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.



© 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.


I grew up listening to Radio 4 plays in the afternoons, being swept away by images created entirely by voices and a few (fairly low budget) sound effects. It engaged my imagination in more active and less directed way than television.

Although I enjoyed the normal plays, my preference was for stories read aloud or for the monologue. The definitive monologues in my view were by Alan Bennett’s “Talking Heads” where a single voice would paint a life while seeming simply to talk to you in an unstructured way.

I don’t normally write monologues – it’s not a form that lends itself to erotica but the other day I was staring at the screen of my laptop, waiting for my fingers to produce some words, when a voice in my head said “We all have secrets. You have one don’t you” and I knew I was listening to an echo from Radio 4 bouncing off my on-going obsession with secrecy and disclosure and what they do to us.

I listened to the woman speaking in my head, my fingers moved and “Secrets” appeared on the screen. It’s not particularly erotic but it does have a noir-ish tension that to me smells of sex the way that pubs always smell of smoke and spilled beer.

When I read it over I realized that somehow this short piece had pulled a lot of my emotions around secrets onto the page in a way that feels dynamic and yet has no real dialogue and almost no action. I think that this is because monologues speak to us directly, with no distractions of detail and context and make us engage with them in a way that is almost hypnotic.

The text of “Secrets” is below. If hope you enjoy it. I’d love to hear whether this speaks to your experience of secrets and what you think about this kind of monologue.

We all have secrets. You have one don’t you? Don’t look so shocked. You’re in your forties. You have a ring on your finger. My guess is that you’ve been married a good long while now. You look like a nice person. I’ll bet you’re good with kids and animals and so on. So, seeing all that, I know you have to have a secret.

You don’t even have to think about it do you? I can see it in your face. It’s there, just below the surface of your mind, pecking at you like a chick trying to hatch, that thing that you know that your wife doesn’t, the one that would change everything, the one that you desperately hope doesn’t define who you really are.

No. Don’t get up. If you’d really wanted to get up you’d have done it when I sat opposite you in this cosy little booth, in this quiet little bar, where it feels like midnight even when it’s noon outside. Stay. Finish your drink. Let me tell you more about secrets.

Well that sat you down fast enough. Who’d have thought that a cute little thing like me could make a big man like you sit? Amazing what producing a brown envelope and a smile can do.

Do you know you’re holding your breathe? I’ve been told that men feel it in their balls- the anticipation of being caught. You’re wondering what I know and what I can prove and whether there is hope for you in the gap between the two.

But I bet that some small part of you, possibly even the part that you think of as “really” you, is more relieved than afraid.

People start out thinking that the hardest thing about a secret is keeping it. But someone like you, someone who’s had a secret for a while, someone who’s learnt that they can smile and lie and not get caught, you know that the hard part is that, in the end, the secret keeps you.

You’re good at this. By now lots of guys would’ve started to speak. Started to deny or threaten or even plead. But you’re sitting there silent because, speech, any speech at all, might give you away. I bet you’d be a real good poker player, except I suspect you don’t like to gamble unless you have to.

You know, the sad thing is that most guys, right up to the moment that they’re caught, don’t really know what their secret is. Oh they think they know. They think that’s it’s the mistress that they slip it to when they can’t face going home, or the whores they buy when they’re away on business, or the preferences that they only reveal through their (highly traceable) choice of on-line porn.

No. Don’t relax, not yet, I didn’t say that your secret was like that. Because we both know that the real secret is about who you’ve become.

Do you do that a lot, turn your wedding ring between finger and thumb? I bet you do. I bet you know why too. It’s because you love your wife. And you want her to love you. But even when she looks in your eyes and says she loves you, when she opens her legs and welcomes you in, when she comforts you on the nights you can’t sleep, you know she doesn’t love you. She can’t love you because she doesn’t really know you. If she knew who you really are then she’d know the secret and then what?

What do I want? That’s what you say when you finally decide to speak? Nice move. Let’s stop talking about you and talk about me instead. Nope. That’s not going to happen. This isn’t about what I want. This is all about you and your secret.

Do remember what it was like before the secret? When your wife trusted you and you knew you deserved it? Then, if she was sad, you knew it wasn’t your fault. If you made her happy you knew her joy wasn’t tainted by lies. You were happy then.

Those nights when you can’t sleep no matter how tired you are, the ones when you lie awake thinking and hope that she won’t notice. Think about what’s really keeping you awake. With some men it would be the fear of discovery. Not you though. You’re careful. Very, very careful. But you’re still afraid. You’re afraid that somehow, at some level beyond facts and logic, she already knows. You’re afraid that she is also pretending. You think about it don’t you? What it will be like when the kids have gone and there’s just the two of you, alone in the house except for the secret that neither of you mentions.

Tears. Good. I hoped for tears.

I cried when this happened to me. When I was liberated from my secret.

The envelope is empty by the way.

What happens next is up to you. I think you’re brave enough to break free of your secret. I hope so.

If you do, I ask only one thing: find someone who needs this envelope, needs it as badly as you did, and give it to them.

© Mike Kimera 2006 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.

Hand Jobs

“Hand Jobs” tells the story of the sexual development of a working class man who came of age in the late 1960’s in Northern England. The focus of the narrative is, of course, sex. What you remember, after the story is over, is the character of the man telling it.

“Hand Jobs” was published in “Best New Erotica 7” edited by Maxim Jakubowski.

Is this thing on? Ok. Strange, I don’t normally get to see myself on video. It doesn’t really look like me. So, anyway, let me read this so that I get it right.

I am subject 103. I’m male, 57 years old, 5′ 11”, 211 lbs, heterosexual and widowed. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will and that the material in this tape can be used anonymously for academic research.

Your advert said that you wanted to hear from people with strong sexual preferences; well, I have one of those. These days it’s my only sexual preference.

This is hard to say, even to a camera.

I like hand-jobs from whores.

I know how that sounds: selfish and pathetic but that doesn’t stop it from being true. It’s not all that’s true. I used to enjoy making love with my wife. But that was as much about the love as the sex. And even then, if I’m really honest, fucking never matched the gob-smacking impact of a good hand-job.

My dad bought me my first one the week that I started as a conductor on the buses, back in 1967. “One good job deserves another” he’d said. Then he’d added, “And say nowt to your mother.” Like I was going to go home and say, “Mam, you’ll never guess what me and Dad did today.” Daft pillock.

My first time wasn’t a very sophisticated affair. Back then it was called getting a hand-shandy. I got mine from a blousy woman who smelled of beer and fags and who wore enough make-up to paint the Queen Mary. I sat beside her in the pub on the Dock Road with me Dad sitting opposite me, while she tossed me off with one hand under the table and supped her half of stout with the other. I sat there trying to look like nothing was happening while all the while I wanted to shout and groan and swear. It didn’t take long but it was long enough for me to know that I wanted more.

I know everyone thinks that the Sixties were swinging but round our way there was no such thing as free love – you paid up front. It put a dint in my pay packet but it kept a smile on my face.

I may have been ignorant but I wasn’t stupid. I’d seen mates pay and get the clap. I didn’t want to wear a rubber – it was like wearing Wellington Boots back then – so I got into the habit of hand-jobs.

‘Course nowadays it’s all blow jobs and that, but this was years before Linda Lovelace showed how deep her throat was. And besides, most of these girls, you wouldn’t want to go near their mouths; you know where they’ve been.

I got tired of the buses after a year or two and did a spell in the Fleet Air Arm on the Ark Royal based mostly out of Malta. I was on joint Brit/Yank shore patrol, in the Gut in Valletta, cleaning up the mess when things got ugly. I saw a thing or two that taught me to keep it in my pants unless I knew I was in safe hands so to speak. Before Malta, I thought brothels were like saloons in the Westerns, something grand but tacky, not some crumbling dive filled with drunk sailors and young women with old eyes.

I came home in ’73 and courted Patricia Mahon, a nice girl who’d lived down our alley since she was a kid. The third time we went out together I took her to the Gaumont to see “Don’t Look Now” because she’d said she liked ghost stories. We sat in the big seats in the back, where it was dark and we could cuddle. I’d expected a bit of kissing and that but nothing more. Except it turned out that the movie was quite sexy and Patricia Mahon, while still being a nice girl, had learnt another use for the handkerchief the nuns had made her carry at school. While Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland were at it on the screen, I was getting the most exciting hand-job of my life in the back row of the cinema.

Patricia and I never spoke about sex. Not even after we were married. We just did it a lot. Then we had the kids and we did it less. Then she got ill. The thing is, even when she was ill I’d get hard. My cock has no conscience but I do. I was celibate a long time.

After my wife died of the cancer, I knew there’d never be anyone else. At least no one I wanted. And I knew I’d get sad and twisted without a woman’s touch. So, when things got tough, I went back to the whores.

Of course it’s all changed now. The girls don’t hang ’round saying “fancy a nice time, Deary” any more. These days the whores have websites with photos and lists of services and how much everything will cost.

I prefer older whores. I’d not want some slip of a girl, young enough to be me daughter, touching me like that. And I like them to be English. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything, but you read about how some of these girls from Russia and Thailand and the like are here against their will and I don’t want that on my conscience.

I shopped around a bit in the beginning but nowadays I go to the same few girls when I’m in the mood. They know what I want and they don’t make a fuss. One of them even makes a decent cup of tea.

Still, it’s not the tea you want to know about is it? You want to know about the sex.

Well, there’s not much to tell really. Sex is not about the words is it? It’s about the doing. And I know just how I want it done. I like to stand. And I don’t like to take me clothes off. I prefer the girl to sit. Kneeling would make me feel like I had to hurry up and if she stands she gets too close and I’d have to pay her too much attention. When she sits, she can work in comfort and I can concentrate on what I’m there for.

I’ve always found it easier to come standing up. And better too. I stand there and unzip (I always do that myself. I hate having people fussing down there) and then I let the dog see the rabbit.

Most of the time, I’m at least at half mast when the girl starts and if it’s been a while I’m fully at attention. They know I don’t want them to use their mouths, not even for talking, so they pour on some baby oil and get started.

I like to hold on to something for balance, a chair or the mantelpiece or something, and I keep my eyes closed. The girls are good at what they do and soon my arse is clenching and the muscles in my thighs are as hard as my cock. Towards the end I’m up on the balls of my feet with my head tipped back and my mouth partly open. When the come starts to flow it’s like flying. I feel light and happy and released from everything, even gravity. Then I thank the girl; wash up in the sink and go. I like just being able to go like that. It helps me keep the mood for longer.

Of course you don’t stay free of gravity for long. After a while what you’ve just done feels dirty and weak and you want to tell yourself that you’ll never do it again. Except you know that that’s bollocks, a passing mood that wears off soon enough. I’m not proud of what I do but I’m not ashamed neither. I’ve lived long enough to know there’s some things you just have to do, so you do them with as much dignity and as little fuss as you can.

That’s all I’ve got to say, really.

I’m not sure it’s any help to you but it felt good to talk about it. Not that I’d want to talk to anybody about it face to face but talking to the camera is like being in confession only without the Hail Mary’s after.

Now let’s see if I can switch this thing off without breaking anything.


© Mike Kimera 2006 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.

Scripting It

This is a slightly dark piece about a man who seems to hate women.

Sound’s on. Let me just adjust the camera angle so that I’m in the centre of the shot. Nice equipment by the way; better than the stuff the Department had when I went to this University.

So, let’s get the formalities out of the way. I am participant number 63: 29 years old, 5′ 11″, 185lbs, single, heterosexual. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will and that the material in this tape can be used anonymously for academic research.

Actually I should start by saying how disappointed I am to be here.

I was so intrigued by your advert in ‘The Guardian’: “Honest, first-person, accounts of sexual preferences outside the mainstream wanted for PhD research project.”

Given that you’re doing a PhD in sociology, the idea that a first-person account can be honest shows you have a sense of humour, while the phrase, “outside the mainstream” allows the weirdoes to self-select and will look wonderful on a book-jacket. I bet your Prof got all excited when you pitched the idea to him.

I was looking forward to getting all excited myself. I thought I might even be able to persuade you to be all excited with me. Is that why you gave your name in the advert? Did you intend me to think you were going to play Clarice to my Hannibal? Now I discover that I don’t even get to meet you; I’m in this oppressive little room, all alone, talking into this camera. I feel like I’ve been invited on a date and ended up donating sperm into a plastic cup.

I’m sure that the anonymous camera is meant to simulate the privacy of the confessional but to me it’s more redolent of a peepshow with one-way glass. I can almost smell that spunk-smoke-sweat stink that’s always present in those places, like a wine stain on a linen tablecloth or blood on the sheets.

So I’m going to help things along a little here. I’m going to rewrite the script. Scripts are very important to me.

The new script is that, although you told your supervisor that you were afraid that face-to-face contact would inhibit the participants, the real reason you set it up like this was so that you could get-off as you got turned on.

Yes, I like that image. You sitting naked in front of a big plasma-screen TV, franticly frigging as the sordid but honest revelations of us “outside the mainstream” folks slip deep into your mind with the urgent insistence of a strap-on up the arse, or a knife twisting in a shallow wound.

No, don’t switch off. I’m going to give you what you want. You’ll get your plastic cup-full. But I write the script. I always write the script.

Let me give you a taster. I’ve had sex with over 200 women. And I’m a virgin.

Is that far enough outside the mainstream for you?

Does that hook your interest?

And no, I’m not one of those pussy-licking wimps who get off on eating bitches out and saying “thank you” nicely afterwards. But you knew that just by looking at me, didn’t you?

For me it’s about getting it right. I’m a perfectionist; I have to get it right. If it’s not right I’d rather not get it at all. I want sex to go EXACTLY according to plan. My plan. My pleasure. Paid for with my money.

All but one of my women have been whores. What would the world do without those mercenary little cunts?

All your attention is on that first cunt, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re wondering about her. What did she do to me? What did I do to her? What relation was she to me? (Ah the sweet shiver of the forbidden that that question sends through your mind). But I’m putting her outside the scope of your research. I’m going to tell you about me and the whores.

In England, men who use whores are called punters. They go for a quick punt with the same enthusiasm that they go for a quick pint. They use a jargon all of their own: OWO oral without a condom, CIM come in mouth, BBBJ bare back blowjob, Greek for anal sex, relief massage for a handjob, full service for freestyle fucking, girl-friend-experience for a whore that will kiss you and pretend to care. They are the trainspotters of the erotic underworld, pathetic men who let themselves be led by the dick and milked by the women who invented all of this jargon and who use it to control the men they fuck.

I’m not a punter. I don’t punt. I make my whores work. They put up with it because I pay them well.  Whores aren’t easy to control. They’re used to handling men in every sense. But money gets them. I ask their price for the whole deal: OWO, followed by sex followed by Greek, followed by CIM. When I know what they think they’re worth, I double the price. Then they’re mine for an hour.

Sometimes I meet a whore who I know just wants to tell me to go fuck myself. I increase the price. Then I make her work harder. I smile when I give her the money. Then, a few day’s later, I come back and I make her do it again. I love to watch her eyes while she decides to do it a second time. I relish her recognition that there really isn’t anything she wouldn’t do if the money was right. Sometimes I go back several times. Eventually, when I see her getting used to it, getting comfortable, thinking that she knows me, that she can handle me, I make her stop in the middle and I leave. I offer no explanation and I never go back. I want her to think about it. I want her not to be able to stop thinking about what went wrong. About why she failed.

So, how are you doing, in front of your plasma-screen TV? Are your fingers up your cunt yet, or are you just drawing circles on your mound, waiting for the good bits to arrive?

You want to know what I make them do, don’t you? Have patience; you’ll find out.

People don’t tell the truth about sex, not even to themselves, even when they are alone in their beds, writhing and sweating, in the pursuit of solitary relief. They romanticise it, they coat it in fantasy, they lace it with guilt and goose it with taboo, but they never admit what it’s really about.

Sex is about being used. Fucking is a genetic imperative; your genes want to replicate and they use you to do it. They load you with hormones and sensitive nerve endings. They use your sense of smell and touch to blind you to what’s really going on. My genes want to use me to dump sperm in as many cunts as possible.

Well, I’m not playing.

Sex is like a magician’s trick, once you know what it’s really about you can never see it the same way again. Strip away all the self-serving mendacities that our genes whisper into our subconscious and you see sex for what it is: an undignified, animalistic compulsion.

This is not something that two people who like each other should be involved in. Think about the moment that you come. There is no intimacy there; at that point we are each alone, gripped by a short circuit across the nervous system that strips us of everything it means to be human. We are like someone being electrocuted who cannot release their grip on the object that is killing them.  Think about how you look when you come. Would you like your friends, your family, the people that you respect to see that look? Would you like them to think that that is who you are?

I was fortunate; I met my sex-magician when I was young and even as she worked her trick on me, I saw it for what it was. I saw it in her grin when I came; that look of triumph. Even as my cum slipped over her fist and ran over her wedding ring, I knew that I was never going to fuck anyone I cared about. That I was never going to let my genes make me into a twitching meat-puppet. That I was never going to let her touch me again.

Hmmm. That got quite impassioned for a moment there didn’t it? Sorry about that; it must have spoiled the rhythm of your finger-fuck dance. Let’s get back to me and the whores – academic minds demand to know more.

I suppose another man, having decided not to fuck, might have chosen abstinence, or failing that, would have resigned himself to adding wanking to the eating, drinking, shitting, pissing routines that our bodies impose.

I went a different route. Abstinence is not an option. I have a strong sex drive. Wanking seemed like just another form of defeat.

I hit upon the whore solution by accident. I was in my teens, still with more money than most but not yet understanding the power it could buy me. It was a miserable grey London day soaked in a persistent passionless rain that seemed to seep into ever pore. I was taking a shortcut through Soho to Piccadilly when an old whore, hair wet, mascara running, raincoat wrapped around what little clothing she was wearing, stepped out of a doorway and said “Would you like a nice time, Deary”.

The cunt must have been sixty. She was using a line that had died a generation before. She was on the street because she couldn’t even get a job in a walk-up. Her face had the wrinkled look of a peach that has just started to rot. I would have walked past except for the expression in her eyes. She was completely desperate. My cock hardened at once.

Knowing what I know now, I realise that she picked me because I was young and she thought I’d be easy to handle and that I wouldn’t be able to afford anything better. Things didn’t go the way she planned.

“You have a place?” I asked.

She stepped back into the rubbish-littered doorway, trying to smile.

“We can use here, if you’re quick”

“How much?”

She licked her lips. “£20 for a standup”.

Something predatory rose in me then; something ancient and male. I smiled, held out a fiver and said, “I want you on your knees with your hand on my cock.”

Her will collapsed as she took that fiver. She was so old that getting down on her knees took concentration, but she did it.

She went to pop me in her mouth with the casual ease of someone sipping coffee but I grabbed her thin wrist. When I had her attention I said, “Just a handjob. I don’t want your spit all over me.”

She tried to smile but I could see the first small prickle of fear, yet she started to tug at my erection all the same.

She wasn’t very good but I was enjoying the situation and I was in a hurry. I told her to go faster, to put her face closer, to slap my cock against her cheek. I held her in place when I came, to make sure I got everything onto her face. She didn’t even try to stand when I finished. I took another fiver out of my pocket and said, “Wipe your face with this Grandma, you’re a mess”

She started to curse me then. But she took the money. I walked away with a spring in my step.

Of course things are different now. I don’t do it in doorways any more and a tenner wouldn’t even buy me a smile.

Now I get my whores off the internet, mostly off http://www.Punternet.co.uk. Punters review the whores. Many of the whores have websites with pictures and prices and lists of services.

I like to pick the older ones, usually over 40, slightly heavy, proud of their big tits and their lack of inhibition. I let them know by email or phone that I have special needs. It never seems to bother them until we actually start.

My last one called herself Lisa. She had an allover tan that had accelerated the aging process, a barrel shaped body topped by fat tits that slipped toward her armpits when she lay down and an arse the size of a sofa. She specialised in anal and rimjobs. Which meant that she had a cunt you could park a car in, so fucking her arse was the only way you’d know you were in her, and she’s ready to push her tongue anywhere you tell her to.

She did business from her flat. She wanted to take me to her bedroom. I told her I wanted her in the toilet instead.

“I don’t take golden showers love, but I’ll give you one if you want.”

“I don’t want your piss,” I said.

She smiled at me. She already had my money. She was ready to be indulgent.

The bathroom was clean and bright. I told her to strip completely. She hesitated because I was still fully dressed and carrying my laptopbag, but she shrugged out of the clothes she’d been wearing.

I got a new dildo, still in its packet, out of my coat-pocket.

“Put one leg up on the toiletseat and fuck yourself with this. Don’t put on a show. Just fuck until I tell you to stop.”

The dildo is twice the size of my cock but her cunt swallowed it without effort.

At first they always try to put on a show; looking into my eyes, gaping their mouths, trying to show me how much they’re loving it. But I walk around them and don’t make eye-contact. I like to get very close, so that they know that I see every blemish, every bruise, every needle-track mark. Then they start to pay attention to the dildo. They start to work it so that they will come. They figure that’s what I want. They don’t understand that they should be learning how pathetic it is to get hot fucking a piece of plastic.

Lisa took to the dildo right off. Her website says that she loves toys. She was in familiar territory and starting to enjoy herself. I watched her face start to flush and her nipples rise. Just before she came I told her to stop.

Annoyance flashed across her face for a split second before her professional smile returned.

“Leave the dildo in, put the toilet lid down and sit.”

“Oooh, we are creative aren’t we,” she said in a silly voice she must have thought was sexy.

“I don’t need you to say anything. Just sit.”

She planted herself on the toilet and reached to undo my belt.

I held her hands by the wrists. She didn’t like that. She particularly didn’t like how strong I am. I think she was becoming concerned that I might be outside the mainstream.

“Don’t touch me until I tell you to,” I said.

When I took out my cock her smile was real. I have a good cock. Even a stretched cunt like hers would feel it.

“Hold out your hands”, I said, “And close your eyes.”

They hate having to close their eyes.

I squeezed cold KY gel into her palms, making her jump so hard the dildo must have shifted inside her.

When she saw what I’d done she felt foolish at being alarmed but she remembered not to speak.

“Use this on my cock. Slowly. Wank me onto your face. Slide my cock over your face. DO NOT put me in your mouth.”

After a few minutes she realised that I don’t come easily. She was waiting for me to give her a new command. She assumed that I wanted to fuck her. Then she looked in my eyes. She seemed to know then. I was using her. And I was enjoying the process of using her. If they had any self-respect, they’d throw me out when they realised that; she just worked my cock a little harder.

In porn movies the guys come almost as soon as the women suck them. That’s another lie. It takes much longer than that. I usually last twenty minutes or so; twenty minutes when the whore and I are both silent and the only sound, echoing off the bathroom tiles, is of her beating my cock with her hand and rubbing it across her face. It creates a tension you could touch.

When I was finally ready to come I told Lisa to put the tip of my cock on her forehead, give rapid, short strokes and keep going until I told her to stop. I came silently. Even when my sperm started to make snail trails across her forehead, I think Lisa’s main reaction was relief that it was almost over.

“Stop,” I said.

She let go of my cock, resisted the urge to wipe my cum from her face, and smiled up at me.

“Was that good, Love?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. I was done there. I put my cock back in my pants and turn to go.

“You can keep the dildo,” I said, as I left the room.

So what do you think of how I script it? Does it ignite your little researcher’s heart or turn your stomach? God, I wish I could see your face.

Now ask yourself this question: have I told you the truth? Which is the more troublesome idea, that I like sex this way or that I have the kind of sick mind that would make this up?

Good luck with your thesis. I’ve got to go.  I’ve got a whore to meet.

© Mike Kimera 2004 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.

Satin Worship

“Satin Worship” appeared on Cleansheets under the title “Hot to Frott”

Okay so here goes. I volunteered for this and I’m going to go through with it. Let me just adjust the video camera so only my head is in the shot.

Right, I am participant number 97. I’m 27 years old, female, 5’6″, 110 pounds, single, heterosexual. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will, and that the material in this tape can be used anonymously for academic research.

So the brief said to talk about my sexual preferences. I guess we all think we’re special, but there’s nothing new under the sun really. We’ve all got things that press our buttons and launch us off to ecstasy heaven. For some people it’s the sound of a voice, or the smell of leather or the sight of a stiff nipple or the warmth of a hard cock. With me its all about texture. If I want to let the genii out of the bottle, then I rub until it comes.

The French call it “frottage,” — well, they would have a word for it, wouldn’t they? When I get those dark and dangerous urges, nothing will do but a good frott. My frott fabric of choice is satin. True, it’s hard to clean, but it feels so smooth and cool, like the skin of a perfect lover.

Actually it’s been a while since I had a lover. You know how it is, you move to a new city, you work long hours, you have a preference for intelligent, gentle, people who can make you laugh as well as make you come; but all you ever meet are guys who are challenged by a sentence syntax more complex than: “Hi Sugar. You lookin’ so fine tonight. Wanna hang?” And if you do meet guys with good verbal skills, it turns out that all they can manage is a 30 degree erection that either spurts in your hand or goes soft on entry.

Who wants to spend hours in a bar squeezing conversation out of a guy who can’t remember your name but has been guessing your cup size since you first met, when you can have a nice shower, slip into something shiny and smooth and slowly work yourself into a friction frenzy?

In theory, when you’re hot to frott, you can do it anywhere. There’s a whole scene around rubbing up against people in crowded subway trains and elevators. Not my kind of thing really, I mean who knows where they’ve been? And what if they want to take you home afterwards?

I did get off in the Tube once. We were crammed into an oven in the shape of a train, learning way too much about the armpit aromas of our neighbours, when I saw a really cool guy. One of those guys who look beautiful and serene from a distance, and then you speak to them and realise that actually they’re just spaced out and vacant.

This one was straight out of a Renaissance painting: soft hair parting over a high forehead; a slim straight nose dividing eyes so blue you saw sky; and rosebud lips, permanently puckered. He was the perfect distance away: close enough to be vividly present, but too far away for me to have to touch him.

Underneath my cotton print dress, I was wearing a satin thong over my freshly shaved mound. It was too hot for a bra, not that I really need one. I moved through the crowd, letting myself be aware of each contact I made, stealing a charge from them, until I reached one of the metal poles. I leaned against it, hands wrapped around it above my head, breasts separated by the steel, feet planted slightly apart, and let my pubis rest against the shiny metal.

It takes skill and concentration to use a pole like that. You have to get in sync with the movement of the train so that it washes you against the pole like flotsam being pushed onto the beach. You use all the muscles in your body to make sure that your sex is placed under just the right amount of pressure. Fortunately I’ve had a lot of practice at getting worked up under pressure, so I kept my eyes on poster boy and put all my experience to work.

The come, when it arrived, was a delightful slow burn that started in the tips of my toes and the top of my head at the same time. I closed my eyes and let the warmth flood me. When I opened them again, poster boy had been replaced by a sweating fat man who looked at me as if I was an ice-cream that he needed to eat before it melted over his fingers. I let myself grind against the pole one more time, just to give him something to remember me by, and then I got off at the next stop. He was too stunned even to try and follow me.

It was fun, but it was a one-off. Mostly I prefer to take my pleasures at home. I have a huge, firm bed that I like to dress in fresh satin sheets. I love to slide — get on all fours and bend and dip until my nipples just graze the satin. I’d swear that there are sparks sometimes. Then there are the pillows. I have lots of pillows of different sizes and densities, Don’t you just love a pillow between the thighs, soft and persistent?

I like to take my time with sex, which may be why most men make me so impatient — wham bam, you were great, I’ll call you — all while I’m still warming up. Men are like finger food; you have to have a lot of them to stop being hungry and afterwards you wonder why you bothered.

My preference is to devote a night to sex. I call it satin worship. First I shower, then I shave my legs and pubis. I fill the bathroom with scented candles, fill the tub with scented water, fill a glass with chilled white wine, and slip into half an hour of complete relaxation.

I don’t switch the music on until I start to dress in front of the mirror. I like to look good for myself, so the makeup goes on with care and the hair is primped and teased. Damn I look good.

Then I go all wicked: thigh high suede boots and satin gloves that reach to above elbows, they’re both hell to put on, but they are so worth it. I tingle just looking at myself. I pose for a while, touching myself here and there until my nipples harden and my sex is moist, then I get out my satin satisfier: a long narrow strip of satin which I fold over and slide between my labia and over my mound. It looks great in the mirror, and it makes me feel like I’m going straight to hell with a grin on my face.

When I can’t bear to stand any more, I lay back on the bed and tie the strip over my eyes, leaving a tail of about a foot or so to bite on. I pretend that I’m performing for an audience, and I want to give them their money’s worth. I spread my legs as wide as I can, then I tease myself with my satin-gloved fingers, never entering, just pressing the labia together or pulling them apart. My hips thrust up off the bed. It takes a lot of effort so I work up a sweat . I imagine my body gleaming in a spotlight.

When I reach the point where I just have to come, I wrap the tail of the satisfier tightly around my neck, and finally push a finger in as deep as I can. It never fails.

Well I hope that helps with the research. Any chance I could get to see some of the other tapes?

© Mike Kimera 2003 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.