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.

Amy Goes To College: Chapter 2 Amy Plans Revenge

Amy Goes to College

Chapter 2: Amy Plans Revenge

(c) Mike Kimera 2004


To: ti8nwett@bigfoot.com

From: amyable@FckU.com

Subject: How to solve a problem with Maria.

Hey Sis,

Great news, I’ve managed to screw Dean Julien Ward. Well, not really screw him, not yet anways, but his ass is mine. Which is only fair given the bruises he left of my ass when I got busted for smoking pot. Tonight I’m gonna make him pay for that.

You should see this guy: think Giles from Buffy –scrawny, old, snotty voice, no fashion sense – then add a cold hunger in the eyes. He’s into sex but it’s in some twisted Brit way that’s all controlled and condescending.

I knew as soon as I got into his office that he’d hit on me. A man like him probably doesn’t get fucked often unless he pays for it. And I’d have been fine with that. I like it here at Desert U. It’s not the world’s greatest college but at least they let me in. After that thing with the fire at my last college I thought no-one would take me. So I thought, “If I have to fuck devil-Giles to stay in school, hey I’ll just waggle my ass and get him off as quick as I can.”

Of course it didn’t go down like that. Friend Julien likes games. He leaves the handcuffs on and he gets me to call him sir, he even asks my permission before he lays into me.

The spanking shit was a surprise. I’d never been spanked before. You should try it – or have you tried it already? The whole of the next day I couldn’t stop thinking about his hand stinging my ass, his cock, not that long but plenty thick, pressing into me. All that heat and hardness… and pain. My ass was hurt but the pain was making me wet.

As you know I’ve always enjoyed sex. But I’ve enjoyed it like a sport I was good at or a game I could win. The spanking was different. It produced basic, gut churning lust. I wanted his cock and I wanted him to hurt me. I found myself wanting to have him slap my face with his cock as I knelt in front of him. But I also wanted him to lose himself to it. I wanted to see him sweat. I wanted to know he needed it as badly as me.

At the end of the spanking I was bent over, handcuffed, bare- assed, and wet enough to fuck a baseball bat and the bastard unlocked the handcuffs, called in his frumpy secretary and threw me out without even giving me a decent fuck.

It was like he was laughing at me. Like I wasn’t good enough to have his cock in me. Like he was in charge and I was just a toy. I ran out of his office full of anger and frustration. I wanted to go to my room, lie on my bed and frig myself unconscious but laying down wasn’t an option and by the time I got home my lust had become a hunger for revenge. No one turns me on and then just kicks me out. I decided I was going to fuck him and then break him.

That next day he walked past me in the corridor. I was leaning with my back against the wall. I opened my legs as I saw him and pushed my books up under my breasts. I made eye contact and then looked at his crotch, but he ignored me. Walked by as if I didn’t exist. I decided that that had to change. He had his guard is up against me, smug bastard. I needed to get past it to get to his cock. I needed a lever… or a Trojan horse. By the end of the day I’d found the solution: I’d get to Ward using Maria.

Maria is a Latino, just under 5′ tall, small breasts topped with coffee colored nipples, dark eyes, waist length black hair. She’s a local, still living at home with mummy and daddy; still dressing like she’s in high school – I bet her mom picks her clothes. Her best feature is her mouth. Her lips always look swollen and moist as if she’s just finished sucking cock. Except she doesn’t suck cock. Her preference is for pussy, my pussy in particular. She’d been trying to get a lick of my pussy for weeks. I’ve had girlfriends before – as you know very well J. A girl’s tongue on my clit is a welcome change, but Maria’s not in my social circle so I wasn’t interested.

Last week Maria met me coming out of a bar neither of us was supposed to go near. She was drunk and alone and as soon as she saw me her nipples saluted. I took her back to my car. As I put her in the back seat she made a grab for me.

She kissed me with those large lips, putting her tongue in my mouth. “I love you,” she said.

I let the kiss linger and then pushed her away saying, “Get off me, bitch”.

She caught hold of my arm and pulled my hand between her legs to her wet pussy.

“Please, Amy. I’ll do anything,” she said.

Her cunt was soaked. She was starting to turn me on. I pushed her back down on the seat, making sure no one could see us. I lay down on her full length. My tits pushing up against her. Her thigh trying to dry hump me between my legs.

I held her hands above her head and said, “Do you want my pussy, Maria? Do you want your tongue up my cunt?” She pushed against me but couldn’t move.

“Yes” she breathed, “God yes”.

“Well you’ll have to earn it you little lesbian slut”

That started to sober her up. She didn’t like that so much.

“If you want my pussy” I said, “I want to see this shaved and smooth.” I put my hand on her cunt and pushed two fingers in while still holding her hands above her head “and I want this pierced.”

I brought my hand out of her pussy and pushed it into her mouth, grabbing hold of her tongue. I liked the thought of a hard little stud in her tongue flicking against my clit.

Then I raped her mouth with my tongue. I was hot now and I wanted a fuck. She’d warmed me up nicely for the meeting with my boyfriend’s father at the Lazy O Motel that I’d been on my way to. It was time to go.

“OK slut, out of my car,” I said and dragged her ass out of there. As I drove off she was still on the ground in the parking lot with her hand buried in her panties.

I thought no more about it then, the day after Dean Shaw’s little bondage session, Maria was there when I went for my session in the gym. After the session, Maria followed me into the showers. She had the sense not to stand next to me but she let me see that her pussy was now smooth and hairless. With her slight figure it made her look very young and vulnerable. Her clit also looked larger.

I remembered that Maria had been out for a couple of days. I’d heard from the other girls that she’d had a major row with her father. I wondered if it was because she’d had her tongue pierced. I figured it was time to check her out. If she was pierced then she’d help me nail Ward.

I made sure I was out of the locker room before Maria was. I waited in the corridor and grabbed her wrist when she walked by. The stupid bitch actually smiled at me, delighted at the attention. I didn’t speak to her I just dragged her round the corner into one of the empty music rehearsal rooms. The soundproofing in these rooms makes them a favourite spot for a lunchtime fuck. I’d gotten the janitor to give me a key (you can guess how and no I didn’t swallow).

Alone with Maria in the room I pushed her up against the wall and said, “Show me.”

Without taking her eyes off mine she stuck out her tongue which was now decorated with a shiny silver stud. “And the rest,” I said.

She lifted her skirt and pushed down her panties to show her smooth pussy again. I put my hand on her mound and kissed her on the lips. Her nipples stood out like rivets.

“You’ve been a good slut so far, Maria, and tonight you get your reward.”

She smiled and tried to reach for me. I grabbed her by the cunt and slammed her ass back against the wall.

“Wait ’til I tell you,” I said “You’re going to help me get the man who did this to my ass.”

I took off my panties and showed her the bruising. She looked sorry for me – how touching – and I let her trace the bruises with her hand. Actually it felt good.

I decided to try out that stud of hers. I sat on one the chairs, opened my legs and had her kneel before me.

“Show me how you use that tongue, slut and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do”

She thanked me and set about licking my clit and cunt with the kind of skill that only comes from lots of practice. The girl was good and the stud would really help get me off.

I told her that tonight she would go to the Dean’s office just as his prim and proper secretary was leaving. She was to make sure the secretary saw her go in. Once inside she would ask for counselling about her father’s reaction to her stud. When she heard the secretary leave she would show the stud to the Dean and explain that her boyfriend made her get it for oral sex. She’d say he made her shave her pussy too and would take off her panties. If the Dean came on to her she was to suck his cock (not an idea she was keen on) if not she was to rip her clothing and throw herself on him. I would then enter.

With perfect timing I came on her face when her instructions were complete. She wanted me to finger her. I told her she hadn’t earned it yet but that I did have a present for her. I reached into my bag and pulled out a banana that I’d intended to have for lunch.

“Here, fuck yourself with this while I watch.”

If she did it I would know the slut was in my power. That banana disappeared inside her so far and so fast that it took my breath away. When she came I was glad the room was soundproof.

The plan worked well. The secretary saw Maria go in. Ten minutes later I entered on cue and found Maria on the floor (where Dean Ward had just thrown her – too cautious to get her to suck his cock). Her panties were off, her clothes were ripped, and his cock was hanging from his open fly. Maria does good work with the right incentives.

FLASH the camera goes off.

I explained to the Dean that I’d tell everyone he made Maria shave and get a stud and that I came along because she said she thought he would try to rape her once he got bored with her mouth.

You should have seen his face: outrage, disbelief, anger. He actually looked dangerous. Then I offered him a way out.

Of course” I said “It doesn’t have to be that way. Not if you decide to take both of us with you to the Lazy O Motel.”

His cock and his eyes both got hard then. For a moment I wondered if he would just rape us. Then he relaxed and leant back against his desk, his cock still sticking out of his pants. He picked up Maria’s panties and threw them at her.

Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Now I want you and your slut out of my office.”

Maria scrambled over to me. She was frightened. She looks sexy when she’s frightened. My pussy was getting damp. I decided to sit on her face before I sent her home. It might even be fun to make her come. It would be good to keep her grateful; I wasn’t done with her yet.

See you tomorrow, Prof,” I said, putting my arm around Maria. “Time for me to find out how wet you’ve made my little slut.”

I slide two fingers into Maria. She blushed but she didn’t move away, instead she pressed herself against me as I worked her. I could see it was taking all of Julien’s control not to cross the room and fuck us. I wouldn’t let him of course. I wanted to make him wait first. I wanted him to feel used.

I pulled my fingers out of Maria. She mewled in protest, already having forgotten that she was being fingered in public. I silenced her by pushing my wet fingers into her mouth, holding them high so that she’d have to stretch to suck them. I want Ward to see her tongue stud in action.

See what you missed when you wouldn’t let her suck you, Prof?”

I want you and your sextoy out of my office,” he said. His tone was hard and unforgiving. But his cock was harder. I swear it shivered as he spoke. He’d be jacking off as soon as we left the room.

I can see you want us, Prof. Tomorrow should be fun. Don’t be late,” I said. And then I dragged Maria out of there.

She was still mauling me when we reached my car; rubbing her self against me and feeling me up. I had to slap her to make her stop. Hitting her felt good so I did it again. She looked up at me in shock but she didn’t try to defend herself. My cunt contracted when I realised she was waiting for me to hit her again.

We were alone in the parking lot and my Santa Fe is way taller than Maria, so I decided to take her.

Turn and face the car. Put your hands on the vehicle and spread your legs.” Jesus, I thought, I sound just like a cop. I liked the idea.

Maria didn’t move so I span her round by her shoulders and threw her against the car. I was rougher than I meant to be and she bounced of the car but she assumed the position. I kicked her legs wider apart. She was tense, waiting for the next blow.

I kissed her on the neck and ran my hands over her little tits. “You were a good girl, Maria, so Amy’s gonna reward you.” She pressed her butt back against me and purred. She actually purred. “Amy’s gonna push her fist up your cunt until you come screaming like the little painslut you are.”

Amy, I…”

I slapped her hard across the butt. “You wanna talk, slut? Then the only words I wanna hear are ‘Thank you, Amy’. Do you understand that?”

I thought she’d say “Yes” but she was smarter than that, she just said “Thank you, Amy”

The first two fingers just slid in. I worked them in and out pushing her up onto the balls of her feet.

With every stroke she said, “Thank you, Amy”.

I had to squat to get the rest of the fingers in. The thumb was the most difficult. Then I was in her up to my wrist. Fuck, that felt good. I closed my hand into a fist and she screamed for the first time. I rested my head against her ass to keep my balance (and because I liked the feel of her flesh on my forehead) then I fucked her with my fist. I kept it slow; I didn’t want to rip her.

The little slut was still chanting “Thank you, Amy.” I was so hot that I had to slip a finger over my clit. I steepled my fingers inside Maria and pushed until I found her cervix, then I squeezed. Shit she went off like a hooked fish. The sound of her coming tipped me over. I bit into her butt as I came, closing my eyes with the pleasure of it.

When the come had passed I realised my knees were stiff and my hand was still jammed up Maria’s cunt. I yanked the hand out and she collapsed onto her knees. She let herself sit then turned to face me.

Her face was streaked with tears. She’d bitten that cocksucking lip and there was a little line of blood running over her chin.

I was just wondering if I’d gone too far when she said, “Thank you, Amy.” Then she looked down and said, “I love you.”

That woke me up. I’d had enough of Maria for one day. I reached forward and pulled her head against my breast. As she started to nuzzle I  wiped my cunt-slimed hand on her hair.

Yeah, well to me you’re just a wet cunt and a talented tongue, Maria.”

I stood up. She looked ready to cry. When I drove away she was still kneeling in the parking lot.

Yeah, I know I was hard on her, but she shouldn’t have brought up all that love shit. I hate it when they do that.

Anyway, Sis, that was Phase one of my master plan in action. Phase two is tonight. I go to the Lazy O and make Julien Ward regret not fucking me when he had the chance.

I’m gonna tell him that if he lets us tie him, Maria and I will take turns on his cock. I might even have Maria suck him while I tie the knots. Then I’m gonna push some Viagra down his throat. He’s gonna be hard for hours and we won’t fuck him once.

I’m gonna take Maria right on top of him. I’m gonna use a strap-on to take her hard. Then I’m gonna strap it onto darling Julien’s mouth and use it to fuck myself silly. The bastard will be begging to come. If he begs prettily enough I’ll get Maria to give him a hand job while I sit on his face.

I’ll let you know how it goes. Hey, I may even take a few more pictures just so you can join in the fun.

Hugs and Kisses

Amy

PS: Have you dumped that wimp boyfriend of yours yet? I don’t know why you put up with him. When I had him at Spring Break he wasn’t that good a lay.

Amy Goes To College: Chapter 1 Amy’s college life gets off to a spanking start

This story messes around with the college bad girl idea.

No deep meanings here, just a sex romp focused around a narcissitic young woman with a high sex drive and a college administration that seems to be up to no good.

Enjoy and let me know if you like it.

Amy goes to college

Chapter 1 Amy’s college life gets off to a spanking start

© Mike Kimera 2004

To: Naomi.Campion@DesertU.com

From: Julien.Shaw@DesertU.com

Subject: Confidential encrypted mail: Our new slut is primed.

Ok, so you did it again, Naomi. I’m talking about Amy Farmer of course. You really know how to pick them don’t you, my dear?

I wonder how many university admissions offices have a slut-spotter as good as you?

Of course, your preference for young girls is a strong incentive to hone your skills. You must have been creaming your panties when you interviewed Amy. Did you cross your legs and squeeze your thighs together? Were you able to concentrate on her banal answers to your questions or where you distracted by thoughts of working on her until she would accept your fist up her arse and still try to smile?

I’d read her profile of course: promiscuous delinquent, poor discipline record, big tits, heart shaped arse, and a pysch score that puts her libido in the upper decile: but it wasn’t until I met her in the flesh, and very nice flesh it is too, that I understood the low cunning, the spite and the arrogance that power her. She’s perfect for what we have in mind. We’ll run the little bitch through our mazes and she’ll think it’s all her own doing.

God, I love my job.

Who’d have thought that leaving Oxford behind (albeit not entirely voluntarily) and taking up the job of college Dean is this excuse for a university would have so many fringe benefits?

Are you sitting comfortably, my dear? Lock your office door, spread your luscious legs and find your toy of choice. I’m going to tell you all about my afternoon with Amy.

You’ve seen that “fuck me if you can” strut that she uses when she prowls around campus: all tossed hair, jutting tits, and swaying butt? It makes me want to hogtie her, tape one of your big “massage” Hitachi wands across her cunt and leave it there until the battery runs out.

But I digress.

Today, Ms Sluttorial Elegance excelled herself. She was wearing a tiny “catholic schoolgirl” plaid skirt, a thin white blouse a size too small and black bra and panties. I think she’s been watching Tatu videos. The look was so appropriate for what I had in mind that I decided that today should be the start of Amy’s extracurricular tuition.

As you know, the bitch is a pot-head, and I knew she wouldn’t make it through the morning without a hit. I had Mendez track her. I’m sure he enjoyed making the cameras zoom in on her over-displayed flesh, although the phallic symbolism of the extending camera would have been lost on his Neanderthal mind.

Do you think he ran his thumb down his erection as he watched her? Did he perchance, imagine ways to use her as our plans unfold? For one of such mediocre intellectual ability, our Head of Security can be surprisingly inventive. Do you remember the creative use he made of his nightstick with our last slut? Of course you do, you were sitting on her face at the time, as I recall.

Dearest Amy is not entirely stupid; she picked a deserted spot to get high; which was very convenient for us of course.

Mendez gave her time to get a buzz on and then he arrested her.

Poor little Amy, the nasty chief of campus security cuffed her hands behind her back, put her in his car and drove her to the Dean’s office. You know, that eccentric British Dean who has such a fearsome reputation for discipline and a well publicised policy of zero tolerance for substance abuse. How I enjoy the impression that I make, especially when most of it is false.

My new secretary, (another miraculous find of yours by the way. Mrs Almeda dresses like a Sunday school teacher, is almost old enough to be my mother, wears a wedding ring on her finger and a cross at her neck, won’t look me in the eye, even when she has my cock in her mouth; but she’ll do things most whores would blush at and do them promptly and obediently. She doesn’t enjoy them much it seems, but that just adds a spice to the dish. I wonder what hold you have over her? I have a nasty suspicion that somehow I am her punishment – your personal equivalent of a community service sentence perhaps– but I digress yet again – back to little Amy’s awful afternoon.) let them into my office as if the sight of a handcuffed co-ed dressed up as jailbait and smelling of marijuana was an everyday part of our office routine. If only it were so.

“You have visitors, sir,” she said and closed the door behind her on her way out.

Mendez pushed Amy further into my office. I had a splendid view of her tits bouncing as she struggled keep her balance.

“She was doing drugs, Mr Shaw. Shall I call the police?”

Sometimes that’s all the threat we need to get them in tears, but it didn’t work with Amy.

“Yeah, call the police.” Amy said, turning to face Mendez and flashing her panties at me in her haste, “and I’ll tell them about the perverted college rent-a-cop who cuffed me and then felt me up.

Mendez reached for his nightstick but I stopped him with a glance.

Standing behind Amy, I said, “Is this true, Mendez?”

I placed my hand on Amy’s shoulder, my fingers apparently accidentally brushing her bra strap. The heat of her made me instantly hard.

Mendez grinned. Amy looked confused. Then she noticed that my hand was still on her shoulder. Her little pot-fuddled brain was slowly working out that something was wrong.

“You can leave us now, Mendez. Ms Farmer and I have things to discuss.”

Mendez gave Amy a leer that would have curdled milk and then left.

I let go of Amy and leant back against my desk.

“Hey, wait,” Amy shouted as Mendez closed the door behind him. She turned to face me “He’s got the keys to these cuffs,” she said.

I stayed silent and studied her.

As you know I like to keep my office at a cool, nipple-stiffening temperature. A Dean has to give advice to so many young women and in our wonderful desert location, so few of them dress for the cold. I find it heart-warming to have such a responsive student body. Or do I mean bodies?

I watched with interest as Amy adjusted to the temperature. Her nipples are short but unusually wide. Better suited to a stud piercing than nipple rings I think. Two of those nice fat silver studs that look like little dog-bones. They keep the nipple lifted and provide convenient places for attaching weights and chains. Sigh… the expertise a man acquires in the course of his career.

Amy followed my gaze and ended up staring stupidly at her own tits. A perfect look for her I thought.

“You are in trouble, Ms. Farmer. Your academic record is mediocre at best; you’ve already been expelled from two schools. On the last occasion I believe you should count yourself lucky not to have been charged with arson.”

Poor little handcuffed Amy looked more disturbed by the threatening tone of my official persona than she had been at being mauled by Mendez. That speaks volumes as to the nature of the girl, don’t you think.

Just when it is dawning on her that this might be a disciplinary hearing and that she might be sent home, I let our precious sluttling off the hook.

I looked her up and down, taking in every curve and every hollow. With my eyes still lingering on those stubby little nipples, I said, “You have been a very bad girl, Amy.”

Amy smiled then; she thought she had it all figured out. She was back on familiar territory and snapped into role immediately.

“I didn’t mean to be bad, sir”, she pouted. “Mostly, I’m very, very, good. Or so they tell me.”

She walked towards me as she said this, head down, looking up at me from under her fringe, breasts jutting out because her hands were so tightly bound behind her; wanting me to think that she was a submissive little miss.

When she reached me, Amy rested her cunt against my thigh, her breasts against my chest, looked up at me and said, “If you take these handcuffs off, I’ll try to show you how good I can be, sir.”

I gave her a second or two to register my erection, long enough for her to think she was going to fuck her way out of trouble, then I pushed myself off the edge of the desk, letting her fall past me and onto the desk.

Amy struggled to stand. I put the palm of my hand between her shoulders and pushed until her fat tits where squashed against my desk.

“Ms Farmer, I do believe that you have compounded your original offence by offering sexual services in order to avoid being disciplined.”

Amy tried to push up off the desk, but with my hand on her back and her hands cuffed behind all she succeeded in doing was spreading her legs a little.

“LET. ME. UP!” she spat.

So much for submissive little Miss.

“If I let you up Ms Farmer, it will be to expel you. Is that what you want?

Amy stopped struggling.

“You didn’t answer my question, Ms Farmer. Do you want me to let you up off my desk?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Please don’t mumble.”

“NO.”

“’No’ what?”

There was a pause. This was where I would know if I had her.

She worked it out.

“No I don’t want to get up off your desk… sir.”

I let go of her then. Staying behind her, I said, “I am the Dean of this College and it is my job to instil discipline. Discipline is very important don’t you think?”

I waited. She didn’t need further prompting.

“Yes, sir. Discipline is important, sir.”

“I think,” I said, flipping Amy’s parody of a skirt up over her back, “that if we handle this privately…” I slid the flat of my hand over her right buttock. “We can put the whole matter behind us.”

My fingers hooked the top of Amy’s provocative black panties. “Do you agree, Ms. Farmer?”

I swear I could smell her cunt. The little bitch was angry but she was horny angry, my favourite kind.

“Yes. I agree. Sir.”

I was so tempted to rip those panties off, rub them across her drizzling cunt, stuff them in her mouth and ream her arse but I resisted. I didn’t want to land that fish yet, I just wanted to plant the hook in its mouth and let it run until it was tired. Very sporting of me don’t you think?

I did rip off the panties of course. I had to gag the bitch with something.

She pretended surprise but she spread her legs a little wider, waiting for me to fuck her, daring me to really.

I made her wait.

When she started to turn her head to see why nothing had happened, I hit her hard across the right buttock.

Her gasp of surprise was gratifying, even through the gag.

I hit her again, five or six rapid blows delivered with all the strength I could muster. I stopped because my hand stung and I needed to catch my breath.

Little Amy was having difficulty breathing. I doubt she’d ever felt real pain before, not the kind of pain the savages your consciousness like a dog shaking a rabbit, not the kind that leaves you aware of nothing but its presence and your overwhelming desire for it to leave.

Gently I slid my hand over the warmth of her spanked skin. She was pink rather than purple but we had only just started. I am an atheist as you know, but I am still willing to learn from Christianity, I decided to turn to her other cheek. This one was slightly further away, so I pulled her hip up against my erection, held her down with one hand and bent to my task.

These blows were hard but slow, each one producing a mighty slapping sound, the sound of one hand clapping, followed by a low grunt from Amy. She sounded like a woman tennis player delivering a strenuous serve. I wondered if she grunted like that with every fuck stroke when she is taken from behind.

After the first dozen slaps, I picked up the pace, until the sound was more like rapid applause and Amy’s grunts had stretched out into one long moan of protest.

I stopped. Amy’s legs were trembling. One side of her arse was the shade of ripe plum. She was still moaning although the blows had ceased. It seemed to me that she was trying to find an angle to rub her clit against the desk. The slut was trying to get off.

I pulled on the handcuffs and yanked her to her feet. Her eyes were filled with tears and snot was running from her nose, but the flush on her neck and the lust in her eyes declared her arousal.

I had stopped just in time.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Ms Farmer,” I said, pulling the panties from her mouth and using them to wipe her eyes and nose.

Anger replaced lust in her eyes then. I could see she wanted to swear at me just as soon as she had the moisture in her mouth to do so.

“Now, Ms. Farmer. Be polite or all this will have been for nothing and I will have to expel you after all.”

She glared at me but she said nothing.

“Turn around, Ms. Farmer.”

She wanted to ask a question but thought better of it.

When she obeyed, I asked her to bend over. Then I stood so close to her that the back of her thighs pressed against the front of mine.

“You’ve had your punishment now, Amy. It’s time for your reward. Do you know what I’m going to do now, Amy?”

There was a pause. She leant back against me a little and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Do I have your consent?”

“Yes, sir”. Her voice was husky. She wanted so much to get off that she was willing to be fucked by the man who’d just turned her arse into tenderised steak.

“Good.” I said. I leant forward, pushing up against her sore arse, and unlocked the handcuffs.

“You can go now, Ms. Farmer.” I said stepping away from her and moving towards the door.

When I looked back, Amy was only just starting to stand upright. She’d stayed bend over, waiting for my cock, and she couldn’t believe that her cunt was still empty.

I smiled at her and Amy finally figured out that she wasn’t going to get off.

Before she could express her rage, I opened the door and said, “I need you in my office please, Mrs. Almeda”

Mrs Almeda entered, eyes downcast as usual.

“Ms. Farmer is just leaving,” I said, more to Amy than to my secretary.

Amy started to flounce out of the room, then seemed to notice that she wasn’t wearing any panties under her alleged skirt and slowed down a little as she passed Mrs Almeda, then she broke into a run.

I must prompt Mendez to find the surveillance tape of her exit; it should be good to look at in slo mo.

With Amy gone I was left with nothing but Mrs. Almeda and my erection.

What a happy coincidence.

“Strip, Mrs. Almeda, then bend over and grasp your ankles,”

She undressed with quiet efficiency and then assumed the position. She really is a remarkably supple woman.

I knew she wouldn’t be able to hold the position for long but she wouldn’t need to.

When I unzipped, my cock virtually reared with excitement.

I reached down and pushed Amy’s panties into Mrs Almeda’s mouth, then I spread her arse cheeks.

The anal beads I’d slid in earlier were only detectable by the little pullring sticking out of my secretary’s arse. I pulled on it like it was a ripcord on a parachute and all six beads came out in rapid succession. Mrs Almeda said something in Spanish that sounded colourful but not polite.

I pressed down on her hips to make her bend her knees a little and then I pushed into her arse, holding onto her hips so that she wouldn’t fall and leave my cock in mid air.

The beads had left her arsehole tight but welcoming. It took no more than dozen strokes and all the tension of the afternoon flowed into Mrs Almeda’s bowels.

When I was done, Mrs Almeda fell to her knees and waited for me to remove Amy’s panties so she could suck my cock clean.

Did you teach her that, Naomi dear? If you did, it was very thoughtful of you.

While Mrs Almeda’s mouth did what it does best, I mentally reviewed the session with Amy. I decided it had gone well. The girl has potential. And what an arse. Just the memory of it under my hand was enough to get me hard again.

Mrs. Almeda took that in her stride of course. Well actually she took it down her throat but you know what I mean.

I’m a generous man by nature, so I gave Mrs. Almeda the rest of the day off and set about writing you this email.

I’m certain we’ve found our candidate for this year. The next move is up to her but I’m sure come up with something interesting.

Best Regards

Julien

Invoking The Goddess

© 2008 Mike Kimera  All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

1

Magda tried to control her nervousness as she stood on the edge of the clearing waiting for the procession to begin. To calm herself she took a final sip at her cup of mead, relishing the warmth of the drink and the spicy tang of the herbs it contained.

At last, when the moon rose, full and round, above the trees, bathing the clearing in silver, Naeve, the high priestess, took hold of Magda’s hand and stepped forward with her into the circle of standing stones.

The night was cool and the moss beneath Magda’s bare feet should have chilled her but she was burning with so much energy that it surprised her that her own skin did not glow with heat.

Neave led Magda in a straight line towards the stubby slab of granite that stood proud of the moss in the centre of the circle. Magda had been taught that the Goddess had pushed this nipple of rock up out of the earth to give the tribe access to her power. Now she, Magda, was to stand on the sacred stone and become the vessel of the Goddess.

As Naeve helped her climb up onto the granite, Magda looked around the circle and saw the remaining women walking slowly around the edge so that each woman could take up her position in front of one of the nine standing stones. When the last woman took her place it seemed to Magda that all noise stopped, as though not even sound could now enter the circle.

Still holding Magda’s hand, Naeve spoke into the silence.

“Tonight,” Naeve said, “autumn turns to winter. Tonight we accept the dominion of death. Tonight we invoke the power of the Goddess to grant us the promise of renewal. Tonight we celebrate the Festival of Samhain.”

It seemed to Magda that the stone beneath her feet became warm at these words. She took this as sign from the Goddess that she would be granted to the strength to succeed.

“It is time, Magda,” Naeve said.

Turning to face the High Priestess, Magda pushed her robe off her shoulders and let if fall until she was standing naked in the moonlight.

Naeve looked at her and smiled. “You are ripe,” she said, cupping Magda’s breast, then sliding her hand over the soft plane of her belly to the thicket of rust-red curls that grew between Magda’s legs. “You will be blessed.”

Madga blushed under the older woman’s touch and smiled shyly. She could not bring herself to meet the gaze of the nine women who encircled her, yet her mind danced with joy at Naeve’s words. If she, the vessel of the Goddess at the feast of Samhain, bore fruit, the cycle of death and renewal would be ensured and the whole village would rejoice.

Naeve guided Magda to stand with her arms out, her legs parted and her face raised towards the moon. Naeve stood behind her and braided the wild comet-tail of red tresses that marked Magda as beloved of the Goddess. When this was done the first of the nine women walked forward and offered a thimble of mead and a circlet of holly. Magda drank the mead in one swallow and placed the circlet on her head. The surge of power was immediate and unmistakeable. Her spine straightened and she felt the first flicker of arousal. Magda understood that her dedication to the Goddess had begun.

2

Syr, the dryad could feel her strength waning as the world turned towards winter’s cold embrace. Without nourishment she would not survive. Sometimes that thought was attractive. The older she became, the stronger the attraction grew. She had often seen the oldest of her kind, when they found that all that had once bound them to the slow vibrant pulse of mother earth had decayed and rotted away, refuse to seek nourishment, preferring to slip unprotesting into the darkness.

The thought of those life-consuming shadows made her tremble and the boughs of the ancient oak in which she lived groaned as if wracked by a strong wind. Called back to her duty, the dryad put aside thoughts of death. Samhain was arrived. Already the villagers had gathered the hazelnuts and mistletoe that they would grind into the sacred mead. The dryad had worked her magic on the fruits of her tree. All who drank the mead would feel lust’s heat and offer it to the Goddess and her sacred oak. Then the dryad would feed and wrap herself in love’s warm mantel all winter long.

3

Aillen stared into the heart of the bonfire that dominated the centre of the village but the heat was so intense that he had to turn his face away from the light. It seemed to him that that was the natural order of things; a man can only do so much in the light, some things require shadow.

Tonight’s work was necessary. It was an honour to be given such a task and yet it would be a strange man who took pride in it.

Yesterday, Naeve had taken him to her bed, to strengthen him, to make him a better instrument of the Goddess, although Naeve of course said that she claimed him because he needed her love. She had ridden him slowly and skilfully, in shadows cast by the hearth. She had pulled from him such need and such pent up sorrow that he thought he would burst from the pressure of it. Then, at the point when he could no longer bear it, she had granted him release. His pain had flooded out of him, leaving behind, if not forgiveness then, at least peace.

Naeve had settled herself along the length of him, increasing his sense of ease by adding the comfort of her affection. With her head on his chest and her voice low and soft she had told him the things he needed to hear:

“There is no light without shadow. There is no life without death. There is no love…”

“without loss” he’d said, completing the trinity for her.

He held her, remembering the still-born children that were all he had ever been able to gift her. Neither of them had spoken. Sometimes truth can be answered only with silence.

Now Samhain was here and it was his job to bring death, hers to bring life.

The drumming had started. The beat gave voice to the pulsing heart of the Goddess. Men rose and started their slow, stomping dance around the fire, pounding out the wheel of birth, death and renewal. They tossed their shoulder-length hair vigorously and rhythmically from side to side as they danced, celebrating the ebb and flow of the love of the Goddess through the world.

Aillen bent and picked up the stag’s antlers that he had been working on. He checked that the thorns were firmly attached and then, with one last look into the light of the fire, he turned and ducked into the stable that held Fionn.

Fionn, wild, sometimes wicked, Fionn had been selected to be Cernunnos, the horned god, at the Samhain feast. The selection had been made a Beltane. At first nothing much more was required of Fionn than that he be himself. True he pulled more women down in the fields than before, but it was summer and it seemed appropriate.

As the seasons turned, Aillen had taken charge of Fionn, determining what he ate and drank, who he fought, and how often he bedded. Now the change in him was almost complete. Fionn was ripe for his role in tonight’s feast.

At the sound of Aillen’s approach, Fionn struggled insanely against his bonds and called out a wordless challenge packed with male rage.

Close up, Aillen could see the rapid pulse of Fionn’s heart in the swollen veins on his forehead. He was like a horse driven to run and run until its heart fails. There would be no stopping, no turning away. Cernunnos had arrived and Fionn was headed for the shadows.

Moving quickly, Aillen used the thorns to bind the stag’s horns to Cernunnos’ head. Blood ran down the god’s face but he seemed to feel joy rather than pain, for his mouth spread into a wide grin and he tossed his head wildly from side to side.

Aillen did not let himself turn away. He wanted to remember the details of what had been done here. “There is no love without loss,” he said, quietly. Then he turned towards the beat of the drum, to find the men who would help him tie their god to a tree.

4

Magda was more alive than she had ever been. She could taste life. Not just her own but those of the women around her. Life tasted… like you could never have enough of it, ever.

She looked down at herself and understood that her ability to sense life, no to call life to her, was a consequence of the sacred symbols painted on her body. There was one symbol for each of the women in the circle. And each woman had brought her more mead. So much mead that Magda felt her blood itself must now be amber.

Like all the women of the tribe, Magda had known since puberty the meaning of the symbols painted onto her. Now she could feel their truth burning into her, bringing the Goddess to her.

Her dedication to the Goddess was almost complete. Naeve had used her fingers to smooth blue dye in concentric circles around Magda’s nipples and navel. With each circle Magda felt the warmth of the Goddess flow through her.

Now, with a fine brush made from badger’s hair, Naeve was painting the runes of fertility on the insides of Magda’s thighs; making her open legs into a poem in praise of fecundity.

Taking another sip of mead, Magda allowed her mind to turn to Fionn. She had known Fionn all her life but she felt as if she had never really seen him until his selection at Beltane. All summer she had watched him, knowing that she could not yet have him. Now she summoned up the memory of his broad shoulders and narrow waist; of the way the muscles in his back rippled when he lifted things; of the perfect ripe roundness of his arse and the searing blue of his eyes. She was glad that he had been favoured by the Goddess in the stave fights and the apple bobbing at Beltane.

Now he would be the vessel for Cernunnos, horned consort to the Goddess. She wondered what it would be like to taste his flesh, to feel his large hands holding her, to be impaled upon him before the eyes of the village. A shudder, both dread and joyous, flowed though her.

Naeve stopped painting. The last symbol was set in place on Magda’s soft skin. Naeve passed her finger lightly between Magda’s swollen labia and brought it away glazed with dew.

“Your dedication is complete,” she said, bowing her head, “Welcome, Goddess.”

5

Fire  so close to her was always alarmed the dryad, even when it was expected. The dryad held back her fear of the flames and focused on the fierce energy coming from the short-lived folks who circled the fire and inflamed the night. Their passion would be her survival.

She reached out into the fast moving thoughts of the men and drew them to her. In their centre was a strange beast, with the antlers of a stag and body of a human. His mind screamed aggression. He was consumed by the rut. That was how she knew him: Cernunnos

She made it seem right to the nine men holding the ropes that bound him that hers was the tree to which Cernunnos should be bound. She rejoiced in the heat of his back against the trunk of her oak and the passion that he spent in trying to break free from the ropes that held his strong arms to the boughs above his head. This one was young and full of sap. The dryad prepared herself to feed.

6

Magda’s eyes shimmered with darkness, so wide were her pupils. Night was as bright as day to her. She could see the spirits of the dead and the living as bright colours throbbing with desire.

The brightest colours of all came from the large oak tree. Cernunnos looked magnificent. His head was thrown back. His arms stretched up towards the branches above him. His antlers thrashed noisily against the trunk of the tree.

As she approached him Magda felt the symbols on her thighs grow tingle and her desire quicken. She knew that Naeve was saying the words that began the ceremony but their meaning was lost to her. Her eyes were locked on the chaotic energy before her. Cernunnos was magnificent but he was out of control. The ropes that tied him to the tree bound his body but not his rage. Unleashed he would rend and tear until nothing was left except his will and its consequences. Magda understood that the Goddess would take this maelstrom of energy and shape it into something that lived and breathed and had a will of its own.

Naeve knelt before Cernunnos, stroking his manhood until it curved cruelly towards his flat belly. The men started to chant as Naeve drew the first symbol of power on the engorged phallus.

Magda turned proudly to face her people. When she reached between her legs and started the slow circular movement that would invoke the Goddess for the first time that night, the woman added a breathy descant to the growling chant of the men. The song and the drums lifted her and drove to work upon herself. Suddenly warmth flooded her and the whole forest seemed to her to be filled with light. She was both inside and above her body now. The Goddess was had entered her vessel.

At a signal from Naeve, two of the priestesses guided the Goddess towards her consort. Magda saw that this was not Fionn before her but Cernunnos: his eyes were wide and veined with red, his chest heaved with effort and the tip of his swollen penis was almost purple. Truly he was now the horned god.

The women lifted Magda’s small body easily. Spreading her wide, they lowered her gently onto to the hard curved arrogance of Cernunnos’ aggression until she consumed it, engulfed it, made it hers.

A wave of orgasm hit Magda as she reached the base of his hardness. She relished how completely he filled her, as if they were two parts of a sculpture, now made whole. The priestesses placed her hands around his neck.  Close up she the thorns used to braid the antlers to Fionn’s head[m3] . She felt some pity until she saw the lust in the eyes that burned beneath that bloodied brow.

Magda pressed her breasts into his broad chest, pulled herself upwards, arched her back and slammed down against him. Behind her, the chanting kept pace with the rhythm of her rut. Her consciousness narrowed to his flesh and hers and was then unable to make even that distinction. There was just flesh and lust and movement.

A second wave of orgasm took her when she bit deep into his neck and broke the dam that held back his seed. He flooded her, sweeping up into her womb and crashing down across her mind until all was heat and darkness.

7

Aillen watched the young woman, the vessel of the Goddess, was lifted unconscious from the horn that still jutted up from between Fionn’s legs and carried away to recover a little before rejoining the feast. Within seconds, another woman had impaled herself on Cernnunos. Aillen turned away and found himself facing Naeve.

“You look disgusted.” Naeve said.

He made no reply. She took his hand in hers.

“She wants to be blessed with a Samhain child” Naeve said, “that’s why she climbs on him so eagerly.”

“And his “charmed” flesh will stay hard all night.” Aillen said. “But by morning…”

“His heart will fail. There can be no life without…”

Aillen spat upon the ground.

“This is not new Aillen. Why does it trouble you so this year?”

“This is your last year, I think.”

“My last year…”

“To be blessed. So I’ll leave you to the horned one and your hope.”

Naeve moved in front of him, preventing him from walking away from her.

“Don’t you understand, Aillen,” she said, lifting his large hand to her mouth and kissing it. “I already am blessed, and you are my hope.”

8

The Dryad felt young and invigorated. In the soft moss that covered her roots humans in couples and threes and groups were flaring with passion as they invoked the Goddess.

Cernunnos still strived for release with each woman who came to try the power of his rut and offer her womb to his seed. Let winter howl as it may, the spirit of the goddess would carry all but the oldest of them through to spring. The dryad slowed her consciousness to match that of the tree whose life she shared and began the long wait for the Goddess to return.

9

Magda folded the man’s head to her breast and let him suckle. He had served her well. None could match the potency of her Consort but each man she had lain with had succeeded in invoking the Goddess. She knew that her womb had been quickened. By Beltane she would be round and filled with promise. By summer her daughter would be born. She stroked the head that was still paying homage at her breast and thanked to Goddess for her blessing.

© 2008 Mike Kimera  All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


The King’s Cocksucker

This story came out of nowhere and took me on a unique ride. I don’t even know how to classify it.

I offer it here for your amusement.

Please let me know what you think of it.

 


 

The King’s Cocksucker

(C) Mike Kimera 2010

Baron Eadric’s cock was awake before he was, saluting the morning as if it knew that today was a special occasion.

„May I help you with that, my lord?“

It was the new servant, the young one with the tight curls and the loose smile. The one that Eadric had transferred from castle kitchen skivvy to body-servant attending to his morning shave. The one who seemed to know what the look in Eadric’s eyes meant and who had decided that the smoothness of the morning shave could only be judged with soft butterfly kisses that kindled Eadric’s lust.

Until today had done nothing about that lust except hug it to himself. He was savouring the rare experience of waiting for something that he could just have taken. But today was Selection Day. Today the King’s Herald would test the local talent to discover who had the skill, the
grace, the comeliness of form to serve as one the “King’s Cocksuckers”.

The time for waiting was over.

„Put that razor down and make yourself useful,“ Eadric said, sliding his hands behind his head and waiting to be serviced.

Normally, Eadric would have given instructions on how he should be sucked. The young ones these days valued depth and speed whereas Eadric preferred finesse and control. He was as appreciative of a tight throat as the next man, but first he wanted to be provoked, teased, explored, seduced. He closed his eyes and waited to see if his needs would be understood. Sometimes it took a dagger tip to the cheek or cuff to the ear to get the message across.

A nose at the base of his cock, nudging softly, made Eadric sigh with pleasure. A  skilled mouth sucking in first his left, then his right ball, pulling hard enough to be playful but not so hard as to hurt, had Eadric arching his back. When a wide warm tongue methodically glazed his shaft without once touching his glans, his cock quivered with anticipation. When the laving continued until his cock curved towards his belly, it was all Eadric could do to keep his hands behind his head. When the servant’s mouth finally engulfed Eadric’s erection in a single smooth slide to the base of his shaft and stayed there for an almost impossibly long time, Eadric was certain that he was being serviced by one who had been trained in the old ways by a professional.

„The old ways“. The phrase made Eadric smile. He remembered when thirty years earlier, they had been „The new ways“ and he had been the first to try them.

At eighteen he had joined the Horde that King Wolfric summoned tomake war on the Franks. Although he was untested in battle, his noble blood, his immense strength and his skill with a battleaxe had won Eadric a place in the King’s Guard.

The Horde had fallen on the Franks like wolves attacking sheep that had grown soft and fat in the valley fields. When the Horde breached the walls of the great city of Rondel, Eadric had fought at the King’s side.

It was the first time that he had experienced battle lust. His axe was hungry and his cock was hard. He was bathed in the blood of the enemies he had defeated and still he wanted more.

It seemed to Eadric that all of those who sliced their way through the streets of Rondel felt the same hunger.

Perhaps it was that the enemy, grown soft and weak behind the walls they had thought to be impregnable, ran before the Horde like prey. Perhaps it was the disgust and excitement of spilling the guts of those who disgraced themselves by begging for mercy. However it started, the slaughter became a tune that the Horde danced to the whole day long.

By the time night fell, the air stank of blood and lust and victory and nothing breathed in Rondel except the Horde.

Arousal hung over them like a great wave ready crash. Eadric had just enough self-awareness to understand that the Horde was in danger of turning on itself.

King Wolfric, sensing the danger had called the four remaining members of his Guard to him, and lead them to the top of a mound of Frankish dead. From there, all the Horde could see him.

“Brothers,” he shouted. “Do you hear that?”

The Horde fell silent. Eadric could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his heart.

“That roaring in your ears, that is the victory cry of life.”

The Horde cheered.

King Wolfric unstrapped his cod-piece and pulled out his engorged manhood.

“This,” he said, pointing to his erection, “Is the pole that salutes our triumph. Show me how triumphant we have been.”

The Horde let out another fierce cheer and moved as one to display the full extent of their triumph. It was one of the most glorious things Eadric had ever seen.

King Wolfric grabbed Eadric and pushed him to his knees on the bloody hill of enemy dead. The Royal erection was so close to his face, Eadric could count the veins in the King’s shaft.

“Brothers, let me lead you in celebrating our victory.”

At this, the King had pushed himself into Eadric’s mouth and fucked it with great vigour.

The Horde did fall upon each other that night, but with hungry mouths and rampant cocks rather than axes and blades.

When he was done with Eadric, the King, who’s stamina was prodigious,had shared his blessing with each of the Guard in turn and then bid them celebrate with each other while he regained his strength. Afterwards, he and his Guard passed amongst the Horde, sharing their blessings with many.

All who were there when Wolfric devoured Rondel earned themselves the title of “The King’s Cocksuckers”.

Wolfric kept his Guard with him when he returned home. For a year Eadric served as both Guard and King’s Cocksucker. Then Wolfric released him from his service and granted him lands. That was the start of the King’s annual selection of Cocksuckers to serve him.

Eadric, who had grown rich, and if truth be told, a little fat, in the years that followed still counted King’s Cocksucker as his highest honour.

Recalling Rondel always added steel to Eadric’s erection. He was past the point of subtlety now. He needed to empty his balls. Eadric wrapped some of the servant’s tight curls around his fist and then,
brutally enforced  the rapid rhythm he craved. When the throat-deep release finally came Eadric lost himself for several seconds. He was brought back to earth by the servant’s vain struggle breathe.

With a fierce laugh, Eadric released his grip. He felt invigorated. He felt younger than his years. He felt he wanted to do it all again.

“Have you stopped choking yet?” Eadric asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Then take off your clothes and I will show you things a man doesn’t learn until the hairs on his balls turn grey.”

The servant had the sense to undress slowly, revealing smooth pale flesh with a shy smile and then waiting patiently for instructions.

Eadric reached out and ran his hand down the servant’s naked belly and was pleased at the shivering response.

“Today is the Selection Day,” Eadric said. “The Herald will be testing for those worthy to be King’s Cocksuckers. Would you like to meet the Herald? You have the training and the talent and you are a good looking boy.”

“With respect, sir,” the tousle-haired servant replied, “I would rather be Baron Eadric’s Cocksucker.”

“Excellent answer, boy.”

Finally, Eadric allowed himself to trace a finger and thumb along the boy’s long thin erection. It reared beneath his touch like an eager horse. Eadric grinned.

“Lie beside me, boy and hold the tip of my cock in your mouth. We will see if you can get me hard with gentle suction by the time I milk your seed onto your belly.”

As the boy scrambled and bounced onto the bed, Eadric thanked the gods for sending him to Rondel with the Horde and setting him on a path that had brought him so much joy.

 

 

The King’s Cocksuckers

Baron Eadric’s cock was awake before he was, saluting the morning as if it knew that today was a special occasion.

„May I help you with that, my lord?“

It was the new servant, the young one with the tight curls and the loose smile. The one that Eadric had transferred from castle kitchen skivvy to body-servant attending to his morning shave. The one who seemed to know what the look in Eadric’s eyes meant and who had decided that the smoothness of the morning shave could only be judged with soft butterfly kisses that kindled Eadric’s lust.

Until today had done nothing about that lust except hug it to himself. He was savouring the rare experience of waiting for something that he could just have taken. But today was Selection Day. Today the King’s Herald would test the local talent to discover who had the skill, the
grace, the comeliness of form to serve as one the “King’s Cocksuckers”.

The time for waiting was over.

„Put that razor down and make yourself useful,“ Eadric said, sliding his hands behind his head and waiting to be serviced.

Normally, Eadric would have given instructions on how he should be sucked. The young ones these days valued depth and speed whereas Eadric preferred finesse and control. He was as appreciative of a tight throat as the next man, but first he wanted to be provoked, teased, explored, seduced. He closed his eyes and waited to see if his needs would be understood. Sometimes it took a dagger tip to the cheek or cuff to the ear to get the message across.

A nose at the base of his cock, nudging softly, made Eadric sigh with pleasure. A  skilled mouth sucking in first his left, then his right ball, pulling hard enough to be playful but not so hard as to hurt, had Eadric arching his back. When a wide warm tongue methodically glazed his shaft without once touching his glans, his cock quivered with anticipation. When the laving continued until his cock curved towards his belly, it was all Eadric could do to keep his hands behind his head. When the servant’s mouth finally engulfed Eadric’s erection in a single smooth slide to the base of his shaft and stayed there for an almost impossibly long time, Eadric was certain that he was being serviced by one who had been trained in the old ways by a professional.

„The old ways“. The phrase made Eadric smile. He remembered when thirty years earlier, they had been „The new ways“ and he had been the first to try them.

At eighteen he had joined the Horde that King Wolfric summoned tomake war on the Franks. Although he was untested in battle, his noble blood, his immense strength and his skill with a battleaxe had won Eadric a place in the King’s Guard.

The Horde had fallen on the Franks like wolves attacking sheep that had grown soft and fat in the valley fields. When the Horde breached the walls of the great city of Rondel, Eadric had fought at the King’s side.

It was the first time that he had experienced battle lust. His axe was hungry and his cock was hard. He was bathed in the blood of the enemies he had defeated and still he wanted more.

It seemed to Eadric that all of those who sliced their way through the streets of Rondel felt the same hunger.

Perhaps it was that the enemy, grown soft and weak behind the walls they had thought to be impregnable, ran before the Horde like prey. Perhaps it was the disgust and excitement of spilling the guts of those who disgraced themselves by begging for mercy. However it started, the slaughter became a tune that the Horde danced to the whole day long.

By the time night fell, the air stank of blood and lust and victory and nothing breathed in Rondel except the Horde.

Arousal hung over them like a great wave ready crash. Eadric had just enough self-awareness to understand that the Horde was in danger of turning on itself.

King Wolfric, sensing the danger had called the four remaining members of his Guard to him, and lead them to the top of a mound of Frankish dead. From there, all the Horde could see him.

“Brothers,” he shouted. “Do you hear that?”

The Horde fell silent. Eadric could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his heart.

“That roaring in your ears, that is the victory cry of life.”

The Horde cheered.

King Wolfric unstrapped his cod-piece and pulled out his engorged manhood.

“This,” he said, pointing to his erection, “Is the pole that salutes our triumph. Show me how triumphant we have been.”

The Horde let out another fierce cheer and moved as one to display the full extent of their triumph. It was one of the most glorious things Eadric had ever seen.

King Wolfric grabbed Eadric and pushed him to his knees on the bloody hill of enemy dead. The Royal erection was so close to his face, Eadric could count the veins in the King’s shaft.

“Brothers, let me lead you in celebrating our victory.”

At this, the King had pushed himself into Eadric’s mouth and fucked it with great vigour.

The Horde did fall upon each other that night, but with hungry mouths and rampant cocks rather than axes and blades.

When he was done with Eadric, the King, who’s stamina was prodigious,had shared his blessing with each of the Guard in turn and then bid them celebrate with each other while he regained his strength. Afterwards, he and his Guard passed amongst the Horde, sharing their blessings with many.

All who were there when Wolfric devoured Rondel earned themselves the title of “The King’s Cocksuckers”.

Wolfric kept his Guard with him when he returned home. For a year Eadric served as both Guard and King’s Cocksucker. Then Wolfric released him from his service and granted him lands. That was the start of the King’s annual selection of Cocksuckers to serve him.

Eadric, who had grown rich, and if truth be told, a little fat, in the years that followed still counted King’s Cocksucker as his highest honour.

Recalling Rondel always added steel to Eadric’s erection. He was past the point of subtlety now. He needed to empty his balls. Eadric wrapped some of the servant’s tight curls around his fist and then,
brutally enforced  the rapid rhythm he craved. When the throat-deep release finally came Eadric lost himself for several seconds. He was brought back to earth by the servant’s vain struggle breathe.

With a fierce laugh, Eadric released his grip. He felt invigorated. He felt younger than his years. He felt he wanted to do it all again.

“Have you stopped choking yet?” Eadric asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Then take off your clothes and I will show you things a man doesn’t learn until the hairs on his balls turn grey.”

The servant had the sense to undress slowly, revealing smooth pale flesh with a shy smile and then waiting patiently for instructions.

Eadric reached out and ran his hand down the servant’s naked belly and was pleased at the shivering response.

“Today is the Selection Day,” Eadric said. “The Herald will be testing for those worthy to be King’s Cocksuckers. Would you like to meet the Herald? You have the training and the talent and you are a good looking boy.”

“With respect, sir,” the tousle-haired servant replied, “I would rather be Baron Eadric’s Cocksucker.”

“Excellent answer, boy.”

Finally, Eadric allowed himself to trace a finger and thumb along the boy’s long thin erection. It reared beneath his touch like an eager horse. Eadric grinned.

“Lie beside me, boy and hold the tip of my cock in your mouth. We will see if you can get me hard with gentle suction by the time I milk your seed onto your belly.”

As the boy scrambled and bounced onto the bed, Eadric thanked the gods for sending him to Rondel with the Horde and setting him on a path that had brought him so much joy.

The King’s Cocksuckers

Baron Eadric’s cock was awake before he was, saluting the morning as if it knew that today was a special occasion.

„May I help you with that, my lord?“

It was the new servant, the young one with the tight curls and the loose smile. The one that Eadric had transferred from castle kitchen skivvy to body-servant attending to his morning shave. The one who seemed to know what the look in Eadric’s eyes meant and who had decided that the smoothness of the morning shave could only be judged with soft butterfly kisses that kindled Eadric’s lust.

Until today had done nothing about that lust except hug it to himself. He was savouring the rare experience of waiting for something that he could just have taken. But today was Selection Day. Today the King’s Herald would test the local talent to discover who had the skill, the
grace, the comeliness of form to serve as one the “King’s Cocksuckers”.

The time for waiting was over.

„Put that razor down and make yourself useful,“ Eadric said, sliding his hands behind his head and waiting to be serviced.

Normally, Eadric would have given instructions on how he should be sucked. The young ones these days valued depth and speed whereas Eadric preferred finesse and control. He was as appreciative of a tight throat as the next man, but first he wanted to be provoked, teased, explored, seduced. He closed his eyes and waited to see if his needs would be understood. Sometimes it took a dagger tip to the cheek or cuff to the ear to get the message across.

A nose at the base of his cock, nudging softly, made Eadric sigh with pleasure. A  skilled mouth sucking in first his left, then his right ball, pulling hard enough to be playful but not so hard as to hurt, had Eadric arching his back. When a wide warm tongue methodically glazed his shaft without once touching his glans, his cock quivered with anticipation. When the laving continued until his cock curved towards his belly, it was all Eadric could do to keep his hands behind his head. When the servant’s mouth finally engulfed Eadric’s erection in a single smooth slide to the base of his shaft and stayed there for an almost impossibly long time, Eadric was certain that he was being serviced by one who had been trained in the old ways by a professional.

„The old ways“. The phrase made Eadric smile. He remembered when thirty years earlier, they had been „The new ways“ and he had been the first to try them.

At eighteen he had joined the Horde that King Wolfric summoned tomake war on the Franks. Although he was untested in battle, his noble blood, his immense strength and his skill with a battleaxe had won Eadric a place in the King’s Guard.

The Horde had fallen on the Franks like wolves attacking sheep that had grown soft and fat in the valley fields. When the Horde breached the walls of the great city of Rondel, Eadric had fought at the King’s side.

It was the first time that he had experienced battle lust. His axe was hungry and his cock was hard. He was bathed in the blood of the enemies he had defeated and still he wanted more.

It seemed to Eadric that all of those who sliced their way through the streets of Rondel felt the same hunger.

Perhaps it was that the enemy, grown soft and weak behind the walls they had thought to be impregnable, ran before the Horde like prey. Perhaps it was the disgust and excitement of spilling the guts of those who disgraced themselves by begging for mercy. However it started, the slaughter became a tune that the Horde danced to the whole day long.

By the time night fell, the air stank of blood and lust and victory and nothing breathed in Rondel except the Horde.

Arousal hung over them like a great wave ready crash. Eadric had just enough self-awareness to understand that the Horde was in danger of turning on itself.

King Wolfric, sensing the danger had called the four remaining members of his Guard to him, and lead them to the top of a mound of Frankish dead. From there, all the Horde could see him.

“Brothers,” he shouted. “Do you hear that?”

The Horde fell silent. Eadric could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his heart.

“That roaring in your ears, that is the victory cry of life.”

The Horde cheered.

King Wolfric unstrapped his cod-piece and pulled out his engorged manhood.

“This,” he said, pointing to his erection, “Is the pole that salutes our triumph. Show me how triumphant we have been.”

The Horde let out another fierce cheer and moved as one to display the full extent of their triumph. It was one of the most glorious things Eadric had ever seen.

King Wolfric grabbed Eadric and pushed him to his knees on the bloody hill of enemy dead. The Royal erection was so close to his face, Eadric could count the veins in the King’s shaft.

“Brothers, let me lead you in celebrating our victory.”

At this, the King had pushed himself into Eadric’s mouth and fucked it with great vigour.

The Horde did fall upon each other that night, but with hungry mouths and rampant cocks rather than axes and blades.

When he was done with Eadric, the King, who’s stamina was prodigious,had shared his blessing with each of the Guard in turn and then bid them celebrate with each other while he regained his strength. Afterwards, he and his Guard passed amongst the Horde, sharing their blessings with many.

All who were there when Wolfric devoured Rondel earned themselves the title of “The King’s Cocksuckers”.

Wolfric kept his Guard with him when he returned home. For a year Eadric served as both Guard and King’s Cocksucker. Then Wolfric released him from his service and granted him lands. That was the start of the King’s annual selection of Cocksuckers to serve him.

Eadric, who had grown rich, and if truth be told, a little fat, in the years that followed still counted King’s Cocksucker as his highest honour.

Recalling Rondel always added steel to Eadric’s erection. He was past the point of subtlety now. He needed to empty his balls. Eadric wrapped some of the servant’s tight curls around his fist and then,
brutally enforced  the rapid rhythm he craved. When the throat-deep release finally came Eadric lost himself for several seconds. He was brought back to earth by the servant’s vain struggle breathe.

With a fierce laugh, Eadric released his grip. He felt invigorated. He felt younger than his years. He felt he wanted to do it all again.

“Have you stopped choking yet?” Eadric asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Then take off your clothes and I will show you things a man doesn’t learn until the hairs on his balls turn grey.”

The servant had the sense to undress slowly, revealing smooth pale flesh with a shy smile and then waiting patiently for instructions.

Eadric reached out and ran his hand down the servant’s naked belly and was pleased at the shivering response.

“Today is the Selection Day,” Eadric said. “The Herald will be testing for those worthy to be King’s Cocksuckers. Would you like to meet the Herald? You have the training and the talent and you are a good looking boy.”

“With respect, sir,” the tousle-haired servant replied, “I would rather be Baron Eadric’s Cocksucker.”

“Excellent answer, boy.”

Finally, Eadric allowed himself to trace a finger and thumb along the boy’s long thin erection. It reared beneath his touch like an eager horse. Eadric grinned.

“Lie beside me, boy and hold the tip of my cock in your mouth. We will see if you can get me hard with gentle suction by the time I milk your seed onto your belly.”

As the boy scrambled and bounced onto the bed, Eadric thanked the gods for sending him to Rondel with the Horde and setting him on a path that had brought him so much joy.

The King’s Cocksuckers

Baron Eadric’s cock was awake before he was, saluting the morning as if it knew that today was a special occasion.

„May I help you with that, my lord?“

It was the new servant, the young one with the tight curls and the loose smile. The one that Eadric had transferred from castle kitchen skivvy to body-servant attending to his morning shave. The one who seemed to know what the look in Eadric’s eyes meant and who had decided that the smoothness of the morning shave could only be judged with soft butterfly kisses that kindled Eadric’s lust.

Until today had done nothing about that lust except hug it to himself. He was savouring the rare experience of waiting for something that he could just have taken. But today was Selection Day. Today the King’s Herald would test the local talent to discover who had the skill, the
grace, the comeliness of form to serve as one the “King’s Cocksuckers”.

The time for waiting was over.

„Put that razor down and make yourself useful,“ Eadric said, sliding his hands behind his head and waiting to be serviced.

Normally, Eadric would have given instructions on how he should be sucked. The young ones these days valued depth and speed whereas Eadric preferred finesse and control. He was as appreciative of a tight throat as the next man, but first he wanted to be provoked, teased, explored, seduced. He closed his eyes and waited to see if his needs would be understood. Sometimes it took a dagger tip to the cheek or cuff to the ear to get the message across.

A nose at the base of his cock, nudging softly, made Eadric sigh with pleasure. A  skilled mouth sucking in first his left, then his right ball, pulling hard enough to be playful but not so hard as to hurt, had Eadric arching his back. When a wide warm tongue methodically glazed his shaft without once touching his glans, his cock quivered with anticipation. When the laving continued until his cock curved towards his belly, it was all Eadric could do to keep his hands behind his head. When the servant’s mouth finally engulfed Eadric’s erection in a single smooth slide to the base of his shaft and stayed there for an almost impossibly long time, Eadric was certain that he was being serviced by one who had been trained in the old ways by a professional.

„The old ways“. The phrase made Eadric smile. He remembered when thirty years earlier, they had been „The new ways“ and he had been the first to try them.

At eighteen he had joined the Horde that King Wolfric summoned tomake war on the Franks. Although he was untested in battle, his noble blood, his immense strength and his skill with a battleaxe had won Eadric a place in the King’s Guard.

The Horde had fallen on the Franks like wolves attacking sheep that had grown soft and fat in the valley fields. When the Horde breached the walls of the great city of Rondel, Eadric had fought at the King’s side.

It was the first time that he had experienced battle lust. His axe was hungry and his cock was hard. He was bathed in the blood of the enemies he had defeated and still he wanted more.

It seemed to Eadric that all of those who sliced their way through the streets of Rondel felt the same hunger.

Perhaps it was that the enemy, grown soft and weak behind the walls they had thought to be impregnable, ran before the Horde like prey. Perhaps it was the disgust and excitement of spilling the guts of those who disgraced themselves by begging for mercy. However it started, the slaughter became a tune that the Horde danced to the whole day long.

By the time night fell, the air stank of blood and lust and victory and nothing breathed in Rondel except the Horde.

Arousal hung over them like a great wave ready crash. Eadric had just enough self-awareness to understand that the Horde was in danger of turning on itself.

King Wolfric, sensing the danger had called the four remaining members of his Guard to him, and lead them to the top of a mound of Frankish dead. From there, all the Horde could see him.

“Brothers,” he shouted. “Do you hear that?”

The Horde fell silent. Eadric could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his heart.

“That roaring in your ears, that is the victory cry of life.”

The Horde cheered.

King Wolfric unstrapped his cod-piece and pulled out his engorged manhood.

“This,” he said, pointing to his erection, “Is the pole that salutes our triumph. Show me how triumphant we have been.”

The Horde let out another fierce cheer and moved as one to display the full extent of their triumph. It was one of the most glorious things Eadric had ever seen.

King Wolfric grabbed Eadric and pushed him to his knees on the bloody hill of enemy dead. The Royal erection was so close to his face, Eadric could count the veins in the King’s shaft.

“Brothers, let me lead you in celebrating our victory.”

At this, the King had pushed himself into Eadric’s mouth and fucked it with great vigour.

The Horde did fall upon each other that night, but with hungry mouths and rampant cocks rather than axes and blades.

When he was done with Eadric, the King, who’s stamina was prodigious,had shared his blessing with each of the Guard in turn and then bid them celebrate with each other while he regained his strength. Afterwards, he and his Guard passed amongst the Horde, sharing their blessings with many.

All who were there when Wolfric devoured Rondel earned themselves the title of “The King’s Cocksuckers”.

Wolfric kept his Guard with him when he returned home. For a year Eadric served as both Guard and King’s Cocksucker. Then Wolfric released him from his service and granted him lands. That was the start of the King’s annual selection of Cocksuckers to serve him.

Eadric, who had grown rich, and if truth be told, a little fat, in the years that followed still counted King’s Cocksucker as his highest honour.

Recalling Rondel always added steel to Eadric’s erection. He was past the point of subtlety now. He needed to empty his balls. Eadric wrapped some of the servant’s tight curls around his fist and then,
brutally enforced  the rapid rhythm he craved. When the throat-deep release finally came Eadric lost himself for several seconds. He was brought back to earth by the servant’s vain struggle breathe.

With a fierce laugh, Eadric released his grip. He felt invigorated. He felt younger than his years. He felt he wanted to do it all again.

“Have you stopped choking yet?” Eadric asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Then take off your clothes and I will show you things a man doesn’t learn until the hairs on his balls turn grey.”

The servant had the sense to undress slowly, revealing smooth pale flesh with a shy smile and then waiting patiently for instructions.

Eadric reached out and ran his hand down the servant’s naked belly and was pleased at the shivering response.

“Today is the Selection Day,” Eadric said. “The Herald will be testing for those worthy to be King’s Cocksuckers. Would you like to meet the Herald? You have the training and the talent and you are a good looking boy.”

“With respect, sir,” the tousle-haired servant replied, “I would rather be Baron Eadric’s Cocksucker.”

“Excellent answer, boy.”

Finally, Eadric allowed himself to trace a finger and thumb along the boy’s long thin erection. It reared beneath his touch like an eager horse. Eadric grinned.

“Lie beside me, boy and hold the tip of my cock in your mouth. We will see if you can get me hard with gentle suction by the time I milk your seed onto your belly.”

As the boy scrambled and bounced onto the bed, Eadric thanked the gods for sending him to Rondel with the Horde and setting him on a path that had brought him so much joy.

The King’s Cocksuckers

Baron Eadric’s cock was awake before he was, saluting the morning as if it knew that today was a special occasion.

„May I help you with that, my lord?“

It was the new servant, the young one with the tight curls and the loose smile. The one that Eadric had transferred from castle kitchen skivvy to body-servant attending to his morning shave. The one who seemed to know what the look in Eadric’s eyes meant and who had decided that the smoothness of the morning shave could only be judged with soft butterfly kisses that kindled Eadric’s lust.

Until today had done nothing about that lust except hug it to himself. He was savouring the rare experience of waiting for something that he could just have taken. But today was Selection Day. Today the King’s Herald would test the local talent to discover who had the skill, the
grace, the comeliness of form to serve as one the “King’s Cocksuckers”.

The time for waiting was over.

„Put that razor down and make yourself useful,“ Eadric said, sliding his hands behind his head and waiting to be serviced.

Normally, Eadric would have given instructions on how he should be sucked. The young ones these days valued depth and speed whereas Eadric preferred finesse and control. He was as appreciative of a tight throat as the next man, but first he wanted to be provoked, teased, explored, seduced. He closed his eyes and waited to see if his needs would be understood. Sometimes it took a dagger tip to the cheek or cuff to the ear to get the message across.

A nose at the base of his cock, nudging softly, made Eadric sigh with pleasure. A  skilled mouth sucking in first his left, then his right ball, pulling hard enough to be playful but not so hard as to hurt, had Eadric arching his back. When a wide warm tongue methodically glazed his shaft without once touching his glans, his cock quivered with anticipation. When the laving continued until his cock curved towards his belly, it was all Eadric could do to keep his hands behind his head. When the servant’s mouth finally engulfed Eadric’s erection in a single smooth slide to the base of his shaft and stayed there for an almost impossibly long time, Eadric was certain that he was being serviced by one who had been trained in the old ways by a professional.

„The old ways“. The phrase made Eadric smile. He remembered when thirty years earlier, they had been „The new ways“ and he had been the first to try them.

At eighteen he had joined the Horde that King Wolfric summoned tomake war on the Franks. Although he was untested in battle, his noble blood, his immense strength and his skill with a battleaxe had won Eadric a place in the King’s Guard.

The Horde had fallen on the Franks like wolves attacking sheep that had grown soft and fat in the valley fields. When the Horde breached the walls of the great city of Rondel, Eadric had fought at the King’s side.

It was the first time that he had experienced battle lust. His axe was hungry and his cock was hard. He was bathed in the blood of the enemies he had defeated and still he wanted more.

It seemed to Eadric that all of those who sliced their way through the streets of Rondel felt the same hunger.

Perhaps it was that the enemy, grown soft and weak behind the walls they had thought to be impregnable, ran before the Horde like prey. Perhaps it was the disgust and excitement of spilling the guts of those who disgraced themselves by begging for mercy. However it started, the slaughter became a tune that the Horde danced to the whole day long.

By the time night fell, the air stank of blood and lust and victory and nothing breathed in Rondel except the Horde.

Arousal hung over them like a great wave ready crash. Eadric had just enough self-awareness to understand that the Horde was in danger of turning on itself.

King Wolfric, sensing the danger had called the four remaining members of his Guard to him, and lead them to the top of a mound of Frankish dead. From there, all the Horde could see him.

“Brothers,” he shouted. “Do you hear that?”

The Horde fell silent. Eadric could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his heart.

“That roaring in your ears, that is the victory cry of life.”

The Horde cheered.

King Wolfric unstrapped his cod-piece and pulled out his engorged manhood.

“This,” he said, pointing to his erection, “Is the pole that salutes our triumph. Show me how triumphant we have been.”

The Horde let out another fierce cheer and moved as one to display the full extent of their triumph. It was one of the most glorious things Eadric had ever seen.

King Wolfric grabbed Eadric and pushed him to his knees on the bloody hill of enemy dead. The Royal erection was so close to his face, Eadric could count the veins in the King’s shaft.

“Brothers, let me lead you in celebrating our victory.”

At this, the King had pushed himself into Eadric’s mouth and fucked it with great vigour.

The Horde did fall upon each other that night, but with hungry mouths and rampant cocks rather than axes and blades.

When he was done with Eadric, the King, who’s stamina was prodigious,had shared his blessing with each of the Guard in turn and then bid them celebrate with each other while he regained his strength. Afterwards, he and his Guard passed amongst the Horde, sharing their blessings with many.

All who were there when Wolfric devoured Rondel earned themselves the title of “The King’s Cocksuckers”.

Wolfric kept his Guard with him when he returned home. For a year Eadric served as both Guard and King’s Cocksucker. Then Wolfric released him from his service and granted him lands. That was the start of the King’s annual selection of Cocksuckers to serve him.

Eadric, who had grown rich, and if truth be told, a little fat, in the years that followed still counted King’s Cocksucker as his highest honour.

Recalling Rondel always added steel to Eadric’s erection. He was past the point of subtlety now. He needed to empty his balls. Eadric wrapped some of the servant’s tight curls around his fist and then,
brutally enforced  the rapid rhythm he craved. When the throat-deep release finally came Eadric lost himself for several seconds. He was brought back to earth by the servant’s vain struggle breathe.

With a fierce laugh, Eadric released his grip. He felt invigorated. He felt younger than his years. He felt he wanted to do it all again.

“Have you stopped choking yet?” Eadric asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Then take off your clothes and I will show you things a man doesn’t learn until the hairs on his balls turn grey.”

The servant had the sense to undress slowly, revealing smooth pale flesh with a shy smile and then waiting patiently for instructions.

Eadric reached out and ran his hand down the servant’s naked belly and was pleased at the shivering response.

“Today is the Selection Day,” Eadric said. “The Herald will be testing for those worthy to be King’s Cocksuckers. Would you like to meet the Herald? You have the training and the talent and you are a good looking boy.”

“With respect, sir,” the tousle-haired servant replied, “I would rather be Baron Eadric’s Cocksucker.”

“Excellent answer, boy.”

Finally, Eadric allowed himself to trace a finger and thumb along the boy’s long thin erection. It reared beneath his touch like an eager horse. Eadric grinned.

“Lie beside me, boy and hold the tip of my cock in your mouth. We will see if you can get me hard with gentle suction by the time I milk your seed onto your belly.”

As the boy scrambled and bounced onto the bed, Eadric thanked the gods for sending him to Rondel with the Horde and setting him on a path that had brought him so much joy.

Ask Alice

It’s been a while since I wrote something that is erotica with no frills. This is a D/s story with a lesbian / bi-sexual flavour, so it hits a lot of the arousal tags.

I hope that it goes on to do more than that. I want this one to crawl under your skin and make you itch afterwards.

I’m happy to receive any comments. Enjoy.


Ask Alice


(c) Mike Kimera 2010, All rights reserved.

“Carol, this is Alice.”

Alice is small, round, pale and naked.

Hot fingers of desire run their nails up from my belly to my breasts.

This instant arousal shames me, not just because it is lust without a context but because the trigger for my arousal is not the soft heavy flesh in front of me but the ugly slave collar around the girl’s neck and the strange gag across her mouth.

Alice is in a deep squat, hands behind her head, arms and legs spread wide, breasts and sex exposed and available.

Without thinking about it, I take a step closer. In my heels, I tower above her; my sex is level with her head. All I’d have to do is lift the hem of my little black dress and…

I make myself stop. The girl hasn’t even looked at me and I am ready to use her like a sextoy. This isn’t how I think of myself.

I turn towards Alan.

“You’re sure she’s OK with this?”

“Ask her.”

“But…,”

“… the tongue-clamp means that she can’t speak. The loss of speech is worth it don’t you think? See how wide and wet her tongue is? How the pressure of the clamp keeps her attention on this soft sensitive tissue over which she has surrendered all control? How the saliva that drips from it makes her breasts glisten and reminds her that she is an object on display, ready for use?”

The gag is a kind of bridle through which Alice has forced her tongue. The gag holds her tongue at full extension. It looks painful. I want to think of it as monstrous and barbaric but the main effect it has on me is to want to stroke my thumb across the surface of her tongue.

“Squat down,” Alan says, “and look into her eyes. Get closer. Close enough to suck the tip of her tongue into your mouth. What do you see?”

My little black dress is short and form-fitting. Underneath it I am wearing thigh-highs and the tiniest of thongs. As I squat, I am intensely aware of the way the fabric slides up my legs, exposing my thighs.

I get close enough to Alice to smell her sweat. She is younger than me. Her skin is perfect. I want to lick it. Slowly, deliberately, she makes eye contact with me.

Looking into her eyes I understand for the first time that I am dealing with a person here, a woman, like me. Except that she is bound and naked and drooling. And I can take her if I want to. The thought makes me wriggle with excitement but I keep eye contact.

“I see… embarrassment? Defiance? Fear?” I say.

Alan squats next to me, so close that his shoulder brushes mine. He reaches out, grasps the tip of the girl’s tongue between his finger and thumb and turns her head towards him.

Something in her eyes changes when he touches her. She looks at him as if he is the only person in the world.

“I see desire and submission,” Alan says, letting go of her tongue. “I see a struggle between her picture of herself as a strong woman and her need to be offered for the use of strangers.”

Alice looks down.

Alan brushes the hair back from her forehead.

“You do want to be used, don’t you Alice?” he says.

There is a pause then, looking only at Alan, Alice nods.

Alan stands up. I remain squatting, torn between hunger and conscience.

She nodded. She could have said no. That makes it OK doesn’t it?

I look up at Alan.

“And she, er… likes women?”

“That,” he says, “is something we are all about to find out.”

“Oh God.”

It comes out almost as a groan. As he’d promised Alan has arranged for me to live my fantasy.

Alan and I have known one another since University. He was one of the first people I came out to. Back then, I was dating Heather and he always asked me a lot of questions about what it was like to sleep with a woman. I always told him that he should know; he’d done it often enough. He kept on at it; asking for a threesomes or just to get to sit and watch. He even offered to film us. I thought about it but Heather was a private person and wouldn’t consider it. Heather left me two years ago. Since then, Alan has hit on every girl he’s seen me with.

Alan is very public in his sexuality. He’s a control freak. He’s a martial arts expert who stays in perfect shape. He made his money in the City before the credit crunch and now runs a string of Dojos. He also trains pets. That’s how he describes it. His pets are submissive women that he literally has begging him to tie them up and slap, pinch, whip and fuck them into ecstasy. I’ve seen the photographs.

This evening, Alan and I had one of our regular dinners at Langhams. It’s been a while since I’ve been with someone so it was a relief to be able to talk freely; the more wine we had, the more freely we talked.

Towards the end of the meal, Alan asked me the question that had brought me face to face with Alice.

“Tell me about what gets you off.”

“You know what gets me off,” I said, making light of the question. “Pretty young things who think I’m gorgeous.”

“Don’t be evasive. Tell me about the long-held fantasy that you return to time and again and which always gets you off. The one that shares your bed with you when you are alone. The one that has nothing to do with anyone’s pleasure but your own.”

I didn’t reply.

Alan looked at me, letting the silence build. He’s a hard man to say no to.

“My deepest darkest fantasy,” I said, leaning towards him so that I could speak quietly, “has always been to have sex with a straight woman. I don’t mean a woman who is gay but not admitting it; I mean a woman who is strongly heterosexual but who still offers herself to me.

“Sometimes it’s a married woman, neglected by her husband and exhausted by her kids, who I sweep off her feet. Sometimes it’s a cocky young thing who doesn’t desire me at all but is willing to use her body to barter her way out of a bad situation. Hey, it’s a fantasy. I’m allowed to think bad things as long as I don’t do them.

“What the fantasies all have in common is that I’m the first woman who has ever fucked them. I know how that sounds but the whole ‘she’s not a virgin anymore’ thing makes me hot.”

I could see the excitement in Alan’s eyes. His whole body-language had changed. He’d moved into that predator-on-the-prowl mode that makes him look sexy, even to me.

“So, I’ve told you mine. Now it’s your turn.”

“Mine is always the same,” he said. “I think about you squatting on the face of a pretty woman and coming so hard that you scream.”

That sent a sliver of ice-cold excitement into my spine. It wasn’t just the image; it was that I knew that Alan meant exactly what he said.  Which meant that he’d spent years, cock in hand, working towards the short strokes, with me as the centre of all his desire. It was a disturbing and arousing piece of knowledge.

“Well,” I said. “I guess we all fantasize about what we can’t have.”

“I don’t accept that. These fantasies tell us what we really need. It only makes sense to arrange to live them.”

Without waiting for me to reply, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and pressed a speed-dial number.

When the call went through he said, “Be there in twenty minutes. Prepare yourself and wait for me.” then he hung up and signaled the waiter for our bill.

“What was that all about?”

“Come home with me and you’ll find out.”

I had indeed found out. I’d found that my fantasy-made-flesh had a bone-deep appeal that both appalled and illuminated me.

Alice is mine if I want her.

I will get a straight woman’s tongue where it will do me the most good and Alan will finally get to watch me fuck.

It is perfect.

Isn’t it?

“It doesn’t matter if Alice enjoys you forcing her tongue into your cunt or grinding your clit against her nose.” Alan says. “What matters is that she shows me her obedience. If she’s a good pet, I’ll send her home to her husband with my cum up her arse and we’ll all be happy.”

Alice is married. Alice left her husband this evening because Alan told her to. Alice is going to let me fuck her because Alan told her to.

I allow myself to touch her.

I slide my hand down her thigh. She gives a small involuntary flinch but she stays in place. Alan has trained her to stay in place.

Her sex is wet on my fingers. Long, engorged labia that part easily. I take her imprisoned tongue into my mouth at the same time that I push two fingers into her.

She closes her eyes and waits.

Alice will let me do anything to her. Anything at all.

I want her eyes open. I want her to look at me; to see me, the woman who is going to show her what sex can be. I want to leave my mark on her memory.

My fingers find the roof of Alice’s sex, my thumb presses into her clit so hard she struggles to stay in her squat. When I suck hard on her tongue then clamp down on it with my teeth, Alice’s eyes shoot open. I have all of her attention now.

I hear Alan unzip. I have all of his attention too.  He steps closer until his erection, as hard and purposeful as his will,  is visible above Alice’s head. Wordlessly he starts to stroke himself. Slow unhurried strokes that speak of controlled desire and absolute entitlement.

I realise that he is  going to stroke himself while he watches  two women, one gay, one straight, squatting, sucking, fingering, fucking, putting on a show for him.

Now I know exactly what I want, no, what I need to do.

I pull out of Alice’s sex, release her tongue and use both hands to undo that cruel tongue-gag.

Alice looks at me with a question in her eyes. It seems to me this is the first true acknowledgment she’s made that I am anything more than an extension of Alan’s will.

I look up at Alan. He grins at me, displaying his arousal like a trophy or perhaps a weapon.

I put my hands on either side of Alice’s face as she flexes her freed tongue.

I lean forward and kiss Alice on the forehead.  Alan’s erection hovers above us like a bird of prey. I work my way down Alice’s  face until I am close to her ear.

“Go home to your husband,” I whisper. “You deserve someone better than Alan.”

I stand up, straightening my dress as I rise.

The look of astonishment on Alan’s face is the highlight of my evening.

“I’m leaving now,” I say to Alice. “I’m calling a cab. If you want to leave with me, be upstairs in five minutes.”

Looking from Alice to Alan I realise that neither of them know what her answer will be.

I leave the room smiling. It seems that I may have  swept a straight woman off her feet after all.

Till Death Do Us Part

I’m one of those old fashioned folks who prefers crime fiction that isn’t focused on helping me share the mind of a serial killer or experience the heat of an arterial gush. I like Raymond Chandler, Carol O’Connell, Harlan Coben, Barbara Nadel and Carl Hiaasen. They introduce me to people who hold my interest and places that seem real even though I’ve never been there.

Recently I’ve been thinking about writing the kind of crime story that I enjoy reading. I posted my latest effort,

Box 127” a little while back and it was well received, so I thought I’d share my first attempt at the genre.

“Till Death Do Us Part” is set in New York City and features Detective Claire Jardin. Claire stayed in my head. She wants me to tell the story of boy who confessed to murdering a woman he ought not to have had any involvement with so I hope to have something further from her soon.

Till death do us part

© Mike Kimera 2002. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@gmail.com

1

It was an upscale apartment that still managed to look elegant and spacious despite the clutter that a bunch of cops working a crime scene brought with them.  Murphy, the uniform first on the scene met us at the elevator. She’s a good cop, young but keen.

“What you got Murph?” Martinez, my partner, asked.

“Two fatal shootings in the study, Detective, but neither of them are as cold as the guy on the balcony: David Reynolds. His wife’s lying dead in there, shot with his gun and all he says is, ‘Tell me when someone with rank arrives, officer,’ and goes out to look at the view.”

I walked past Murphy into the study. I’d get to the bodies later; first I wanted to get the flavor of the place. It was less of a study, more of a media room: Bang and Olufsen sound system, plasma TV, DVD player, commercial quality VCR and two computers, one with webcam. Very cool, very minimalist, very tidy. The only personal touch was the ego-wall, set behind the desk so visitors got a good view: photographic evidence of the success of Mr. David Reynolds, award winning maker of TV commercials and friend to the rich and famous.

I moved from photograph to photograph. Reynolds had a smile that never reached his eyes. There was only one “family” photograph, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds on their wedding day. She was pretty and looked younger than him. The body language screamed trophy-wife. That’s why she was on the ego-wall for others to look at and not on the desk for him to see.

I turned to what was left of Mrs. Reynolds. The body was slumped against the wall. What used to be her face was splashed in arc of color behind her, like a satanic halo. I squatted to take a closer look.  ‘If those breasts are real there is no God’, I thought.

“The gun must have been right up against her chin,” Martinez said.

I hate the way he creeps up behind me like that and he knows it.

“Yeah, seems almost malicious doesn’t it?”

“Not as malicious as what was done to Mr. Young-and-Handsome over there. Hey, Claire, you think it’s true that you can’t get into heaven if you’ve had your genitals shot off?”

“That’s what killed him?” I asked.

“Nope, I reckon the two shots through the heart at close range have to take the blame for that.”

“OK, Murphy take us to see the grieving husband,” I said. I’d had enough of dead bodies for one evening.

“There’s something else you should see first, Detective,” Murphy said. “There’s a tape in the VCR. I checked on it because the player was still warm when we arrived.”

She looked like she wanted my approval. I smiled at her and she pressed PLAY on the remote.

The first shot was a close up of a very aroused man forcing his way into an asshole that looked way too small to take him. I glanced at Martinez and we both looked at Murphy who was actually blushing.

“It gets better,” Murphy said, “I mean it gets relevant.”

It sounded like the way the New York Times might review porn flicks but I soon saw what Murphy meant. The next shot was Mrs. Reynolds sucking Young-and-Handsome. I learnt that Mrs. Reynolds was a swallower, not a spitter and that the shot to Young-and-Handsome’s groin had blown away a substantial endowment. The film continued as a series of fast cuts of Mrs. Reynolds and her lover in an imaginative variety of different positions.

“Switch it off Murphy, we’ve seen enough,” Martinez said.

“Well done for finding this, Murphy.” I said. “What do you think it tells us?”

“Apart from the fact Mrs. Reynolds dyed her hair?” Martinez asked sarcastically.

Murphy and I both glared at him.

“Well, the picture quality is strictly amateur, all the shots are fixed camera, the lighting is poor, but the editing is very professional.”

“You watched this tape with these bodies in the room and that’s what you noticed?” Martinez said.

“That and the fact that the tape started from the beginning, so if someone watched it tonight they rewound it afterwards,” Murphy replied.

“Maybe you should be doing my job,” Martinez said, with just an edge of irritation.

“Maybe she already is.” I said and he laughed. Martinez never manages to be in asshole-mode for long.

2

When we got to the balcony, Reynolds was on his feet, taking in his expensive view over Manhattan. I doubt that he was pleased by what he saw; it was probably just another kind of ego-wall.

He turned to face us and said, “I take it that the absence of uniform means that you are the ranking officers?”

His accent was very Brit and his question seemed more like a put down.

“I’m Detective Claire Jardin, this is Detective Raul Martinez.” I said, flashing my shield.

He ignored Martinez but offered me his hand with such confidence that I found myself shaking it. His grip was light and dry. No macho squeezing. No smile either.

He made sure that I saw him checking me out from toe to head, then he smiled and said, “So you are a Detective, Ms. Jardin? How sad to have one’s illusion’s punctured. It would have been nice to believe that in real life homicide detectives are as young and as pretty as the ones on ‘NYPD Blue’.”

Martinez bristled with hurt macho pride on my behalf. Absurdly, I was struck by how sexy my name sounded when he pronounced it the French way. Clearly he knew how to be charming and had chosen to be insulting. I wondered what he wanted to gain by making me mad at him. I decided to give him some space to see if I could find out.

“You’re certain you want to talk about this now, Mr. Reynolds?” I said, “You’ve been through a significant trauma. You could talk to us later, with your lawyer present if you want.”

“A significant trauma, Detective? Is there another kind?”

I could see Martinez making a fist. He hates being patronized.

Reynolds smiled and said, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I appreciate that in this demonstrative, litigious society my restrained emotional reaction and my aversion to lawyers are regarded as deviant. Let’s just attribute that to me being an inscrutable Brit and get on with it shall we? I don’t want this to take all night. I have an important meeting in the morning.”

The Brit thing was clever, it made it much harder for me to read him and being nasty is so much easier to sustain than being fake nice. The evening was getting interesting.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened here, Mr.Reynolds?” I said, trying to sound as dumb as he thought I looked.

“Please, take a seat. Would you like a coffee? I’m afraid I don’t have any donuts but I could send out for some?”

I let the jibe slip by and took a seat. If Reynolds was in the mood to talk I didn’t want to distract him.

“I didn’t kill my wife, Detectives but to substantiate that I need to take you through some rather tiresome details. You see, although I am a very successful man, I am not a very nice one. People pretend to like me because I am successful. I think I am successful because I don’t waste time being nice. I am not without emotions but I’m selective about who I let see them.

“My wife, Heather, was one of the few people I let inside the circle as it were. She knew what I needed and she gave it to me. Frankly, she was never a very adventurous lover but she was beautiful, obedient and faithful and for me, that was enough.

“We had our fourth wedding anniversary last April. Things had settled down very well. I was pleased with her and I had told her so. I even increased her allowance. Then one day I forgot my wedding ring. I returned home to retrieve it and found Heather sweating under some toyboy she’d picked up. I watched for a while, unseen. The boy wasn’t particularly talented and Heather seemed a little desperate to me. I could almost have felt sorry for her but you see, she wasn’t inside the circle anymore. She had betrayed me. For me, she had ceased to be real at that point.”

“Did your wife know that you had seen her that day?” I asked.

“Good question, Detective. It must be all that training you received at the taxpayers’ expense. I assure you that we will get through this much faster if you just shut your mouth and listen.”

“Are you always this aggressive to women Mr. Reynolds?” Martinez asked. “Did you have to teach your wife to shut her mouth?”

“Ah, you must be the bad cop then. So Ms. Jardin here must be the one I’m supposed to want to please. Perhaps that technique works on the American MTV generation, I just find it irritating. If you will both be quiet, I will give you my statement and you can be on your way to whatever bar it is that you wash away the memories in.”

He was good. I wondered if he’d ever been an actor. He was certainly being one now.

“Your partner is almost right, Ms. Jardin. I did indeed set out to teach my wife a lesson. One that she learnt tonight in fact.  The dead young man littering my study works under the name Lance Strong. Apparently he felt the name would get him into soaps. Unfortunately his coke habit made it hard for him to remember his lines and even soaps demand that of their actors these days. He auditioned for one of my commercials. Instead I hired him to have sex with my wife. Actually, his brief was two-fold: to broaden her sexual horizons to the point where she needed his particular kind of action and to make her fall in love with him.”

“You hired a man to have sex with your wife?”

“Oh, do keep up, Detective Martinez. I hired him to turn her into an emotionally vulnerable slut. There was of course one further condition of his employment. He had to do all of this on film. It was the best role of his young life. I’d fed him the material he needed to seduce her: her favourite films, the music she liked, the things she thought were romantic. I baited the hook and she swallowed it live on film. Lance turned out to be a better name for him than I had thought. He had enormous stamina as a lover and he got poor Heather to want things that I knew she would be embarrassed to ask future lovers for. There’s a tape in my study if you need the details. I’m sure it will be a success at Precinct parties.”

“So how do we end up with the dead bodies in your study, Mr. Reynolds?” I asked, wanting see what happened if I pushed.

“Ah, that was most unfortunate actually. Not at all how things were meant to resolve themselves. In this case, real-life deviated from my script.”

There was something different in the way he made that comment. I got the impression it was the first completely honest thing I’d heard him say.

“You see, at my suggestion, Lance proposed to Heather last week. The poor girl was so grateful. And she had such creative ways of showing her gratitude by then. It produced some remarkable footage.”

He licked his lips. I’m sure he wasn’t conscious of it. I knew then that he had watched every moment of his wife’s betrayal many times, savouring it. Getting off on it. He was right; he wasn’t a very nice man.

“So this evening they came into my study together so that Heather could ask me for a divorce. It was a poor choice of venue as it turned out. It is the only room in which I keep a gun. It is licensed of course. I just wish I’d kept the desk drawer locked. Still, guns don’t kill people, people kill people, don’t you agree?”

Not a nice man at all.

“After Heather told me of her new-found love, I showed her the tape. I thanked Lance for a job well done and told him that I intended to give him a bonus. I should have been paying attention to Heather, not Lance. The tape affected her more profoundly than I had expected. It was too much of a shock for her. While I was shaking Lance’s hand, Heather took my gun from the drawer and shot him between the legs. Before I could react, she shot him twice more in the chest. Poor Lance.

“I know I should have been afraid for my own life but at the time I didn’t think about that, I just wanted to get the gun away from Heather. Then I realised she was about to shoot herself. We struggled. The gun went off. I was unable to stop her. She literally lost her head.

“I’m afraid that means that I will test positive for gunpowder residue and you may even find my prints on the gun. I realise it puts me in a bad light, Detectives but I like to be honest. I can supply tapes covering every encounter between my wife and her paid-for-lover, plus a copy of Lance Stone’s contract. I’m sure that a competent lawyer would have no difficulty convincing a jury to see this for the murder/suicide that it was.”

We asked him questions for another thirty minutes but his story didn’t change. He even wrote it down for us. I was certain Reynolds was lying but there was so much truth in what he said that I couldn’t find my way to the lie.

Reynolds stayed on his balcony when we finished with him. He asked to be informed when the bodies had been removed. He made it sound like a request to get rid of the leftovers from a room service meal, but I wasn’t completely buying the calm and in control act. I figured he was in no hurry to go back into his bloodstained study. I told Murphy to keep an eye on him. It would have been embarrassing if we had had to scrape him off the pavement because I’d misread how stiff his Brit upper lip really was.

In the elevator, on the way down to the lobby, Martinez said, “He’ll get away with it you know. The jury will watch that tape and condemn her not him. I bet they ask for a copy to watch over night. I bet they won’t want to miss a moment.”

I saw the lie and the truth then. We didn’t get out of the elevator when it reached the lobby, we went straight back to Reynolds’ apartment.

3

The camera was in the ceiling of the study. We played the tape on his plasma TV. Things went just as Reynolds described them until he switched on the tape of his wife and her lover. Heather Reynolds laughed.

“God, Lance, you were so big and so hard I thought you were going to split me wide open.”

The camera was fixed on Heather so I couldn’t see Reynolds’ face, but I suspected this was were reality parted company with his script.

Heather was rubbing herself up against Lance now, both of them watching the screen. “Mmm, I do love the taste of fresh meat in the morning,” Heather said, her hand stroking Lance’s crotch. Lance kissed her.

Heather broke the embrace and turned towards Reynolds. “What’s the matter, David? Things not going as you planned? Lance told me about your pathetic little plan on the first night we met.”

Heather leant forward, her hands on Reynolds desk. The tape played on, unregarded behind her.

“You were right, David, after four years of lying under a dried-up emotional cripple, I wanted to be taken by a real man. But do you know what the best part was? Do you know what used to make me scream with pleasure? It wasn’t that you’d chosen such a stud, or that you were paying for me to get properly serviced for a change, it was the thought of you watching Lance taking me and getting off on it because you love the size of him, because you wanted it to be you he was in, not me.”

Reynolds was only just on camera but I could see him reaching for the desk drawer.

“I don’t want a divorce, David. You and I are going to stay married and if you ever try to change that I’ll expose this twisted little plot and take you for every penny you have.”

Heather turned to Lance.

“Why don’t we give him one last thrill Lance? Let’s do it on his anally-tidy desk.”

Lance stepped towards the desk. He was reaching for his fly when the first shot hit him. Reynolds moved into camera-shot, placed the gun against Lance’s chest and fired twice. The camera was on his face as he turned towards Heather. There was nothing in his eyes except hate.

Heather backed against the wall. She didn’t shout or struggle. She seemed mesmerised by Reynolds’s eyes. He placed the gun under her chin and fired.

For a few moments he stood over the body. Then he put the gun in her hands. His movements were calm. He switched off the tape and rewound it. Slowly he moved to the phone. He dialled 911. He gave his name and his address and reported two deaths by gunshot. Then he sat on the desk, looking up at the camera until Murphy arrived at the scene.

4

“So how did you know the camera was there?” Murphy asked.

We were at Raj O’Rielly’s, home to Irish booze and Indian food and beloved of every cop in the Precinct.

“It was what Raul said about not missing a moment. Reynolds photographed everything. He wasn’t going to miss the last chapter in his wife’s humiliation.”

“But why leave the tape there for us to find?”

“Maybe he thought we’d need a search warrant to search a crime scene,” Martinez said.

“Or maybe he was thought we were too stupid to figure it out.”

I was remembering Reynolds’s behaviour on the balcony. The way he had provoked me. The performance he had given.

“I think,” I said, “that he wanted to get caught”.

“Claire,” Martinez said “to almost quote the great Ozzy Osbourne ‘I love you to bits but you’re completely nuts’.”

I laughed it off and went to get some more Guinness to go with the Rogan Josh, but even in the middle of all that noise and life, I was haunted by Reynolds looking up at the camera as he sat on his desk. There had been nothing at all behind his eyes. Not even hate.


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


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

Untouched Part 3

In this chapter, our touch-phobic hero goes to university and has a girl in his bed for the first time.

“Untouched” Part 3

(c) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@gmail.com

The incident with Sharon told me things about myself that I didn’t want to know. The arousal I experienced in those moments when I had a camera in my hand and Sharon’s bound body in my lens was engraved on my memory. I knew it was an experience I wanted to repeat. And yet, when the object of my desire had been offered to me, I had run away.
I tried to tell myself that I was repelled by Sharon’s depravity but that did not explain why I had spent so many nights since masturbating to the images that I claimed repelled me.

That was when I first began to suspect that something in me might be broken.

I had treated Sharon badly. I knew she deserved better but I could not bring myself to contact her.

A week after the incident, I returned home to find that Sharon had visited while I was out.

“She seems such a nice girl,” my mother said. “It’s such a shame she and her family will be away this summer. Still, she must like you. She left you a present to remember her by.”

The present was a large manila envelope.

“Aren’t you going to open it, dear?”

Ignoring my mother, I ran up to my room and ripped open the envelope.

There was a note from Sharon.

“You are a little shit, leaving me like that. I hope someone treats you like that one day. Then you’ll know what it feels like.
I developed these so you’ll know what you are missing.
Mr. McKinley says you have talent.
Which I guess makes you a talented shit.”

Attached to the note was a set of large format, matte black and white prints of the shots I’d taken of Sharon.

Looking at them made me instantly hard.

I spent the summer wanking to those photos and re-reading that note.

I bought a camera and I promised myself not to be a shit the next time I was with a naked woman.

It was a lonely summer spent taking long distance shots of girls in the park who never even knew I was there and working through the books on the reading list my university had sent me.

In September 1984, I went up to the University of York. I selected York as my university because it had the highest female to male ratio in the country and was located on pretty campus which most of the students lived on.

I was determined that I would lose my virginity in my first term. I had a room on campus, I was studying English, which was dominated by women, and I had a condoms stashed in the drawer by my bed.

York lived up to my expectations. It was filled with young women experiencing the freedom of living away from home for the first time. The Halls of Residence were mixed-sex and the atmosphere was relaxed. I was treated to a daily parade of women being women and I loved it.

I was also a little dazzled by it. I didn’t know where to start. I photographed every girl that took my fancy on campus. I even talked to a few of them. The problem was that I had no idea how to take this further and the pretty girls were being wooed by predatory third year
students who had developed a smooth line of chat that was depressingly effective.

I decided that I could build relationships in my seminar group. My pre-reading meant I was well ahead in my course work and I was naïve enough to believe that this was a good thing.

I doomed myself to social isolation in my second seminar when I asked the tutor whether she favoured the subjective analysis of the text advocated by the New Criticism or the allegedly objective view put forward by the Chicago school.

Only then did I realise that most of my peers were still struggling through the set texts and none of them had done any work on the different schools of literary criticism. I understood that I had labelled myself as a nerd and made myself unattractive to the women in
my group.

By my third week I was feeling lonely and in need of a challenge. I was so deep in nerdom by then that it made sense to me to try and break out of this cycle by auditing an extra-curricular class on Virginia Woolf given by a Grad Student called Charlotte Lowell.

That was the year that “A Room of One’s Own” suddenly became a feminist tract and earnest women with little knowledge of literary criticism dedicated themselves to reading Virginia Woolf.

I attended the first lecture with mischief in mind. I was a fan of Woolf’s novels and I was irritated that “A Room of One’s Own” was now more widely read (or at least purchased) than “Jacob’s Room”. I was also stunned that feminists were deifying a woman with a history of mental illness, possibly worsened by sexual abuse as a child and who had finally committed suicide.

I arrived early and sat at the front. I was, of course, the only male in the room and a little cordone sanitaire of empty chairs was established all around me as the Wimmin kept their distance. Men, it seemed, should be in a separate room of their own.

Charlotte strode into the classroom without looking at anyone and slammed her books onto the lecturer’s table. She wore a v-necked jumper over a white shirt. The cuffs of the shirt were folded back over the ends of the sleeves of the jumper, which been pushed back up
her forearms. Her designer jeans were tucked into soft leather riding boots. All in all, she was the perfect image of a Sloane Ranger ready for a day of huntin’, shootin’ n fishin’ on daddy’s country estate.

“OK, so I’m Charlotte Lowell and this is the first of five lectures on the works of Virginia Woolf” she said, leaning forward, hands flat on the desk, weight taken by her splendid forearms, head up and tilted so her hair fell to the side in a dark heavy curtain.

Charlotte’s accent was so Sloane that associating it with anything as intellectual as a lecture seemed an act against nature. I let the accent pass me by and concentrated on the broadness of her shoulders, the slimness of her waist and the taut curves her jeans displayed.

Charlotte moved around the desk, stood for a moment with her back to it, pushed herself up into a sitting position and then crossed her legs. I swear half the room sighed.
“First point: I will not be discussing ‘A Room of One’s Own’. It is not literature. It is barely a pamphlet. If it is your main reason for being here then I suggest you leave now and sign up for one of the Sociology Department’s new offerings on Women’s Studies.”

“Second point: these lectures will apply a de-constructionist critique to explore the emergence in Woolf’s work of a ‘maternal voice’ which uses non-vocal, domestic semiotics to challenge the symbolism and rhetoric, the ‘paternal voice’ as it were, of Colonial Britain. I expect you all to keep up.”

Charlotte waited a couple of seconds. She didn’t seem in the least surprised by the mass departure of the angry, confused or intimidated.

Charlotte smiled, slid off the desk, grabbed a chair, turned it around and sat straddling it, directly in front of me. An image of a naked Christine Keeler sitting in the same pose flashed across my mind.

“So, now we’ve culled the herd, I’d like those of you who think you know what I’m talking about to come and sit close to the only man who seems not to be afraid of Virginia Woolf and we’ll begin with alienation in ‘Mrs. Dalloway’.”

There were about a dozen women in the room. A few of them moved their chairs closer to the front in token obedience to Charlotte’s instruction but only one woman, a small, pale, blonde got up from her chair to come and sit next to me. She gave a shy nod and then gave Charlotte the full wattage of her whiter than white smile.

But Charlotte was already up out of her chair, pacing the room with relentless energy as she thrust her ideas at us. She worked us hard in that first session. The ideas were complex and slippery and startlingly new back then. I didn’t understand it all but her passion carried me through and gave me that wonderful feeling of grasping something original, something that would make a difference.

At last she said, “OK. Not a bad start. Next week we’ll look at the significance of colonial rhetoric and new technology in ‘The Voyage Out’.” Then she picked up her books and strode out of the room leaving us all breathless behind her.

The young blonde woman who had taken the seat next to mine said, “Bloody hell, I feel like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.”

I turned towards her. A blush spread across her pale skin. It made her look quite beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but she is the most attractive woman I’ve ever met in real life. I kept getting distracted by those riding boots. I bet she’s got perfect seat.”

“I think we could all see her perfect seat,” I said.

“But I’ll bet I was the only one imaging Ms Lowell’s seat pivoting on my tongue.” she said, with a sigh.

“You do realise that you said that part out loud as well?” I said, still slightly stunned by the image she’d just placed in my head.

“I know. Wicked of me isn’t it? I’m Fiona, by the way,” she said and stuck out her hand for me to shake.

“Fiona. It means white, fair and beautiful. It’s a good description:” I said as I held her hand in mine.

“You do realize I’m gay don’t you?” she said, her handshake having come to a sudden stop.

“The eating out Charlotte image sort of gave that away.” I said, “But that doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”

After a moments hesitation she smiled and said, “I bet you say that to all the lesbian girls.”

We went for a beer and she told me all about herself. She’d come to university determined to be her real self – hence the verbal neon flashing signs saying lesbian that she taken to displaying.

Neither of us knew what to say to that, so, for a while, we talked about hobbies. I described myself as a would be photographer, Fiona labeled her self as a book-addict who could not live without a daily dose of fiction. Then she asked me which TV show I was most ashamed of liking. I offered up my continuing obsession with “Captain Scarlet”. I even did the “This is the voice of the Mysterons” line in that weird deep voice. Fiona confessed that she had a crush on Erin in “The Waltons”.

Several beers later, she told me that she’d come out to her parents just before going up to York and she hadn’t heard from then since. I comforted her in a drunken and clumsy way and we ended up staggering back to my room.

“Beer makes me tired,” Fiona said, collapsing on my narrow little bed and struggling to take off her trainers. I helped her with them, standing above her with her feet resting on my chest.

“I can sleep here tonight, can’t I?” she said, looking up at me.

I don’t know if it was the beer or the fact that I knew Fiona wanted nothing from me physically, but I wasn’t freaked out by having a woman on my bed in the middle of the night. I felt calm and happy.

“Sure you can.” I said.

“I don’t have any pyjamas,” she said, sounding more perplexed than embarrassed.

“That’s all right, neither do I.”

She laughed and said, “Can you help me with these jeans?”

Fiona undid the top of her jeans and I pulled. Her legs were startlingly pale. She wore black cotton panties that had been pulled down a little as the jeans came off. I paused, still holding her legs in my hands. She looked vulnerable. I wanted to say something to make her more comfortable but all my words had gone away. All I could do was look  her in the eyes and gently put her legs down on the bed.

Still looking at me, she sat up, crossed her arms at the wrists, reached down and pulled her T-shirt above her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Hers were the first breasts I’d seen in real life. They were small and pale and perfect.

“Wow.” I said.

“That’s the comment I get from the first person to see me naked? Gosh,  I so grateful I’m with someone who’s so articulate.”

The vulnerability was gone now. Fiona was back to normal. She was also tugging at my belt.

I stepped back, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Hey, I wasn’t trying to jump you. Gay girl here, remember? But I’m not gonna be naked in your room while you’re fully dressed.”

I could see the sense in that. I stripped as quickly as I could in my tipsy state. I didn’t look at Fiona while I did it. She took the hint and paid attention to pulling the covers back from the bed.

I considered leaving my boxers on; Fiona still had her panties on after all, but my boxers weren’t that clean and I knew I’d be uncomfortable so I stripped completely. I had the first stirrings of an erection, barely enough to defy gravity a little.

Fiona had already slipped under the sheets when she looked up and saw me naked.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be.” She said and then reached down under the sheets, pulled off her panties and threw them onto the floor.

Fiona held back the sheet for me and I lay down beside her. There was just about enough room for the two of us.

Fiona continued to hold the sheet back. She was looking at my torpid cock and grinning.

“What?” I said reaching for the sheet that she was keeping out of my reach.

Well, isn’t it supposed to be stiffer than that?”

“I thought you were gay girl.”

“Yeah, but you also said I was a Wow. Is this how you normally are when you have a naked Wow in your bed?”

I stayed silent for a moment too long and Fiona’s grin vanished.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to be bitchy. I’m just nervous. I’ve never been in anyone’s bed before.”

“Well I’ve never had anyone, Wow or otherwise, in my bed either.”

“So we’re both…”

“…virgins. Yes.”

Fiona scooted across the bed until she was on her side, leaning her head on her hand and with her back against the wall. I stayed on my back beside her. My erection subsided completely.

I wasn’t embarrassed or angry. I just wasn’t aroused. I had no idea what to do next.

“I masturbate a lot,” Fiona said.

I raised an eyebrow, “Define a lot.”

“At least once a day.”

“Amateur,” I said. “I masturbate much more than that.”

“What do you think about when you do it?”

“Women I’ve seen that I think are hot”

“Me too.”

“If I was alone tonight,” I said, “I’d be thinking about Charlotte Lowell.”

“Me too.”

A loud silence followed.

I realized that I really wanted to think about Charlotte while the images of her were fresh in my mind. Now that the idea was in my head, I had to do something about it.

“We could pretend we are alone.” I said.

I managed to sound casual but my heart was pounding at the thought of it.

“OK,” Fiona said, after a long second, “But you go first,”

“We’ll go at the same time.”

“Only if you guarantee no touching.”

Now there was a statement that helped me relax.

“OK, no touching.”

“But you can look if you like;” she said. “You can tell me if I’m still a Wow.”

I put my hands behind my head and said, “And you can watch me if you like”.

Then I closed my eyes and achieved a full erection merely by recalling the way Charlotte, lost in thought, habitually swept her long hair to one side, exposing the soft strength of her neck. I overlaid other images of her: the way she tapped the eraser-tipped pencil against her full lower lip while she listened, the way her nipples pushed up and out through her shirt when she’d stripped off her v-neck jumper.

In less than a minute my cock was hard against my belly..

I opened my eyes when I heard Fiona mutter, “Jesus.”

She turned onto her belly, her head facing me, her body less than an inch away from mine, and slid her right arm under her belly.

As I watched, her arse rose and fell. I could feel the mattress moving as she pivoted on her fingers, knuckles pressing into the bed. She started to rock gently.

I looked away, held the images of Charlotte in my imagination almost as firmly as I held my cock, and started to stroke in time to the movements I felt through the mattress.

When Fiona started to make little mewling noises, like a kitten in pain, I let my fist move in a blur of activity until my back arched and warm sperm flowed over my fingers like melting ice cream.

Fiona was still going. Her eyes were closed. Her forehead was covered in sweat and she was grinding her pubis hard into the bed. I watched fascinated. A few seconds later she let out a long low growl and went limp on the mattress.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me.

“That was intense,” she said, her face still flat against the mattress.

“You turn pink when you come” I said. It seemed that my brain no longer had control over my mouth.

Fiona sat up, pulled her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Well at least I don’t cover myself in sticky goo” she said. Then she passed her fingers beneath her nose and added, “Though I could do with washing my hands.”

I laughed.

“Do you think we’re both still virgins?” I asked.

“Well, either that or we just double-teamed Charlotte.”

“Now there’s an image to conjure with.”

Fiona hit me with a pillow.

“I need a pee,” she said, “and you need a wash.”

I dragged myself off the bed and headed towards the sink.

“The bog is down the hall,.” I said. “So you might want to put some clothes on.”

Fiona pulled on her T-shirt and her panties and headed off sleepily into the hall.

Standing at the sink, soaping my balls, I congratulated myself on having finally had sex with a woman. True, we hadn’t actually touched, but she’d been there and she’d looked wonderful. I lost myself a little as I considered precisely how wonderful and my erection
returned, not as fierce as before but still saluting the sink. I was looking down at it when Fiona came back into the room.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you masturbated a lot were you?” she said. Her voice sounded calm but she’d lingered at the door and she looked a little anxious.

“I’m sorry” I said turning towards her.

It was only when she took half a step back that I realized that my erection was now aimed at her.

I turned back towards the sink, moving a little too rapidly, and slapped my hard dick up against the porcelain.

Fiona laughed.

“Erections really are ridiculous.” she said, stepping towards me. “No wonder men can’t think when they’re aroused; the brain must hardly get any blood at all. Charlotte has a lot to answer for tonight.”

“Actually, I was thinking about you.” I said.

Fiona froze.

“Well you are a wow. I could spend hours watching you turning slick and pink.”

Even before I finished the sentence, I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I’m an idiot.”

Fiona smiled. It was a tentative smile, as if she was trying it on but wasn’t sure it would fit.

“Of course you’re an idiot. All men are idiots. It’s a well known design fault.”

My laugh sounded strained but Fiona’s shoulders relaxed.

“Are you going to put that away or do you need to drain it first.”

“I’m fine thanks. The er… mood has passed.”

“Let’s keep it that way. You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s my room.”

“You want to have your room to yourself?”

“No. I’ll take the floor.”

Fiona slipped back into the bed, face turned towards the wall.

I pulled the cushions off my chair, switched off the light and settled on the floor.

Silence filled the room.

“Good night Fiona”

“Good night John Boy”

I knew then that everything would be all right.

<!–[if !mso]> <! st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } –>  

The incident with Sharon told me things about myself that I didn’t want to know. The arousal I experienced in those moments when I had a camera in my hand and Sharon’s bound body in my lens was engraved on my memory. I knew it was an experience I wanted to repeat. And yet, when the object of my desire had been offered to me, I had run away.

I tried to tell myself that I was repelled by Sharon’s depravity but that did not explain why I had spent so many nights since masturbating to the images that I claimed repelled me.

That was when I first began to suspect that something in me might be broken.

I had treated Sharon badly. I knew she deserved better but I could not bring myself to contact her.

A week after the incident, I returned home to find that Sharon had visited while I was out.

“She seems such a nice girl,” my mother said. “It’s such a shame she and her family will be away this summer. Still, she must like you. She left you a present to remember her by.”

The present was a large manila envelope.

“Aren’t you going to open it, dear?”

Ignoring my mother, I ran up to my room and ripped open the envelope.

There was a note from Sharon.

“You are a little shit, leaving me like that. I hope someone treats you like that one day. Then you’ll know what it feels like.

I developed these so you’ll know what you are missing.

Mr. McKinley says you have talent.

Which I guess makes you a talented shit.”

Attached to the note was a set of large format, matt black and white prints of the shots I’d taken of Sharon.

Looking at them made me instantly hard.

I spent the summer wanking to those photos and re-reading that note.

I bought a camera and I promised myself not to be a shit the next time I was with a naked woman.

It was a lonely summer spent taking long distance shots of girls in the park who never even knew I was there and working through the books on the reading list my university had sent me.

In September 1984, I went up to the University of York. I selected York as my university because it had the highest female to male ratio in the country and was located on pretty campus which most of the students lived on.

I was determined that I would lose my virginity in my first term. I had a room on campus, I was studying English, which was dominated by women, and I had a condoms stashed in the drawer by my bed.

York lived up to my expectations. It was filled with young women experiencing the freedom of living away from home for the first time. The Halls of Residence were mixed-sex and the atmosphere was relaxed. I was treated to a daily parade of women being women and I loved it.

I was also a little dazzled by it. I didn’t know where to start. I photographed every girl that took my fancy on campus. I even talked to a few of them. The problem was that I had no idea how to take this further and the pretty girls were being wooed by predatory third year
students who had developed a smooth line of chat that was depressingly effective.

I decided that I could build relationships in my seminar group. My pre-reading meant I was well ahead in my course work and I was naïve enough to believe that this was a good thing.

I doomed myself to social isolation in my second seminar when I asked the tutor whether she favoured the subjective analysis of the text advocated by the New Criticism or the allegedly objective view put forward by the Chicago school.

Only then did I realise that most of my peers were still struggling through the set texts and none of them had done any work on the different schools of literary criticism. I understood that I had labelled myself as a nerd and made myself unattractive to the women in
my group.

By my third week I was feeling lonely and in need of a challenge. I was so deep in nerdom by then that it made sense to me to try and break out of this cycle by auditing an extra-curricular class on Virginia Woolf given by a Grad Student called Charlotte Lowell.

That was the year that “A Room of One’s Own” suddenly became a feminist tract and earnest women with little knowledge of literary criticism dedicated themselves to reading Virginia Woolf.

I attended the first lecture with mischief in mind. I was a fan of Woolf’s novels and I was irritated that “A Room of One’s Own” was now more widely read (or at least purchased) than “Jacob’s Room”. I was also stunned that feminists were deifying a woman with a history of
mental illness, possibly worsened by sexual abuse as a child and who had finally committed suicide.

I arrived early and sat at the front. I was, of course, the only male in the room and a little cordone sanitaire of empty chairs was established all around me as the Wimmin kept their distance. Men, it seemed, should be in a separate room of their own.

Charlotte strode into the classroom without looking at anyone and slammed her books onto the lecturer’s table. She wore a v-necked jumper over a white shirt. The cuffs of the shirt were folded back over the ends of the sleeves of the jumper, which been pushed back up
her forearms. Her designer jeans were tucked into soft leather riding boots. All in all, sheas the perfect image of a Sloane Ranger ready for a day of huntin’, shootin’ n fishin’ on daddy’s country estate.

“OK, so I’m Charlotte Lowell and this is the first of five lectures on the works of Virginia Woolf” she said, leaning forward, hands flat on the desk, weight taken by her splendid forearms, head up and tilted so her hair fell to the side in a dark heavy curtain.

Charlotte’s accent was so Sloane that associating it with anything as intellectual as a lecture seemed an act against nature. I let the accent pass me by and concentrated on the broadness of her shoulders, the slimness of her waist and the taut curves her jeans displayed.

Charlotte moved around the desk, stood for a moment with her back to it, pushed herself up into a sitting position and then crossed her legs. I swear half the room sighed.

“First point: I will not be discussing ‘A Room of One’s Own’. It is not literature. It is barely a pamphlet. If it is your main reason for being here then I suggest you leave now and sign up for one of the Sociology Department’s new offerings on Women’s’ Studies.”

Second point: these lectures will apply a de-constructionist critique to explore the emergence in Woolf’s work of a ‘maternal voice’ which uses non-vocal, domestic semiotics to challenge the symbolism and rhetoric, the ‘paternal voice’ as it were, of Colonial Britain. I expect you all to keep up.”

Charlotte waited a couple of seconds. She didn’t seem in the least surprised by the mass departure of the angry, confused or intimidated.

Charlotte smiled, slid off the desk, grabbed a chair, turned it around and sat straddling it, directly in front of me. An image of a naked Christine Keeler sitting in the same pose flashed across my mind.

“So, now we’ve culled the herd, I’d like those of you who think you know what I’m talking about to come and sit close to the only man who seems not to be afraid of Virginia Woolf and we’ll begin with alienation in ‘Mrs. Dalloway’.”

There were about a dozen women in the room. A few of them moved their chairs closer to the front in token obedience to Charlotte’s instruction but only one woman, a small, pale, blonde got up from her chair to come and sit next to me. She gave a shy nod and then gave
Charlotte the full wattage of her whiter than white smile.

But Charlotte was already up out of her chair, pacing the room with relentless energy as she thrust her ideas at us. She worked us hard in that first session. The ideas were complex and slippery and startlingly new back then. I didn’t understand it all but her passion carried me through and gave me that wonderful feeling of grasping something original, something that would make a difference.

At last she said, “OK. Not a bad start. Next week we’ll look at the significance of colonial rhetoric and new technology in ‘The Voyage Out’.” Then she picked up her books and strode out of the room leaving us all breathless behind her.

The young blonde woman who had taken the seat next to mine said, “Bloody hell, I feel like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.”

I turned towards her. A blush spread across her pale skin. It made her look quite beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but she is the most attractive woman I’ve ever met in real life. I kept getting distracted by those riding boots. I bet she’s got perfect seat.”

“I think we could all see her perfect seat,” I said.

“But I’ll bet I was the only one imaging Ms Lowell’s seat pivoting on my tongue.” she said, with a sigh.

“You do realise that you said that part out loud as well?” I said, still slightly stunned by the image she’d just placed in my head.

“I know. Wicked of me isn’t it? I’m Fiona, by the way,” she said and stuck out her hand for me to shake.

“Fiona. It means white, fair and beautiful. It’s a good description:” I said as I held her hand in mine.

“You do realize I’m gay don’t you?” she said, her handshake having come to a sudden stop.

“The eating out Charlotte image sort of gave that away.” I said, “But that doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”

After a moments hesitation she smiled and said, “I bet you say that to all the lesbian girls.”

We went for a beer and she told me all about herself. She’d come to university determined to be her real self – hence the verbal neon flashing signs saying lesbian that she taken to displaying.

Neither of us knew what to say to that, so, for a while, we talked about hobbies. I described myself as a would be photographer, Fiona labelled her self as a book-addict who could not live without a daily dose of fiction. Then she asked me which TV show I was most ashamed of liking. I offered up my continuing obsession with “Captain Scarlet”. I even did the “This is the voice of the Mysterons” line in that weird deep voice. Fiona confessed that she had a crush on Erin in “The Waltons”.

Several beers later, she told me that she’d come out to her parents just before going up to York and she hadn’t heard from then since. I comforted her in a drunken and clumsy way and we ended up staggering back to my room.

“Beer makes me tired,” Fiona said, collapsing on my narrow little bed and struggling to take off her trainers. I helped her with them, standing above her with her feet resting on my chest.

“I can sleep here tonight, can’t I?” she said, looking up at me.

I don’t know if it was the beer or the fact that I knew Fiona wanted nothing from me physically, but I wasn’t freaked out by having a woman on my bed in the middle of the night. I felt calm and happy.

“Sure you can.” I said.

“I don’t have any pyjamas,” she said, sounding more perplexed than embarrassed.

“That’s all right, neither do I.”

She laughed and said, “Can you help me with these jeans?”

Fiona undid the top of her jeans and I pulled. Her legs were startlingly pale. She wore black cotton panties that had been pulled down a little as the jeans came off. I paused, still holding her legs in my hands. She looked vulnerable. I wanted to say something to make her more
comfortable but all my words had gone away. All I could do was look  her in the eyes and gently put her legs down on the bed.

Still looking at me, she sat up, crossed her arms at the wrists, reached down and pulled her T-shirt above her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Hers were the first breasts I’d seen in real life. They were small and pale and perfect.

“Wow.” I said.

“That’s the comment I get from the first person to see me naked? Gosh,  I so grateful I’m with someone who’s so articulate.”

The vulnerability was gone now. Fiona was back to normal. She was also tugging at my belt.

I stepped back, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Hey, I wasn’t trying to jump you. Gay girl here, remember? But I’m not gonna be naked in your room while you’re fully dressed.”

I could see the sense in that. I stripped as quickly as I could in my tipsy state. I didn’t look at Fiona while I did it. She took the hint and paid attention to pulling the covers back from the bed.

I considered leaving my boxers on; Fiona still had her panties on after all, but my boxers weren’t that clean and I knew I’d be uncomfortable so I stripped completely. I had the first stirrings of an erection, barely enough to defy gravity a little.

Fiona had already slipped under the sheets when she looked up and saw me naked.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be.” She said and then reached down under the sheets, pulled off her panties and threw them onto the floor.

Fiona held back the sheet for me and I lay down beside her. There was just about enough room for the two of us.

Fiona continued to hold the sheet back. She was looking at my torpid cock and grinning.

“What?” I said reaching for the sheet that she was keeping out of my reach.

Well, isn’t it supposed to be stiffer than that?”

“I thought you were gay girl.”

“Yeah, but you also said I was a Wow. Is this how you normally are when you have a naked Wow in your bed?”

I stayed silent for a moment too long and Fiona’s grin vanished.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to be bitchy. I’m just nervous. I’ve never been in anyone’s bed before.”

“Well I’ve never had anyone, Wow or otherwise, in my bed either.”

“So we’re both…”

“…virgins. Yes.”

Fiona scooted across the bed until she was on her side, leaning her head on her hand and with her back against the wall. I stayed on my back beside her. My erection subsided completely.

I wasn’t embarrassed or angry. I just wasn’t aroused. I had no idea what to do next.

“I masturbate a lot,” Fiona said.

I raised an eyebrow, “Define a lot.”

“At least once a day.”

“Amateur,” I said. “I masturbate much more than that.”

“What do you think about when you do it?”

“Women I’ve seen that I think are hot”

“Me too.”

“If I was alone tonight,” I said, “I’d be thinking about Charlotte Lowell.”

“Me too.”

A loud silence followed.

I realized that I really wanted to think about Charlotte while the images of her were fresh in my mind. Now that the idea was in my head, I had to do something about it.

“We could pretend we are alone.” I said.

I managed to sound casual but my heart was pounding at the thought of it.

“OK,” Fiona said, after a long second, “But you go first,”

“We’ll go at the same time.”

“Only if you guarantee no touching.”

Now there was a statement that helped me relax.

“OK, no touching.”

“But you can look if you like;” she said. “You can tell me if I’m still a Wow.”

I put my hands behind my head and said, “And you can watch me if you like”.

Then I closed my eyes and achieved a full erection merely by recalling the way Charlotte, lost in thought, habitually swept her long hair to one side, exposing the soft strength of her neck. I overlaid other images of her: the way she tapped the eraser-tipped pencil against her
full lower lip while she listened, the way her nipples pushed up and out through her shirt when she’d stripped off her v-neck jumper.

In less than a minute my cock was hard against my belly..

I opened my eyes when I heard Fiona mutter, “Jesus.”

She turned onto her belly, her head facing me, her body less than an inch away from mine, and slid her right arm under her belly.

As I watched, her arse rose and fell. I could feel the mattress moving as she pivoted on her fingers, knuckles pressing into the bed. She started to rock gently.

I looked away, held the images of Charlotte in my imagination almost as firmly as I held my cock, and started to stroke in time to the movements I felt through the mattress.

 

When Fiona started to make little mewling noises, like a kitten in pain, I let my fist move in a blur of activity until my back arched and warm sperm flowed over my fingers like melting ice cream.

Fiona was still going. Her eyes were closed. Her forehead was covered in sweat and she was grinding her pubis hard into the bed. I watched fascinated. A few seconds later she let out a long low growl and went limp on the mattress.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me.

“That was intense,” she said, her face still flat against the mattress.

“You turn pink when you come” I said. It seemed that my brain no longer had control over my mouth.

Fiona sat up, pulled her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Well at least I don’t cover myself in sticky goo” she said. Then she passed her fingers beneath her nose and added, “Though I could do with washing my hands.”

I laughed.

“Do you think we’re both still virgins?” I asked.

“Well, either that or we just double-teamed Charlotte.”

“Now there’s an image to conjure with.”

Fiona hit me with a pillow.

“I need a pee,” she said, “and you need a wash.”

I dragged myself off the bed and headed towards the sink.

“The bog is down the hall,.” I said. “So you might want to put some clothes on.”

Fiona pulled on her T-shirt and her panties and headed off sleepily into the hall.

Standing at the sink, soaping my balls, I congratulated myself on having finally had sex with a woman. True, we hadn’t actually touched, but she’d been there and she’d looked wonderful. I lost myself a little as I considered precisely how wonderful and my erection
returned, not as fierce as before but still saluting the sink. I was looking down at it when Fiona came back into the room.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you masturbated a lot were you?” she said. Her voice sounded calm but she’d lingered at the door and she looked a little anxious.

“I’m sorry” I said turning towards her.

It was only when she took half a step back that I realized that my erection was now aimed at her.

I turned back towards the sink, moving a little too rapidly, and slapped my hard dick up against the porcelain.

Fiona laughed.

“Erections really are ridiculou

The incident with Sharon told me things about myself that I didn’t want to know. The arousal I experienced in those moments when I had a camera in my hand and Sharon’s bound body in my lens was engraved on my memory. I knew it was an experience I wanted to repeat. And yet, when the object of my desire had been offered to me, I had run away.
I tried to tell myself that I was repelled by Sharon’s depravity but that did not explain why I had spent so many nights since masturbating to the images that I claimed repelled me.

That was when I first began to suspect that something in me might be broken.

I had treated Sharon badly. I knew she deserved better but I could not bring myself to contact her.

A week after the incident, I returned home to find that Sharon had visited while I was out.

“She seems such a nice girl,” my mother said. “It’s such a shame she and her family will be away this summer. Still, she must like you. She left you a present to remember her by.”

The present was a large manila envelope.

“Aren’t you going to open it, dear?”

Ignoring my mother, I ran up to my room and ripped open the envelope.

There was a note from Sharon.

“You are a little shit, leaving me like that. I hope someone treats you like that one day. Then you’ll know what it feels like.
I developed these so you’ll know what you are missing.
Mr. McKinley says you have talent.
Which I guess makes you a talented shit.”

Attached to the note was a set of large format, matt black and white prints of the shots I’d taken of Sharon.

Looking at them made me instantly hard.

I spent the summer wanking to those photos and re-reading that note.

I bought a camera and I promised myself not to be a shit the next time I was with a naked woman.

It was a lonely summer spent taking long distance shots of girls in the park who never even knew I was there and working through the books on the reading list my university had sent me.

In September 1984, I went up to the University of York. I selected York as my university because it had the highest female to male ratio in the country and was located on pretty campus which most of the students lived on.

I was determined that I would lose my virginity in my first term. I had a room on campus, I was studying English, which was dominated by women, and I had a condoms stashed in the drawer by my bed.

York lived up to my expectations. It was filled with young women experiencing the freedom of living away from home for the first time. The Halls of Residence were mixed-sex and the atmosphere was relaxed. I was treated to a daily parade of women being women and I loved it.

I was also a little dazzled by it. I didn’t know where to start. I photographed every girl that took my fancy on campus. I even talked to a few of them. The problem was that I had no idea how to take this further and the pretty girls were being wooed by predatory third year
students who had developed a smooth line of chat that was depressingly effective.

I decided that I could build relationships in my seminar group. My pre-reading meant I was well ahead in my course work and I was naïve enough to believe that this was a good thing.

I doomed myself to social isolation in my second seminar when I asked the tutor whether she favoured the subjective analysis of the text advocated by the New Criticism or the allegedly objective view put forward by the Chicago school.

Only then did I realise that most of my peers were still struggling through the set texts and none of them had done any work on the different schools of literary criticism. I understood that I had labelled myself as a nerd and made myself unattractive to the women in
my group.

By my third week I was feeling lonely and in need of a challenge. I was so deep in nerdom by then that it made sense to me to try and break out of this cycle by auditing an extra-curricular class on Virginia Woolf given by a Grad Student called Charlotte Lowell.

That was the year that “A Room of One’s Own” suddenly became a feminist tract and earnest women with little knowledge of literary criticism dedicated themselves to reading Virginia Woolf.

I attended the first lecture with mischief in mind. I was a fan of Woolf’s novels and I was irritated that “A Room of One’s Own” was now more widely read (or at least purchased) than “Jacob’s Room”. I was also stunned that feminists were deifying a woman with a history of
mental illness, possibly worsened by sexual abuse as a child and who had finally committed suicide.

I arrived early and sat at the front. I was, of course, the only male in the room and a little cordone sanitaire of empty chairs was established all around me as the Wimmin kept their distance. Men, it seemed, should be in a separate room of their own.

Charlotte strode into the classroom without looking at anyone and slammed her books onto the lecturer’s table. She wore a v-necked jumper over a white shirt. The cuffs of the shirt were folded back over the ends of the sleeves of the jumper, which been pushed back up
her forearms. Her designer jeans were tucked into soft leather riding boots. All in all, sheas the perfect image of a Sloane Ranger ready for a day of huntin’, shootin’ n fishin’ on daddy’s country estate.

“OK, so I’m Charlotte Lowell and this is the first of five lectures on the works of Virginia Woolf” she said, leaning forward, hands flat on the desk, weight taken by her splendid forearms, head up and tilted so her hair fell to the side in a dark heavy curtain.

Charlotte’s accent was so Sloane that associating it with anything as intellectual as a lecture seemed an act against nature. I let the accent pass me by and concentrated on the broadness of her shoulders, the slimness of her waist and the taut curves her jeans displayed.

Charlotte moved around the desk, stood for a moment with her back to it, pushed herself up into a sitting position and then crossed her legs. I swear half the room sighed.
“First point: I will not be discussing ‘A Room of One’s Own’. It is not literature. It is barely a pamphlet. If it is your main reason for being here then I suggest you leave now and sign up for one of the Sociology Department’s new offerings on Women’s’ Studies.”

Second point: these lectures will apply a de-constructionist critique to explore the emergence in Woolf’s work of a ‘maternal voice’ which uses non-vocal, domestic semiotics to challenge the symbolism and rhetoric, the ‘paternal voice’ as it were, of Colonial Britain. I expect you all to keep up.”

Charlotte waited a couple of seconds. She didn’t seem in the least surprised by the mass departure of the angry, confused or intimidated.

Charlotte smiled, slid off the desk, grabbed a chair, turned it around and sat straddling it, directly in front of me. An image of a naked Christine Keeler sitting in the same pose flashed across my mind.

“So, now we’ve culled the herd, I’d like those of you who think you know what I’m talking about to come and sit close to the only man who seems not to be afraid of Virginia Woolf and we’ll begin with alienation in ‘Mrs. Dalloway’.”

There were about a dozen women in the room. A few of them moved their chairs closer to the front in token obedience to Charlotte’s instruction but only one woman, a small, pale, blonde got up from her chair to come and sit next to me. She gave a shy nod and then gave
Charlotte the full wattage of her whiter than white smile.

But Charlotte was already up out of her chair, pacing the room with relentless energy as she thrust her ideas at us. She worked us hard in that first session. The ideas were complex and slippery and startlingly new back then. I didn’t understand it all but her passion carried me through and gave me that wonderful feeling of grasping something original, something that would make a difference.

At last she said, “OK. Not a bad start. Next week we’ll look at the significance of colonial rhetoric and new technology in ‘The Voyage Out’.” Then she picked up her books and strode out of the room leaving us all breathless behind her.

The young blonde woman who had taken the seat next to mine said, “Bloody hell, I feel like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.”

I turned towards her. A blush spread across her pale skin. It made her look quite beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but she is the most attractive woman I’ve ever met in real life. I kept getting distracted by those riding boots. I bet she’s got perfect seat.”

“I think we could all see her perfect seat,” I said.

“But I’ll bet I was the only one imaging Ms Lowell’s seat pivoting on my tongue.” she said, with a sigh.

“You do realise that you said that part out loud as well?” I said, still slightly stunned by the image she’d just placed in my head.

“I know. Wicked of me isn’t it? I’m Fiona, by the way,” she said and stuck out her hand for me to shake.

“Fiona. It means white, fair and beautiful. It’s a good description:” I said as I held her hand in mine.

“You do realize I’m gay don’t you?” she said, her handshake having come to a sudden stop.

“The eating out Charlotte image sort of gave that away.” I said, “But that doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”

After a moments hesitation she smiled and said, “I bet you say that to all the lesbian girls.”

We went for a beer and she told me all about herself. She’d come to university determined to be her real self – hence the verbal neon flashing signs saying lesbian that she taken to displaying.

Neither of us knew what to say to that, so, for a while, we talked about hobbies. I described myself as a would be photographer, Fiona labelled her self as a book-addict who could not live without a daily dose of fiction. Then she asked me which TV show I was most ashamed of liking. I offered up my continuing obsession with “Captain Scarlet”. I even did the “This is the voice of the Mysterons” line in that weird deep voice. Fiona confessed that she had a crush on Erin in “The Waltons”.

Several beers later, she told me that she’d come out to her parents just before going up to York and she hadn’t heard from then since. I comforted her in a drunken and clumsy way and we ended up staggering back to my room.

“Beer makes me tired,” Fiona said, collapsing on my narrow little bed and struggling to take off her trainers. I helped her with them, standing above her with her feet resting on my chest.

“I can sleep here tonight, can’t I?” she said, looking up at me.

I don’t know if it was the beer or the fact that I knew Fiona wanted nothing from me physically, but I wasn’t freaked out by having a woman on my bed in the middle of the night. I felt calm and happy.

“Sure you can.” I said.

“I don’t have any pyjamas,” she said, sounding more perplexed than embarrassed.

“That’s all right, neither do I.”

She laughed and said, “Can you help me with these jeans?”

Fiona undid the top of her jeans and I pulled. Her legs were startlingly pale. She wore black cotton panties that had been pulled down a little as the jeans came off. I paused, still holding her legs in my hands. She looked vulnerable. I wanted to say something to make her more
comfortable but all my words had gone away. All I could do was look  her in the eyes and gently put her legs down on the bed.

Still looking at me, she sat up, crossed her arms at the wrists, reached down and pulled her T-shirt above her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Hers were the first breasts I’d seen in real life. They were small and pale and perfect.

“Wow.” I said.

“That’s the comment I get from the first person to see me naked? Gosh,  I so grateful I’m with someone who’s so articulate.”

The vulnerability was gone now. Fiona was back to normal. She was also tugging at my belt.

I stepped back, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Hey, I wasn’t trying to jump you. Gay girl here, remember? But I’m not gonna be naked in your room while you’re fully dressed.”

I could see the sense in that. I stripped as quickly as I could in my tipsy state. I didn’t look at Fiona while I did it. She took the hint and paid attention to pulling the covers back from the bed.

I considered leaving my boxers on; Fiona still had her panties on after all, but my boxers weren’t that clean and I knew I’d be uncomfortable so I stripped completely. I had the first stirrings of an erection, barely enough to defy gravity a little.

Fiona had already slipped under the sheets when she looked up and saw me naked.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be.” She said and then reached down under the sheets, pulled off her panties and threw them onto the floor.

Fiona held back the sheet for me and I lay down beside her. There was just about enough room for the two of us.

Fiona continued to hold the sheet back. She was looking at my torpid cock and grinning.

“What?” I said reaching for the sheet that she was keeping out of my reach.

Well, isn’t it supposed to be stiffer than that?”

“I thought you were gay girl.”

“Yeah, but you also said I was a Wow. Is this how you normally are when you have a naked Wow in your bed?”

I stayed silent for a moment too long and Fiona’s grin vanished.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to be bitchy. I’m just nervous. I’ve never been in anyone’s bed before.”

“Well I’ve never had anyone, Wow or otherwise, in my bed either.”

“So we’re both…”

“…virgins. Yes.”

Fiona scooted across the bed until she was on her side, leaning her head on her hand and with her back against the wall. I stayed on my back beside her. My erection subsided completely.

I wasn’t embarrassed or angry. I just wasn’t aroused. I had no idea what to do next.

“I masturbate a lot,” Fiona said.

I raised an eyebrow, “Define a lot.”

“At least once a day.”

“Amateur,” I said. “I masturbate much more than that.”

“What do you think about when you do it?”

“Women I’ve seen that I think are hot”

“Me too.”

“If I was alone tonight,” I said, “I’d be thinking about Charlotte Lowell.”

“Me too.”

A loud silence followed.

I realized that I really wanted to think about Charlotte while the images of her were fresh in my mind. Now that the idea was in my head, I had to do something about it.

“We could pretend we are alone.” I said.

I managed to sound casual but my heart was pounding at the thought of it.

“OK,” Fiona said, after a long second, “But you go first,”

“We’ll go at the same time.”

“Only if you guarantee no touching.”

Now there was a statement that helped me relax.

“OK, no touching.”

“But you can look if you like;” she said. “You can tell me if I’m still a Wow.”

I put my hands behind my head and said, “And you can watch me if you like”.

Then I closed my eyes and achieved a full erection merely by recalling the way Charlotte, lost in thought, habitually swept her long hair to one side, exposing the soft strength of her neck. I overlaid other images of her: the way she tapped the eraser-tipped pencil against her
full lower lip while she listened, the way her nipples pushed up and out through her shirt when she’d stripped off her v-neck jumper.

In less than a minute my cock was hard against my belly..

I opened my eyes when I heard Fiona mutter, “Jesus.”

She turned onto her belly, her head facing me, her body less than an inch away from mine, and slid her right arm under her belly.

As I watched, her arse rose and fell. I could feel the mattress moving as she pivoted on her fingers, knuckles pressing into the bed. She started to rock gently.

I looked away, held the images of Charlotte in my imagination almost as firmly as I held my cock, and started to stroke in time to the movements I felt through the mattress.

When Fiona started to make little mewling noises, like a kitten in pain, I let my fist move in a blur of activity until my back arched and warm sperm flowed over my fingers like melting ice cream.

Fiona was still going. Her eyes were closed. Her forehead was covered in sweat and she was grinding her pubis hard into the bed. I watched fascinated. A few seconds later she let out a long low growl and went limp on the mattress.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me.

“That was intense,” she said, her face still flat against the mattress.

“You turn pink when you come” I said. It seemed that my brain no longer had control over my mouth.

Fiona sat up, pulled her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Well at least I don’t cover myself in sticky goo” she said. Then she passed her fingers beneath her nose and added, “Though I could do with washing my hands.”

I laughed.

“Do you think we’re both still virgins?” I asked.

“Well, either that or we just double-teamed Charlotte.”

“Now there’s an image to conjure with.”

Fiona hit me with a pillow.

“I need a pee,” she said, “and you need a wash.”

I dragged myself off the bed and headed towards the sink.

“The bog is down the hall,.” I said. “So you might want to put some clothes on.”

Fiona pulled on her T-shirt and her panties and headed off sleepily into the hall.

Standing at the sink, soaping my balls, I congratulated myself on having finally had sex with a woman. True, we hadn’t actually touched, but she’d been there and she’d looked wonderful. I lost myself a little as I considered precisely how wonderful and my erection
returned, not as fierce as before but still saluting the sink. I was looking down at it when Fiona came back into the room.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you masturbated a lot were you?” she said. Her voice sounded calm but she’d lingered at the door and she looked a little anxious.

“I’m sorry” I said turning towards her.

It was only when she took half a step back that I realized that my erection was now aimed at her.

I turned back towards the sink, moving a little too rapidly, and slapped my hard dick up against the porcelain.

Fiona laughed.

“Erections really are ridiculous.” she said, stepping towards me. “No wonder men can’t think when they’re aroused; the brain must hardly get any blood at all. Charlotte has a lot to answer for tonight.”

“Actually, I was thinking about you.” I said.

Fiona froze.

“Well you are a wow. I could spend hours watching you turning slick and pink.”

Even before I finished the sentence, I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I’m an idiot.”

Fiona smiled. It was a tentative smile, as if she was trying it on but wasn’t sure it would fit.

“Of course you’re an idiot. All men are idiots. It’s a well known design fault.”

My laugh sounded strained but Fiona’s shoulders relaxed.

“Are you going to put that away or do you need to drain it first.”

“I’m fine thanks. The er mood has passed.”

“Let’s keep it that way. You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s my room.”

“You want to have your room to yourself?”

“No. I’ll take the floor.”

Fiona slipped back into the bed, face turned towards the wall.

I pulled the cushions off my chair, switched off the light and settled on the floor.

Silence filled the room.

“Good night Fiona”

“Good night John Boy”

I knew then that everything would be all right.

s.” she said, stepping towards me. “No wonder men can’t think when they’re aroused; the brain must hardly get any blood at all. Charlotte has a lot to answer for tonight.”

“Actually, I was thinking about you.” I said.

Fiona froze.

“Well you are a wow. I could spend hours watching you turning slick and pink.”

Even before I finished the sentence, I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I’m an idiot.”

Fiona smiled. It was a tentative smile, as if she was trying it on but wasn’t sure it would fit.

“Of course you’re an idiot. All men are idiots. It’s a well known design fault.”

My laugh sounded strained but Fiona’s shoulders relaxed.

“Are you going to put that away or do you need to drain it first.”

“I’m fine thanks. The er mood has passed.”

“Let’s keep it that way. You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s my room.”

“You want to have your room to yourself?”

“No. I’ll take the floor.”

Fiona slipped back into the bed, face turned towards the wall.

I pulled the cushions off my chair, switched off the light and settled on the floor.

Silence filled the room.

“Good night Fiona”

“Good night John Boy”

I knew then that everything would be all right.

“Untouched” Part 2

In Part 2 of “Untouched” , Sharon makes our hero confront his darkest desires.

Part 1 of “Untouched” can be found here

Untouched

(c) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@gmail.com

My next encounter with Sharon changed my world.

Sharon had arranged herself in the spotlight that illumined the entrance to the disco: leaning against the wall, hands behind her back, head high, one foot drawn up and pressed against the wall, she stared into the middle distance, paying no attention to the admiring glances she got from just about every male who passed her.

Her outfit was in the vanguard of fashion for 1984, following Madonna in walking the razor’s edge between playful fashionista and cheap whore.

She was a vision in white: seriously high fuck-me pumps, opaque thigh-highs that stopped inches below a tiered taffeta halter dress, a neckline that plunged to breathe-taking depths, and most striking of all, a slim leather choker decorated with silver D-rings.

As I approached, she looked at me but didn’t speak or move away from the wall.

Perhaps it was the choker or her hands behind her back or just the way she held herself, but she reminded me of a virgin in a Pre-Raphaelite painting, tethered to a post, waiting to be sacrificed. Hey, what can I tell you, I was a New Romantic and a Burne-Jones fan.

I stopped a couple of feet away and let her see me memorizing her image. She raised her chin and pressed her shoulders against the wall, presenting herself for my inspection.

For a moment I saw myself as Perseus rescuing Andromeda from the sea monster.

I’d tossed off thinking about Sharon as a bound virgin.  Seeing my fantasy in the flesh summoned a wave of lust that washed away my doubts and fears. I wanted to be her hero and to get my reward.

Looking back, I think Sharon wasn’t waiting to be rescued; she was hoping to summon the ravaging monster.

I stood directly in front of Sharon, hands in my pockets, trying to look cool.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked.

Before I could think of an answer, she pushed off the wall, hands still behind her back, and closed the distance between us.

When her breasts were almost touching me, she stopped, and looked up into my face.

For half a second she seemed to wait for something, although I didn’t know what. Then she moved her hands to her hips, ran them in parallel up her torso, and slid them over her breasts.

Perhaps a normal man would have been fully focused on watching Sharon fondle herself but when she’d brought her hands from behind her back, I’d seen for the first time that on each wrist she wore a little white leather cuff with a clasp that could be attached to the D-rings on her collar.

Any attempt at cool evaporated in the heat of that revelation. Deep in my gut, something hot and slick and less than human uncurled, stretched itself and let out a low hiss of anticipation.

“Do you like the dress?” Sharon said, “I wore it especially for you. Do you know why?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“I wore it because I knew that you would be imaging me naked.”

As she spoke her hands slid up to the back of her neck.

“In this dress I can be naked just by undoing this halter”

For a moment it seemed as if she might undo the fabric and right there in disco car park and display herself to me.

An erection, stronger than any I could remember, surged against my leg. It was triggered not so much by the possibility of Sharon undressing but by my desire to push her arms back further until her wrists were fastened to the rear of the collar, forcing her elbows up and out, leaving her helpless and exposed.

A small wet patch of pre-cum darkened my trousers.

Sharon saw it and laughed. She let her hands fall from her neck, contriving to graze the back of her hand against my erection as she did so.

“We’re not going to the disco tonight,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

With that, she walked away from me.

She headed purposefully towards the High Street. She didn’t look back. She took it for granted that I would follow her.

I stayed behind her, savoring the way her arse moved as she took long confident strides in her high heels.

She stopped in front a photography shop. It was closed of course but Sharon produced a key a let herself in. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me in after her. There was something furtive in her manner that made me uneasy but excited.

“What are we doing here? Why do you have a key?” I asked, automatically speaking in a whisper.

“I’ve got a Saturday job here,” Sharon said. “I assist Mr. McKinley.”

“The old guy who takes the school photos?”

“He’s not that old. He’s still in his forties,” she said, sounding a little defensive. “Besides, I like older men. They know what they’re doing.” This was accompanied by a salacious grin. “He’s always very nice to me. He says I remind him of my mother when she was young. They used to date each other. I’ll bet he was her lover. Who knows, if things had been a little different, he might have been my Dad.”

My mind was working on some nasty images of what Sharon meant when she’d said McKinley was nice to her. I’d seen him at school. He looked OK, I guess, he wasn’t fat or bald or anything like that but there was something about the way he looked at girls that was a little creepy. He wasn’t obvious about it but that made it more creepy not less. Knowing that he’d fucked Sharon’s mother way back when amped the creep factor to the max. It was repulsive but the kind of repulsive that is hard to look away from. The kind that surfaces all the repulsive things about yourself that you normally won’t admit to.

“If you like older men so much, what am I doing here?”

I sounded petulant. Perhaps Sharon noticed. She ran her hand down my arm and stepped closer to me.

“You and he have a lot in common.”

“Like what?”

“You both like to watch.”

No one had ever said that to me before. I’d barely voiced it to myself. I felt as if I was suddenly in front of her naked with my dick in my hands. Her words literally shocked me. My body tingled. Time slowed down. It took a second or two before I recognised that Sharon’s tone suggested approval, perhaps even excitement.

“Mr. McKinley really likes to watch.” Sharon said, linking her arm through mine and leading me towards a room at the back of the shop.

“That’s why he takes such good photographs, he sees things and holds them in his head. Just like you do.”

Have you ever taken photographs? I bet you’d enjoy it. Holding women in your lens. Zooming in close. Focusing on just the parts that interest you.”

I’ve seen you at the disco, watching the dancers. You like them to sweat don’t you. Imagine seeing them through a long distance lens, being yards away, practically invisible, and still being able to track the progress of each bead of sweat as it rolls down a girl’s neck. I think you’d like that a lot.”

Sharon had been watching me. She’d seen me more clearly, or at least more honestly, than I’d seen myself. She knew some of my darkest desires. And she had still brought me here. Lain in wait for me. Baited the hook with a her sex-kitten outfit. Sharon had an agenda.

“What was it you wanted to show me?” I asked, trying to regain the initiative.

“Come into the studio,” Sharon said.

I could see an area to the side of the shop that had props and a camera on a tripod.

“I thought that was the studio.”

“That’s for the kids and the mums. The studio is for adults. Actually, you could say it’s for adults only,” Sharon said, holding out her hand to me and smiling. Her smile suggested that she had lots to show me, that she wanted to take her time and that I was going to enjoy myself.

Sharon lead me to the back of the shop. She unlocked the door and brought me in to a windowless room. The light in the room was red. There were trays and negatives, a photographs hanging on clips.

“This is a dark room,” I said, lamely.

“We’re not there yet.”

Sharon moved aside a curtain and revealed another locked room. A hidden locked room. I felt a chill in my balls. What kind of man was McKinley?

Sharon grabbed my hand and pulled me into the studio. It was definitely for adults only. There were two sets of cameras on tripods, each with its own cluster of lights. The first set of cameras was pointed an iron framed double bed. The sheets were black and shiny. Handcuffs hung from the ironwork at the head and the foot of the bed. In the centre of the bed, laid out in a straight line were  a riding crop, a flogger with many short soft leather strips and some kind of leather bridle, shaped for the human head.

I turned to Sharon. Her eyes were shining.

“That’s not even the best part,” she said, “Watch this.”

She ran to the far wall and flicked a switch. I recognised the sound of a slide projector powering up. Light flickered on the wall above the bed.

Each dispassionate turn of the carousel displayed a pornographic picture on the wall. The quality of the photography varied as wildly as the age and shape of the people caught in the flash lit sex acts. The pictures smelled of desperation, of need unmet, of intimacy betrayed. And yet I could not look away from them.

“Mr. McKinley runs a special service for people who can’t send their pictures off to Boots to be developed.” Sharon said. “He does them cheaply so he thinks it’s only fair that he keeps a copy for himself. Of course his pictures are much better than those. He’s an artist. Now, let me show you what I brought you to see.”

She moved to the second set of cameras and turned looking at me eagerly

Behind me the carousel continued to click inexorably forward, casting shadows of desire above us.

I paused, knowing that there was something wrong here. That this was neither normal nor right. That it spoke to the worst parts of me. That I should leave.

I didn’t want to leave.

A kind of numb recklessness spread over me at that acknowledgement. I refused to think. I acquiesced as the lizard part of me that had woken earlier took control of my actions. I was going to do this. Whatever this turned out to be.

I joined Sharon at the second set of cameras.

They were pointed at a U-shaped wooden plinth, that looked as if it was made of old railway sleepers, rough and stained. The arms of the U faced towards me. They were about a foot wide and about two feet off the ground. A pillar, made from another sleeper, rose from the base of the U. It was scarred and stained and had eye bolts all around the top. A strip of braided leather with a D ring at the end hung from each bolt.

But what held my attention was a narrow pole, topped with a life-like but over-sized black rubber phallus that jutted up between the arms of the U. I’d never seen anything like it. I didn’t even know what to call it.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Mr. McKinley calls it the best seat in the house,” Sharon said.

That made no sense to me at all.

Sharon was visibly excited. She led me by the hand to the tripod directly in front of the plinth and said,”Watch through the camera, you get the best view that way.”

Before I could ask, “Watch what?”, Sharon had stepped away from me.

Reaching behind the plinth she fetched up a jar of Vaseline, scooped a handful, squatted beside the plinth and started methodically to spread the Vaseline over the phallus with both hands. When she finished, she held the thing in a hand-over-hand grip that still left another couple of inches of rubber were visible below the broad flat glans.

“Have you ever seen a dildo this real?”

“I’ve never seen a dildo at all,” I said.

“My mum has one. She keeps it in a box under the bed where my dad won’t find it, but hers is more like a candle. This one is so real, you can’t resist touching it.”

Without thinking about it, I adjusted the focus on the camera to get a closer look at the thing Sharon was grasping. It glistened in the bright lights.

“There’s a new 36 frame role of film in the camera,” Sharon said, “Just press the lever on the right.”

I checked the controls. When I looked back, was standing in front of the plinth. She reached up behind her and undid the halter-neck of her dress and let the fabric fall to her waist. Her breasts were magnificent: firm and round and topped with dark nipples that seemed to suck in the light from the room.

“Go ahead,” Sharon said, pushing her breasts towards me. “Shoot me.”

I didn’t hesitate. The camera seemed like an extension of my imagination, framing the pieces of Sharon that I most desired and then capturing them.

Sharon started to dance to music I couldn’t hear. She let the dress fall the rest of the way and stepped out of it with choreographed efficiency.

I continued to shoot, slowly and carefully, focusing on where her white stay-up stockings stopped on her thigh, on the way the clasp from her wrist-cuffs grazed against her nipple, on the swollen cleft clearly visible behind the thin fabric of her panties.

I was in heaven. I was also as hard as hell.

“I’ll take the panties off if you pull that erection out where I can see it properly.”

I paused.

Sharon ran her thumb across her panties. Through the lens I could see the fabric dampen.

My zip sounded loud in the silent room. I could smell myself as I pulled back my foreskin.

“That will do nicely,” Sharon said, grinning, then turned her back to me,bent at the waist, feet together and pushed her panties down to her ankles.

My cock bounced in time to the camera shutter as I recorded my first view of a real girl’s sex.

Then Sharon was suddenly out of shot.

I pulled the focus back and found that she had climbed onto the plinth, facing me, one foot on each arm of the U. She squatted, legs spread wide, sex positioned behind the head of the phallus.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

I held my breath as I realised what she was about to do but I didn’t lift my head from the camera.

“Tell me to fuck it.”

“What?”

“Tell me that you want to see this thing split me. Tell me what you really want and I’ll give it to you.”

My words came from the part of me I normally kept gagged in a dark room.

“I want you to fuck that thing hard and deep while I watch. I want to hear you fuck. I want…”

I couldn’t say it.

Sharon rubbed the head of the dildo against her sex.

“Tell me all of it. Make me do all of it.”

A torrent of pent up words flooded out of my mouth.

“I want your hands bound behind your head. I want you helpless. I want your tits to bounce as you fuck. I want to see you squirm and sweat. I want to hear you scream”

I was shocked by my own demands.

Sharon grinned. “I knew I was right about you.”

Keeping her eyes on me, she grabbed the dildo with one hand and guided it into her sex. She pushed herself down onto it, grunting as the fat head stretched her and then disappeared as if it had climbed in of its own accord and was never coming out.

She squatted further and a few more inches slid inside her. Her long strong legs strained and she rose until only the tip was in her.

Her labia were long and dark and seemed to have an almost prehensile grip on the rubber cock. I focused the camera until they were all I could see.

“Please come and bind me.”

I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to stay at the camera. This seemed to be about what I wanted so…

“Do it yourself.”

It came out as a command.

Sharon’s expression shifted. Lust flowed across her face like sweat.

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

I felt as if I’d just passed a test.

Still partly impaled on the dildo, eyes on me, Sharon raised her hands above her head and blindly found the leather strip that hung from the top of the pole and with an ease that told me she’d done this before, clipped each wrist-cuff to the D-ring.

“Now show me you know how to fuck.”

The voice was mine but I didn’t remember forming the words.

“Yes, Sir.”

She kept hold of the leather strip with her hands and bore down on the dildo until it was all inside her. Her arms were stretched taut above her head. Her breasts pushed up and out in quivering mounds that I suddenly had the desire to beat and twist until they bruised.

It took her some effort to haul herself back up the monster cock. She grunted as she slid back down.

I stayed behind the camera, greedily sucking in image after image as Sharon sweated and strained.

“Faster. Get a rhythm.”

Another instruction I hadn’t meant to give.

Sharon started to work hard, pushing with her legs, supporting herself with her arms, her sex swallowing the dildo with smooth efficiency.

I became aware that she was chanting something softly to herself. I listened harder to make out the words.

“Best seat in the house.”

McKinley’s phrase. McKinley had taught her this. Had photographed her like this. Had handled the same camera I was handling as a girl young enough to be his daughter fucked herself for his pleasure.

I still don’t know if it was my distaste at having so much in common with McKinley, or the fact that I ran out of film, or the deep animal growl of Sharon’s orgasm that pulled me out of my lust-fugue but all of a sudden it seemed to me that I was somewhere I didn’t want to be doing something I would later be ashamed of.

I stepped away from the camera and moved towards Sharon.

She was motionless at the bottom of her arc, with all her weight supported by the dildo. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was twisted into a smile I’d never seen before.

She looked young and beautiful but everything about what she was doing and how she was displayed suddenly struck me as obscene. I wanted to get us both out of there.

Sharon opened her eyes just before I reached her and grinned at me.

“Coming to claim your reward. You could make me suck you – no hands – go as deep as you like. You can shoot all over my face and then shoot what you’ve done.”

She ended with a laugh but it sounded forced to me.

The thought of using Sharon this way restored my erection. It also made me angry with myself

“Get off that thing.”

Sharon looked at my erection and said, “Jealous are we? Want to get big boy out of the way so that you can take his place? You’ll have to help me off. I can’t push up high enough to release the cuffs anymore.”

I could see that what she said was true. She couldn’t get down from the best seat in the house unaided.

“I’m helpless here,” Sharon pouted. “You could fuck my face or tits or my arse. You could even leave the dildo in me while you reamed me. I’d have to let you, wouldn’t I?”

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to do all those things. Needed to do them.

I stepped closer. She was covered in sweat, she stank of sex and I no longer wanted to touch her.

I reached up to unhook Sharon’s wrists. She used the opportunity to try and capture my cock with her mouth. She looked as if she was bobbing for apples.

In my effort to avoid being sucked, I released Sharon’s wrist-cuffs from the leather strap but didn’t take the time to separate the cuffs.

As I bent to lift her off the dildo, Sharon slipped her bound wrists behind my neck.

There was an audible “plop” as I lifted Sharon clear.

She immediately tried to bring her legs up around my hips and mount me.

“No,” I said.

“Your cock wants me. I want it. Fuck me.”

Her legs were strong and locked in place.

Her flesh and her stink were all over me. She tried to kiss me and suddenly it seemed to me that she was a leach with two mouths sucking at my blood. I wanted her off me.

I pushed her arms above my head, freeing my neck. She misunderstood and leant back to offer me her breasts. I slid my hands down her body, as if I was going to cup her arse and the grip of her legs on my hips relaxed a little.

My hands had reached her waist. I shoved her off me.

She hit the floor hard, arse first.

She looked at me in surprise rather than outrage.

“Sorry, Sir.” she said. “I was bad.”

She pulled herself up into a kneeling position, put her cuffed hands behind her head, straightened her spine and looked up at me. There was hunger in her eyes.

“Punish me. Hurt me. Please,” she said.

I fled the room without looking back

Pentimenti

 

When I worked in London, I used to spend time at the National Portrait Gallery near Trafalgar Square. The people I saw there were often seemed to me to be quite patrician. I would spend as much time wondering about them and their lives as I did about thinking about the paintings themselves.

This story combines the paintings and the people that I observed viewing the paintings.

I hope it also achieves a little love and a little romance.

 

Pentimenti

(C) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@gmail.com

Sometimes, I obsess about small, apparently unimportant, things. Elspeth, my wife, says that this is why I have risen so high in my chosen profession; it is a civil servant’s job to obsess about things others pay no attention to.

For the most part, she means this observation to be humorous.

I am grateful for her tolerance but we both know, that buried in the flesh of her remark is a tiny splinter of resentment at my distraction that she can not remove and which neither of us can completely ignore.

I am aware that I spend too much time inside my own head, I impose structure on the most inconsequential of events, I find spontaneity suspect and I tend to treat happiness as a temporary aberration from the norm.

I am not any easy man to live with.

Yet, Elspeth has spent the last twenty four years at my side. I take this as a sign of her love for me.

If I were an American, perish the thought, I would probably have been diagnosed as having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by now and would either be in therapy or be loaded to the eyeballs with mind altering drugs.

Fortunately I am a Scot of a particular class and so my obsessions are seen as mere peccadilloes as long as I fulfil my duties to society and uphold the honour of the family name.

Today, my obsessions have brought me once again to the National Gallery. I come here several times a week to find moments of calm away from the frenzy that is Whitehall immediately after a change of government. The quiet focus of the place allows me to slough off the cares of the day and listen to myself.

Sometimes, like today, I will arrange to meet Elspeth for lunch in The Dining Rooms. But first I always spend time alone in the Gallery, looking into the faces of the great and the good that hang here as if there is something important that they can tell me.

For the past few weeks, every visit has ended with the same painting: Jan van Eyck’s portrait of his wife, Margaret. I do not yet know why this painting is important to me but I have learnt that my small obsessions are the way that I reveal to my mind truths that my heart already understands.

Van Eyck’s portrait of his wife shows her strength and intelligence in an honest and bravely unglamorous way but it is not what is on the surface that fascinates me about this portrait.

It seems that infra-red reflectography shows extensive pentimenti on both paintings. The National refers to them as “underdrawings”, perhaps to avoid the now frowned on use of a foreign word, presumably on the grounds that only an educated reader would know what it meant. I find this attempt at egalitarianism distasteful as the word selected reminds my of Y-fronts and singlets. But I digress.

The point is that the painting that we see with the naked eye today is not all that Van Eyck painted. It seems that he originally presented things one way and then painted over them to present them in another.

I suppose it is normal enough for a painter to change his mind but what puzzles me is why he made so many changes to the portrait of his wife. She must have been available to him as a model whenever he needed her to sit and he clearly knew her well, so why should a man who sees so clearly need to make so many revisions?

I have no gift for portraiture but if I did, I wonder how well and how decisively I would paint Elspeth.

Even after all these years, there are many things about her that I do not understand. Perhaps the greatest of these is what it is about me that stirs her affection.

I asked Elspeth about this quite directly a few weeks ago. We were celebrating our wedding anniversary with a pleasant meal at The Grill in The Dorchester. We go there every year. I enjoy the lamb that they serve: it’s Welsh and organic and reminds me of how meat used to taste when I was a boy. We’d made our way through a surprisingly good bottle of South African Merlot and it seemed to me that this would be the perfect opportunity to discover why Elspeth endures me.

Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t setting a particularly celebratory tone and that an outsider might even have concluded that I was challenging Elspeth on her poor judgement.

Elspeth waited patiently while I explained all the things that made her involvement with me difficult, then she put aside her knife and fork and scrutinized me carefully, as if assessing my state of mind. After a few moments, she spoke.

“Well, Alistair,” she said, “you can indeed be an infuriating man: socially myopic, emotionally distant to everyone but me and our children, and prone to obsessive behaviour that borders on the compulsive. This latter I have learnt to tolerate. After all, I have been an obsession of yours for many years now.”

As for what I see in you, at first I was attracted to your good looks and your ability to focus on an objective until you had achieved it. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that I was the objective you were trying to achieve. Even then I assumed that your objective was only to have sex with me.”

The sex is very good by the way. I believe it’s because you don’t think about it or question it; you need it and you take it and in the process you give everything that you have. Many, many times I have lain watching you sleep after sex and smiled because only I know what a fierce and creative lover you are.”

This took me completely by surprise. I have always found sex with Elspeth compelling. I had not considered that she might be quietly evaluating my performance. It should not surprise me; quiet evaluation is part of Elspeth’s approach to life.

I made as if to comment but Elspeth, said, “Do not interrupt, Alistair. I want you to listen, then we won’t need to talk about this further. You needn’t look so surprised at the fact that I enjoy you as my lover. Sexual attraction was the start of everything for you and me. You changed my narrow little virginal world.”

After you took me the first time, in the bottom of your father’s rowing boat, still moored in the cool darkness of the boathouse, I felt as if I had become a boat myself: floating, tethered to the world by the thinnest of ropes and ready to launch into deeper waters.”

I was sad because I thought your objective had been achieved and your attention would be snared by some other obsession. But you have never moved on. You have a good heart and you have given all of it to me.”

Sometimes, that is a burden I would like to set down for a while. Most of the time, I see it for what it is, the rock on which I stand.”

Now do stop going on about how awful you are before I decide to believe you. Order a good Port and then take your ageing wife to bed and help to launch her once more.”

Now, with this memory fresh in my mind and Van Eyck’s portrait of Margaret in front of me, I suddenly understand why Van Eyck made so many changes and why I have returned to this painting again and again since that Wedding Anniversary dinner.

I walk away from the painting. I will not need to visit it again.

The Dining Room at the National is flooded with daylight. I use it to study Elspeth’s face during our meal.

I try to see Elspeth as a stranger might: a woman in dignified middle age with good bones, a dancer’s posture and a demeanour that suggests strength without making her unapproachable.

I too see those things, but they are only a fraction of what is there. Our history grants me infra-red vision that let’s me see the many pentimenti that form the image of Elspeth that dominates my heart.

Love has over-painted lust. Age has begun to add craquelure to youth. Beneath the face of the strong matron, I see the proud mother, the pregnant wife, and the young girl who lay with me in a rowing boat many years ago. I see them all at once. To me Elspeth is all the things she is now and all that she ever was during the years we have been together.

The parts of the portrait of Elspeth that have been most worked and reinforced in my imagination are the ones that tie me to her: her ability to see the beauty in the world, her excitement with ideas, her impatience with stupidity, her anger at injustice, her love for me.

I realize that Elspeth has stopped talking and is looking at me closely.

“I love you, Elspeth,” I say. “You are everything that I want; everything that I need.”

I lack the words to say more. Having an epiphany is not, it seems, the same as being able to share one.

Elspeth puts her hand over mine and smiles. I realize that she is welcoming me to a truth that she has long understood and is pleased that I have finally discovered.

 

© Mike Kimera 2010 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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

 

Box 127

A few days ago, a voice in my head said, “I’d never had a knife against my throat before.” The voice was female, Canadian, educated and unafraid. Those were the only clues she gave me, the rest I had to work out for myself.

It turned out that “Box 127” wasn’t erotica. I was a crime/thriller story. There is some sex in it but that’s not the reason for the story.


Please let me know if you like this


“Box 127”

© Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@gmail.com

I’d never had a knife against my throat before.

All my attention was on where the horribly sharp blade kissed my neck. If the guy with the ski-mask behind me pushed any harder, my flesh would part and blood would flow, then my new blouse would be ruined.

Damn, why did I pick today to wear something silk and hard to clean?

With an effort of will I turned my attention outwards, focusing on the fear on the pretty young bank-tellers’ face, the quiet sobs of two children hanging on to their mother’s arms, the indecision in the watery eyes of the bank’s superannuated rent-a-cop.

Ski-mask chose that moment to tilt my head back further, pulling me closer to him. So close that his solid erection brushed against the curve of my ass. It seemed that Ski-mask liked me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the security guard finally reach for the gun on his hip; a gun that would soon be pointed my way.

“Don’t,” I shouted.

Ski-mask turned rapidly, pivoting me on his undiminished ardour, until I was completely between him and the security guard.

“Touch that gun, old man, and you’ll have the red-head’s blood spurting in your face.”

Now that was a graphic image. Perhaps too graphic to be spontaneous. Was it from a movie or had Ski-mask been practicing it in a mirror somewhere?

I wondered briefly if his erection was a spontaneous reaction to my firm form or the product of a fantasy that he’d played out many times. If it was a fantasy, I hoped he was getting hard because I was helpless in his arms and not at the thought of releasing a hot arterial gush from my neck.

The rent-a-cop put his hands in the air, but he couldn’t keep them still. Poor guy looked like he was going to wet himself.

“Take off the gun belt and throw it away, pops. Then sit on your hands. Today ain’t your day to be a hero.”

Ski-mask watched way too many re-runs on TV. Who says “Pops” anymore?

The old man looked embarrassed to be taking off his belt in front of me but he did what he was told. As he settled himself slowly on the floor, back against the bank counter, the second of the three bank robbers vaulted the counter in a graceful arc. Her skin tight black outfit displayed every detail of her Xena, warrior princess body. Even the clunky utility belt thing around her waist looked like a fashion accessory. The girl looked good. She also looked fierce as hell.

Xena had already shown us that she could be dangerous. She’d taken out the bank manager as soon as she and her two friends had walked into the bank.

It was probably just as well, Mr. Martin had seemed to me to be the kind of terminally stupid man who could get people hurt in a situation like this.

I’d come to the bank to meet Mr. Martin. He’d told me over the phone that for a customer of my status, by which he meant rich and new in town, he’d handle everything personally. We’d agreed to meet as soon as the bank opened this morning so he could help me set up a safe deposit box. He’d greeted me in the lobby with an overly firm handshake and a smile that got wider as he took in my appearance.

Even as he shook my hand, he was staring at my breasts. I’m small on top so I don’t normally wear a bra. Of course I don’t normally wear a tailored blouse made with silk so soft that my nipples distort the fabric either.

Martin must have been distracted because he didn’t notice the three large people, dressed in black and wearing ski-masks, entering his bank until they were almost on top of us.

Xena was at the front with the two men flanking her. It looked like an arrangement she was used to. Her breasts are much larger than mine and they had Martin’s full attention. Maybe he didn’t even register the ski-masks

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said as if he was reprimanding a junior member of staff.

He still wasn’t looking Xena in the eye.

“I’m robbing your bank,” Xena said.

When she produced a Tazer, the manager laughed.

“You’re robbing my bank with that?”

Xena closed the distance between them rapidly. Martin looked down to find the Tazer pushed up against his groin. She smiled at him, gave him half a second to understand what would happen next, and then she pressed the button.

He went down fast. The air filled with the smell of singed cloth and urine. Yeuk.

Next thing I knew, Ski-mask had his knife at my neck and everyone froze.

Xena bent over Martin and took some keys off his belt.

“Got them,” she said, “Now round them up.”

The second masked man was carrying a cattle prod. He pressed it against Martin until the guy flopped around on the floor like a landed fish. Then, holding the prod in front of him, he politely asked everyone to move towards the bank counter.

A Tazer, a knife and a cattle prod. Ah, the impact of mandatory minimum sentencing on the CaNaomin criminal – using a gun during a robbery can lead to some serious time in jail.

Cattle-prod had everyone on the floor with their backs to the bank counter, even the two little kids. They were all looking at me and Ski-mask.

I was looking at Xena. She was terrorising the pretty little bank teller, who was barely half her size. She had one arm draped over the girl’s shoulder, gloved hand resting gently on her breast. With the other hand she ran the Tazer slowly over the girl’s neck.

When the girl tried to move away, Xena grabbed her hair, yanked her head back and kissed her softly on the mouth.

Damn that looked hot.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Cher,” Xena said, looking into the bank teller’s eyes, “Not if you’re a good girl. So,” Xena made a show reading the girl’s name tag, “Lisa, are you going to be my good girl?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Lisa’s voice was ragged with fear. Suddenly the scene didn’t seem hot to me any more.

“Leave her alone.” I shouted.

Xena flashed a grin at me.

“Jealous, Red? You want to be my good girl too perhaps?”

Then she glanced at ski-mask and said, “Since you can’t control the red-head, even with your big sharp knife, bring her here to me.”

Ski-mask took the knife away from my throat and grabbed me by the hair.

If I was a super hero I’d have chosen that moment to swing my bag up at his head, disarm him and rush to Lisa’s rescue, but I’m not anybody’s idea of a super hero, so I concentrated on moving fast enough to prevent my hair being pulled out and I offered a silent prayer that the first time I had a knife at my throat would also be my last.

Ski-mask slammed me up against the counter.

“Lisa,” Xena said, “I want you to be a good girl for the nasty man with the wickedly sharp knife. Empty the cash out of the teller drawers but leave the bottom layer in place. We don’t want to trigger any alarms.”

Turning to Ski-mask, Xena said, “If lovely little Lisa is a bad girl, cut her face.”

Lisa couldn’t prevent herself from sobbing but she bravely started to stack up the cash.

“Five minutes left,” cattleprod called out. His voice was flat and emotionless. His eye’s never left the herd of people he was guarding.

“You and me, Red, are going to the Safe Deposit Box room.”

I let myself be led towards the back of the bank. Xena used the keys she’d taken from Martin’s belt to open the steel door to the Safe Deposit Box room and then pushed me into it so hard that I staggered into the opposite wall.

While I was recovering my balance, Xena took a can of spray paint from her belt and covered the lens of the room’s security camera with a layer of dripping black paint.

She pulled off her ski-mask, ran a hand through her short hair and then advanced towards me, grinning.

The fierce beauty of her face pierced my heart again as if I was seeing her for the first time.

No wonder I was in love with her.

I stepped towards her, my arms went up around her neck, her face came down towards mine and we kissed. It was a good kiss. A great kiss. A kiss that set my belly on fire and had me tightening my thighs around hers. It was also a kiss we didn’t have time for. We had less than five minutes left to finish robbing the bank.

I pushed her away from me.

“Cut her face?” I said. “Cut her face! I can’t believe you said that.”

Xena – no, I had to stop calling her that. Her ego was already enormous, knowing that I thought of her as a Xena look alike would make her unbearable – Naomi just shrugged her shoulders.

“All part of the hard-assed act, Cher. Leon knows that.”

“Truly? Well Leon had his hard-on pressed into my ass and a blade against my neck.”

“You can castrate him later. I’ll hold him down for you if you like. Now, let’s do this. Show me where the sugar is.”

I don’t normally do banks. I’m a jewel thief. A very careful, very successful jewel thief. Carl, my idiot, recently dead, brother had stolen my last haul from me. Which was a problem as I already had a buyer who would be very unhappy if the stones didn’t reach him.

“Carl said box 127,” I said.

Naomi used Martin’s keys to unlock the box, then she started opening other boxes at random, dumping the contents on the floor, holding on to any cash she encountered, creating as much mess as possible.

I pulled the little velvet bag out of box 127, checked the contents, and stuffed it deep in my bag. The image of Carl, bleeding out in my arms, pushed its way to the front of my mind.

“One minute.”

That was Zach, our man of the cattle-prod.

Naomi pulled me to my feet, kissed me briefly on the lips, mouthed “sorry” at me and then pressed the button on the Tazer she held to my neck.

————————————

“Are you OK? I thought she’d killed you.”

The lovely Lisa was leaning over me. I felt like I’d been in one of those Star Trek transporter beams and not yet fully materialised.

“He didn’t cut you?”

It seemed my mouth had offered up the first thought that entered my head. I was glad that it had at least refrained from using Leon’s name.

“No. He had his hands all over me though. Then he grabbed some of the cash and ran out.”

“Some of the cash?”

“Yeah, can you believe they didn’t bring a bag? And look at this place. It’s a complete mess. What a bunch of amateurs. Let me help you up.”

Amateurs. That made me happy. The police would be looking for local yokels without the smarts to plan properly.

I put my arm over Lisa’s shoulders and let her lead me back into the bank. The police arrived just as we made our entrance. There were only two of them. They had their guns out and they looked nervous. One of them turned to face Lisa and me.

“Hey, don’t shoot them.”

Rentacop had climbed to his feet.

“Those girls have been through enough today.”

The younger of the two policemen lowered his gun and came over to help us.

“This woman is hurt.” Lisa said, “You should get her to the hospital. You need to take good care of her. She tried to protect me from those people and look what it got her.”

I decided it would be a good time to faint.

————————————

I was strapped to a gurney that was being manhandled out of the bank. I opened my eyes as little as possible and looked around.

On the other side of the street I saw two men in dark suits. I’d seen them before. I knew I’d be seeing them again. They were the ones who’d shot my brother.

Again the memory of Carl in my arms, blood everywhere.

“I’m sorry, sis. I thought I could handle it. But they found me and they took the key to the box.”

Over the next ten minutes, his last ten minutes, Carl had coughed up his story and his blood. I learned that he’d meant to use the stones to pay off gambling debts and then gotten greedy and demanded more for the stones then he’d originally agreed. He’d left the stones in this hick bank for safe keeping. The guys in suits gut-shot him and dumped him at my door like garbage.

Even as Carl bled out, I’d started to plan. Getting the stones back was part one. Tick, done that.

Now it was time for part two. I opened my eyes fully, made sure the suits had seen me see them and then I waved. By the time people turned to see who I was waving to, the suits had run.

————————————

The police questioned me at the hospital. It was clear I wasn’t a suspect. My story checked out. I am rich and I am new in town. I told them that I didn’t think I’d be going back to Mr. Martin’s bank and they all laughed politely. One of them even told me that he admired my bravery.

I asked them if they’d caught the robbers. They told me that they were probably amateurs, possibly from across the border, and that they were bound to be caught soon because they were sloppy.

I looked forward to telling Naomi that. Naomi was never ever sloppy.

————————————

I spent a week doing normal, unsuspicious, routine things. On the weekend I drove over the border to do a little shopping. It was a well established pattern for me. Everyone knows I love shopping.

I stayed in a small but upscale hotel in Buffalo. I had a drink at the bar.  A man offered to buy me another. I refused and turned to leave. He was so close I had to brush past him on the way out. I saw him leave a little later, after he checked that I’d managed to drop a small velvet bag into his pocket.

————————————

I’d been back in my room long enough to check that a large sum had been wired into my Swiss account, grab a shower and change into a wonderfully thick dressing gown, when someone knocked on my door.

“Room Service”

I smiled. I hadn’t ordered any room service.

Naomi was wearing a hotel maid’s uniform – don’t ask me how she gets this stuff – and was carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

She walked into the room, tray held high, ass moving like it was on springs,  turned to face me, standing one foot in front of the other with her left hip jutting forward and said,

“Well, I’m in the room. How would you like to be serviced?”

Naomi was in the room. In the here and now. In my face without a word of greeting. No comment on the bank robbery. No questions about the men in suits. I loved that about her.

I decided that in my face was exactly where I wanted Naomi to be.

I let the bathrobe pool around my ankles and then stood in front of Naomi.

She held her pose and remained silent, making me make the next move.

“The good thing about room service,” I said, dropping to my knees, “is that I get to eat something fresh and hot without having to dress up.”

Naomi set down the tray and stood with one foot raised on to the little coffee table. The maids outfit rode up her long leg, showing that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

I knew an invitation when I saw one. I ran my right hand along the outside of her raised leg and pressed my face against her inner thigh. I extended my tongue and was about to get to work when Naomi pulled my head back by the hair.

“You ready to be my good girl now, Red?”

I almost gave into the slave-girl-for-the-evening vibe but it’s not in my nature and besides, Naomi looked way too smug.

I knocked Naomi’s leg from under her. She broke her fall but was still a little winded. I scrambled up her until I was sitting on her chest, pinning her arms to the floor with my knees.

“Bitch,” Naomi snarled.

Her eyes softened when she took in the view and widened when I reached behind me and pressed my fingers into her sex.

A few slick seconds later, Naomi had turned her face to one side and was biting her bottom lip.

I took my hand away and reached for the Champagne bottle.

“We can drink later, Cher,” Naomi said, pouting delightfully.

“I agree,” I said, “But first I want to see how much of this bottle I can push inside you.”

Naomi pretended to try and throw me off. Pretended just hard enough to let me enjoy the movement of her soft, muscled body. We both knew where it would end. Although to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to push that much of the champagne bottle in her before and usually we pop the cork first.

The champagne was slightly warm when we opened the bottle. We were in the bath, Naomi’s legs wrapped around me, her fingers working my shoulders.

“They were at the bank, watching.” I said. “They know I took the stones.”

“Then maybe they’ll be smart enough to be afraid,” Naomi said, her hand sliding down to hold mine.

“We’re going to do this aren’t we?”

“Kill the people who killed your idiot brother? Of course we are. That’s how our world works.”

Certainty, strength, loyalty, love. These are the things Naomi brings me. The things I can no longer imagine being without.

“But not tonight, Cher. Tonight is just for us. Now take me to bed.”

Fireflies

This is not erotica but I’d like to share it anyway.

Enjoy.

Fireflies

(c) Mike Kimera 2010

When the wounds of the day
And the sleep-debt of the week
Tap in to my bone-deep well of sadness,
Fierce anger ignites
Bringing momentary warmth and light
At the cost of a mouthful of ashes

Afterwards, in the cooling dark
Rocking slowly back and forth
I wrap myself in a thin blanket of regret,
Mourning the delight life once brought me

Finally, in the still quiet of my exhausted mind,
Words, unbidden but welcome, flicker into being
Little fireflies of hope dancing in the dark
Dispelling gloom with evocations of past happiness
And the promise that joy will rise with the sun.

Untouched Part 1

Last year Remittance Girl, asked us to imagine what it would be like not to be able to be touched. The idea caught my imagination. “Untouched” is the result

Chapter 1 does what a chapter one always does, it introduces the
character, sets up the action and (hopefully) leaves you wanting to find out what happens next.

Enjoy

Untouched

© Mike Kimera 2009

Do not reproduce or distribute without permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

A camera?

Pardon my mirth. I don’t mean to be impolite; it’s just that it hadn’t occurred to me that you’d use video to gather the data for your research. I’d imagined myself sitting on some plastic chair, leaning over a table to mutter my darkest sexual secrets into a cheap audio-recorder. Now I find myself in an armchair, lit to get that late-night we’re-all-intellectuals-here Channel 4 talk-show look.

Why does this amuse me?

Because I’m here to tell you about my sexual life and if I had to sum it up in one image, it would be a camera. I’m not talking about the clichéd metaphor of the motorized zoom lens as the symbol for male arousal, or even the image of the over-weight paparazzi caressing the shaft of his grotesquely extended long-distance lens. The image I have in mind is of a tourist, head tilted back to take in the magnificence of one of the wonders of the world, holding a camera aloft between him and all that splendor, as if only what he sees on the LCD screen is real.

My sexuality is framed by the LCD screen of my imagination.

It withers when confronted with physical reality.

I’m sorry, I tend to head off into Alan Bennett monologue land and lose my focus on the task at hand, as it were. My task, as you put it your ad, is to “share first hand experiences that have shaped my sexual identity and are outside the sexual norm.” So let’s get the formal part out of the way shall we?

I am subject 147. I’m male, 43 years old, 5’ 10’’, 205 lbs, heterosexual and unmarried. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will and that the material in this interview can be used anonymously for academic research.

OK so back to my sex life. It is fair to say that my sexual experience with other people has been limited. Very limited.

Arousal is not the issue. From puberty onwards my body became a lust-furnace, greedily demanding to be fuelled each day. Yet, although my mind flared with need and my eyes sucked in erotic images as if they were oxygen, it was always my own hand that stoked the flames.

I am, by preference, a wanker.

Yes, I know the politically correct response: wanking is a pejorative term, we all masturbate, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it doesn’t define who we are, blah, blah, blah. Except, in my case, masturbation is not just the fast-food, self-service option on my sexual menu, it is my entire cuisine. It’s been more than twenty years since I last had any physical sexual contact with another person.

OK, so now I’ve filed myself under F for Freak. I know the image people have of a man who’d rather toss-off than fuck: a sad shut-in, with no social skills, poor personal hygiene and a porn-based concept of women in which the holes are more than the sum of the parts, but that’s really not me.

I’m one of those men that women find it easy to talk to. I listen well, I know how to make them laugh without making them feel uncomfortable and I genuinely enjoy their company.

Women start by liking my mind and my personality and move on to wanting me physically.

It would be an ideal situation except that, for me, the hardwired link that normal men have between lust and the desire to fuck seems to be fractured.

In my case, lust and masturbation go hand in hand in the most literal way.

I find women, the idea of them, the image of them, deeply, irresistibly, unforgettably arousing; I just can’t bring myself to fuck them.

What do I mean by that?

Let me give you an example. Yesterday, seated on a crowded Tube train, I fell in lust with the thirty-something business woman standing in front of me. Shielded from the world by the novel in her hand and the iPod buds in her ears, she was unaware that I was observing her, assembling the details of her appearance and behaviour to build a picture of her sexual potential.

On the surface my lady of the Tube presented herself to the world as competent, professional, perhaps a little distant. For anyone who took the time to look more carefully she had laid a trail of breadcrumbs to another side of her nature. Her minimal make up made her seem serious while emphasizing her good bone structure. Her thick, dark, shoulder-length hair was tied back in a pony tail that invited the mind to envision it being set free to cascade over her shoulders. Her ostensibly conservative business suit was tailored to display her figure, the jacket falling to just above the tight curve of her skirt-clad arse.

She was standing, legs slightly apart, arm raised above her head to hold on to the grab rail, swaying in front of me in time to the rhythm of the train. Her jacket had fallen open, revealing a tailored white blouse that showed off her olive skin and emphasized the slim strength of  her torso and the compact temptation of her small, neat, bra-garnished breasts.

But what captured my imagination wasn’t her figure or the tension in her long smooth lightly muscled legs, it was the promise offered by a sweat-dampened strand of hair that had freed itself from the ponytail to cling to her neck.

I closed my eyes and let the fantasy play in the cinema of my mind. We were alone on the Tube and she had noticed me looking at her. The grin she gave me was feral and more than a little intimidating. Still holding on to the grab bar, she hiked her skirt up and placed one foot on the seat beside me, displaying the smooth strength of her thigh above the top of her stay-up stocking. I leant forward for a closer look. She pulled her thong aside and the salt-and-sea scent of her arousal hit me. Her free hand found the back of my head, grabbed me by the hair and forced my face onto her sex. She was not gentle. As the train rattled and rolled, my mouth became her point of balance and her sex became my world.

It was a most satisfactory imagining.

When I opened my eyes, the Tube woman was watching me. She smiled at me. Not a polite, I’ve-been-caught-watching-you-but-I-mean-no-offence smile but a ready-to-be-amused smile that might curve upwards into pleasure.

I got off at the next stop without speaking to her.

Perhaps you feel that I missed an opportunity; that I should have reached out to her, made a connection, taken her home to my bed and had sex that was not imaginary.

If I was normal, you would be right. But I am not normal and it would have been a disaster.

If we had connected, if I had smiled back, if she had talked to me, taken me home, left me in no doubt that she wanted my mouth at her throat and my hand on her breast, that she was waiting, hoping, to pushed down, spread wide and used hard, I would not have been aroused. Cold dread would have risen up my spine, leaving me unable to act. If she had mistaken my hesitant response for nervousness and moved to pull me to her, dread would have been replaced by a rising revulsion that renders me impotent and may make me nauseous enough to throw up all over her.

I am, it turns out, haphephobic.

You don’t know the word? I thought, as an academic, the Greek route would be enough for you to work it out. No? It means I have a fear of being touched. In my case, the phobia is limited to be touched sexually. Thank heavens for small mercies.

Don’t be fooled, just because there’s a word for it doesn’t mean that medical science has any idea what causes it or how to treat it. Of course, what the scientists don’t know, the psychologists are always willing to invent.

So, what would you choose, panic-filled nausea or skillfully administered self-service?

Of course, as a young man I didn’t understand my, what should I call it? Preference? No, too weak a word. Constraints? Too judgmental for our purposes. Let’s borrow from the cannons of self-help (after all, my preference is to help myself) and say I didn’t understand my boundaries.

I was still a virgin when I completed my A Levels in the summer of 1984. At the time I put this down to limited opportunity: I was an only child, I went to an all-boys school and I lived at home with my ever-so-Catholic parents. Plus, I told myself that I didn’t want to get “involved” with a girl that I would leave behind when I escaped to university at the end of the summer. Now I realize that my continuing virginity was an early warning sign that my path to sexual release was going to be a solitary one.

Although my school years were a fuck-free zone, I did actually get as far as kissing a girl or two when I was in the Sixth Form. I was going through a “New Romantics” thing at the time. On a Saturday night I’d head for the local disco looking like a shorter version of Tony Hadley from Spandau Ballet. Well, I had the hair cut and the nerve to wear the clothes and I knew all the words to “True” -.still do in fact.

I’d stand at the bar, pretend I was old enough to drink, and watch the girls dancing ‘round their handbags. It seemed that I was doing the same thing as all the other lads, but I wasn’t. They didn’t look at the girls the way I did. They were searching for a signal that a girl had seen them and might dance with them. I was memorizing every detail of the flow of female flesh in the tidal currents of the dance floor.

There would always be a few girls who were there to dance, rather than to get off with someone. They would disappear inside their heads, often closing their eyes completely and giving themselves up to the dance. I would pick one, usually the one who didn’t stop dancing, even though her hair was damp with sweat and her skin gleamed and her dress stuck to her body, and I would try to picture what she would look like when she fucked. Given that I’d never seen a real girl naked, this required some imagination on my part, but it seemed to me that, for these women, the ones who listened to their bodies, who dived deep into themselves and swam through the music as if being called to a place they could not turn back from, dancing and fucking would work the same way.

None of the women I watched ever gave any sign that they knew how closely I was watching them. None of them even made eye contact. Yet these were the women I would hold in my mind later, alone in my room, as my fingers and thumb tugged and pulled and stroked me to release

There were girls who noticed me; the shy girls, not yet at home enough in their growing bodies to throw themselves into the dance, or not confident enough in their own looks to want to risk being the centre of attention. They would stand beside me, watching me watching the dancers, waiting to be noticed. If they were still there when I’d sated myself with images of swayed hips and flung hair, I would take them somewhere away from the noise and talk to them.

It wasn’t that I wanted these shy but available women to be a surrogate for the sexy but unattainable ones I’d been lusting after. I don’t think I even made the connection. I went with the shy girls because each of them looked at me as if I might be the answer to an unspoken question. Talking with them was intoxicating because I knew I had their full attention. I performed for them, I made them laugh and I had the good sense to ask them questions about themselves and listen to the answers. The girls relaxed and showed me something of their true selves. That was the part of the evening that I enjoyed the most.

After an hour or two of increasingly intimate talk, it would have been rude not to walk the girl home. A tension would build as we walked along in silence through the dark streets. I knew the girl wanted something from me but I wasn’t sure what. Sometimes, after the silence had gone on for too long, the girl would look at me, disappointment telegraphed in her every move, and then make an excuse – a forgotten purse, a suddenly seen friend – and leave me. A few girls were bolder. They would stand close to me, maybe even lean against me, and breathe, “Kiss me.”

In theory, I wanted to kiss them: The idea was exciting. They were soft and warm and they wanted me. But the gap between idea and reality was a deep dark crevasse that swallowed my excitement. When the girl’s lips touched mine, I stiffened in all the wrong places. My arms grew heavy. My body tensed. My mind locked itself into a panic room and watched events from behind glass.

The kisses never lasted long but they always left me numb and clumsy. I would try to retreat with dignity. I could manage it if the girl politely pretended that everything was normal.

I would stumble away from the girl and head for my home. At some point, as the numbness subsided, my walk would become a run. By the time I reached home, I would be eager to cleanse myself of the memory of the failed kiss by summoning remembered images of dancing flesh and tugging at my desire until my stained bed-sheets proved beyond doubt that I was a normal healthy male

By morning I would have convinced myself that the kiss had gone quite well, considering. I told myself that it was my curse to be attracted to nice girls, that this was how nice girls kissed and that the reason we got no further than kissing was that nice girls didn’t do that kind of thing. It was only later that I realized that I walked home with nice girls because they didn’t do that kind of thing.

I’m sure the girls knew something was not right. Perhaps it was that I didn’t hold their hands as we walked or perhaps it was because I didn’t try to touch them in all those soft secret places young men yearn for. Or maybe it was the absence of something that they’d seen in my eyes while I’d watched the dancers but which wasn’t present when their lips touched mine. By the time I broke from the more-expected-than-desired kiss, they would be confused. Some were even angry.

Only one of them, Sharon Hughes, ever walked home with me more than once. If I had been wired normally, she was the girl I would have lost my virginity to.

Sharon had the looks to be one of the sex-goddess-dancers that I obsessed about: tall, deep breasted, with broad hips and a wickedly wide mouth, but Sharon never surrendered herself to the dance or to anything else. Sharon was always in control. That summer she decided she was going to be in control of me.

The other girls that I’d kissed had led me to their homes, within sight of safety and parental support, before making it clear that I should touch them. Sharon was different. She wrapped her arm around mine so that her breast constantly brushed against me as we walked. At first it was just distracting but soon I realized that I wanted her to let go; that I needed some space between us. I was still trying to figure out how to make this happen when Sharon ambushed me.

Around the corner from her house, she pushed me up against a lamppost, put her arms around my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers.

It had never occurred to me that a girl might want to force her tongue into my mouth. I was so surprised to find myself penetrated like this that I temporally forgot how to breathe.

Perhaps mistaking shock for passion, Sharon pressed her substantial breasts against me, clamped her legs around mine tightly enough for me to feel the hard weight of her pubic bone.

I wasn’t sure what was going on but I knew I wanted it to stop. I grabbed her wrists, pulled them away from my neck, a little more roughly than I’d intended and forced them down to her sides.

Sharon stopped kissing me but remained pressed against me. Somehow she managed to make it look as if I was holding her in place. She smiled, squeezed my thigh between her legs, and said, “I’m going to have to watch myself with you. I can see you’d just love to hold me down and make me do things.”

I let go of her wrists and tried to push her off me. As soon as my hands were on her shoulders she slid down my body making it appear that I had pushed her to her knees. She looked up at me from between my legs, ran her hands over the inside of my thighs and then slid them up and back to grab my arse.

My hips shot forward of their own accord and suddenly her face was next to my crotch. For a fraction of a second she brushed her cheek against my still-soft cock. With her eyes half-closed, the tip of her tongue just visible between her slightly parted lips, she looked like a wanton angel bathed in a halo of sodium light

Time slowed and her image burned into my memory with all the white heat of camera flash.

She opened her eyes, looked up me and then, with move that I can replay in my head even now, she rocked back on her heels and pushed upwards, spine straight, shoulders back, breasts rising. My attention focused on her stiff stubby nipples which seemed to be aimed at me like weapons.

Sharon knew what I was looking at.

“See what you’ve done to me, making me get on my knees to suck you off” she said.

I started to sputter a protest but Sharon put a finger across my lips to silence me

“It’s OK,” she said, pushing the tip of her finger into my mouth, “I liked it.”

She stepped back, moved her hand from my mouth to her breast and rubbed the now moist fingertip over her nipple.

“You can see how much I liked it,” she said.

The fabric of her blouse darkened beneath her fingers.

“I think you’re turning me into a very bad girl,” she said, “Now I have to run or my dad will give me hell.”

I stayed with my back to the lamppost, waiting for my pulse to return to normal.

Later that night, as I lay with my fingers around my cock, I knew that there was a possibility that Sharon lived in an alternate reality where she wrote the screenplay of her life. I knew that my own response of flaccid panic was more than a little strange. I pushed that knowledge away and focused on Sharon and what she’d done and what she’d claimed I’d wanted to do.

Slowly stroking myself, I imagined pulling my belt off my pants and using it to bind Sharon’s elbows together behind her back, forcing her amazing breasts to jut forward. By the time I’d gotten to the short strokes, I was pushing Sharon’s head further down my cock with one hand while twisting a stubby nipple with the other. I came so hard that my belly was covered in cum.

I fell asleep wondering if Sharon would be at the next disco.

Curious

Curious (c) 2000

"It's your first time," he says, leading me under the boardwalk.

"It's that obvious?"

"It's cute," lifting my lefthand to his mouth, sucking on the ringfinger.

"Been married long?"

"Ten years," letting him push me to my knees.

"Open up" he grins, casually pulling his cock from his speedos.

So hot against my palm when I grip it.

"I'm not gay."

"Just curious huh?"

The smell, familiar but strange, assaults me as I suck him in.

"Good boy. Use your tongue. Yesssss."

I am so eager to please; so ready to swallow.

"Curiouser and curiouser” I think to myself.

Glory Hole

Glory Hole © 2004

“SUCK HERE BITCH” has been scratched into the wall above the hole.In my fantasy the cocks are long, black, and rock-hard.
The one that pokes through the hole is short, jaundiced-pink, and slightly limp.
With a sigh, I lean forward on the toilet seat and suck it into my mouth.
He smells of piss, tastes of sweat and takes ten minutes to dribble his cum into my mouth.
I feel dirty and used and horny.
And now I have a new fantasy.
I stand and push my aching dick through the hole.
The bitch next door better be good.

Glory Hole © 2004  by Mike Kimera  
“SUCK HERE BITCH” has been scratched into the wall above the hole.
In my fantasy the cocks are long, black, and rock-hard. The one that pokes through the hole is short, jaundiced-pink, and slightly limp.  
With a sigh, I lean forward on the toilet seat and suck it into my mouth.
He smells of piss, tastes of sweat and takes ten minutes to dribble his cum into my mouth.
I feel dirty and used and horny.
And now I have a new fantasy.
I stand and push my aching dick through the hole.
The bitch next door better be good.