, and as she enjoyed the mixture of sweet and tart on her tongue, she let her mind wander. Specifically, onto how she thought Mackenzie's pussy juices would taste. Abigail knew she was seriously biased, but she thought they'd taste divine. And, right at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to push her face between the younger woman's legs to find out.

Unfortunately, all she had was herself and her imagination, so she would have to make do. Luckily, her imagination was rich and, although it couldn't possibly match up to the real thing, it would come a close second.

This time, she pushed both hands between her legs. With one hand, she held her pussy lips open wide, manoeuvring them so her clit peeked from its protective hood and was exposed to the fondling from her other hand. And fondle she did. She fixed a film reel of Sapphic action between herself and Mackenzie in her head, and stroked to it.

Fantasy Mackenzie was in the bed, completely naked. She climbed up Abigail's body and straddled her head, lowering herself slowly so her gorgeous pussy was hovering just above her mouth.

Abigail could almost smell the other woman's pussy. She'd love nothing more than to have Mackenzie sit on her face so she could eat her cunt until she writhed and wriggled above her, squirting copious juices onto her face and chest. But for now, her dirty imaginings would do. And they were definitely doing their job. She didn't think it was possible, but Abigail's arousal increased. Her blood thundered through her veins, her clit swelled almost to the point of pain and her nipples were like tiny stones, chafing against the underneath of her bed sheets. She didn't want to draw it out any longer. Right now, she just wanted to cum.

Snapping her legs together, she trapped one hand against her pussy and rolled her hips, riding it. She gripped the sheets with her other hand, taking out her pleasure on the fibres squeezed in her fist. Her grunts and groans increased in frequency and intensity as the delicious pressure built in her abdomen. She was teetering on the edge of climax, and as she continued to rub herself off, the most fantastic image of Mackenzie flashed into her head.

She was sitting astride her beloved motorcycle. Completely naked except for her boots. Her beautiful red hair flowed gently in the breeze and her hands gripped the bike's handlebars. With a twist of her wrist, the machine roared between her legs and she threw her head back, her eyes closed and lips parted in ecstasy. Continuing to rev up the bike in short bursts, then longer and more intense roars of pure power, Mackenzie writhed on the leather seat, her pussy juices smearing all over the black material. Harder and harder she twisted the throttle, until it almost sounded as though the engine would explode — certainly it was red-lining — but before it had chance, the redhead let out a mighty noise of her own, yanking her hands from the handlebars and grasping the seat to steady herself as she rode out her orgasm. Her hips rocked, and the sight of her ass cheeks and thighs flexing sent Abigail into an absolute frenzy.

Keeping the image of Mackenzie's climax firmly in her mind, she screeched and yelled as she hit her own peak, her cunt spasming crazily and gushing out juices all over her hand and the bed. By the time she'd ridden out her orgasm, the hand that had been grabbing the sheets was white-knuckled and so tense it was painful. Easing open her fingers, she shook her hand in the air, attempting to loosen it — wincing as she heard several joints crack. Soon, it felt much better and she smoothed out the sheets beneath her as best she could, before shifting into a comfortable position that wasn't in the wet spot. A few seconds later she was slipping back into a blissful, deep sleep where visions of Mackenzie continued to flit through her mind the whole night.