Hope and Gloria – a work in progress

A while back I wrote “Photographic Memories” a story about a damaged photographer trying to find his way back to happiness. He said: The camera is a machine for trapping time. Flypaper for moments of truth.

That thought was in my head when I saw the black and white photograph below. It got me thinking about when the moment was and what truth it captured. My imagination led me to the first part of a story. I’ve shared it here as an illustration of where my ideas come from.

The text is of course fiction and does not based on any factual information about the women in the photograph.

Like all fiction, tt is only as true as the extent of your belief.

Enjoy.

 

Photograph by Hans Steiner

Hope and Gloria

© Mike Kimera 2011

 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Ms. Denton.”

The researcher is young,  pretty and dressed to display her athletic form without actually revealing any of it. I assume that the publisher thought I would be more open in the presence of this fetching ingenue. Sadly it seems that the girl herself has not been briefed on her role and, instead of flirting with me,  she is speaking slowly in deference , I assume, to  my great age.

“Agreeing to meet you seemed to be the only way to avoid endless tedious phone calls with your boss. Is she always so anal about every detail? It seems to me that she is the sort of woman who would benefit from Rhett Butler’s advice to Scarlett O’Hara…”

I’ve clearly caught the girl off guard by attacking her boss and I’m fairly sure that she has never seen “Gone With The Wind” but one of the few privileges of age is being able to discomfit the young, so I  look her in the eye, lower my voice by an octave and say: “You need kissing badly. That’s what’s  wrong with you. You should be kissed and often and by someone who knows how.”

The poor girl’s eyes have gone wide. This one is as straight as a die, I think. There was at time when I would have taken that as a challenge, but not today.

“Do take a seat, my dear.” I say, as if nothing at all odd had happened.

She perches her tightly clad bum on the seat opposite me, crosses one leg over the other and leans forward in a way that may be meant to create intimacy.

“I’m sorry to trouble you with this, but my editor asked me to do some last minute verifications before your autobiography goes to press.”

Her smile takes her from pretty to adorable. I forgo the pleasure of asking her if she is accusing me of lieing.

“What is it that you would like to verify?”

“Well, the story you tell in Chapter Three is quite startling. My editor is excited, of course, but…”

“She’s worried that Gloria Smythe’s litigative descendants will try to sue? You can’t libel the dead, my dear. Your boss should know that.”

“Well, Gloria Smythe was the sex symbol of British Cinema in the 1950s. People have a special place for her in their hearts. We’re concerned that your story could attract a lot of bad press.”

“Don’t give me that ‘Nation’s Darling’ crap,” I say, allowing my irritation at the girl’s book-blub sentence to show. “Gloria’s relationship to sex was more than symbolic. She was a sexual omnivore with an insatiable appetite for the novel and the naive. The first time she ate me, I was both. Do you know, I think she only fucked me because my name is Hope and she couldn’t resist the opportunity for us to be Hope and Gloria?”

The girl actually blushed. Where do they find these people?

“The thing is, Ms. Denton, we would feel more confident in going to press if we had something that substantiates your version of events.”

My version of events. She makes it sounds as if having more than one version is a flaw rather than an inherent attribute of the human condition. Still, at least she had the backbone to raise the point.

“Well, Gloria is dead and her spineless excuse of a son burned any papers that he felt were inconsistent with his mother’s image. In those days we didn’t have the option of filming ourselves having sex and posting it to YouTube. Dear Christ, if we’d  been able to do that, Gloria’s film career would have been much more interesting. All I can offer you is this.”

I hand her a photograph and a journal. True to the ways of her generation, she looks at the photograph first.

“That’s me and Gloria. We were drying off from our swim. I’m the one looking at her. She’s the one looking into the distance.It was the last day of summer. The last day we were together. I was no longer either naive or novel. I didn’t know it then but Gloria had already lost her appetite for me.”

The girl, I really should have tried to remember her name, looks from the photograph to me and back again, trying to find that young swimmer in my face. She’s wasting her time of course. That swimmer drowned in grief decades ago.

“You both look so young.”

“I don’t think Gloria was ever really young. I on  the other hand was an absolute puppy. Look at me. Look at us.It is all there for anyone to see.”

“Who took the photograph?”

Hah, this girl may be brighter than I thought. That’s an excellent question.

“My mother. At the time I thought she knew nothing of what Gloria and I were doing. Certainly she never spoke of it. But a picture like that is not born of ignorance. My mother was addicted to seeing life through a lens. She took her camera with her everywhere. She once told me that life without a lens lacked focus. She always shot in black and white. She said that it removed the distraction of colour and the pretense of documentation and presented each picture for what it was, a choice on how to show the world to others.”

I realise that, while I’ve been evoking my mother’s ghost, my little fact-checker has opened the journal at the place that I had bookmarked.

“It’s my mother’s journal of course. I found it after she died. I rather wish I hadn’t. It demonstrated that while I’d never really known my mother, she had known everything about me.”

The girl looks up at me. Her mouth is open. She looks stunned. “Your mother…”

“…watched Gloria Smythe finger fuck me and then went back to her room and wrote it all down. Fascinating isn’t it?”

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Ok-That’s as far as the picture has taken me so far. I hope that the next piece will be an extract from the Jounral. If it arrives in my head I will bring it to you.

 

Bar Snack

This is one of those nasty brutal stories that either does it for you or it doesn’t. Writing this kind of story takes me to territory I rarely explore. The main character is the kind of man that I would cheerfully eliminate from the genepool and yet I know he has at least some appeal.

Read, enjoy and don’t feel guilty about it afterwards

© Mike Kimera 2011

Sandie was my type of woman: alone, a little drunk, more than a little  overweight and flashing her flabby flesh like a fritzing neon sign on a rundown whorehouse.

She was a fading thirty-something still trying to convince herself that she hadn’t changed since she’d left college.  The dress she was wearing had been designed to hang loosely on a young nymphet, displaying her blossoming womanhood. Stretched over Sandie’s full and just starting to sag curves, it displayed only one thing: desperation.

That, of course, is what had attracted me to her.

Desperate women don’t complain. Desperate women do what they’re told and afterwards,desperate women know in their hearts that it was their fault and that they only got what they deserved.

I’d spotted her leaning against a pillar, scanning the early evening “Bar Rouge” crowd, nursing her drink, pretending she was waiting for someone rather than just hoping for someone. “Bar Rouge” is a trying-to-be-trendy place at the top of a glass office tower. It has great views over the city but everyone here was looking inwards. It’s a pick up place for singles. Sandie looked like she’d been single for a little too long.

I didn’t approach her until I was sure that she was about to give up and go home. When I asked if I could buy her a drink, her face lit up as if Prince Charming had just  turned up with one of her used glass slippers.

I could see in her eyes that she wanted me and that she was more than a little surprised that she might actually get to have me. We both knew I could have done better. Physically I was out of her league.  I wondered how long it had been since she had had anyone she wanted to fuck with her eyes open.

I led her to the bar and helped her perch on a stool that was both too high and too small for her to sit on comfortably. I felt up her arse as I positioned her. She gave me a nervous little smile and said, “I can see I’m going to have to watch myself with you.” It was her only insightful comment of the evening.

I sat on the stool next to her, leaning close, publicly claiming her. I’m sure that if the stool had been wider she would have preened with pleasure. Each time I handed her a drink I touched her, on the wrist, on the arm, on the hip. She pretended not to notice but by the fourth drink she was waiting for my touch.

I fed her drinks for about an hour. She gulped the alcohol down so fast; I hadn’t even had to add anything to her drinks to put her in a more receptive frame of mind.

I asked her where she came from and how long she’d been in the city and listened attentively as she told me about how she was far from home in a job that should have become a career but was turning into a dull routine.

She was isolated, disappointed but still hopeful; a perfect little Bar Snack.

When I asked her what a passionate woman like her was doing alone in a bar on a Friday evening, she leant forward to give me a better view of her Grand Canyon sized cleavage and told me that she was looking for someone who would appreciate what she had to offer.

My smile in response was genuine. Sandie was about to find out that I knew exactly how to show my appreciation of what she had to offer.

I ordered Sandie her final drink of the evening and held it far enough away that she had to turn unsteadily on her stool to reach for it. Her thighs splayed, her dress rode up as far as it was able, disclosing the tightly stretched tops of her thigh-highs. I took the opportunity to slide my hand rapidly up her leg until my fingers tips pushed into the soft indentation at the top of her thigh.

She reached down with her free hand to push me away, smiling but saying, “People will see.”

I kept my hand in place long enough to show that she lacked the strength to move me, then I withdrew my hand, stood up from my stool and took a step away from her, keeping my face impassive.

Anxiety flickered in her eyes. I did nothing to reassure her.

“Don’t go,” she said taking my wrist in both her hands.

The pleading tone in her voice aroused me more than touching her flesh had but I didn’t let that show in my face.

“Please,” she said, guiding my hand back under her dress, “Stay.”

I stepped closer and pushed my hand up further until my fingers were pressed against her panties. Her legs clamped shut, she leant forward so her head was on my shoulder, but she didn’t push me away.

“Let’s find somewhere more private,” I said.

She looked into my face, searching for something. I ran my thumb along her slit. Her eyes closed.

“Now,” I said, pulling my hand from between her thighs and stepping away.

Sandie stood up, shouldering her handbag, ready to follow me. I took her hand and pulled her through the crowd so quickly that it was all she could do to keep her balance on her high-heels.

The emergency exit doors at the back of “Bar Rouge” opened out onto a landing in a bare concrete stairwell. The ambience was public car park meets latrine; just what I was looking for.

I span Sandie in front of me, pinned her against the far wall, forced her legs apart with my foot and clamped my hand on her cunt.

By the time she got her breath back, I had my mouth at her throat and a finger inside her. It wasn’t easy, but then, I wasn’t being gentle.

She didn’t slap me and she didn’t cry out. She just said, in a quiet voice that sounded more disappointed than shocked, “You’re hurting me.”

I kept my finger inside her, rubbed my thumb over her clit, looked her in the eyes and said, “What did you expect, a candle-lit dinner for two? That special moment when our eyes meet and two hearts beat as one? You must have known I was dragging you here to fuck you. Isn’t that what you’ve been offering for the past hour every time you pushed your big tits at me? Isn’t that what you were begging for when you pulled my hand between your legs? So now you’re going to get fucked. You should be happy.”

The expression on Sandie’s face was the best part of my evening. It was as if all the alcohol had suddenly been expelled from her system. I had the real Sandie in front of me now. The one who looked at herself naked in the mirror each morning and knew exactly what she was worth. The one who’d given up on Prince Charming and was now searching for Mr Not Too Bad Most Of The Time. The one who knew that she’d met a predator and offered herself up on a plate.

There was a moment when I thought that she might cry or scream and I’d have to let her go. Then something changed in her eyes and I knew she’d reached her decision.

“You don’t have to hurt me,” she said keeping eye contact as she reached down with one hand to search for my erection. “I do want you. Really I do. Let me show you.”

She stretched upwards and kissed me. I slipped my wet finger out of her and slid my hand up to squeeze her breast. Sandie traced the line of my erection through my trousers and pushed her tongue into my mouth to show me her enthusiasm.

I put both hands on her breasts and pushed her back against the wall.

“That’s not where I want your mouth,” I said.

Sandie made her way to her knees without much grace. I unzipped and left my erection bobbing in front of her face. She reached out to grab it but I swatted her hand away.

“Just your mouth.”

She looked up at me with wide eyes but managed a smile before she took the tip of my cock into her mouth.

I stroked her face gently and smiled at her. She put a little more effort in, using her tongue, sucking in her cheeks. No one could accuse her of not trying.

When I’d had enough, I told her stop. She looked disappointed. Maybe she’d thought a quick blowjob was all I was looking for.

I helped her to her feet like a gentleman and led her to the banister at the top of the stairwell.

“Lean over it, spread your legs, and hold on. You’re about to get a fucking you won’t forget.”

That much at least I was sure was true.

I ripped off Sandie’s panties and put them in my pocket. Her cunt was moist rather than wet but I got in without too much effort and with only the most muted of grunts from her.

Finesse would have been wasted in the circumstances so I concentrated on speed and power, slamming Sandie against the banisters hard enough to make them rattle. Sandie didn’t bother faking an orgasm. It seemed to be all she could do to catch her breath.

I love taking women from behind. I found the sight of Sandie bent double, braced for impact absolutely irresistible.

A couple of minutes in, I knew I was almost done. Sandie must have sensed it too. She looked back at me over her shoulder and said, “Please don’t come inside me.”

I liked the please.

I stood still, hilt deep inside her and asked the obvious question: “So, Sandie, tell me where you want me to dump my cum.”

Sandie tried to find the right answer in my face. I raised an eyebrow and gave her another thrust.

“On my face?” she said, hesitantly.

Perfect. I knew she’d always remember saying that, begging a stranger to come on her face.

I laughed.

“I like this view better,” I said, “I’ll come on your fat arse. Hold it open for me.”

Sandie pulled her arse cheeks apart like a good little whore and waited for my cum to run down her legs as I tossed off over her.

“Don’t stand up yet,” I said.

I used my iPhone to take a picture of my cum sliding down Sandie’s arse cheek, just to the right of her gaping cunt.

“What are doing?” Sandie said, straightening up.

“Making a little souvenir of our evening together.” I showed her the picture on my phone. “If you give me your number I’ll send you a copy.”

Sandie stared at me.

“You are a sick bastard.”

“And what does that make you, Sandie. Think about that.”

I fished three twenties out of my wallet and offered them to her.

“Taxi money?” I said.

“Fuck off.”

“Been there, done that. Have a good evening, Sandie. It was a pleasure fucking you.”

I thought that was a pretty cool exit line. I’d have to remember that one.

I found a cab as soon as I hit street level.  As we pulled away from the curb, the cabbie grinned at me and said, “You smell like you’ve had a good night, mate.” I took a deep breath and realized that, in the confines of the cab, the just-fucked smell was impossible to miss. I grinned back at the cabbie, pulled Sandie’s panties from my pocket and held them up for him to see.

Before I could say anything, my iPhone rang.

“Hi, babe,” I said, “Yeah, I know, I’m late.  I had to take some clients for a drink after the meeting. No I don’t need food. I just had a bar snack. Did I miss the kids? I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna hit the shower as soon as I get home. When I’m done, I want to find you in the bedroom wearing nothing but thigh-highs, heels, a little lube and a smile. No you may not start without me. Nor unless you want a spanking. You’re right, it might be worth it. Now go and get ready, I’ll be home in a few.”

I closed the call. The cabby made eye contact with me in the mirror.

“You lead a bloody charmed life, mate.”

“You’re so right,” I said and settled back into my seat to flick through the photos on my iPhone.

SCAR – Chapter 2

-2-

At some level, I know I am dreaming. This is not how it was. At the time, I didn’t see her so clearly; didn’t hunger for her as I do now. Then the taken-for-granted future stretched before us; now only the severed stump of might-have-beens is left to me.

For a few seconds I am both actor and audience in this mind-movie directed by my subconscious. Seeing myself, drowsy and inattentive, I want to shout “Wake up. This is important. You will never have this moment again.” But I find I can make no sound. Instead my awareness narrows, and I become, for a time, a man who has not yet realised that this is the happiest he will ever be.

*****

“What?” I ask, opening my eyes part way.

Her lopsided smile is just visible in the blush of the post-dawn light, which matches so perfectly our post-coital glow. She is laying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her small fingers lightly touching my chest just above my heart.

“You are the gentlest man I know,” she says.

“Thank you. I think.”

Sex is still new between us and I wonder what I have done that makes her see me this way.

She sits up on her heels, comfortable in her nakedness. Looking up at her, I am reminded of how young she is, ten years younger than me. Her skin is smooth and firm and in my mouth tonight, she tasted like springtime: tangy and vigorous.

Placing her hand on my wrist she says, “Don’t ever change – ever.”

There is something in the intensity of this statement that pulls me from my languor and makes me pay attention.

‘”We all change.” I sound old and weary.

She smiles at my maudlin tone, takes my hand in hers and says, “Then become even nicer. Nice makes me feel warm all over.”

“Mmmmmm,” I reach for her “let me check that out.”

“Sceptic.”

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

“What about this?”

“Warm but also moist”

“I think you should explore further”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

I wake with cum on my belly and tears in my eyes. Nina. Always Nina.

5:45 a.m. I’m alone in a bed that I share only with ghosts: my ghost and Nina’s.

I’m sticky and I need a shower, but not here. Even the shower downstairs seems too close this morning. I throw on some sweats and my favourite Reeboks and decide to run down Haverstock Hill to our office in Camden Town.

Early as it is, there are still people moving purposefully through the streets, running through the mazes of money and need.

At the office, I shower and change. I always keep clothes at work. Once it was so I could change when the working day started shortly after the clubbing had finished. Now it is because I get mornings like this, when I can’t bear to stay in the house in which Nina died.

My office overlooks Camden Lock. Soon the stall holders will start to set out the stands that Nina so liked to browse through, but which always seemed to me to be filled with tat, sold by middle class dropouts, who thought it was cool to pretend to be poor.

Nina would laugh at me for comments like that. “You’re hardly the vanguard of the urban proletariat,” she’d say, “You’re a working class lad in a middle class job. Comes the revolution you’ll be the first to be put against the wall and shot.”

This is a media company so my staff won’t be here until ten or so.  I switch on the full size Gaggia coffee machine and make myself a fierce double espresso with Illy coffee; another pretentious piece of fashion-victim posturing that Nina would have treated with playful derision.

Nina had no class hang-ups. She came from a middle class family that had been furnishing the Labour Party with intelligentsia for three generations. In a way, it was the Labour Party that brought us together.

It was May 1996. Mangle Media Productions had just had its first successful year. Tony Blair’s ‘Cool Britannia’ gang had just kicked the Tories out and we were holding a fringe party (dress code: black tie and Raybans) for the great and the good who wanted to demonstrate their media connections and swig free champagne. The room was dominated by a huge TV screen with a live link to the official Labour Party bash. Tony made his entrance as D Reem where playing “Things can only get better”. He started to give his famous “New Labour, New Britain” speech.  I smiled as a cheer went up from the affluent crowd at our party, we could all see the gravy train pulling out of the station and we knew we would be on board this time.

“They’ve already got their snouts in the trough haven’t they?”

I turned my head to see who had spoken. Then I turned all the way round. My body had decided that it wanted to be facing this lovely young thing. In a year when every woman I knew was wearing a little black number, this girl had turned up in emerald silk that clashed wonderfully with her bright red hair.

“Do you speak, or are you restricting yourself to non-verbal communication?” she asked.

I realised I’d been staring and that my mouth was open. I went for the smile. I have good smile.

“Hi, I’m David Jackson” I said confidently.

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

Crash and burn I thought. It must have shown on my face.

“Of course, I was much younger then,” she grinned, enjoying my reaction.

How could anyone who was only twenty-two or so have been much younger then?

“I doubt you noticed me. You were too busy trying to fuck my older sister.”

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

“So you do remember me. Did Rachel ever let you fuck her? She never would say.”

Rachel Posner never let me fuck her, she always fucked me. I was a junior lecturer at the Manchester Business School and she was a first year student, yet she was the dominant one. Rachel had shown me what sex could be, perhaps what I had always wanted it to be. She made me see that I’d let shame and guilt and other people’s expectations keep me from what I most desired. My face heated as I remembered how I had struggled against the bonds that held me, erect to the point of pain, desperate hoping that I had pleased Rachel enough to have earned the release her fingers could give me.

Nina was smiling at me, waiting for an answer. It was hard to believe that the innocent-looking girl in front of me could come from the same stock as Rachel.

I focussed my attention on the soft curve of Nina’s smile and said, “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. You were only about five and way too young to know such things.”

I was trying desperately to remember just how uncool I had been back in 1986. Shit, did I still have the ponytail then? I hoped Nina wouldn’t remember.

“I was twelve and she wouldn’t tell me because she knew I had a crush on you.”

My cock suddenly turned to rock and I was sure Nina knew it.

“There you are, darling,” the voice belonged to a Hooray-Henry with no chin and an accent that could cut glass, “We really must be going or we’ll miss dinner with Tony and Cherie.”

Neither of us looked at him.

“Nice to meet you again, David,” Nina said. She leaned forward to give me an air kiss. Her hand on my arm felt as if it was scorching my suit. In a whisper, she said, “I still think you’re cute, ‘specially now you’ve lost the ponytail.”

Then she was gone.

My espresso is cold. I’ve been in the office for an hour and done nothing but visit the dead. I need action.

I power up my ThinkPad and check on my Hollowman mail. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved to find nothing from Scar. Maybe she has vanished into the ether.

This morning’s snailmail has already arrived so I flick through it. There is an A4 brown envelope addressed to “Hollowman” and marked “Personal”. There is no stamp so it was delivered by hand. No-one here knows that I am Hollowman. I rip the envelope open, thankful that my early arrival meant I could intercept it.

There are two sheets inside the envelope. The first is a printout from Kyoko’s webpage. It has pictures of her and describes her services and prices. The pictures have been altered using Photoshop. Someone has done a painstaking job of putting a jagged scar along Kyoko’s left cheek.

A handwritten note at the foot of the page says, “Is this what you wanted to do to her?”

The second sheet is a full-page black and white photograph of me coming out of Kyoko’s building. Yesterday’s date is stamped on the picture. On the reverse “Hollowmen” by T.S. Elliot, a poem about debasement through the rejection of good, has been handwritten.  The hairs on my neck rise. This poem was the source of my on-line identity. Sections of the poem have been picked out in garish yellow highlighter:

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.”

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow”

And then the only line that everyone remembers but which most people misunderstand

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

A handwritten note in the margin says, “I will be your shadow until you make my world end”.

There is no signature. None is needed. It would seem Scar has not vanished after all.

-2-

At some level, I know I am dreaming. This is not how it was. At the time, I didn’t see her so clearly; didn’t hunger for her as I do now. Then the taken-for-granted future stretched before us; now only the severed stump of might-have-beens is left to me.

 

For a few seconds I am both actor and audience in this mind-movie directed by my subconscious. Seeing myself, drowsy and inattentive, I want to shout “Wake up. This is important. You will never have this moment again.” But I find I can make no sound. Instead my awareness narrows, and I become, for a time, a man who has not yet realised that this is the happiest he will ever be.

 

*****

 

“What?” I ask, opening my eyes part way.

Her lopsided smile is just visible in the blush of the post-dawn light, which matches so perfectly our post-coital glow. She is laying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her small fingers lightly touching my chest just above my heart.

 

“You are the gentlest man I know,” she says.

“Thank you. I think.”

Sex is still new between us and I wonder what I have done that makes her see me this way.

 

She sits up on her heels, comfortable in her nakedness. Looking up at her, I am reminded of how young she is, ten years younger than me. Her skin is smooth and firm and in my mouth tonight, she tasted like springtime: tangy and vigorous.

 

Placing her hand on my wrist she says, “Don’t ever change – ever.”

 

There is something in the intensity of this statement that pulls me from my languor and makes me pay attention.

 

‘”We all change.” I sound old and weary.

 

She smiles at my maudlin tone, takes my hand in hers and says, “Then become even nicer. Nice makes me feel warm all over.”

 

“Mmmmmm,” I reach for her “let me check that out.”

“Sceptic.”

 

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

 

“What about this?”

 

“Warm but also moist”

 

“I think you should explore further”

 

“Like this?”

 

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

 

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

I wake with cum on my belly and tears in my eyes. Nina. Always Nina.

 

5:45 a.m. I’m alone in a bed that I share only with ghosts: my ghost and Nina’s.

 

I’m sticky and I need a shower, but not here. Even the shower downstairs seems too close this morning. I throw on some sweats and my favourite Reeboks and decide to run down Haverstock Hill to our office in Camden Town.

 

Early as it is, there are still people moving purposefully through the streets, running through the mazes of money and need.

 

At the office, I shower and change. I always keep clothes at work. Once it was so I could change when the working day started shortly after the clubbing had finished. Now it is because I get mornings like this, when I can’t bear to stay in the house in which Nina died.

 

My office overlooks Camden Lock. Soon the stall holders will start to set out the stands that Nina so liked to browse through, but which always seemed to me to be filled with tat, sold by middle class dropouts, who thought it was cool to pretend to be poor.

 

Nina would laugh at me for comments like that. “You’re hardly the vanguard of the urban proletariat,” she’d say, “You’re a working class lad in a middle class job. Comes the revolution you’ll be the first to be put against the wall and shot.”

 

This is a media company so my staff won’t be here until ten or so.  I switch on the full size Gaggia coffee machine and make myself a fierce double espresso with Illy coffee; another pretentious piece of fashion-victim posturing that Nina would have treated with playful derision.

 

Nina had no class hang-ups. She came from a middle class family that had been furnishing the Labour Party with intelligentsia for three generations. In a way, it was the Labour Party that brought us together.

 

It was May 1996. Mangle Media Productions had just had its first successful year. Tony Blair’s ‘Cool Britannia’ gang had just kicked the Tories out and we were holding a fringe party (dress code: black tie and Raybans) for the great and the good who wanted to demonstrate their media connections and swig free champagne. The room was dominated by a huge TV screen with a live link to the official Labour Party bash. Tony made his entrance as D Reem where playing “Things can only get better”. He started to give his famous “New Labour, New Britain” speech.  I smiled as a cheer went up from the affluent crowd at our party, we could all see the gravy train pulling out of the station and we knew we would be on board this time.

 

“They’ve already got their snouts in the trough haven’t they?”

 

I turned my head to see who had spoken. Then I turned all the way round. My body had decided that it wanted to be facing this lovely young thing. In a year when every woman I knew was wearing a little black number, this girl had turned up in emerald silk that clashed wonderfully with her bright red hair.

 

“Do you speak, or are you restricting yourself to non-verbal communication?” she asked.

 

I realised I’d been staring and that my mouth was open. I went for the smile. I have good smile.

 

“Hi, I’m David Jackson” I said confidently.

 

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

 

Crash and burn I thought. It must have shown on my face.

 

“Of course, I was much younger then,” she grinned, enjoying my reaction.

 

How could anyone who was only twenty-two or so have been much younger then?

 

“I doubt you noticed me. You were too busy trying to fuck my older sister.”

 

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

 

“So you do remember me. Did Rachel ever let you fuck her? She never would say.”

 

Rachel Posner never let me fuck her, she always fucked me. I was a junior lecturer at the Manchester Business School and she was a first year student, yet she was the dominant one. Rachel had shown me what sex could be, perhaps what I had always wanted it to be. She made me see that I’d let shame and guilt and other people’s expectations keep me from what I most desired. My face heated as I remembered how I had struggled against the bonds that held me, erect to the point of pain, desperate hoping that I had pleased Rachel enough to have earned the release her fingers could give me.

Nina was smiling at me, waiting for an answer. It was hard to believe that the innocent-looking girl in front of me could come from the same stock as Rachel.

I focussed my attention on the soft curve of Nina’s smile and said, “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. You were only about five and way too young to know such things.”

 

I was trying desperately to remember just how uncool I had been back in 1986. Shit, did I still have the ponytail then? I hoped Nina wouldn’t remember.

 

“I was twelve and she wouldn’t tell me because she knew I had a crush on you.”

 

My cock suddenly turned to rock and I was sure Nina knew it.

 

“There you are, darling,” the voice belonged to a Hooray-Henry with no chin and an accent that could cut glass, “We really must be going or we’ll miss dinner with Tony and Cherie.”

 

Neither of us looked at him.

 

“Nice to meet you again, David,” Nina said. She leaned forward to give me an air kiss. Her hand on my arm felt as if it was scorching my suit. In a whisper, she said, “I still think you’re cute, ‘specially now you’ve lost the ponytail.”

 

Then she was gone.

 

My espresso is cold. I’ve been in the office for an hour and done nothing but visit the dead. I need action.

 

I power up my ThinkPad and check on my Hollowman mail. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved to find nothing from Scar. Maybe she has vanished into the ether.

 

This morning’s snailmail has already arrived so I flick through it. There is an A4 brown envelope addressed to “Hollowman” and marked “Personal”. There is no stamp so it was delivered by hand. No-one here knows that I am Hollowman. I rip the envelope open, thankful that my early arrival meant I could intercept it.

 

There are two sheets inside the envelope. The first is a printout from Kyoko’s webpage. It has pictures of her and describes her services and prices. The pictures have been altered using Photoshop. Someone has done a painstaking job of putting a jagged scar along Kyoko’s left cheek.

 

A handwritten note at the foot of the page says, “Is this what you wanted to do to her?”

 

The second sheet is a full-page black and white photograph of me coming out of Kyoko’s building. Yesterday’s date is stamped on the picture. On the reverse “Hollowmen” by T.S. Elliot, a poem about debasement through the rejection of good, has been handwritten.  The hairs on my neck rise. This poem was the source of my on-line identity. Sections of the poem have been picked out in garish yellow highlighter:

 

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.”

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow”

And then the only line that everyone remembers but which most people misunderstand

 

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

-2-

At some level, I know I am dreaming. This is not how it was. At the time, I didn’t see her so clearly; didn’t hunger for her as I do now. Then the taken-for-granted future stretched before us; now only the severed stump of might-have-beens is left to me.

For a few seconds I am both actor and audience in this mind-movie directed by my subconscious. Seeing myself, drowsy and inattentive, I want to shout “Wake up. This is important. You will never have this moment again.” But I find I can make no sound. Instead my awareness narrows, and I become, for a time, a man who has not yet realised that this is the happiest he will ever be.

*****

“What?” I ask, opening my eyes part way.

Her lopsided smile is just visible in the blush of the post-dawn light, which matches so perfectly our post-coital glow. She is laying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her small fingers lightly touching my chest just above my heart.

“You are the gentlest man I know,” she says.

“Thank you. I think.”

Sex is still new between us and I wonder what I have done that makes her see me this way.

She sits up on her heels, comfortable in her nakedness. Looking up at her, I am reminded of how young she is, ten years younger than me. Her skin is smooth and firm and in my mouth tonight, she tasted like springtime: tangy and vigorous.

Placing her hand on my wrist she says, “Don’t ever change – ever.”

There is something in the intensity of this statement that pulls me from my languor and makes me pay attention.

‘”We all change.” I sound old and weary.

She smiles at my maudlin tone, takes my hand in hers and says, “Then become even nicer. Nice makes me feel warm all over.”

“Mmmmmm,” I reach for her “let me check that out.”

“Sceptic.”

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

“What about this?”

“Warm but also moist”

“I think you should explore further”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

I wake with cum on my belly and tears in my eyes. Nina. Always Nina.

5:45 a.m. I’m alone in a bed that I share only with ghosts: my ghost and Nina’s.

I’m sticky and I need a shower, but not here. Even the shower downstairs seems too close this morning. I throw on some sweats and my favourite Reeboks and decide to run down Haverstock Hill to our office in Camden Town.

Early as it is, there are still people moving purposefully through the streets, running through the mazes of money and need.

At the office, I shower and change. I always keep clothes at work. Once it was so I could change when the working day started shortly after the clubbing had finished. Now it is because I get mornings like this, when I can’t bear to stay in the house in which Nina died.

My office overlooks Camden Lock. Soon the stall holders will start to set out the stands that Nina so liked to browse through, but which always seemed to me to be filled with tat, sold by middle class dropouts, who thought it was cool to pretend to be poor.

Nina would laugh at me for comments like that. “You’re hardly the vanguard of the urban proletariat,” she’d say, “You’re a working class lad in a middle class job. Comes the revolution you’ll be the first to be put against the wall and shot.”

This is a media company so my staff won’t be here until ten or so.  I switch on the full size Gaggia coffee machine and make myself a fierce double espresso with Illy coffee; another pretentious piece of fashion-victim posturing that Nina would have treated with playful derision.

Nina had no class hang-ups. She came from a middle class family that had been furnishing the Labour Party with intelligentsia for three generations. In a way, it was the Labour Party that brought us together.

It was May 1996. Mangle Media Productions had just had its first successful year. Tony Blair’s ‘Cool Britannia’ gang had just kicked the Tories out and we were holding a fringe party (dress code: black tie and Raybans) for the great and the good who wanted to demonstrate their media connections and swig free champagne. The room was dominated by a huge TV screen with a live link to the official Labour Party bash. Tony made his entrance as D Reem where playing “Things can only get better”. He started to give his famous “New Labour, New Britain” speech.  I smiled as a cheer went up from the affluent crowd at our party, we could all see the gravy train pulling out of the station and we knew we would be on board this time.

“They’ve already got their snouts in the trough haven’t they?”

I turned my head to see who had spoken. Then I turned all the way round. My body had decided that it wanted to be facing this lovely young thing. In a year when every woman I knew was wearing a little black number, this girl had turned up in emerald silk that clashed wonderfully with her bright red hair.

“Do you speak, or are you restricting yourself to non-verbal communication?” she asked.

I realised I’d been staring and that my mouth was open. I went for the smile. I have good smile.

“Hi, I’m David Jackson” I said confidently.

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

Crash and burn I thought. It must have shown on my face.

“Of course, I was much younger then,” she grinned, enjoying my reaction.

How could anyone who was only twenty-two or so have been much younger then?

“I doubt you noticed me. You were too busy trying to fuck my older sister.”

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

“So you do remember me. Did Rachel ever let you fuck her? She never would say.”

Rachel Posner never let me fuck her, she always fucked me. I was a junior lecturer at the Manchester Business School and she was a first year student, yet she was the dominant one.

Rachel had shown me what sex could be, perhaps what I had always wanted it to be. She made me see that I’d let shame and guilt and other people’s expectations keep me from what I most desired. My face heated as I remembered how I had struggled against the bonds that held me, erect to the point of pain, desperate hoping that I had pleased Rachel enough to have earned the release her fingers could give me.

Nina was smiling at me, waiting for an answer. It was hard to believe that the innocent-looking girl in front of me could come from the same stock as Rachel.

I focussed my attention on the soft curve of Nina’s smile and said, “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. You were only about five and way too young to know such things.”

I was trying desperately to remember just how uncool I had been back in 1986. Shit, did I still have the ponytail then? I hoped Nina wouldn’t remember.

“I was twelve and she wouldn’t tell me because she knew I had a crush on you.”

My cock suddenly turned to rock and I was sure Nina knew it.

“There you are, darling,” the voice belonged to a Hooray-Henry with no chin and an accent that could cut glass, “We really must be going or we’ll miss dinner with Tony and Cherie.”

Neither of us looked at him.

“Nice to meet you again, David,” Nina said. She leaned forward to give me an air kiss. Her hand on my arm felt as if it was scorching my suit. In a whisper, she said, “I still think you’re cute, ‘specially now you’ve lost the ponytail.”

Then she was gone.

My espresso is cold. I’ve been in the office for an hour and done nothing but visit the dead. I need action.

I power up my ThinkPad and check on my Hollowman mail. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved to find nothing from Scar. Maybe she has vanished into the ether.

This morning’s snailmail has already arrived so I flick through it. There is an A4 brown envelope addressed to “Hollowman” and marked “Personal”. There is no stamp so it was delivered by hand. No-one here knows that I am Hollowman. I rip the envelope open, thankful that my early arrival meant I could intercept it.

There are two sheets inside the envelope. The first is a printout from Kyoko’s webpage. It has pictures of her and describes her services and prices. The pictures have been altered using Photoshop. Someone has done a painstaking job of putting a jagged scar along Kyoko’s left cheek.

A handwritten note at the foot of the page says, “Is this what you wanted to do to her?”

The second sheet is a full-page black and white photograph of me coming out of Kyoko’s building. Yesterday’s date is stamped on the picture. On the reverse “Hollowmen” by T.S. Elliot, a poem about debasement through the rejection of good, has been handwritten.  The hairs on my neck rise. This poem was the source of my on-line identity. Sections of the poem have been picked out in garish yellow highlighter:

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.”

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow”

And then the only line that everyone remembers but which most people misunderstand

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

A handwritten note in the margin says, “I will be your shadow until you make my world end”.

There is no signature. None is needed. It would seem Scar has not vanished after all.

A handwritten note in the margin says, “I will be your shadow until you make my world end”.

 

There is no signature. None is needed. It would seem Scar has not vanished after all.

SCAR – Chapter 1

This is a dark piece that won’t be to everyone’s taste. If you want something jolly, try a different story

SCAR
© Mike Kimera 2011 All rights reserved.
Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

London 2001

-1-

The moment I come in the whore’s mouth my self-disgust takes over. She is still sucking my not yet limp dick. On her knees, looking up at me with her soft brown eyes, naked apart from the too-short school skirt that I asked her to wear; she is a perfect picture of submissive beauty. She calls herself Kyoko and claims to be nineteen years old and studying in London. This is the fifth time that I’ve paid £300 to use her for an hour. I looked up her name on the web. It’s the kind of thing I do. It means mirror. I doubt that she selected it by accident.

Unlike English whores, who control you from the start with their back massages and their rules about what costs extra and what can’t be done at all, Kyoko is completely compliant; mine to use however I wish.

Do you know how frightening that thought is? How it corrodes my soul?

I have shown restraint today. I promised myself I would. No bonds. No pain. Just my hands on the back of her head, holding her in place while I pushed fast and hard into her mouth.

Yet, even now, with my tension released, I know that it was not enough. I want to see that flawless skin bruised and torn. I want to annihilate her with my lust. I want to wrench some involuntary, pain-driven moan from her that acknowledges what we are really doing here. Who I really am.

Instead, I say, “Enough,” and immediately she sits back on her heels, hands demurely placed on her thighs.

We still have fifteen minutes left but I can’t bear it any more. Without a word, I go to the en suite and clean myself.

When I return she is still kneeling, waiting. I have a sudden image of slapping that beautiful calm face, hitting her until the bones break.

As I touch the door handle, she says politely, “Good bye, Mr. Jackson. Please return soon.” I leave without turning back.

Do you believe in Hell? I do; I live there.

A Jesuit once taught me that Hell is the absence of grace. I didn’t understand him at the time; didn’t know the sorrow that the loss of grace can bring to us, the damaged ones.

I take a taxi back from Mayfair to Hampstead. The driver doesn’t attempt conversation. It must be something in my demeanour. Progress through the traffic-clogged streets is slow, even in mid-afternoon. I scan the faces of the pedestrians we pass, looking for the lost and the damaged. Misery loves company.

I close the door behind me in my ridiculously over-priced house in Flask Walk and let myself slump against it. I catch sight of myself in the mirror of the incredibly ugly Edwardian umbrella stand; the first and only piece of furniture Nina bought for the house. I see a tall pale man in his late thirties; close-cropped black hair turning silver at the temples. He is dressed in a fashionably casual lilac shirt, open at the neck, long black coat, black dress pants, and handmade ankle-length boots.

“I am the very model of a modern media general,” I sing to myself, wondering what Gilbert and Sullivan would have made of London’s media elite in this, the first year of the new Millennium.

I step closer to the mirror, staring into my own eyes. It’s said that vampires have no reflection because they have lost their souls. I was taught that the eye is the window to the soul. I try to look through that window, moving past the long black lashes and the blue iris, to the darkness of the pupil. I wait. If this were a movie, my eyes would glow a sickly electric green at this point to show the evil within. I see nothing but endless darkness. It seems appropriate.

I use the shower downstairs. I don’t use the en suite bathroom any more, not since Nina’s death. Friends are surprised that I stayed here. I will never leave. I need that pebble in my shoe.

Naked, glass of whisky in my hand, I sit before my computer, browsing my e-mail, trying to find something in my work that I still care about.

There is some good news. Channel 4 want to develop the documentary series idea that I pitched to them last week. It’s called “Ex and Why?” We pick a person, we call them subjects, it sounds more scientific, and then gather together their ex-spouses and lovers. We get the exs to build a profile of the subject on camera: pet hates, what they were like in bed, how it ended. We’ll intercut the subject’s own observations about their ex’s, encouraging them to be colourful and funny. At the end, we will play the subject the tape and film their reaction. The programme will be full of pain and recrimination and gratuitous, voyeuristic sex. The ratings should be huge. We will be able to sell the format across Europe, maybe even to the USA on cable. I find myself depressed that one of our worst ideas should be so readily accepted. The boys from “Media Mangle Productions” have done it again.

Enough work. I go to the one of the free porn listings and start opening windows showing every sexual act known to man. The more often I do this, the more extreme the site has to be to make my cock stir.

I find a torture site. Once I would have turned away, wondering why some people like looking at this stuff. Now, as I click on the thumbnails, I find I am studying the photos to see which are real and which are fake. I open a set of pictures sent in by amateurs. A woman in her twenties, with soft curves, a slightly heavy build and an innocent face, is having her breasts beaten with the edge of a steel ruler. I find myself hoping that this is fake, although I can see that it is not. I download the picture set.

Time for the chatroom now. On the web this past year, I have been going under the name of Hollowman. I chat, post stories, occasionally exchange e-mail, but nothing lasts very long. The room I use is called “The Pit”. There are no taboos here. The system says that there are 128 users. Jesus Christ, where do they all come from?

I watch the moronic chat and wait. Sometimes I see a name I want to explore. Mostly I let others approach me. Someone breaks etiquette by going straight to private message. I like that. The whois/ command shows me the person is female and dialled in from the UK. Her name is SCAR.

SCAR: I know what you want

SCAR: I know what you need.

I remain silent

SCAR: I know the termites that hollowed out your soul.

Hollowman: What do you mean?

SCAR: Guilt and fear laid their eggs in you and their offspring left you hollow

Interesting. Most people assume I lifted the name from the movie “Hollow Man” last year’s remake of “The Invisible Man”. They think I’m playing six degrees of Kevin Bacon. I decide to see what game Scar wants to play

Hollowman: So what do I need? What do I want?

SCAR: Me

Hollowman: I don’t know you

SCAR: But I know you. I’ve read every twisted story you’ve posted.

Hollowman: Why are you called SCAR?

SCAR: Guess 🙂

Hollowman: What do you want?

SCAR: I want you to torture me.

SCAR: I want you to kill me.

This was not the way it normally went. Scar has my full attention. My cock is stiff. I wait.

SCAR: That made you hard didn’t it

SCAR: We will meet. I will let you do anything. Anything at all. Then you will kill me

Hollowman: Why should I kill you?

SCAR: You won’t be able to stop yourself.

I wonder if that was true. My mind plays detailed scenes of hurt and pain. I roll back my foreskin and release the musky reek of my desire.

SCAR: You’re touching yourself

SCAR: I like that

SCAR: I want your cock to trace my scars.

I groan, feeling the insensate scar tissue brush against my glans, following the lines of deadened flesh.

SCAR: I’m going now

SCAR: One last thing

SCAR: I know what happened to your wife

Nina’s face flashes before my eyes as my cock belches cum onto my thighs. By the time I realise what Scar had said and what it meant, she was gone.

Was that a cheap shot or does she really know? Has she found out who I am? I sit up in the chair, staring at the screen, reading the last line again and again.

If she does know, what then? I should be afraid, angry, filled with adrenalin; instead, I am calm, as if I had been waiting for this all along.

A little envelope appears on my taskbar to tell me that new mail has arrived. I open it, knowing it will be from her. It’s not hard to find my address, it’s on every story I post.

From: ficticious-address@yahoo.co.uk

To: hollowman@hotmail.com

Subject: enj 🙂 y

Think of me as you browse these.

Don’t waste time tracing this address; it’s a one- off.

SCAR

She has sent me urls: a medical site looking at the treatment of scars; a site condemning the practice in rural India of using battery acid to scar the faces of women who reject you; a site on female circumcision; a site on mastectomy.

All of them with pictures.

I go through every site, slowly, compulsively. The images burn into my memory.

“I know what you want. I know what you need,” she’d said. I wonder if she is right.

My legs ache from sitting in the chair too long. The central heating has switched off for the night. I drag myself to bed. I know when I sleep I will dream of scars.

Falls The Shadow

© Mike Kimera 2011

 

Knowledge has a name.

Speaking the name makes the knowledge real and grants it power over your life.

The name cannot be unsaid. The knowledge cannot be un-known.

Knowledge is irrevocable.

Knowledge is dangerous.

My family understood that.

Knowledge makes you culpable.

Knowledge makes you choose.

Knowledge is the source of all guilt.

In my family, we chose not to know; we refused to name the things that were most important to us.

We were masters of inference, innuendo and unnoticed silences. If those failed us we fell back upon evasion, deflection and denial.

By this means we remained a happy family.

We did not know that my father’s fits of impotent anger would be followed by long silent drinking sessions that must never be interuppted.

We did not know that the bruises on my mother’s thighs were made by my father’s belt.

We did not know that my older sister was afraid not of the dark but of the deeds that darkness cloaked and which could not be named in the daylight.

We were a happy family. Happy families are all the same. Aren’t they?

I knew my father taught English at the Grammar School.

I knew he was a kind and gentle man, much loved by his students. You could ask anybody. They would all tell you that.

I knew that his favorite poet was Eliot. I even knew his favorite verses from “The Hollow Men”:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

And:

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

I knew that my mother was beautiful and that my sister was brave.

I knew that one day soon I would be as tall as my father

I knew where my father kept his gun.

My father’s suicide opened a sluice-gate that brought knowledge flooding into our family with such force that it was all we could do to avoid drowning in it

The police knew that my father and I were alone in the house because my sister had broken her arm in a clumsy fall and my mother had taken her to the hospital.

Our family Doctor knew that I had been so distraught at finding my father dead in his study, his gun still in his hand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk and a blood-spattered copy of “The Hollow Men” open in front of him, that I had had to be sedated.

The Coroner knew that my father was being treated for depression and should not have mixed whisky, Temazepam and a loaded gun.

My mother, my sister and I knew that things would never be the same.

I knew that sometimes knowledge falls like a shadow and fills the world with darkness.

I knew that a world can end with a bang that starts with a young girl’s whimper.

Pillow Talk

© 2000 Mike Kimera  Do not reproduce without permission mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

“When you tell yourself the story of your life, is it a book or a movie?”

No fair. How am I supposed to concentrate on questions like that just after I’ve come? I want to lie back and enjoy the warm glow; maybe nap a little. Of course, with Helena, that is out of the question. She is resting her head on my belly, apparently fascinated by my now limp and sated cock, which she is playing with like a bendy toy.

“Huh?” I answer, displaying my Cambridge education to the full.

“Are you a ‘I was born on a dark and stormy night’ sort of guy?” she says, moving her head further down my belly.

“You know, linear memories bound by the three unities of time space and action.” As she names each unity her finger and thumb test the degree of elasticity of my foreskin by way of emphasis.

“Or do you visualise your life in flashbacks, freeze-frames and fantasy sequences?”  Helena lets the back of my cock rest on her cheek as she laves my post-coital stickiness with her tongue.

“Er, I don’t know” I say, completely distracted.

“How…” a pause while she sucks most of my, now rather less limp, cock into her mouth. She turns her head to face me, nimbly avoiding twisting my flesh beyond return despite the continuous suction. Looking me in the eyes, she pulls me from her mouth, as if removing a lollipop, in order to speak, “…can you not know?”

One elbow is now between my legs.  Resting her chin on her hand, she places the tip of my penis on her large closed lips and raised one eyebrow in playful interrogation.

Enough. I am awake now and I’m not going to take this lying down; I need to be kneeling. But Helena has me in the palm of her hand. Before I can act I have to find a way to make her let go.

In her progress down my belly, Helena has insinuated her body closer to mine.  Her breasts are pressed against my thigh. Her hips are flat to the bed with one thigh snuggled in to my ribs. Her legs are parted just enough to display my cum oozing out of her. I know an invitation when I see one.

“Well books are difficult.” I say. Her eyes watch my hand rest on her buttock then caress the curved edge, fingers gently moving slowly into the dark recess. She slides her tongue under the length of my cock and presses her thigh closer to me.

“You find them inherently problematic?” she asks, as if we were discussing this in a seminar group.

The palm of my hand is now on her inner thigh, the fingers placing gentle pressure on soft skin below the labia. She opens her legs further and waits.

“I never know whether to say ‘Mark’s fingers pushed insistently into the cum-slickened centre of Helena’s sex’ or  ‘My fingers and thumb clamp on to your pubis from inside and out, the fingers buried in your warm wet folds, the thumb torturing the erect nub of your sex’ Tense is so important. Point of view is critical. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes” Helena says, releasing my cock and rolling on to her back. “From my point of view it is vital to find the perfect tense.”

I bend both fingers inside her, exploring the ridged flesh, relishing the touch of her muscles, eager and enticing. Trying not to break my rhythm, I move around the anchor of my hand until I am kneeling between Helena’s legs.

“Movies can be so much more immediate.” I say. “You know the kind of thing: scene opens with extreme close up, side view, of woman’s slender fingers caressing her own breast. Nipple is very erect. Male mouth lowers. Tongue extends, touches nipple. Low groan (female) is heard. Man’s mouth closes over entire nipple”.

Helena allows me to play director and throws herself into her role with enthusiasm, emit a low throaty sound that stiffens me. We improvise the dialogue-free action scene for a while, my mouth and her breast questing for ways to do something new with form but always returning to the traditional suck and bite formula, cliched yet effective.

Alas a director’s work is never done. My body is telling me that it’s time to move towards the denouement, or do I mean climax?

“Yep. It would have to be a movie.” I say, sitting back on my heels, my hands sliding under Helena’s buttocks.

“I particularly like sequels” I say moving her ass up my thighs and letting her wrap her legs about my waist.

“How’s about ‘American Beauty 2: the second coming’?” Helena suggests “with me covered in rose petals”.

“Sod art” I say, pushing into her.  “Let’s do a porno: ‘Helena takes it all – again’ ”

I bring her legs from behind me to rest on my shoulder, both ankles held in one hand. The serious work is about to begin.

“OK big boy” she laughs “Run VT”.

Brief Encounter

© Mike Kimera 2000 All right reserved. Do not reproduce without permission mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

Summer on the subway. People packed too close to fall over. Each person in their little envelope of private space, avoiding eye contact, shutting down their sense of smell, letting their minds take them somewhere-else.

I hang from an overhead bar, swaying like seaweed in the tidal flow. My body is stretched and loose at the same time. I close my eyes and track the progress of a bead of sweat down my spine. Bodies press against me on all sides, moving to the rhythmic song of the train.

At the next stop, as bodies flow on to the platform, I am buffeted and twisted in the eddies of the crowd and come to rest against the opposite door. I place my forehead against the glass and feel the rumble of the track move through me.

A body moves against mine then moves away. I am certain the body is male and that the contact was deliberate. I stay looking ahead, tense now, waiting. A finger, on my hip, large, strong, sliding and then gone. I discover I have been holding my breath. I wait. Two fingers: firm, insistent, stroking. Brief but purposeful. My personal sonar senses a large presence behind me, very close, walling me off from the crowd, a coral reef for my lagoon.

At the next touch I place my hand over the fingers, trapping them on my hip. They pause. My pulse races. I tense my body but don’t turn my head. I curl my moist palm around the fingers. Slowly, steadily, they push in and out of the hollow I create.

As the train sways I stay still. His body moves against mine and does not move away. A long hard shape pushes into my buttock. I press my shoulders against his chest, making my back into an S. One arm holds the rail above my head, the other clasps the invasive fingers. My eyes are closed, my lips slightly parted, my legs open just enough so that they don’t touch at any point along their length. I can smell my own sex through the thin material of my summer dress.

His breath is on my neck. I lick my lips. Did I sigh or did I only wish it deeply? The fingers vanish. The pressure on my arse eases. The breath on my neck is still there. My shoulders are still on his chest. I think I hear a zipper but the noise is drowned in the opening of doors as people ebb out of the train.

The sticky wetness of his cock in my palm shocks me. Reflexively I grip him. Thick, uncut, hot. How avidly my hand maps the contours of this new but familiar presence. We are both completely still. The train moves forward and he slides through my palm, foreskin slipping back, releasing the salt-musk smell of male sex. My thumb decides to rub along the exposed tip, rewarding me with an immediate hardening of this fascinating flesh.

As if in answer, my neck prickles to the darting touch of a tongue. I melt as my ear, my whole ear, is engulfed in strong demanding lips. My sex is crying with joy. My mind is locked away, pacing its cell muttering “This isn’t me”. I ignore it and listen only to the song of my body. My hand keeps time with the beat of my desire, stroking, squeezing, provoking. Time has slowed and space has stretched as sensation etches strong deep lines in my memory.

My legs have come together from sheer need. I feel my arse tighten against him. His cock, or my hand, I can’t tell which, I control neither, moves faster.

A hand, large, long-fingered, strong, slides up and over my hip then down into the moist shallows of my panties. My head pushes back. My hand strangles the neck of the cock. My cunt lips suckle the fingers, pulling them in, drowning them in juices, closing behind them to block off retreat.

Time accelerates. I thrust and stroke and squeeze and sweat. Blood roars in my ears. Cum splashes on to my hips. “FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK” lashes out from my upturned head.

I subside into silence, beached against the door. The train stops. My heartbeat slows. Doors open and close. My mind returns. Behind me is only air and the stares of envious strangers.

The Pursuit of Happiness

© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

They say that, when you press a conch to your ear, you can hear the sea. When I press my lips against Beth’s cunt, and the sea-salt taste of her floods my mouth, and her thighs press against my ears, I hear happiness.

This is a here-and-now, grab it, savor it, look for it again, kind of happiness that roars in my blood like laughter in a storm. I grin and push my tongue into her.

When I can press no deeper, my hands slide, palms flat and smooth, up the warm flesh that stretches from the depths of her buttocks to the narrow shallows of her knees. I grip hard, pulling Beth’s legs apart, lifting her hips, letting my mouth slip slowly south towards the darker, earthier opening.

Beth squirms as my tongue spirals inwards insistently and my nose presses into the slick-but-sticky folds of her cunt.

If her hands were free, her fingers would be in my hair, grabbing and pushing, torn between removal and insertion. But, Beth is bound tight from wrist to elbow, hands stretched far above her head.

If she could speak, there would be curses and growls and pleas and thank yous, but all Beth can do is bite down on the black leather bit that fits across her mouth like a fat, armor-plated cock.

When I am so drenched in her that I have lost awareness of everything except the pounding of my blood in my now stiff cock, I stand, move hands from knees to ankles, spread her wider and enter her in her tightest hole.

Making it tighter still, I grasp both ankles in one fist and hold them firm against my shoulder.

Beth shudders as I adjust my stance, pushing home until there is no gap between her and me all along the length of her sweat-glazed legs.

Her eyes scream at me, then widen when they see, held high about my head in my free hand, the short, soft, suede, strips of the hand flogger.

Happiness grows like a blush with each stroke across Beth’s belly. I can feel her trying to bounce with joy.

When my arm is tired, and the tears have come, and my cock has spurted its appreciation, I slump to the floor, Beth’s legs limp over my shoulders.

A poet once said, “Man cannot take too much happiness.” Or did he say “truth“? Is there a difference? In my sated state, I cannot tell.

But, I am not a poet and I seek happiness whenever I can.

They say that, when you press a conch to your ear, you can hear the sea. When I press my ear against Beth’s sweat-slick breast and listen to her heart, I hear happiness.

Lobo’s Choice

© Mike Kimera 2000
Lobo is the kind of dog that makes you wonder about reincarnation. Sometimes, when I’m feeling low, he looks at me with those wise eyes of his and its like he’s saying “Hush now Laurie. It will pass. Everything will be OK. Trust me I’ve been there.” And you know, I believe him.

When I first met Lobo he was a little black ball of fluff abandoned at the pound. Now he’s a big dog and I mean big. All that long black fur makes him look even bigger. He weighs in at close on 60lb and all of it’s muscle. People look at me and say “Laurie, that dog’s getting bigger than you are girl”.

He’s a good dog though and over the years we’ve learned to trust one another. Lobo will pretty much let me do anything to him.

Anyway, the thing about Lobo is he knows about people. He knows good people from bad people and he’s never been wrong yet. He meets a person for the first time and he just knows.

Me, I never see the bad guy coming til it’s way too late. Got my feelings hurt more times than enough that way. Some guy flashes me a smile and talks real sweet in my ear and the next thing I know I’m in the back of his car leaving footprints on the windows and afterwards he’s just gone with the wind.

Lobo and I have been together for eight years now. That’s longer than any guy has hung around, including my shit-for-brains husband. Lobo didn’t ever like him. I’d have saved myself a barrel full of grief if I’d listened to Lobo instead of marrying a scumbag with a $1,000 smile.

Now the thing is Lobo likes Gus. There’s lots of folks as don’t share Lobo’s opinion. Gus is a difficult man for some people to feel comfortable with. He’s an old style cowboy. A dying breed. He don’t take shit from no one. He knows a fool when he sees one and that doesn’t win him a lot of friends. Folks look at him and see the hair in a ponytail and that big knife that he wears on his belt all the time and they see trouble. Me, I’d see a guy I’d like to know better, maybe much better.

The thing about Gus is that he’s older than me. I’ve never asked him his age but I guess he’s 55 or so. He has a boy in his twenties who left town a while back, just after his mother died. I’m 37, pushing 38 and some folks think he’s too old for me. His face is lined and his hair’s more grey than blond now, but the man has style, you know? He wears tooled cowboy boots that he’s had for years. Wrangler jeans worn to his shape, striped brushpopper shirts and a big red neckerchief that looks real fine next to that blond grey beard of his. He has a black cowboy hat, custom made for him in Durango, with an eagle feather in the band, and he always wears a set of polaroid amber sun-glasses; only thing he wears that would let you know we’re in the 21st century. Gus’s face may be lined now, but a smile still fits it real easy.

So you know how it is, you see someone around and you smile at each other and say hi when you meet and you know there’s some warmth there but there’s nothing to move it on. You could go on like that for years, know what I mean? I guess Gus and I were like that until a few weeks ago. In a way it was Lobo who changed things. If I thought he’d done it deliberately then I’d know he was part human.

My trailer is off the road a piece, at least a mile from my nearest neighbour. I like the quiet. It was Friday evening, one of those summer evenings that goes on til very late. It was hot and dry. I was sitting in the shade outside my trailer, just letting myself mellow out with a cold one, when I Gus showed up on that fine horse of his with Lobo across his saddle.

“Good evening, Laurie” says Gus. Lobo is looking at me kinda embarrassed and making sure I can see the white bandage on his front paw. I’m up out of my chair and rushing towards them.

Gus looks down at me and says. “Now don’t you fret. It’s nothing serious”. He swings himself out of the saddle as if it’s no height at all and then lifts Lobo down. Even while I’m worrying about Lobo, I’m noticing the strength that that takes and thinking about the wiry muscle beneath Gus’s shirt.

As soon as Lobo is on the ground he limps towards me on three legs, his tail wagging and his tongue touching the end of his nose the way it does when he’s apologising for something. I’m kneeling and hugging him and then looking at Gus and saying, “What did the dumb dog do now?”

“Well, it seems he got a bit over enthusiastic chasing prairie dogs over near the ranch and got his paw trapped in some old fencing wire. I’m sorry about that, Laurie, the wire should never have been left there like that. But he’s OK. I gave him a tetanus shot, put some powder on the wound and bound it up to keep it clean. He should be fine by morning.”

When I stand up, with Lobo leaning against my leg, I find that I’m real close to Gus and I’m looking into his face and not finding anything to say. I’m just sort of lost there. I can smell him. He smells of horse and dried sunshine. I want more of that smell.

Gus is smiling at me, waiting for me to say something. Lobo licks my hand and I come round. “Gus that was so kind of you. And bringing him all the way over here like that.”

Oh no problem, Laurie, old Brandy and I both needed a ride tonight and besides, Lobo said I should bring him straight home.”

I laughed and said “Well I’ve always got time for a man as can speak dog. That’s a sign of real ability. Now you take yourself a chair while I get some water for Lobo and couple of cold beers for you and me”.

Well one beer led to another they way they sometimes do when you just don’t want a conversation to end. We talked about people we both knew and movies we liked. Gus liked that movie “8 seconds” about the rodeo, and of course he had all of “Lonesome Dove” on video but what surprised me was that his favourite movie was “Top Gun”. Next thing I know he’s singing that song: you know – “She’s lost that loving feeling” like they do in the movie. He has a fine deep voice and he’s playing it for laughs. So we sing some more movie tunes. Then we play do-you-remember this TV theme tune?

By this time it’s dark and what with the beer and the singing and the laughing I’m dizzy and tired in a happy sort of way. I’m sitting very close to Gus now and suddenly there’s a silence and we’re just looking at each other. Then he kisses me. He’s looking at my mouth and leaning forward slowly, leaving lots of time for me to move away, then his lips are on mine.

Every nerve I have in my body feels those lips brushing against me. His hand comes up to the side of my neck and I lean into him. He doesn’t rush. Kissing for Gus isn’t a step you take on your way to some place else; he savours it. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over it and it’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever done with me. Then his whole mouth is on mine, his beard is stroking my face as he moves, and when his tongue pushes into me I moan.

He pulls back for a second, so he can see my eyes. His hand still on my neck, and says “Laurie, darling, I’ve been wanting to do that for the longest time”.

I give him a big grin. I know my nipples, which are standing up and cheering, must be visible through my shirt, but he’s a gentleman and keeps his eyes on mine. I take hold of his hand and move it from my neck to my breast. It’s a hard warm hand and I lean into it. Gus kisses me again but this time his thumb is moving firmly over my nipple and my hands are in his hair.

I break the kiss by standing up. I don’t say anything; I just keep looking at him as I take off my shirt. Now other men might be scrambling out of their jeans by now or trying to pull off mine, but Gus just watches, watches in a way like I’m unwrapping a present. So now I’m just in my shorts.

Normally I’d feel self-conscious but tonight I feel like a goddess in the moonlight. I grin wickedly, and then do that thing you see in the movies, you know where the woman leans forward at the waist and pushes down her shorts at the same time? It looks so sexy when they do it. Maybe it’s the beers or the size of my thighs but I get part way there and lose my balance. Gus leans forwards and catches me and I’m now naked in his lap with my shorts just below my knees.

I’ll never forget what he did next. I wake up in the night dreaming of it. He pulls my head back gently by the hair, making me arch my spine, then, in one movement, his mouth is on my breast, his finger is sliding into me, his thumb is on my button and he’s playing me like I’m a guitar. Man does he know chords. I come howling into the night.

When I return to earth he kisses my mouth and says, “You are one sexy lady, Lauri darlin”.

“Mmmmmm thank you,” I say. I still didn’t know how we got here so fast so I decide to let him lead. He does. He carries me, like I weigh nothing at all, which makes me feel great, over to the sun lounger. He makes me lay back while he pulls off my shorts and panties. Now I’m naked and he’s fully dressed but it feels OK.

“Laurie darlin, you look good enough to eat”, he says; then he shows me he means it.

Now most guys, if you can get them down there at all, don’t really know what they’re doing. They want you to blow them so they lick you first. They’ve seen it in all those porno movies. But they don’t touch the right places in the right way. They fumble and nip or just press too hard. Some of them are so far off target you want to draw them a map. Gus didn’t need a map. He knew the territory well and he knew how to travel it. Soon my hand is on his head and my hips are bucking. My god I’ve come for the second time and I haven’t even unzipped the man yet.

“Gus” I say, “it’s my turn. Get yourself out of those jeans”.

“Yes Maam” he says, laughing.

I can’t take my eyes off his cock. A man his age you have to wonder if it’s all that it once was you know? But Gus is standing proud and I want him. His skin there feels smooth and hot. I kneel in front of him and kiss the underside, just above his balls.

“Laurie, you do much more of that and I won’t be accountable for the outcome,” Gus says; but he doesn’t move.

I work the flat of my tongue up his shaft then take the head quickly in my mouth. God he feels good.

Standing up I signal for him to lie on the lounger. Now I’m not as limber as I was but this I know how to do. I squat over him and feed him inside of me. I love this part: the heat, the slow slide in, the sense of being filled, the look of surprise when my muscles kick in. I bend over him like a jockey and we start to gallop. I am so wet I have to concentrate to keep him inside me. I’m talking now, little phrases of encouragement, urging him on like a horse in a race. It turns out to be a long race. I’m covered in sweat and my legs are trembling, then Gus lets out this kinda growl, I sink to the base of his cock and stay there while he comes inside me. I love that feeling.

Afterwards, with a blanket around us and Lobo at our feet, I say, “Are we going to be OK, Gus?”

Gus kisses the top of my head and hugs me. “Laurie darlin, you worry too much. We’re gonna be just fine”.

Kirsten’s First Morning At The Sanctuary

This little piece is set in a world of Doms who have castles and Subs who seek only to be shaped by their Master. Escapist but fun if you’re in that frame of mind. Enjoy.

 

(c) Mike Kimera 2001

As the sun rises I focus my attention on the strands of silver in Madam Chen’s jet-black braid. She is small wiry woman with strong hands, a sharply angled face that seldom shows any emotion other than anger or contempt. She is standing between Kirsten’s legs, bending over her naked body like a predator readying for a kill.

Chen’s braid is a calculated provocation: it looks so controlled, so deferential, but speaks of sex and passionate restraint. Every man she passes watches that tightly woven braid bounce off her arse and feels his cock stir in anticipation.

I have imagined wrapping that braid around my fist and forcing her impassive face further down my cock until involuntary tears flow, or using it to bind her hands behind her back and pulling on it like a leash as I push deeper into her arse. I have imagined it, but so far I have held back. Chen is valuable because she is fierce and fearless. She believes herself protected and she has been trained to act without pity or remorse. That is one reason why we are all here.

“ ‘Feng Shui’ combines the five elements: Earth, Metal, Wood, Water and Fire to produce a harmonious alignment.” Madam Chen explains.

She makes the words sound like a threat and in a way they are.

Unfortunately Kirsten is not listening. She is letting herself be distracted by Chen’s assistants, two teenage girls, who are releasing Kirsten’s arms and legs from the cuffs that I used to bind her to the leather bench that she slept on last night.

The first night in The Sanctuary is always spent that way.

The girls are stroking Kirsten’s wrists and ankles, helping the blood to flow. The younger of the two brushes her breast against the back of Kirsten’s hand with each stoke of the wrist. Even from across the room, I can see the girl’s erect nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her cotton shift.

Instead of listening to Madam Chen, Kirsten turns to smile at the girl. The girl looks away but leans further forward against Kirsten’s hand.

Madam Chen takes hold of Kirsten’s chin firmly with her finger and thumb, pulling Kirsten up into a sitting position, bringing their faces close together. Fear washes across Kirsten’s face as she looks up into Madam Chen’s unsmiling face and feels Madam’s sharp fingernails press into her cheeks. Kirsten’s eyes flick quickly towards me, hoping I will intervene.

“Look at me! You have not yet earned the right to look at your Master.”

Madam Chen’s voice betrays the hatred she feels for the flesh she holds. Young flesh, privileged flesh, flesh entitled to freedom and choosing to be enslaved.

I have promised Kirsten that she will not be marked without her consent, but it is obvious to both of us that Chen would like to rake Kirsten’s flawless skin. My imagination flashes me an image of Kirsten’s blood flowing over Chen’s pale nails as they rend her flesh. Kirsten trembles. My cock stiffens. Madam Chen smiles. It is not a reassuring smile.

“Today you will be used according to the principles of Feng Shui. Each time harmony is achieved you will be permitted to come. If you come without permission, you will be punished.”

Madam Chen lets go of Kirsten’s chin; steps back and runs her gaze across Kirsten’s naked body.

“I suspect you will be punished often. I look forward to it.”

It is unusual for Madam to be so provoked. She was born at The Sanctuary, was schooled in our ways. The fact that, instead of becoming part of our breeding pool, or being traded to another House, she has become a Madam is a tribute to her control, her aggression and her complete ruthlessness.

Perhaps it is time to remind Chen that the power she has been given can be taken away? Yet that would a waste and finding her successor would be a chore. Besides, the fact that Chen’s armoured emotions are so easily pierced reinforces my judgement that Kirsten is extraordinary.

Ever since she surrendered herself into my care, with her parents consent, on her eighteenth birthday, I have been nurturing her libido, ensuring she has come, with my permission, at least five times a day, often more. Her body now hums with a hunger that must be fed well and often.

I have being stoking that hunger since we set out for the Sanctuary yesterday. She was given no opportunity to touch herself on the journey. When we arrived, I stripped her and tied her to the tightly to the bench, positioning her with her head facing away from my bed and with her cunt spread and open to my sight.

They brought me a woman, ripe and soft, with pale flesh for my whip to write upon. It took me an hour to bring her to climax. Kirsten could hear her but not see her. Each time the woman moaned I could see Kirsten’s arse clench, showing how much she wanted to be the one feeling the whip’s biting kiss. By the time the woman was carried from the room, Kirsten’s cunt lips were slick and swollen.

In honour of her discipline in staying silence I decided to reward Kirsten. I stood between her legs, not touching her, relieving the aching hardness of my cock. When my cum splashed her belly, pooling in her navel, Kirsten groaned and pressed against her bonds. I knew what she wanted.

“Tomorrow” I said as I put out the light.

Madam Chen has noticed the dried sperm on Kirsten’s belly. It makes Kirsten’s smooth skin pucker slightly, like a scar. Chen scrapes at it, not gently, with one nail.

“Open her” Madam Chen says to the girl massaging Kirsten’s ankles.

She places her face an inch or less from Kirsten’s cunt and inspects every inch.

“Clean her. Get rid of all this hair. I want her smooth and oiled. Don’t let her come.”

“Yes, Madam Chen,” both girls say together.

Madam Chen strides out of the room, braid bouncing off her buttocks. As the door closes all three girls visibly relax.

“What is your name?” Kirsten asks the younger of the two girls. The girl shakes her head and refuses to look at Kirsten.

“Please tell me your name.”

The slap the older girl administers, catches Kirsten completely by surprise. The older girl places one finger across her lips signalling for Kirsten to be silent. The younger girl mimics the action but brings the finger from her lips to Kirsten’s and lets her eyes smile.

Without needing to speak to one another the girls lift Kirsten, taking one arm each and placing it behind their neck, supporting her under the armpits. Kirsten is still unsteady on her feet and seems glad of their support.

As they move with her towards the shower room, I step in front of Kirsten. The girls pause. I am fully dressed, and have cup of tea in my hands. I flick my gaze across Kirsten, reminding her of her nakedness, making her aware that her breasts are touching the girls who carry her. Her nipples harden and to my surprise she blushes. I prize that blush more than the sunrise I have just witnessed from the window of this chamber.

The shower room is tiled from floor to ceiling. At first sight it looks as if the shower curtain is missing, until the eye is drawn to the cuffs hanging from what is not, after all, a shower-rail. The girls raise Kirsten’s arms above her head and fasten them, wide apart, on the rail, then they spread her legs and tie them to rings set in the tiled floor.

I move forward and push my fingers through Kirsten’s hair. I keep her hair short and boyish, it’s easier to maintain and it provides a vivid contrast to her full figure. Kirsten tries to kiss my arm but I stop her with a look. When I hold up the blacked-out swimming goggles, she bows her head. With a practiced motion, I deprive her of her sight.

I step to one side so that I can read Kirsten’s body language. She tenses as she waits. Then the water hits her. She winces as it moves from too hot to too cold and then relaxes as the girls massage her with a high-pressure spray from in front and behind.

They start at her shoulders and work their way down, as if they were washing a car, then move closer, bringing the spray up between her legs from both directions. Kirsten tries to spread wider, welcoming the sensation, trying to dance on the water, seeking stimulation and release.

The water stops. There is silence.

Kirsten cocks her head to listen, seems momentarily puzzled by a sound that is familiar but which she can’t place.

When the shaving foam hits her mound she stands very still, letting the girls spread it with their fingers. She bites her lip; I can almost feel her anxiety as she waits for a sharp blade to move across her tender skin.

The finger pushing into her anus catches her by surprise. The younger girl is smearing lube with fast, light touches, inside and out. The nozzle slips into Kirsten easily, but the warm water that follows has enough pressure behind it to make her moan. She pushes forward, away from the assault on her rear, only to encounter the caress of the razor as it shears her.

I watch as the wisps of curly hair are swept away and her pink skin emerges looking freshly scrubbed.

Kirsten relaxes her leg muscles and lets herself hang from the bar above her head. The older girl pushes a second nozzle into Kirsten, this time into her cunt, flooding her with the scent of strawberries.

Kirsten rise onto tiptoe but there is nothing she can do to free herself from the dual force of the liquids sliding into her. When the nozzles are pulled from her simultaneously she sighs with pleasure. Watching her from the side I picture her as the water nymph statue at the centre of some Seventeenth Century fountain.

Starting at her shoulders, in front and behind, with the practised co-ordination of a dance, the girls work an oil into Kirsten’s skin, until every inch of her smells of French Vanilla. It is slow thorough work, interrupted three times to prevent her from reaching a climax. Finally it is done. Kirsten gleams in the early morning sunlight.

“Thank you,” she murmurs when the goggles are removed, but the erotic haze she had surrounded herself with is immediately dispersed when she sees that it is Madam Chen who has given her back her sight.

Both girls are kneeling beside Madam Chen, eyes downcast, as she inspects their work.

Her eyes are on Kirsten’s as she tests the smoothness of the shave with the ball of her thumb. She leans closer and pushes two fingers into Kirsten’s cunt and one into her arse. Despite herself, Kirsten moans.

Chen reaches up until her mouth is close to Kirsten’s, fingers still inside her. Just when Kirsten is sure she will be kissed, when she’s starting to lean into it, Chen’s mouth forms, but does not speak, the word SLUT and she removes her fingers with painful speed.

Madam Chen holds her fingers under her nose as Kirsten settles back onto the soles of her feet.

“You have done well girls. You will be rewarded. Put the collar on her and lead her to the Courtyard.”

Madam Chen strides out of the room to prepare Kirsten’s first ordeal.

For a moment, standing between the two kneeling girls whose efforts have made her skin gleam, Kirsten looks so lost and bereft that my heart aches for her.

The girls look at me, waiting for me to provide them with the collar that will show Kirsten’s status here. I move towards her, signalling for them to remain kneeling at her feet.

“Kirsten,” I say, resting the palm of my hand against her face and feeling my pulse race at the restoration of that contact, “are you ready to accept your collar from me?”

Her dark eyes focus on me, like searchlights exploring my soul. She turns her head into my hand and kisses my palm. Her resolve has returned. The strength and capacity for passion that first attracted me to her are apparent in the quiet confidence with which she says, “I am ready”.

The collar is a simple thing: strong black leather trimmed with silver at the edges; and with four matt black D rings evenly spaced at front back and sides. My initials are carved into the leather on either side of the front D ring. The silver edging is more than decorative. It tells everyone in The Sanctury who sees it that Kirsten has chosen a path of self-exploration; the initials show that she is under my protection.

I attach a leash to the collar. Kirsten makes to follow me.

“Not yet, Kirsten,” I say. “First you must reward these girls for a job so well done.”

Kirsten looks confused. She is not sure what I want.

I make a movement with my hands. The girls respond as they have been trained to do and fall forward with their small arses in the air.

“Kneel and finger then to climax, Kirsten.”

I watch for several minutes as Kirsten works with a hand inside each girl. As their passion rises, I remind her that she must not come.

My cock is hard. I free it from my clothes and push the head into Kirsten’s mouth. She is sucking on it, her cheek s concave with the effort, when the girls come on her fingers one after the other.

I pull back from Kirsten, and reward each girl with some of my semen on their foreheads.

Standing, I pull on Kirsten’s leash, then turn my back on her and lead her out into the courtyard.

Pro-Boner Work

Slavery is back with us. This time it has a new name and a higher profit margin. It’s called Human Traffiking and it’s big business.

The Council of Europe states, “People trafficking has reached epidemic proportions over the past decade, with a global annual market of about $42.5 billion.” The United Nations estimates nearly 2.5 million people from 127 different countries are being trafficked around the world.

I wrote the story below to cast a human light on this trade. Sadly, it’s not hard to imagine.

Don’t enjoy this, get angry about it. It’s happening somewhere near you

(c) Mike Kimera 2008

I like to slide a finger into the new ones. Nothing beats hot tight young cunt, except maybe the noise they make when my thumbnail works their clit. Natalia keeps them standing there ’til I’m done. She tapes it all; says playing back their first day to them helps keep ’em in line later.

I do the whore-house books, both sets, for payment-in-kind; Natalia calls it pro-boner work. I have my pension so I prefer cunt to cash anyway.

Fridays I play some first-day tapes, pop a blue pill and choose me a girl-sandwich for lunch. I have them 69 on my desk while I use my thumb to test who has the tighest asshole. When I clap my hands they scramble to my chair and suck my dick til it shines. Then I bend one over the desk and sodomise her, while her friend works of giving me a good rimjob.

A while back Natalia decided to film my sessions for special customers who’ll buy made-to-order “fuck-me-grandpa” teen movies. Now I lunch daily and my fans choose the menu.

My favourite is the Happy Meal: both girls get a toy, and I finish on their smiling faces, isn’t that cute?

Bedazzled

This is an updated version of  story that came to me after a long drive through Wyoming. My wife and I  fell in love with the place and the people. It’s a humorous little fantasy.

I hope you enjoy it.

(C) Mike Kimera 2010 All rights reserved.

Patrick

Wyoming. Nothing much ever happens in Wyoming. What kind of state doesn’t even have a baseball team?

I was headed for California and a new job in construction. Wyoming was just a State I wanted to get through as quickly as possible.

Maybe that’s why I was doing  90mph. Have you seen the long straight roads they have there? You can drive for an hour off the highway and not see another car.

My mind was filled with thoughts of what I’d do when I got to California. I hadn’t had a fuck in three days and my cock got hard as I pictured the bikini-clad girls roller-blading into my life.

I didn’t see the copcar ‘til its blues went on. Shit! I couldn’t afford a fine.

I pulled over and waited for Cowboycop to mosey on over and tell me how fast I’d been going and how much it was gonna cost me.

The sun was in my eyes when I looked in the mirror. Man this cop was small for a cowboy.

It was the hat and the uniform that mislead me. I was looking at a coplet. A really hot coplet.

As she came up to the window I realised she was about 5’ and weighed no more than 85lbs. Thick dark hair held up in a french braid. Slight build, small breasts and god what a tight tempting ass in those trooper pants.

She bent towards the car window and I saw a set of bright pink Cupid-shaped lips beneath the reflective sunglasses staring blankly back at me.

She was not smiling.

Suddenly I wished I’d shaved. I expected “License and registration.”  I got “Get out of the car please sir.”

I hesitated. She stepped back, right hand resting in a relaxed but threatening way on her gun.

“Now sir”. She said…

Maria

Wyoming. Why did I ever move here? After I passed the exams I could have been a peace-officer in some nice little town with a beach.

But I had to follow pretty-boy Luke.

God he made me wet when I first saw him.

I was at the Rodeo in Moab. I’m a sucker for watching Old Glory riding out on a white horse, flanked on either side by the flags of the King of Beers and the Real Thing. This was the America my parents had moved from Mexico to find before I was born.

Luke was a young god on a wild horse. Tall, slim, hard muscles and an easy smile. Bright blue eyes that shone from a dark tanned face. And a butt to die for.

He fell off his horse in front on me. I was in cowboy boots, short shorts, crop top and straw cowboy hat. As he stood up dusting himself off his eyes moved methodically up my body and his grin widened.

The fucking started right there really ‘tho it took us another hour to get back to his motel.

That first fuck was wild. He picked me up, put me on his cock and literally rode me round the room. I was shouting “Yea Hah” so hard the neighbours complained. I came with a rush and he was still hard. He stayed that way for an hour. I was in heaven. I knew he was training me like a bronco;  riding me ‘til I got tired but I figured the ride was worth it.

When I couldn’t move any more, I lay my head on his hard stomach and sucked his cock like a baby on the tit. He came in my mouth, great spurts of cum pumping into me, his hand resting on my head as if he was patting a favourite dog.

“Thanks baby” he said and fell asleep.

In the morning I woke up to find him already eating me. He lifted his head, flashed his blue-eyed smile and said “Morning baby, I’m Luke– wanna tell me your name?”

The morning disappeared in grunts and groans and slipping and sliding and licking and biting. This time he came deep in my ass and I was the one who fell asleep.

When I woke there was a note: “Hey Maria, we make a great team. Wanna give it a try for a while? Meet me in Cody next Friday”

I read the address. “Cody? Isn’t that in Wyoming?” I thought,

So here I am, twelve months later, a highway cop in Wyoming.  I’m also a Rodeo widow.

“You wouldn’t like it on the road ,baby. Besides,  you have a job here.” he says with his famous smile.

“And besides, you have a girl in every town” I thought.

But then he always comes back to me. Yea hah.

Sitting in the cruiser, waiting for nothing much, I’m thinking how long it’s been since we really fucked. Luke’s been away for two weeks now and my magic wand is starting to pall. Yesterday I found an unwashed shirt of his in the back of the wardrobe and took it to bed with me just to have that man smell in my nose.

“Holy shit what’s his hurry?”

A beat up Ford has just shot past at way over the limit. And me in plain sight.

“You’re going down boy – you’ve just insulted a sexually frustrated cop with nothing better to do than chew on your ass.”

Christ, now I was talking to myself.

I set off after him, flipped on the blues and he pulled over. He was watching me in his rearview. Could be dangerous. My heart always beats harder at this point.

I give him my stony faced look. Wonder what he’ll make of the non-regulation lipstick?

Then I get a surprise. He’s a looker. Kinda Hugh Jackman thing going on: designer stubble with blue-collar cool. Bet he’s good with his hands.

What am I thinking?

Actually I know exactly what I’m thinking, I just don’t want him to know it.

I over compensate. Instead of “license and registration” I say “Get out of the car please sir.”

He’s looking at me strangely. I step back, right hand resting on my gun and say  “Now sir”…

Patrick

I’ve always had a thing about women in uniform and this woman was pressing all my buttons. I loved that she was so small and looked so tough. And those pink lips had to mean something. I was already imagining the streaks of lipstick she’d leave on my cock as she sucked it.

This was not good for my peace of mind. My cock which had been hard at the thought of rollerblading california girls was positively rigid with excitement at the sight of this coplet.

How was I going to get out of the car without her noticing?

Maybe she was gay and wouldn’t care. Maybe she was a militant feminist and would shoot my balls off for disrespecting her by getting hard in her presence.

I got out of the car. She watched me closely, probably waiting for me to make some kind of move. I couldn’t tell where her eyes were looking through her sunglasses but it seemed to me that she looked at my crotch with more than a casual glance, but her facial expression didn’t even flicker.

I’m 6’3’’ in my barefeet and as I stood up I towered over the coplet, but she was still being tough.

“Assume the position, big boy,” she said.

I turned around and put my hands flat on the car roof and spread my legs. She kicked them slightly further apart and knocked me off balance a little while she frisked me. She stretched as she reached up to my shoulders.

I could feel her like a wall of heat behind me. Briefly I felt her breasts against my back. My cock was so swollen it hurt. Did I feel her nipples or were they the buttons on her shirt?

Now she was patting down my jeans. Her right hand touched my cock. It seemed to slide along the shaft from tip to base but so quickly it was gone before I had time to react. Was she touching me up? I thought about her lipstick, and her lips. I knew there was now a little stain of pre-cum on my jeans.

“Turn around slowly and keep you hands behind hour head” she said.

Maria

As he stepped out of the car it was lust at first sight.

Sometimes I just lose it. The civilised, law-enforcing, part of me switches off and the hindbrain takes over. This man had a hotline to my ovaries. My whole body was screaming Fuck him Fuck him now. Take his eed. We need it.

The first time this had happened to me I was nineteen and on my way home for Thanksgiving. I picked up the wrong bag at the bus station. I went to return the bag and found that the guy who owned it had taken mine and gone to his hotel. Boy was I pissed. I would miss my bus and my Mom’s painstakingly authentic American Thanskgiving dinner. I stormed up to the guy’s hotel room and pounded on the door.

He’d just showered. I think it was the way his thick black hair curled on his neck that did it. He was early twenties, tall, dark, six-pack belly of the truly self obsessed. Once our eyes met the rest was inevitable. Three days without leaving the hotel room. Room-service Thanksgiving dinner. I had lots to give thanks for.

I told my folks I got snowed in and couldn’t move. In a way it was true.

Then suddenly I woke up and thought, “who is this guy?” and I was released. The lust demon had crawled back into her cave and I had my life back. I left without a backward glance.

Now it was happening again.

I tried to stay professional but even as I started to frisk him I knew that his gun wasn’t the weapon I was looking for.

His shoulders were broad and his back was hard and lean. He smelled of clean sweat. I love that smell.

In reaching up for his shoulders I leant forward a little more than I needed to. My breasts brushed against his back. Actually my nipples grazed his back. They were stiff and trying to point me in the right direction.

My hands moved down to his hips. I touched his cock. I never touch their cocks. My hand was following instructions of its own and quickly but thoroughly traced the long hard length of it.

I realised I was holding my breath and biting my tongue.

Shit what was this guy going to think?

What was I thinking?

I was thinking how good that cock would feel moving inside me. I was imagining his hard hands on my breasts squeezing and pulling. I was going out of my mind.

There was no other choice; I had to get fucked.

I liked the idea. I hoped he did.

I needed to control this. Make sure I stayed on top.

FLASH IMAGE: me rocking back and forth on his meat, burying my fingernails in his chest hair.

Shit girl, get a grip.

‘”Turn around slowly and keep you hands behind your head,” I said.

He turned slowly, his eyes on mine. He looked embarrassed. Then I saw why. He was creaming his jeans.

This was going to be easier than I’d thought.

Patrick

“Move towards the cruiser please, sir,” she said.

Her voice was cold and controlled but I‘d seen her head tilt to take in the stain on my jeans. I wondered if she knew that her tongue had moved quickly across her lips, like she was licking off the froth from her first ice cool beer on a hot day?

Something was going down here and I was beginning to hope it might be me.

I decided to try my famous Irish charm.

“Is there a problem officer?”I asked, flashing her my best I-may-not-be-harmless-but-I’ll-definitely-be-fun smile.

Her pink lips twitched a little and I knew she wanted to smile, but she bit it back and said “The problem here is that I gave you an order and you haven’t followed it yet. Now move towards the cruiser.”

I moved towards the cruiser, hands still on my head, absolutely certain that she was watching my butt.

I bet you’re smiling now, I thought.

She opened the rear door of the cruiser. She’d left the engine running and the cool conditioned air  felt inviting.

“Get in” she said.

I turned to get in the car butt first. As my ass touched the seat the coplet suddenly sprang forward and pushed me backwards.

She landed on top of me, knees either side of my hips, hands on my chest. She’d lost her hat and her hair was almost loose. Her face was lit up and her dark eyes were flashing. Then her tongue was in my mouth – for a fraction of a second – and she was kneeling up again, grinning and saying “Don’t just lie there big guy – FUCK ME”.

Maria

I have a very understanding subconscious. It understands that every now and then I have to cut loose. When the occasion comes along it tends to start without me. When I told him to head for the cruiser I still hadn’t really decided what I was going to do. Go with the flow. Surf the wave. Ride his cock.

But I didn’t want to rape the guy. “FEMALE COP FORCES MAN AT GUNPOINT” was not a headline I wanted to read.

Then he gave me his “Is there a problem officer?” speech with his thousand megawatt smile and I knew he’d always been able to charm his way out of trouble or into a bed. I also knew he wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by a 5’ lady cop with pink lipstick and a fuck-off-and-die stare. He was enjoying himself.

As I watched his tight butt make its way to the cruiser my conscious mind confirmed the decision my subconscious had already made. I just had to have him.

I literally jumped him.

God that felt good. The look of surprise on his face. His jaw hung open and I couldn’t resist putting my tongue between his open lips.

Do you know how hard it is to take off a uniform inside a police car while sitting on a guy’s chest? I didn’t even try. I moved to his jeans and unleashed the hard cock I’d felt earlier.

Now much as I love the feel of a cock inside me I’ve never really been able to get excited at how they look. Seems to me they were designed on a Friday afternoon and no-one ever quite finished the job. But this cock had as much charm as its owner. It leapt to attention in a flattering way and thudded against his belly. I just had to nibble it, right where the base joins the balls.

That made him writhe. Almost pushed me off. I was grinning now. I ran the flat of my tongue up the length of his cock and then wrapped my lips around the head. MMMMMM.

I looked up at him. His face was all smile.

“I surrender officer. Take me into custody” he said.

I did my famous deep throat trick. As expected it took his breath away.

When I was at college all the girls had competed in the Deep Throat Challenge. We’d do it in bars. It drove the guys wild. It involved those drinks they serve in a long thin glass – flutes I think they’re called. We would order drinks and then lean over the table, take as much of the glass as we could into our mouths, and, without using our hands, lift the glass and empty it. Great practice for suppressing the gag response. If it goes wrong you end up with a creamy cocktail running down your chin. If it goes right every man in the room gets an erection. I always got it right. Now the practice was paying off.

Several inches of his cock were in my mouth. When I started to hum he lost it completely.

Patrick

I was still tasting her tongue on my mouth when she unzipped me and helped herself to my cock. I hadn’t been this hard since I was seventeen.

She bit me! For one paranoid second I thought I was in an adult version of goosebumps and she’d suddenly turn into a ravening beast that would tear off my cock with her teeth. Then her tongue moved along me like a cat lapping up cream. She was grinning like she’d just won the lottery.

I’d just tossed off someline about her taking me into custody – to show I was cool with the whole thing – when my cock disappeared down her throat. She was swift and sure, like a predator swallowing her prey whole. Entering her mouth was like sliding into a warm bath.

Shit she was going to make me come in no time at all. When she started to hum I thought I would shoot right there and then, making myself the winner of the Wyoming Mr Premature Ejaculation contest.

“Whoa there” I said. “Come up for air”.

She let my cock slide from her mouth with a slowness that would have been pure porn movie cliché if it hadn’t been for the twinkle in her eyes that seemed to say “Ok. Your move”.

How the hell was I going to get her uniform off in here?

The answer was simple:  I wasn’t.

My turn for surprises.

The door was still open. I put my boots on the ground and slid forward without any warning. I caught her as I sat up. In a movement that was more luck than skill I ended up standing outside the cruiser with her legs around my waist, her arms around my kneck and my jeans around my ankles.

She looked impressed. She kissed me. Really kissed me. Both hands on my head. Lips crushed against mine. Tongue searching my mouth.

My cock was bouncing against her uniformed ass.

Un-fucking-believable.

Maria

Jesus this guy was strong. He uncoiled himself from the car and took me with him.

The feel of all that muscle moving was enough to make me wet. The touch of his cock on my ass left me drenched. I was ravenous for him.

I kissed him, needing to taste him. I held onto him like I was riding a horse.

His hands were under my butt now. I leant backwards and started to take off my shirt, my legs still wrapped about him. To his credit he kept his eyes on mine, rather than staring at my breasts.

I grinned, climbed up him a little more and pushed his head down into my breasts.

Then I scrambled off him. I needed his cock in me right now. I pushed down my pants and panties together but couldn’t get them off over the boots. Then I assumed the position against the hood of the cruiser. legs spread as wide as I could manage and naked ass in the air.

I looked over my shoulder. The poor boy looked dazed. Birthday and Christmas all at once. But his cock knew what to do. It targeted my ass with military precision. Suddenly he was behind me, hands on my hips, cock at my sex. I couldn’t wait. I pushed back and felt him start his long slow slide into me.

Patrick

I thought I’d have control once we got outside but being with this woman was like trying to surf the big one, even when you didn’t fall off you were being pushed along.

She may as well have had me on a leash.

When she looked at me over her shoulder, bare ass raised high in the bright sunlight, there was no choice involved in what happened next.

I’m normally a gentle lover. I like to stroke and lick and coax, but now all I wanted was to grab and bite and bang.

Her hips fit into the palms of my hands like carved handles of bone. My cock slid into her wet cunt like it was slicing through ripe fruit. I sank so far into her it felt like falling.

When I slapped up against her ass she grunted… and laughed.

I held her hips firmly and slammed into her with all my strength, she only stayed upright because I held her.

She tossed her head, shaking free her thick dark hair and her face looked as if she was growling. I once saw a lioness being fucked by a lion in the zoo. The lion was bigger than her and was on top but somehow you knew the lioness was in charge and the lion better make it good. The lioness had growled in just the same way as my little coplet.

Shit I was banging in and out of her and I didn’t even know her name.

She braced herself against the cruiser as I banged into her, her head was back, arms tense, breasts shiny with sweat in the sunshine. Her sext was sucking my cock into it with each stroke. Grabbing at it. Defying it to leave. She started to make a low groan that began in the back of her throat and seemed to vibrate through her whole body.

I wanted to come deep inside her but I wanted her to come first.

The moan was becoming a word:  “Fuck”, “FUCK” “FUUUCK.”

With each stroke the word got louder and I knew I was going to come.

Maria

I was nothing but need now. I needed to feel him pounding me. Gentle wouldn’t do it.

His cock just amplified my desire. The more I got the more I wanted.

The sun was lapping my body with tongues of warmth. I knew anyone could drive past and see us. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. But mostly I knew that I wanted harder and deeper.

I closed my eyes so that all my senses were concentrated on feeling him in me. To me he was just strong hands and hard cock, but that was enough.

I knew he was trying to control himself. Trying to get me to come first. To hell with that.  I love the moment when they come. It always pushes me over the edge. I wanted to feel him come inside me.

I was completely in the rhythm now. Caught up in magic friction.

I started to make the noise. I think of it as keening, but lovers have told me its more like a growl. It’s the victory howl of the lust demon. The  demon had me now and she started to shout“Fuck”, “FUCK” “FUUUCK.””. Then I felt it. The first hot wet pulse of cum inside me. Then the next. He was standing pressed completely into me, letting his sperm flow at the deepest point.

The feeling of warmth and elation and dissolving spread out from the tip of his cock and swept through me like a wave breaking against a sea wall. For a moment I was nothing but the dissipating energy of that wave. My mind shattered against the sea wall and slid down in pieces. My knees gave way and I slid to the floor, his cock slipping out of me like a cast off skin.

Patrick

I came so hard it was painful. My cock was a storm drain for sperm. It rushed through me and out of me with force and purpose. Relief. Release. The words don’t even come close. I surrendered myself to coming. There was nothing else.

Then the cop started to fit. At first a tremble, then violent shudders that went on for what seemed forever. Suddenly she went limp and fell on her knees to the ground.

I hoped she wasn’t epileptic. What if she’d had a stroke and died?

Paranoid I bent towards her. I lifted her head by the chin. Her eyes were unfocused at first. As she started to see me there was a fleeting look of puzzlement and then her face was transformed by the biggest, widest smile.

“Thank you” she said.” I needed that.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, automatically as I reached down to help her up.

Normally, I’d have been taking in all the fine naked flesh that was on view but I couldn’t take my eyes off her smile.  She’d lost her sunglasses somewhere along the line and now I found myself looking into the deepest, darkest eyes I’d ever seen. A man could drown in eyes like that and die happy.

I wanted to say something or do something but my mind was blank. My erection-driven energy had deserted me and I was left standing with my dick hanging out, gawking like a fool at a women I didn’t want to leave.

“You need to put that away now.” the coplet said, pointing at my dick.

Her tone was serious but her smile was still there.

She watched as I tucked myself back in my jeans. Then pulled she grabbed her big cop-belt, holster and all, and pulled her uniform pants back on, keeping eye contact with me all the while.

While she tightened her belt, I took a risk. “Let me help you with that,” I said and reached forward to do up the front of her uniform shirt.

Maria

The afterglow stayed with me long enough for me to thank tall-and-handsome (I really do have to start getting the guy’s name before I fuck them), then reality started to kick in. The lust demon had fled the scene, leaving me to pick up the check, again.

I needed to assert my authority. This could get messy. Hell, it was already messy. I smelt of sex and sweat and I really, really needed a shower.  I put on my stern voice and told him to put his dick away.

Only thing was, I couldn’t stop smiling.

I was standing smiling at a guy who was tucking himself back in his pants, while mine were still around my ankles.  Shit, but sex turns me into a fool.

I pulled up my pants, wriggling into them and wishing I could wash first, and wondering what the hell I should do with tall and handsome now when I realised he was looking at me.  He wasn’t checking me out, grabbing a last look at the my nakedness, he was looking in me in the eye and he looked… bedazzled. Yep that was the word for it. Bedazzled. I like that.

I was playing for time, making a meal of refastening my gun-belt, when he offered to help me and reached out to close the press studs on my shirt.

He didn’t feel me up. He just helped me dress and he looked me in the eyes while he did it.

When he finished, he stood there with his hands at his side and waited like a puppy-dog.

A real cute puppy-dog.

“I need to see some I.D.” I  said.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and offered it to me.

“Just the I.D.” I said, slipping back into the routines of the job, “Keep the wallet.”

Even his driving license photo was cute. Patrick Mahon, from NYC.

“You’re a long way from home, Patrick,” I said, (hey, I still had the guys cum inside me, the least I could do was use his first name) where were you headed in such a hurry?”

Patrick

Where was I headed? California had suddenly lost its appeal. Where I wanted to be was in a big bed with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“Well,” I said, “I was going to California but I’ve changed my plans.”

She smiled and said, “Really, and where are you headed now?”

“Well, that depends.”

She put her hands on her hips, raised an eyebrow and said. “On what?”

My heart beat faster than it should have given what we’d already done together, but I really wanted this to work out.

“On where you live.”

Maria

So now he wanted to set up house with me, huh?

Well the man had guts, you had to grant him that. He also had a tight butt, a serviceable cock and a cut grin

But there was no way that he was coming to my house.

I turned away from Patrick, slid into the cruiser and checked his license plate and I.D. Both came up clean.

I looked at the dash and remembered that the video camera had recorded me pulling over the car and how long it had stayed stationary. Thank god I’d waited ’til we got back to the cruiser before I’d jumped him or the tape would be on the X-rated version of “Cops” and I’d be out of a job.

I checked Patrick out in the mirror. He was leaning against the cruiser, hands in his pockets, sill grin on his face, waiting for me.

I was free of the lust demon now. I could do anything I wanted. I could send Patrick on his way to California. I could go home and wait for Luke to return. Or…

Patrick

When she got out of the cruiser she’d found her hat and her sunglasses. She looked like a cop again,  apart from her hair being loose.

A very hot cop, with gorgeous hair.

A very hot cop who was writing me a ticket.

A ticket.

Fuck.

I’d really thought she’d liked me. I mean, I knew we hadn’t said much but you don’t smile at like that at someone you don’t like. Do you?

“I advise you to obey the speed limit while you’re in Wyoming, Mr. Mahon. Your next offense will cost you more than a fine. Is that clear?”

“Yea, ma’am” came out of my mouth without me having to think about it.

My shoulders slumped and me and my dented ego started to move towards my car.

“Stay where you are, Mr. Mahon, I’m not done with you yet.”

Maria

I didn’t make my mind up until after I saw how dejected he looked when I gave him the ticket. I felt like I’d  just kicked a puppy.

He stayed put like I told him to, but his head was down and he wasn’t looking at me. I switched on my radio and said, “Sandy, this is Maria. I’m coming off the clock. I’m gonna take some personal time.”

Patrick’s head came up.

“Something has come up.  I have to take care of it this afternoon.”

Patrick grinned at me. I threw my hat in the back of the cruiser and shook out my hair.

Sandy was still squawking at me.

“Yeah. I know ‘m off duty tomorrow, but this won’t wait.”

If  Patrick had had a tail, I swear it would have wagged.

“Thanks, Sandy. Have a good one yourself.”

I walked back to Patrick and stood very close to him.

“You got me sticky and sweaty.”

“I guess I did.”

“So now I need you to clean me up. You good with that?”

“Can I get you sticky and sweaty again afterwards.”

I pushed up against him on tip toe so I could reach his lips.

This time the kiss was slow and soft.

I stepped back and said.

“Get in your car and follow me.”

“Yes ma’am”.

I watched his butt all the way back to his car. I liked the way this was shaping up.  I adjusted my belt as I sat in the cruiser and my hand brushed against the cuffs at the back. I grinned to myself at the images that summoned in my head.   I pulled out in front of the beaten up Ford and headed for home.

Coming Home

This came to me today while I was on a train journey across Switzerland. It’s a romance of sorts, perhaps the sort that happens in real life-

Enjoy.

(c) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved.

“I’m home.”

Even after all these years of marriage, Saul still had a moments anxiety that there would be no answer, that Gina would finally have had enough, that the house would be empty, and he would be alone.

“I’m in the kitchen. Careful where you step, there’s glass everywhere.”

He released the breathe he did not realise he’d been holding, put down his suitcase and laptop bag in the hall and dropped his keys and his phone into the square leather tray that Gina had taught him to use. She had bought the tray out of frustration at his endless ability to mislay the things that were most important to him.

Saul had spent the past week adrift amongst strangers in unfamiliar places. He had reached that point where he barely felt connected to the world. He moved through it invisible, weightless, unnoticed. It pleased him to have a designated place to leave his keys and phone. He felt tethered to something strong and real. He was home. Well, almost home. Home waited for him in the kitchen.

Gina had a dustpan and a brush in her hands and was busily sweeping up fragments of what had once been a pyrex mixing bowl from the kitchen tiles. Saul stood for a moment, watching her, absorbing the easy grace with which moved and the fierce concentration she brought to her task. Not one shard of glass would escape her, he was certain.

Gina looked up at him for a second, before continuing in her hunt for rogue pieces of glass.

“Take your coat off, Saul. You look as if you’re about to leave again.”

Saul, who had not realised that he was still wearing his coat, immediately slipped it off. He was aware that he left far too often and had no wish to appear keen to do so again. Unwilling to leave Gina for long enough to return to the hall, he folded his coat over the back of a kitchen chair.

As he did so, he saw the edge of the present he had brought for Gina glint in his pocket. Already he regretted the bright wrapping that the young woman who sold him the gift had insisted on using. He did not want to make a fuss. He had bought the gift so that Gina would know that she had been in his thoughts while he was away. Now he wondered if it would look like some form of appeasement; a bribe to compensate for the weekly abandonments that he subjected her to.

Behind him he heard glass sliding into a bin. By the time he turned around, Gina was washing her hands in the sink.

Saul took a step towards her, wanting to touch her, needing to be sure that he still could.

He imagined closing the distance between them, placing his arms around her waist, supporting her weight as she leaned back into him, bending his head to kiss her neck.

Gina shut off the tap and reached for a towel. The moment had passed him by. Saul saw no means of retrieving it. As usual, he sought refuge in words.

“So why did you kill the bowl? Had it been particularly recalcitrant?”

Gina smiled and moved towards him.

“It wasn’t murder but suicide. The thing jumped out of my hands without regard to its own safety.”

Gina looked up at him, searched his face for something that she appeared to find and then stood on tip toe to kiss him on the cheek.

“How was Munich?” she asked, already moving towards the fridge.

“It was Brussels. Munich was last week.”

Lifting vegetables from a drawer in the fridge, Gina said, “I can never keep track of what country you’re in. Anyway, how was Brussels?”

“It was very Belgian.”

“The way you say it, that doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“It isn’t.”

“I meant to make you a soup but I was interrupted by a suicidal bowl. It’s a little late for soup now, I’ll make a stir-fry instead.”

Saul knew that he was not expected to reply to any of this but it pleased him listen. Recently he’d noticed that he had become one of those men who are silent not because they are showing restraint but because they have nothing to say. Gina filled up his silences. Her words warmed him.

“So is there nothing good about Belgium?” Gina asked.

She held a very sharp knife in her hands and was confidently and speedily slicing peppers, carrots, onions and thin slivers of garlic and ginger..

“All the good bits of Belgium are imaginary: Poirot, Tin Tin, the Surrealists.”

“Will you be going back?”

“Often.”

Gina looked up from pouring peanut oil into the wok and said, “Are you all right?”

The concern on her face mad Saul uncomfortable. He forced a smile and said, “I’m fine, just a little tired.”

“Well you’re not as young as you were,” Gina said as she scraped the vegetables from the chopping board into the smoking oil. “All this travel isn’t good for you.”

Saul lost her to cooking for a few moments as she added soy sauce and sesame seed oil and finally a little chilli, all the while shifting the vegetables in the pan so that they cooked rapidly and evenly.

Gina was two years younger than him but it seemed to Saul that the gap between them was widening at the same rate as his waistline. She was vital and energetic and he was… not.

“Set the table, will you? This tastes best when it’s still hot enough to hurt.”

Saul set the plates on the table, thinking about when Gina had been hot enough to hurt.

Back then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Sex seemed a natural consequence of being in the same room. She was so much smaller than him that, at first he’d been worried he would hurt her. She soon proved that he was the one who had to take care; his under-exercised gut had ached for a week after their first night together.

It had been a long time since they’d had sex and even longer since the sex had been easy and joyous. It wasn’t that he was impotent. It was more that he couldn’t go the distance. At first he had hesitated to start something he couldn’t finish. Now he no longer seemed to know how to start at all.

“Dig in,” Gina said, placing a large steaming bowl of food on the table.

She’d found the time to cut bread and add a simple green salad. Once more she’d created something out of nothing.

The food was too good to talk over. They both ate eagerly and quickly and soon there was nothing left.

“I brought you something.” Saul said, when the plates were empty.

“Would that be the shiny gold something in your coat pocket?”

“You saw that?”

“No, I’m just guessing. Of course I saw it. I can spot a present at 20 paces. Now go and get it for me.”

Saul tried not to watch Gina’s face too closely as she unwrapped the gift. He wanted her to be pleased but he didn’t want her to feel that she had to perform for him.

“So they do have something good in Belgium?” Gina said, holding the box in her hand. “Godiva chocolates.”

“I was told they were the best.”

“And I thought you chose them because you wanted to see me riding naked on a horse.”

Saul laughed, but he didn’t sound convincing.

“I bought them because…”

He didn’t know how to go on.

Gina got out of her seat, stood beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Because you love me.”

“Yes.”

She stroked his face with the back of her hand and then kissed him on the forehead.

“You are allowed to say it, you know. You won’t wear the words out.”

Gina picked up Saul’s plate and her own and headed back towards the kitchen.

Saul sat in his chair for a moment, thinking about whether words would wear out. It seemed to him that they might.

Growing up Saul had often visited Wells Cathedral. While the beauty and the grandeur of the place was undeniable, what had captured his imagination were the stairways. Made from the same stone that, centuries later, still stood proud in the Cathedral walls, the stairs that were most used had worn away in the centre, eroded by the feet of thousands of people over hundreds of years. The erosion of the stone stairs had taught Saul that truth could sometimes only be seen in retrospect; no one person moving up the staircase would believe that they had had any effect on the stone and yet, in reality, they had left a wake of destruction behind them.

When he looked back, the pattern that Saul saw was one in which he frequently passed down the “I love you” stairway but Gina did not follow him. She acknowledged his love happily and seemed glad to receive it but seldom said the words and never said them first. For a moment he had the image of Gina at the top of a pristine staircase which he could only reach by carefully negotiating the deep rut he had worn in his own love.

“These chocolates would taste much nicer with a cup of coffee,” Gina said from the kitchen. “Why don’t you get that fancy machine of yours to brew us some?”

“Excellent idea,” Saul said, rising from his chair.

While the coffee was brewing, Gina stacked the dishwasher. Saul was forbidden from performing this task as he had repeatedly demonstrated his lack of mastery of where plates should sit in relation to one another.

“Shall I take these through to the living room?” Saul said. “That Johnny Depp movie you wanted to watch will be on soon.”

“No,” Gina said. “I believe my boudoir is the only proper venue for the consumption of fine Belgian chocolates. Johnny will have to wait for another night. You, on the other hand, do not have to wait at all.”

It had been a long time since Gina had asked him to come to her bed so early in the evening. Saul placed the chocolates and the cups of coffee on a tray and followed his wife. She was nearly at the top of the stairs by the time he had reached the bottom.

Anxiety and excitement competed for Saul’s attention. Tonight he might confirm his own sense of failure or he might win back something that he thought he had lost forever.

When she got to the top of the stairs, Gina turned and waited for him.

Saul breathed deeply and took the next step in his marriage.

In cyberspace no one can see you blush

Infidelity – when does it start? At the first fuck? At the first kiss? At the first covert glance?  I was taught that it starts with the first thought. These days that first thought is often expressed in an internet chat room.

Perhaps you’re telling yourself that what’s on the internet stays on the internet; it’s not really infidelity?

Well it does stay on the internet, forever in many cases, where clever people can find it if they are motivated enough, and it may be virtual infidelity but that doesn’t necessarily make it less real.

Take a look at this little tale and see what you think about the reality of cyber-sex.

© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

It didn’t start out as infidelity. It was just a game. Just another form of masturbation. Nothing real. Certainly nothing dangerous. At least, that’s how it seemed to me then.

Now I know better.

Now I know myself better.

I was stalking a sleazy chatroom, looking for someone with an imagination as ferocious as mine. I didn’t want to “meet” anyone. I just wanted to get off as hard and as fast as possible.

I’d already had sex with my husband that night. Nice sex. Gentle sex. The kind that used to satisfy me but doesn’t anymore. He’d rolled over and fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving me to lie in the wet spot. I declined the honour and crept into the office. I went on line with his cum still drizzling down my thigh on to the black leather chair he’s so proud of.

I logged into the “barely-legal” room and called myself “wifewantsitrough”. There were the usual “Well-Hung” and “Hard4U” and “Bad-Daddy” names adopted by the desperately needy. It was that kind of site.

I’d expected to have to sit through the predictable “age, sex, location” crap, followed by “what are you wearing” and “how big are your tits” as if any of it mattered. Then someone called “Rapeplay” broke etiquette and sent me a private message. No introduction, no descriptions, no questions, just a statement that made my nipples hard:

RAPEPLAY: You want to be fucked hard in front of your husband.

I stayed silent. I wasn’t playing hard to get. I was just shocked that he’d hit on one of my favourite fantasies.

RAPEPLAY: He’s tied and gagged but not blindfolded. He can see everything that is done to you, everything you do, every orgasm you have. You want him to see how you should be used, to know who you really are.

This guy was good. Well actually, he was bad. Very, very bad. Exactly what I was in the mood for.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: What will you make me do?

RAPEPLAY: Look him in the eyes the first time I enter your arse.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: yes

RAPEPLAY: you’re bent over him, tits hanging, body covered in sweat.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Naked?

RAPEPLAY: No. I’ve taken the time to find your wedding dress. The one you hang in the back of the closet.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Shit. How did you know that was there?

RAPEPLAY: The same way I know that you’re typing this with sticky fingers.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: So you want to butt fuck me in front of my husband?

RAPEPLAY: No.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: No?

RAPEPLAY: What I want is to unlock all those desires that you keep caged. The ones that claw at you from the inside. The things you tell yourself you’d never do but that you can’t stop thinking about

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Like what?

RAPEPLAY: Let’s find out

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: ?

We’d stopped playing but I was hotter than ever. It was if he knew me. As if he could see me. It was a game of course. Just cybering. Not real infidelity. But it felt wicked. Deliciously wicked.

RAPEPLAY: When I’m all the way in you, I tell you to pull your husband’s cock out his pants.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Won’t

RAPEPLAY: SLAP – I hit your arse and feel you wriggle against my cock

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: BASTARD!

RAPEPLAY: SLAP

RAPEPLAY: SLAP

RAPEPLAY: I pull out of your gaping arse.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: NO. I want you in me

RAPEPLAY: Then grab Hubby’s cock

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: OK

RAPEPLAY: Is it hard

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Yes

RAPEPLAY: Harder than usual?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Much

RAPEPLAY: Do you think it’s the sight of you that makes him stiff or is it my erection that’s turning him on

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: He’s not gay

RAPEPLAY: But he’s not normally this hard either

How the hell did he know this? Gary’s erections weren’t what they used to be. He points West rather than North, if you know what I mean. Rapeplay’s smugness irked me. I decided to hit back at him

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: are you gay you bastard rapist? Would you rather be up his arse than mine?

RAPEPLAY: One arse is much like another, I’ve found.

Unbidden, a picture flashed across my mind: me tied to the chair, Gary being fucked in the arse in front of me. The first orgasm hit me then. I let the tremor earth itself and realized that RAPEPLAY: had stopped typing

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: You still there?

RAPEPLAY: You just came didn’t you? Were you imagining me moving from your arse to your husbands and back with my eyes closed, trying to guess which one is female?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: I wasn’t but I am now.

RAPEPLAY: Perverted little slut, aren’t we?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Yes

RAPEPLAY: Then let’s raise the stakes

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: ?

RAPEPLAY: Put your hands on your husband’s wrists. Hold tight.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: OK

RAPEPLAY: Bend forward, arse in the air, and push your mouth down over his cock until your nose is at his belly

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: I’ll choke

RAPEPLAY: Yes, but can you feel how excited he is? How his arms tense. How his hips want to push up and into you.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: unnnnnnnnnnnngh

RAPEPLAY: Keep your head there. Do you hear my belt pulled quickly from my jeans?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: I want to turn and see what you’re doing but I can’t move.

RAPEPLAY: But your husband can see, and his cock just twitched in your mouth

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Oh God

RAPEPLAY: I flip up your dress, kick your legs wider apart so more of your weight is on your arms and then…

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Then?

RAPEPLAY: THWACK! The belt catches you at the soft skin where your legs meet your butt

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: OW!

RAPEPLAY: DON’T fucking move. Get your head back on his belly and suck that cock.

RAPEPLAY: THWACK

RAPEPLAY: THWACK

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: It hurts so bad.

RAPEPLAY: But hubby is still hard. Hubby likes it and he hates himself for liking it.

That made me shiver. I loved my husband. But all the same, just for once, I wanted him to be the one with the guilty desires

RAPEPLAY: (What’s his name?)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (I’d tell you, but it’s rude to speak with my mouthful)

RAPEPLAY: (Wit, no less. Tell me his name – his real name)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (Gary)

Why did I tell him that? Why didn’t I say George or Bill or something? And why did he want to know?

RAPEPLAY: You’ve always wanted to gag fuck your wife, haven’t you, Gary? To make her eat all that sexual arrogance she shows. Except it’s not nice. And you’re a nice man, aren’t you, Gary?

This was getting scary. It was like he’d met Gary.

RAPEPLAY: So here’s the thing, Gary. I’m going to beat your wife’s arse with this belt until you come down her throat. So unless you want her bleeding and torn, you’d better come to her aid real soon.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (You wicked, evil, twisted, man)

RAPEPLAY: (Thank you)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (Would you really do that?)

RAPEPLAY: (Yes)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (Have you done it – in real life?)

RAPEPLAY: (You think this isn’t real? Check the stain on the chair you’re sitting in)

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: (Touché)

RAPEPLAY: (Touching sounds like an excellent idea. I want you to listen for a while and finger fuck while you do. When you come, I want you to say your husband’s name out loud.)

My heart was beating faster. This felt like cheating. It was demeaning – to me – to Gary –to our marriage. Yet excitement was twisting in my gut like a knife blade. I slid my fingers into my cunt and waited for Rapeplay’s words

RAPEPLAY: After the fifth stroke of the belt, the pain gets to you. You want it to be over. You suck as hard as you can, working your tongue forward. Trying to make him come.

RAPEPLAY: But it’s hard to get a rhythm or to lift your head. Gary is pushing up into you now, little hip thrusts that rip at your throat.

RAPEPLAY: You wonder if he’s looking at you or me. You wonder if I’m erect and if I’m as hard as Gary.

RAPEPLAY: You’ve lost count of the strokes of the belt now. There is just pain in your arse and the force of his cock in your mouth.

RAPEPLAY: Then the belt moves its attention to between your legs. Your scream into Gary’s belly. On the third scream, you feel it, the stiffening of his whole body, the gag-muffled cry from his mouth, then his cum pulsing into you.

I was almost there but not quite. I pushed an extra finger in and played with my clit with the other hand

RAPEPLAY: You are too filled with pain and cum to move. I pull your head off Gary’s softening cock.

RAPEPLAY: I force you up into his lap, still facing him, knees apart. “Lick his face, Slut. Lick hubby with your cum covered tongue”. You are too dazed to do anything but obey.

Oh fuck, I was going to…

RAPEPLAY: then, with your tongue on his cheek, you feel my cock enter your wet cunt

GARY.

I said it out loud.

Too loud. I could have woken him. But I didn’t care; his name released an orgasm that made my toes curl.

I realized Rapeplay was still typing about how he’s banging me. But his words had lost their impact now. All I wanted was to sleep.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Thank you. That was great.

RAPEPLAY: Did you say his name.

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Yes

RAPEPLAY: How did it feel?

I hesitated a moment. How had it felt?

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Like a blessing

RAPEPLAY: Yes

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: I have to…

RAPEPLAY: Sleep

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Yes

RAPEPLAY: Goodnight, Stephanie

WIFEWANTSITROUGH: Goodnight

It was only after I logged off that I realized that I’d never told him my name.

Questions raced through my head: Did he really know my name. Had he traced me back to my email while I was logged in? Would he find our family website with the pictures of me and Gary and the kids?

I felt a prickle of fear. But behind it was thought that surprised me: “Maybe he’ll send me mail. Maybe we’ll get to play again”.

I decided not to let myself think about that. I was cold and a little sore, and very tired. I headed for the bathroom to wash the smell of sex off me before I made my way back to my sleeping husband.

I slept surprisingly well and woke refreshed. Before Gary left to take the kids to school on his way to work, he kissed me and said quietly. “You’re looking good this morning. I guess you had a good time last night, huh?”

For one alarming moment I thought he knew about Rapeplay and me (Except, I told myself, there was nothing to know – yeah right) but his smug grin told me he was giving his own tumble credit for my morning glow.

Mischief, powered perhaps by relief at not being caught (Caught doing what? It was just cyber) took charge of me then. I pressed up against Gary, pushing my hip up against where his erection should have been and said. “I’m going to spend the day remembering it.”

I felt him stiffen, just a little. “Shame you can’t stay home,” I murmured in his ear. Then I stepped away from him and called out to the kids to get their stuff cos daddy was leaving.

Gary mouthed the word “Later” at me, grinned, and swept the kids out the door.

I took my coffee into the office and opened up my email. Even though part of me was looking for it (hoping for it), the sight of Rapeplay’s name in my inbox made my heart beat faster.

I opened the mail. There were no lurid close ups of his erection as I’d feared (hoped?) just civilised text that wound itself around my desire.

“You have a great deal of potential, Stephanie. I’d like to help you develop it. On-line. And in ‘real life’.”

I wouldn’t let myself think about the “in real life” part (he wants to fuck you, really fuck you – you haven’t been touched by another man for… – Shut up, I’m not interested.) but I loved the idea of having potential.

“I liked the pictures of you and hubby hiking.”

So, he’d found my Facebook page. I felt like he’d seen me naked: I was embarrassed and excited.

“Gary, (how nice that you used his real name) looks like a nice man. I think you need something more than nice in your life.

I’ll be in the chatroom at midnight.”

That was it.

I should have been furious or afraid or both. I should have called Gary, or the police. Instead, I opened my legs, closed my eyes, and soaked myself in the memory of something that had never happened but which was so much more real than my day-to-day life.

Afterwards, I showered, trying to wash away the slut who’d surfaced that morning. I felt clean and refreshed. And I knew that I would be back on line at midnight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Naughty But Nice?

This started life as a 500 word add on to a post on Oh Get A Grip. I’ve developed it a little with the help of the folks in the Erotic Readers and Writers Association.

It is a dark little thing that is not at all nice and goes way beyond naughty.

Enjoy

© Mike Kimera 2010

I shouldn’t have been hard but I was. After the Valentine’s night I’d had, any normal man would’ve wanted to be deeply asleep. I’ve never thought of myself as a normal man and what I wanted was to be deeply inside Christine.

Darkness greeted me as I pushed into Christine’s apartment. The blinds
were down, blocking out even the moonlight.

Before I could reach the switch, Christine had me pushed back against
the front door. I could feel her nakedness as she pressed into me, clamping her thighs around one of my legs.

“Well,” she said, “did she let you do it?”

There was so much hunger and malice in her voice that for a moment I
pictured huge fangs ripping at my throat.

“No. She didn’t let me.”

The hand that had been stroking the length of my erection through my
trousers suddenly grasped me hard enough to hurt.

“No?”

I laughed.

“She didn’t let me. She begged me.”

“Sally begged you to fuck her arse?”

“On all fours, arse in the air, looking back at me over her shoulder.”

“Good boy,” she said, unzipping me and roughly yanking my erection out
where she could get at it. “You followed my instructions?”

“No condom. No shower afterwards. Left as soon as she fell asleep. Yes ma’am.”

Christine nodded her head slightly, acknowledging my obedience while failing to detect the mild mockery in my voice.

“I can smell her stink on you.”

She bit my neck and worked my cock with her hand.

“I have to taste it.”

Christine slid down my body, took me into her mouth and sucked hard.

Getting a blow job from Christine always feels risky, not just because of the semi-public places that she often chooses to deliver them in, but because she worries at my cock like a dog with a bone, owning it so completely that it seems possible that she might never give it back.

Usually, Christine would take me deep in her mouth. She was proud of her ability to swallow me whole. She knew the symbolism wasn’t lost on either of us. This time she was focused on tracking down any hint of Sally’s scent on my sex, so she worked me with her tongue, glazing me with tremendous skill.

Sally gave blow jobs like she’d only just discovered they existed. She
delighted in how hard they made me. She would ask me if I preferred it like this or like this and how did it feel when she flicked the tip of her tongue just like that?. She’s the only woman I’d ever met who could laugh and fellate at the same time.

Sally was nice.

I of course am not.

“The Valentine’s gift worked a charm,” I said.

I’d been working my way into Sally’s affections for months. Valentine’s day was the deadline I’d set myself for getting her to give me her arse.

I’d brought Sally the perfect Valentine’s gift, something that was literally ‘Naughty But Nice’.

The image of it blossomed in my mind: a camisole and panties in
a truly dreadful red silk with white lettering.

I’d shown it to Christine before I left for the date.

“Little Sally’s nipples pushed through ‘Naughty’,” I said.

“Her clit was a prominent ridge beneath the ‘I’ in ‘Nice’. I’ve seldom
seen anyone who wanted it that badly. Other than you, of course.”

Christine stood, wrapped one ballet-trained leg around my hip and fed
my cock into her wet cunt.

“And did you fuck her badly?” she said, grinding against me.

“I bound her wrists with my tie, pulled her to the floor, ripped off her ‘Nice’ panties, pushed them into her mouth and set to work giving her the rimming of her life.”

“Poor little Sally. You must have driven the frigid little bitch wild.”

So much hate for sweet little Sally. If I were inclined to commit psychology, I would speculate that hate like that has its roots in envy.

But I hadn’t come here to swap deep thoughts. I’d come to collect on a debt. It was time to get on with it.

I took hold of Christine’s chin and made her look me in the eye.

“I told you I could,” I said.

Christine stopped grinding.

“Yes, you did,” she said.

For the first time since I’d pushed through her unlocked door that evening, it seemed to occur to her that she might not be the one in charge of the situation.

I smiled at her. I let go of her chin and cupped her firm little arse cheeks in my hands.

“So I won my bet. I drilled your too-nice-to-be-true little sister’s arse. Do I get my reward?”

“Do you want it?”

I pressed my thumb against her anus. She grimaced and twisted away. Inside her my cock hardened just a little.

“It’s Valentine’s night. What could be better that having anal sex with two sisters on the one night?”

I’d done just about everything imaginable to Christine but she wouldn’t let me sodomise her. She said it wasn’t something that she wanted to do.

That of course, just made me want it more.

I’d used Christine’s hatred of Sally to create the opportunity for a wager: I’d get Christine’s arse if I could take Sally’s first.

Christine pushed my hands away from her arse, pulled my cock out of her but but kept hold of it.

“You know I don’t want to do this, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you want me to do it anyway.”

“A bet’s a bet,” I said.

There was a pause, then Christine squeezed my cock and said, “You are
not a nice man,”

“No,” I said, “I’m not.”

Pressing her breasts against my chest and rubbing my sex against her belly, Christine said, “You can have me until dawn. You have to leave
before my husband gets back tomorrow. You have to use a condom and if
you call me Sally I will castrate you.”

Grinning, I let Christine lead me by the cock to her husband’s bed.