STEVE'S MONKEY'S PAW by Neale Sourna

by Neale Sourna

  “I understand about your duty, Dara, but I still do not wish it . . . here.”

  He pointed to his breast, pausing to see if her desire for him remained plainly visible to him. It did, and so he dove for the bottom of the river and stayed there past reason, past the limit of his lungs. He resurfaced close to her, his great dark passion for her even more rigid, as he barely shook the water from his hard warrior’s body and immediately reentered her. She ensured his continuing presence when her strong legs secured around him. Tor loved being locked inside her equestrian legs, for as strong as he was, when she truly wanted to hold him to her like this, it was nearly impossible for him to free himself; physically, emotionally, or mentally; he did not want to be free.

  He picked her up, without disengaging from her, and moved their lovemaking to where their things lay in the soft, matted, long grass. Tor knew it was Treason; but, nevertheless, he was weary, tired of wanting what his sacred mate could not give him, because of Her Goddess’ constant, overly personal attention, and nearly exhausted of sharing his most intimate self with an entire nation and its too tangible Goddess, instead of just with this one particular woman.

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  anahk Tor—General to a foreign king, Lover to this one woman, Prince Consort to the Royal Heir—bedded Dara gently, insistently emblazoning her with his dominant claim to her, with his mouth, his hands, and his cock; marking her with the scent of him, the feel of him, and with his virile mastery, as he rutted her need for him to the root and filled her longing to overflowing with his seed. The young colt may lie with her, to learn the proper ways of intimately pleasing a woman before his own marriage; but, even with Dara as teacher, the boy would never surpass Tor.

  Dawn broke and she rose, taking the heated scents and comfort of her lush body away.

  Again, Tor observed her vibrant nakedness, as she slipped on her seatless, leather riding leggings. He reached for her, slipping his know­ledge­able fingers deep inside her from behind, as his other hand reached around to stroke her soft pubis and the wet slit between, luring her back to him. He licked, kissed, and nipped her buttocks and felt her vagina cramp and strongly suck on his fingers, before she stepped out of reach, with a half-moaned sigh. He knew that pleasing sound well. It said she was not angry with him for continuing to detain her, and that she greatly wanted him still. He lay back, as she slipped into a sleeveless tunic dress, boots, and jacket.

  She finally sat beside him and gazed longingly down the full, strong length of him, filling her eyes, recommitting the familiar sight to famished memory. She stroked up from his bare foot, up the inside of his leg, feeling the hair, skin, scars, hard muscle and bone beneath.

  She took gentle hold of his scrotum, before gripping his manhood and tenderly kissing its head, then took its full length within her warm mouth and throat a long moment. Releasing him, she kissed from the base of his penis, up his hard, flat stomach to dawdle with a lick and a long sucking nibble upon his nipple before pressing onto and reaching his mouth. She lingered there, her tongue dancing with his, until suddenly forsaking him, grabbing her pack, weapons, and riding bags, as she took full leave of him without another glance back.

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  Tor rode off alone to the holy cave nestled at the bottom of an innocuous, deep hillock hidden in the trees. He dismounted several hundred feet away to walk the rest of the way, silently passing Dara’s red war stallion and Rüsj’s mount in the inside enclosure on his way to the inner, sacred sanctuary. He softly growled in the back of his throat when he heard the young Princeling . . . in heat . . . and heard “his wife”. He knew her sounds well, her sounds while in sexual passion.

  He hefted the sharp war axe, which had found its way into his ready palm for no other reason than it felt exceedingly good to hold this particular day.

  Her silk gown was on the floor beside the boy’s trousers. Her hair was loose from its ceremonial horsetail and the young royal’s hands, lips, and tongue were upon her voluptuous, naked body. Dara was in desire’s full flush; and when the Prince­ling lay back, Rüsj’s young manhood, hard and fat as a Nile temple column, was eagerly thrusting up inside her, possessing her, pleasuring her.

  Dara never stopped her sensuous, bare ride upon young Rüsj’s tender prick, as she opened her eyes, unsurprised to see Tor The Destroyer. She glanced indifferently at the axe, paying little heed to him or his apparent unspoken, anguished intention, except to acknowledge seeing him, before returning her affectionate full attentions back to her ardent student, as Tor’s sombre, betraying thoughts twisted further inward, and he, with his axe and His Rage, surged forward . . . .

  [end of “All Along The Watchtower: Book One” excerpt]

  http://watchtower.neale-sourna.com

  www.Neale-Sourna.com

  Novel excerpts from the completed novel:

  “Hobble”

  by Neale Sourna

  . . . I bounded out of my seat and got another nasty, warm beer and drunk half or more, before she took it from me. She polished it off, gazing at me, making certain my eyes were on her, and her pink tongue, as she licked, then sucked the last foamy drops from the dark, hard bottleneck. I heard Hopkins laugh at me as, with a flash, he lit another cigarette.

  “I’ll make the decision easy for you, boy, get out while you still can. She tricked me into believing she’d be safer with me than in the asylum, and now she’s expertly playing us against each other. I have the money, you have the . . . hard youth, and she has each of us, by our manhoods.

  “There was truth in what she said. Somewhat. However, since, I’m her guardian, what better way for a ‘delicate’, insane young woman to control her older, male keeper than to suggest . . . I repeat, she suggested I lie with her.” She stared round at him, in astonishment.

  “Hoppy, that’s not true.”

  She had lied some, but I wasn’t sure when. And, now, she didn’t seem to remember herself, exactly, where in their history they were, and I certainly didn’t.

  “Mommy’s really mad . . . mad that . . . that I let you—.”

  “When I said ‘no’ to her, Day came to me, naked. You’ve seen her considerable attributes and I may be . . . old and grey; but, I am a fully functioning man. She said she’d ‘close her eyes’ and I could ‘do whatever I wished’, ‘pretend whatever I wanted’, and ‘use her however—’.”

  “NO! No. No. No. No. NO! That’s . . . that’s . . . !”

  I was getting very much confused and was about to edge away. She uncannily, instinctively sensed it, shook her head “no” at me. I shook mine and shrugged. Abruptly, she was with me, kissing me, her whole body seductively against mine, her tongue in my mouth; usurping any independent volition right out of me.

  I was so screwed.

  Hopkins growled, deep in his throat.

  “No!”

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  Gist: Pizza Yutz was some Surgical Attending Physician from the hospital, where Hopkins had had her ankles cosmetically repaired. She’d called him before, well, paged him; Day doesn’t like conversations on the phone. She’d paged Pizza Junior Surgeon once before, just to stretch her powers, to give herself a sense of power and independence . . . to feel another man’s . . . hands on her, a man she’d chosen, “anyone” besides old Hoppy “groping and poking” at her.

  I could tell through her words, that she was indifferent to our young medico; nevertheless, his very existence still annoyed me. Her reasoning was that, at a time like this, when she wanted to bust my nuts, keeping tabs on me, that she preferred “paying him for his eager assistance with a few lame fucks on the bike tarp, rather than get [Mrs. G] fired for helping”. How considerate, warped, evil . . . .

  She called me a long string of obscene epithets, the least of which was . . . “fucking bastard” before turning her back on me. That shouldn’t have bothered me; but, it did. I walked around to address her face, she tur
ned away again; we repeated the process, which pissed me off further. I know. She was yanking me. She was sincere about her feelings; but, she was still yanking me hard, because she could, because I allowed it, and we both knew that. I got on the bed with her. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have touched her. Or seen the hot, salty tears on her cheeks. Or . . . kissed her . . . trembling, soft, yielding lips. Or . . . .

  Somewhere in the night, I heard an overfed, slightly drunk Hopkins open her door, then curse when he saw me with her. She was happily cuddled and spooned hard against my back. He slammed the door.

  * * * *Authorized Bootleg* * * *

  I’d just rounded the corner into the hall, mid morning, next day, having heard nothing, before Hopkins seethingly bellowed—.

  “You whore!”

  He backhanded Day across her high, rounded cheekbone. She moved with his action but still received a great deal of that percussive act, which caused her to hit the wall. I roughly grabbed his hand to stop him from striking her again. It was the first time he and I’d ever touched. The thought of striking him, like he’d struck her, occurred to me . . . but . . . there were no blows between us, because with about forty odd years difference, his smoking and no exercise versus my physical strength and outrage . . . I’d shatter him.

  And, be promptly arrested.

  Day for her part, remarkably, didn’t shatter and break, despite his rough hand, as she’d apparently been prepared for it. She didn’t stumble as much as I would have thought. Her eyes didn’t water up. She didn’t whimper. She didn’t touch and soothe her brilliantly bruised face because this had obviously happened before, and explained how and from whom she’d learned to deliver a blow like that herself.

  She straightened her dress and ignored both of us, as she limped away, using the wall’s surface as a support guide while avoiding his contempt and my concern. She headed through the front rooms, then out onto the porch to sit, nervously tugging at her worn footgear, as she gazed far out at the water, as if starved to be out, far out beyond it.

  “Hopkins! How could y—?! What is wrong with you?!”

  I can’t express the heat that radiated from the hatred and anger in him. If I had gone any further with my obvious rant, he plainly would've barred me from the house, from her. He might even have run away with her, in an attempt to do so, before I’d take her, because that sort of unspoken desperation, which so often hung about her now hung like ice floes around him.

  His anger and fear were justified, because despite Day’s behavior in the previous forty-eight hours, I’d’ve taken her from him at that very moment; but, legally that wouldn’t have gotten us very far. I let it go for the present.

  “I don’t understand, Hopkins, wanting a woman, who so plainly doesn’t want you. . . . Wanting her . . . forcing her . . . for how long?” I left out, “not since early childhood, I hope” and trailed him to the living room and its beachside, French doors, from where he assiduously observed every breath she took, while sitting on the topmost step.

  “We came to a point, when she was yet a girl, but not a girl. She . . . would tempt me . . . in her calculated non­cha­lance, to make me want her . . . beyond all reason.” That sounded familiar. “Then she’d callously refuse me, feigning indifference. But . . . .”

  He discontinued abruptly, as if flash frozen, like a thought, a feeling, a memory freezes in the mind and chills the soul. There was a lie or something in what he’d said, I was nearly certain of that; but, I never could feel him, read him like I could her.

  “She has the right to refuse you.”

  He smiled, if glacial blue ice can smile.

  “Like I have the ‘right’ to toss an unwanted resident squatter from my house, who eats my food and fucks what is mine.”

  He had a certain valid point of perspective, though, technically, he had personally invited me to stay; but, I wasn’t in the mood or mind to sympathize with a man, who’d been keeping the unwilling woman under discussion, for his own quite prurient self-interests.

  “I’m not blind and she’s not stupid. It’s more than anticipating the fulfillment of having her want you; you entirely get off on controlling her, knowing she’s dependent on you for every scrap of food, every piece of clothing, practically the molecules of air she breathes.”

  He stared at me a long while, weighing what I’d said.

  “I do. I really do . . . ‘get off’, is it, on that, and no little slut deserves such treatment more than she. I rightfully, legally control the cunt and still she defies me, keeping . . . herself from me, hating the touch of the hand that feeds her, yet trying to play me for a fool, the ungrateful little bitch.

  “Steve [from next door] saw her steal away the other night . . . after you. But you know that, don’t you? You forgave her, didn’t you? That’s what I overheard her whisper to Mrs. Gorbachev. That she’d whored herself with two men to pursue you, eventhough she was in no position to really do anything to stop you, or to force you to come back. And, you gave into her.”

  A shake of his head indicated a shift in his mood.

  “I was ever so basically satisfied, before you arrived.”

  “She wasn’t. Isn’t.”

  “That doesn’t concern me. What does . . . is that sometimes her body would forget its indifference and respond to me, not fully or willingly, but respond.

  “You wouldn’t understand the significance in that, because her response to you is so ‘all-encompassing’, I believe is the term she uses. She was like a barren, lifeless tree with a spot or two of greenery left to signify a lack of total death, but still worth keeping to gaze at and possess.

  “Then you tripped over our horizon and she’s suddenly full and ripe everyday, every night and I can see and feel and taste the edge of that difference, while she continues holding herself, her emotional attentions from me; and I resent her restraint very greatly.”

  He made a sound, a wounded deep growl.

  “If I appear . . . if I am . . . greedy and harsh it is your fault, Mr. Gillespie. Her body now confuses parts of my touch for yours, warming that incredible body to mine. She detests that, even while she more obligates herself to me on your behalf. So, young man, this continuous stream of vicious discontent and acrimony you see, you have generated it. Which gives me heart.”

  I’m glad it gave him something because his little speech had eviscerated a gaping emptiness in me, as he swallowed like he was ingesting bile before staring through me.

  “There is no secret in that I have always wanted Day and that I was, despite the tragic circumstances, glad to find an opportunity to make her indebted to me. And, I will be quite blunt and apparent. She will fulfill her proper sexual and emotional obligations to me and give me what I want of her or she’ll never completely have what she wants.

  “You, sir, came running down that beach to Day and gave me a screw to tighten right through the very heart and soul of her. I didn’t have that before. In fact, I had nothing. Other than her nominal freedom, I had nothing with which I could get the better of her. Now, I know exactly what she wants. Exactly, who she wants. No. She’ll never have it. Have you. Not completely. Not ‘without strings’. Not ever. Not her. Nor you, either, Mr. Gillespie.”

  “You can’t seriously . . . . I don’t understand how—?”

  “Please. Please. You understand it all just fine, my bright lad. And, you are a very bright lad, aren’t you? Winning her to you, winning yourself free room and board . . . and especially bed? Look at us. Two grown men of the world, as our lovely, hothouse flower sits out there on her delectable buttocks and here we stand, her two industrious bees, flying busily around her, nearly always just about to fatally crash into each other over her.

  “She’s ignored me, said ‘no’ to me, and even grievously injured herself to keep herself from me; but, now, suddenly, she freely offers herself . . . to me . . . on the gold platter that is you.

  “So, come now, we both know we need each other. Without me . . . she goes away. Without you
. . . I can no longer control her. So it always is that the most valuable objects always come at a higher price . . . then that price, if you’re so very fortunate, goes up while you own them.”

  He smiled in his malignancy at my obvious disgust for his calling her an “object” he owned.

  “Bee to bee, Mr. Gillespie, I may be grizzled; however, I will have mine, even if you do register more trips between her soft, fragrant petals than I.”

  He stared harder at me, if that can be possible, trying to read me.

  “Mr. Gillespie, just who the hell are you, besides a highly unwelcome guest?”

  “If you want rent and board, fine. I’ll pay it.”

  “Now, wouldn’t that document me as a pimp.” I didn’t like his implying prostitution—.

  “Keep your currency. When I have you tossed out on your ear, I want to be able to do it freely and clearly and spur of the moment. But, do tell me something. How thoroughly should I have you investigated? Give me a small hint of what they would find? What are you always running from out there, Mr. Gillespie? What is your personal world and business life, like that a vital, strapping young fellow, such as yourself, never has anywhere else to be, except here? What are your true intentions?”

  “Investigate me all you like. Knowing more about me won’t make you any happier, and they certainly won’t find I was, for all intents and purposes, a former pedophile, who’s keeping a woman prisoner, for my own sexual benefit.”

  He smiled sourly in thought.

  “I suppose that is a fair description of me, Mr. Gillespie. But, let’s not forget that you’re benefiting, too. And, as long as I am benefiting, I have no desire to know more about you. Except perhaps, slightly wondering, excluding young Ms. Day, and since there’s no ring on your finger, no talk of wife, husband, or significant other, that it would seem that maybe you too have been ‘wanting’ the unattainable and waiting for . . . something . . . someone. Who have you been waiting for . . . Benn?”

  He said my name with distaste. It was the only time he didn’t say “Mr. Gillespie”, “young man”, “lad”, or “boy”. It’s psychologically notable that I glanced out at Day, who, in characteristic ‑ synchronistic ‑ out ‑ of ‑ earshot ‑ eeriness, was staring at me with the bruise he’d put on her cheek plainly noticeable. Then, she glanced away and so did I.