Portal No. 9

George Lawrence Bulleid, girl playing pipes

Beneath the fruit tree’s abundant, pink blossoms, in the soft heat of a not-quite-noon sun, the girl played her pipes. Emma yearned to hear her song. She imagined a tone soft, beguiling, innocent, likely playful, possibly sad.

What a surprise Emma had. The music was anything but soft or sad. Gruff, raucous, ribboned with strident screech. Emma couldn’t believe her ears. She edged closer, until, kneeling before the girl, she caught her eye. Perhaps the girl understood from Emma’s expression how puzzled Emma was, for she paused briefly, then played the dulcet tones, the airy ripples of sweetness Emma had expected. Emma smiled. And abruptly the girl’s music reverted. Foul smelling goats with sharp hooves clattered harsh wood. Hawks skewered bunnies with their talons. Monsters devoured maidens.

Emma’s hand caught the big toe of the girl’s outstretched foot. She pinched hard, driving the goats and hawks and monsters into retreat, delivering the return of those petals of pink flowers caressed by a loving breeze, those puffy white clouds gliding across a pure blue sky, those shy lovers edging ever closer to their first kiss.

Emma knew it couldn’t last. Sure enough, goats and hawks and monsters crept through the shadows. Emma’s only recourse, tickling. Her nimble fingers danced the bottom of the piper’s pretty foot. The girl couldn’t play while giggling. She squirmed but Emma held firm. She brought the foot to her lips and took the toes into her mouth and sucked and licked, and the girl twisted and squealed and laughed, and Emma held fast, mouthing now the whole of the foot, her tongue playing sly tunes upon the girl’s sole. “Ah, ah, ah,” went the girl—that was the music Emma wanted—the girl’s gasps a glissando of rising pitch as Emma’s kisses traveled up and up and up, stopping only when her tongue penetrated the cum-moistened slit of her cherry-colored cunt.