Erotic Obsession

by Iona Blair

  Had her pussy been wet and excited when the photograph was taken? Had the man withdrawn his penis as soon as the erotic image had been captured for posterity? Or, had he kept his cock inside her bottom, fucking her until his love juices had exploded over her bowels?

  Had his hands caressed her tummy and breasts while her dark little anus had sucked in his cock? Had he slipped his fingers over her clit?

  Had she cried out in ecstasy when she'd reached an orgasm? And had the photographer witnessed all of this, or had he quietly left the room?

  "I want to fuck you so bad, you wicked little cockteaser,” Jay murmured aloud. “But first I'd spank your saucy little butt for being such a bad girl."

  Had the photographer taken only one photograph of the attractive couple engaged in their brazen act of sodomy? The question tantalised Jay as he rubbed his rigid cock against the image. And if there were other pictures, where were they? Oh God, he thought feverishly, what he wouldn't give to see just one more photograph of this maddeningly seductive woman with the bold eyes.

  The burning thought stayed with him through the night, and by morning, Jay had resolved to do something about it. He hadn't thoroughly examined the crevice where he'd found the photograph, assuming at the time, that it was the only one there. And not, of course, realising what a burning issue it would become for him. He'd also been in some haste to get the attic winter proofed before the cold weather began in earnest so he'd immediately pinned a sheet of fibreglass insulation over the hole.

  But what if there were more photographs concealed in the space? What if there was something else there that would give him some clue as to who Emma was? And why her shocking photograph ended up in the attic of a house, which had once belonged to an Episcopalian minister?

  Jay forced himself to work until noon on a program he was designing for an accounting firm. But he found it difficult to concentrate as his mind was elsewhere. His spirit was restless and his eyes were drawn like a magnet towards the open window.

  He watched a squirrel bound across the lawn and hare up the cedar tree with Morag in hot pursuit. Jay knocked sharply on the window to distract the cat and give it a chance to escape.

  Time for lunch, he decided and switched off both computers. After he'd eaten he planned on going up to the attic to explore the dark crevice that had yielded such temptingly erotic fruit. But fate had other ideas. There was a telephone call from a client having difficulty with a computer program. The problem was so complex that Jay had to go over to the city and deal with it in person. The service call took longer than he'd anticipated and resulted in him missing the last ferry back to Fenner Island.

  The Athol was a small hotel nestled between a men's wear store and a coffee shop in the financial district. The rooms were basic but clean and reasonably priced.

  After Jay had checked in, he showered quickly before throwing himself down on the bed. It had been a long day, and he felt exhausted. Traffic roared past in the street below, and car horns sounded angrily in the distance. It all sounded unnaturally loud to his tired ears and made him appreciate the quietness of his island home.

  He had brought the photograph of Emma with him, and he scrutinised it again, holding it this way and that to catch every sliver of the failing light. What was it about this woman from the distant past that held him so enthralled? She was certainly pretty, with a slim yet curvaceous body. However, it was that bold look right into the camera while she took it in the ass, which had blown his mind the first time he saw it, and continued to do so.

  A door slammed down the hall and someone laughed hysterically. Jay turned the tattered picture over and looked again at the bold, clear writing. Emma 1892. It had to have been written by the temptress herself, he decided. This is the way she would have written. No tiny, cramped, graceful writing for this brazen-eyed femme fatale. Big and bold and straight in the eye, just like her gaze.

  "I have to have her,” Jay thought desperately, tracing the lines of Emma's nicely rounded bottom with his finger. But knowing that this was not possible, his fevered mind began exploring other possibilities. What if a bold-eyed hooker who resembled Emma and dressed in similar clothes, bent over a chair for him in exactly the same pose? The provocative idea excited Jay, and he began to thumb through the telephone directory with trembling hands. He was looking for a classy type of escort agency, one that specialised in costumes and game playing.

  * * * *

  Never on Monday was a high-priced, up-market operation run by Lydia Blount, a plain faced, overweight woman who looked like everyone's grandmother. The offices were small but expensively decorated.

  "Yes, I think we can arrange it for you,” she assured Jay. She had examined Emma's picture carefully for several minutes and jotted down a few notes. “But you'll have to give me a couple of days."

  They could have been talking about catering for an afternoon tea, Jay thought bemusedly as he walked back to his hotel, scones with clotted cream for a party of twelve. But the fee for this particular service was going to cost him considerably more.

  * * * *

  Jay met Emma on the following Saturday evening as pre-arranged.

  When he made his reservation at the Athol, he'd insisted that the room include a straight-backed chair, which he'd immediately, upon arriving, draped with a blanket.

  Lydia had done her work well. The young woman she'd selected was a similar type to the bold-eyed doxy in the photograph. She'd also taken pains to dress her hair in much the same style, lightly rolled and braided. The clothes were most authentic, too, although the dress was not as deeply striped as the one in the picture.

  Jay kissed the woman hungrily, working his tongue into her mouth. He clasped her tightly against his excited body, whispering, “Emma, Emma, I have you at last,” in her ear. He fondled her breasts then sucked on them while his hands explored her tummy, thighs, genitals and bum. “Oh you're lovely, lovely,” he gasped, drooling out the words with a feverish glaze in his eyes.

  "Over the chair. It's time,” he finally murmured. His voice shook with passion.

  The girl hitched up her dress and rested one knee on the blanket-covered seat.

  "That's right,” Jay breathed excitedly. He arranged the folds of her dress to look exactly like the photograph. “Now lean your arms over the back of the chair like this,” and he helped her strike the exact pose he was looking for. When Emma turned her head and looked over her shoulder with a brazen stare, Jay could contain himself no longer.

  "You deserve a spanking,” he stated bluntly, grabbing the girl and pulling her face downward across his lap. She had a beautiful, smooth little bottom with dimples, and he delighted at the way it bounced and jiggled under his hand. The sharp, rhythmic sound of the spanking echoed around the room and out into the hall beyond.

  "Everyone can hear you getting your bottom spanked,” Jay taunted, as he systematically turned both cheeks a fiery red.

  Emma remained silent and unflinching, except for the occasional “Ouch,” and “Ooh."

  "You've been a brave girl,” he told her when the brisk spanking was finally over. “You've taken your punishment well."

  Jay kept her lying over his lap for a while caressing her flaming ass with a gentle hand. Then he toyed with her anus and genitals until Emma began to squirm uncontrollably.

  "Back over the chair,” he instructed in a thickly sensuous voice, “I'm going to fuck you for hours."

  Jay inserted his cock into Emma's anus which he'd smeared with Vaseline, and caught her around the waist with his trembling hands. “Lord that feels good,” he gasped, his eager cock poking its way into the tight little hole.

  The chair creaked under the intensity of his thrusting, and the girl braced herself to avoid toppling over. The natural perfume of her femininity wafted up to Jay's quivering nostrils and inflamed him even more. He was like a highly aroused stallion mounting a mare in oestrus.

  Emma's bottom contracted and sucked him in as far as he could go. It quivered and throbbed
around the rhythmic thrusting of his cock.

  "Darling,” he panted frantically, fondling her slippery genitals with his fingers. Her clitoris was rigid and when Jay rubbed over and around it with his thumb and forefinger, the girl cried out in release.

  Jay held onto the woman tightly, plying her ass with his rigid cock. She moaned and heaved, like a troubled boat on a stormy ocean.

  "I'm coming, I'm coming...” he cried, spurting his cum all over her bowels.

  The sheer magic of at last possessing Emma, in the flesh, had left him more satisfied than he'd ever been before.

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  Chapter Three

  After a morning of heavy showers, the sun finally broke through. Lydia Blount relaxed at her desk, watching the steam as it rose in spiralling puffs from the rooftops.

  She had opened the Never on Monday Escort Agency just five years ago, but she'd been in the sex trade most of her life. Not because she came from a bad home or had been forced onto the streets for reasons of penury. On the contrary, the only child of respectable, middle class parents, she had simply grown tired of the nine to five office routine of a secretary. The pay had been poor too, and there was so much more money to be made in selling her favours to the highest bidder.

  She'd begun by turning a few tricks on the weekends at the Prince George, an upmarket hotel known locally as the PG. This carnal activity supplemented her salary and added a little spice to her otherwise dull life. She'd been slim and attractive in those days with fine blonde hair and a winning smile. But when she'd discovered she could make more money in a couple of hours at the PG than she could all week as a secretary, she'd decided to become a full time prostitute.

  The puddles in the street below sparkled in the sunshine and reflected the storefronts opposite. Lydia lit a cigarette and poured herself a shot of the finest Scotch. She'd often been asked how she'd managed to do so well in such a rough business. Her answer had always been an unfailing, “I was never stupid enough to keep a pimp."

  She could, however, understand the craving for security and affection that drove women to do that. Had, in fact, experienced it herself. But she had satisfied the emotional need by having a long-term affair with a married bus driver from the suburbs, who'd never known the line of work she was in.

  Lydia knocked back the Scotch in one grateful gulp, then washed it down with a glass of water. She thought about Jay and his erotic photograph from over a hundred years ago. He was a very attractive man with his clear grey eyes and sensitive mouth, and she would have dearly loved to videotape his session with Emma. She took a long drag at her cigarette, screwing up her eyes as the smoke drifted upwards. If he called again, and she was sure he would, she intended to do just that.

  * * * *

  Fenner Island was vibrant with the triumph of spring. Gardens blazed out a vivid kaleidoscope of colour, from the rich reds of Japanese maple trees to the delicate pinks of cherry blossoms.

  Jay went for a long walk shortly after breakfast, sticking to the rough winding pathway that led to the old lighthouse. It was a glorious April morning redolent with the scent of honeysuckle and noisy with birdsong.

  When he reached the top of the hill, he paused to catch his breath and admire the view. From this point, the city skyline and surrounding areas were clearly visible. A seagull swooped across his line of vision, temporarily blocking out the solid mass of high-rise buildings and shimmering rooftops.

  Jay sat down for a while on a grassy knoll, drinking in the beauty of the day and the sense of peace it gave him. He thought about the erotic session with Emma from Never on Monday and his cock rose excitedly at the memory. The girl had beautifully rounded breasts and a firm dimpled ass that wasn't easy to forget.

  When he returned home, a lonely Morag awaited him, hungry for attention. He extricated himself as quickly as he could, giving her a bowl of her favourite food. Jay was anxious to get up to the attic and thoroughly search the place where he'd found Emma's photograph.

  But what if there isn't anything there? a little voice taunted. It was this fear that had kept him from exploring sooner. As long as he hadn't looked, he could always assure himself that there was something more to be found.

  His mouth felt dry and his heart pounded with anticipation as he prised off the strips of insulation. He probed the deep cavity with an anxious hand, disturbing an ancient spider's web and dislodging a piece of rotten timber. The wood was rough and he swore as a splinter pierced his thumb. But there was nothing there. A heavy sinkhole of disappointment descended on his stomach like a steel ball.

  "God,” he muttered. “I've been depending on there being something more of her. Something right here."

  Desperately, he shone a flashlight into the deep hole, and it picked out what looked like a small fragment of cloth. Shaking with excitement, he tugged at the ragged shred of material. He discovered it was sitting on a small ledge which had been hitherto concealed from him. His legs felt weak and he trembled with excitement.

  It was a small, well-worn carpetbag that had been badly eaten by moths. Jay could see how the photograph must have fallen through one of the holes in its side.

  With hands that shook as if palsied, he clutched the disintegrating bag firmly but carefully. It contained two erotic photographs, similar to the original one, and a journal bound in good quality pigskin. The pages were stained with dampness and mildew, but the handwriting was still fairly legible. He saw at once that it had been penned in the same bold hand that had written Emma 1892, on the back of the first photograph.

  On the inside front cover, in slightly larger writing there appeared a heading of sorts:

  This is the Diary of Emma Sloane, the Manse, June 1908.

  Jay was feverish with excitement. Emma had actually lived in this very house. He brushed the dust from the journal and settled down in his bedroom to read it. The first entry covered Emma's arrival at the Manse, where she was to work as cook and housekeeper to the Reverend Filamore Day.

  "My God,” Jay exclaimed aloud. He found it difficult to take in, that a bold-eyed hussy like Emma would be housekeeping for a minister?

  Based on the date of the photo he estimated she would have been around forty years old by that time, which was over the hill in those days. Especially, when it came to making money out of a beautiful skin. But she certainly had been a looker in her prime.

  Her unwavering gaze stared unflinchingly back at him, from one of the photographs he found with the journal. She was alone in the picture and naked, except for a pair of black knee high stockings, boots and a skimpy white camisole. The latter pulled down to her midriff to expose full, deliciously nippled breasts.

  She stood with her legs spread apart straddling the seat of a chair. She smiled in a provocatively lewd way, her head cocked slightly to one side. In her hands she held a long, crude looking dildo that she guided into the dark recesses of her very hairy cunt.

  "Why you bad little bitch,” Jay murmured, his cock growing instantly hard as this new picture of the brazen nineteenth century seductress.

  In the other photograph, Emma's back was turned to the camera, and only her profile was in evidence. Totally naked this time, except for the stockings, she sat astride a male with an exceptionally large cock, which was inserted into her cunt. The man had a hand on each of her buttocks and was pulling them apart to expose her neat little asshole.

  "You belong in Babylon, you truly do,” Jay admonished the image in the crumbling, sepia print, his cock rigid and throbbing. It was time to have another session with Emma, from Never on Monday.

  On the back of each photograph, the same bold hand had written Emma 1892. So all three photographs had been taken around the same time.

  Dusk had stolen quietly around Jay as he'd sat transfixed by the pictures. He switched on a lamp and closed the curtains. His groin muscles tightened with anticipation as he reached for Emma's journal. How difficult it must have been for a worldly vixen like her—a fox in today's jargon—to ad
just to life in a rural backwater like Fenner Island. How had she managed? And what had her life been like when she had been posing for these shocking photographs?

  He wanted to know everything about her, in the most avid, obsessive way. What had her home life been like? Had she ever married? How many men had she slept with?

  He wanted to savour the unfolding of Emma's story as long as possible. To digest every word that she had written in her clear, bold hand. If he devoured the entire journal in one frenzied sitting it would not do it justice. It was far too important for that. No, he would read the precious missive in instalments. He knew it would take iron self control to stick to this plan, but it was the only way to prolong the bittersweet discovery of his wanton darling.

  Jay closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the world had been like in 1892, when Emma had so brazenly bared her bottom to the photographer's lens. The telephone and electricity were in their infancy and most homes were lit by either gas or paraffin lamps. It would be several more years before the automobile would make its appearance on city streets.

  Emma would have travelled to and from her photographic sessions either on foot or in a horse drawn vehicle of some sort. She would wear a long dress to her ankles, a bonnet and gloves. In summer she would probably carry a parasol.

  In an age before the advent of cinemas and television, music halls were the most popular form of entertainment for the working classes. The phonograph, invented some fifteen years earlier was still a novelty and within reach of the wealthy only. The U.S. Civil War had been over for less than thirty years, and the Spanish-American War would start six years later.

  He ran his finger along the crack of her bottom and over her nipples. “You sexy shameless hussy."

  * * * *

  "Might I suggest the Trelawny Inn?” Lydia Blount sounded pleasantly confident. “It's discreet, slightly out of the city and their rates are reasonable."

  Jay had called Never on Monday to make another appointment with Emma. The discovery of the journal and the other two photographs had inflamed him to fever pitch.