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Both her dildo and its target were well-lubricated. She brought the tip of her monstrous strap-on into line—I flinched when it made contact with my anal opening. Angie had readied me, but she’d also made me more sensitive than ever, and I wondered how much more I would feel now when I was so keenly aware of my anatomy there.

Then Angie pushed. The same pain as before, rushing up like a fire fed, but blotted somewhat by the pleasure and anticipation I felt also. My well-trained body still attempted to pull away, flinching from a deleterious attack, but Angie held my hips tight and drew me in to enter me.

I felt only the thick spade head shouldering aside my tightness and gaining its foothold, but that was the most difficult part and before I knew it, it was over. What came after this would be nothing new—it would only be more. And I felt I wanted all I could get.

Angie was still reticent, cautious, the lovely girl. Where fools rush in, Angie would be my angel and deny me my greed. Bloody fool that I am, I’d eat the clam, shell and all, for the oyster. My gorgeous, loving Angie pried the shell open for me so my bottomless hunger would only dine on the sweetest of tastes, the most filling of meals. Of course, she also had quite the cheek to go with her sagacity.

“How’s it feel, guv’nah?” she asked in the Cockney accent she’d developed for My Fair Lady, which I can say is firmly… convicted. “Jolly good, eh? Right nice fucking, innit?”

“Ang, please, I’m already letting you bugger me… must you do the same to my eardrums?”

“What’s all this then? Say it’s jolly good, roight?” Angie dropped the accent for her no-nonsense Brooklyn tones. “Say it’s jolly good, Peg.”

I can read people, but I don’t boast of any deep insight into the human condition. I do know Angie quite well—ask me twice whether it’s because we’re soulmates or simply that she’s an open book, I’m like as not to give you two separate answers.

But I could tell she was killing time, allowing me to grow used to this anal fullness that might cause me such consternation—waiting and allowing the pain to lessen. Of course, she quite liked to have me beg as well, and I knew Angie would be rather a brat until she got her way.

“It’s jolly good,” I grated out hoarsely.

“Is that any way to speak the King’s English, mum?”

“Oh Lord,” I rasped. The pain was disappearing. Now I wanted Angie to continue her journey into my taut asshole. What torture couldn’t drive out of me, the promise of pleasure extracted. “It’s jolly good!”

“Such a sexy accent.”

Angie’s hands alighted on my hips. They held me firm as she slid her groin forward, slowly feeding me inch after inch of the dildo. I knew she wouldn’t stop until our bodies were joined, the strap-on completely lost between the togetherness of her crotch and my bum.

“I want you to say my cooking’s jolly good, English. I want you to say my new dress is jolly good. When you run your hands through my hair, I want you to say it’s jolly good. Because I’ll know that whatever it is that’s ‘jolly good,’ you think it’s as sweet as being my little anal slut!”

Angie’s strap-on was splitting me apart in the most lovely way. The feeling of absolute fullness was again one of the most exquisite I’ve ever encountered. She pushed in until that thick dildo was totally sheathed in me—until I was nothing more than the buggered bitch she’d called me!

Just like when she’d first entered me, Angie froze in place and rested, allowing me to grow used to being hilted. But I was already altogether too used to it. I pulled away from her, letting that stiff shaft a ways out of my bottom, then pushed back to where I’d come from, reseating Angie to the hilt. I kept doing that, rowing back and forth until Angie picked up my rhythm and thrust forward to meet me halfway.

The careful slowness of our bodies’ motion couldn’t last for long. We both needed the release that only rapid, even painful friction could provide. Putting one hand in my hair to keep me positioned as desired, Angie used her other hand to rub my clit, making me swoon with feeling as her cock went into my bowels. Before I even felt the stirrings of climax, I could tell it was going to be one of the best I’d ever had.

I wanted to scream out my pleasure, but somewhere along the line I’d grown embarrassed by just how volume Angie could get out of me—the original stiff-upper-lip Brit! So, to prove my wherewithal, I tried to refrain and stoically endure that insane blasting of sensation within me.

Angie was under no such compunctions, though she was hardly feeling what I felt. Her lust was still a driving passion, a surging potency that aroused her simply by dint of my own lasciviousness. Her breath came in shorter, shorter gasps as her pounding strokes got faster and faster.

What happened next was indescribable. The sensation I received was not a part of my body, subordinate to it, but something larger—too large to be contained within my flesh. So large and so awesome that I was merely an appendage to it. I had given in to Angie; now I gave in to my orgasm.

Angie surrendered to it as well, for I felt her trembling rapturously. As submissive as I was to her, she too was submissive to this ecstatic sensation. We were both its loving victims, its glutinous addicts. Lucky enough to both be entitled to one-half of its delights: the dominant and the submitter.

With my mind a haze, some scurrilous gossip from my schoolyard days returned—the idea that sodomy was a sort of lesser act which could be substituted for vaginal intercourse… ‘the real thing’. There was nothing lesser or unreal about what I felt, though. It was sex, pure sex, as was everything I did with Angie. Just because no pregnancy could come of it did not make it any less overwhelming.

As tragic as my relationship with Steve had proven, at least I’d had the opportunity to sample the heights of male-female passion. There was no difference between it and what I’d found with Angie. I was missing out on nothing in being with her. There was no more I could feel than what I experienced right now.

I felt altogether lovely about myself and the thought that was still more sensations I might uncover with Angie did cross my mind. Even if they proved lesser than the sodomy both of us craved, there was something to be said for novelty.

But I thought better of the idea. There was also something to be said for saying when. Instead, I crawled beside Angie and took her exhausted body into my own tired arms.

I realized something else in allowing thoughts of Steve to invade my present happiness. It wasn’t just the sex that I loved or enjoyed. It was her. I loved Angie more than friends, more than sisters, more than any casual fling could ever account for.

I never wanted to be away from her and though I was too fagged to surmount my emotional reserve and explain the tremendous emotion I felt for Angie to the object of my affection, I could show her with the soft little kisses I showered on her awesomely pretty face.

And then, I found the words swamping my mouth anyway, as had the rising, majestic climax my body’d just received. “Angie, my love, my heart, my queen, that was the most pleasure I’ve ever taken. How can I ever thank you? You’ve not only given me the most wonderful memory, but the promise of shared bliss in the future. Oh, there’s so much more to live for than duty or obligation,” I whispered in her ear, stopping only to nibble at her sensitive lobe.

“I just wish I could do more to show you how special you are, English,” Angie breathed, holding me tight with arms made strong by conviction, not muscle. “I love you. No other girl, no guy, nobody can hold a candle to you. I think I want to do this with you until there ain’t one speck of me left to keep doing it.”

“Yes, Ang, I know exactly what you mean. I want the same. I feel the same as you.”

***

At midafternoon, a dazed and bewildered Sharon Carter picked herself up out of the bath. She’d put the diary aside, unable to read anymore, and then laid in the cooling water, trying to parse out all that had entered her mind. Finally, she’d fallen asleep, only to dream vividly of her aunt Peggy in those compromising positions she’d described herself in.

The founder of SHIELD made herself sound like all but a sex slave to Angie Martinelli—and loving every moment of it. Sharon couldn’t even blame her, not with how she’d ecstatically recalled what they’d done together. It was enough to tempt Sharon herself away from her career; make her wish she had an Angie Martinelli in her life.

Finally getting out of the by-now tepid bath, she toweled herself dry and stared at her clean body in the mirror. She felt wildly changed, even tainted, by her new knowledge of her forebear and personal hero, but the woman she saw in the mirror was fresh and sensual. Her eyes were hooded, smiling at her new secret. Her lower lip, pink and wet, pouted provocatively. Sharon picked up her comb and ran it through her hair until it was sunshine to match the healthy flush in her cheeks.

She was a looker; if only there were someone like Peggy to go on about how gorgeous, how lovely, how endlessly covetous she was. Could she do it to herself? That struck her as self-help clap-trap, but she did find her breasts captivating. Swollen with passion after the unexpected voluptuousness that came from reading of so much passion.

She rubbed her tits, kneading the nipples to desirous protrusion, powder-pink and promising luscious sensitivity to the touch. She could only imagine what Peggy or Angie would’ve done with a sexpot like the one she saw in the mirror.

Her gaze felt on the cracked-open medicine cabinet and the little joy sucker that protruded from the ajar door. It was a little thing, barely recognizable as a sex toy, just a bladder-bulb at one end and a long, drinking-straw tube that opened up after a few inches, letting the user either expel air or slurp it in. That could come in very handy, though it’d been a long time since Sharon’d had the energy or the inclination to do anything clever with it.

She picked it up, wondering about that, and went frowning out of the bathroom, not bothering to dress yet. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and drank deeply. It took care of her parched throat, but the cool water did nothing to chill her body.

Apropos of nothing, she squeezed the air out of the rubber bulb, then held the end of the tube to her clit. There was no need to play it to attention; it was still rigid from the charge her body’d held since reading the diary entry.

She let go of the bulb, air rushed into the uncompressing bladder, and with that air went her clit—sucked into the cool glass of the tube. Sharon shuddered with pleasure as the bud throbbed within its new, vivacious environs. Slowly she squeezed, plying her tortured clit with a strong breeze on its sensitive tissue, then gently released the bulb and let the vacuum pull again at her more-than-tender clitoris.

“Jolly good,” she moaned, hearing the cod British in Peggy’s perfect accent—Angie must’ve been right—it would’ve been damn sexy.

Sharon put her glass of water aside, nearly dropping it. She groped her own breast, stretching out the nipple, thinking of what Peggy or Angie or both would do to her now, in her present burning state. Humping to meet Angie’s powerful strap-on thrusts. Tonguing into the livid opening of Peggy’s sex. Her hand in her own panties, massaging herself because she was just as much a slut as any of them.

“I see you went through Peggy Carter’s diary.” Natasha’s husky voice was unmistakable. It glittered with amusement at Sharon’s present circumstances, making it seem all the naughtier that she didn’t comment on what the blonde was actually doing. “Have you read Angie’s yet? It makes your aunt sound like such a good fuck.”