by Willow Sears
Her crack is sweat-damp; the smaller opening moist as it twitches and breathes, ready to receive me as is our custom. Again, it is unsaid, but we both know my silly prick would be pointlessly lost inside the conventional opening. I spit once onto her anus and then push the tip of my cock into her. She takes me greedily and with ease. I sink into her and feel the wonder of her still burning hot fat arse squashing against my loins. I have testicles too. I feel her cunt scorching my sagging sack and I reach down behind me and try to stuff my old balls up inside her wet gash.
Without being told she knows exactly what to do. She squeezes her nipples until the milk is not just dripping but spraying out their liquid in silk-thin jets. She collects the milk on her fingers and in her palm and massages it messily into her aching cunt as I roughly plunder her shit-hole. As I bounce against her pillow arse she stares up at the painting in rapture, staring at the cow filled with the young man’s whole head, its udders ready to burst, feeling the spurts from her own aching, lactating breasts.
“Oh, Michelle!” she gasps over and over, “Oh, Michelle! Oh, Michelle!”
***
Sweaty Harvey had to cross his legs quickly when I walked into his room. His eye soon wandered off to the side as a tell-tale sign that he was thinking his dirty thoughts about me. I sat down but felt wretched, the conviction that my dreams held the key to my personality now shot to pieces. I was sure that all hope was lost and that for all his pretence at expertise he was just silently concocting another load of horse-shit to feed to me before having me recite it all back for the benefit of the tape. All he wanted to do was wank to my secrets. I knew now that there was nothing for him to find, that my dreams are simple fabrications of my imagination, the same as everyone else’s. Maybe he would discover that last night I dreamt of Blueberry’s prick–because that was surely my inspiration, even if it didn’t appear exactly as it had done in reality. What other reason can there be for the girl I was in my dream (this “Michelle”) suddenly producing a stubby excuse for a penis, one that I could actually take inside me if it wasn’t so utterly horrible?
It is too much to hope that in a past life I was some dirty-picture painting hermaphrodite with a cock the same dimensions as Blueberry’s silly offering. No, that part of the dream has ruined everything and called into question all my hopes and expectations, and the wisdom of wasting my time and energy with Harvey when there is nothing he can do to cure me. That fucking fat bastard Blueberry with his pathetic, horrible cock has come back to haunt me just because my stupid brain decided to think about it going inside me!
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t go through the motions with Harvey and let him have his jollies, but I simply don’t have anyone else to turn to. The final thread has been played out too far and has snapped, leaving me aimless and empty. I don’t know what else to do so I just lie back and think of England as I listen to Harvey’s slow, mellow voice taking me under. It’s funny, you kind of know everything that goes on while you are in the trance, all the time spent, all he says and all you reply, but when you awake it’s all gone in a flash. You just lay blinking and refreshed, clawing after the memories as they skitter away. Harvey is all animated, telling me how James Frobisher made another appearance and was so much more forthcoming this time. It’s all bullshit but I haven’t the heart to either listen or to tell him to shut the fuck up. At the end of the session he ceremoniously hands me the recording of the session and I take it mutely and go home to brood. I almost throw the recording away but decide at the last minute to give it a listen, a sort of for-old-time’s-sake airing knowing that my visits to Harvey have come to an end. I just want to hear one last time how I sound telling the lies he wants me to tell.
My voice sounds funny on tape as I speak as James Frobisher. It is stilted as if I realize that as him I should be speaking in the accents and manners of the times, but not quite knowing how to do it–like I am trying to fool myself. I am very cagey in response to Harvey’s questions too, refusing to be drawn on how I got my money and status, although it seems that some kind of scam or blackmail was behind it. It sounded contrived until I heard myself telling how I fled to France with my ill-gotten gains and set myself up as an aristocrat moving to Paris from the south. My pseudonym was Saint-Jacques. Comte Michel Beauregard de Saint-Jacques, to be precise.
The word hit me full in the face and had me sitting bolt upright. The cold shiver poured through me at the sound of the name spoken from my own lips: Michel, pronounced by me on the recording just as the woman had pronounced it in my dream the night before, saying it over and over as I fucked her hot bottom from behind. Michel, not Michelle; a prick not a pussy. The chill left me to be immediately replaced by the warm sweep of elation. Suddenly everything was alright again. My dreams were still relevant and Harvey is making progress. The shrunken prick of my dream was Frobisher’s, not Blueberry’s, the similar wizened state mere coincidence. I should have been wiser. It was my mistake for assuming I must always be female in my past lives.
Once my hope was restored I could listen to the tape with renewed concentration. It seems that as Saint-Jacques I gained quite a reputation for being a libertine. I was feted in society and my party trick was to produce explicit paintings of my fellow revellers in various sexual situations, designed not to portray actual happenings but to encourage them to be played out, preferably on the night. When the revolution struck I was unable to escape back to England, so I fled south with whatever belongings I could carry and re-invented myself as a lowly peasant. I tried to keep my head down as The Terror gripped the nation but it seems my insatiable need for depravity soon saw rumours spreading about my unnatural desires. No doubt it was a jealous local who betrayed me to the authorities, but it was the painting that sealed my fate, identifying me for certain as the beastly Saint-Jacques as they burst into my hovel and caught me buggering my old love and just about ready to spurt my seed inside her. I was dragged off to Paris and guillotined a few weeks later, forced to face upwards to watch the blade, my last memories being the sweeping rise of utter panic that caused me to foul my britches, and the stream of terrified curses I screamed at the jeering crowd.
I felt so much more comfortable with my kinky self once I knew it was not my fault. I became empowered again once I could believe that a cure existed and that Harvey might be well on his way to finding it. I was so happy I couldn’t wait to get out and start hurting and humiliating people again! I even went to SaMmy’s, despite the fact that I was on my period (which usually kept me at home with a good book and a glass of wine). I felt stronger about Ariadne again, like I was protected from her. I had already decided to invite her (and her alone) to my forthcoming catwalk show. I don’t only produce fetish wear but these designs do seem to crowd my thoughts and often yield more interest and money from the buying public. I knew I would never get Ariadne to attend unless there was a sexy slant to the show. I felt confident at SaMmy’s, happy to dismiss any attention and just watch her with a small contented smile. I sensed she felt a little unsettled that I wasn’t as flustered as usual by her tricks and attempts to make me feel I was beneath her. She took out her annoyance on a man’s arse, pulling down his tight denim, ridiculously short shorts and putting him over her knee. I just smiled more and raised my glass to her.
I felt my blood fizzing with my contentment. She was beautiful, even if she was throwing me daggers because I wasn’t getting into a huff at her crude behaviour with other people. I wanted to go over and tell her that her efforts to tease and repel me were useless. I wanted to tell her how we had been lovers over two hundred years ago, and that we would be lovers again. I felt she should know how in those past lives we had been closer than anyone and shared the most intimate and dangerous of secrets. I thought about telling her how back then she had worshiped my little bum-hole, just like X does now, and if she wanted I could let her have it right now. But I couldn’t tell her about X. She would scoff that I was making up stories in a vain effort to look good and make her feel je
alous. She might be angry that I actually had a proper girlfriend when I made it so clear that I wanted her. Perhaps I would be able at last to just shrug and turn from her, and let her do the chasing for once.
In the end I just rolled the invite to the fashion show into a cone and placed the sharp end into a little plastic nozzle, and had Kitty bend over to take the nozzle inside her and deliver the note via her bum. Ariadne read the note without any hint of a reaction in her expression or even a glance in my direction but, tellingly, she kept the invite. She also kept Kitty as a hostage, slapping her face, ripping her top open to claw and pinch the exposed tits and then pulling her over and roasting her bare bottom with heavy flat-hand spanks. Ariadne’s mouth was set in a wide open smile as she looked over at me in triumph, but I just raised my eyebrows nonchalantly and smiled back. She redoubled her efforts on Kitty’s arse and ordered some of her entourage to take out their cocks and beat the victim’s rump and face with their erections. This was water off a duck’s back to me, especially since one of the stiff-cocked beaters was good old Wiry Dude, and this humiliation of my slave was far removed from the torment I had put him through.
Ariadne soon saw that Kitty might be little, but she could sure take a spanking. She gave up and rolled the girl off her lap, depositing her on her sore arse. She then had the men toss themselves off, with their cocks surrounding the victim’s face. Ariadne glared at me but I was finishing my drink and preparing to leave. In her fury the goddess grabbed the pricks in her gloved hand in turn, jerking them with furious speed, desperate to shower my poor girl while I was still there to witness it, spitting on the shining purple cock-heads and ordering Kitty to do the same. I rose just as the first spurts hit Kitty’s screwed up face. Four separate loads showered over her, mainly splashing off her tightly closed lips or pumping into her hair. It was an engrossing spectacle, more so when an irate Ariadne leant forward to spit with vengeful ire onto the spunk-strewn face of my girl. She bent so low and with such determined intent to hit the exact spot on her target that she took a wayward burst of jizz to her own cheek, causing her to screech with anger and slap the shooter’s weapon so hard he crumpled into a still spunking heap. I found this unintentional slap-stick turn rather funny.
Good old Kitty took it all stoically. When they were finished she wiped herself with the back of her hand, blinked her eyes open and crawled through them to safety on her hands and knees. I blew Ariadne a kiss and left, my heart swollen. You might think she was cruel to shoot the messenger in such a fashion but there was kindness in her actions; she knew Kitty was one hundred percent gay and she had shown great mercy by not forcing her to take one of the cocks inside her body. But more important than this show of clemency was the knowledge that the Goddess had retained my invite.
Ariadne eventually turned up to the show after it had already started, when I had lost all hope and was cursing every model who had the misfortune to come to me for help in getting dressed. I had been so preoccupied worrying about her attendance that I hadn’t thought to have any nerves about the show itself, although my collections always seem to be unanimously well received, despite some of the preposterous, ill-conceived creations I sometimes throw in just to be bloody-minded.
It seemed to me like a giant neon arrow was pointing to the one empty seat in the front row, the one I had reserved especially for her. It was like the bigger the crowd, the more conspicuous her absence, as if every other occupied seat amplified her empty one a million-fold. And then suddenly she was there, and my heart soared. It didn’t even bother me that she was wearing a creation by one of the other designers showing that afternoon. She had come for me, and all her teasing mind-games were irrelevant after that fact.
I wished I had the chance to sit with her but of course I was here, there and everywhere, ensuring everything about my show went to plan. I kept an eye out for her, saw her notice me and give me a wide smile. She even clapped for some of my creations and discussed them with her neighbour. I had sat her next to a handsome Spanish socialite in his early thirties, partly because she loved to be surrounded by beauty and mainly because it was widely rumoured that he was gay. You should never listen to rumours. I had her sent a little goody-bag of a leopard-skin print dildo and some matching rubber panties. Another attendant brought her a glass of my favourite rose champagne (Billecart-Salmon, of course–as delicious and classy as the recipient). I spoiled her rotten and then she went ahead and spoiled everything. I noticed her asides to the Spaniard becoming all too frequent, not even waiting for the next model to appear before her comments were whispered and bringing a smile to his face. Then she started touching his thigh, just lightly, but with obvious suggestion. She cast me the occasional glances to make sure her teasing was not going to waste.
My part of the show finished to rapturous applause and she broke off her seduction to join in, but only for a while. Before the applause had died down she threw me another knowing look and then used the distraction to whisper a proposal to the Spaniard and then lead him out of the room. I had to wait impatiently before the clamour could die down enough for me to make a gracious exit and rush off stage and out behind the scenes to find her. She made sure she could be discovered. She waited, pushed up against the backstage toilet door, looking out for me as she kissed him. As soon as I rounded the corner and stopped dead in my tracks, she broke off the embrace and pulled him inside the toilet. I felt my belly shrink. I knew she was a tease but this felt vindictive. I didn’t want to go in, I was just stood with my hands gripping the door jamb and my forehead pressed to the door. I could hear her inside, loudly crying out her joy, making sure I would hear. Eventually I couldn’t help myself and I went in.
The door to their cubicle was wide open and she was sitting on him, feet up on his thighs and facing me, so that I could see her quim stretched around the base of his thick cock and pushing down as she squirmed against him to meet his short upward thrusts. His hands were around her front, one gripping her throat, the other clapped over her mouth. She squealed with delight into his palm at my shocked reaction and she writhed even more frantically upon his skewering cock. I couldn’t muster a single word. It was all I could do to shut my slack jaw. I have seen her do many rude things but I have never seen her bare pussy before, let alone when stuffed with Hispanic cock. Her quim was neatly trimmed and pink like her hair that day. The lips were small and stretched to take him, but her juices flowed thick to allow his laboured thrusting. I had waited so long to see her pussy and now I had. It was divine in its soft smoothness, ruined only by the prick inside it. Her cunt would have looked delectable shining with my saliva, squeezing on my slender fingers. Instead it looked vulgar and greedy, bloated by his fat meat. Her cunt was too beautiful for cocks and here she was ruining it, all to make me jealous.
She squealed again as he built a rhythm to lift her and bring her down sharply onto his impaling erection. I looked up at her face–the nose, the cheeks, the mouth all covered by his large hand. But I could see her eyes, her wonderful, beguiling eyes, now so bright with defiance as she fucked him. She was doing it to be malicious, and because she could. It was like her saying: I know you want my cunt, so I’m going to spoil it for you, just for fun. I couldn’t take my eyes off hers but then I never could. I wanted to hate her, to rip her to shreds for this heartless act, but my pussy was betraying me and telling me to get down and slurp the cream from her thighs and his balls. Fortunately I couldn’t move and so was spared the humiliation of grovelling at her groin and giving in to her. She was turning red with her exertions and the lack of air finding its way past his bronzed hand and into her lungs, but she kept on regardless, fucking away to spite me, her eyes never leaving mine. It was far from hate I saw in them, just wickedness, like a bigger kid stealing your ball in the playground; a small show of power. It still burned me, right at my heart. I managed to turn and go before he spunked, but I heard his come-growls mixed with her suppressed yelps as I retreated. I knew it was a hollow victory for her and that she would ha
te herself for it later, but not as much as I hated her right now.
I vowed never to see that teasing bitch Ariadne again. True, my resolve to cast her forever from my mind might have lasted only about four hours. I might have ended up by early evening on all fours with my knickers down, dreaming of her pussy (with my tongue up it this time, not some filthy Spanish cock) but I was still bent on forgetting her completely after what she did to me. I hated pretty much everyone even after I had come, so I went out to a gay bar and pulled some random, slightly chubby brunette who couldn’t believe her luck. I took her into the restroom and jammed her up against the wall, kissing her for ages to get my own back on X for her dalliance with the model and the Diva. I even squirmed my hand down the back of the girl’s jeans and managed to get my finger in her arse, just for a bit of one-upmanship on my dirty American girlfriend who seemingly just loved to cheat on me. Then I took the brunette into a cubicle, had her remove her jeans and underwear and then sit on my lap. I put my hand over her mouth and finger-fucked her cunt with rapid, palm-slapping thrusts, this time to get back at cock-loving Ariadne.
The brunette came hard and wanted to kiss me and make me come in return. I don’t usually give myself so freely but I was feeling hurt, so I took her outside where it was dark and let her hold me to the wall while she kissed me and got her hand down the front of my jeans. Soon she was all oh, sweetie! and I’ll be gentle, darling! and telling me how beautiful my tight pussy was, like she was in charge or something. It reminded me of my very first time, the time I caught my gym mistress masturbating in the changing rooms. I’d snuck in for a smoke and found her with her shorts down on the shower floor, eyes closed, rubbing herself. She saw me and I turned away with a scornful tut and walked off, despite her pleas to explain herself and despite the fact that my own pussy was raging.