Lost and Found

Lost and Found

© Mike Kimera 2011

The first thing most men see is the leg that isn’t there. Some scan the rest of me as if trying to solve an unexpected puzzle. Few make it as far as my face. Almost none make eye contact and those that do are quick to look away.

I was never a crowd-stopping beauty, but I was young enough and pretty enough for men to give me at least a smile.

I took it for granted before the accident. I’m surprised at how much I miss it now.

Tonight I’m sitting on a bar stool, wearing my sexiest frock and I’m still mostly invisible.

My helmet protected my face and the physio I’ve done since the accident has kept me in shape. I’m mostly the woman I always was. Apart from the leg that isn’t there. And the fact that I can’t ride a bike anymore. And that I’ve slept alone for the past six months.

Racing my Suzuki used to be my passion. Nothing matched the thrill of canting my bike over and powering through a curve. I was fearless on the track.  I knew I could handle anything a race threw at me.

It turned out that what I couldn’t handle was a quick ride to the shops to pick up some milk. A housewife who could barely see over the steering wheel of her Range Rover, side-swiped me on Camden High Street, crushing my left leg so badly that it had to be amputated below the knee.

I’ve been told many times that it could have been worse; I could have been paralyzed or killed instead of just having a limb trimmed.

I’ve tried to look at it that way, to be grateful for what I have rather than angry about what I’ve lost but I can’t quite get myself there.

In my dreams, I still ride, I still run, I still see desire in the eyes of the men I meet.

My therapist says that I’m grieving for my leg. That this is normal. That it will pass.

My therapist is full of shit.

Amputation is not normal. It will not pass. And it is not my leg I grieve for, it is the life I have lost and which I know I will never get back.

Anyway, I don’t want the grief to pass. Grief gives me a focus for my rage and a reason for my tears.

I refused the prosthetic limb they offered me. Accepting it would have made the amputation real; confirming the permanence of my gimp status.

Before the accident, I used to come to this bar when I wanted to find someone to spend the night with. I met Jonas here. We’d been together for a couple of months when I popped out to get some milk. We were a Saturday-night-fuck kind of couple. I enjoyed the way he danced. He enjoyed the way I looked on his arm. We had fun together in bed. We both knew that we were just passing time together.

Jonas stayed with me until he was sure that I was going to live, then he said he was sorry and left.

He was a nice guy who wanted to have some fun. He wanted me to live but he didn’t want to be tied to a cripple for the rest of his life. I knew exactly how he felt.

So now I’m on my third drink of the evening and not one man has talked to me. The bar stools on either side of me have stayed empty although the bar is filling up. I can tell the barman wants me gone; I’m bad for business.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

It’s not the most original line, but it’s the only one I’ve heard all night so I’m already smiling as I turn on my stool to find the source of the voice.

Not bad. A little older than me. Well, maybe a decade older than me. Not handsome but not Quasimodo either. Two things make him seem out of place: he’s wearing bike leathers and he’s looking me in the eye rather than staring at the place where my leg should be.

“Why do you want to buy me a drink?”

That wasn’t my normal reply. I’m not sure where it came from. Or what it means.

Apparently completely unfazed by my departure from the normal mating ritual, he smiles and says, “I don’t. The drink is just an excuse to talk to you.”

It’s my turn to smile. He has a nice voice. He sounds honest and friendly.

“And why do you want to talk to me?”

“Well, I’m alone in London in a bar that was for bikers the last time I was here but has now been colonized by people from another planet.”

“That tells me that you’re lonely, lost and out of touch with modern life. It doesn’t tell me why it’s me you want to talk to.”

He steps closer to me, still keeping eye contact and says, “Three reasons: you look wonderful in that dress, inexplicably you seem to be alone and I’m curious about how you lost your leg?”

It takes me a second to process the last statement.

“You want to know how I lost my leg?”

I can’t believe he asked that. No one asks that. I wait for anger to push through me; for the outrage to start. The best I can manage is surprise.

“Yes. I figure it will tell me more about you than an hour of small talk.”

Incredible. His tone is light and fearless. No trace of embarrassment. He seems genuinely interested.

“So how did you lose your leg?”

“Sheer carelessness.”

My laugh is too loud. It sounds hollow, even to me.

He remains silent, waiting for me to finish.

I break eye-contact and say, “Sorry. It’s just that I hate that phrase. I didn’t lose my leg. A surgeon with a hacksaw took it away from me and I’m never getting it back.”

A tear slides down my cheek. He reaches out and brushes it away.

“You can buy me that drink now if you like.”

He busies himself getting me another glass of wine. He doesn’t order anything for himself.

I take a sip of wine. Still looking away from him I say, “My leg was crushed when a car hit my bike.”

I watch his face to see his reaction.

“What kind of bike was it?”

Caught by surprise I tell him the specs of my Suzuki.

“Very nice,” he says “for a Jap bike. I ride a Ducatti myself.”

I snort and launch a set of disparaging remarks about under-sized Italian bikes that are all flash and no muscle. We talk about bikes for a while. Nothing special, just the usual chatter on which bikes rock and which bikes suck and why. It is the most normal conversation that I’ve had in months.

“Does it hurt?”

The question comes out of nowhere.

“Only when I run”

We both laugh.

He moves his head towards mine. I wonder if he is going to kiss me. Then I wonder if I will let him.

“Can I touch it?”

The words are tender, sensual, seductive.

I don’t trust myself to speak so I give a single nod.

His eyes stay on mine as his cool fingers find the stump of my leg. Gently he traces the scar tissue. Then he rests his palm on the stump and slowly works his fingers in a circle.

I search his eyes for a reaction to my crippled flesh. I fear revulsion or pity or twisted excitement. I find nothing but kindness.

The kiss, when it comes, is soft but passionate. Not perfect but pretty good for a first effort.

“My bike is outside,” he says. “I have a spare helmet. Do you want to go for a ride?”

The idea of being on a bike again fills me with joy. I want to be on the bike right now, even in this smart frock. I want to lean into his back and inhale the smell of his leathers. I want to slide into curves. I want to have a life.

“Answer me one question first.”


“What’s your name.”

Coming Home

This came to me today while I was on a train journey across Switzerland. It’s a romance of sorts, perhaps the sort that happens in real life-


Coming Home

(c) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved.

“I’m home.”

Even after all these years of marriage, Saul still had a moments anxiety that there would be no answer, that Gina would finally have had enough, that the house would be empty, and he would be alone.

“I’m in the kitchen. Careful where you step, there’s glass everywhere.”

He released the breathe he did not realise he’d been holding, put down his suitcase and laptop bag in the hall and dropped his keys and his phone into the square leather tray that Gina had taught him to use. She had bought the tray out of frustration at his endless ability to mislay the things that were most important to him.

Saul had spent the past week adrift amongst strangers in unfamiliar places. He had reached that point where he barely felt connected to the world. He moved through it invisible, weightless, unnoticed. It pleased him to have a designated place to leave his keys and phone. He felt tethered to something strong and real. He was home. Well, almost home. Home waited for him in the kitchen.

Gina had a dustpan and a brush in her hands and was busily sweeping up fragments of what had once been a pyrex mixing bowl from the kitchen tiles. Saul stood for a moment, watching her, absorbing the easy grace with which moved and the fierce concentration she brought to her task. Not one shard of glass would escape her, he was certain.

Gina looked up at him for a second, before continuing in her hunt for rogue pieces of glass.

“Take your coat off, Saul. You look as if you’re about to leave again.”

Saul, who had not realised that he was still wearing his coat, immediately slipped it off. He was aware that he left far too often and had no wish to appear keen to do so again. Unwilling to leave Gina for long enough to return to the hall, he folded his coat over the back of a kitchen chair.

As he did so, he saw the edge of the present he had brought for Gina glint in his pocket. Already he regretted the bright wrapping that the young woman who sold him the gift had insisted on using. He did not want to make a fuss. He had bought the gift so that Gina would know that she had been in his thoughts while he was away. Now he wondered if it would look like some form of appeasement; a bribe to compensate for the weekly abandonments that he subjected her to.

Behind him he heard glass sliding into a bin. By the time he turned around, Gina was washing her hands in the sink.

Saul took a step towards her, wanting to touch her, needing to be sure that he still could.

He imagined closing the distance between them, placing his arms around her waist, supporting her weight as she leaned back into him, bending his head to kiss her neck.

Gina shut off the tap and reached for a towel. The moment had passed him by. Saul saw no means of retrieving it. As usual, he sought refuge in words.

“So why did you kill the bowl? Had it been particularly recalcitrant?”

Gina smiled and moved towards him.

“It wasn’t murder but suicide. The thing jumped out of my hands without regard to its own safety.”

Gina looked up at him, searched his face for something that she appeared to find and then stood on tip toe to kiss him on the cheek.

“How was Munich?” she asked, already moving towards the fridge.

“It was Brussels. Munich was last week.”

Lifting vegetables from a drawer in the fridge, Gina said, “I can never keep track of what country you’re in. Anyway, how was Brussels?”

“It was very Belgian.”

“The way you say it, that doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“It isn’t.”

“I meant to make you a soup but I was interrupted by a suicidal bowl. It’s a little late for soup now, I’ll make a stir-fry instead.”

Saul knew that he was not expected to reply to any of this but it pleased him listen. Recently he’d noticed that he had become one of those men who are silent not because they are showing restraint but because they have nothing to say. Gina filled up his silences. Her words warmed him.

“So is there nothing good about Belgium?” Gina asked.

She held a very sharp knife in her hands and was confidently and speedily slicing peppers, carrots, onions and thin slivers of garlic and ginger..

“All the good bits of Belgium are imaginary: Poirot, Tin Tin, the Surrealists.”

“Will you be going back?”


Gina looked up from pouring peanut oil into the wok and said, “Are you all right?”

The concern on her face mad Saul uncomfortable. He forced a smile and said, “I’m fine, just a little tired.”

“Well you’re not as young as you were,” Gina said as she scraped the vegetables from the chopping board into the smoking oil. “All this travel isn’t good for you.”

Saul lost her to cooking for a few moments as she added soy sauce and sesame seed oil and finally a little chilli, all the while shifting the vegetables in the pan so that they cooked rapidly and evenly.

Gina was two years younger than him but it seemed to Saul that the gap between them was widening at the same rate as his waistline. She was vital and energetic and he was… not.

“Set the table, will you? This tastes best when it’s still hot enough to hurt.”

Saul set the plates on the table, thinking about when Gina had been hot enough to hurt.

Back then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Sex seemed a natural consequence of being in the same room. She was so much smaller than him that, at first he’d been worried he would hurt her. She soon proved that he was the one who had to take care; his under-exercised gut had ached for a week after their first night together.

It had been a long time since they’d had sex and even longer since the sex had been easy and joyous. It wasn’t that he was impotent. It was more that he couldn’t go the distance. At first he had hesitated to start something he couldn’t finish. Now he no longer seemed to know how to start at all.

“Dig in,” Gina said, placing a large steaming bowl of food on the table.

She’d found the time to cut bread and add a simple green salad. Once more she’d created something out of nothing.

The food was too good to talk over. They both ate eagerly and quickly and soon there was nothing left.

“I brought you something.” Saul said, when the plates were empty.

“Would that be the shiny gold something in your coat pocket?”

“You saw that?”

“No, I’m just guessing. Of course I saw it. I can spot a present at 20 paces. Now go and get it for me.”

Saul tried not to watch Gina’s face too closely as she unwrapped the gift. He wanted her to be pleased but he didn’t want her to feel that she had to perform for him.

“So they do have something good in Belgium?” Gina said, holding the box in her hand. “Godiva chocolates.”

“I was told they were the best.”

“And I thought you chose them because you wanted to see me riding naked on a horse.”

Saul laughed, but he didn’t sound convincing.

“I bought them because…”

He didn’t know how to go on.

Gina got out of her seat, stood beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Because you love me.”


She stroked his face with the back of her hand and then kissed him on the forehead.

“You are allowed to say it, you know. You won’t wear the words out.”

Gina picked up Saul’s plate and her own and headed back towards the kitchen.

Saul sat in his chair for a moment, thinking about whether words would wear out. It seemed to him that they might.

Growing up Saul had often visited Wells Cathedral. While the beauty and the grandeur of the place was undeniable, what had captured his imagination were the stairways. Made from the same stone that, centuries later, still stood proud in the Cathedral walls, the stairs that were most used had worn away in the centre, eroded by the feet of thousands of people over hundreds of years. The erosion of the stone stairs had taught Saul that truth could sometimes only be seen in retrospect; no one person moving up the staircase would believe that they had had any effect on the stone and yet, in reality, they had left a wake of destruction behind them.

When he looked back, the pattern that Saul saw was one in which he frequently passed down the “I love you” stairway but Gina did not follow him. She acknowledged his love happily and seemed glad to receive it but seldom said the words and never said them first. For a moment he had the image of Gina at the top of a pristine staircase which he could only reach by carefully negotiating the deep rut he had worn in his own love.

“These chocolates would taste much nicer with a cup of coffee,” Gina said from the kitchen. “Why don’t you get that fancy machine of yours to brew us some?”

“Excellent idea,” Saul said, rising from his chair.

While the coffee was brewing, Gina stacked the dishwasher. Saul was forbidden from performing this task as he had repeatedly demonstrated his lack of mastery of where plates should sit in relation to one another.

“Shall I take these through to the living room?” Saul said. “That Johnny Depp movie you wanted to watch will be on soon.”

“No,” Gina said. “I believe my boudoir is the only proper venue for the consumption of fine Belgian chocolates. Johnny will have to wait for another night. You, on the other hand, do not have to wait at all.”

It had been a long time since Gina had asked him to come to her bed so early in the evening. Saul placed the chocolates and the cups of coffee on a tray and followed his wife. She was nearly at the top of the stairs by the time he had reached the bottom.

Anxiety and excitement competed for Saul’s attention. Tonight he might confirm his own sense of failure or he might win back something that he thought he had lost forever.

When she got to the top of the stairs, Gina turned and waited for him.

Saul breathed deeply and took the next step in his marriage.



When I worked in London, I used to spend time at the National Portrait Gallery near Trafalgar Square. The people I saw there were often seemed to me to be quite patrician. I would spend as much time wondering about them and their lives as I did about thinking about the paintings themselves.

This story combines the paintings and the people that I observed viewing the paintings.

I hope it also achieves a little love and a little romance.



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

Sometimes, I obsess about small, apparently unimportant, things. Elspeth, my wife, says that this is why I have risen so high in my chosen profession; it is a civil servant’s job to obsess about things others pay no attention to.

For the most part, she means this observation to be humorous.

I am grateful for her tolerance but we both know, that buried in the flesh of her remark is a tiny splinter of resentment at my distraction that she can not remove and which neither of us can completely ignore.

I am aware that I spend too much time inside my own head, I impose structure on the most inconsequential of events, I find spontaneity suspect and I tend to treat happiness as a temporary aberration from the norm.

I am not any easy man to live with.

Yet, Elspeth has spent the last twenty four years at my side. I take this as a sign of her love for me.

If I were an American, perish the thought, I would probably have been diagnosed as having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by now and would either be in therapy or be loaded to the eyeballs with mind altering drugs.

Fortunately I am a Scot of a particular class and so my obsessions are seen as mere peccadilloes as long as I fulfil my duties to society and uphold the honour of the family name.

Today, my obsessions have brought me once again to the National Gallery. I come here several times a week to find moments of calm away from the frenzy that is Whitehall immediately after a change of government. The quiet focus of the place allows me to slough off the cares of the day and listen to myself.

Sometimes, like today, I will arrange to meet Elspeth for lunch in The Dining Rooms. But first I always spend time alone in the Gallery, looking into the faces of the great and the good that hang here as if there is something important that they can tell me.

For the past few weeks, every visit has ended with the same painting: Jan van Eyck’s portrait of his wife, Margaret. I do not yet know why this painting is important to me but I have learnt that my small obsessions are the way that I reveal to my mind truths that my heart already understands.

Van Eyck’s portrait of his wife shows her strength and intelligence in an honest and bravely unglamorous way but it is not what is on the surface that fascinates me about this portrait.

It seems that infra-red reflectography shows extensive pentimenti on both paintings. The National refers to them as “underdrawings”, perhaps to avoid the now frowned on use of a foreign word, presumably on the grounds that only an educated reader would know what it meant. I find this attempt at egalitarianism distasteful as the word selected reminds my of Y-fronts and singlets. But I digress.

The point is that the painting that we see with the naked eye today is not all that Van Eyck painted. It seems that he originally presented things one way and then painted over them to present them in another.

I suppose it is normal enough for a painter to change his mind but what puzzles me is why he made so many changes to the portrait of his wife. She must have been available to him as a model whenever he needed her to sit and he clearly knew her well, so why should a man who sees so clearly need to make so many revisions?

I have no gift for portraiture but if I did, I wonder how well and how decisively I would paint Elspeth.

Even after all these years, there are many things about her that I do not understand. Perhaps the greatest of these is what it is about me that stirs her affection.

I asked Elspeth about this quite directly a few weeks ago. We were celebrating our wedding anniversary with a pleasant meal at The Grill in The Dorchester. We go there every year. I enjoy the lamb that they serve: it’s Welsh and organic and reminds me of how meat used to taste when I was a boy. We’d made our way through a surprisingly good bottle of South African Merlot and it seemed to me that this would be the perfect opportunity to discover why Elspeth endures me.

Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t setting a particularly celebratory tone and that an outsider might even have concluded that I was challenging Elspeth on her poor judgement.

Elspeth waited patiently while I explained all the things that made her involvement with me difficult, then she put aside her knife and fork and scrutinized me carefully, as if assessing my state of mind. After a few moments, she spoke.

“Well, Alistair,” she said, “you can indeed be an infuriating man: socially myopic, emotionally distant to everyone but me and our children, and prone to obsessive behaviour that borders on the compulsive. This latter I have learnt to tolerate. After all, I have been an obsession of yours for many years now.”

As for what I see in you, at first I was attracted to your good looks and your ability to focus on an objective until you had achieved it. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that I was the objective you were trying to achieve. Even then I assumed that your objective was only to have sex with me.”

The sex is very good by the way. I believe it’s because you don’t think about it or question it; you need it and you take it and in the process you give everything that you have. Many, many times I have lain watching you sleep after sex and smiled because only I know what a fierce and creative lover you are.”

This took me completely by surprise. I have always found sex with Elspeth compelling. I had not considered that she might be quietly evaluating my performance. It should not surprise me; quiet evaluation is part of Elspeth’s approach to life.

I made as if to comment but Elspeth, said, “Do not interrupt, Alistair. I want you to listen, then we won’t need to talk about this further. You needn’t look so surprised at the fact that I enjoy you as my lover. Sexual attraction was the start of everything for you and me. You changed my narrow little virginal world.”

After you took me the first time, in the bottom of your father’s rowing boat, still moored in the cool darkness of the boathouse, I felt as if I had become a boat myself: floating, tethered to the world by the thinnest of ropes and ready to launch into deeper waters.”

I was sad because I thought your objective had been achieved and your attention would be snared by some other obsession. But you have never moved on. You have a good heart and you have given all of it to me.”

Sometimes, that is a burden I would like to set down for a while. Most of the time, I see it for what it is, the rock on which I stand.”

Now do stop going on about how awful you are before I decide to believe you. Order a good Port and then take your ageing wife to bed and help to launch her once more.”

Now, with this memory fresh in my mind and Van Eyck’s portrait of Margaret in front of me, I suddenly understand why Van Eyck made so many changes and why I have returned to this painting again and again since that Wedding Anniversary dinner.

I walk away from the painting. I will not need to visit it again.

The Dining Room at the National is flooded with daylight. I use it to study Elspeth’s face during our meal.

I try to see Elspeth as a stranger might: a woman in dignified middle age with good bones, a dancer’s posture and a demeanour that suggests strength without making her unapproachable.

I too see those things, but they are only a fraction of what is there. Our history grants me infra-red vision that let’s me see the many pentimenti that form the image of Elspeth that dominates my heart.

Love has over-painted lust. Age has begun to add craquelure to youth. Beneath the face of the strong matron, I see the proud mother, the pregnant wife, and the young girl who lay with me in a rowing boat many years ago. I see them all at once. To me Elspeth is all the things she is now and all that she ever was during the years we have been together.

The parts of the portrait of Elspeth that have been most worked and reinforced in my imagination are the ones that tie me to her: her ability to see the beauty in the world, her excitement with ideas, her impatience with stupidity, her anger at injustice, her love for me.

I realize that Elspeth has stopped talking and is looking at me closely.

“I love you, Elspeth,” I say. “You are everything that I want; everything that I need.”

I lack the words to say more. Having an epiphany is not, it seems, the same as being able to share one.

Elspeth puts her hand over mine and smiles. I realize that she is welcoming me to a truth that she has long understood and is pleased that I have finally discovered.


© Mike Kimera 2010 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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Sex With Owen

When I started “Sex With Owen”  I was in too dark a mood to continue the story of Mrs Prendergast and her offer of enlightenment. I decided she would have to wait.

I was having one of those death-ridden days when I wished I was a theist, but the only spirits that moved me were the ones who came and whispered their stories in my ear.

This story began with the voice of a woman saying “He always starts by brushing my hair.”

She wouldn’t go away, so I started to write.

I initially thought she would lead me into a story of dominance and submission. The working title was “The Bone Cage” and was meant to be about how she transcended the constraints of her mortal flesh.

As I wrote, the story started to change. Firstly the female narrator was a stronger, more up-beat person that I’d imagined. Secondly the man in the story demanded a name. “He” was no longer good enough, he wanted to be a character in his own right and not just a foil to make the woman more interesting. I christened him “Owen” and suddenly I had a tale about a couple. My mood lightened and instead of a gloomy doom-laden story, I produced a piece that is about a small woman and a large man who are fascinated with each other.

I put the piece through the writers’ workshop at the Erotic Readers and Writers Association – (ERWA – a great list if you want to improve your writing – you can join here). The feedback on the list was that I’d written a love story. This was a first for me, so I was a little bit surprised, especially as the word “love” is never mentioned, but I read it again and discovered that they were right.


Sex With Owen

(c) Mike Kimera 2010

Owen always brushes my hair first, his large, scarred, sculptor’s hands accomplishing the task with a patient, graceful thoroughness that calms me, distracting me from our nakedness and the hard hot proximity of his presence.

My red-blonde hair is long and thick and heavy. It is the seat of my femininity; the only sexual flourish that my small androgynous body has gifted me with. My hair says more about who I think I am than any other part of me. Lazily bound in a bun with pencils pushed through it, it is my companion as I work on the pen and ink drawings that pay my bills. Tightly braided, it is the emblem of my controlled professionalism when I journey into corporate land to sell my work. Left loose, to fall down to my arse, it is my declaration of sexual intent.

We both know that, when he kneels behind me, the brush in Owen’s hand is not there to groom me, but to claim to me; to shape the heart of who I am into who he needs me to be.

By kneeling here, naked, my back to him, my hair in his possession, I signal that I am his to take tonight.

When he is satisfied that the slow rhythmic brushing has settled me and focused me, he puts the brush aside and slowly wraps my hair around his left fist, like a rider gathering in the reins of a skittish horse, until the tightness of his grip forces my head back, exposing my neck, straightening my spine, holding me in the first position of our well-practiced dressage.

After a second’s pause he moves forward until my back is pressed into his belly and my head is held motionless against the broad expanse of his chest. He lowers his head to mine and inhales the scent of my hair in a slow, deep intake of breath. He holds the air inside him, possessively, until it seems that he must breathe or die. At last, he exhales, pushing a stream of warmth across my vulnerable neck, making the short hairs there rise as I imagine myself like a log in a fire, burning brighter as he feeds oxygen to the flames that both consume and illuminate me.

Still holding my hair in his left fist, Owen slides his heavily muscled right arm down my body, between my small high breasts, until his hand finds my sex and his thick fingers spread out on either side of it, claiming the territory as their own.

In an act of practiced surrender, I place my arm over his, push my fingers briefly across my hardened nipple and move up, over my shoulder, until his lips capture the tip of my index finger and hold it there.

Slowly, methodically, he works his fingers into my flesh, He does not force his way inside me, nor does he seek out my clit to hasten my arousal and make it march to the rhythm of his own testosterone-driven need. Instead he kneads my flesh as if it were dough. He works in circles and spirals, summoning my blood and its heat to where he wants
me to be.

I try to remain still and silent even though I know his relentless actions will make this impossible. From the first time he took me, Owen has been an unstoppable force, overwhelming me, stripping away flesh, ripping apart bone and tendon in a ruthless quest to free the woman he sees behind my eyes.

Before Owen, my struggle had always been to live up to the mind-shattering, soul-liberating, consciousness-changing orgasms that the heroines of the romantic novels I am addicted to had each time their dashing-but-dangerous lover pushed himself into them.

The men who had pushed themselves into me with various degrees of skill and enthusiasm, had always seemed to find the release they sought. As they sweated above me, corded forearms holding their weight, hips banging out the rapid percussive tune of their lust, there would come a point when, eyes closed, faces twisted in apparent pain, their condom-covered sex buried as deep in me as they could manage, they would leave me for a few seconds.

It seemed to me that this departure, these moments of not being with me, were the most important part of the act to them.

As I lay looking up at them, my own rhythm disrupted, my desire falling away like the arm of a child stretching for but unable to reach the next monkey-bar, I understood that I had failed, again, to be the woman I was supposed to be. Even while I was preparing to smile when they returned and tell them that they were wonderful and perhaps encourage them to push into me once more before sleep claimed them, I was cursing my small, under-developed, childish, sexless body for leaving me hanging rather than letting me achieve a departure of my own.

Sex with Owen is not about departure. It is about struggle and surrender and release.

It used to be that the only release I found was at the end of my own fingers. Alone in my bed, between freshly laundered sheets, I would lie on my belly, arm trapped beneath me, fingers pressing against but never needing to enter, my sex. It seemed to me that, whereas men beat upon me as if I were a drum, I played myself as if I were a violin. Pleasure grew from the steady slide of rosined bow over tautly stretched strings, until I brought myself gently but firmly to a dizzying cliff-edge that I would teeter on for a moment before plunging away from myself, into the warm embrace of the waves below.

About a year ago, I stopped bringing men into my bed. I did not want to be their point of departure; I wanted to be their destination.

I allowed my sex life to become an accomplished violin solo and took pride in my own skill. Yet part of me knew that this bowing, this fiddling if you like, was not enough. The voice of the violin was too thin, too close to a cry of pain, to bring any real joy.

I needed the crashing wall of sound of a full orchestra to smash against my consciousness, annihilate my will, erase my sense of self, free my spirit from the bone cage that binds it, until I become the sound, pure energy, pushing past the silence of my life.

Instead, in my loneliness, I told myself that I preferred the silence and I let it swallow me. I wrapped myself in a blanket of celibacy and convinced myself that it gave me heat enough.

Now I know I was slowly freezing to death.

Owen rescued me from that slow dying. He is still rescuing me from it.

Owen’s fingers on my sex mimic my fiddling but the tune he plays is completely different. My fingers pushed me gently towards a release, his fingers demand that I surrender to my lust. Held immobile against his body, I am defenseless against the assault he makes upon me. My sex is moist, my nipples are hard, my body is demanding to be fucked.I struggle to defer the moment of the first surrender but I know I am lost when he lowers his mouth on to my neck and gently bites me. A line of heat travels down my spine and ignites a fire at the base that he fans by pushing my labia together, rolling them against one another so that they slip and slide. I thrust my hips forward and surrender with a single word:


His fingers hook into my sex, spreading me and filling me as I fuck the air. Cleansing tongues of flame lick across my belly. I close my eyes and, for a moment, a long delicious moment, I am no longer there.

As I return to myself, I am aware of Owen lowering me to the floor so that I am lying on my back. I keep my eyes closed, happy to let him arrange my limbs, which feel loose and not entirely mine to control, any way that pleases him.

Gently, he bends my right arm at the elbow and places the palm of my hand over my left breast. Bending so close to me that I can feel his breath against my skin, he lifts the back of my head, gathers my hair in one hand and arranges it so that it flows like a river over my right shoulder to come to rest just above my sex. He leaves my left arm at my side but lifts the forearm across my hip, so that my hand holds my hair in place against my belly.

Finally, his strong hands take hold of my legs just below the knee. I expect him to spread me wide. My hands flex against breast and sex at the thought of being held open beneath him, waiting to be devoured. To my surprise, he pushes my knees together. I do not understand what he is doing. Then there is a moment when he is not touching me. The moment becomes two, then three. Even though I know that he often does this, I rush to open my eyes the way a diver rushes to regain the surface before she runs out air.

Owen is kneeling beside my shoulder, back straight, hands resting on his thighs, looking down at me with a smile on his lips. The smile calms me. I smile back.

“Welcome back, Venus,” he says, and at once I understand the placement of my limbs. He has posed me as Botticelli’s Venus. I blush, both pleased and embarrassed by the comparison.

Looking up at Owen, I am reminded once more of how huge he is. He has the build of a peasant, born to hard labour: tall, wide-shouldered, deep-chested and wrapped in heavy slabs of muscle that are a functional statement of the strength he uses to carve stone, rather than a narcissistic display of gym-won beauty.

I let my eyes track down the firm barrel of his belly to his sex. His erection is substantial, pointing upwards from a thick nest of pubic hair at an angle that seems to salute my nakedness. The foreskin has rolled back to sit like a collar behind the smooth fat width of his glans. I want to wrap my hands around his shaft and use my tongue to glaze his flesh, working him until the tip of the penis stretches upwards but I know that Owen would not allow this. He does not want me to worship him. He wants to awaken the spirit he sees inside of me.

I first met Owen in an art supply shop. I was squatting, searching a low shelf for iron gall ink for a Victoriana piece I was working on. Owen blocked out my light. I looked up to find him looming over me. He was so large, he made the store seem like a scale model.

Perhaps it’s because I’m so small, a few inches below five foot, but truly large men have always fascinated me. It’s not that I find them particularly attractive, none of the men in my life have ever been the behemoth type.

What catches my attention is how alien they are, almost a different species.

It’s not just the difference in scale, the fact that one of their hands could swallow both of mine, or that I’d have to climb on them like a tree to steal a kiss, it’s about presence.

Big men move with confidence. They radiate a sense of power and entitlement. They expect space to be made for them and they occupy a great deal of it, with expansive gestures that instinctively claim territory. They look at the world from the top of the food chain which makes the rest of us prey.

I squatted further down, tucking my bum against my heels, making room for the big man to pass. He stayed where he was, looking down at me.

“That’s almost perfect,” he said. “It just needs…”

Moving too quickly for me to avoid him, he reached down and removed the two pencils I’d used to hold my hair in a loose bun. As my hair cascaded down my back I felt as if the giant above me had stripped me naked. A tiny tremor of arousal greeted the idea.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Feral and fey at the same time.”

The language was unexpected, his voice was rich and easy to listen to and his eyes were full of light. I almost did nothing. But, the man had violated my space and I couldn’t let that pass. I would not let myself be prey. So, I told myself that he was an over-sized lout who was treating me as if I were a netted butterfly, waiting to be dropped into his killing jar. And he’d taken something of mine.

I stood. My eyes were on a level with the base of his sternum. I took a step closer to him and looked up.

“Give me back my pencils.”

If he had laughed, I’d have kicked him in the balls and forgotten all about him. Instead, he held out the pencils in one hand and slowly squatted in front of me until he was below my eye level. I grabbed the pencils and reached behind me to gather up my hair. He watched me intently, registering every move. He stayed silent but his eyes blazed so brightly I felt my skin warm under his gaze.

“I have to sculpt you,” he said.

His desire made my anger impossible. He reached out and touched my cheek, gently but confidently. The warmth of his touch made me aware of how cold I had become in my months alone.

I smiled at him and said, “That sounds like a line to see me naked.”

He smiled back. “In my mind, you are already naked. That’s why I’m smiling.”

And now he is smiling at me again and I know exactly what I want from him. I roll onto my side, facing away from him. Slowly, I move up on to all fours, my arse towards him. I tilt my head to the right so that my hair falls to one side and look back at him over my left shoulder. Then I dip my head, letting my hair close like a curtain around me and I wait.

Silently, Owen moves into place bend me. He presses the tip of his cock just below my arsehole. He has never taken me there, but that does not mean he will not. I stay perfectly still, waiting on his decision. He slides downwards, parting my labia in one firm stroke and pushing forward just enough to keep me open. I want to push backwards, to impale myself on him, but I make myself wait.

“Down on your elbows. Keep your arse high.”

I follow his instructions swiftly, careful not to lose contact with his cock. I let my head rest on my hands and keep my back arched.

Owen’s hard hands grip my hips as if they were smooth bone handles that he had carved for his use. He pulls me upwards as he pushes into me. He is squatting behind me, feet firmly on the floor, knees spread wide, upper body bent over me. My sex is his fulcrum and his cock is the lever with which he will move my world.

He is neither gentle nor quiet. He slams into me in short, shallow strokes, too rapid to count. He pulls me up so high that my knees leave the floor. All my weight is on my elbows, He holds me suspended as he pistons into me, like a dog on his bitch. He keeps at me and at me, never slowing. His sweat starts to drip onto my back. I am too breathless to moan.

Then he stops, cock buried inside me, still hard, still holding my hips in his hands. He lowers me so that my knees are on the floor and then he kneels behind me. I am breathing hard, focusing all my attention on my battered sex and the hard heat inside it.

Owen bends over me, his sweat-covered body sliding against mine. His hands slip upwards to my breasts, cupping them firmly. Then he starts a slower, deeper penetration. At the apogee of each thrust he squeezes my breasts, releasing them as he pulls back, and then he leans backwards, taking me with him, pivoting me on his cock until I am leaning back against his chest. I cannot decide if I am horse or rider or if we have both become the ride.

“Put your hands behind my head,” he says, at the peak of one of the strokes.

As soon as I obey, his right hand slides down my belly and his broad thumb finds my clit. My hands still behind his head, I pull at his hair, I squirm on his cock, I shout at him and call him names. His thumb carves through all my resistance and shapes my arousal into a sharp spike that pushes up into my brain, until there is nothing but light behind my eyes and my second surrender is complete.

When I can speak, I say, “Let go of me, you ape. I want to see your face.”

Owen, lifts me off his erection, as if I weighed nothing at all, which is exactly how I feel. I find my feet, a little unsteadily, and turn to face him. His body is slick with sweat. His hair is matted to his head. The smell of him fills my nostrils. Best of all, he is still hard.

I extend one finger and push against his chest. Grinning, he pretends to let me drive him backwards until he is on his back with me standing over him.

I straddle his hips and then squat above his erection. Owen knows how the next part goes. He makes no move to enter me. I reach between my legs and finally take hold of his cock. I squeeze as hard as I can and am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from Owen. Slowly, I lower myself onto him until he is all the way in and my knees are either side of his hips. I lean forward, position my right hand over his heart and then take my weight on it.

Concentrating on the shape inside me, I use all the strength I have to close myself around it. Once. Twice. Owen groans, I grin, enjoying thepower I have over him.

I dip me head forward. My hair is lank with sweat, but still heavy enough to fall over Owen’s chest and shoulders. I put both hands on his chest and then I start the rhythm that will end our dance: I rotate my hips, right, then left, grinding into him. I let the motion flow up my back, working my shoulders in counterpoint to my hips, while my head moves from side to side forcefully enough for me to whip Owen with my hair. I stop shaping my thoughts and become nothing but movement. I flow over Owen like a tide climbing a beach and sliding back down again, never letting go.

When it feels right, I stop moving my head. At this signal, Owen’s huge hands close around my arse, pressing me onto him as his hips drive upwards at double speed. Our eyes lock. His pace increases. There is a surge of heat inside me that feels like a tribute or a blessing. But the real prize is that Owen’s eyes never leave mine. He does not depart. He has just arrived.

© Mike Kimera 2010 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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


The Last Taboo

Those who attempt to define that nature of erotica often describe it as fundamentally transgressive.

Yet  it sometimes seems that there are no taboos left so what exactly do you have to do to be be transgressive these days?

Fat Frank knows the answer. He has a secret. Read “The Last Taboo” and he’ll share it with you.


The Last Taboo

© Mike Kimera 2008

Most men lie about sex. I don’t know why. We talk about it often and loudly in all those places where men gather without women. We talk about who we’d like to fuck and how and sometimes where. We brag about our performance on one-night-stands or with whores or with the wives of friends. But, to my ears, these conversations lack authenticity. They have about them a whistling-to-show-I’m-not-afraid-of-the-dark quality that is more than a little pathetic.

I am usually silent when these conversations take place. No one in my circle of male acquaintances, hereafter referred to as, ‘The Lads’, questions this. I was never a handsome man and I am no longer a young one. I think the assumption, in the language of male-(don’t worry, we’re all hetero here, honest)-bonding, is that “Fat Frank isn’t getting any.” What else could explain my silence?

In reality, I remain silent because I think The Lads would not react well if they knew the truth. Fat Frank, (a nickname chosen for its alliterative charm, its factual accuracy, and the ease with which it can be rhymed with wank) deviates from one of the accepted norms of married life. I break the last taboo: I like to fuck my wife.

I mean I really like to fuck my wife. I think about it before we do it. I give myself up to it completely when I’m in her. I hug the memory of each fuck to me, reluctant to let it go.

Liz and I have been married for eight years and been together for twelve, so we must have fucked thousands of times. I know the conventional wisdom is that repetition blunts the experience but Liz is like a whetstone for my knife-sharp desire, each time I rub against her the edge gets keener and cuts deeper.

Perhaps if Liz was the kind of woman that The Lads ogle and comment on (but never EVER actually speak to) I could share the reality of my passion with them. They would slap me on the back or punch me in the arm and shout “You lucky bastard.” Jimmy would say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in him?” Robbo would grin and say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in her you mean.” I would be expected to drop my head in false modesty and then explain of how Liz goes all night like a racehorse on speed. Jimmy would say, “If you ever need a hand with her, Frank, you only have to ask.” Everyone, including me, would laugh. I’d be offered a beer and my status in the group would rise.

But Liz is not the kind of woman The Lads notice. She’s not a fantasy figure. She’s a normal, healthy, slightly over-weight woman in her mid-thirties.

Liz, it seems, is extraordinary only in my eyes. Her eyes are green with little flecks of gold that shine in the sunlight. Her hair, which she keeps short, curls against the back of her neck as if caressing it. Her smile is crooked and filled with wickedness. Her skin is soft and pale and flushes when she is aroused. But the most extraordinary thing about Liz, the arse-clenching, cock-stiffening, heart-aching thing about her is that she loves me.

I’m not talking about something vague here, some Hallmark sentimental notion of love, a fantasy emotion propped up by romantic gestures and mutual self-delusion. I’m talking about a warts-and-all, robust, uncompromising and unconditional love that crashes over you like a big wave, taking your breathe away but leaving you excited to be alive.

Liz has known me for a long time. We went to the same school. We saw each other grow up. Liz knew the bookish, solitary boy I was and the hormone-charged, cripplingly shy youth I became, and yet she still fell in love with me. The power of being thoroughly known and thoroughly loved is almost impossible to get into words.

According to Liz, words are my weakness. She thinks I use way too many of them and get lost in the patterns that they make. It’s true that sometimes I can be too introspective for my own good. I get hooked on ideas and concepts and lose touch with the day-to-day world where reality happens. Left to my own devices I could float away from the world and become an eccentric old fart who laughs at obscure references no one-else understands. Liz saves me from that.

It’s not that Liz doesn’t like ideas. She loves to hear me talk about them. She just doesn’t let herself become seduced by them. One time I was going through a phase were I was obsessed with the early Greek philosophers. Liz bought me a copy of Plato’s “Apology” written in defence of Socrates. Inside the cover she wrote, “An over-explored life is not worth living.”

Liz and I don’t speak much when we fuck. We laugh and groan and grunt and sigh, but mostly we let our bodies do the talking. From the beginning, Liz has been the one who initiates these kinds of conversation. There’s a certain look she gets that I know means that she wants sex and she wants it soon. I never act on the look alone. Over the years, we’ve developed a little ritual: when the need is strong, Liz will stand close to me, sometimes in front, sometimes behind, put her mouth next to my ear and whisper, “Fuck me.” Those two words are like a trigger, they always make me hard.

Most of our fucking is outside of the bedroom. Liz thinks that beds are for sleeping on and that floors (and sofas, and tables and stairs) are for fucking on. She has whispered, “Fuck me,” in every room in the house. Although we’ve never talked about it, we both understand that I will fuck Liz whenever and wherever she whispers those two little words. We’ve fucked on Ferry Boats, in cars, in phone booths, on the steps of public buildings. I love the risk that this introduces and I love the sense of wickedness that comes from a secret shared.

Liz is the only woman I’ve ever had sex with. Now there’s a statement that would make The Lads shuffle their feet and pretend that I hadn’t spoken. As a conversation stopper, it’s on a par with “Have you opened your heart to Jesus?” The fidelity implied by this statement is not a badge of honour. I have made no sacrifices. Liz gives me everything that I need and I give thanks for my good fortune everyday.

I’m sure that Liz and I are not the only couple with this kind of relationship but I’m equally sure that we are a minority. Many marriages run out of passion or find they no longer need it.

The real reason it is taboo for me to talk to The Lads (none of whom are lads any longer and all of whom are or have been married) about the reality of my sex life, is that they don’t want to be confronted with the possibility that, if they had found the right person, they too would look forward to fucking their wives.

So, I will continue to be silent when they brag and boast and encourage one another. It is the polite thing to do. And it gives me time to think about Liz and what we will get up to the next time that she whispers in my ear.

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

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