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.

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?

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.

The Enclave: Chapter 1 – a new arrival

“I’m not as young as I look,” I said quietly, my mouth against her ear. “The Legate makes me dress like this. He likes the virgin-whore schoolgirl thing.”

The woman made no reply. Well, the cock-gag in her mouth made that predictable, but some of the panic left her eyes.

“Now I need you to lie very still.” I said, loudly enough for the microphones to pick up.

Her whole body stiffened. She’d seen the cut-throat razor in my hand.

“It’s OK. I’m good at this. I get lots of practice. I’ll have your mound smooth and hairless in no time at all.”

I thought for a moment she might cry. Instead she turned her head away. Most of them prefer not to watch.

She was old enough to be my mother. She even has the same Celtic look that makes me so exotic here: skin pale enough to see the veins beneath, blood red hair, sky-blue eyes.

He’d set this up because the whole lesbo-mother-daughter thing cranked his erection up a few degrees. Lewdness appealed to him. It made for great television. He’d be watching the recording of this session for weeks. I looked up at one of the cameras and smiled. Then I set to work shaving off the curls of red hair from the woman’s pubis.

Her clitoris was deeply hooded and her labia folded over one another like petals on a sleeping flower. The skin at the edge of her labia was darker than the rest. A rarity. He’d like that.

I ran my thumb over her mound to test the smoothness of the finish. We’d both suffer if I missed a spot. She flinched beneath my touch. Her bonds meant she couldn’t move far, but she definitely flinched, finding my touch more difficult to bear than the kiss of the blade.

Her wrist-cuffs had been clipped to the black leather straps around her thighs. Her hands were clenched into fists. She wore a wedding ring. Probably a war widow. I wondered how long it had been since someone had seen her naked. My guess was that no one had ever seen her naked and bound.

She’d get used to it.

We all do.

I set down the razor and slid up her body, pressing my small still-clad breasts against her large naked ones. Playing it up for the camera. When I was close enough, I whispered in her ear.

“He can’t keep you against your will. They don’t tell you that when you sign the form, but any contract can be broken. Slavery is still illegal.”

I kiss her ear to keep the watching public happy and continue.

“Nod your head and I’ll cut you loose and make sure he let’s you go. I can make him do that, I promise you.”

I sat up, legs straddling her, letting my too-short plaid skirt display my lack of underwear and placed both of my hands on her breasts.

I waited.

She did not nod.

I was not surprised. Any contract could be broken but there were always consequences. At the very least she’d be made to leave Enclave. She didn’t look like she’d survive that for long.

I tweaked playfully on her nipples and said, in my best schoolgirl voice. “Yum, you look good enough to eat.” Then I leant forward and sucked one of her breasts into my mouth.

She was actually quite beautiful. Even with the ugly black cock sticking up obscenely from the gag in her mouth, she looked dignified and elegant. Everything about her appealed to me. Everything except the fact that my touch made her flinch. It would have been nice, just once, to have had one of them love me.

Still, the Legate knew my tastes. Where would the fun have been in sending me someone who shared them?

I reminded myself that, in six more months, my contract came due and I would have a permanent right to reside in the Enclave, I would even have the opportunity to study. Once I’d paid my dues.

I climbed off the widow. She did not look at me.

I gave the cameras a quizzical look and said “I wonder if the rest of you tastes as sweet?”

The bonds tying her to the bench have spread her legs wide. One of the ceiling cameras moved along its track until it is above where my face would soon be. The camera at the head of the bench stayed focused on the widow’s face. I wondered if the Legate was running the cameras himself today.

It wasn’t hard to work out what he wanted. He had had her left here with that big black rubber cock sticking out of her mouth after all.

“I know,” I said in a bright, happy voice, “why don’t I eat and ride at the same time.”

I knelt quickly beside her, making a show of loosening my school tie and opening up all the buttons on my blouse and saying softly, “Play along. This is going to happen. Try to enjoy it.*

I grabbed the dildo sticking out of her mouth and used it to turn her head to look up at me.

“Please, Momsy,” I said, “Can I have a ride?”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I was past worrying about the widow. I was looking after myself now.

I took off the skirt. No point in hiding the action. Then, slowly and with melodramatic relish, I slid down the faux-cock until it was all the way in. The only real cock I’ve ever had is the Legate’s and that was one more than I’d ever wanted, but I do like being this full; it takes my mind off everything else.

I didn’t have to fake the satisfied sigh, which was just as well as he’s not very tolerant of faking. I pushed up and down a couple of times, grinding back against her head, then I slid forward, careful to keep some of the cock inside me, and found my way to that hooded clit.

I get through these sessions by being somewhere else with someone else. Today, I was with Jess, in the barn, before the war reached us. She is sitting naked, with her back to a pillar, legs spread even wider than the evil grin on her face and pointing dramatically to her clit. “I need you right here, right now” she says.

I tried to imagine that the clit unfurling beneath my tongue is Jess’ and that this session is about love and joy. If I concentrated hard enough I could sometimes even make myself believe that. Today was not one of those days. I licked and sucked and nibbled but it all felt mechanical and forced. Which, I suppose, was quite appropriate. I was resigning myself to a lack-lustre session when I was taken completely by surprise. The widow started bucking beneath me, using her head to push the cock in deeper.

For a moment I let myself think that I’d actually aroused her. Then I realised that she really was just using her head; trying to get this over with as fast as possible.

I closed my eyes, said my traditional prayer “Jess, I need you right here and right now” and reapplied myself to making us both come.

It took me longer than usual to find her g-spot. It was set back in the curved roof of her sex and I needed most of my small hand in her to put pressure on it. Once I found it, everything slickened up nicely. I persisted and persisted until the widow lady arched her back so much that the cock slipped out of me entirely, leaving me gaping into the camera. She came for several seconds, in little quakes that felt like sobs.

This was a problem. I wasn’t even close to coming. I wondered how the Legate would react to that.

The sound of clapping reached me, like an answer to my question. The Legate had arrived in person to applaud our efforts. This was very unusual.

I started to sit up but he said “No need to rise, Lizzie. I like you just where you are.”

I dropped my head back onto the widow’s mound and carried on licking, never taking my eyes off him. He’s often forced home the point that I should look him in the eye when he’s using me.

As usual, he was accompanied by Yuriko, a Japanese half-breed who is even smaller and less developed than I am. She was wearing a sailor suit top but was naked below the waist. The leash he held was attached to her clit ring, ensuring that she always takes care to be at his side.

“Yuriko and I enjoyed your love making so much, I decided to join in.”

He snapped his fingers and Yuriko rushed to loosen the belt that held his kimono closed and reached up to slide the robe from his shoulders. She had to press against him to do this. He neither bent forward nor looked at her.

He has the well-defined muscles of a man who uses his body as a weapon: deep chest, strong arms, thick legs, spread in a fighter’s stance. His substantial erection curved up and back towards his concave belly.

Yuriko bent her head to suck him but he pushed her away, throwing the leash after her. He was clearly very excited. Which was good, because it meant this wouldn’t take long.

“I’m glad you enjoyed Mrs. Carstairs, Lizzie” he said as he climbed onto the bench and knelt between the widows legs.

He leant forward, steadying himself by pushing my head down onto her pubis. I opened my mouth and he pushes all the way in. I knew better than to suck. He would take whatever he wanted.

“You and, what did you call her? Ah yes, Momsy. You and Momsy make such a lovely couple,” he said, pushing deeper into my mouth, “that I’ve decide to put you in charge of her training.”

He picked up his pace, fucking my face as hard as he could. When I started to gag he gave a satisfied grunt, pulled out of me and slipped into the widow. She thrashed around until she heard him laugh. Then she had the sense to lie still.

It took less than a minute of humping before he was ready to come. The Legate was still forcing my head down onto the widow’s mound. I took the hint and did my best to lick her clit and his shaft. It’s a trick that takes practice but I’ve had plenty of that. The Legate went for the crowd-pleasing finish, pulling out of the widow to spew his cum on my face and her mound.

“Splendid,” he said with same sense of pride another person might show if they’d just invented a cure for cancer.

He got off the bench and headed for the door, still naked and still slightly erect. Yuriko was kneeling at the exit, holding up her leash to him. We all knew that it would be her function to deal with what was left of the Legate’s erection, probably while he viewed his newest recording for the first time.

While Yuriko got to her feet, the Legate looked back at me and said, “I’m making her your bed-mate for a while, Lizzie. Now clean her up and take her to your quarters. And do let her get some rest. I want her on the Pole tomorrow and I don’t want it over quickly.” Then he tugged on Yukio’s leash and left us.

For a moment I didn’t move. His instructions had caught me by surprise He’d never let me have a regular bed-mate before.

Then I processed his statement about the Pole. That was a tough routine for a new arrival. Clearly Mrs. Carstairs was more to him than just another neophyte for the Enclave.

I needed to find out what that connection was so I could decide if I’d been offered a reward or a poison chalice.

I was literally shaken out of my reverie by Mrs Carstairs herself, who was making it clear that she wanted me off her as soon as possible. While understandable, this was not acceptable behaviour from my new trainee.

I climbed down, found a towel to wipe his slime off me and put my skirt back on. I was in charge here so I got to clean up and wear clothes while she stayed naked and soiled.

My new charge was struggling against her bonds and trying to make herself heard despite the gag in her mouth. That wouldn’t do at all, especially with the cameras still running.

The slap across her face seemed to astound her.

I could see it would leave a mark. I had hit her a little harder than I’d intended to. Still, at least now I had her attention.

I grabbed the sticky cock-gag and turned her face towards me.

“I don’t know who you were out in the world but here, in the Enclave, you are mine to train. You are also my bed-mate and you will serve me as such even if I have to keep you bound the whole time.”

Her eyes became very cold. But she was calm and she seemed to be listening.

“Struggling against your bonds is not allowed unless it is caused by pain. That is why I slapped you. It is also why you will keep the gag in your mouth and his cum on your belly, while I walk you to my quarters.”

I let go of the gag, picked up the razor and said, “Nod your head if you are ready to obey me.”

She eyed the razor with concern but this time she nodded.

I sliced through the bonds at her ankles with the razor but I left her wrists bound to the straps around her thighs. Then I dragged her to her feet by the cockgag.

Standing up, she was much taller than me. My mouth was about level with her breasts. She had nice breasts, large but firm, with wide nipples that still pointed up and out.

I looked up into her eyes and saw only wariness. Wariness was a lot better than shock or despair or hate. I could work with wariness, but first I had to reinforce it.

“You have nice nipples, Momsy,” I said, twisting her left nipple between my finger and thumb but keeping my eyes on hers.

“As your trainer, I get to decide if we pierce them…”

Score one to the home team, Mrs C’s eyes widened in shock. The camera would love that.

I placed the flat side of the razor next to her right nipple. “… or if we should take them off altogether.”

I smiled then. I think that frightened her more than blade.

“But, then perhaps they’re better as they are. What do you think, Mumsy? Oh you can’t speak with you mouth full. Silly me.“

I leant forward a little so that my mouth was close to her breast.

“Maybe, if I became fond of your nipples, if I knew they brought us both pleasure, I could leave them as they are. Would you like that Momsy?”

I waited. A small tear escaped down one cheek.

You have to admire the control that that implies.

Mrs C nodded.

Twice.

“Show me that you want me to enjoy your nipples.” I said.

Mrs C worked it out. She pushed her left breast forward against my mouth, brushing my lips.

I moved the razor away from Mrs C’s other breast and extended my tongue so that I could lap at the nipple like a cat taking cream.

She really did have attractive nipples but I made myself pull my mouth away. I needed one more step to drive the lesson home.

“I’m not sure you’re enjoying this.” I said, stepping back. “Perhaps you would prefer I didn’t suckle you?”

Mrs C shook her head so violently that the cockgag wobbled. She shuffled forward towards me, doing the best she could with her wrists bound to her thighs, to offer me her breasts.

“Well, if you’re sure.” I said.

I grabbed her breasts with both hands, lifting and squeezing them so that her nipples were offered up like cherries on a sundae. I sucked on each nipple, worried them with my teeth, pulling my head back to stretch her flesh. I wasn’t gentle but I was thorough.

When I stepped away, Mrs C stayed still, waiting for me to tell her what to do next.

We were making progress. A sense of triumph blossomed briefly within me. It died when I looked into Mrs C’s eyes and saw myself reflected there. I understood then that the only one triumphing here was the Legate. Which is something I should never have lost sight of.

I decided to change the game a little.  Silently, I stepped forward and cut Mrs C’s wrists free from the straps at her thighs and then reached up,grabbed the cock-gag and used it to make Mrs C bend her head. When her ear was close to mouth I whispered, “The only words you say when I loosen this gag are ‘Thank you, Lizzie'”.

I loosened the strap until I could pull the gag out of her mouth and leave it dangling from her neck. Her lips were swollen and her mouth and chin were covered in spit but that only seem to make her more attractive in my eyes.

“Thank you, Lizzie” she said. Her voice not much above a whisper.

“That’s OK, Mumsy. That’s your reward for offering me your breasts like a good girl.”

“Now, let me take you to your new home.” I said holding out my hand.

I thought she might ask for clothes, or a towel to wipe herself, or try to cover her nakedness with her hands, but she had better control than that. She took hold of my hand and said “Thank you, Lizzie.”

She kept hold of my hand and stayed in step beside me as we walked through the Enclave to my quarters.

I Wonder…

This dark little thing came to me one day when I was working in London. I walked past something that labelled itself, with a remarkable lack of discretion, as “The Spy Store”. I began to wonder what domestic users would use this kind of kit for. This story was the result.

© Mike Kimera 2000

I’ve seen you many times, on buses, in local shops, buying coffee (tall skinny latte double-cup) at Starbucks. I’ve noticed details of your appearance and your posture and pondered them, quietly and continuously as I lay next to my sleeping wife. You are younger than me and people notice you. Your energy shouts more loudly even than the brightly coloured clothes you wear on your good days. Your depression and disappointment announce themselves in the slope of your shoulders and the fingers running distractedly through your hair.

The police would find no pictures of you on my walls, no unposted letters to you in my files, no stolen underwear under my mattress. And yet I am collecting you; putting you, piece by piece, in my belljar.

A sociopath, they say, is someone who understands the consequences of their actions, is able to conceive of the impact of their actions on others, and yet commits the actions anyway. More difficult to detect than the psychopath, these men, and they are nearly always men, manipulate the people around them in order to meet their strongly felt needs for control.

That seems to me a bloodless, weak, unempathic description. Let me explain. We sociopaths act BECAUSE we understand the impact of our actions on others. It is this impact which gives the act flavour and purpose. The shiny happy shallow people who surround us like shoals of minnows escape for the most part by not being worthy of attention.

You caught my attention. All of it.

The layout of your house is available through a search of the town planning records. I wonder which of the two bedrooms you sleep in. The larger, I decide, the smaller will be your office where the computer you love so much lives.

You left your keys in your front door one day. Wasn’t it kind of me to return them to you? You gave me one of your friendliest smiles. You almost remembered my name.

Your career is beginning to bloom. Your agent tells you that Bantam is interested in your book outline. But what has really made a change to your life (and will make an even bigger change – one you could not possibly predict – one which would drain the joy from your face if you anticipated it) is the new man in your life. Handsome, witty, charismatic and – oh happy day – working in television.

In Europe, the surveillance equipment that is restricted to Federal agencies here is available over the counter: powerful microphones that pick up every sound and fit inconspicuously behind electrical sockets, video cameras that fit into motion detectors just like the ones you had installed last month as part of your alarm system. My trips to our offices in London this year have been most instructive.

Yesterday, Sunday, you looked so happy kissing him good-bye. His first full night in your bed – at least in this bed – although I have imagined you and he as a tangle of sweaty limbs and stained damp linen. I have imagined it in detail.

My wife worries about my insomnia. She says I spend too much time in front of the computer. Last night I kissed her and told her to get some sleep. Then I returned to the video images on my screen, using headphones for the sound so I won’t disturb her. I am a considerate husband.

Restraints, gags, nipple-clamps, all the bondage toys that are so freely available over the Internet. Who buys them? People like me and you?

The shack out by the lake was my wife’s idea, ask anybody. An isolated spot where we could spend pagan weekends away from the kids. I’ve been spending some time there recently, fixing it up, making some modifications to meet my needs.

Tonight my wife left to visit her sister for a couple of weeks. I’m packing a bag full of toys. I’ll be spending some time at the shack. I jingle the newly cut set of keys in my pocket. The video on my computer screen shows that you are sleeping. I knew you would sleep in the nude. You’re that kind of girl.

Hotmail is a free and convenient e-mail system but you should always remember to log out. Simply moving to another web page leaves an open door anyone might pass through. An e-mail from your account to your agent says that you argued with your boyfriend last night and that you need time alone. You’ll be back in a couple of weeks.

The image of you waking, tied to a frame, penis gag in your mouth, blindfolded, vibrator in cunt and arse, has filled my mind for some time. I wonder how your scream will sound when the pain starts. I wonder if you will recognise my face.

Let’s find out.

 

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

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Last Rites

This is another story that breaks a taboo that prevents it from ever seeing print.

We are not comfortable combining sex, love and death. In my experience, seeing those you love die changes everything. Love and sex are the antithesis of death. They assert and create life. Yet we all die.

“Last Rites” looks at one woman’s defiance of death’s dominion.

© Mike Kimera 2002

Nathalie had always loved Luca’s cock. It was beautiful: smooth, strong, dark, responsive – Luca in miniature. Holding it brought her peace. It helped her narrow her focus until nothing in the world existed except her and the arousal she created and craved.

Kneeling on the bed, bent over in an almost foetal position between Luca’s legs, she caressed his cock: running the shiny tip over her tongue in small circles, cradling his balls in one hand, gently milking the base of his shaft with the other. She loved this part, before his cock became fully hard and slapped up against his belly, when he was still growing in her hand, twitching on the tip of her tongue. The first pre-cum appeared. Nathalie took it as a signal to suck his crown into her mouth and hold it there, savouring it.

Outsiders had never understood her relationship with Luca. A middle-aged lawyer was not supposed to be with a young actor who had spent most of his career waiting tables. Her colleagues had looked at Luca’s slim hips and handsome face, smiled and given her kudos; he was a better accessory than a new Ferrari. Luca’s family had shunned her. She was a predator, stealing their son’s youth. None of them understood their love for each other.

All her life Nathalie had been surrounded by articulate men, who wooed her with words, respected her mind, shared her cultural interests and made love to her using all the techniques that the sex manuals recommended.

Luca had never once made love to her, he had always fucked her or let her fuck him. The first time he took her she felt like someone who had always swum in a pool and had finally discovered the crashing waves and strong currents of the open sea.

She’d been watching him for three days, going back to the restaurant he worked at just to be able to look at him. On the fourth night he hadn’t been on duty. She ate her meal without tasting it and left. He was leaning against her car, waiting for her. He didn’t speak, he just kissed her, then he walked her to his flat and spent the night fucking her. She didn’t know his name until the following morning.

Nathalie released Luca’s cock from her mouth. It was rigid now, hard to hold onto, ready to ride. She let her eyes track up his lean body, still muscled although the tan had faded. He looked perfect. It was hard to accept that he was almost dead. Only the ventilator marred the picture. It looked like some alien predator attacking his neck. She hated it, even though she knew it was doing Luca’s breathing for him.

Nathalie had insisted that Luca had physio every day. The muscle wastage was minimal, bedsores had been avoided. It seemed that at any moment he might wake, smile at the attention she was paying him, and pin her to the bed to take his revenge. The doctors said that it was never going to happen. They described his condition as a persistent vegetative state. Brain dead. The lights were on but no one was home.

Sliding upwards over Luca’s body, feeling the warmth of his skin, Nathalie rested her head on his chest so that she could listen to the beat of his heart. He felt so alive against her, except that his arms were still at his sides when they should have been stroking her; his eyes were closed when they should have been ranging over her body, drinking her in. She wanted to slap him, to make him wake, to insist that he paid her attention. She wanted him back.

It was part of her promise to herself that she would not cry tonight, their last night together. Luca’s family were having the machine turned off. She had fought them in the courts but she had no status. She was not family; she was just his lover. He was just her reason for living. They had described her as a vampire, a ghoul, a selfish predator. They demanded their son’s right to die, promising to involve the newspapers and create a scandal if he was not “released into the next world.”

Nathalie didn’t believe in the next world. She knew she was losing Luca forever. She had denied her loss in the first days of the coma, refusing to leave his side, sleeping in his bed when the nurses finally left them alone together. That’s when she discovered that Luca still reacted to her presence. They had always been able to arouse each other easily; Luca said it was a genetic thing, two sets of genes calling to each other demanding to be combined. For one wonderful night Nathalie had nursed Luca’s erection, certain that it proved he would come back to her. The next day a doctor had told her that it was just reflex, an involuntary response. Nathalie thought that that was a fitting description of their whole relationship: an involuntary response.

She knew that Luca’s erection had to be more than a nervous tick. She decided that it was his way of trying to reach her. It had always been his way of trying to reach her. Tonight they would touch for the last time. Tonight she would try to conceive his child.

Nathalie sat up astride Luca’s hips. She closed her eyes and pulled at her nipples, making herself wet. She wanted their child to be conceived in pleasure. Reaching between her legs she guided Luca into her. They had laughed at what a snug fit he was. She had told him that she was a lock and he was her key. Feeling him inside her now, having him so present and yet so absent was almost unbearable. She lifted his lifeless hands and placed them on her breasts, holding them there as she rocked against his erection.

Nathalie had known that she would need something extra to get her through tonight. There was a memory she kept locked away: a treasure that she only let herself visit infrequently so it wouldn’t be devalued. They had taken the ferry from Portsmouth to Santander, a twenty-four hour trip over rough seas. Luca had arranged a cabin for them: small, no windows, deep in the bowels of the ship. They had spent the whole journey in their cabin. With the lights off, the room was completely dark. They could hear the rumble of the engines and feel the ship’s movement. Luca had become her anchor on the world. She had felt as though only his cock inside her prevented her from floating into nothingness. She recalled that memory now, savouring it, letting it arouse her. She pressed down on Luca, wanting to feel him push up into her, wanting his hands to grip her breasts, wanting him not to be dead, wanting him to give her a child.

She managed not to cry until after Luca came inside her. Then she collapsed on his chest, feeling him shrink, letting herself say goodbye to him at last. There was no urgency now, she was pregnant, she had to be, otherwise there was no meaning. She would lie beside him until morning. When his family arrived tomorrow to “release” their son, she would be gone but she would be taking Luca with her.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2002 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Burger Queen

This is a short “behind the eyes” piece about a sociopath’s obsession with a woman at his local burger bar

© Mike Kimera 2005

The smell alone is enough to make me hard: hot fat, salt, flame-grilled meat. These are the perfumes she brings to my dreams. Sometimes, in my sleep, I’ve come just by imagining the taste of her burger-tainted sweat in my mouth.

I push through the mindless crowds who come here for a fast-food fix and select the line that will bring me to her. Those about me shuffle forward, cattle waiting to be fed. I am awake, alert, aroused, a hunter circling the herd.

I’m less than two meters away from her now and she hasn’t noticed me. She is still calm and unaware. I like to observe her like this, a doe at the waterhole, tempting and vulnerable.

As always, she is dressed in her tight fitting Burger King uniform, ponytail hanging provocatively from her baseball cap, name badge penetrating the fabric over one large breast just above the nipple, illuminated like a goddess against the brightly lit signs offering to sate my hungers.

Some might think her heavy, but I sigh at the thought of her solid flesh and smooth skin. I want to bury my fingers into the warm dough of her thighs. I want to heft her breast up to my mouth, rejoicing in its weight and anticipating its flavor.

While I am still one person away from her, I let my thumb stroke down across the erection that stretches down my thigh, putting pressure on my jeans. I am so hard I could take my pulse through the denim.

Then she is standing before me, waiting. She smiles. Then she recognizes me and the smile dims; the subconscious recognition of predator by prey perhaps.

“What can I get for you?” I know the words are ritual, said to all who come to her altar, but that does not diminish their meaning.

I look her directly in the eye, leaning forward so my erection is pressed against the counter in painful pleasure, and unleash the porn-storm across my mind, charging my lust with lightning fast images: of her kneeling, mouth full and gagging; the taste of her neck in my mouth as I pull open her  striped shirt and knead the tender meat of her breast;  sighing against me as I slide my hand past the waistband of her trousers and curl my fingers into her cunt; the soft strength of her ponytail wrapped around my fist as I bend her over the counter and push into the tight warmth of her ass; the smile on her face as she jacks me eagerly into her grateful, greedy mouth.

It only takes seconds for my come to shudder through me, and blossom, wet and dark, against my jeans, an unseen token of my affection.

“You can make mine a Whopper,” I say.

There, I can see it in her eyes, the recognition that these words in my mouth, spoken to her at this temple of gratification, are a blessing. She looks down as she names the amount of the offering she requires. My fingers stray across her hand as she takes the money and I can feel the charge between us.

She busies herself serving me. I devour her every move, recording them for pre-sleep playback.

When the tray is ready, she offers it to me. There is no smile on her face now. She wants me to be gone. I understand completely. My presence overwhelms her.

I sit at a table where I can keep her in sight as I eat. She is the yielding bun beneath my fingers, the warm tender meat that I rip with my mouth, the hot salt sensation of the fries that I suck between my teeth. Her offering appeases my hunger but strengthens my appetite for her.

With one last glance at her delightful form, I head out to my car to wait for the end of her shift.

I watch her leave, thin coat wrapped over her uniform, not quite warm enough now that winter is howling at our doors. She folds her arms around her, bows her head and pushes towards the bus shelter.

I know how it will happen. I have seen it many times in my dreams. The bus will be cancelled or late. The rain will be cold and merciless. I will offer her a lift in my warm dry car. She will hesitate but she will choose comfort over security. Then my worship of her can truly begin.

But, for now, I content myself with watching her climb onto the bus, diving back into the safety of the herd.

She will be back tomorrow, my Burger Queen, and I will let her continue to serve me.

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

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

The Night Before Christmas

Don’t be fooled by the title. This story is in the right category.

It breaks one of the taboos of erotic fiction so I’m fairly sure that I’ll never see it in print, although Greg Wharton was brave enough to publish it on Suspect Thoughts

Santa
No one notices a man in a Santa suit on Christmas Eve. You didn’t. Not even when I followed you out to your car. Last minute Christmas shopping at the mall. The place so crowded you’ve had to park right out here at the edges.

I saw you park when you came in. I knew you were the one, my Christmas Eve. Looks like you were on your way to a party after you got those last few items. The coat may be long and warm but that dress is way short. I love those simple strapless frocks. I’m glad you do too.

As you reach your car and open the trunk I ring my bell behind you. “Ho Ho Ho, Meeeeerrrrry Christmas” I say as you turn towards me.

Maybe it’s the white hair and the beard but you don’t recognise me. You give me a weary look and reach for your purse. Give the man a dollar and make him go away.

As you look down I throw the sack over your head and pull it all the way over you. As the drawstring closes around your ankles you fall forward over my shoulder. One push and you’re in the trunk. The car keys are still in the trunk lock.

I start the engine of your car and fall into the Bing Crosby routine that used to irritate you so much. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, spent with a girl I used to know…”

You
The damned sack is too tight to move in. This has to be a joke right. What else can it be? A surprise party. A Santa Gram. I’ll kill the girls when I meet them. This is going too far, setting me up like this.

“LET ME OUT.LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU ASSHOLE”.

All that’s going to get me is a sore throat. No one can hear as we move through traffic. Maybe when he stops at a junction. Shit he’s turned the radio up so loud no-one will here me. Jesus I hate carols on the radio.

We’re stopping. Now let’s sort this crap out. Enough is enough. From the angle we must’ve turned into a driveway. That’s the trunk opening. “LET ME OUT OF HERE NOW DO YOU HEAR ME”. That smell. What the hell is that smell…

Santa
The chloroform worked like a dream even through the sack. One minute its little miss firecracker, the next its goodnight sweetheart. I’m a genius.

Your house hasn’t changed much since I left. You really go to town on the decorations. I knew you’d have a large tree.

Very pretty.

Very you.

Now its time to wrap my Christmas present.

You
My throat is so dry. What the fuck? I can’t move. My legs are bent back and my wrists are tied to my ankles behind my back. I’m naked. What the hell is going on here?

An amplified voice says “Ho Ho Ho little girl. You’re on TV”.

Santa. The sack. Shit, what is this?

My head is clear now. This is my living room I’m under the tree. But the TV has been moved to the centre of the room and there’s a video camera that definitely isn’t mine perched on top of it.

There, on the screen… Oh fuck.

Santa
The expression on your face; it was worth it for that alone. But then you always did look wonderful.

The hog-tie would hold. You would know that. You’ve been tied like that before.

Your breasts are just starting to change colour where I’ve tied the tinsel tightly around the base of each tit.

The crowning glory is the holly wrapped around the top of each thigh. The points of the leaves are pressing into your flesh. The green of the leaves and the red of the berries look so festive against your skin.

I watch you taking this all in as you see yourself on TV. This is going to be fun.

“Even from here I can tell your cunt is wet”

The amplifier still disguises my voice.

You wriggle charmingly. I always liked the way you wriggled.

Let’s see if you still make the same noise when you come.

You
Shit this holly hurts.

But he’s right, my cunt is wet.

I almost recognise that voice. But it can’t be. He’s still in Japan.

Look at my tits in that tinsel.

God my nipples are so fucking hard. What is wrong with me? Why does it always get me like this?

I haven’t done anything like this since…

Shit it is him. It must be.

Santa
When you stiffen and look squarely at the camera I know you’ve figured it out. Time for my grand entrance.

“Remember me? Remember all the little games we used to play? Remember how you used to beg me to enter you? Well I’m back. Happy to see me?”

Your face is like thunder.

“How dare you do this to me, you shit” you spit at me.

“Shhh – quiet now or I’ll have to gag you and you wouldn’t like that.”

We both know you wouldn’t like that because afterwards I would hurt you until you were screaming into the gag.

“I have some presents for you.”

I produce the nipple clamps. Each one has two little sleigh bells attached.

“My, but your nipples are hard. Are they still as sensitive as ever?”

I twist one nipple hard and you groan more in pleasure than pain.

“My favourite painslut”.

“Please don’t do this” you say, quietly, all rant gone.

I run my finger between you wet cunt lips and then wipe them under your nose.

“You don’t mean that” I say.

I fasten the clamps to your nipples, then flick your clit with my middle finger.

As you bounce in your bonds the bells ring merrily.

“Now for my second gift. I picked this up in Japan. You’ll like it. It’s Rudolf the rednosed vibrator.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief…

You
The fucking thing is ten inches long. The two inches at the tip light up as a garish red nose. Oh shit it rotates. The fucking nose rotates. But it’s the antlers that get me. Little reindeer antlers, one for the clit and one for the arsehole. My thighs are trembling just looking at it.

“Please” I say. “Please”.

But I’m not sure whether I mean please stop or please don’t stop, and you know it.

You always knew it.

Santa
It slips into you easily. Listen to those bells ring as that head starts to rotate. I kiss your mouth.

“Glad to see me? Just like old times isn’t it?”

You call me foul names but your heart isn’t in it. Your cunt is starting to rule your head.

“Open wide”…

You
I never could resist his cock in my mouth. I want it. I need it.

I hate him but I need his fucking cock in my mouth.

God. God. So good. So humiliating. But so fucking amazingly good.

Santa
The old magic is still there. You always knew how to play tunes on my cock. Mmmmm that is so good. YESSSSSSSSS. Swallow my cum. Swallow it all. Good girl. You always were a good girl.

I start to hum the Meatloaf song you hated “Good girls go to heaven/ but bad girls go everywhere.” Of course I changed the words to come everywhere. Is there anywhere I didn’t make you come?

Your lips release my softening cock. Your eyes are closed. You’re into it now. I sit beside the video camera and watch your climax build as Rudolf lights up your sleigh tonight. The batteries should be good for an hour. Let’s see how long you can take.

You are bouncing now. Screaming your cum. No words just lust. I switch off the vibrator and loosen the tinsel on your tits.

As your senses return I lean into your ear and whisper. “Merry Christmas, Sis” and then kiss your mouth.

It’s good to be home for the holidays.

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

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Buying Daddy’s Freedom

This was one of my first stories. At that time I sometimes used a female pen name. Under that name, the story was selected for a print anthology. I had to withdraw it because the anthology was only open to women.

Once I released the story as Mike Kimera it became impossible to publish. It seems I’d gone from feminist pioneer to exploitative male with the change of name. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

 

Buying Daddy’s Freedom

(c) Mike Kimera 2000

I’m waiting for you as I was instructed to do. I don’t even know your name, but you apparently know mine. My dad says that if I don’t “make you happy” he will go to jail for a long time. I’m the price of his freedom and he is so cowardly that he hides the price behind a euphemism.

I’m eighteen and at five foot one, I’m the smallest person in my class. I’m wearing my school uniform as I was asked to do: white blouse, short plaid pleated skirt, striped tie, white cotton bra and panties, white socks, flat shoes. My short brown hair is in an alice-band. I’m not wearing make-up. I wonder why you want me to look so childish. Are you afraid of women? Can I use that against you? Or are you just making a point?

I arrived at the discrete but luxurious hotel that you named in your note and was lead into this suite by a bellhop who devoured me with his eyes.

“There’s a package for you Miss,” he said and handed me a box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a blue ribbon.

I thanked him. He looked at me with a strange smile on his face.

“Have a good evening Miss,” he said. As he left he let his thumb stroke down the outside of the erection I could see growing in his pants.

I felt soiled and wanted to leave, but I’ve never seen my dad so frightened of anyone as he is of you. I’m determined to be brave. I know I’m strong enough to get through this.

I sit down on the edge of the four poster bed and see myself in the full-length mirror opposite. I look pale and small and frightened.

There is a card on the box. It says “Put these on with your hands behind your back, kneel facing the mirror and wait”.

I realise that the bellhop would have read this. I blush with shame. No wonder he was hard when he left.

I open the box and find a pair of black leather padded handcuffs joined with a single ring that will keep the wearers hands very close together. I can see that they will lock when closed. There is no key. I follow your instructions.

Now I am kneeling with my hands locked behind me and resting on my arse. My back is straight and my breasts are pushed forward. My skirt doesn’t quite cover my knees. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder what you will do to me. We have never met. I don’t know what you look like. I just know that my dad is very scared of you. In my own eyes I can see the fear. I stare into the mirror until I replace the fear with anger and the calm that comes with controlling that anger.

I close my eyes and I start to wait…

*************************************

I’d expected humiliation maybe even pain. I was ready for it. Resigned to it. I hadn’t expected, didn’t want, arousal.

I think it was the blindfold. I’d meant to stare at you; to dare you to take pleasure in fucking me; to let you know what a shit I think you are. The blindfold robbed me of that. Left me only with touch and smell and taste. Senses that betrayed me. The feel of your cock against my bound hands should have revolted me but it sent shivers through me. So hard. So insistent. So male. Then your tongue on my skin, in my mouth, while your cock pushed and pushed.

I struggled. I am not a slut. I will not enjoy this. I’m doing it only for Daddy.

So now I’m laid over an armchair, my arse in the air, your hand on the waistband of my panties, and what I want more than anything is for you not to see that my panties are damp.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” you ask. Your voice is so strong, a mixture of passion, control and just a hint of cruelty.

“What do you want?” I say, hoping you will hear hatred in my voice.

“Everything you have to give. Anything I care to take,” you say as you rip the panties from me. Your fingers slide into my cunt, fast and uncaring. I try to move away but you pull me back by the hands, pushing your fingers deeper.

“Wet little cunt, and still a virgin – so rare these days – well a girl’s first time should always be special,” you say and my hymen rips beneath your fingers.

I scream “BASTARD”. You remove your hand. I relax, trying not to cry. I knew you would take me. I should be ready for this – but I’m not. Now I’m ashamed; ashamed of being a virgin; ashamed of my father for letting this happen; ashamed of myself for letting you get to me.

You lean over me and pull my shoulders back so that I’m lifted upwards and my body pivots on my clit which is pressed against the arm of the chair. Your cock is between my legs. I feel it like a hot poker. Your hand, the hand that has just deflowered me, is under my nose. It smells of cunt and blood. I move my head sideways with a mou of disgust but you slip the two fingers into my mouth.

“Clean them Alice. Suck them,” you whisper in my ear. I hesitate and feel your cock start to move against the lips of my cunt. I suck, bobbing my head on your fingers. Trying to distract you from my cunt.

“Virgin you may have been, but that mouth of yours has sucked cock hasn’t it Alice?”

Your fingers leave my mouth. You push me down hard against the chair and SLAP, SLAP, you hit my arse hard.

“Answer me Alice.”

“Yes I’ve sucked cock” I say quietly.

SLAP

“Louder girl” my arse is stinging my tears are making the blindfold wet

“YES I’VE SUCKED COCK” I shout and with a single violent movement your cock slides all the way into my cunt.

You grab my hips and you fuck me hard. Pounding me. Thinking nothing of my pleasure. You feel huge to me. So hard and brutal. Each time you pound me my clit hits the chair. I’m aroused but I’ll never come like this, but you don’t care. Then you grunt and I know you’re about to come inside me.

You spurt. It feels hot and so much more invasive than coming in my mouth. Grunt, thrust, grunt, thrust, each thrust sending more invaders into my womb. My arse and thighs are bruised. My cunt feels torn.

You pull out with an audible plop.

I cry “No” and neither of us knows if I want you to stop or continue. You leave my arse exposed and walk in front of me.

“Clean it Alice. Suck it,” and you push your cock past my lips, putting the head in my mouth. When I start to suck you remove the blindfold and pull back my head back by the hair until I am looking you in the eyes. I bare my teeth around the head of your cock and throw my Medusa glare at you.

You do not turn to stone but your cock stiffens a little.

“You are a brave girl,” you say grinning down at me with your perfect white teeth “pity your father is so weak. Take your time getting me hard again. We have all night.”

*************************************

It’s nearly morning now. I am almost ready to go home. Just as soon as I stop shaking. You really shouldn’t have said that about my daddy. You let the demon out. I tried so hard to control her.

I think you saw it in my eyes when she took over; when she bit down hard on your intrusive flesh.

The bruises on my face tell me you must have hit me hard and often, but I didn’t feel the blows. There was just anger and the rending of flesh.

My head caught you in the belly and you fell backwards. The demon clamped down hard and suddenly there was blood everywhere. You hit your head on the way down. I don’t think you were conscious for long. I spat you out and in the mirror I saw the demon, bathed in blood, staring at me. Then she was gone and the trembling began.

I could have called an ambulance. It might have helped. Instead I sat by you until you were cold.

Soon I’ll take the keys from the dresser and take off these cuffs. Your shirt and trousers, placed with such precision on the chair, should cover me once I’ve showered. So much blood. Sticky now, like tar on a hot day. The girl in the mirror looks so small but soon she will be ready to go home, to daddy.

 

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

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

My Brother’s Wife

This is a brutal story, from the point of view of someone for whom power is an even bigger high than sex itself. It’s one of those stories that people either really like or where they write and ask me how I can write such bleak, emotionally arid stuff. I think there’s a place for the odd sociopath in erotic fiction, so I’m content with this story. Try it for yourself and see what you think.

Fucking Money

This is not a nice story but I hope you find it a memorable one. It’s another of those tales, where, once it was on the page, I found myself wondering, “Where does this stuff come from?” I’m not sure I want to find out.

(C) Mike Kimera 2001

 

I’ve always been an ugly man but I haven’t always been rich one. Wanna know the difference? Pussy. Lot’s of pussy. Pretty pussy. Like yours.

I’m sorry, that was crude and offensive wasn’t it. I could tell that from the way you had to concentrate not to curl your lip in disgust.

I’d hate you to think me ignorant as well as ugly and rich.

Let me re-express myself. It is a fact universally acknowledged that an ugly man in possession of a fortune must be in search of some pussy.

Is that better?  I think Jane Austen would have agreed with that – in private of course – in those arse scratching, nose picking moments of honest humanity. I think she still liked men when she wrote “Pride and Prejudice.”  She’d turned bitter by the time she got to “Mansfield Park”. What do you suppose happened to her to make her into such a dried up bitch? Maybe some man disappointed her. Has a man disappointed you? Is that why you’re here?

Very good. You remembered our deal. You’d be amazed how many women can’t shut up even when it costs them £500 a word.

Now open your legs wider. Show me some pink. And smile. Good. Very good.

What do you think your class would think if they could see you now? They’re favourite butter-wouldn’t-melt-my-mouth English teacher getting ready to fuck the money?

Except of course we’re not going to fuck are we? Not quite.

I used to have a pretty little English teacher. Not as pretty as you and of course I never really had her. Not Like I’m going to have you.

Ugly poor men have a lot of time for reading. A lot of time for watching pretty girls go by. A lot of time to wonder what it would be like, just once, to screw one.

When I won the lottery I was thirty-six  years old and I’d only been with a woman twice. Well, look at me; it’s not surprising is it? I SAID LOOK AT ME.

Do you like what you see? The rounded shoulders. The pot belly. The small head with the long nose and the slightly bulging eyes. Oh and the small cock that bends slightly to the left when it’s up. As you can see.

You really are very pretty. Now show me how wet you can get. Work one finger on that prominent clit of yours. I want to see your slit glisten.

The first girl did it for a bet. A little hell raiser who would even fuck the freak. I was twenty-two and a virgin. She tried hard. But she lost it when I finally got it up. She broke up laughing. Did I mention her friends were holding me in place? I still remember their faces. Everyone one of them.

She said “A bet’s a bet” and she fucked me anyway. Me on my back, her on top. She got off early, just before I came. It was still dribbling onto my belly when they ran away giggling.

What do you think she’d make of our deal? Do you think she could even count #500,000?

The second woman was older than me and very drunk. Her thighs were like tree trunks but she spread them for me, bless her. When she woke up in the morning the first thing she saw was me bringing her a pot of tea. She said, “Bloody hell, I’ve fucked Quasimodo”. But she let me do her one more time before she threw me out.

I told you I wanted to see your cunt wet, not your eyes. Don’t you dare cry for me. I’m not the one earning half a million on my back.

Now look, my erection’s gone.

Better try harder my pretty little miss, if you want all that money. You know the deal.

GET UP. I’M BORED OF SEEING YOU LIE THERE.

I’m sorry. That was tiresome of me.

Please stand, Miss Prendergast and show me how you walk in those heels. You used to do ballet didn’t you? How often did you primp and preen in front of a mirror and bar like this one? Go ahead. Show me how you can stretch you legs on that bar.

Why is it that all you ballerina types have no tits? Not that I mind. I like small tits and hard nipples. The big ones look fine when they’re still but they look ridiculous once they start to bounce.

You’re still very supple aren’t you, Miss Prendergast, though the heels bother you don’t they? Well never mind, they make your arse much more fuckable.

The doctor said that there are no signs that you’ve ever had anal sex. You did read that part of the contract didn’t you? But you signed anyway. You really want this money don’t you?

I know what that feels like. I wanted it. Then I won #30 million. Do you know how many whores that will buy? Do you know how many women are suddenly willing to kneel and suck just on the chance of being my mistress? And I loved fucking them. I had two or three a day for the first month. I’d make them do each other while I watched. For a few hundred pounds an hour you get some women to do almost anything.

Mmmm you look good covered in sweat like that. You can stop now. It’s time for the toys. Please come this way, Miss Prendergast. Come this way. Don’t you think that’s witty? No? Neither do I. But whores would laugh at that.

I’d been fucking whores for almost a year before I realised that they were the ones fucking with me. Milking me like a cow.

Climb up on the bench please, Miss Prendergast. You understand how the equipment works? Check it out while I set up the video camera.

I stopped fucking whores then. But I needed an outlet. Something I could control. It was the begging letters that gave me the idea. All those losers out there who thought I should help them pay for their kids operation or get involved in charities to help save the planet. I was reading them one day and I got hard. They were so desperate. More than hungry. I could smell their need in their words.

The first one was such a proper little thing. Churchlady let down by her God and her husband.  Of course I hadn’t got it worked out then. I actually fucked her. Made her bark like a dog while I fucked her from behind. She was still crying when she left. But it wasn’t enough. I realised that what I wanted was to watch. To watch closely.

Smile for the camera, Miss Prendergast. My but you’ve put a lot of lube on that dildo. Just as well with a tight arse like yours. But you and your little lipstick-fem lover must get lots of practice with these toys. Or did that stop once she became ill? You know that, when you spend this money, some other poor wretches will be selling a kidney each to keep your little darling alive. Morally repugnant don’t you think?

OK, you know the drill, squat over the dildo so that your arse hole is just touching it. Rest there and tell the camera your name and age. Explain that you are here of your own free will. Tell the nice people what you are being paid and what you will use it for.

Excellent. Excellent. Such a clear, well modulated voice. And such a touching tremor in the voice as you got to the end.

Now fuck the dildo Miss Prendergast. Fuck it slowly. Lift up your face. I want my cum to catch the light when it hits your face. It will make a great tape. Maybe I should mail an mpeg to some of your friends?

That looks painful. I like that. See how my cock swings to the left?

Oh Head back and keep your damned mouth open

Here it comes…

Thank you, Miss Prendergast. You look so endearing with your face streaked with tears to match my cum. You can get dressed now. The cheque will be waiting with your clothes.

You know, just once, I’d like one of you to spit in my face and tell me to fuck my money. But you never do. You never do.

Now get out.

I have a video to watch.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2001 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Back When We Were Happy

The title of this piece is a reference to Ann Tyler’s “Back When We Were Grown Ups”. Tyler is one of my favourite writers: wonderful characterisation, effortless dialogue and an understanding that life is never quite what you expect it to be. This story is much darker than Tyler’s stories tend to be, although, like Tyler’s story, it is also about a woman who is reconsidering her life. In re-reading this story before posting it here, I decided that my favourite line is:

“Unhappiness lacks the drama of grief, James. It doesn’t happen suddenly. It’s more like getting old, it occurs so slowly and the loss is so gradual that you notice it only when you suddenly can’t do something that you used to take for granted.”

(c) Mike Kimera 2002

I wake slowly, my synapses misfiring like an old car on a winter morning. Aching head, dry throat, naked, bound wrists and ankles. Naked? Bound? What the…?

Now I’m alert. I struggle but I can’t get free, I’m taped to the fucking chair. Calm down. Think. You’re in your office at home, taped to your own chair, in front of your own computer. What’s the last thing you remember? Miriam, pouring me a whisky, a large one.

Miriam drugged me and bound me. Why? We’ve never played those sorts of games.

The computer is on. A webcam window is open. It’s Miriam, looking out at me.

“Hello, James. Please don’t struggle. You’re in no danger. I just need to talk to you.”

“MIRIAM!”

“Don’t shout dear, no-one will hear you. Isolation was one of the main reasons you bought this house, remember?  I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get your attention, James, please listen to me. I won’t keep you long. I have something to show you.”

A QuickTime file opens on the iMac. Amateur quality. Two men – no, three – fucking a woman. All of them fucking her. A hole each. She’s astride one of them. The big guy fucking her arse is crouched over her, forcing her down, almost obscuring her from view. Shit, I didn’t know Miriam watched this stuff. I didn’t think she was even interested in sex any more. I get an instant hard on. If this is foreplay it’s working better than that headache-inducing Viagra.

“Watch carefully, James, it gets better.”

There’s no sound on the clip and somehow that makes it more exciting. Two of the men, the ones in her arse and cunt, look fit. The one holding her head and trying to choke her on his cock has a beer belly bigger than mine. Her face is pressed into the obscene softness of it.

The camera, which must be handheld, jerks downwards, focusing on the cock tearing into the woman’s arse. Jesus he’s big, bigger than the guy in her cunt, bigger than me. I’m starting to sweat and my cock is up against my belly.

“See anything you like, James?”

The big guy leans back to show how long his cock is as it pulls almost all the way out of her arse. The cameraman must be leaning over the guy’s shoulder to get this shot. A quick glimpse of the woman’s back, then a zoom to her wrists, bound behind her. Discomfort prickles at the back of my brain.

“It’s not a rape, James. She was perfectly willing. She likes being tied.”

A blurred shot of a tacky carpet as the camera moves. The next shot is from behind the fat face-fucker. At first all I can see is his belly and her red hair. Then he pulls her head back so we can see him fuck her throat. Miriam’s throat. I almost don’t recognise her. Her face is flushed, her eye-makeup has run, her hair is matted to her head. Miriam. My Miriam. My wife. I can’t process this.

“Unhappiness lacks the drama of grief, James. It doesn’t happen suddenly. It’s more like getting old, it occurs so slowly and the loss is so gradual that you notice it only when you suddenly can’t do something that you used to take for granted,” Miriam says.

Her words are calm, as if she doesn’t know what I’m looking at. Except, she does know. This is what she wanted to show me.

“I was happy once, just as I was young once. I wish I’d paid more attention at the time. My sexual promiscuity started as a response to unhappiness. I don’t mean that I woke up one day and thought, ‘I’m unhappy. I’ll screw around to cheer myself up.’ It was a more gradual process than that.”

The camera is at the side now. I can see Miriam sucking the end of Fat Fuck’s cock, her cheeks drawn in with the effort, her eyes closed, her pale soft breasts being mauled by the guy underneath her. I’ve got fucking pre-cum on my cock. I’m watching my wife being gangbanged and my sodding cock just wants to blow its load.

“Even before you stopped sleeping with me, I used to masturbate as I lay beside you. You knew that, didn’t you?

You were too polite to comment on it though. You gave me space, slept in the next room so that you wouldn’t disturb me when you left for work in the morning. What a considerate man.

All day I’d be in this mausoleum of a house, alone, about as much use as those expensive golf clubs you bought and never used. You know, I got so angry with you one day that I fucked myself with one of those clubs. I even enjoyed it.”

Fat Fuck pulls Miriam back by the hair. She opens her eyes and sticks out her tongue. He slaps her face with his cock, then wanks across her outstretched tongue. I want to look away but I’m too fascinated. Most of his cum lands on her forehead. Some runs into her eyes. Then he pushes his cock slowly in and out of her mouth.

“I realised then that sex was a relief from boredom and unhappiness. It made me feel more alive. I tried porn. I bought toys. But the effect wears off. The more I did, more I had to do to get the same level of excitement. Then you bought this iMac and the little webcam you were so excited about and never really learned to use.”

Fat Fuck wipes his dick on Miriam’s hair. She looks up at the camera and pushes his cum out of her mouth so that it dribbles over her chin and onto the man below her. Then she lowers her head and kisses him.

“You can contact all sorts of people by webcam. Men will masturbate for you if you ask them to. Especially if they get to watch you push a coke bottle up your cunt. And if you’re careful, they need never see your face. It’s not your face that they’re interested in.”

The camera focuses on the big guy’s face. He appears to be in pain. I watch him pull out of Miriam and spray his cum over her bound hands. It takes several seconds. Then he works her arse with his fingers to show how it gapes open. When he pushes his cock into her mouth I come, splashing my belly.

“I wondered if you’d come watching this. Was it seeing me fucked or just the size of his cock that got you so excited do you think? Yes, James, I can see you. The webcam is on at both ends. Don’t worry, you’re not being broadcast on the Internet.”

Shame induced hatred of Miriam courses through me. If my hands were free I’d smash the computer. As it is, I can’t even wipe the cum off my belly.

“One day I found http://www.fuckmates.com. Their pitch goes: ‘All men cheat. You can put up with it or you can get even. Why not have the best cheaters cheat with you? If your Mr Right is Mr Wrong let us connect you with Mr Rightnow. Get you own back on your back.’ I was amused rather than interested. Then I found out about your little affair. You weren’t even bright enough or polite enough to hide the paper trail. So I thought, ‘fuck it’ and I signed up with fuckmates.”

I’m not excited by what I’m watching any more, but I can’t look away. Time is moving slowly. I’m not letting myself think. I daren’t let myself think. Miriam’s voice has a hypnotic detachment to it. The movie has that live-car-crash appeal; horrible but irresistible. I sit still, just watching and listening and waiting to find out what Miriam wants.

On the screen, Miriam is flipped on to her back so that the last guy can fuck her harder. The other two hold a leg each, spreading her wide. She seems dazed, almost drugged. Fat Fuck keeps squeezing one of her tits between his stubby fingers.

“As you can see, I was very popular. It wasn’t as much fun as it looks. The men bored me. At least I can remember having loved you. They were just meat. I discovered that if I went with more than one there was less talk and more sex. They were clumsy and self-absorbed, but at least there were lots of them.”

The last man comes inside Miriam. I expect him to pull out and shower her. Instead he moves to give the camera a better shot of her cunt. I think it’s over, then it gets worse. He spreads Miriam’s labia, so that I can see the cum inside her, then he pushes all his fingers into her. Miriam’s face is out of shot so I don’t know if she is thrashing around in pain or pleasure.

“For a while I lived off the thrill of doing the forbidden. Then I realised that I was still unhappy. The only thing that had changed was that I was now an unhappy slut who got gangbanged by strangers and didn’t even have the sense to charge money for it. If you’d have been home more you might have noticed the drinking, and the depression. But you haven’t noticed me for a long time have you, James?”

It was true. I’d become expert at tuning Miriam out. I should have known this had happened. I should have stopped it.

“So why am I telling you all this, James? It wasn’t to get you off – although I thought it might, you shit. It wasn’t even for revenge; I’m so far past that that I can’t even remember the emotion anymore. I wanted you to understand what’s going to happen next. You see, I agreed to do one last scene before I quit the group-sex thing. I knew there’d be a camera, but I didn’t have the energy to care.  I’d fucked two of the guys before, but not the fat one. He was new. The scene went OK, pretty much as usual, until the end. Watch the end, James.”

This was as usual? What the hell else could happen?

The last guy pulled his fingers out of Miriam and wiped them on her belly. She looked almost asleep. The camera pulls back. It seems like the filming is over. The big guy reaches to untie Miriam. The other guy is getting to his feet. Then Fat Fuck slaps her, hard, across the face. My balls contract at the sight of it. This isn’t pretend; this is real. Miriam opens her eyes, looking angry. The two guys move towards Fat Fuck but they’re too slow. Before they can reach him, he pisses on Miriam’s face. He’s still pissing when the big guy punches him and the other guy knocks the camera sideways. The film ends.

Silence.

I realise I am crying. I can’t decide if it’s for Miriam or for myself.

“The guys beat the shit out of the piss artist. I didn’t care. I saw the surprise in his face when they stopped him. I’d fucked this man and he’d seen someone it was reasonable to piss on. I decided he was right. I’d turned myself into a human bidet. They gave me the only copy of the film; they gave me the whole camera in fact. That was two days ago. Two days in which you didn’t notice a thing, not even the bruise under my face make-up”

I search my memory. How could I have not noticed? Because I didn’t care, of course. That’s how it must seem to Miriam, at least. Do I care? I’m not sure. I don’t know what I feel any more.

“Have you figured out why I bound you yet, James? I don’t want you to interfere and I don’t want you to be blamed either. This has nothing to do with you any more.”

The QuickTime file must have been set to replay, because the movie has started again from the beginning, but I’m not looking at it, I’m looking at Miriam on the webcam window that has just opened. Seeing her, my balls turn to ice. She looks too calm, too detached, almost as if she isn’t really there.

“I can’t be unhappy any more, James. There’s no point to it. The Internet is a wonderful thing, you know, you can find out almost anything there, even how to die. Hanging is apparently quite unreliable. Slitting the wrists in the bath, Roman style is highly recommended but I hate the thought of all that mess for someone to clean up…”

Oh shit. She can’t mean this, can she? Not Miriam?

“…So I’ve chosen a strong sedative and a plastic bag. Suffocation is quick and the only violence is to my soul. I’m on my bed, the one we haven’t shared in such a long time. I’m clean and calm and ready to take the pills once I’ve finished speaking to you. I’ve been tired of living for such a long time now, James, but it’s almost over. I’m almost over.”

She really means it. I can’t let this happen. I start to struggle against my bonds.

“Don’t get so agitated, James. This is not about you. I’ve recorded this so the police will know what happened. No one will blame you. Even I don’t blame you any more.”

I can hardly hear her. I’m banging the chair against the floor, trying to get loose. I have to get loose.

“Look at me, James.”

Something in her voice stops me. She looks straight at me, straight into me. Absurdly I remember that I originally noticed Miriam because of her eyes: pale blue eyes and rust red hair, my pre-Raphaelite poster girl. When did I stop seeing how beautiful she is?

Speaking quietly, almost whispering, Miriam says, “I really loved you once, James, back when we were happy. Good bye, James.”

The signal dies. Only the damned movie is still playing. I break the arm off the chair by knocking it over. I’ve got to get to her. Got to stop her. Please God, let me be on time.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2002 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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Nadica

This is one of my favourite stories. It’s not fun but it does tend to stick in the mind. I’d love to know what you think of it. Go here if you want some of the factual background to this story – warning- this is not easy reading