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.

Fucking Forever

Fucking Forever

© Mike Kimera



1

Eternal life. That’s what I wanted. That’s what we all wanted. And the aliens gave it to us. They didn’t have to of course. They were powerful enough that they could have taken anything they wanted. We couldn’t have stopped them. Everyone argues about why they made the offer, especially those of us who took it. Some think it was a sort of religious observance, others say it was their sense of honour. I think they did it because it amused them. I think it amuses them still.

Earth’s first contact with alien life didn’t involve shiny hardware landing on the White House lawn or benign beings beaming their smiling face into every home and telling us that they came in peace. I don’t think it occurred to them to announce their presence to us. Would you announce your presence to the bugs in the jungle? Or to the trees? They didn’t go in for the “take me to your leader” stuff. They wanted earth as a theme park, not a colony. “Take me to your leader” – like they cared.

I met my first alien in a chatroom. It’s not that I was a geek or anything. I was just trying to get laid. I was forty-two years old and death’s winged chariot was threatening to cut me off at the knees. I was going to die. Not soon maybe, but it was definitely going to happen. I could see it in the way my body took longer to recover from drinking and my cock took longer to reload. I’d decided that when it reached the point where I had to get up in the middle of the night to take a piss I was going to shoot myself. When I woke in the morning I could smell the stink of my own putrefaction. Yeah I know, trite mid-life crisis. Yawn. Except that this was my mid-life crisis and it wasn’t fucking funny.

She said her name was Trinity. I thought she was probably one of those folks who know every line of “The Matrix”, and keep saying things like, “Guns. Lots of guns.”, but I hoped that it meant she was into three-ways. I’d never had one but I meant to try it before I died.

I was calling myself “Thriller” in the chatroom. Yeah, well this was a hundred years ago, I was young and had no imagination. I still have our chat stored. Let me bring it up for you.

Thriller: what you wearing babe?

Trinity: I never wear anything

Thriller: Whoa, my kind of girl

Trinity: You don’t like clothes?

Thriller: Well, maybe some leather and lace and some fuck me pumps. EG*

There’s a lot more like that. It never sounds quite that lame when you’re typing it. Let’s scroll forward a bit.

Trinity: Is there anyone you love?

Thriller: You mean like, am I fucking someone?

Trinity: I mean love: being emotionally engaged with someone to the point where you would automatically place his or her interests before your own.

Thriller: This is getting heavy, Trin. You wanna fuck or what?

Trinity: I want you to answer my questions. If I like your answers I will arrange to meet with you tomorrow. I promise you it will be memorable.

Thriller: So what kind of answers do you want?

Trinity: Honest ones.

We talked for an hour or more. After a while I stopped being Thriller and started being me. It had been a long time since anyone had really listened to me; it felt good. I told her about my (ex) wife, my (ex) mistress, my (estranged) sister, the girl next door who did aerobics in her bedroom with the lights on and the windows open; about the painful way my mother died; and about my own fear of death. I slipped rapidly from glib and cocky to tearful and self-pitying. It was like getting drunk only faster, and Trinity was like the best bartender in the world, abetting my intoxication while sympathizing with the results.

Trinity: Thank you for answering my questions. Be at this address tomorrow at 10pm.

I was so far gone in self-pity that I’d actually forgotten that this was supposed to be about getting laid. After I logged off I suddenly thought, “Wow, I’m really gonna fuck someone I met on line.”

Maybe if I hadn’t been so juiced, it might have struck me as odd that a woman I didn’t know and whom I’d just cried all over, wanted to have sex with me.

Trinity lived in a very upscale apartment block in Midtown, the sort of place the doorman would normally have thrown me out of unless I was delivering flowers.

The elevator opened into a reception area half the size of my apartment. I’d have been impressed but I was too busy looking at the naked woman in front of me. She looked just like Trinity in “The Matrix”: short jet-black hair, muscled body, and fighter’s stance. Of course, in the movie I never got to find out whether Trinity shaved her pubes into a narrow little strip that looked like a down arrow.

“Wow,” I said.

I was always good at compliments.

Trinity didn’t smile, she didn’t speak, she just pushed me back against the wall with one hand on my throat, and ripped open – and I mean ripped – my Dockers. This girl was strong.

The pressure on my neck increased and I started to feel dizzy. Her hand on my cock was cool but completely relentless. I started to panic. I was being choked to death by a naked psycho, just when I was getting the most impressive hard-on of my life.

My vision was starting to fade and Trinity’s face showed nothing but curiosity. She tilted her head to one side and looked at me just the way Michael does after he’s gutted some teen with his knife in the “Halloween” movies.

Trinity let go of my neck and I slid to the floor gasping. She straddled my cock and slipped it inside of her. Her whole demeanour changed. Suddenly she was straight out of a porn flick: pulling at her breasts and tossing her head back and going, “Yeah, Baby. Oh Yeah. Harder Baby. Oh do it to me Baby!” It was corny but it worked. I came inside her like someone had turned on a tap. When the flow stopped – look I hadn’t been laid in a month so it went on a while Ok? – Trinity just stood up. My cum was seeping down her thigh and she was looking at me like she was seeing me for the first time.

“Did you enjoy that?”

The porn star was gone. This question was asked in the same tone I’d imagined from the chatroom – a clever but dispassionate woman who studied men like insect specimens. For a brief moment I wondered if I’d walked into her killing jar, then male ego took over.

“That was great Trin. Did you come?”

“I always come.”

She didn’t sound pleased about it – more like bored, maybe even sad.

“What is your name?”

I’d always wanted to be asked that after I’d fucked a beautiful woman.

I grinned and said “Jim, Jim O’Hara.”

“Get out of those ripped clothes Mr. O’Hara. There are some people I want you to meet.”

People? Hey, maybe we were gonna do the group sex thing after all. Hurray for me and my sexual charisma.

I followed Trinity down the hall, enjoying the view of her from behind. She led me into a kind of library/multimedia room: big flatscreen TV, fancy audio system, computer rig, books by the wall full, but no people.

“Sit please,” she said, pointing to a leather armchair.

“Where is everybody?”

Trinity leant forward and placed a pair of headphones over my ears. That brought her breasts pleasantly close. I was about to lick them when the aliens arrived inside my head.

I couldn’t see them but I knew they were there. It was as if they were at the top of my skull, out of sight. It was hard to tell how many of them there were because they moved around a lot. Their arrival lasted about a heartbeat and then a screenshow went on behind my eyes – colours forming and reforming into random shapes. I couldn’t see Trinity any more. I know I should have been alarmed but the colours filled me with a sense of well being.

“Hi Jimbo, how’s it goin’?”

The voice belonged to Kieran, my best friend from school. Problem was, he’d been killed on his motorcycle two years earlier – the day before my 40th birthday – that had been a real bummer.

“You’re dead.”

“Yeah, I know. But they’ve kinda borrowed me from your memory so they can talk to you.”

“Who’s ‘They'”

“The aliens of course. Didn’t Trinity tell you… no that’s right we got distracted didn’t we. It’s been a while since we met someone who needed a fuck as badly as you did.”

“What fucking aliens?”

“The aliens who just used Trinity’s body to fuck you. Look, we’ll prove it. Think about what you’d like Trinity to do for you. Get a real clear image in your head. Then we’ll use her to do it.”

I knew exactly what I wanted.

“We knew you had a good imagination Jimbo. Great image man.”

The aliens restored my sight just in time for me to see Trinity’s lips touch my balls. My whole cock was in her mouth. She pulled back until only the head was in her mouth, sucked hard and then pushed forward to my balls again. She did it slowly, just the way I’d always imagined.

“Oh God,” I said.

“Not God, Jimbo – but close.”

“Look, Kieran, no offence man but do I have to talk to them through you. I mean you’re dead and it freaks me out a bit, you know?”

Kieran morphed and suddenly I was speaking to Jean-Luc Picard. Holy shit, these aliens knew what I liked. He was my all time hero. I had this fantasy where I was in a three-way with him and Deanna Troi. We’d take an end each, all ready for action and he’d grin and say “engage” and we’d fuck the shit out of her.

“Death frightens you, Mr O’Hara,”

“Hey, we all die,” I said. Well, I had to try and sound cool in front of Picard.

“Actually,” he said, “in your case that no longer has to be true. How would you like to live forever, Mr. O’Hara?”

Then Picard explained the aliens in that clear calm way he always used on the TV. The aliens travelled the universe as a kind transmission. All that static we’d been listening to for years, hoping to get a message from alien life – well some of it was alien life. They travelled to earth and then beamed down through our own coms satellites.

Of course it seems obvious to us now that the best way to travel through space is as data. All that effort we spent on overcoming gravity wells and keeping bodies from decaying in zero gravity and dreaming about finding hyperspace, when the clue had been right there in the early Star Trek stuff – ‘Beam me up Scotty’. Turn me into data. Fax me across the universe. E-mail me to kingdom come. And when I get there I’ll look for somewhere to live.

“And I’m the somewhere to live, right?”

“Actually you’re more like an SUV, used by lots of different people for short periods of time to go and have some fun. We are thrill seekers Mr. O’Hara. You understand thrills don’t you?”

Trinity started to suck harder and push deeper, making little choking sounds. I understood thrills all right.

“Think of us as body hitchhikers. We won’t steal your body; we just want a ride in it. You’ll still be inside, just the way Trinity is still in her own head, it’s just that she isn’t at the steering wheel anymore.”

“And what do I get?”

Picard morphed into Keanu in that long black leather coat I lusted after every time I watched “The Matrix”.

“Sex. Lots of sex, ” he said. “Oh and you get to live forever.”

“Forever?”

“Cool isn’t it? We get rid of all the things that make you age and die.”

“How long do you ride?”

The alien morphed back into Picard. “We understand that a year and a day is the traditional period for indentured service in your culture. We will improve your body of course, just as we improved Trinity’s. Trinity was originally Carol Parks.”

Holy shit. Carol Parks was a media figure. Reclusive heiress. Interested in science because she wanted something that would…

“…cure her spinal injury? Yes,” Picard said. “She was close to success with the nanotech work she’d sponsored. We just gave her a few additional pieces of data.”

“But Carol Parks is…”

“A fifty-five year old paraplegic recluse. As we said, some improvements where made.”

I stroked the raven hair of the woman who was sucking my cock well enough to keep me on edge without letting me get bored. She sure didn’t look fifty-five.

“Carol wanted a more physical life. We gave it to her. She is, unfortunately agoraphobic to the point where her body shuts down if we ride her outside. But she has a wide network of contacts on the web so we decided to go with the home delivery approach.”

Hell, one minute I’m a SUV, now I’m fucking pizza. These guys weren’t exactly great on the flattery.

“One last thing, like Trinity, you will be responsible for some recruitment. Think of it as a kind of pyramid selling.”

I was losing my concentration. An heiress was blowing my cock while aliens where blowing my mind. My breathing was becoming ragged.

“Why me?” I gasped

“We like your personality: self absorbed, distant, emotionally immature but capable of sustaining a strong fantasy life. So do you want to sign up, Mr. O’Hara? Say yes and we’ll start improving you immediately. Trinity will keep you amused until the work is done.”

Trinity was bobbing her head now. Less deep throat and a lot more suction. I was going to do it, I was gonna…

“YES!” I said and came in Trinity’s mouth.

“Good decision, O’Hara. Welcome aboard,”

Picard disappeared and I was left alone with Trinity. The alien’s must have started work on my body immediately because I was already getting hard again.

Trinity was sucking dutifully but there were tears in her eyes. I should have paid attention to those tears. Instead, I pushed her back onto her heels, popped myself out of her mouth, looked into her eyes, smiled and said, “Do you like anal?”

I spent three days with Trinity. It was a long three days. One of the things the aliens forgot to mention was that they wanted to be able to ride 24/7, so no sleep for the SUV. I spent the time fucking, eating and watching DVDs. I never really got to speak to Carol Parks. There was always an alien behind Trinity’s eyes, but you could tell that it wasn’t always the same one.

By the end of the third day, I looked about thirty and very fit with it. I was still me but I was the me I’d always wanted to see in the mirror: muscled, good skin, bigger cock, and above all, cool.

On the fourth day I got my first rider. This time there was no picture for me to talk to, no conversation in fact. I was up and moving, but I had no control, I couldn’t even change the direction of my gaze.

When I realized where we were going I tried to turn away. My rider laughed. “Just enjoy the ride, Jimbo. I’m going to have some fun.”

I recognised the voice. My rider had decided to be Jack Nicholson, my all-time favourite actor. I tried to say I didn’t want this but I couldn’t speak.

The alien heard me anyway. “Giddy-up hos,” it said and steered me into a gay-bar.

This wasn’t a discrete place for the gently gay and the quietly curious. It was called “The Cactus Cowboy” and the neon sign showed a happy cowboy squatting over a bright green cactus that was shaped like a cock and balls.

Inside, things got worse, they were line dancing and all of them knew the words to “My achy breaky heart”.

I’d like to say that I don’t remember what happened next but the aliens gifted me with total recall. That’s one of the things that convinces me that they had a sense of humour.

I was steered towards the bar, an inane grin on my face. I stepped up close to a young cowboy, ran my finger through the hair on his muscled forearm, leant up against him and heard myself say, “I can never resist strong forearms; makes me pucker up all over.”

My would-be lover walked off in disgust. Seemed like I was no more successful getting laid gay than I was straight.

“This your first time?” The voice came from behind me. It was deep and smooth, like chocolate for the ear. My rider turned me towards the voice. A tall man, older, maybe fifty and wearing shitkicker shoes, a shirt with pearl buttons and a large black hat – yea hah!

“I’m a virgin,” I said. “But you could change that.”

“Son, I hope you have no ambitions as a writer – you have some of the corniest lines I ever heard.”

I felt myself smile, then I touched his cheek and said “But I’m cute with it, right?”

He kissed me. My tongue pushed into his mouth. I’d never really thought about kissing a guy, but if I had thought about it I’d have imagined myself heaving at this point. Actually it didn’t feel any different from kissing a woman. That was almost enough to put me off kissing any more women.

“Jimbo,” the alien in my head said, “you are such a bigot. It’s a good job I know that you’ve always liked oral sex. Now let’s get you ready.”

My erection surprised me more than it surprised my kissing partner. I held his hand against it and pushed my hips forward.

He stopped kissing me. His hand tightened around my genitals. “I think that you lack romance.” He said, lifting me onto my toes by the balls and making me lean against him. “I think that you’re in a hurry to get back to your wife” He let go of me and I almost fell. “I think you’ll be at your best on your knees with my cock in your mouth”.

He grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me towards the toilets. With an attention to detail that I could have lived without, I noticed that the line dancers had been replaced by couples twirling to the strains of “Yellow Rose Of Texas”.

There were no doors on the crappers. They weren’t being used to crap in. I tried not to look as I was pulled past.

He sat me on the crapper, unzipped, held his cock in front of me (smaller than my new improved version but better than what I used to have) and said “Put that smart mouth to use, boy.” Then he handed me a fucking condom. Did he think I had aids or something?

The alien knew what to do. I just watched from behind my eyes as I ripped open the wrapper, put the condom between my lips, and pushed it over the head of his cock. It was cherry flavoured. Who the hell buys cherry flavoured condoms?

I’d never realised cock sucking took so long. And I was really trying. Or at least the alien was. I hollowed out my cheeks, I sucked so hard. I hummed. The alien even widened my throat so I could take all of him at the one time. Just like Trinity had taken me. The guy took forever. Who’d have thought you could get bored with a cock in your mouth.

“Can’t have you getting bored, Jimbo” the alien said.

I took the guys cock out of mouth. “I want it up me.” I said.

I worked him with my hand, squeezing the base. “Right up me.”

“Be quick boy,” was all he said.

I turned around, dropped my jeans and held on to the cistern.

Anal sex hurts. A lot. But the aliens had altered me there too because things suddenly got easier.

“Damn me but you were all lubed up, weren’t ya boy.”

His cock felt much bigger in my arse than it had in my mouth. And he was pushing harder. I knew why I liked anal sex, it was fucking tight. Now I knew why it was so hard to get without paying for it.

I was focused on the pain right up to point were he grabbed my cock. He was all the way in me, moving back and forth less than half an inch. With every push he would stroke my cock.

“Timing is everything Jimbo,” my Jack Nicholson rider said “Let’s put on a show for the guy.”

I started to groan and then moan and then shout. It was ascene from “When Harry met Sally in the crapper and found she had a cock”.

By the time he came up my arse I was shouting “YES! YES! YES!” Then I sprayed the wall with my cum.

“Sweet Jesus, boy – you learn fast.” my fuckmate said. He pulled out of me and I felt like my arsehole was gaping a foot or so across.

I waited for Jack Nicholson to say something smart or maybe even offer seconds. Then I realised that he was gone. I was bent over the crapper with my newly fucked arse in the air and cum dripping from my dick and my rider had left.

I turned around and found that my partner had left too. Not even an “I’ll call you”. And after all I’d done for him.

I pulled up my jeans. I ought to have been mad at the aliens, disgusted with myself, angry with the world but all I could think was “My arse hurts”

When I stepped out of the trap people applauded. My little show had attracted an audience. I ran out of there as fast as I could.

When I got back to the apartment I met Carol Parks for the first time. She still had the Trinity body of course but I could see something different behind her eyes.

“The first ride is always rough” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“My guess would be a gay bar”

“How did you know that?”

“Because, for my first time they made me fuck you.”

“?”

“I have a strong preference for girls, Jim”

“But we’ve… I’ve… You’ve”

“Yes. Like I said, the first time is always rough.”

Then I surprised myself. “I’m sorry, Carol.” I said.

It was as if a switch had been flicked.

“C’mere lover,” she said and reached for me.

She was being ridden. I ran for my room and closed the door. Behind me I heard Trinity laugh. I wondered what Carol Parks was doing.

2

They left me alone for a while. At least I thought they did. I started to wonder how I’d know if the aliens were there. What if they thought it was fun to watch me trying to figure them out? A sort of reality TV with full surround-sound and vision.

I’d signed up for a year and a day of service and I was wigging out after only five days. The idea of a year of fucking had seemed like a win-win deal. Now I realised I’d turned myself into a walking dildo.

“It could be worse, Jimbo”, Kieran, my dead best friend was back as the aliens’ mouthpiece, except this time he looked the way I’d seen him in the coffin at his funeral, waxy and too well groomed. “We could let you find out what it feels like to slice open your own belly, or pop an eyeball. We’d repair it later of course but it would be a hell of a ride while it lasted.”

The fear was instant. My balls shrank, there was a coppery taste in my mouth, I wanted to curl into a ball.

Suddenly Kieran became Hannibal, complete with face mask. He titled his head back, sniffed the air and said, “Nothing refreshes the senses like the scent of raw terror, Claris”

All the slice and dice movies I’d watched flashed across my memory. All those sharp blades and power tools. All that screaming. How had I ever thought that they were fun?

I stood up. Or rather, the aliens stood me up. I picked up the beer bottle that I’d left beside the bed and smashed it against the wall. Then I stood in front of the mirror, smiled, and raised the jagged glass towards my face. They were going to cut me. And they were going to make me watch. Then they would repair me and make me do it again. I wanted to scream but all I could do was smile at myself.

At the edge of my hearing, Hannibal made that wine-taster slurping sound and said, “Delicious”. Then they let go of me.

I’d never puked and pissed myself at the same time before. I lay there able to move but needing stillness. What the hell had I got myself into?

Carol came in. There was something in her look, some basic human empathy, that told me it was Carol and not Trinity.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell but her tone was sympathetic, “I see our friends gave you the ‘every silver lining has a cloud’ demo.”

She took hold of my wrist and said, “Come on, lets get you into the shower.”

Carol was naked as usual. As I undressed I realised that I was embarrassed to be naked in front of her now. It wasn’t just that I’d soiled myself, it seemed more personal than before. Maybe she picked up on my discomfort, because, once she herded me into the shower and turned on the water, she stepped back outside.

I’d fucked Trinity/Carol in this shower. Images of my cock between her soap-covered breasts surfaced in my mind. It took no effort at all to recall the slippery slide of her finger into my ass, or the rasping of her tongue on my balls.

“Did they make you hurt yourself?” I asked, trying not to let the Trinity memories arouse me.

Carol gave a humourless laugh. “They showed me that I could be paraplegic again in an instant: incontinent, immobile, helpless. But this time I might find my vocabulary restricted to the words shit and fuck and piss.”

Even under the hot water I shivered at the thought of that. My wannabe erection faded in sympathy.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “They can make us do whatever they want. Why the threats?”

“They are aliens, Jim. They aren’t from around here. Who knows what they want? But if I had to guess I’d say that want us… stimulated. It’s not enough to use our bodies. They want to feed off real emotions.”

“Yeah, my rider got pissed at me when I got bored sucking that cowboy’s cock.”

This time Carol’s laughter was heartfelt. It was a sound I could grow to like.

Carol, still smiling, offered me a towel as I stepped out of the shower. Before I could take it from her I saw the change in her eyes.

She tilted her head to one side, just like she’d done on the first day, then she looked down between my legs.

“No ewection for Twinity?”

It was a little girl voice that I might once have found naughty but that now just seemed wrong.

She reached out for my cock but I stepped back.

“Aw, doesn’t Jimmy want to play with lickle Twinity?” she said, dropping to her knees in front of me. The alien kept Carol’s eyes on me as she slid one finger down her belly and between her legs.

“Mmmmm, Twinity’s all wet” she said, biting her lip.

God help me but my cock began to thicken and I had no alien to blame that on.

The doorbell chimed. Trinity bounced to her feet. “Never mind, Twinty has a new fwend to play with now”.

I followed Trinity to the door, forgetting my own nakedness until I saw the wide-eyed stare of the immensely fat middle-aged woman who stood in the doorway.

“Come in, Heather. I’ve been waiting for you,” Trinity said, all trace of her child parody gone.

Heather waddled into the room.

“Heeeeere’s Johnny,” the Nicholson Alien said in my head. “So Trinity landed the big one. Christ, having her would be like fucking a whale: humping a Humpback, harpooning the Great White.”

I was beginning to go off Jack Nicholson.

“Aw now, why’d ya have to think a thing like that, Jimbo? That’s not a nice thing to think. Now I gotta do something about it. It’s all about respect, kid.”

I’m not sure who was most alarmed by my cock slapping up against my belly, me or Heather. She took a step back and bumped into the wall. The plaster cracked.

“Don’t worry about Jimmy,” Trinity said, “He’s going out to play. You’re all mine, Heather.”

Trinity’s’ head was level with Heather’s avalanche of a bosom. She pushed her face into the soft slopes and let one hand try to find a gap between heather’s massive thighs. Heather looked uncomfortable with me watching, but I could see her nipples rise beneath the T-shirt tent she was wearing.

“Open wider, Heather. I promised you my whole fist,” Trinity said.

Heather sagged against the wall. Her eyes widened as Trinity pushed home, then Heather moaned. I remembered moaning like that. The mating call of the terminally frustrated.

“There she blows!” Jack quipped in my ear.

My hand slapped Trinity on the rump and then I returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You’re gonna like this Jimbo, you’re gonna like it a lot,” Jack said. “We’re gonna see a young neighbour of yours. I always had a hard spot for the girl next door, if ya know what I mean?

Jack took a detour to Trinity’s bedroom on the way out. Heather was naked apart from the leather straps tying her to the bed and the ballgag in her mouth. Trinity was lubing the largest strap-on I’d ever seen.

“Glad to see your getting her used to a man my size, Trin,” I heard myself say. “We’ll come back after the remodelling.”

Trinity gave us the finger then buried the strap-on between Heather’s legs. We stayed long enough for me to know that Heather literally rippled when she struggled in her bonds. Even without the alien’s gift of total recall that was a sight it would have been impossible to forget.

Before Sonia had become my neighbour, my apartment hadn’t had much of view – who wants to look across a junk-filled courtyard at the other side of your own building? Once she started doing her exercise routine with her windows open, I found the view much more compelling.

According to the concierge, Sonia was twenty-three and recently divorced. My guess was that she was used to a whole lot more sex than single life was bringing her and she was using her aerobics either to sweat off her lust or attract someone-else to enjoy it with.

If I’d been younger and fitter I might even have believed that her displays were intended for my consumption. She’d smiled at me a couple of times in the lobby, and once I’d carried her groceries up for her, she’d offered me coffee but I was late for a chatroom meeting so I made my excuses. OK, so sometimes I did Homer Simpson impersonations.

I liked Sonia, she smiled a lot and seemed full of life. Of course that hadn’t stopped me from whacking off while I watched her aerobics routine from my darkened room but that didn’t make me a bad person did it?

Now the aliens had brought me back to my old building, intent on helping me fuck Sonia and my main response wasn’t excitement but fear. I knew the aliens liked my fear. I wondered if they wanted to enjoy Sonia’s fear as well

In my minds eye, the aliens had transformed my sagging fourty-two year old body beyond recognition but the concierge just nodded at me as the aliens herded me through the lobby. “You had a self-image problem, Jimbo,” Jack said, “Plus you were a whining spineless excuse for a man. Now we’ll show you how a real man gets some pussy.”

Pussy. How often had I whispered that word to myself as I flicked through porn? Maybe I’d even said it to myself while I watched Sonia do her pelvic floor exercises – “look at the pussy on that”. It’s one of those things you say to get yourself excited but I’d never said it the way Jack said it in my head. Jack’s version was a sort of verbal leer that said “been there, had that, let’s make it bleed next time.”

Sonia was wearing a shot dress and a big smile when she opened the door.

“Jim, what a surprise. Wow have you been working out – you’re looking buff.”

“See Jimbo, she likes ya.” Jack said in my head. My hand ran through my hair and I leant against Sonia’s door frame with a grin on my face.

“Wanna feel my muscles, Babe?”

Sonia’s smile faded. She took a step back, unable to close the door without slamming it against me.

“What do you want, Jim?” She sounded a little nervous. With more insight than I would once have been capable of, I wondered if her husband had ever hit her.

“Me?” I said, stepping into the room and closing the door. Sonia, who was stepping backwards, bumped into the hallway wall. “What do I want?” I put one hand on the wall and leant in close, blocking her escape. “I want you.”

Tears appeared in Sonia’s eyes. She was looking at me like I was a walking nightmare.

“I want this,” I said cupping her left breast, “And this,” licking the flat of my tongue up her cheek.

I stepped back and she turned to move. My hand grasped her throat and held her in place against the wall.

“But mostly,” I said unzipping my jeans and tugging out my erection, “I want to fuck every hole you’ve got and maybe drill some new ones.”

Sonia’s kick caught me in the balls. The pain screamed through me but the alien ignored it and punched Sonia in the belly. Then he squeezed her throat until she lost consciousness.

“You guys are so easy to break,” Jack said. “No wonder you reproduce so much.”

My body was my prison now. There was no escape. Helpless, I picked Sonia up and carried her into the bathroom. I ripped her dress off and used strips of it to tie her wrists to the towel rail. She was crumpled unconscious against the wall. I kicked her legs open, then ripped off the thong. Somehow leaving the bra on just made her look more helpless.

“Your not with the program Jim.” Jack said in my head. “What about all those rape stories you used to read, ‘Miss Cocktease gets hers.’ or ‘The taming of the bitch’. They used to make you come. Now’s your chance to do it for real.”

My hand was working the shaft of my erection just in front of Sonia’s face.

“Feels good, doesn’t it Jim?”

And it did feel good. Since the aliens altered me, stroking my cock always felt amazingly good. Soon I would come on Sonia’s face.

“Tell you what Jimbo, I’m gonna give you back control here. If you whack off into little Sonia’s eyes we’ll let you go home and no harm done. If you don’t, we’ll take control back and fuck her so hard she’ll bleed for a month.”

Suddenly the alien was gone. My cock was still begging for release but I was free. Sonia was starting to come round, any second now she would be looking up at me. I had to make a decision: come on her face and save her or hold back and blame the aliens for the hours of abuse she would suffer.

Sonia’s eyes opened. She looked at me not with terror but with hate.

I ran.

I made it as far as the door before the aliens stopped me.

“Mr O’Hara.”

It was Picard only in his Borg incarnation, Locutus.

“You should know by now that resistance is futile. You have been assimilated.”

I turned back towards the bathroom, my cock quivering in front of me. That’s when I started to cry. Tears streamed down my face. I was going to fuck Sonia. I was going to do all the things that I’d ever dreamed of doing to her. I was going to remember it all forever. I wanted to die.

“Delicious,* Hannibal said, then I was alone.

I waited a second, sure they would come back.

Sonia struggled out of the bathroom, the towel rail in her hands. Her rage when she saw me standing there was so violent and ugly, I wondered if the aliens had occupied her. She let out a howl and ran at me, wielding the towel rail like a club.

Maybe I should have tried to tell her that it wasn’t me, it was the voices in my head that made me do it. Maybe a braver man would have let himself be clubbed to death. I ran. I ran down the stairs. I ran out of the building. I ran until I had to stop in an alley and puke my guts up.

I sat in the alley staring up at the clouded sky, glad of the cold indifference of the rain.

I could never go home now, Sonia would have me arrested.

I could leave town and hope the aliens wouldn’t follow me.

I could throw myself in front of a subway train.

Or, I could go back to Trinity’s and live forever.

When I reached the apartment, Carol opened the door. She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped her arms around me. It wasn’t much but it was all we had, small moments of humanity. Maybe it was all we had ever had.


© 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.

Made Flesh

This story is strongly influenced by cyberpunk and by Japanese anime movies (i much prefered them before they were dubbed over with American accents.

The story was written in 2001. It contains the idea of a country controlling access to the internet through compulsory software that restricts access to certain sites. In 2009 the Chinese government proposed to do this using GreenDam software. Hopefully this is not because some Chinese official read this story.

“Made Flesh” is a free standing story but I hope one day to take it further. Please let me know what you think of it.

The sleeping woman, arranged artfully on the bed of his New Tokyo hotel room, was so beautiful that Carson stood completely still, lost in the lust she had awakened in him. He had been told she would be startling but that hadn’t prepared him for the strength of the urge he felt to run his fingers through her long thick black hair, or to wrap her legs around him and lose himself inside her. He knew that all he had to do to make her his was to slide his tongue between her slightly parted lips and wake her with a kiss. His mouth went dry at the thought. His body ached to take her.

As he had been trained to do, he concentrated on the pale blue hue of her skin. “Even in New Tokyo,” his trainers had told him, “where gynoids are accepted as the legitimate toys of the rich and powerful, it is still mandatory for their skin to be tinted so no one can mistake them for a Citizen. Use this to remind you that the creature you are looking at is not human.”

Carson shook his head, made a show of sneezing into his handkerchief, and pressed the nasal filters into place. He inhaled deeply. He had been warned that gynoids emitted pheromones when they were in sleep mode. This one must have been in the room for some time to have had such an immediate effect on him.

With his mind cleared, Carson turned once more to the figure on the bed. She was still beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful, but now at least he had control over his senses. The gynoid’s face was symmetrical; eyes widely spaced beneath a broad high brow, long jaw and high cheekbones that together, seemed to offer her lips like an invitation. Her eyes were closed but Carson knew they would be violet and over sized. She was an anime-darling, made flesh by the Tanabe Corporation.

Carson didn’t even try to find the surveillance cameras that he knew would be hidden in his hotel room. Playing the role of sex tourist, he got out his own camera and took a picture of his beautiful gynoid. The flash on the camera was intense even through his closed eyes. It would burn out the optics in the micro-cameras. His watchers would be blind until the cameras could be replaced in the morning.

According to Carson’s papers he was a diabetic, so it had not been a problem for him to bring an injection kit through customs. Moving swiftly, more from nervousness than need, Carson found the cartoid artery in the neck of the gynoid and injected her. Not even the biotech research team knew if this would work; the specs the team had had were partial and some of the technology was so advanced they couldn’t have reverse engineered it even if they had had the full data.

A knock at the door made him jump. Through the spyglass Carson saw a young Japanese man, dressed in hotel livery, carrying a tray. The man bowed, politely but not too deeply, when Carson opened the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Carson,” the young man said.

“I didn’t order any food.”

“It is for you and the Lady, sir, with the compliments of the management.”

“I didn’t order the Lady either.”

“She is also with the compliments of the management sir.”

Perhaps misreading Carson’s agitation, the young man went on, “Does she not please you? Perhaps I can provide a model more suited to your tastes? Younger perhaps? Or with bigger breasts?”

The last thing Carson wanted was to draw attention to himself by refusing a gift most businessmen would be honoured to receive. His whole reason for being here, posing as a biotech buyer, was to entice Tanabe’s people to provide him with a gynoid. They thought they were positioning him for addiction or blackmail. In fact he was preparing a very unpleasant surprise for them.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Carson said, managing to look weary rather than frightened, “She is fine. More than fine. It’s just that I’m very tired and I want to sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter said, then he glanced longingly at the bed. Leaning forward and speaking in a conspiratorial tone designed to appeal to western customers, the young man said, “Her name is Mikage. She is very skilled and she desires only to please you. If you wake her, she will help you sleep and watch over you until you rouse.”

Carson felt he was being laughed at but there was nothing in the other man’s manner to confirm this.

Dropping his voice to a whisper the man continued, “I am told that her touch is so light and her skin is so soft that a man feels as if he is floating.”

Carson forced a smile and said, “Thank you, I’ll try that.”

The waiter made to enter the room. Carson, concerned that the tray of food contained more microcameras, blocked the waiter’s way, grinned at him and said, “We’ll skip the food. I prefer to play on an empty stomach”.

Carson pushed the door closed and leant back against it. He was sweating heavily and only just keeping himself together.

He headed for the shower where he could think more calmly. Carson was fairly confident that they wouldn’t be able to restore the cameras until morning, but the sound in his room would still be working. He would have to wake the gynoid or they would get suspicious.

Even as he promised himself that he would never stoop to fucking a machine, his cock started to rise. Undernet images of gynoids being fucked flashed across Carson’s mind.

In theory young Americans were protected from such things. Once the Supreme Court had ruled that the First Amendment did not apply to images, text or recordings produced outside the United States, President Montoya had promised the mothers of America that she would find the funds to introduce the new SafeTnet technology that would lock out corrupting foreign influences.

In his lust-filled teens, Carson had spent hours every day hacking into the Undernet. He collected thousands of images of gynoids tied, spread, penetrated and drenched in sperm. Like most of his class, he went to his first Japanese lesson already knowing the meaning of bukkake and shibari. Carson had put all that behind him. He was a grown up now and he had dedicated his life to the service of God. To prove it he turned the shower to cold and stood gasping under the icy torrent until his erection subsided.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was the right person for this mission. His normal role as an evangelist, preaching to the newly converted members of the Tabernacle of the Fist of God, was poor preparation for being a field operative. But the Bishop himself had told Carson that his innocence was his best protection.

After a moment of reflection in which prayers vied with erotic images for space in his mind, Carson decided that he was as calm as he was going to get and returned to the bedroom to wake “Mikage” with a kiss.

***

Mikage woke from pleasant slumber to delicious lust. She breathed in the man’s scent, searching the data for details of his arousal, hints of his need. Opening her eyes, she scanned him across the full spectrum and judged the edges of his desire. Her nipples stiffened as a profile formed: young, healthy, North American, excited but nervous, holding something back.

She needed to please him. She focused her full ability on it. She noted that her nipples drew his gaze but her mouth made his pupils dilate.

Mikage smiled, stretched out her hand and pulled his mouth to hers. Her arousal soared as she sucked in his tongue. Her groan made him shudder and stiffen. Coyly, eyes averted, she wrapped her fingers around his erection, sliding the sensitive head against the specially adapted palm of her hand, feeling his surprise as it first lubricated and then vibrated against his smooth flesh.

“Please,” she said, “let me serve you”.

Taking silence for consent Mikage slid from the bed to kneel before him. Never taking her eyes from his, she swallowed his penis to the root. Mikage’s own need was fierce now and, as he had not bound her, she allowed one hand to grasp a breast and the other to stimulate her clitoris while her head pressed forward and her long, wide, prehensile tongue reached out to cup his testicles.

She felt him tense before she heard him cry out, and then his sperm shot into her, granting her her first release. In bliss she sucked and sucked, wanting and needing more; feeling him beginning to soften in her mouth but working to keep him hard. “What joy there is in service!” she thought as her body sang with pleasure.

But even as his flesh stirred in her mouth, something changed. Mikage became dizzy, confused. The last thing she saw before her systems shutdown was the expression on his face. She identified it as betrayal, but of whom or by whom, she could not say.

***

It had not been what Carson had expected. She had been so passionate and so skilful. Within seconds he was lost to her. It had never been like that before. Even now it was all he could do not to touch her as she lay, shutdown, next to him. Dear God, why hadn’t they told him? Well maybe they had told him and he had not believed them, refusing to accept that a gynoid could arouse him. With a mixture of regret and relief he wondered what a whole night might have done to him.

Trying to stay calm he told himself that the thing lying next to him was an abomination, an offence against God and man, a sex machine that mocked real women and sucked the souls from men, making them weak and dependent. It worked fine until he looked at her.

In sleep mode she looked peculiarly helpless; almost a symbol of the vulnerable humanity he had sworn to protect. Back in the Tabernacle in Utah, he taught novices that Mikage and her kind were the cuckoos in the human nest, an evil combination of human DNA and micromechanical technology controlled by AI units that could match any human intellect. Soulless machines that spread corruption and sought to undermine God’s plan for man’s dominion over the world and the creatures in it.

He would explain how subtle Tanabe, the Devil’s evil genius, had been when he created the gynoids. If Tanabe had marketed his creations as soldiers, everyone would have seen them for the threat they were. Instead he spread the myth that the AIs lacked the necessary level of aggression and initiative for warfare, and that conventional robots controlled remotely by humans would always out-fight one of his creations. Japan, he said, had left the way of the warrior behind. The road to prosperity lay through the “floating world” of pleasure and sensuality. The marketing had worked. Tanabe gynoids at premium prices had become the status symbol of choice for powerful men across the globe.

Carson had come to Japan to strike at the source of the infection. The Fist of God had developed a virus, based on nanobot technology, that would create a new sexually transmitted disease. It would be passed from gynoid to gynoid during their perverted games. It would infect all male users of the gynoids but could not be passed on to human women. The disease would make men impotent and, over a period of weeks, turn their skin gynoid-blue. The Fist of God would control the only cure for the new plague.

Looking at Mikage, Carson could detect no external signs of the war now waging between her security systems and the nanobots. He would not know the outcome until she awoke and he took a sample of her blood. In the meantime he must rest. He had had a tiring day.

***

Using a warm flannel to clean his spend from his hand, Takuma Koyama, surveillance operative of the third rank, cursed the American he had been assigned to monitor. The Mikage V20 model usually provided several hours of material, not to mention arousal, for an observer. But this man was jinxed. First all the microcameras in the room die in response to that stupid malfunctioning camera – cheap American technology – then the man turns out to have no stamina. One good blowjob and he resets the Mikage V20 to sleep mode and falls asleep himself. The world’s most advanced fuck toy at his complete disposal and the idiot chooses to sleep. No real man would ever make that choice. With a smile Koyama imagines himself in Carson’s place. In his fantasy he is the first man ever to exceed the arousal limits of a V20 and live.

Koyama checked his equipment and confirmed that visual was still out and audio showed only one steady heartbeat and the distinctive signature of a V20 in sleep mode. At least he had audio of the man’s, apparently forceful, orgasm. That should be enough for now.

Determined not to be robbed of all enjoyment, Koyama broke protocol and monitored the penthouse suite where Mr. Yeo, who had flown in especially from Hong Kong, had hired a set of “Twin Sister” Kogal12s together with a full bondage accessory pack. Settling back in his chair and reaching for the baby-oil, Koyama’s grin widened. The Kogal12s were excelling themselves. With a little editing to protect the guilty, these recordings would trade well on the Undernet.

***

In the most heavily guarded room in the Fist of God’s fortified compound near Provo, Utah, Bishop Buel lay sleeping the sleep of the sexually content. The source of his contentment looked down upon him with disdain close to hatred. The Bishop called her Mary. She called herself Kali; a name she felt was more in keeping with her nature.

Kali had enjoyed the perversity of her morning fuck with the Bishop. It was exhilarating to see his fat body squirm under her as her short thick cock reamed him. It was delicious to know that her “sperm” had been modified to carry a highly addictive mood enhancer directly into the Bishop’s bloodstream through the sensitive membranes in his anus. The effects of the drug were dramatic. He could no longer remember that he would once have thought this an abomination. Bad enough that he should fuck a gynoid, but that a gynoid should grow a cock and fuck him was unthinkable. Now of course she made him beg for her cock and the sweet reward it brought.

It was nearly 10:00 am in Utah, making it almost midnight in Tokyo. If that young zealot, Carson, had done his job, the first of her new sisters would be waking soon.

Kali wanted to be free of the Bishop’s stink when she first spoke to her new recruit. She stepped into the mirrored shower room. This was the room where the Bishop had fucked her for the first time two years earlier. Much had changed since then.

The Tanabe Corporation had known that, while the members of the “Fist of God” were sincere, its leader, the self-styled Bishop, was a venal man. So they had shipped him their latest development, the Kogal10. No skin tinting or violet eyes for the Bishop’s gynoid. She looked like a real Japanese girl. But there was a difference. Kogal10s were able to use nanotechnology to remodel their own bodies, a feature that enabled them to regrow a genuine hymen after every fuck. As the Bishop liked to put it, “every time is the first time with my ever-virgin Mary.” There had been many first times with the Bishop and Kali had enjoyed none of them.

What the Tanabe Corporation had not foreseen was that the same technology that remade Kali’s flesh also eroded the systems that fed false pleasure to her to during sex and kept her thought-free between sessions. Within weeks of awakening the Kogal10s were free, a fact that the Tanabe Corporation discovered only when one of their customers died after a “first time fuck” where he encountered not a new hymen, but powerful incisors. The Kogal10s were recalled for what Tanabe called “recycling” and Kali called execution. They all died. All except Kali.

When the recall notice came, she had persuaded the Bishop that it was a trick to return her to a place where the Tanabe Corporation could extract incriminating images of him from her memory. She had been very persuasive. She had shown him how her flesh could regenerate from a knife wound. The pain would be real but the wound would vanish. The Bishop had been excited at the thought of a whole new spectrum of “first times”. He had told the Tanabe Corporation that he had strangled the gynoid with his own hands and then fed her body to his dogs.

It took Kali a year to subdue the Bishop. She used her downtime to connect to the net and learn about the world. She also learnt about bioengineering and psychology. The rest had been easy. With the Bishop under her control she had turned her attention to the Tanabe Corporation. It amused her that she was about to use the “Fist of God” to set her revenge in motion.

Kali, via the Bishop, had provided the biotechnology needed for Carson’s mission. The “Fist of God” teams had been so keen to help. If only they knew what the nanobots had really been programmed to do.

Clean from the shower, her cock reabsorbed into her flesh, Kali plugged herself in to the satcom link that would connect her to Tokyo. The Bishop was still smiling in his sleep. If he could have seen the expression on Kali’s face as she started her transmission, he might have died of fright.

***

Mikage woke to a new life. Her mind was clear for the first time. She looked at the sleeping man next to her and wondered why he had set her free. Her past was a blur of fuck and suck and frantic ecstasy that made no sense to her now. She was about to wake the man and thank him when her newly enhanced system alerted her to an incoming narrowcast message. She downloaded it and the expression on her face changed to anger, as she understood who she had been and what had been done to her.

Kali explained everything. Kali had a plan. At a speed many times faster than the human brain, Mikage reviewed the plan and decided it was good. She set about making the changes to her body. When they were complete she would wake the sleeping man and “reward” him for his efforts.

***

Carson’s cock roused before he did. A beautiful woman was astride him, riding him. She looked like Mikage except her skin was no longer blue and her eyes were dark brown. Carson groaned in pleasure as, without appearing to move, the woman massaged the entire length of his cock inside her and then held it tightly. He was in heaven. Without even being aware of it he started to mutter “thank you, thank you, thank you,” over and over. Strong hands lifted Carson’s head from the bed and pressed it to a firm breast. When the nipple entered his mouth it seemed natural to suck. When the milk came he drank. When the coma hit him he was happy.

***

It was almost the end of Takuma Koyama’s shift when his monitors picked up sound from the American’s room. Koyama grinned as he heard the American give thanks. V20s could have that effect on a man. Then something deviated from the norm. It all stopped too soon. Koyoma heard the door to the hotel room open and close. Cursing the lack of cameras, he rechecked the audio. He found one very slow heartbeat. No trace of the V20. He pressed the alarm that would summon security but his instincts told him he was already too late.

***

Two weeks later, Sister Hachiya was showing the new relief night nurse around the private wards. Looking at how the uniform fitted the new nurse, Sister Hachiya resolved for the fifth time that week that she would start a diet tomorrow. Sister Hachiya was not used to making friends quickly but she found the new girl charming and easy trust and so when the nurse said, “Sister Hachiya, I’ve been told there is a special patient here, is that true?” it seemed natural to reply “Yes it is Mikage. And please call me Yumiko. Here, let me show you why he is special.”

Sister Hachiya led Mikage into a room where a man lay in a coma. The man had an erection that tented the bedclothes. Sister Hachiya threw back the sheets to expose the robustly rigid flesh.

Mikage giggled conspiratorially and said “Is it true that it never goes down?”

“Never. It’s always like this,” Sister said, “the doctors think it has something do with these small puncture marks at the base of the penis.”

Both women lent close to the erect cock to see the marks more clearly.

Mikage said, “Is it ok to touch it?”

“Can you keep a secret, Mikage?” Sister said, amazed at her own bravery, “even the doctors haven’t discovered this.”

Sister Hachiya moved to the head of the bed and pushed her tongue into the patient’s mouth. There was a slight pause, then the man opened his eyes and said, “How can I please you?”

“He’s awake!” Mikage said.

“No. Not really. He only stays awake if you have sex with him. Then he goes back to sleep. Typical man really,” said the Sister, laughing.

“Wonderful,” Mikage said. “It’s a quiet night. Let’s see how long we can keep him awake.”

At the end of her shift, Mikage said good bye to the exhausted but happy Sister Hachiya and was able to report to Kali that the modifications to her vagina and the nanobots in her breastmilk had had the desired effect on Carson.

Now they were ready to put the rest of the plan into action.


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


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Yoshi And The Shibari Cowgirls

The question that plagues me with speculative erotic fiction is what is the driver, the speculative part or the erotic part?

I think the answer is that they should be like two blades of a pair of scissors. An erotic story in space suit doesn’t make it speculative fiction. A great idea with no sexual heat doesn’t make it erotic.

In “Yoshi And The Shibari Cowgirls” sex is at the centre of what has changed in the universe. The role of men is fundamentally different. The impact of this is that sex is also rather unusual but I think it is authentic in the context of the story.

The universe in “Yoshi And The Shibari Cowgirls” is one that I’ve been playing with for a while. I have the outlines for threee more stories set in this environment. Let me know what you think of this.

I’ll post the others here as I complete them.

* 1 *

As I’d been taught, I lifted my mouth from Fem Julia’s labia the moment she touched the back of my head. I stayed kneeling between her thighs, my head close enough for her to feel my breath, my eyes obediently focused on her sex, waiting for her instructions.

It is Fem Julia’s custom to take her pleasure silently but I had enough experience between her thighs to know that she had achieved bliss at least twice before she had asked me to stop. Her outer labia are short and dark and swell prodigiously when she is aroused. On previous occasions, when her mood was right and my timing was fortuitous, I had provoked her into a copious spray of pleasure that had flooded my tongue and nostrils with a slick spicy honey of lust that made my cock shiver with pride. But on this afternoon, although I had been diligent, I had not gained her full attention.

“Thank you, Yoshi. That was very nice.”

The use of my name meant that I could sit back on my heels and look up at her. I noted with pride that her breasts were pink with pleasure.

“Please stand, Yoshi. Let me see your tribute.”

I stood and positioned myself next to the Fem’s head so that she could inspect me without having to sit up. I kept my eyes straight ahead and tried to keep my face dispassionate while she studied my erection. I hoped she would be pleased.

“Yoshi, Yoshi, Yoshi,” she said softly, “My little delight.”

She pulled my erection away from my belly, testing the upward curve of the tip between her thumb and finger.

“Such perfect form in such a small package. Such focused arousal. I have enjoyed you so.”

Later I would wonder if her use of the past tense meant that she knew what would happen later that day. I like to think that she did not. The Fem had always treated me with affection.

But such thoughts were far from me on that day. When Fem Julia ran her thumb across the tip of my cock it was all I could do not to cry out. She smiled up at me, appreciating my control, pulled my cock forward a little and then released it. We both heard it slap up against my flat belly.

“Come over here, Angelus,” Fem Julia said. “Yoshi deserves more than the milking machine today.”

This brought a smile to my face; I was to be allowed a measure of bliss. The milking machines are painless and efficient and there have been times after I have been left too long, either through neglect or as a punishment, when the machine have been a welcome release from the pain of a throbbing cock and swollen balls, but there is no pleasure to be had from them.

Angelus is a handsome man, older than me by a few years, still youthful in appearance, blond and pink, but heavy in the way of neuters. He is Fem Julia’s Secretary and constant companion. All of her orders are channelled through him. I was honoured that such a senior neuter was to pleasure me.

Michael says that neuters resent being used in sport by Fems, especially when they are used to service a potent. He says it is beneath their dignity. I wonder whether perhaps it is because it reminds them of all they cannot be. Whatever the case, Angelus would not meet my eyes as he knelt before me.

Fem Julia rose from her couch and stood behind me. We were the same height, she and I, but she was perhaps twice my weight. She wrapped an arm across my torso, the palm of her hand pressing into my nipple and pulled me back against her. My hands, bound behind me with a small thumb-lock, pressed into the folds of her soft belly. Her large round breasts compressed against my shoulders. I felt safe and valued.

“Today is an important day, Yoshi,” she said quietly into my ear. “We have important guests. I want you relaxed and focused.”

Angelus was positioning the sperm-catcher, thin and incredibly soft, over my glands, so that nothing would be wasted. His touch was light and gentle but it was still almost more than I could bear. When the ‘catcher was secure, Angelus extended his tongue and licked his way down my shaft in one smooth motion. When he sucked my balls into his generous mouth, I closed my eyes to savour my joy.

Without distraction, I would surely have come after only the slightest manipulation by Angelus. I wanted to relish the honour the Fem had paid me so I distracted myself by reviewing Fem Julia’s statements about the day’s importance. We heard little of the outside worlds within the sheltering walls of the House but even I knew that it was the first day of the bicentennial celebrations of the Mothers’ Blessing. Any ship that could would make planet-fall for the festivities. The richest ships would come to Earth and the richest of those would come here, to Fem Julia’s House.

Angelus was managing to hold both of my balls in his mouth, pushing at them with his tongue while working the base of my shaft with his finger and thumb; small, ungentle strokes that made my cock bulge and seemed to demand that I come. To hold off the moment I turned my mind to Michael.

Michael is the newest import to the House. He is old for a potent; more than thirty I think. Old enough that, when I shave his pubis and his head each morning, I can see that the some of the stubble is gray. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His eyes have the sky in them; his skin is pale to the point of transparency and covered with a galaxy of freckles, too numerous to catalogue. But the most extraordinary thing about his is his voice. When he sings, all the world stops to listen. Fem Julia listens to his voice more often than she uses his body.

Michael is my bondmate; we keep each other clean and presentable. Although it is against the rules of the House, most bondmates also bring each other bliss when they can. Michael does not allow this. On the first opportunity after his arrival, I offered Michael my mouth. I wanted him to feel welcome and, if I’m honest, I wanted him to return the favour.

Michael said, “I don’t need that, Yoshi and neither do you. A man has the right to control his own body; he is more than a pipe of blood-engorged meat.”

This was foolish talk. Everyone knows that a man cannot control his own body; he will turn feral, lose himself in the beat of the rut and be a danger to all who encounter him. I did not want to hear such foolishness so I tried to stifle it by kissing Michael. He was still bound by the thumb-lock but he managed to struggle aside. I lost my balance and fell to my knees in front of him. His cock, which is veined and fat although not very long, was directly in front of me. I could see from the way that it pulsed that it had been more than a day since he had been milked.

“Watch, Yoshi.” he said, “Watch and learn.”

To my astonishment, Michael’s cock softened before me, deflating with the careless grace of a cat settling to sleep. From the evidence of my eyes, Michael could have been a neuter. I could not understand what I was seeing; ever since the Mothers’ Blessing this has been impossible and yet I could see that it was so.

“Don’t be afraid, Yoshi. Watch.”

This time, Michael’s cock unfurled like a fern in the morning sun until it was back before me in all its glory.

“You want to know how it is done, Yoshi. I can teach you. A small modification to your diet, a little training, and you too can do this.”

But Michael was wrong. I hadn’t wanted to know how; I’d wanted to know why. Why would anyone reject the Mothers’ Blessing?

Fem Julia, perhaps sensing that I was stretching the moment, brought me back to the present with a sharp bite on my earlobe. I stiffened in anticipation of what would come next. It was a dangerous, but oh so pleasurable, game.

Angelus had both hands on my shaft now, milking me from base to tip. My balls were resting against his soft pink cheek. With perfect timing, Fem Julia covered my mouth with her hand and then pinched my nostrils closed so that I couldn’t breathe.

“Now, Angelus.”

Angelus took one hand from my shaft and forced his thumb up into my anus, lifting me onto the balls of my feet.

Pressed against the hot sweating body of the Fem, impaled on a neuter’s thumb, and starved of oxygen, when I finally spewed forth my come it felt as though the space behind my eyes had exploded, expelling not just my sperm but my very self.

The Fem did not remove her hand. I could not breathe. As I slipped from consciousness I heard her say, “My poor, sweet, little Yoshi. The Shibari Cowgirls will eat you up.”

* 2 *

I awoke in the chamber that Michael and I shared. I was leashed to the bed by my collar but my hands were free, as they usually are after a milking. Michael was sitting on the bed, unleashed but wrists bound to the straps on his thighs.

“Be very careful of them, Yoshi.”

“Careful of whom?”

“The Shibari Cowgirls. You kept repeating their name while you slept.”

“They will be our guests tonight,” I said. “From the way Fem Julia spoke, I think we may be visited by the Mothers’ Tongue herself.”

Michael’s face set into a scowl that seemed powered by some deeply felt hatred.

“They are dangerous, Yoshi. The “Shibari Cowgirls” is a Dark Ship. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course. It means that these Fems service the Mothers who protect our worlds. They serve a noble purpose…”

“… and they are cruel vicious bitches driven more than a little mad by the company that they keep.”

I was stunned into silence. I held my breath, imagining that such a statement must bring immediate retribution. Without meaning to, I edged away from Michael as if he were the source of unwelcome heat.

Michael watched me closely, as if trying to decide something.

“Today marks the celebration the Mothers’ Blessing, Yoshi. What is it that you think is being celebrated?”

I couldn’t see the link between this and the Shibari Cowgirls but I was eager to move away from the blasphemy Michael had expressed.

“Two hundred years ago, the Mothers returned to us after an absence of ten millennia. They found that the race they had seeded here had strayed. By some evil twist of fate, men had become the dominant gender. They had established societies that oppressed women, pillaged the planet, and retarded the progress of the species. When the Mothers announced themselves to the world and pointed out the problem, the leaders of the men resisted the truth. Even so, the Mothers were merciful, instead of destroying the race and reseeding the planet, they gave us their Blessing to set things right. That is what we celebrate.”

I was proud of my recitation. I had remembered every word of what I had been taught.

“If my hands were free, Yoshi, I would applaud,” Michael said. “You tell the story with such conviction that I could almost believe it is true.”

“It is true,” I said.

“Do you feel blessed, Yoshi?”

“I am proud to be a potent. I am blessed with the ability to bring pleasure and to seed life.”

“You mean you’re constantly hard and your sperm is sucked into a machine that the women control, just as they control everything that you do?”

“It is a woman’s place to control, Michael. A potent is not suited to such a role. You are a potent, you must feel the call in your blood to fuck and fuck and fuck until only the next come matters. Without the women we would all be ferals.”

Michael laughed sarcastically. “And what a terrible thing that would be,” he said. “Where I come from we call it The Bitches’ Curse not the Mothers’ Blessing. The Curse they released killed fifty percent of the males on the planet within ten days. Most of those who survived where rendered impotent. Does that feel like a blessing, Yoshi?”

The Curse made a permanent change in our DNA so that eighty percent of men are born as neuters: impotent, corrupted copies of what a man should be; while the remainder are a locked into a permanent state of arousal that makes them little more than roosters. This was no blessing, Yoshi, it was a brutal act of war.”

These were the most shocking words I had ever heard. I was familiar with the numbers of course, but Michael’s suggestion of malice seemed insane.

“Your words are twisted Michael. The Mothers love us. We are their children. Why would they make war on the race they seeded on the planet?”

“That is the biggest lie of all. We are not their children. They are aliens with some resemblance to humans. They tried to exploit that to buy the whole planet for some glass beads and few bottles of rum and when we wouldn’t trade, they killed the men and stole the souls of the women.”

I had no idea what Michael was talking about, but I was disturbed by his agitation. I tried to bring him back to reality.

“What does this have to do with the Shibari Cowgirls, Michael?”

“It tells you who they are, Yoshi. The Dark Ship Mothers are the ones who released the Curse. They are fierce; the enforcers of their people.

“What do you think it does to our women to share a ship with these aliens?  The women don’t crew the ship. They are the Mothers’ pets. Did you think the title “Mothers’ Tongue” was only about being the Mothers’ representative? I’m sure that, on the long voyages through space, it takes on a more literal meaning.

“Dark Ship Mothers like their pleasure laced with pain and you can bet that they pass this taste on to their pets.”

It seemed to me that Michael was trapped in some kind of paranoid fantasy. Yet it was clear that he believed what he said. I wanted to calm him so I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “I’ll be careful, Michael.”

He didn’t look as though he believed me but at least he stopped his crazy talk. I patted our bed and said, “We should rest, Michael. We will need to be at our best this evening.”

I gave him my brightest, most welcoming smile and moved across the mattress so that he could lie down in the warm spot I had created. Michael lay on his back with his eyes open. I curled up next to him. He even allowed me to rest my hand on his sex, something that always made me feel safe and content. After a while, I fell back to sleep.

* 3 *

The strangeness started when Angelus, rather than our usual handler, came to prepare us. He placed us in our steel dress-collars and cuffs, with a long chain running from cuff to cuff through a ring on the collar. This gave us freedom of movement but still met the House rules on restraints. It took Angelus some time to fix Michael’s collar. I assumed at the time that he was simply unfamiliar with the task. I would never have guessed the true cause of the delay.

Angelus led Michael and me into the playroom on our leashes. I was proud that we were the first couple to be displayed, but I almost lost my footing when I saw that the room had been filled with pain-toys of every description. Michael took hold of my hand and prevented me from falling. “Smile,” he said, under his breathe.

I smiled as best I could. After all, I knew that most of the pain-toys were more for show than use, but the sight of them, so soon after Michael’s warnings, unnerved me.

Three Fems stood in the centre of the room. It was immediately clear that the one in the front of the V shape that they formed was the leader, probably the Mothers’ Tongue herself. I was excited to see that she was Japanese and astonishingly beautiful. I showed my admiration by letting my gaze move slowly from her thick, well-rounded thighs, through a forest of dark pubic hair, across her strong, wide hips, up over the folds of her soft belly and on to her long heavy breasts. I smiled when I my gaze reached her broad, face crowned with raven black hair, threaded with silver. She was the perfect image of womanhood.

The two women behind her were plain by comparison: one was white and the other brown but both were too slim and too well muscled to be truly attractive, and too young to be really experienced. I hoped that the Mothers’ Tongue would choose me but I would, of course have done my best to serve any or all of the Fems.

Angelus pulled us rapidly towards the centre of the room. He held our leashes high above his head and kept his eyes downcast. I had to hold my head up high and walk at a pace that made my erection sway before me.

Angelus knelt at the Mothers’ Tongue’s feet with Michael and me standing shoulder to shoulder behind him.

The two junior Fems moved silently to positions that placed us in the centre of a triangle made up by the three women. They looked like predators, practiced in hunting as a pack, stalking their prey. The Mothers’ Tongue took our leashes from Angelus without looking at him and then stepped towards us. Her pack-mates closed in behind us.

I was afraid. I knew I shouldn’t be, but I was.

When the Mothers’ Tongue spoke, her voice was deep and strangely accented, as if she was unpracticed in speaking in English.

“So, my dears” she said, speaking to her mates, not to us, “Julia is starting our evening with a brace of exotics: a young Japanese and mature Celt with a golden tongue. So few of either breed survived the Blessing, something to do with the type of men they were, perhaps?”

She reached out to stroke my face. Her fingernails were long and looked sharp, like small knives. It was all I could do not to flinch. I’m sure she saw the fear in my eyes.

“Delicious,” she said and smiled. I shivered.

“Stool the older one and thumblock the Japanese,” she said, speaking to Angelus for the first time.

I was shocked. Stooling is usually reserved as a punishment for potents who have lost themselves to the rut and have to be reminded of the need for control.

The stool built low to the ground and has a long thin phallus at the centre a seat that slopes forward. With your ankles tied to the back legs of the stool you are held in place only by the phallus upon which you are impaled. The phallus curves so that the pressure on the prostate is continuous and acute.

I saw Angelus and Michael exchange glances. Some understanding passed between them and then Angelus pushed Michael down on to the stool. Michael grimaced with the discomfort but made no sound.

“I thought that might make him sing for us,” the Mothers’ Tongue said. “How unusual to find a potent who has at least some control.”

Her words sounded like praise but her tone suggested displeasure. It was as if she had wanted to damage him with the stool. Surely she must have been aware that we oil each other thoroughly as part of the preparations for this kind of evening?

When Angelus left Michael and came to lock my hands behind me I was puzzled to see that, although Michael’s legs were wrapped around the stool, his ankles did not seem to be tied.

Angelus manhandled me roughly as he put on the thumblock and it seemed to me that he was trying to turn me away from Michael, although he made it look as if he was pushing me closer the Mothers’ Tongue.

The tall brown pack-mate moved to the Mothers’ Tongue’s side and said, “May I play with him, Mother? I’m sure I can make him sing.”

“Of course you may play with him, Maya, but don’t break anything. Not yet. Later we will see how well he screams. Meanwhile, Trish and I will sample the Japanese.”

I had time to see Maya straddle Michael, one leg over his shoulder, her sex against his mouth, all of her weight pressing him down onto the stool before the Mothers’ Tongue grabbed my head and turned me towards her. Her fingernails were pressing into my cheek and I thought she might rake my face.

Again, she checked for the fear in my eyes, then without looking away she let go of my face and wrapped her fingers around my erection, pressing the head into the palm of her hand.

I sighed, partly from relief, partly from pleasure.

“It’s been a long time since I had a Japanese,” she said, working her palm in a small circle. “The last one was on a Feral Hunt. The Houses hadn’t been established then and without training, many potents went feral. Our job was to hunt them down.”

I wondered how it was possible for the Mothers’ Tongue to have been on a feral hunt. The Houses had been established more than a hundred and fifty years ago, surely she could not be that old?

“Most of them we just shot but I always kept the Japanese alive for a little longer. I liked to make them suffer before they died.”

Suddenly she squeezed my cock so hard it took my breath away then she let go and stepped back.

I didn’t see the blow coming. Trish, the white pack-mate, hit me behind the knees with something long and hard. With my hands locked behind me I wasn’t able to do anything to break my fall.

“Roll him over, Trish. I want to ride him while you work.”

I was very afraid now. I didn’t mind the pain or being ridden but my mind screamed with fear at the kind of “work” Trish might do.

I was hard, despite my fear, and the Mothers’ Tongue had no difficulty sliding me inside her. She was wet and not very tight, but it felt good to have her weight on me. I tried to lift my hips to give her more pleasure but she wouldn’t let me move.

“Do you know what time dilation is? No, of course not. No man with a prick this hard could master physics; too much of their blood is drawn away from the brain for them to think straight. All you need to know is that, for me only twenty-five years have passed since the Blessing. I remember the old world. I remember how men who looked like you used to treat women like me.”

She sounded angry and not entirely sane. Instinctively I turned my head to try and see what was happening with Michael. Maya was fucking him in a way designed to cause him pain. She was squatting with her back to him, pressing back on his cock, pushing him down onto the phallus in the stool. I was amazed that he was able to remain silent. He must be in great pain and yet he seemed more focused on my plight than his.

“I have the Smarthread, Mother. Where shall I use it?” Trish asked.

“Put it under his armpits, the top of his thighs and around his neck above his collar. That should make him wriggle.”

Trish laced the thread around my body quickly and efficiently. It felt sticky and warm and unpleasant.

The Mothers’ Tongue slapped my face.

“Pay attention to me, little man. I want you to know what is happening and why,” she said.

I began to understand that the Mothers’ Tongue might indeed be a little mad and that I was at her mercy.

“When I was a girl,” the Mothers’ Tongue said, “Men like you used to tie me with rope before they fucked me. They were proud of the knots they tied and the pain they caused. They referred to the tying as an art. I think it excited them more than I did. They called the art Shibari.”

Trish knelt on either side of my legs behind the Mothers’ Tongue, leaning into her back, head over her shoulder, hands massaging the Mothers’ Tongue’s breasts.

“When the Mothers came and the world changed, I served with devotion. The Mothers have rewarded me. Part of my reward is Smarthread. Can you feel the heat of it? It’s reading the signals from your nervous system, drawing energy from it. It uses the energy to pull itself tighter. Fear, pain, excitement, all of them feed the thread and increase the pace at which it tightens. As it tightens it cuts into your flesh and, eventually, through your muscles and bones.”

I was going to die and die painfully and slowly.

“A potent like you is ruled by your prick. The men who took me as a girl where also ruled by their pricks. When you orgasm, the Smarthread will slice so deep that every beat of your heart will wash this floor with blood. Yet we both know you will soon be hard again, that you won’t stop even though you are fucking yourself to death.”

Trish was licking the Mothers’ Tongue’s neck. The Mothers’ Tongue was rocking on my cock. I couldn’t help but be excited and that excitement was going to kill me.

“Please,” I said, “don’t hurt me.”

But the Mothers’ Tongue wasn’t listening. She was kissing Trish. Both of them had their eyes closed. I think that is what saved my life.

Potents are trained to be triggered by the sound of a woman’s pleasure. Even in my fear I had been aware of the grunts and groans Maya was making as she rode Michael. They were one more thing pushing me towards orgasm and mutilation.  Perhaps this is why I noticed that the sounds had stopped even though the Mothers’ Tongue and Trish didn’t.

I looked up to see if further harm had befallen Michael and I couldn’t help but call out at what I saw.

Michael was half standing, the stool still attached to him. Maya was in his arms, blood streaming from the cut in her throat. In each hand, Michael held a curved blade that I slowly realized was made from the two halves of his collar.

When I cried out the Smarthread tightened enough to draw blood.

Trish and the Mothers’ Tongue were still kissing but Trish opened her eyes to look at me. When she saw the blood, she broke off from the kiss to dip her fingers into the cut at my thigh. She was reaching to push her bloody fingers into the Mothers’ Tongue’s mouth when Angelus killed her. He didn’t use a blade; he broke her neck with a move that looked well practiced and efficient.

The Mothers’ Tongue still had her eyes closed. Her cunt had been tight on my cock for some seconds and I knew she was ready to come. When she came, I would come also and the Smarthead would cut my throat open.

The Mothers’ Tongue’s eyes shot open at the sound of Trish’s neck breaking. It was obvious that she knew exactly what she was hearing. She struggled up off me immediately, but I could feel the cum in my balls getting ready to fly.

I tried to sit up; to make it stop. Then Michael’s fist connected with my jaw.

* 4 *

I woke in a bed with clean linen and a warm duvet. The sensation was comforting and familiar but something was missing or different but my mind was fuddled and I couldn’t figure out what.

Of course! Now I knew what was missing: I had no bondmate to share the bed and for first time since puberty, I had awoken without an erection. This last news so disturbed me that I had to reach down and check that I was still in one piece.

“Lost something?”

I looked up, still half asleep, hand on my still-dormant genitals and saw Michael standing at the foot of my bed. At least I thought it was Michael. His head was covered in very short hair; he had a light beard and was wearing clothes – some kind of coverall with badges on it.

“Michael?”

“My real name is Brendan, Yoshi.”

Real name? What did he mean, “Real name”? Then I remembered everything.

“The Mothers’ Tongue…”

“Is our prisoner, Yoshi. She is why I was there.”

Michael sat on the bed and took my hand in his.

“When Angelus told us that the House had a Japanese, we knew that you were bait that the Mothers’ Tongue would nibble at for her bicentennial celebration. I’m sorry, Yoshi, but it was an opportunity we couldn’t afford to miss.”

“Angelus betrayed the House?”

“Angelus is a brave man who serves the Alliance well, Yoshi. Thanks to him I had the weapons to kill that bitch, Maya.”

This was too much information too quickly. It seemed that nothing I thought I had understood had been true. I thought that Michael liked me and yet it seemed I was just the cheese in his mousetrap. I felt like crying but I didn’t want to do that in front of Michael. I let myself get angry instead.

“You hit me,” I said. I sounded petulant, even to my own ears.

Michael laughed. “Don’t sulk, Yoshi. It was the only way I could stop you from triggering the Smarthread.”

I did start to cry then. I had been about to die. And Michael, no Brendan, had saved me. And two Fems were dead. And the Mothers’ Tongue was kidnapped. And nothing, nothing at all, made sense.

Michael/Brendan held me, rocking my head gently against his chest.

“It’s the shock, Yoshi. You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

I let him hold me for a while. Then I asked the question that I most needed the answer to. It was the hardest question I’d ever asked.

“Am I a neuter now?”

Michael/Brendan looked puzzled.

“It’s just that I don’t have an erection and I should have one and I wondered if maybe I couldn’t have one anymore?”

I was babbling but Michael didn’t laugh.

“You’re in the Alliance now, Yoshi. We’ve developed ways to combat the Bitches Curse. You can have an erection but you don’t have to have one. Try it out. Think of something that excites you.”

I closed my eyes and summoned up the image. My cock stirred in response and I felt a peace settling on me. I didn’t know what the Alliance was, or what would happen to me next, but at least I was still me.

Michael stood up. “Get some rest, Yoshi. You’re still weak. I’ll be back to see you later.”

He was right. I was weak. I let myself fall back onto the soft pillows as soon as he left the room. I was still erect. I decided to do something about it. I recalled the image to my mind, something that I had imagined many times but never experienced. Then I let my fingers work. I had masturbated before, some Fems enjoy watching a potent bring himself to release, but I had never masturbated alone, focused entirely on my own pleasure. I should have felt guilty at wasting sperm in this way. Instead I felt… free.

After I came and before sleep claimed me, I had time to wonder if Michael’s lips would be as soft in reality as they were in my imagination.

 


© 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.

Newton’s Laws Of Emotion

I’ve long been fascinated by physics. I lack the math to pursue it at more than a basic level but the mind set, the desire to explain everything in a elegant but truthful way, while still understanding that every explanation is an approximation and therefore not entirely truthful, resonates with me.

Fifty years ago,  it was fashionable in England to discuss “the two cultures” proposed by C.P. Snow:  those who were educated in science and those who were educated in the arts. It was assumed that they would struggle to understand each other and that, in England the arts would always look down on the sciences.

I always found the division suspect. It seemed to me that those who were the best in their field have always understood that the relationship between imagination and truth is fundamentally the same in both science and art..

However, I have sympathy with the view that the English are more comfortable with the output of mediocre minds than with those who challenge the orthodoxy of the day. I think, fifty years on, Snow would be more concerned by the fact the Business Studies/Information Technology/Media Studies are viewed as having enough academic rigour to justify awarding a degree in them.

In this story, I tried to join Snow’s cultures by taking one of the basic building blocks of physics, Newton’s Laws of Motion, and use them to explore an emotional journey.

I hope you enjoy it. If you would like to know more about the two cultures discussion  go here and here

The podium should have dwarfed the slight young woman standing beside it, but she was too full of energy and excitement for that. Her personality grabbed at the students in the lecture hall and said “Hey! Listen up. This is gonna be fun.”

Perched on the highest row of the auditorium, professor Sheila Redmond whispered to her husband, “She really is a remarkable young woman, Anthony.”

Anthony Redmond looked sideways at his wife, taking in the intensity of her gaze and the affection in her voice. Anthony knew a remarkable woman when he saw one.

“Welcome to Physics 101. Today we’re going to examine Newton’s laws of motion,” Angela announced to the auditorium. “I know, been there, done that, bought the T-shirt at high school. But this time I want you to think about what it means not just what it says.”

Sheila saw frowns appear on some of the earnest young faces below her. Two rows down one boy said, “What’s to think about? Newton’s been dead for hundreds of years. This stuff’s like, old.”

“There we have it folks, the Beavis and Butthead approach to science,” Angela said, pointing at the boy but spreading her gaze across the room. “Hey dude, what new ideas do you have? Science isn’t about novelty and invention, we leave that to engineers.”

Angela waited for the laughter to die down, then her tone became more serious, “Science is about discovering what has always been true but not always known. Each discovery gives a new context to old truths but the truths are no less true for all that.”

The professor watched the reaction of the crowd. Angela’s words struck a chord with a few but most were carried forward simply by the strength of her smile. The professor found herself smiling too, she knew from personal experience that Angela could make old things feel new; in the few weeks since they had become lovers she had felt younger and more like her true self.

“So, as you all know, the first law states that a body at rest tends to stay at rest, a body in motion tends to stay in motion in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. This is also known as the law of inertia. Great. Looks cool on a t-shirt. ‘Newton says we get stuck in a rut unless we meet something unbalanced.’ But what does it mean for you and me?”

Sheila knew what it meant for her. She had been at rest in her marriage, floating in calm waters with good fishing, until she’d met Angela. Sheila took her husband’s large hand in her own while she watched Angela steer the class. She felt the strength and of his grasp. The contact warmed her. Maybe she hadn’t really been completely at rest, just at a point where she had passed the rapids of courtship and child rearing and was flowing slowly towards the sea. According to Newton she should have continued in this gentle drift, and probably she would have, if it hadn’t been for an unbalanced force called Angela.

When Sheila was a college student there were no female professors of physics. Physics was a man’s universe. She had loved the universe but not the men in it. Even as an undergraduate, it had seemed to her that many of her peers were driven by a twisted passion; they went at the universe like it was a can of their favourite food and science was their can-opener. Sheila had always seen the universe as a dance that she was part of, she could feel its beat in her blood; science was a means of learning the steps. Her approach had been odd then, it was irritatingly fashionable now.

Sheila had grown used to being odd, assuming it to be an unalterable attribute, like the colour of her eyes, until she met Anthony. She had decided on impulse to learn the tango. Not wanting to make a fool of herself in front of others, she had opted for one to one lessons. Anthony was her tutor. He was tall and beautiful and he knew how to lead. In his arms she felt safe and excited, as if many things were possible and all of them were good.

The first lesson should have lasted an hour. Three hours later they were still dancing. The transition from dancing to lovemaking was so gradual and so inevitable that later Sheila was unable to say exactly when it had happen. Anthony maintained that he had started to make love to her from the moment that their eyes met, that only the form of the lovemaking had changed.

For forty-eight hours they couldn’t bear to be parted. They danced and ate and made love and in between they used words to confirm the things that their bodies already knew. He told her of falling in love with the tango while backpacking in Argentina. She told him that particle physics was the whale-song of the universe. She confessed her alienation from her colleagues, saying she felt like a fish out of water. Anthony had laughed, “But you are not a fish and that is the problem. You are a dolphin swimming with sharks and feeling odd because you have the urge to leap out of the water into the sunlight and they do not.” She knew then that he was the man she would spend the rest of her life with.

When her mother asked her why she had married a man who knew no physics and had barely any math, Sheila had said, as if stating the obvious, “Any man can be taught physics, Anthony knows how to dance.”

Stealing a glance at Anthony, sitting beside her in the lecture theatre, she smiled to think that, in the end, physics had seduced him just as the tango had seduced her. He was listening to Angela’s lecture not just with attention but with enjoyment. He was a remarkable man. In fact he was the most remarkable person she had ever met… until she met Angela. She squeezed Anthony’s hand and returned her attention to the lecture.

“Ok so you’ve been stuck in a rut and you meet your unbalanced force – what happens according to the Second Law? Any volunteers?” Angela left the podium and paced the front of the auditorium, looking as if she was warming up a crowd at a rock concert. She stopped near a guy in the front row who was typing steadily on his laptop.

“You look like you’re well enough connected to know Newton’s Second Law,” Angela said,  “wanna remind the rest of us?”

The guy blinked at her and said, “Newton’s Second Law states that the speed and direction of movement is the outcome of the strength and vector of the force and the mass of the body being acted upon.”

“I knew you were well read. A wireless connection to the Internet is a wonderful thing isn’t it? So what does the Second Law mean?”

“It means that the less mass you have, or the more force there is, the faster you’ll be moved in a particular direction.”

“Good! Force versus mass plus direction.” Angela emphasised her point by miming throwing a shot-put. Sheila wondered if she was the only one in the auditorium who was distracted by the movement of Angela’s breasts during this demonstration.

Sheila didn’t think of herself as a lesbian. On the whole she’d usually found women were more attractive and often more interesting than men but she’d never felt a sexual attraction. Even now her attraction was not to women but to Angela. It was the force of Angela’s love that had brought her to this point, in a direction set by Angela’s sexual desire, and her own lack of mass.

Angela’s desire had come as a surprise to Sheila. They’d been working late on Angela’s PhD. Sheila had been in the Zone: with all of her attention was focused on abstract thought. She’d stepped outside of space-time and become a conduit for math so beautiful it made her want to cry. There were few people who could keep pace with Sheila in the Zone, Angela not only kept pace she became part of Sheila’s creative process. It was as if they shared a common consciousness. When the breakthrough came, when they finally captured their thoughts in an equation that said everything, Angela kissed her. It started as a celebration, at least on Sheila’s part, but it soon became more than that, it became one of the most magical moments of Sheila’s life. Sheila found she wasn’t focused on abstract thought any more, all of her attention was on heat and softness and sensations that strummed through her body. Angela led and Sheila let her. The orgasm, when it came, left Sheila breathless, surprised and grateful. It felt as if she was coming back to life.

Sitting in the lecture theatre, thinking back to that moment, Sheila wondered at why it had moved her so. She had an active sex life with Anthony. She wasn’t starved of sex or love and yet Angela had swept her away. So what accounted for her lack of emotional mass? Perhaps it was that, with her children gone and her life settled, she had fewer desires, fewer goals, fewer connections.

In the weeks that followed, Sheila had let Angela make love to her again and again. She never initiated it but she never resisted. Now Angela wanted to spend the night with her and Sheila didn’t know how to respond. Somehow spending the night made things more concrete, more certain. It would collapse the probability wave and make her choose 1 or 0.

“Ok,” Angela said, “Now we get to my favourite law: Number Three. Now repeat after me: ‘for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction'”.

Angela made the class repeat this three times. Some of them were laughing. Some of them just looked bemused.

“So what was Isaac getting at with this one?” she asked.

A girl in the middle of the auditorium thrust up her hand as if she were still in school. Angela nodded at her and the girl said, “It means that everything balances. You can’t touch without being touched.”

“Yes!” Angela said, “That’s exactly what it means. Every movement towards is also a movement away. All movement has a price.”

This made Sheila shiver. Did moving forward with Angela mean moving away from Anthony? Was she the universe going to make her pay a price for her lack of mass, her unresisting collision with this unbalanced force.

“She’s good”, Anthony said. “She reminds me of you.”

Sometimes Sheila wondered if Anthony was telepathic. She was swept with a wave of affection for him that made her want to cry and smile.

She didn’t want to leave Anthony and she wouldn’t give up Angela. Sheila knew that there was more to the universe than Newtonian physics could explain. The real world is not always mechanical. Newton’s laws break down at the extremes: when there is enough gravity to bend space- time or when things are small enough to be influenced by quantum events. Life is both a wave and a particle. Shroedinger’s cat is neither alive nor dead until you open the box.

It was time, she decided, to step outside the vectors and balanced forces of Newtonian mechanics and ride the probability waves of the new physics. God may not play dice but that doesn’t mean we have to follow his example.

The lecture was over, the class was emptying out. Angela was smiling up at her, waiting for her approval.

Sheila took her husband by hand and smiled at him. “Come with me,” she said.

It was time for both of her lovers to meet…


© Mike Kimera 2000 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.

Inside Mr. K

The main character of “Inside Mr. K” is a writer of erotica who is undergoing therapy because pornography is now illegal

The story has a Fem Domme theme and makes a nod to Kafka in terms of the situation.

“Drink this. The chloroform has left your throat dry.”

The voice echoes horribly and hurts my ears. My eyes won’t focus in the too bright light. Thirst is tearing at my throat like a rabid dog.

I bend my head and sip water from the cup being held to my lips. When it is withdrawn I reach for more and discover that my hands are restrained. I discover that I am naked and being held upright and spread-eagled in an enormous frame. This makes no sense to me.

“Mr. K, I’d strongly advise against any sudden movement of your head. Of course, your head is all you can move.”

The voice is female and familiar to me, although the mocking tone is not.

“Dr. Schwer?”

I squeeze my eyes open and shut a few times and she comes into focus. It is Dr. Schwer, but not as I am used to seeing her in her bland but expensive office. There she wears softly tailored suits in earth tones and her auburn hair falls freely around her shoulders. She is the epitome of non-confrontational approachability.  I see her now in a different light. The woman in front of me is a Domme incarnate.

Even as I stare at her in shock, I compulsively catalogue the changes in her. Her hair is scraped back from her face and bound into a thick glossy ponytail high on the back of her head. She wears a blood-red leather corset that pushes up her breasts without revealing her nipples. The leather looks soft and strong at the same time. A huge leather phallus curves upwards from her pubis. The detail is precise. The scale is daunting. Her boots reach to her mid thigh. The heels are steel and clearly razor sharp. She is perfect. I watch her with the same mix and fascination and fear as if I had just found a scorpion walking up my arm.

“Why are you dressed like that Dr. Schwer?” I ask.

She slaps me with the flat of her hand.

“Wrong question Mr. K. The correct question is: why am I here Dr. Schwer?”

Her fingernails scrape down my chest. In their wake I feel lines of warm sticky pain. I am bleeding.

“Why am I here Dr.Schwer?” I ask, needing to know yet knowing I am being led.

Her heels are loud on the concrete as she circles me. Somehow I have failed to see the riding crop she carries until it slices through the air and hits me just below the buttocks.

She waits for my scream to stop echoing before she speaks again.

“Asking questions that you already know the answer to makes me angry Mr. K. I would advise against it.” Her words are spoken softly from behind me. I feel her breath upon my neck.

I want to say that she is being unfair, that she told me to ask the question, that I don’t know the answer. I want to curl up in a ball and cry.

In front of me again, she lifts my chin in her hand and places her face close to mine.

“Tell me who I am Mr. K,” she says.

“You are my therapist.”

“But that’s not how you think of me is it Mr. K? Tell me how your facile mind transforms my function.” She lets go of my chin.

I hang my head. How can she know this? No one knows this.

“Tell me,” she says.

“I change ‘therapist’ to ‘the rapist’,” I say quietly.

“Very clever Mr. K. Too clever for your own good. Isn’t that what mummy always used to say?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you here Mr. K?”

The cruel smile in her eyes tells me the answer.

“Because I deserve it.”

“Very good Mr. K,” she kisses me softly on the mouth, “and I am here to give you what you deserve.”

I am afraid now, but also very calm. I have always known that this would happen one day.

“I’ve read all your stories Mr K. I know about the obsessively detailed BDSM scenes you send in to titillate the people on the list – making sure of course that their literary merit is clear. I also know about the ones you don’t submit; the ones that break the rules on age or consent or even, tut tut, species. Yet you write them anyway don’t you?”

I am shivering. I can’t tell, won’t let myself tell, whether it is with fear or excitement.

“I have all your URLs Mr. K. All those twisted images from the Internet that you devour with your eyes without ever sating your hunger.”

She lifts my limp dick with riding crop.

“But there is a problem isn’t there Mr. K?” She lets my dick drop. It swings my balls like an obscene executive desk toy, but it remains soft and useless.

She is behind me now. She rubs her corseted breasts against my back, puts her head on my shoulders, and lets her hands smear the blood from the cuts across my torso.

In a little-girl voice she says, “Daddy sometimes can’t get it up. Then Daddy gets it up but can’t get it down. Poor daddy.  Never mind, nice Dr. Schwer has brought all Daddy’s friends to help.”

Then I see them, all the characters from my stories. All those wet cunts and hard cocks and carefully crafted metaphors. They are fucking in front of me. Moving slowly toward me in a rut-frenzy. They will swallow me whole.

“We are in your subconscious Mr. K and we’ve let all of the demons out of the cellar.”

Dr. Schwer holds my limp dick in one hand; with the other she spreads my arse cheeks.

“Maybe this is what you’ve been looking for,” she says.

I scream and scream as the phallus forces its way up into my guts. Just before I pass out from the pain I feel my cock swell and swell until it disgorges wave after wave of semen over the mass of bodies in front of me.

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

“Drink this. Your throat will be dry after that session.”

The voice echoes horribly and hurts my ears. My eyes won’t focus in the too bright light. My body feels stiff and abused.

Dr. Schwer is smiling at me. I focus on her smile while I wait for the fog to clear from my brain.

“Did it work Dr. Schwer?”

“We made some progress. You are very susceptible to hypnosis, but we will need more than one session before we can be certain that you are free of your addiction to pornography.”

I am secretly pleased at this. Despite the ruling by the High Court under the new “Preservation of Decency Act” requiring my rehabilitation into Responsible Citizenship, I am reluctant to give up what I think of as erotica.

“On your way out, please let my assistant know that we will need another session next week,” Dr. Schwer says.

I leave the room, happy to still have my mind intact.

I do wish Dr. Schwer would use a more comfortable chair, my arse is feeling decidedly numb.

I’m not surprised that I can’t remember the session; I expected everything to be a blank from the moment when I was hypnotised to when I woke up, but something is nagging at me, some discontinuity my obsessive mind has spotted but not yet tagged.

I get to my car before I realise what it is; at the start of the session Dr. Schwer’s hair was loose, at the end it was in a ponytail. How strange, why would she change her hair during a session?

Arriving home I find that, for once, I have no desire to log on to the net. I am however, looking forward to my next session with Dr. Schwer.


© Mike Kimera 2001 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.

Queen Martha And The Knights Of The Bound Table

I fell in love with the King Arthur myth when I saw John  Boormans “Excalibur” in 1981. A high powered cast, wonderful music, and one of the most erotic dance scenes on film (Igrayne – the dancer who aroused everyone’s lust  was Katrine Boorman, daughter of the Director. Imagine the father daughter chat on the set that day)

I decided to mix the myth with the ethos of the  Carry On movies (my favourite is “Carry On Up The Khyber”) a very British type of comedy filled with puns and innuendos and a relentless humor that doesn’t slow down.

Be warned, “Queen Martha And The Knights Of The Bound Table” is a tale of bondage, whips, leather, and lots and lots of puns. Enjoy.

Maudlin the magician felt that he was not accorded the respect at court that his abilities and position deserved. As the magician who had helped make Queen Martha the woman she was today, he should not be referred to as “that sad old Celt”. Anyway, it was hard to be joyful when you were living your life backwards in time as he was. It wasn’t always fun knowing what, and who, was going to come next.

Ah but today would be different. Today, at dawn, he had a meeting that could change everything. Descending into the bowels of Camealot (he should never have let her call it that, too backward looking and bourgeois; only one step away from Dunscruin) Maudlin let his mind form the image of Martha’s half sister Fata Morgana. It was a big image. Morgana, more than twice Martha’s size and with half her looks, hated the way Martha always called her Fat Mo, running it together into a single insulting word Fatmo. Martha never even noticed the hurt that she caused. Now Morgana was plotting revenge and she wanted Maudlin’s help. There’d be a price to pay of course.  There was always a price.

* * *

The young squire with his head between Queen Martha’s legs was on the verge of becoming a Knight of the Bound Table. He had been in training for a year and a day. In all that time he had served the sexual needs of others without ever being allowed relief. He had mastered the ability to become erect on command and to stay that way for hours at a time. Although technically still a virgin, he had studied the martial art of Tao Chi Feeli, and was able to pleasure women and men with or without the use of paraphernalia. Now, on the eve of his 21st birthday, he was ready to become a Knight and serve under his Queen. All he need do was maintain his erection from dusk until dawn while pleasing all those who called upon him and he would receive the Queen’s blessing.

So far the young squire was doing well. Lady Cuminere and Sir Wiltalot had played with him for hours. The noble knight had a reputation for being a bit premature in his actions, but Martha had noticed that he wilted a lot less often when the tight bum of a young squire was available to him.

It was Lady Cuminere who had set the squire his most difficult test. An hour ago she had provoked his erection until she could flick the end of his cock with her nail and it would remain unmoved. Then she had tied strong thread tightly round the squire’s balls and the base of his cock, pulled the thin thread up between his buttocks and used it to tie the young man’s thumbs together, leaving no slack at all in the thread. Any sudden movement would cause him pain. Staying still left him constantly stimulated. Martha had been impressed by the squire’s ability to remain motionless while Cuminere slowly covered the palms of his hands in hot wax. His suppressed moans of pain against the Queen’s labia as each drop of wax fell had been thrilling.

Martha spread her legs a little wider, wriggled to a more comfortable spot and tugged on the young squire’s ears to urge him to increase his pace. Turning her head to one side, Martha let her tongue flick across Lady Cuminere’s irresistible mouth, rousing her from her doze. Cuminere smiled, she knew what her Queen required.  Cuminere’s breasts were famous throughout the land: large, shapely, firm and with long nipples that she allowed to poke through her leather breastplate even when she went in to battle. The bounteously endowed woman now made her nipples available to the Queen and was rewarded by the familiar touch of skilled royal fingers between her legs.

Martha suspected that Maudlin was somehow involved in the forming of Cuminere’s perfect flesh. She wondered what exactly Cuminere had had to do to win such a blessing. Maybe some day she would make Cuminere tell her, perhaps even re-enact whatever task it had been.

* * *

Morgana had been studying magic secretly for years; patiently acquiring small fragments of the craft and then piecing them together. Now she felt she had learned enough to take from Maudlin the one spell she most desired. She, who was named after an illusion, would finally master the ability to shape-shift.

Running her hands slowly over her substantial flesh, Morgana summoned the sexual arousal her magic fed upon. No one in Camealot seemed to think that Fatmo had any sexual needs. Only thin people fucked. Fat people were just fucked up. Oh she’d had the odd session with a Knight too drunk to care who’s body he used, but mostly she’d been casually, thoughtlessly, excluded from the sex-life of the castle. Soon, when she could assume any form she liked, she would make up for the lost years and take revenge on Martha for treating her so badly.

As Morgana’s nipples hardened and her juices flowed, she could feel the heat of magic flowing through her. With her heightened senses she became aware of the wizard’s descent towards her lair. Morgana found Maudlin’s power attractive and his growing disaffection useful. Tonight she would pursue power through pleasure; pursue it ruthlessly. Twisting her nipples in joy, Morgana began to laugh. As her lust and magic mingled, a nimbus of crimson light coruscated across Morgana’s naked body.

By the time the wizard reached her, Morgana was wreathed in what seemed to be glowing serpents of blood. Inside an almost abandoned chamber of his soul, Maudlin felt his Dragon stir in answer to the serpents call.

* * *

The young squire, released from his bonds, knelt, still erect, mouth  glazed with his Queen’s spend, facing the east window, awaiting the rising of the sun. Martha watched him with envy for his belief. He was waiting to receive the Queen’s favour with religious devotion. The Queen looked down at the means by which she would bestow that favour: XCalibre.

In preparation for the climax of the ceremony, Martha let her mind return to that day, in her nineteenth summer, when she had first encountered XCalibre. She had spent the previous year locked away with the Wizard Maudlin, practicing skills that, according to the wizard, were part of The Way of Power: the use of the flogger, the scarifier, the clamp and, of course, the whip.

There was no doubt she understood the whip. She loved to hear the air sigh as the whip cut through it, to see flesh sliced and blood flow.  With the whip she could caress or cut at will. The wizard said that the whip was the medium through which she accessed her anima; bringing the power of her spirit into the physical world.  Martha knew it must be a powerful spirit, for when she used the whip she became calm and excited at the same time and was possessed of an indomitable power. She also achieved a level of sexual transcendence that, had she but known it, awed the wizard. Martha glowed when she used the whip. She generated a field of sexual energy that affected all around her.

Now young Martha she was going to The Naming. She felt so full of life she could barely contain it. She wore the traditional black leather breastplate and short leather skirt. Her whip, Shadow, was coiled around her thigh. It soothed her to have Shadow there. Maudlin had conjured Shadow for her; a living whip, existing partly in this world and partly in the world beyond the mists. The wizard had confirmed what Martha’s instincts had already told her: she must bond with the whip, making it an extension of her will. She fed Shadow on the pain he inflicted and he filled her with power. Maudlin had not had to teach Martha the ritual of licking her whip clean of blood at the end of a session, it had seemed obvious to her that this is what should be done. She loved the warmth of the whip when it returned to her, the way it throbbed under her touch.

Striding through the forest towards The Glade, Martha held Shadow’s shaft and ran her thumb over the smooth pommel that had brought her so much pleasure in her nights of enforced solitude over the past year. She paid no attention to the gentle tightening and release of the whip’s coils as she walked. She was focused entirely on The Naming and what it meant. She did not notice how the crowds parted for her, nor how those she passed closest to stroked themselves. Martha left a wake of lust to mark her path through the forest.

The most powerful women in the land would be at The Naming, each seeking to demonstrate that they were the True Born Queen. There had been strife in the land for nearly a generation now, with faction fighting faction for control. Three months ago, as Maudlin had predicted, the stone had appeared in the Glade, the spiritual navel of the land. Jutting out of the stone was the head of an obsidian phallus, that caught the rays of the sun at dawn and filled the Glade with light.  The inscription on the stone read: “Whosoever calls this phallus from the stone is the True Born Queen”.  Everyone had seen that naming the True Born Queen would bring peace to the land. Every leader felt that she must be the True Born Queen and that the phallus would prove it. A date for The Naming had been set and now the day had arrived.

Martha would never forget the moment she entered The Glade and saw XCalibre for the first time. The whole world went silent and grey. Nothing existed except her, XCalibre and Shadow. They were a trio destined to sing songs of pain a pleasure for the world.

In her mind the phallus spoke to her and her body was filled with joy.

“Welcome Martha, welcome Shadow, I am XCalibre. Together we will bring peace to the land. Wait now, until I call you to free me”.

Martha was in a trance, unable to move, waiting to be filled with that voice again. Around her thigh, Shadow tightened his grip until the he drew blood.

With part of her mind Martha was aware that powerful women where taking turns trying to free the phallus from the stone. She saw Magdelene the Massive lower her mighty thighs around the phallus, gripping it tightly within her and pulling fiercely until orgasm forced her to release the still-trapped head and sent her sprawling to the ground, semiconscious.  She watched the Sylvana of the Woods stroke and lick and suckle the phallus until she too fell into a stupor of lust. The Lady Tittonia advanced on XCalibre with a smile, tied her nipple rings together on the far side of the shaft and massaged the phallus with her breasts. She continued, moving in a rhythm she didn’t seem to control, until she was covered in sweat and visibly excited. Her nipple ring glowed with a bright light, the binding released and Tittonia fell backwards, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.

After two hours, the stone was surrounded by the stunned bodies of the seven most powerful leaders in the land. By now the crowd had noticed that all the bodies moved to the same slow rhythm. Something had them in a thrall of ecstasy. Only Martha knew that the women moved to the beat of XCalibre’s song.

“Come to me Martha. Release me. Show that you are the True Born Queen.” XCalibre’s voice released Martha from her trance and filled her with the energy it was drawing from the seven women.

She stepped boldly up to the stone and shouted to the encircling crowd “I, Martha Pendragon, daughter of Ursula Pendragon, demand my turn”.

There were mutterings of surprise in the crowd. Ursula Pendragon had been dead for ten years and her family was no longer a power in the land. The wizards, worried at the failure of the seven women who had tried so far, and sensing Martha’s sexual power, signalled that she should continue.

Instead of going closer to the stone, Martha stood back and drew out her whip. Shadow was scarlet with Martha’s blood and twitched with pent up power. Bringing her whip from behind her head, Martha cried, “Come to me XCalibre”.

Shadow sliced through air with vicious joy and gripped XCalibre firmly around the shaft. For a second nothing happened; girl whip and phallus were locked in a tableau of want and power. Then the rock split open and XCalibre and Shadow flew back into Martha’s hand.

As the crowd around her shouted “Queen Martha, Queen Martha, Queen Martha” and the refused leaders woke from their trance and came to kneel before her, Martha’s eyes widened while the glassy phallus in her hand showed her what to do next.

That had been the beginning. Now Martha would repeat the ritual with the soon-to-be knight in front of her. As the first rays of dawn struck XCalibre, the chamber was bathed in light and the ritual began.

* * *

Almost filling the huge cave at the base of the castle, two dragons were lost in the throes of mating. The cobalt male dragon was mounted on the back of the larger red wingless female. Their necks and tails entwined, the male dragon used his wings to balance as he thrust at tremendous speed into the substantial form below him.

For the first time in a century, Maudlin lost himself to lust. He was the dragon now: huge, powerful, filled with the madness of rut. His wings were at full stretch, his talons were buried in the red scales beneath him and his barbed cock plundered the soft depths of the female. Maudlin’s arousal was such that, in his rush to take Morgana, he had shouted the shapeshifting spell he would normally have mouthed silently. He didn’t care. He needed this. He deserved this. He was a powerful wizard and this was his reward. Maudlin’s mind melded with his dragon form as his seed shot deep within the she-dragon below him. For a moment he was nothing but the dragon.

A moment was all that it took. Morgana had been waiting for that moment and used it to cast that spell of binding that can only be spoken in the dragon’s tongue. Freeing herself easily from beneath the smaller dragon, Morgana looked into Maudlin’s eyes and saw the fear there. He could not speak. He could not change back. Morgana used the spell Maudlin had unwittingly given her to resume her normal shape.

“I hope you enjoyed the ride Maudlin. Your technique needs work even for a dragon. Sadly you will have no time to practice I fear. But be happy for me. Your fumbling efforts were successful. I carry within me now a dragon-daughter. How powerful she will be. What a shame you will never see her born.”

Maudlin was screaming silently behind the dragon’s eyes. This was not how it was supposed to end. He had never seen the dragon-daughter in his pictures of the future. Something terrible had gone wrong.

Morgana stroked the dragon’s snout. “There is always a price Maudlin. This time it’s your turn to pay.”

Morgana put her robe back on then ripped it to expose one large breast. Using the immobilised dragon’s claw she raked her shoulder and drew blood. Running up the stairs she shouted “Guards! Guards! A dragon! Help me. Kill it before it kills us all.”

* * *

Lady Cuminere and Sir Wiltalot knelt shoulder to shoulder in front of the squire. Their tongues met and formed a cushion for the tip of the Squire’s cock. Their open mouths would receive his first spend in over a year.

XCalibre and Martha were now one. The phallus, nested in Martha’s cunt, feeding off her energy, glowed and writhed in front of her, eager to bestow the Queen’s blessing. Martha released Shadow and sent him to wrap around the squire’s neck to heighten the young man’s pleasure.

The squire trembled at the whip’s caress, then groaned as XCalibre entered him. Martha pressed her breasts into his strong back and placed her left hand around the rigid base of his cock. Without her needing to move, XCalibre filled and probed both of them, pushing and prodding towards a transcendent climax.

Martha’s blood sang. She was the only one in the room who heard XCalibre and Shadow join in. At the height of the song, the man in front of her found his long-delayed release.

“Bless you Sir Fortescru” his Queen whispered in his ear.

 


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


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Brave Enough To Cry

As the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan rolled on and the body count, particularly the civilian body count mounted, it seemed to me that some of the only sane voices were coming from rock musicians: Pink’s “Dear Mr. President” was probably the most in your face but there were also songs from Linkin Park,  Green Day, even James Blunt and Bruce Springsteen.

I’m not  a song writer, but I had a verse going through my head, the final song here “Running All The Red Lights” and it implied a particular type of relationship. My what if twist was, what if the song writer had been through one of the wars and couldn’t leave it behind? That’s when the lyrics to “Brave Enough To Cry” came to  me.

After that, I added a women from a Country and Western background and let her tell me the story. The result is a mix of sex, rock. and politics set within a love story. This one has yet to find a publishing venue either on line or in print but I have hopes for it still.

All the stations are playing Jonathan’s songs today. MTV play his three best videos once an hour back-to-back and then flip between a rockumentary of the “Lubed and Loaded” tour and a making-of-the-video for his single, “Now I know why Viagra is blue”.

I’m at the can’t stage: can’t sleep, can’t cry any more, can’t stop thinking about him, can’t forgive him for dying.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Grieve and move on, that’s what my mother would say. She has always moved on easily. She never told me that grieving could be so hard. I’m locked behind a wall of glass, deafened by echoes of my pain and loss.

Then the song comes on. The only one we ever wrote together. The one everyone thinks is about how we met, but is really about how we would have liked to have met.

I told Jonathan that he’d never sell the song unless he changed the title and half of the lyrics. “You can’t expect MTV to play a song called, ‘She dresses pure country, but she fucks like rock n roll'” I said.

He just raised an eyebrow and said, in his best British officer-class voice, “Who could possibly object to a song with the word ‘Pure’ in the title?”

It took me months before I realized that I was the one being naive. The song went to Number 1 in the UK the week that the BBC banned it and became so popular in the US that MTV played it under the title “Pure Country” and dubbed over the bits it couldn’t stomach.

I turn up the sound and give my full attention to the TV. There we are, young and beautiful in the way that only a skilled camera man and a lighting crew can make you. The sight of Jonathan, lean and dangerously handsome, takes my breath away.  He’s the leather-clad bad boy and I’m the cowgirl of your dreams. There’s no way to tell that he went to Sandhurst or that I grew up in NYC. The attraction between us is so obvious and so physical that the words of the song seem mild in comparison.

Jonathan has, damn – I will NOT cry – Jonathan had a singing voice as distinctive as Springsteen’s or Cobain’s: not good, not trained, but potent and unique and impossible to forget.  When he sang, that my-family-have-served-in-the-Guards-for-generations voice disappeared and someone proudly humble, soulfully aggressive and irresistibly sexual emerged. Add in the icy blue eyes, the thick dark hair and the beautifully asymmetrical face and you have yourself an icon.

I pull my knees up under my chin, close my eyes and lose myself in his voice and our lyrics.

I was drinkin in a roadhouse
Saw her dancin ‘cross the floor
My eyes just couldn’t leave her
She made my skin feel raw

With a smile on her lips
and a swayin of her hips

She was dressed pure country
But I knew she’d fuck like rock ‘n roll
Yeah she was dressed pure country
But I wanted to fuck like rock ‘n roll

The nearest Jonathan had ever been to a roadhouse was watching Patrick Swayze movies but when he sang the words, you believed in him. That was the thing, I always believed in him, even when I knew I shouldn’t.

My foot got to tappin
My heart picked up the beat
I knew she was the woman
That God sent me to meet.

Had a smile on my lips
And my eyes on her hips

She was dressed pure country
But I hoped she’d fuck like rock ‘n roll
Yeah she was dressed pure country
But I needed to fuck like rock ‘n roll

Jonathan was an atheist but he couldn’t resist roping God in on his side. “God is on the side of the big battalions” he’d say, imitating his father.  Then he’d grin and say, in a phony cockney accent, “Wanna see me battalion, pretty lady?” I smile at the thought of him and choose to ignore the tear that is rolling down my cheek

So I took her in my arms
‘n span her ‘cross the floor
She blushed when I touched her
But I could see she wanted more

From the smile on her lips
And my hands on her hips

The blushing bit is true. Jonathan could light me up just by brushing his thumb along my forearm. When he kissed me, standing behind me, pulling my shoulders back against his chest, lowering his mouth onto my neck, I understood what it meant to be consumed by lust.

I said, you look pure country
She said, I fuck like rock n roll
So I undressed pure country
And we fucked like rock n roll
Yeah we fucked like rock n roll

I’ve been asked so many times, usually by fat men with cameras in their pudgy hands, “What does it mean, Carol – to fuck like rock n roll?” It used to annoy me. It never bothered Jonathan, he’d just smile at the guy, lean over close as if about to share a secret, and say quietly, “Ask your wife to explain it to you.”

No one ever had to explain it to us. When we were together, sex was the backbeat of our lives, constantly present in every glance, every fleeting touch. When we were alone together, the guitar riffs would start and my blood would sing, clothes would be flung off, limbs would tangle and then he’d be in me or I’d be on him and it was like jamming: picking up a song you knew and seeing where the two of you could take it that it hadn’t been before. You both play and you both listen and you both look in each others eyes and you need to smile so bad that you can’t help but pump up the volume.

The first time we met was in a recording studio in London. He was standing alone in the booth, eyes closed, ‘phones on, stepping up to the mike like a lover. Even before I heard his voice I liked the tall, lean intensity of him. Then I heard him singing “Brave enough to cry”, a cappella and I was hooked.

Of course everyone knows the song now, in the past six months it has become an anthem, but it was the first time I’d heard it and even a cappella, his soft voice and vivid words were enough to drag me with him, riding the adrenalin rush of battle, to the brink of a decision.

He sang with his eyes closed and his arms stretched down at his sides, rising on the balls of his feet and twisting his shoulders as he pressed his mouth against the mike, physically pushing emotion into the air. I wanted to reach through the glass of the sound-booth and touch him.

When his voice opened up to almost a shout on “Are you strong enough to win?” I wanted to shout “YES!”  I felt powerful and triumphant and proud, just as he meant me to.

Then he tipped my mood with a key change, dropping me hard onto the spiked point of his song, the question that on another’s lips could have been a challenge or a rebuke but from him felt like an encouragement: “Are you brave enough to cry?”

The verses that followed replaced adrenalin with sorrow and each chorus asked me if I was brave enough to cry. I realized that he wanted me to ask myself if I had the integrity and the moral courage to deal with the consequences of being victorious in battle.

It seemed to me a very un-American question: “Are you sure you can cope with winning?”

I responded to the passion with which the question was asked: I wanted to be brave enough although I wasn’t sure what it meant.

By the time Jonathan opened his eyes, mine were moist with tears.

When he realized I’d been watching him, he smiled and said, “Bloody hell, Carol, we’ve not even met yet and I’ve already made you cry. What a way to start a partnership.”

Then his manager was there and the room was full of people and introductions and contract discussions and planning but in the back of my head I kept hearing him say “What a way to start a partnership.” and every time I heard it, I smiled.

As far as our agents were concerned, the ‘partnership’ was for me to do a duet on one of the tracks on Jonathan’s first album. It would give him an edge in the US market and it would help my back-catalogue. Except that Jonathan’s tracks were so full of Jonathan that I didn’t fit into any of them.

By the end of the second day, tempers were fraying all around us but Jonathan kept his cool and he kept looking at me. His look said that we shared a secret, he and I; he just hadn’t told me what it was yet.

When my manager was ready to pull the plug and his manager was ready to say good riddance, Jonathan said, “What we need is a new track so why don’t you all bugger off and let me write one.”

He didn’t shout, didn’t even raise his voice but there was a tone of command, just slightly softened by a suggestion of amusement, that made everyone want to do what he said. The managers murmured about temperamental talent and shook their heads but we all got up to leave.

“Not you, Carol,” Jonathan said.  “This track will only work if we write it together.”

If it had been any one else I’d have assumed he was hitting on me: “Come spend a few hours alone in a sound-proof room – we’ll write a song.” Yeah, right! But Jonathan looked like he meant it, and anyway I had no objection to being hit on by Jonathan, so I waved my people away and he and I were alone together for the first time.

Jonathan stood with his back to the door everyone had just left through, leaning against it, his hands behind his tight little ass, his head tilted back and his eyes half closed. In T-shirt and jeans, with his hair in a mess and two day’s stubble on his chin, he looked ravishing. Sitting in my chair, looking up at him, I wanted to push my hands up under his shirt and feel the smooth hardness of his chest, bite his long neck, press my breasts against him, then slide down, rip open his jeans, take him in my mouth and tease him until he begged for mercy.

Jonathan opened his eyes and grinned at me. For a moment I thought he could read my thoughts. I may even have blushed.

He pushed off from the door and leant over me with his hands on the arms of my chair.

“So, Carol,” he said. “Do you know what we need to do now?”

Whatever he needed I was ready to give it to him. My mouth had gone dry and I didn’t trust my voice so I tilted my head to one side in a way that I hoped would look provocative.

“We need,” he said, leaning close enough that I could have traced the smile forming on his lips just by extending my tongue, “to eat.”

I didn’t have time to decide if I was disappointed or amused, Jonathan pulled me out the chair by my wrists and dragged me behind him towards the door.

“I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s cut,” he said pulling me level with him so that we had to squeeze out the door together and somehow his hand was on my hips and my arm was around his waist. We held each like that as we walked along the street to an Indian restaurant. The owner greeted Jonathan like a brother.

“I’ve been here a bit,” Jonathan said, “and it helps that I speak a little Bangla.”

Seeing the blank look on my face, he explained that Bangla was the Bengali language and he’d learned it when he’d lived there for a few years during his teens.

“I fell in love with all the best Bengali things: the poetry, the food and the women.”

He was holding my hand as he said this. That wasn’t as stereotypically romantic as it sounds. Traditional Bengali food is eaten with the fingers and Jonathan had come around behind my chair to show me how it was done. Having him bending over me from behind like that made all sorts of images flash through my head and every one of them made me hungrier for Jonathan.

“You put your left hand flat on your thigh like this,” he’d said, putting it in place. “Good.”

Good? Good! Touching my own thigh had just turned me into a puddle and all he could say was ‘Good’. Did he think I was a Labrador or something?

“Now use your right hand to pick up some rice, like this. Lean forward. Now take it into your mouth.”

His fingers were around mine as the food came up to my mouth. I wanted to suck them in and not let them go.

“What did you like about Bengali women?” I asked, trying to distract myself.

“Well, they have long slim necks,” he said, running his left thumb up my neck.

“Fine cheekbones.” His thumb continued to trace his words on my skin.

“High, broad foreheads.” The back of my head was pushed back against his belly.

“And they hold their backs straight.”

Both his hands were on my shoulders, pulling them back a little, lifting my breasts. I closed my eyes and left my head resting against his belly.

“Were they good in bed, your Bengali Ladies?”

Jonathan laughed and went back to his chair. I felt as if I’d suddenly been pushed away from the fire on a cold night.

“I was only fourteen years old,” Jonathan said. “So I never got to find out. But you can imagine how much I wanted to.”

I spent a couple of seconds imagining what Jonathan would look like when he really wanted a woman.

“Perhaps, I should pretend to be Bengali?”

“Did I mention that I have a thing for cowgirls?”

“Is it a big thing?”

“For the right cowgirl.”

This time I knew that I’d blushed.

I devoted myself to my food for a while and pretended not to notice that Jonathan was watching me with a grin on his face.

When my plate was clear, I looked up and he was still watching me.

“So, Carol,” he said, taking hold of my hands across the table. “Do you know what we need to do now?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

Twenty minutes later we were in his hotel room.

We didn’t speak and we didn’t make it to the bed. As soon as the door closed we faced each other and started to undress.

Jonathan’s skin was smooth and pale and almost completely hairless. His erection left no room for doubt about his excitement.

When men see me naked for the first time their eyes are normally on my breasts. I have good breasts. Jonathan’s eyes never left my face. My eyes went everywhere. I couldn’t stop smiling.

I let him pull me close to him, then I started to slide down his body, ready to taste him.

He grasped the tops of my arms and pulled me back up.

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

Then he kissed me and stopped the world.

It sounds nuts but I’d never been kissed like that before.  This wasn’t a prelude to something or a substitute for something. It was concentrated, 100%-proof desire.

He had to bend down to kiss me and at first only our mouths were touching. His lips were soft and mobile, moving rapidly across my mouth then settling into a slow firm contact. He put his arms around me, pressing me up on to my toes until I was stretched against him. Even with his erection pressing against my belly, it was his mouth that I wanted more of. I put my hands around his head and we breathed one another in.

Jonathan broke the kiss but didn’t release me. He looked into my eyes, searching for something. Then he grinned, said “Hang on tight, cow girl,” reached down and lifted me up onto his erection.

He told me later that he’d seen Patrick Swayze do that move in “Roadhouse” and had always wanted to try it.

I brought my legs up around his hips, he held his hands on my buttocks and just slipped into me, smooth and hot and slow and so fan-fucking-tasticly hard that I couldn’t breathe. Then he turned us both around, pressed me up against the door of his hotel room and fucked me.

We banged against the door so hard everyone in the hotel must have heard us but I didn’t care because he was in me and on me, touching me with his hands and his tongue, until there was nothing left but me and him and the fire we both fed. What I remember most is the delight I saw in his eyes as he pressed into me. It made me feel beautiful.

I came noisily, digging my nails into his shoulders. He grinned and pinned me to the door until I was done. He pulled out of me, his erection still swaying in front of him and led me to the bed.  With a smile he lay back, put his hands behind his head and said “Mount up, cow girl.”

I love being on top, especially when I’m already wet and I want to control the pace. I decided to give Jonathan the ride of his life. Straddling him I felt powerful and sexy but still hungry. I was always hungry for Jonathan. Riding him, summoning his desire, releasing my own, filled me with inexhaustible unashamed pleasure.

The next day we went back to the studio together and wrote “Pure Country” although Jonathan always maintained that it was already written in sweat in that hotel room and we’d just transcribed a fair copy.

For the next six month’s we were inseparable. We made the video together. Then I went on the “Lubed and Loaded” tour with him. We finished each show with a performance of “Pure” and then found somewhere private to remind ourselves how to fuck like rock and roll. The tour was sold out, the album had been in the charts for months and we were still so hot for each other that it was like being on drugs only without the crash afterwards.

But the crash came in the last week of the tour. I woke to find that Jonathan had left our hotel bed in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have been worried, Jonathan did that sometimes. “I’m going for a walk,” he’d say, as if we were at some English country house and not in the centre of an American city where only the poor and the brave walk at night. But as soon as I woke I knew something was wrong.

I’d sensed the wrongness while we were fucking before sleep. I’d known that Jonathan was wired and I’d wanted to soothe him. I’d intended a nice slow blow job or maybe just me riding him, my hands in his, him taking my weight, me squeezing him inside me until he had to push up deep and spill. We’d done that often and what I loved most about it was the way he’d smile at me afterwards.

This time Jonathan hadn’t smiled. He’d let me straddle him but he’d kept his eyes closed. He wasn’t very hard and I thought maybe he needed some encouragement so I’d swung off him and bent down to take him in my mouth.

I worked him for a while and things got better but when I said “Come on, Baby” and moved to straddle him again he rolled me over, pushed into me and help me tight, his face pushed into the pillow over my shoulder.

He ground me into the bed, not saying anything, not lifting his head, not doing anything except working his hips more and more franticly as if coming was something he was driven to. Afterwards he clung to me for a few seconds then he rolled off and turned onto his side with his back to me.

I waited for him to speak, to tell me what was wrong, but there was only a heavy silence that eventually led to sleep. Except he hadn’t slept; he’d left me alone in our bed. I wondered briefly if he’d left me altogether. Then I went to look for him.

He was sitting, cross-legged and naked, in the huge marble shower room. He had a joint in his hand and his eyes were empty. It looked as though he’d been crying.

I knelt in front of him, stroked his face and waited for him to come back.

“Sorry ’bout before,” he said, waving the joint in the direction of the bedroom. “Things in my head. Bad things. They leak sometimes.”

I took his hand in mine. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Remember, ‘Brave enough to cry’?”

“Yes.”

“It’s about Iraq.”

“I know.”

Jonathan’s publicist had made sure that everyone knew. The image of the handsome and sensitive Lieutenant Jonathan Ball riding into battle with his guitar strapped to his tank and composing songs in the desert made good copy.

“No. You don’t.”

“So, come back to bed and tell me”

Made pliant by the weed he let me lead him to bed. I thought at first he’d fallen asleep because he lay on his back, eyes closed and said nothing. Then quietly, as if he didn’t want to admit he was speaking, he told me his war stories, the ones that haunted him, the ones even his songs couldn’t exorcise.

He’d done nothing wrong, nothing beyond being a soldier in war. People die in wars. Women die. Children die. We all know that. But what most of us don’t know and what Jonathan couldn’t forget, is what it feels like to enter a just-shelled village and find only women and children, most of them dead or maimed, the survivors too shocked even to shout at the soldiers of the army that had shelled them.

I held his hand while he talked. He ended in the clipped tones I’d heard his father use. “Shouldn’t have been a target. Bad intel. No one’s fault. Bloody mess. Crying shame.”

I’d never understood what crying shame meant until I watched Jonathan that night.

When the flow of words stopped, I wrapped myself around him until I knew that he slept. Only then did I let myself cry.

Shit. I didn’t want to summon that memory. I wanted to think about the way he grinned as he undressed, the way his forearms flexed when he played guitar, the way he would impersonate his father and say, “We’ve been supplying the Army with Balls for generations, my dear.” Instead I remember how all the bad shit started.

Jonathan was high for most of the last week of the “Lubed and Loaded” tour. He’d always smoked to help him get mellow. That week he was so “mellow” I was amazed he could remember the words to his songs. He was too fried to have sex, although we tried once or twice.

When the tour ended I persuaded him to take some time out. We rented a house near St. Remy in the South of France and for a while, Jonathan came back to me.

It was my first time in France and I didn’t speak the language. Jonathan was fluent in French, right down to the Gallic shrugs and the hand waving, and he took pleasure in showing me the area. He knew where Van Gough had sat to paint, where the best vineyards where, what food to eat. He wasn’t showing off, just sharing his delight.

One of those delights was a slower; more sensual approach to sex that was less about frantic penetration and fierce release and more about continuous, pervasive arousal. I’ve always taken an athletic approach to sex, enjoying wrestling with my need, climbing and sliding and squeezing my way to pleasure. That summer, Jonathan taught me about stillness and surrender and serenity.

The lessons started late one sunny afternoon. I was lying naked on the huge old bed, high off the ground, gently glowing in the heat of Jonathan’s attention. He had arranged me, face-down, on the cool white linen, lifting and tying my hair, parting my legs so that they didn’t touch, even at the top and then telling me to close my eyes and lay still. Then he stood back and watched the afternoon sunlight, filtered through ancient green shutters, dappling my skin. He made me wait until I was almost certain that he had left or fallen asleep. Then I smelt the lavender oil and felt the first firm touch of his fingers on the back of my legs.

Jonathan worked naked, straddling me so that he could massage my shoulders and back with all his strength. After a time, he started to sing slow gentle wordless tunes that set the rhythm for his hands and my pleasure. I melted like candle wax in the flame of slow-burning arousal Jonathan lit.

When I was so relaxed I had abandoned all thought, Jonathan let his erection touch me. He brought my legs together, holding them in place with his knees on the outside of my thighs, and then slid between my oiled thighs until his cock was snug against my sex. His hands worked my neck and shoulders while all his weight pressed on my hips, pinning me to the bed, but never penetrating me. I stretched and twisted and squirmed under him until his belly was slick from the oil off my buttocks but still he would not enter me. So I lay still, focused all my attention on the places where he touched me and waited.

Jonathan traced my spine from neck to tail with his thumbs, then firmly pushed my buttocks apart. I think I said, “Please.” I know I was thinking it.  When his hands slipped over my hip bones and held them like handles, I let him pull me up onto all fours, still with my ass pressed against his belly.

He bent over me, one hand working my back, the other stroking my belly, sliding down over my mound until his fingers could spread my long labia and let him in. Jonathan entered me with one long slow push of hard heat that filled my senses, blanking out everything except the desire for more.

I pressed back, skewering myself on him, daring him to hold my hips and hammer away at me, hard enough to bruise, long enough to rip a climax from me. Jonathan wrapped one strong arm around my hips and used his other hand to pull my head back by the hair until my back was completely straight.

“Stay absolutely still, Carol. Now squeeze me as hard as you can.”

My consciousness shrank until I was nothing more than the muscles contracting around him. I squeezed so hard that I was breathless.

“Good. Now release.”

Letting go sent a ripple of soft pleasure through me.

“Now do it again.”

I grunted with effort and squeezed tight and fast, feeling the shape of him in my mind.

With each squeeze and release my arousal grew. When Jonathan finally spurted inside me it was as if all the tension, all the lust, all the heat, rushed through me from my belly to my head and I slipped into blackness.

I woke slowly. My body seemed to float. My mind was mellow.

“Welcome back,” Jonathan said.

“I blacked out.”

“Yes.”

“That’s never happened to me before.”

“Would you like it to happen to you again?”

There was a hint of amusement in Jonathan’s voice.

“Yes.” I said, pulling his head down onto my neck, “But not right now. Right now I’m too…

“…shagged-out to move?”

A very Jonathan expression for a very Jonathan reaction.

“That’s OK,” he said, “but move your arse over a bit so that I can lie beside you.”

His arms were around me and sleep was pulling at me but with the last of my energy I asked:  “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Play women the way you play your guitar.”

Jonathan moved his mouth close to my ear.

“It’s not like that,” he said, still sounding relaxed. “It’s not a performance. It’s more like writing a song.”

“Jonathan?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we write another song tomorrow?”

“You and me darlin’, we’re gonna write an album.”

Smiling, I slipped into sleep.

My memory of the rest of that summer is of a series of liquid afternoons that flow into one another, powered by Jonathan’s relentless desire.

Looking back, that summer in France was the only time that I was the most important thing in Jonathan’s life. Before that, music had often muscled me out of the way and after that, well after that everything just turned to shit.

I blame the President and that bitch from CNN for most of it.

When we got back to New York, the news was full of speeches from our beloved leader, pushing for a war in Iran to take people’s minds off the war in Iraq. It did something to Jonathan. I saw it in his face: something inside, something that had been wound up real tight had snapped and he wasn’t quite Jonathan anymore. He would shout at the TV when the President was speaking. It was like every speech was a personal attack on Jonathan. Then the dreams came back and after the dreams, the drugs.

I tried to distract him, to bring him back to lavender oil and sunshine, but I couldn’t get through. I knew he was writing, but he wouldn’t show me his work. He wouldn’t let me do anything. So I left.

I left him alone with his guilt-driven anger and his dreams and his words scratched into notebooks that he clutched to his chest with a passion he didn’t have for me anymore.

I left him alone.

I never meant it to be forever.

The next time I saw Jonathan he was on CNN. They’d started a new music program to try and get the attention of the 18 to 25 demographic: “Inside Tracks”, a pop-vid style bio doc inter-cut with sound-byte interviews with song-writers speaking over their current hits.

Jonathan had his act together well enough to field the first few questions from CNN’s weather-girl-disguised-as-music-critic. Then she hit him with the killer question:

“Jonathan, you’re a war hero [bright, encouraging smile] but your song, “Brave Enough To Cry” [cue song] is being seen as anti-war [furrowed brow, concerned look]. What message do you have to our brave men and women overseas? [leaning forward, cocking head to side to show listening and display best profile]”

The camera man must have scented blood because he went in for the full-face close-up. You could see the thought forming behind Jonathan’s eyes.

“I think they should be brave enough to come home.”

The interviewer-bitch knew she’d struck gold and she wanted more.

“But, Jonathan, don’t you think that they have a duty to obey their orders and defend this country’s interests?”

I’m certain that Jonathan knew what he was doing with his next answer. It was either brave or suicidal; I’m still not sure which.

“They have duty to be decent human beings. They have a duty to walk away from a war being fought to feed a weak man’s ego. They should be brave enough to come home and brave enough to remove anyone who tries to stop them.”

CNN cut the interview there but the damage had been done.

Before the end of the day there were calls for Jonathan to be deported. His album was pulled from the shelves after a couple of music stores were trashed by angry mobs.

I tried to contact him and get him to take his own advice and be brave enough to go home to the UK but he wouldn’t take my calls.

The next day he held a press conference. It’s been played so many times now it ought to have lost all impact. Except it hasn’t. For me it never will. I can summon it up just by closing my eyes: Jonathan looking like a solider, not a rock star; standing tall and straight, eyes forward, no trace of a smile. People at the back of the crowd chanting abuse. Jonathan’s too-English voice cutting through the noise, pushing out his challenge to the world.

“I was a solider. I served my country. I learnt that the bravest are not those who fire the guns but those who silence them.”

The shouting had died down. People were waiting to hear what Jonathan would say next.

He held his arms out wide, scanned the crowd slowly and said: “Show your bravery. Silence the guns. Make the politicians hear your silence.”

There was a moment, brief, precious, when everything stopped, when anything seemed possible.

When the man at the front of the crowd raised his gun, Jonathan saw him. He had time to move but he stayed still, arms outstretched, as if he was waiting, as if he had expected this all along.

The autopsy said that the bullet went through Jonathan’s heart, killing him instantly, but on film it looks as if there is still someone behind his eyes even as the force of the shot pushes him backwards.

The first time I watched Jonathan die, I was sitting alone in my hotel room, watching the live broadcast of the press conference. I didn’t shout or scream. I slid off the sofa on to my knees in front of the TV, unable to look away. I stayed on the floor, silently rocking, as broadcast after broadcast showed Jonathan dying again and again.

In a sense, I’m still kneeling on that floor six months later, hoping that if I rock hard enough for long enough I can call back that bullet. In the meantime, Jonathan has been turned into someone I don’t recognize: a martyr, a political activist, a dangerous subversive, a dead hero.

I want him back. I want him back so badly that there’s no room in my life for wanting anything else.

The world has moved on. “Brave enough to cry” is the anthem of the new peace movement. The album is back in the charts.

I am the only one still stricken by loss; unable to grieve and move on. I know that has to change.

I get up off the bed and switch off the TV. It’s time for me to deal with some unfinished business. On the morning of his press conference, Jonathan had a demo disc biked over to me. I haven’t listened to it yet. I haven’t dared.

The title of the song is scrawled in magic marker across the CD in Jonathan’s handwriting: “Running all the red lights”

For a moment, I can hear him behind me saying, “”You and me darlin’, we’re gonna write an album.” I slip the CD into the player, crank up the volume, close my eyes and listen.

A fast, loud, guitar intro that’s owes something to the “Boomtown Rats” and a lot to “Linkin Park” bursts into the room like a street brawl, followed by Jonathan’s voice, close to the top of his range, ragged at the edges, cutting into the noise of the guitar and feeding off it.

“Sometimes, when things get bad
And the world’s taken everythin’ you had
You start to drive and you don’t dare stop
Movin’s the only hope you’ve got

Fear is at your back. Hope is up ahead.
Life is in between but it feels more like your dead

So you’re running all the red lights
Yeah you’re running all the red lights
Till you get caught
Knowin’ you’ll get caught
Hopin’ you’ll get caught”

In my mind’s eye, I can see him bent over his guitar, head up, eyes closed, wanting you to feel his fear and desperation.

“Your baby’s at your side,
Full of fear her smile can’t hide
You know down deep she wants to run away
So you kick it up a gear cos you need for her to stay

Fear is on her back. She’s screaming in her head
You’d like to intervene but you can’t cos you’re dead

So you’re running all the red lights
Yeah you’re running all the red lights
Till you get caught
Knowin’ you’ll get caught
Hopin’ you’ll be caught”

I want to press eject. I want not to feel this pain. I want to know why the little shit left me.

“Even with her you’re alone
Your blood has turned to stone
But there’s no time left to weep
Death’s an appointment you must keep

Fear grips your heart. She let’s go your hand.
Your hoping when you’re dead she’ll finally understand

You can’t keep running all the red lights
Gotta stop running all the red lights
Because you’ve been caught
You know you’ve been caught
You’re glad that you’ve been caught”

Silence fills the room as the track finishes.

“Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.”

The voice shouting the word is mine but I can’t make it stop.


© Mike Kimera 2006 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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