SCAR – Chapter 2

-2-

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

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

*****

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

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

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

“Thank you. I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sceptic.”

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

“What about this?”

“Warm but also moist”

“I think you should explore further”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

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

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

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

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

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of us looked at him.

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

Then she was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.”

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow”

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

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

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

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

-2-

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

 

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

 

*****

 

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

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

 

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

“Thank you. I think.”

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

“Sceptic.”

 

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

 

“What about this?”

 

“Warm but also moist”

 

“I think you should explore further”

 

“Like this?”

 

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

 

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Neither of us looked at him.

 

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

 

Then she was gone.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.”

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow”

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

 

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

-2-

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

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

*****

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

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

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

“Thank you. I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sceptic.”

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

“What about this?”

“Warm but also moist”

“I think you should explore further”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

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

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

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

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

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of us looked at him.

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

Then she was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.”

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow”

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

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

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

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

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

 

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

The Enclave: Chapter 1 – a new arrival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d get used to it.

We all do.

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

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

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

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

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

I waited.

She did not nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The slap across her face seemed to astound her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I waited. A small tear escaped down one cheek.

You have to admire the control that that implies.

Mrs C nodded.

Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, if you’re sure.” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ask Alice

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

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

I’m happy to receive any comments. Enjoy.

(c) Mike Kimera 2010, All rights reserved.

“Carol, this is Alice.”

Alice is small, round, pale and naked.

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

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

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

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

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

I turn towards Alan.

“You’re sure she’s OK with this?”

“Ask her.”

“But…,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alice looks down.

Alan brushes the hair back from her forehead.

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

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

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

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

I look up at Alan.

“And she, er… likes women?”

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

“Oh God.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about what gets you off.”

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

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

I didn’t reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that all about?”

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

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

Alice is mine if I want her.

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

It is perfect.

Isn’t it?

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

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

I allow myself to touch her.

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

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

She closes her eyes and waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stand up, straightening my dress as I rise.

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

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

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

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

The Way of the Courtesan : Chapter 2 : Lady Sabine

Jenna and Jacob were wrestling naked at the foot of Lady Sabine’s bed. Their straining sweat-slick muscles gleamed like oiled metal in the candlelight.  Sabine lay back against her pillows and watched the two contestants, admiring their strength, their grace and, most of all, their disciplined aggression.

At any moment, her life might depend upon that discipline. Jenna and Jacob were Sabine’s security staff. One of them was always by her side. Officially, of course, Jenna was her handmaiden. Women, the Brotherhood believed, lacked the killer instinct needed for security work.

The world could be a dangerous place for a retired Courtesan with friends in Court. The Brotherhood, despite its name, was fuelled by the politics of enmity not fraternity. Faction fought faction for dominance in an endless cycle of betrayal. Removing enemies via assassination, although illegal, was not uncommon. Lady Sabine had as many enemies as she had friends. Some of them were the same people.

Jenna let out a whoop of triumph when she managed to kick Jacob’s feet out from under him. He was a foot taller than she was and a hundred pounds heavier but she claimed that that just made him a bigger, slower target. Even as he was falling towards the ground, Jacob’s hand lashed out and struck Jenna behind the knees. She landed on top of him in a tangle of limbs.

The wrestling bout was a weekly ritual with them. The winner would sleep with Sabine while the other kept guard. At the moment it looked as though Jacob was winning. He was on his back holding Jenna against him, her back to his chest. Jacob’s huge hands were wrapped around Jenna’s wrists, trying to hold her in place as she struggled to break free. For the bout to be over, all Jenna had to do was lie still for three seconds.

Jacob smiled in anticipation when he felt Jenna go limp. He let his gaze move to Sabine. It had been two weeks since he had last won a bout and he looked hungry for his reward. Jenna took advantage of his distraction to slide further down his body, until her buttocks were rubbing against his loins. She moved her hips in a figure of eight, pressing her shoulders into Jacob’s chest to gain leverage. She was seemed to be holding him down now. Jenna mewed like a contented cat when she felt Jacob’s hardening below her.

“You are cheating,” Jacob said.

“And you’re too horny to fight,” Jenna said, bringing her thighs together and trapping Jacob’s robust erection.

What happened next was too fast for Sabine to follow. Jacob’s body seemed to flex and suddenly Jenna was face down on the floor beneath him.

“Yield!” Jacob hissed, his mouth just behind Jenna’s ear.

“Fuck you!”

“Then suffer the consequences.”

Jacob slid into Jenna, literally pinning her to the floor. Jenna continued to writhe beneath Jacob, but it didn’t seem to Sabine that she was suffering.

Jacob was good man, loyal and brave, but he lacked Jenna’s tactical brilliance and was completely bemused by her sense of humour. Jenna closed her eyes and chewed on her generous lower lip. Sabine had seen her do that many times before. It was a trick she used to hold back her orgasm.  Sabine knew that, although Jacob thought he was winning, the truth was that Jenna had changed the game and was already enjoying the rewards of victory.

Sabine was about to declare a draw and take them both to her bed, at least for the first hour, when her signet ring vibrated. She had not expected this signal until morning. She clapped her hands and immediately both of her security struggled rapidly to their feet.

“My Lady?” Jacob said, standing to attention. Sabine wanted to laugh when she saw just how much of him was standing to attention. Jenna grinned at her.

“No need to look so serious, Jacob. I’m tired. I want to do my devotions and go to bed. I will be in the shrine. Make sure I am not disturbed.”

The code was necessary in case there were any listening devices in the room. Jacob and Jenna knew what to do. They were all business now. They didn’t look naked any more, they just looked dangerous. Jenna worked at the door console, activating the scrambling devices that protected the room from electronic surveillance. Jacob used his comlink on his wrist to give instructions to House Security.

Sabine left them to their tasks and cleared her mind to concentrate on her own.

The shrine in the alcove at the far end of Lady Sabine’s chamber was a testimony to her piety. It was dominated by a huge painting of the Founder holding out the Book of the Brotherhood to the original Brethren, each of whom had a woman kneeling at his side. A leather-bound copy of the Book of the Brotherhood was open on the altar, displayed upon back of a gold figure of a kneeling woman. Sabine pressed her ring against the woman’s feet. The picture above the altar shimmered and the Founder’s image was replaced by that of the Abbess of Leyston Abbey.

“Nina,” Sabine said, “you are early. Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem, just a change in schedule. My Lord Ravier is so taken with Rachel that he is breaking with tradition and has arranged to be airlifted from the Abbey at first light. He will be with you before noon. As we expected, he wants you to perform the defloration ceremony.”

Sabine had planned on having at least three more days to prepare herself. Ravier was a vocal advocate of the view that dependence on technology made men soft. Technology was made by women to aid the weak. Real men, he argued, should travel on horseback, hunt with bows and arrows, and kill face to face using bare hands or cold steel.

They had all expected that Ravier and his entourage would spend three days travelling with Rachel, giving her time to influence them and make them more tractable. Now they would be arriving rested and fresh and most of them would have had almost no contact with Rachel. Sabine would have to arrange something special to distract them.

“Rachel was magnificent, Sabine,” Nina said. “She is everything we hoped for and more.”

“And Ravier suspected nothing?”

“He believes that he swept in here and carried Rachel away against my wishes, humiliating me in the process.”

“And did he humiliate you?”

“He tried. He held the Assessment in front of Rachel’s class. He made me touch her. Then he made me stroke him until he spewed his seed all over her.”

“But the Assessor has no sexual involvement…”

“Rachel asked to see him. She made him take part.”

“Wonderful. Heretical of course, but all the more wonderful for that. You made a recording I assume?”

“Celia is taking it with her to De Marco’s for safekeeping. He made her watch the whole thing. I think it was the first time that she understood our purpose with her heart, rather than her head. She wanted to destroy him.”

“Your daughter is a strong woman, just like her mother.”

“She is. I told her that her work at De Marco is her route to striking back at the Brotherhood.”

“And Rachel? Is there anything I need to know?”

“She doesn’t suspect anything, if that’s what you mean. She believes what her memory tells her: that she was adopted by the Abbey, has been a successful student, but that her high sex drive gives her a vocation as a Courtesan. At least the last part of it is true enough. She enjoys her calling, I have seldom seen anyone orgasm so often or so easily, not even you.”

Sabine smiled at the comparison. Many years before Nina became an Abbess, she had been a member of Sabine’s Security. She was a skilled lover and a loyal friend. When she became pregnant, Sabine had arranged for Nina to join the Abbey, where she could bring up her child in peace.

“There is one potential problem,” Nina said. “We may have misjudged her pheromone output. In the presence of a male she is attracted to, it seems to increase exponentially. It is so strong it even affected me. We will have to find a way to adjust that in future. In the meantime, I’d suggest using nose filters when you can. Now I must go. My thoughts will be with you tomorrow.”

Nina vanished in a flicker of colour and Sabine was once more standing in front of a picture of the Founder.

Alone in her shrine, Sabine allowed herself a small moment of fear. The game they were playing offered high rewards but it was fraught with risk.

Ravier would be with her in the morning and she would meet Rachel for the first time. In their way, they were each monsters. Yet she felt a perverse attraction to both of them. The wanton had always appealed to her. When she was young, way back before she had received her first off-world rejuve treatment, desire would hit her like a breaking wave, leaving her gasping for breath. Sixty years later, her passions were still strong but her will was stronger. Tomorrow she would need all of it.

As a Courtesan, Sabine had learned how to live in the now when she needed to. Tomorrow’s problems could wait. Tonight she needed to feel safe; she needed to feel loved.

Stepping back into her room, she clapped her hands once more. Jacob and Jenna came to her. Sabine put her arms around them and led them to her bed.

“Soothe me, please,” she said, guiding their heads towards her breasts.

Sabine watched in the mirror as two young heads dropped eagerly to suckle her. Rejuve, the privilege of an elite few, was a wonderful thing in many ways, Sabine thought. The woman in the mirror looked no more than thirty, although, in reality she was three times that age. But there was a price. Over time it became more and more difficult to feel joy and excitement. Emotions seemed muted, except under extreme circumstances.

Jenna trapped Sabine’s nipple between her teeth and growled playfully. The mild pain sparked a familiar heat between Sabine’s thighs. Jacob moved behind her. She pressed her shoulders against the hard warmth of his chest as Jenna moved from breast to breast, setting her nipples on fire. Jacob lowered his large mouth onto her neck and kissed her along the taught line of muscle.

“Take me,” Sabine said.

Jenna stood up and kissed Sabine gently on the lips. There was affection as well as pleasure in that touch.

“Sit, Jacob,” Jenna said.

She held Sabine close to her while Jacob positioned himself on the edge of the bed. Jenna’s breasts were small. Her hard nipples pressed against Sabine as if trying to penetrate her soft flesh.

“Look how hard he is, my Lady. Let me see you ride him. Please.”

Turning her back to Jacob, Sabine lowered herself onto him as slowly as she could. It was gratifying to hear him groan and to know that only self-discipline prevented him from grabbed her and thrusting and thrusting until he found relief deep inside her. Instead he waited while the women set the pace.

Sabine closed her eyes as the last of Jacob’s erection disappeared inside her. She concentrated on the shape of it; on its incredible heat. It was such an alien thing and yet it felt so familiar, so necessary. She flexed her muscles and felt Jacob tremble.

“You look magnificent,” Jenna said, sliding the back of her fingers across Sabine’s cheek. “May I?”

Without waiting for an answer, Jenna slowly pushed Sabine backward onto Jacob’s chest. Jacob folded his arms around her, cupping her breasts gently in his strong hands. Jenna knelt, placed her hands on the top of Sabine’s thighs, and applied her tongue to her mistress’ sex.

Sabine gave herself up to the sensation of the moment and let her people soothe her.

Jenna worked slowly and skilfully, touching the right spots with the right pressure and then moving away just before she brought Sabine to climax. In between, she licked at the base of Jacob’s shaft, each stroke making him twitch and struggle deep inside Sabine. Jenna knew the preferences of both of her partners well. When the time was right, she took Sabine’s clitoris between her teeth and slid a finger inside Jacob. Sabine held out until she felt him spill inside her, then she let the climax ripple through her, washing away everything except the experience of pleasure.

Afterwards, with Jacob on guard and Jenna curled up next to her, Sabine allowed herself to think about what the morning would bring. Nothing was certain. The risks were many. She had done all she could to prepare. She offered her good will to the Gods of chance and chaos and let herself sleep.

 

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

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

American Holidays 5: Thanksgiving

My understanding is that Thanksgiving is fundamentally a family holiday in the US. People will travel great distances to be together with their families on that day.

Erotica and families make uncomfortable bed fellows. Apart from stories with a (usually extremely unrealistic) fetish for incest, most protagonists in erotic stories spring whole onto the page with neither parents nor children to distract their focus from sexual satisfaction. Yet our families are an inescapable and sometimes inscrutable part of our identity.

In this story, I wanted to understand how little Helen grew up to be a sexually dominant woman and I wanted to set her relationship with Peter in to the context of her relationship with her parents.

I hope you enjoy the result.

 

Thanksgiving

“You want me to sleep here?”

“Well this is where you slept when you lived here, Helen. Why should it change now? I thought you’d be pleased to have your old room back.”

I try to read my mother’s face. She must being doing this deliberately. And she must know that I can see what she is doing. But she still has that innocent, not-quite-connected-to-planet-earth look that she uses to avoid any minor questions about her decisions that my father might be rash enough to voice.

I stare in disbelief at the single bed that I slept in as a child. It’s a very narrow single bed.

“I know that you prefer to ignore the fact that Peter and I are married mother, but he is my husband and I expect to have him in my bed. We can’t sleep here.”

“Really, Helen, I have no idea where you get these impressions from. I have no opinion about Peter. As I said at the time, who you chose to marry was up to you.”

What she’d said at the time was “Are you sure you want to marry Paul, dear? He’s such a bland man. I can see the advantage of having someone manageable but marriage needs a little spice if it’s to last. I’ve always preferred to wake up to Huevos Rancheros, the problem with Paul is that he’s just so… oatmeal.”

I’d stood there, with my hands balled into fists and my jaw clenched, trying to quell the desire to hit her.

“His name is Peter, mother,” I’d spat out.

“You see, dear, not even his name is memorable. Ah well. It is your decision of course.”

Now, seven years later, I find myself having to bite back my anger one more time. My mother is talking. I’m trying not to strangle her.

“I didn’t think that you and Peter would mind being separated for one night. I’ve given him the fold-down bed in your father’s den. He’ll be perfectly comfortable. I had to give the guest bedroom to Troy and Dianna; after all they have the baby to think of.”

The baby. Of course we should be thinking about the baby. My younger brother (what kind of mother calls their kids Helen and Troy?) produced a grandchild right off the bat. I of course committed the sin of putting my career ahead of my duty to deliver grandchildren, although even that became Peter’s fault in my mother’s mind. “If Peter has a problem dear, I can recommend an excellent clinic.” My mother had left that helpful tip on our answerphone in the second year of my marriage. Peter played it back to me when I got home from work.

I don’t resent the fact that Troy and Dianna got the big bed. I resent the implication that Peter is so bland that I won’t even notice his absence.

“I want him here with me, mother.”

Even I can hear how petulant I sound.

“Well if it’s that important to you, dear. I’ll ask your father to move the fold-down bed in here. I’m sure he won’t mind. Although of course he has only just set everything up the den. But then your father always makes sure that his little Helen gets what she wants, doesn’t he?”

I don’t believe it. She is still jealous of the fact that Dad will do things for me.

“There won’t be a lot of room in here. You’ll have to fold up the bed before you can open the door. But, if that’s what you want…”

Oh God. It is always like this. A constant trickle of words that erode my will. I either have to get angry or to shut down and give in. Giving in is easier. If I push her now, the topic will come up at dinner. And again in the morning. And in the next time we come to the house. If there is a next time.

“Never mind, mother. Peter can stay where he is. Let’s just concentrate on getting dinner ready.”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”

How did this woman live so long?

“You look tense, Helen. Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up? Dianna is changing the baby in the bathroom but you can use the en suite in the master bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

And then she is gone. The relief is physical, like when your ears pop at altitude.

I don’t really need to freshen up but it gives me a reason to delay going downstairs. Nothing has changed in my parents’ bedroom. The huge wrought iron bed with the chintz canopy over it is still there. I used that bed the first time that I fucked Peter. I used it because I liked the headboard, because I wanted revenge on my mother for all the times I’d had to listen to her thrashing in this bed in the middle of the night, and because I wanted to see if good, nice, sensible Peter Brader would do what I wanted him to do.

I sit on the stool by the dressing table and summon up the memory of a nineteen year old Peter, lying on this bed with his wrists tied to the headboard; so calm and trusting that, except for the impressive erection he was saluting me with, he might almost have been ready to sleep.

Other boys I’d known had only pretended to submit. They’d made comments as I tied them to establish that it was all a game and as soon as they’d come; they’d started to fret at their bonds, demanding to be let free. Peter didn’t do any of that. He just waited for me to use him. But his serenity wasn’t passive. Somehow it managed to amplify everything I did. The harder I fucked him, the harder I wanted to fuck him. His cock was my lightening rod, calling me forth, daring me to spend myself on him, taking everything that I could give and leaving me discharged and sated.

Afterwards I’d left him tied to the bed while I sat and brushed my hair. A beam of sunlight was shining down on him, highlighting the sweat on his muscles and the small scratches and bites I’d visited on him. He looked happy, even grateful. I’d shown him my wildest side. I’d sworn and fucked and bitten and scratched and shouted my come with my head thrown back and he hadn’t pulled away, he hadn’t been threatened. He was waiting for more. He was waiting for me. For the first time in my adult life I felt as if I’d found a home.

Peter wasn’t my first fuck, but he was my first lover. Actually, he is my only lover. To me that is a statement of how rich my life is rather than how narrow my experience has been.

“Helen dear, if you’ve finished up there, you can help your father lay the table.”

The sound of my mother’s voice makes me feel guilty and furtive and childish. I get off the stool quickly and smooth the cover of the bed, as if I had just used it. Why does coming home always turn me back into a little girl? And why do I hate that so much?

There are six of us at dinner but there is food for at least a dozen. The conversation is stilted at first. Troy and Peter have the mandatory road-number-filled review of the drive to my parents’ house, even though I actually did the driving. I ask Dianna about the baby, revealing my ignorance of modern childrearing with each question that I ask. Mother fusses over dad, ensuring that he gets the best slices of meat, touching his hand when she passes him things, keeping his glass full. She always makes sure that he knows he is the centre of her attention. Dad catches me watching them and gives me an unapologetic grin. This is how the world is, that grin says, and it’s too late now to change it.

As the wine flows, words become easier for everybody but me. I feel as though an invisible barrier has settled between me and everyone else. I watch but I don’t speak.

Peter fits in so well. He is a good listener. People relax when they talk with him. When they talk with me it is as if they are always just a little on their guard. Dianna is talking to him now. Peter isn’t talking to her about the baby. Somehow he has learnt that she paints and within a few moments the woman I could barely exchange a word with is sharing her passion for abstract art.

As the courses go by I drink and eat more than I should. I want to speak to Troy. I want to sit and exchange deep truths with him, except that those truths remain just out of reach of my tongue so I remain silent. By the time we reach desert I am quite drunk. It seems to me that Peter has abandoned me. Everyone has abandoned me.

“I think you might want to have little lie down, dear.”

My mother is leading back to my little virgin bed. I’d protest except that I can’t find the words. And I’m tired. Very, very tired.

I wake with a fierce thirst and a vicious headache. It’s dark. I’ve slept through the afternoon. I groan in self-pity. I’ve made such a fool of myself. I know that mother will be secretly pleased.

I want Peter. Except Peter isn’t here, my mother saw to that.

Sitting up is not pleasant so I lie down again.

The room has not changed since I left it seven years ago. I’ve changed so much since then that it seems incongruous for me to be occupying the same space that I did then. Peter is responsible for most of those changes. Living up to how he sees me, using the quiet space he provides for me to seek refuge in, has changed who I am.

Who would I have been without Peter?

Back before Peter, I’d never really been that comfortable with boys. It wasn’t that I was shy; it was more that I saw them too clearly and I didn’t like what I saw. For them, girls were trophies to show off to other boys. I used to imagine them at swap meets, talking to each other about girls like they were baseball cards: “Had her. Had her. Had her. Want her. I’ll swap you two Heathers for an Alicia.”  But the worse thing was that, when it came to sex, they all seemed to want to be in charge although very few of them seemed to know what to do.

I knew enough about my own body to know what I wanted: where and how I wanted to be touched and for how long. I also knew the kind of body I wanted to do the touching: tall, lean, strong. Unfortunately, most of those bodies seemed to come with the supersized ego option as standard.

I tried a few anyway. It wasn’t hard to get their attention, I was attractive enough in a petite, androgynous sort of way, the challenge was to stay in control. The first couple of attempts were an education.

“Tall ‘n’ Lean #1” put his hands everywhere but he didn’t know what to do with them. And he got irritated when I moved around. I was supposed to be his bendyfucktoy, something he could pose for his convenience. His dick was nice: smooth and hard; but he wasn’t interested in me touching it for long, he wanted to “slide it home”. I moved to climb up on his lap but he wanted me on my back. He wasn’t in me for long before he came. Then he asked me if I wanted to go get a burger. I realized I’d just had the sexual equivalent of a drive thru meal: smells good, is over too quickly and lies like a lump on your stomach afterwards.

“Tall ‘n’ Lean #2” wasn’t interested in entering anything other than my mouth. He wanted me on his knees, looking up into his eyes. I had no objection to the idea in principal. It was corny but it had a sense of theatre to it. What turned me off was him placing his hand on the back of my head and using my mouth like an extension of his hand. I’ve seen drains unblocked with more finesse. I had to grab his balls to make him stop. I thought he’d be angry with me, maybe even try to hit me, but he actually whined like a little boy, “What did you do that for?” It was the question I was beginning to ask about sex as a whole.

I decided to do some research before seeking out “Tall ‘n’ Lean #3”. I went to Barnes and Noble to see what kind of books I could find on sex. I’d done the “Insert Part A into Part B” manuals and the “Joy of Sex” hippy-type manuals but they didn’t give me what I wanted. They were too much like cookery lessons and not enough like good food. I moved on to the erotica section and found “The Story of O” and “The Taking of Sleeping Beauty”. They definitely got my attention. Hours of it. The thing was, I didn’t want to be O or Beauty, I wanted to be the person doing things to them. Well not them in particular. I wanted to be doing things to “Tall ‘n’ Leans”. I’d lie in my narrow little bed, exhausted from my reading or listening to my parents having sex in the room next door, and I’d think about what it would be like to have that kind of control. Then I got to thinking about how I might make it happen. As it turned out it wasn’t that difficult but it wasn’t that much fun either.

I found “Tall ‘n’ Leans #3” in a Karate class. I’d signed up because I wanted to be able to protect myself and because I figured the boys there would be more disciplined. He was beautiful, his sweat smelled good, he was a black belt and he was older than me. I waited for him in the parking lot after class. I had decided to be direct.

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

He didn’t look stunned, offended or even pleased, just curious.

“Are you sure you mean it that way around? Most girls want me to fuck them.”

“I’m very sure.”

He eyes licked slowly over me body. Then he smiled.

“OK.” He said, like he was agreeing to grab a pizza, “but I have a question.”

“?”

“What’s your name?”

I blushed at that. It hadn’t occurred to me that while I’d been noticing the muscles in his forearm and the tight curve of his butt, all he’d been paying attention to was his Karate technique.

My parents were away on one of their pagan weekends. Sex was the bedrock of their marriage; you only had to look at the two of them together to see that. The pagan weekends gave them the opportunity to concentrate on fucking each other’s brains out without worrying about making a noise.

I’d decided to have a mini pagan weekend of my own. I brought Tall ‘n’ Leans #3″ back to my house. I was more than a little nervous. He didn’t touch me or hassle me but there was a confidence behind his eyes that was unsettling. I took him into my dad’s Den and gave him the speech I’d rehearsed.

“OK, here are the rules. I want to fuck you. I want you to do what I tell you while I fuck you. If you don’t do what I tell you, the fucking will stop. Do you understand?”

It was supposed to be my first step to establishing mastery over him. He sat on the edge of my dad’s desk, like he had a right to be there, and said, “That speech would work better if you said ‘I am going to fuck you. You will do what I want’. You have to sound like you mean it.”

He slipped off the desk and on to his knees in front of me without breaking eye contact.

“Tell me how to serve you, Mistress.”

In theory this was just what I wanted. But he was laughing at me. It was gentle laughter, but laughter all the same.

“Shit.” I said.

For a second he looked surprised. He thought I was giving an instruction.

“I so wanted to tie you to my dad’s chair and tease you and fuck you. But it’s not going to work is it?”

He stood up, lifting me like I weighed nothing at all and placed me on dad’s desk. I felt a little bit of panic and a lot of excitement.

“Your dad’s chair? How old are you, Helen? No. Don’t answer that. You’re a pretty girl, Helen, and a brave one. You know what you want but you don’t yet know how to recognize who can give it to you.”

I’d known he was a little older than me but I hadn’t expected him to talk to me like I was a child. Who did he think he was, my camp counselor?

“Well why did you come here then?” My eyes were hot with embarrassment.

“You sounded convincing in the parking lot. And I don’t mind switching from time to time.”

“Switching?”

“I’m a Dom, Helen. I normally do the tying up.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“No. But I think you need to learn to recognize a sub when you meet one.”

Then he kissed me. It was a slow kiss, passionate but friendly. It made me wonder what it would be like to be tied up by him. To let him do whatever he wanted. Then he wasn’t kissing me anymore.

“Gotta go, Helen. My name is Jon, by the way. I’ll see you at Karate next week.”

I picked up a book from the desk and threw it, but it only hit the door closing behind him. I was mad at Jon for the rest of the day. Then I started to think about how things might have gone wrong: about the risks that I’d taken; about how gentle he’d been. Gentle and strong. I could see why women would let him tie them.

Jon and I became friends but not lovers. He gave me things to read and told me about his life. I left the “Tall ‘n’ Leans” alone for a while and concentrated on getting to college. I’d gotten through two more “Tall ‘n’ Leans” in college before I met Peter, both of them one night stands, both of them left me feeling hungry and somehow cheated.

My head is feeling better so I check my watch. Somehow it has reached 10pm. I’ve missed Thanksgiving and they’ve all forgotten about me. I hug my sense of hurt to me tightly. It serves me right that I’ve been abandoned. You see I made a mistake. Such a big mistake. I gave Peter away to my best friend. I was so sure of him you see. So certain that I was what he wanted. I thought I could lend him out. Share him with a friend.

It started out Ok. Barbara was sad and needed comfort so I tied Peter and blindfolded him and then I shared him with her. It was fun. It felt human and loving. I was so proud of all of us. But the thing is, I get jealous. Just the way my mother does. I hate myself for it but I can’t help it.

I’d invited Barbara to stay with us, to join the Peter and Helen household. I knew they liked each other but I was too vain to think it through. And then I saw how Peter looked at her. How he wanted her. It was my doing, not his. Peter followed my lead, trusting me to do the right thing, and I gave him away.

Except Barbara gave him back. Barbara gave him back. I don’t know if he’d have come back on his own.

I must still be a little drunk. I’ve spent months carefully not thinking about this and now I’m crying into my pillow afraid that Peter hasn’t really come back to me.

You see, I know that I’m not worthy of Peter. I’m not really the person he deserves. For weeks now I’ve been watching him, wondering if I’m living in a charade; whether Peter would rather be with Barbara but is just too nice to leave me. Maybe my mother was right to put him on the other side of the house.

“Helen?”

Peter is standing over me. I didn’t even hear him come in. I sit up on the bed, conscious of how red my eyes must be and how strongly I must smell of drink. I want to get up and hug him but I can’t make myself move.

Peter has brought the toybag with him. I didn’t even know he’d packed it. Shit, he’s brought the toybag to my parents’ house.

He places the toybag on the bed beside me. Normally I choose the toys, but this time it is Peter who opens the bag. He takes out the strap-on. It’s a complicated affair. The strap that goes between my legs will push a dildo and a buttplug into me and leave a long thin curved black latex cock jutting out from my belly.

“I’d like you to use this. I want us to make some noise”.

Peter wants me to fuck him and he wants everyone to know its happening. Joy spreads through me like liquid sunlight. Peter wants me.

He’s been watching me figure it out. When he sees my smile start, he kisses me. I am sleeping beauty being brought back to life. Except I’m going to reward my Prince by reaming his ass as hard as I can.

I take the strap-on from him.

“Strip, Peter,” I say.

He sheds his clothes calmly but quickly. He is already hard. I make him wait while I shrug out of my clothes, then I stand with one leg on the bed and tell him to tool me up. I mean to sound stern but I can’t keep the joy out of my voice.

Then it starts for real. Peter lubes me slowly and thoroughly and straps me tight. With both holes full and a strong black cock thrusting in front of me I feel powerful and as randy as hell.

“Get on your back on the bed, Peter, and hold onto to your ankles.”

I love the sound of that. Love the calm excitement with which he obeys. He doesn’t ask why he’s on his back when he should be bent over. He does what I tell him.

I spread lube over my mockcock, place my finger and thumb around the base of Peter’s erection and push the strap-on hard into his anus.

“Keep your hands around your ankles, Peter.” Then I make the noise he’s been waiting for: in my best rodeo tones I shout, “YEEHAW” and we’re off.

I ride him hard enough to make him buck on the bed. I keep his cock in my hand like a joystick or perhaps a saddle horn, squeezing it as I pound his ass. The harder I push into him the deeper the dildo rises into me. When I’m close, I slap his hands away from his ankles, lift his feet up over my shoulders and fuck for depth. The bed is bouncing now.

“Jack-off, Peter. Jack-off hard.”

His hand moves eagerly on his cock. I am so close that I’m groaning as I grind into him. The heat of his sperm splashing onto my belly pushes me over and I growl my come at him.

I pull out of Peter’s poor abused asshole and collapse on top of him. I feel strong and whole and loved.

Peter holds me gently and whispers, “Welcome back, Helen”.

It turns out that the bed is not too narrow if we lie like spoons. As I fall asleep I remember that I’m still wearing the strap-on but I’m too tired to move.

We are both sore the next morning but that doesn’t stop us grinning at one another.

“Do you think they heard us?”

“Your parents’ bedroom is still next door isn’t it, Helen?”

We both laugh.

At breakfast I wait for my mother to say something. She discusses the weather and asks if we really have to leave straight after breakfast but makes no mention of our exploits. As we say our goodbyes, mother hugs Peter and says something to him. I miss the exchange because I have a crying baby in my arms at the time.

When I’ve driven as far as the freeway, I ask Peter what my mother said.

“She told me you were lucky to have me.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that you would always have me and that I would always give thanks for that.”

I try to imagine the expression on my mother’s face when she heard that. I decide that it would probably be one of approval. “Thank God for Peter”, I think to myself. Then I start to look for the next rest stop. I want a quiet place where we can do a bit more thanksgiving.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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

American Holidays 1 : Memorial Day

“Memorial Day” was originally a free-standing story, prompted by some discussion about threesomes: why they are such a common fantasy, whether the fantasy is the same for women as for men, and what threesomes are like in reality.

I wanted to write a story about a threesome between people who had known each other a while and had some affection for one another. As I started to think this through, the characers took on voices of their own and I realized that they had more to say and that nothing is as simple as it first seems. So I extended the thinking into the “American Holiday” series.

Even now, the voices of the characters are not silent in my head. From time to time one or more of them whispers to me, “Don’t you think we deserve to be a novel?” What do you think?

Memorial Day

“So what was your best?”

“Best what?”

“Best erotic experience.”

Mark is a sex bore. He talks about it so much it’s a wonder he gets time to do it.

“Mine was with two Swedish twins in a sauna,” he says, leaning towards me conspiratorially. “I’d added a day to a Swiss business trip to get some skiing in and these two and I were first back to the hotel from the piste. Well, you know how the Europeans are with saunas, everyone together and no clothes allowed. Just one of these girls would have been amazing — snow white hair, all-over tan and sleek body — but twins! I thought I’d died and gone to pussy heaven.”

I hate men who say pussy like that. Like a woman starts and ends at her cunt. But I’ve known Mark since grade school, so I give him some latitude. Turning slightly away from him, I look toward the lake where my wife, Helen, and Barbara are sunning themselves. They are the best of friends, and they tell each other everything. I want to sit quietly beside them and listen to their talk. Instead I am standing next to Mark at the BarBQ pit, burning burgers.

“So anyway, the shock came when the first one took me inside her. In the heat of the sauna her pussy felt cool. No shit. Cool pussy from an ice maiden in a sauna. How sexy is that! Then, when her sister joined in…”

I think Mark is making this up. Maybe the twins were real. Maybe he even saw them in the sauna. But I want to believe that he doesn’t cheat on Barbara on his business trips.

I am a little in love with Barbara. Helen pointed it out to me one night as we drove back from dinner at their house. She said that she’d noticed that Barbara is always the last person I look at in a room, and that I avoid being alone with her, both sure signs of my attraction. Denial would have been pointless; Helen knows me too well. After a few seconds of guilt-ridden silence, Helen pulled the car over to the side of the road, and right there, on a tree-lined suburban street, where nice neighbors repaint their picket fences every spring, she fucked me. She didn’t say a word. Mouth on mine, she freed my cock, pushed aside her panties and rode me. I came like a boy. She grinned at me, held my face in her hands and said, “If you ever call me Barbara while we fuck, I’ll cut your dick off.” Then she drove us home.

Only when Mark says, “Your turn,” do I realize I’ve missed his sauna-sex story, and he is now waiting for mine.

“Come on Pete”, he says, “even a terminally married man like you must have had some erotic adventures.’ Fess up”

An image of Helen blossoms in my mind. She is nineteen and has just let me fuck her for the first time. She’d insisted that we use her parents’ bed. “It will make up for all the times I’ve had to listen to them screwing,” she’d said as she led me into the master bedroom. I am lying on my back, wrists still tied to the headboard, sated and happy, watching her between half closed eyes, pretending to be asleep. She is sitting at her mother’s dressing table, brushing her long black hair. The sun streaming through the window behind her seems to me to be a kind of halo. She leans her head to one side so that she can push the comb through the full length of her thick glossy hair. This causes one small upturned breast to push off the silk robe that Helen has “borrowed” from her mother, and to stretch triumphantly up towards the sun. I am hypnotized by the play of light on her hair; the smooth movement of her arm as she wields the brush and the slight but attention-grabbing movement of her silhouetted breast. She puts the brush back on the dressing table, looks at me and smiles. Many times since, I have returned to that moment of still happiness, crowned with the love in her smile.

“Well?” Mark says.

“Sorry Mark,” I say, “nobody seems to want erotic adventures with me.”

I mean it as a playful way of changing the subject. Mark takes me literally.

“I don’t know,” he says, “you’re not bad looking. I know Barbara thinks you’re sexy. You just need to read the signs.”

“I think the food is ready now,” I say, gathering the half-burnt/half-frozen products of Mark’s culinary skill onto plates.

“You must have been tempted. At least once,” Mark says.

“I’m happily married Mark. Temptation is easy enough to overcome.”

“Ah yes,” Mark says, “I’d forgotten about the ‘Peter Brader, man-of-steel’ act.”

I start to walk back towards the lake, hoping to bring an end to the conversation before we get in to a fight. Mark has always taken my abstinence from casual sex as a personal affront. Briefly I wonder if he thinks it’s all an act and I’m just refusing to share the details with him.

“Barbara really does think you’re sexy, you know.”

I stop and look at him. He laughs.

“No need to look so horrified. She’s not going to rape you or anything. But she told me that she admires your serenity. Isn’t that a great phrase? Admires your serenity.”

I try for a wry smile but Mark is already striding ahead of me, so it is lost on him.

“OK girls, the hunters have returned with freshly charred dead animals for their women to feast upon,” he shouts.

Sometimes I think Mark is locked in a parallel dimension. The “girls”, both in their late twenties, exchange pained glances at Mark’s return, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

This meal is a tradition amongst us going back eight years, to when we were both newly married couples. Every Memorial Day we drive out to the lake and have a barbecue on the public beach. Back then we slept in our trucks and drank beer with our burgers. Now we rent a large cabin and sip Pinot Noir. Sometimes I think the burgers are the last talisman of the days when we had more hope than history.

I have my head in Helen’s lap. She smells of sunshine and cotton. I relax; content to listen to her telling Barbara stories about the people in her office. I have never visited Helen’s office. I am reluctant to have reality superimposed on the vivid images I have of her colleagues. Barbara and Helen used to work together, and Helen introduced Barbara to Mark.

When Barbara laughs at the punch line of Helen’s story, it is a raucous laugh that seems to escape from her. I turn my head slightly, knowing that Barbara will have one hand in front of her face. Helen feels me move, recognizes the reason and unseen by the others, pinches my earlobe as she pulls me back to my original position. I look up at her. She mouths the word “later” and I shiver at the thought.

Despite Helen’s admonition, I find myself wondering about Barbara’s laugh. It reminds me of Miss Honeychurch in “Room With a View”, whose passionate nature is discernible only by the way in which she plays piano. With a stab of guilt, accompanied by a sudden erection, I have a flash of Barbara coming as raucously as she laughs.

On our second year out here, we almost got into a group thing. We’d stopped talking and started kissing, still in couples but with each couple acutely aware of the presence of the other. I left the decision to Helen, who in turn looked to Barbara. Mark was thinking with his cock and pushed up Barbara’s T-shirt to take her nipple into his mouth. The discomfort on Barbara’s face was obvious.

Helen grabbed me by the belt and said, more loudly than she needed to, “Come on Peter, I need a bed to tie you to.”

I was happy to leave. Barbara smiled her gratitude while trying to keep Mark’s fingers out of her shorts. Civilized man that I am, I still could not erase the sight of Barbara’s stiff nipple topping a small neat breast that just demanded to be taken into my mouth. Helen knew what I was thinking. When she rode me she held my nipples between her fingernails and used them like a bridle. I was sore for a week but my cock was made of ivory that night.

The scene was never repeated. Barbara confided in Helen her embarrassment at how Mark fucks her. I was puzzled when Helen passed on the remark. She just laughed and said, “Well, you’ve seen him dance haven’t you?” Mark thinks he dances like John Travolta, but he looks more like Fred Flintstone. He dances vigorously, with his eyes closed, paying little attention to either his partner or the rhythm of the music. The magnitude of the criticism made my balls retract.

I am constantly amazed at what women tell each other. Men brag, women tell the truth. It’s a frightening thought.

A tinny rendition of the James Bond theme fractures the silence. Mark has brought his cell phone, even on Memorial Day. Barbara glares at him, but he turns his back on her and takes the call. Mark uses an earpiece on his phone. He says he doesn’t want to fry the brain cells that survived the drugs. He looks demented as he paces in a circle, apparently talking to himself.

We overhear enough of the conversation to know that he has been summoned back to the city by some European emergency that he must respond to at once. I wonder at that — it’s 9 p.m. in Berlin right now. It occurs to me that I have just seen a piece of performance art. Maybe Mark doesn’t make his adventures up. Perhaps there is someone waiting for him even now in a city center hotel room.

To my surprise, Barbara lets Mark go without complaint — she just sits and watches as he takes the car, leaving her behind like luggage that we will forward to him later.

“I’m going to lie down in the cabin for a while,” Barbara says once the car is out of sight.

“Are you OK?” I say. Dumb question. Helen digs her fingers into my side to tell me to shut up.

“No Peter, I’m not OK, but I’m trying to get used to it. Not everyone has a marriage like yours. I live with a man who never touches me, but who tries to fuck anything female that can move without a Zimmer frame. He doesn’t even have the tact not to embarrass me in front of my friends. So I’m trying to preserve my dignity by not letting myself cry until I get back to my room.”

Barbara’s eyes are wet, but she is standing straight and her voice is strong and clear. She holds my gaze until I look away, then she picks up a bottle of wine and heads back to the cabin. Helen follows her. They talk quietly but passionately. I can’t hear what is said. Then they hug in that way that women do, halfway between a caress and a handshake.

Helen waits, head on one side, hands on her hips, for my questions. I don’t ask any. She looks at me for the longest time. I seldom know what she is thinking. She moves to stand in front of me, tilts my head down towards hers and says, “I love you, Peter Brader.”

We give Barbara an hour before we return to the cabin. I head into the kitchen to clear away the debris of our meal. Helen goes to check on Barbara. I have just loaded the dishwasher when I hear Helen say, “Come here, Peter.”

I know from her tone that we have started to play. I am surprised, but out of long habit I go to her and wait, eyes downcast, for her instructions. I love surrendering to her like this. My cock is already thickening and my heartbeat is elevated. It is so exciting not to know what will happen next. Even so, I am concerned. Surely she’s not going to take me here, in the main room. The thought worries and thrills me at the same time.

“Strip, Peter.”

Helen has never done this before. On our Memorial Day weekends she has always used the bedroom for our fucking.

I don’t look at her or speak as I strip. I feel exposed standing there, my cock sending semaphore signals of desire to my mistress.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Helen says.

The steel cuffs Helen produces from her bag are cold against my wrists. They make me feel pleasantly helpless.

“Peter, I want you to stay hard as long as you can. Let me help you,” She ties a soft leather strap around my balls. My cock trembles at her touch. She grins and plants a chaste little kiss just underneath the head.

I wait for her to undress. She doesn’t. Instead she reaches into her bag and pulls out a scarf. Standing behind me she blindfolds me with the scarf. I feel her breath on my neck. Her teeth sink into my earlobe as her fist closes around my cock. I groan.

“You wanted Barbara today didn’t you,” she says.

I nod.

“Say it. Tell me what you were thinking”

“I wanted to know how she sounds when she comes,” I say.

She lets go of my cock. A cool finger probes my anus.

“So you prefer her to me?”

“No. I love you. I need you.”

“But…?”

“But I like Barbara.”

“Would you like her to fuck you?”

“Yes,” I say. I think I know where Helen is going with this but I can’t believe she really means it.

Helen kisses me; a deep, slow kiss, exploring my mouth with hers. Except it is not Helen. Helen is still behind me.

The kissing stops. Before I can speak Helen presses against my back and whispers, “It will be OK Peter. Trust me.” I nod my head slightly and she whispers “Thank you.”

I understand the blindfold. It gives us the option to pretend that none of this has happened.

No one is touching me now. I wait. I assume the women are undressing. I wonder if they are touching. Suddenly it occurs to me that over the years they may have done more than just touch. My mind doubts that this is true, Helen would have told me, but my cock goes with the image and twitches ludicrously.

A hand, strong and purposeful, pushes on my shoulder, signaling for me to kneel. The floor is hard on my knees. I won’t be able to do this for long. I recognize the smell of Helen’s sex, seconds before it is pressed against my face. She holds my head and rubs herself against me. My tongue presents itself for use. She presses her labia against my mouth until my head is forced backwards. She rubs me in a figure of eight against her sex, then she is gone.

Seconds later another sex is pressed against my mouth. To my surprise it smells and tastes just like the first. Maybe I can’t tell the difference between Helen and Barbara. Maybe Helen is returning to confuse me. The message is clear enough: stop trying to analyze, go with the flow, be the moment, let the sex flow through you. That message is at the heart of my sexuality, and I recognize it as their gift to me.

Hands guide me to lie first on my side and then on my back. Cushions are placed under my head and my butt. Care is taken to ensure that I am never touched by both women at the same time. I could let myself imagine that there is only Helen or only Barbara, but now is the time for feeling, not imagining.

A mouth suckles my nipple. The sound of it is loud against the eerie silence that possesses us like a spell. The tongue moves down my belly slowly, skillfully, until it reaches my pubic hair, then it goes away. A hand, warm, strong, grips my cock around the shaft. The palm of a second hand rubs my precum over the head of my cock, making me wriggle and moan. It takes effort not to come, but I control myself.

Attention shifts from my cock to my mouth. Swift butterfly kisses that make me smile. Then tickling. Tickling that goes on until I am giggling helplessly with tears wetting my blindfold.

I am allowed to get my breath back, then I am mounted. My cock slides into ripe wetness that grabs at me eagerly. Hands on my chest. Thighs around my legs. Deep forceful strokes, followed, after the shortest of times, by a tremor of passion that passes through to my bones. She falls forward on to me, sweat-slick breasts sliding over me, teeth nipping at my neck.

Then she rolls off me, leaving my cock straining for relief, my body demanding stimulus. Both are granted by the mouth that envelops my cock and the swollen labia that descend upon my face. I lick eagerly at first, then become distracted by the play of teeth and tongue and lips upon my cock.

I break the spell of silence, begging to be allowed to come. The mouth releases me as she slides down my body and impales herself on my cock. She does not move, but she squeezes me with her cunt, milking me irresistibly. She is moaning now, but quietly, as if she were gagged. Her hands are on my ankles; her cunt is pressed hard against my pubis. When I start to come, her grip on my ankles tightens and I hear a groan that starts in the back of her throat and becomes an explosive “Fuck!” She stays on me until my cock softens, then she lets it slide out.

I am exhausted. Cool fingers undo the leather around my balls. My cock is patted gently, like a Labrador being rewarded for performing a favorite trick. I find it hard to focus. My awareness always ebbs after I come.

I am being helped up and lead somewhere. A bed. Fresh clean linen. The bed feels so comforting after the hardness of the floor. My hands are uncuffed. My arms are massaged vigorously and asexually. Scarves are used to tie my wrists to the headboard.

I am ready to give way to sleep when I hear that unmistakable buzz followed by the smell of lubricated latex. My asshole clenches in anticipation.

“Spread, Peter,” Helen’s voice. A calm command she knows will be obeyed.

The vibrator is slim and has a slight curve. It is perfect for stimulating the prostate. I relax and let it slide in, wondering who is holding it. My tired cock starts to rally. I think I hear a giggle from beside the bed, but I am distracted by having my balls sucked one after the other.

My brain is fuzzy. I want to sleep. I want to fuck forever. I turn down the noise in my mind and focus on the cunt that is now raising and lowering itself on my cock. I have no control over the pace. I am a flesh dildo. I am happy.

With the vibrator in place, I manage to stay hard until after she comes. I am rewarded with a skilful handjob that drains my balls and takes the last of my energy.

I hear Helen say, “You can sleep now Peter,” and I know the game is over. As sleep washes over me, I think I hear a different voice say, very quietly, “Thank you.”

I sleep late. When I awake my hands are free, the blindfold is gone, my ass is sore and my memory is confused. Before I can get out of bed, Helen and Barbara, both fully dressed and looking refreshed and relaxed, bring me breakfast on a tray.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” Helen says. “We’ve brought you something to build up your strength.”

“Do I need building up?” I ask.

Helen ignores the question and hands me a glass of cold OJ. Barbara is standing at the foot of the bed. She is smiling, not broadly, but persistently. I doubt she is aware of it.

“Barbara is going to come and stay with us for a while,” Helen says.

I look at both of them. Helen posed it as a statement, but we all know it was a question. The silence continues while I think about it.

“It’s only until I decide what to do about Mark,” Barbara says, “Helen thought I could stay in the guest room for a while.”

I think about how long I have known Mark and yet how little I really like him. I consider how comfortable Helen and Barbara are together. I remember the carefully anonymous passion we shared last night. I know that if I say yes, it will change things forever in ways that I can’t yet predict.

“I’m sorry about you and Mark,” I say to Barbara, “but I’m glad you’re coming to stay. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

The look on Helen’s face tells me I’ve done the right thing. I don’t know if last night will be repeated. I trust Helen to work that out. I do know that I am still naked under the bedclothes and that I desperately need to use the bathroom.

“If you ladies will excuse me,” I say, “I have some urgent business to attend to, privately.”

Helen grins and leads Barbara by the elbow, saying, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” in a terrible John Wayne accent.

Barbara picks up the theme and says, “Yep, and there are some things a man must do alone.” They are both laughing as they leave the room.

I’m still not sure what I’ve just agreed to, but however it turns out, it won’t be dull. I head off to the bathroom, whistling happily.

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© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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

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.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2004 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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

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.

 

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

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

Hard At Work

“Hard At Work” is a slightly tongue-in-cheek story of a man being brought into line by his dominant but neglected wife.

It was originally an all dialogue piece but I decided that it would benefit from some further description.

The next time you see a man disappear to a conference room with a phone to his ear, remember this story and ask yourself what he’s doing behind that closed door.