Chapter 11
After a while someone threw a large horse blanket over the collapsed body of Robin and he was grateful for the gesture. The blanket hid his body from prying eyes and left him to savor his pains and humiliations on his own, in his own world, shut off and away.
Through the blanket he could hear laughter and the sound of rejoicing. At times he thought he could hear the sounds of a riotous orgy and his imagination created the weirdest of couplings and re-couplings, triangles, squares and circles in all conceivable combinations of all the conceivable and unconceivable sexes present there and anywhere else.
The world outside was closed to him and he shut the rest of the world outside his being. He went into himself. He dug deep into his psyche. His mind created for him the structure of a new and different reality that was meant to preserve his sanity and to prepare his concepts for the new reality of his being and his sexuality.
Wrier had it all started? He cast his mind back into his earliest sexual experiences. A memory came to him of suckling at the breast of his mother who symbolised not only love and woman but Earth itself. That was...pictures formed in his mind and various theories he'd heard and various articles he'd read but all that was irrelevant.
His first overt sexual experience. Three, maybe four. Playing in the shed at the bottom of the garden. A neighboring boy a year older. Stuck his finger in Robins asshole and then told him he had to smell it and Robin smelled the stinky finger and it made him cry. The other boy-what was his name now? They'd been close friends through first grade but then there'd been some scandal with the Boy's parents and they'd suddenly moved away-the other boy was troubled by Robin's crying and in order to placate him had pulled down Robin's short pants all the way and taken hold of Robin's little cock-Robin could visualize it now, could feel it, could feel again that special stiffness that only little boys' pricks have, stiff and stretching and the feeling that they'll keep stretching on and out and more and more and become infinitely elongated, such a feeling of delicious tautness and delightful expectation that he had not experienced since his early childhood-the other boy had done what seemed so natural and so real, he had taken Robin's little cock in his mouth and sucked it like a lollipop.
The memories crowded back, the full feelings. Under the blanket that covered him now, with his bottom bared and projecting and his cock exposed under the bench, he felt himself back there with the other little boy, felt the delicious thrill of having a boy suck his cock, felt the desire come on him as it did then, when he finally persuaded the other boy to pull down his pants. Now he caught it, the full desire, the full erotic arousal, the oral satisfaction of taking a prick in his mouth, a thin, hard, long prick, a prick like an extended finger, the prick of a little boy in the shed at the bottom of the garden.
Another time playing nurse and doctors. Trying to push his cock into a girl's mouth. Her fear and anger. Her threat to tell her mother. She made him give her all the money from his piggy bank. His first whore, all of five, but certainly not his last.
Another girl more accommodating. Stripped naked. Feeling her breasts. Sucking at the tiny baby nipples as he'd seen his little sister suckle at his mother's breast. The examination. That large, bare bulbous projection with the straight vertical cleft that looked as if they'd forgotten to equip her with a cock. Watching her pee as she squatted. "Taking her temperature' first with a pencil, then with his finger. And it hadn't stopped with his finger but he'd gone on with the obvious object, the corresponding organ that, if he but lent it to her would make her whole. His penis, stiff and straight as a finger, tensing against the thin skin covering, pushed against her crack, trying to get in, getting in.
A desire came over him suddenly. He must have a little girl. A really little girl. Six years old and innocent. With a hairless pussy and a vertical smile. A little girl lifting her dress. The dress over his head. Enveloped by her dress as he was now enveloped by the blanket, he would suck at her pussy, suck at her hairless virgin pussy, enslave himself at the altar of her childish innocence and by turning her into the child-whore would buy back for himself the innocence he had forfeited.
The virgin child as an act of purification. Could he start all over now with such a child, he could erase the pollution he had sustained in his basement to Arbella, worshipping at the altar of the babe instead of the mistress. Could he worship at the girl's little twat, he would erase his memories of his first sex encounter, that with a prick, and thereby erase his latest stain when he had poured forth his seed for Milton's hand.
A fire burned within him. He wanted a little girl. A virgin-pussied little girl with no hair and no menstruation and no adult wiles. He wanted to feel her up her little legs and run his hand between her thighs, and have her pull up her skirt and whirl around so he could take in the gorgeous look of a little girl, knickered. He'd pull down her tight little panties and give her a few smacks on her little botty, and then he'd pull her panties down all the way and run his fingers into her crack and suck his fingers. and then have her raise her legs while he put his face right up against her plump little thighs, and dug his tongue deep into her hairless twat and have her legs press down on his face. Oh what bliss!
It would end...Yes, he could see it. There sits Robin on the chair. The little girl, her skirt raised and her panties off, sits on his lap. His cock is hard.
"What's that funny stick you have there, Uncle?" She'd call him uncle, of course, a nice touch.
"It's called my joy stick. You hold it when you want to get somewhere and you move it in whichever way you want to go. It's magic. Do you want to feel my rigid joy stick?"
Her little fingers pull at the zipper to uncover the surprise goody and he watches her eyes and her mouth as she makes the discovery.
"Would you like to hold it now, dearie?"
Of course she would and she runs her hot little fists up and down the shaft and she looks at that funny big thing at the tip and why does it have that little hole there?
"That's just like your little twattie, dear. Do you see that shape of the slit? And when you open it it's wet and pink inside, just like yours. Would you like to put your little tongue in there as I put my tongue in yours?"
No, he wouldn't shove his cock up her cunt. That's something he wouldn't do, something too...to...Well, why not? It would be nice being able to push his cock up a little girl's twat. If he could do it one day, without hurting her, without fear of punishment. In Mexico, they say, you can buy six-year-old virgins, or in Egypt or India perhaps or even Puerto Rico. But that comes later. Now she's licking the top of his joy stick. She's taking it all in. No, her mouth is too small, but she can lick it down the side, run her mouth vertically down its length.
"Look, honey, you're getting heavy on my lap. Let's both get down on the rug like this. I'll kneel so you can take my cock-my joy stick I mean-in your mouth more easily and I can lift up your skirt and put my finger up your little twattie and make you feel good all over."
Yes, good all over, all over. Let her suck it in her mouth, suck it, the little girl, suck it in her innocence until it is all over, all over her, all over, finished.
"What's that funny tasting white stuff, Uncle?" as it runs down her mouth and down her dress and down her innocent little legs and on her patent leather shoes.
"That's nothing, honey, little girls shouldn't ask questions like that and better wipe it off quickly and don't tell your mummy, that's our little secret, you and me, and if you ever tell her I'll pull down your little panties and spank you hard like this...and this...and this...and this...."
Yes, it would be nice to violate a little girl, a real little girl, not just a woman who acts like a little girl as don't they all?
It was a girl had violated him. He was twelve and she was-what? nineteen? Twenty? Fresa her name was, a buxom Swedish girl. She'd been their maid for about four months, straight out of the old country.
His parents were away for the night, visiting a dying aunt. The younger children were in bed. He was watching television, lying on the bearskin rug on his belly.
Fresa came in and lay down near him. Questions, all sorts of questions. He wanted to watch the show. Asked him about school. About his friends. Had he any girl friends? Were they good to him?
'What do you mean good?" Something told him she didn't have in mind what he had in mind. In his school, when a girl was being good to a fella, she let him take her to the soda fountain for a sundae-and slipped him the money for the both of them under the table. Or, being good was when a girl sat next to you in class during a test and slipped you the answers.
"Does she do things to make you feel good?"
So she did think of the same things. He told her about Jenny who had given him her whole collection of bubble-gum cards when she'd stopped collecting-and she'd had some super cards given her by her big brother when he'd stopped collecting. "That made me feel good, real good."
Fresa laughed indulgently, and with understanding.
'Maybe is my English not is good. Make you feel good is mean make your body feel good. like this."
She was more adept at body language than with the intricacies of English syntax and idioms, and she showed him what she had in mind in no uncertain terms.
"like this is feel good?" she asked, stroking his back. She drew herself closer to him and her face smiled and seemed to ask him a question, a wordless question.
"And this?" She drew closer still and allowed her hand to stroke him further down his back and knead his buttocks.
"like this?" and as she stroked his thighs, first the back and then the insides, he didn't know which of the two meanings the word "like" had when she posed her question-and it didn't really matter.
"like this?" This time her hand went up his thigh, very softly touching, and rested where the fleshy part of his thighs came together, and he opened his thighs for a moment so that she could slip her hand in deeper, then clamped them, and Fresa, her hand imprisoned, started twisting and turning it and reaching higher and stretching for untold regions with her fingers.
That was exciting! That made him feel good. Now he knew what she meant. He let her draw him closer to her and turn towards him. She put her trim nylon-clad knee between his thighs, working her thigh up until they lay crotch to crotch.
Her mouth reached for his, she opened his lips with her hot tongue and pushed it in deep. Her tongue penetrated the hushed cavern of his mouth, danced a tango with his tongue, explored the deep dark reaches.
An experienced hand fumbled at his fly and knowing fingers handled his cock which had been stiff almost from the moment she had first touched his back.
A hand in need seized his hand in friendship and placed it on the bulging mounds of her sweater, and then encouraged his hand to lift the sweater, and reach under the edging of the bra, and squeeze out a big full breast that was soft and doughy, and made him knead it and massage it.
He unstuck his mouth from hers for a minute and admired the full ripe breast, the large pink circle with its soft pointy center, watched it as the pink became darker and contracted and the point became puckered and hard and long. Then she d pushed his face down and it came to rest against the luscious soft mound and she pressed the mound together in her hand and pushed it at him until he opened his mouth and chewed it, inch by inch, up to and including-and especially including-the nipple.
The hand in need reached out again and took his other hand. It went under the frilly lace apron and under the black poplin dress and touched the sheer edge of her nylon stockings, felt around at the contrast between the flesh colored nylon and the silk-textured leg, reached under the nylon and felt around, felt the naughty frillings of the suspenders and reached up toward the garter belt.
Made him feel around to the lace of the panties and under the lace of the panties and between her soft, full thighs and the lace of her panties and in among and between the hairs where the texture changed and he knew he was in a new holy-of-holies that was something special.
The vertical crack. The cunt. A real cunt, his first real cunt, a fur-trimmed cunt with curly hairs along the edge and a man-sized slit that took his hand and a deep hole that called for his fingers and sucked them in hungrily and bathed and soaked and massaged them in its delicious cunty warmness.
Her white apron raised and her black poplin dress raised, his pants lowered, belly to belly, thigh between thigh, hand on stiff cock and round balls, hand in tight wet crack and deep warm hole, face in breast and mouth on neck and tongue in ear.
She whispered something-in Swedish or in love-talk or any other incomprehensible language, whispered a word every five minutes, no need for more and he said nothing whatsoever.
They needed to say nothing when she and he stirred at the same time, kissed for a last time on the living-room floor, embraced, picked up their scattered clothing, tiptoed up to her room behind the locked door and the closed drapes and into her big soft feathery down bed she'd brought as her major possession from her old home.
There in that bed he spent the first night of bliss. He crept happy as a little child-and wasn't he one, really, at twelve-under the covers and down among her soft down-filled tits and further down to her soft commodious belly and further down to the down-covered triangle and the slit he had hungered for in his search since in imagine, the slit he hadn't found in little boys' pricks and hadn't found in little girls' slits.
This was it, this was bliss, lying between those warm and comforting thighs with his face pressed deep into her warmth and his nose smelling the exciting smells of her cunt and his lips tasting that delicious taste of woman in heat and his tongue in deep, in deep, deep, deep, curling into her hole and searching around and sucking it out and licking the honey out of it.
He thrilled as she tightened her plump thighs around his head and crossed her legs over his back. He thrilled when she had him enfolded in the wet and dark and warmth, wrapped by her generous body, covered by the all enveloping covers as now he was covered by the blanket.
In his mind he was back there again. His face pressed down against the bench was his face pressed down in her twat. His arms stretched out by the shackles were his hands reached up to stroke her breasts, his thighs and body pressed down by the restraints was his body pressed to the downy mattress by the weight of Fresa's body and limbs.
He felt her body heave and the lips of her cunt quiver. Her body rocked in rhythm and long, low moans came out of her mouth, rumbling somehow through the tissues of her body to reach his consciousness for under the blanket and under her thighs his ears could hear little.
The moans, the sighs, the mewling. The heaving of her thighs and pelvis. The cunt opening up and swallowing and chewing on his tongue and lips in convulsive urge. The ever-increasing speed of her urgency and decreasing amplitude of her motions until the final spurt, thrust, jump, twitch, and her body subsided in calm and a long-drawn-out sigh.
A sleep-time later he crawled up out of the warmth, back up her body. He kissed her lips with his cunt-flavored ones and brought the twat-honey still on his tongue as a gift to the deep caverns of her mouth. Her thighs opened up and his pelvis lodged between them and his cock reached in and got swallowed by the accommodating cock-sheath of er cunt.
He felt the muscles of her cunt grab his cock and squeeze it and milk it and pound it and pull it. Her thighs closed themselves around his waist and her heels met on his back and then it was bucking up and down, up and down, faster and faster, pushing it in and up and straining to get further, straining to get his cock all the way up, up to her navel and up to her throat and out of her mouth. Shove in his cock with joy and desire and some spark of anger because she was a woman and he had to get his anger into a woman.
That was so long ago. When he was less than half as old as he was now. Proud now of himself as a little boy, not so little, twelve years old and old enough to fuck, old enough to make her come, and come again, and come again.... and ask for more.
He'd been surprised when he started ejaculating and a little frightened too, worrying that he might burst somewhere, afraid he would not be able to stop whatever it was that was happening to him, and when he had ejaculated a giant load of sperm into her cunt, he was afraid that it was warm piss that he'd leaked out in his excitement and was afraid of what she'd think of him when she found out, but she hadn't seemed to notice-or if she noticed she obviously hadn't minded.
She'd invited him down under the blankets again later, and he'd tasted her new taste, the taste that he discovered later was the taste of his own come, and he'd developed a liking for it that still hadn't left him. Then up again for another joust of cock-in-cunt, and so on through an exciting night.
A day of bewilderment and wonder and surprise and questions of had it really been true. School in a maze and a haze of unreality, but every few minutes he'd taken his fingers to his nose, his unwashed fingers, that preserved her smell and his and told him it had been for real.
His mother called that night to say the aunt had taken a turn for the worse and they would have to stay, could Fresa handle the children and the home and she'd said yes, of course Mrs. Stedland.
So that allowed another delicious night in Fresa's bed learning new games and new angles and new excitement. The aunt was worse, she was dying, dead. His parents stayed for the wake and for the funeral and stayed on to mourn with the bereaved family and for the reading of the will.
Robin spent two weeks of bliss with the buxom Swede of the insatiable tastes and looked forward to further nights of stolen bliss and exciting trysts. But it wasn't to be. Fresa was dismissed under a cloud and she left in tears carrying her big feather bed and kissed Robin a last tearful good-bye but as a mature woman with a little boy, not as a hungry sex-bent wanton with her love.
No one told him what had happened and Robin had to pick up his own clues and jump to his own conclusions. What he guessed or found out over the weeks was that his parents had come to know that the relationship between Fresa and her oldest charge had not been the model of propriety they had expected to prevail.
Robin suspected that it wasn't the first time that Fresa had indulged her sexual needs in his home. Had his father been there before him to comfort the big-busted girl with the commodious cunt? Had he wanted to enjoy her again after the funeral? Was it then he found out that his son, only twelve but already a man in all those respects had been tending the oven in his absence. Was it jealousy on his father's part, of the approaching adulthood of his son-or was it perhaps his mother who had discovered the increasing adultery by her mate? He never found out for sure but he had his suspicions, and he nursed his disappointment.
They never haa a young and attractive maid in the house again after that. The new maids-and none stayed more than a few months-were old and ugly and his parents must have assumed they could never appeal to their son.
They were mistaken. He used to lie in bed at night, fantasy transporting him into their beds. However old, however stern, however mean, he would be in their beds in his mind, loving them up and loving them down. As he beat off-and he sometimes beat off as often as six times in a single night before he fell finally asleep, or he'd fall asleep and wake up with a dream and a hard-on and whack off again, and again and again.
He beat off thinking about the current maid. Dressed in her black poplin, tight to her figure, grasping him tight between her legs, forcing him down into her piss-smell cunt, pressing him down with her veined old legs, pressing into his back with her laced-up boots.
They were ugly as sin, bent, crippled, mean and nasty but for Robin they were the women he conjured up in his fantasies-not the pretty plump teenagers from school he was taking out for cokes and ice-creams-and feels and fucks with an amazing frequency that he kept secret from his mates and a success that would have put any self-respecting Don Juan to shame.
Robin had as many girls to fuck when he was in high school as he wanted, and later in college, too. He developed a technique in seduction that seldom found him refused. But when he beat off it was with visions of one of the ancient ugly maids his parents kept hiring one after the other, ugly hags that he couldn't possibly touch in real life, away from his fantasies.
All except one. Chloe. A large, warm, ample woman in her early forties with a smiling face and sensuous thick lips and a complexion like polished walnut. He got at Chloe once, got her in her room, got himself drawn into her embrace, found his thrills in her deeply-cushioned bosom and her amply-contoured thighs, and thrilled as she almost throttled him in the climax of her orgasm.
But she suddenly walked out of his parents' home the next morning without giving notice.